୨ ❝ LESSON OF THE DAY : KEEP RAGEBAITING YOUR HEARTS OUT. ❞ ๑ slytherin boys x f!reader (xvarious)
๑ summary : just ragebaiting the Slytherin boys to the fullest. Mostly sabotaging their games, of course. ➜ fluff , smau hp masterlist ୨୧ # cursing, crackfic, reader bullying the Slytherin boys(not in a bad way, of course!), the Weasley twins and harry supporting reader, etc (potentially a series)
๑ ❝ slyther-ing my way to your bed ❞ gang includes ; draco malfoy, mattheo riddle, theodore nott, blaise zabini, and lorenzo berkshire
Aaaaaaa idk if I'm gonna do multiple characters smau todayyyy , im very blind nd idk if made a mistake so do tell me😢😢💔
baby daddy!pope who does not play around when it comes to you getting some rest. at this point, you have two babies under two years old entirely his fault and your coveted naps are few and far between.
you’re in a state by the time he gets home. your sweats are low on your hips, your face is puffy from exhaustion as you bounce your youngest who’s babbling at you on your hip. your oldest is having a full blown tantrum. the screaming and crying doesn’t phase you anymore, you only turn your nose up at andrew when he comes inside still smelling like adrenaline and god knows what else after meeting with his brothers. he’s grabbing your pudgy baby out of your arms almost immediately— “go lay down, momma. i can handle ‘em.”
usually you insist that he cleans up first before handling your terrible yet adorable offspring, but you’re drained. as you walk towards the bedroom, you hear andrew approaching your almost two year old who’s still worked up into a screaming fit and throwing toys. his footsteps are light, his voice is gentle.
“what’s going on, kid? woke up and decided to put your momma through hell today? that’s not very nice— she does a lot for ya.”
you may be shattered but you still manage to allow a bashful smile to tug at your lips. he’ll for sure be getting something for being so sweet later… if you both can manage to find the time.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 - The boys try to use Legilimency on Y/N to test Tom’s devotion, but it backfires when Tom proves he’s been watching the whole time.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 - It literally came to me when I was in the bathroom
The library was quiet except for the occasional page turning and Blaise trying not to laugh himself unconscious.
Tom sat at the long table near the windows, one hand lazily holding open a Defence book while Y/N sat beside him pretending to study.
Pretending being the important word. Because across from them, Mattheo was currently deep inside Y/N’s head with the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
"Go on", his voice echoed smugly through her mind. "Hold his hand".
Y/N didn’t even look up from her parchment. "Matt, this is stupid."
Draco leaned across the table whispering excitedly, “Tell her to do it.”
Blaise grinned. “This is the easiest bet we’ve ever won.”
Mattheo smirked at them before focusing back on Y/N. "Do it."
Y/N sighed softly through her nose before finally reaching over and taking Tom’s hand where it rested beside his book.
Tom didn’t even blink.
His fingers immediately intertwined with hers automatically like reflex before he calmly lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles.
Then his thumb started absently rubbing over her skin while he kept reading.
The boys stared. Blaise whispered, horrified, “Oh we’ve got this in the bag.”
Draco looked deeply unsettled. “That was immediate.”
Tom turned a page lazily, completely calm and completely composed. But there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth like he knew.
Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly at him.
Tom only kissed her knuckles again.
Mattheo’s grin widened dangerously. "Alright," he said into her head. "Sit closer."
"No."
"Coward."
Y/N hated him, unfortunately she also hated losing. With another sigh, she shifted slightly closer against Tom’s side.
That was apparently enough encouragement for him.
Without even glancing up from his book, Tom simply reached over, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her directly into his lap.
The boys lost their minds instantly.
Draco slapped a hand over his mouth. “What?.”
Blaise looked ready to fall out of his chair. “He didn’t even hesitate!”
Mattheo looked personally vindicated. "Merlin, he’s pathetic for you."
Y/N tried glaring at Tom from where she now sat trapped against his chest.
Tom finally looked down at her calmly. “You moved.”
“You escalated.”
“You looked uncomfortable.”
“You're very clingy.”
Tom hummed softly. “And yet you'll stay”
Mattheo physically pointed at them. “This is disgusting.”
Tom’s eyes flicked toward his brother briefly, just briefly. But something about the look made Mattheo straighten slightly. Like he’d been caught doing something.
Then Tom went back to reading, which somehow made it worse.
Mattheo swallowed once before continuing carefully. "Alright", he said into Y/N’s mind again. "Make him kiss you."
Y/N closed her eyes briefly. "Merlin, Matty"
"Do it."
Blaise whispered excitedly, “Tilt your head at him.”
Draco added, “Do that thing you do with your eyes.”
“I hate all of you,” Y/N muttered under her breath.
Tom looked down immediately. “Hm?”
“…Nothing.”
Then she glanced up at him and that was literally all it took.
Tom’s attention dropped instantly to her mouth before he leaned down and kissed her slow and effortlessly like there weren’t three idiots watching in horror.
Mattheo gagged dramatically.
Blaise looked betrayed. “He folded in under three seconds.”
Tom kissed Y/N once more before speaking calmly against her mouth. “You’re distracted from your studying, love.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
He knew, he absolutely knew. Especially because his hand slid slowly against her waist almost possessively while his gaze flicked once toward his brother.
Mattheo frowned slightly.“…He knows.”
Draco looked alarmed. “Then why hasn’t he murdered us yet?”
“Because he’s enjoying himself,” Blaise realised.
That was unfortunately true because Tom looked deeply entertained now. Which only encouraged Mattheo further.
"Okay", he said stubbornly into Y/N’s mind. "Ask him to help us with our defence homework."
Y/N froze instantly. There it was, the real reason for all of this. "Oh, so this is why we’re doing this."
"Please Darling girl", Mattheo said shamelessly. "He listens to you".
"No".
"Y/N"
"Absolutely not."
Draco leaned forward desperately whispering, “Please just try.”
“He refuses every time,” Blaise added.
“Last week he told me my essay was intellectually offensive,” Draco muttered.
“It was,” Tom said calmly.
The entire table froze.
Tom finally looked up from his book, slowly and deliberately as his eyes settled first on Mattheo, then Draco and then onto Blaise.
And Y/N felt the exact moment his Legilimency spread outward. Heavy, effortless and completely terrifying.
All three boys went rigid instantly. Tom was in all their heads at once without even lifting his wand.
Mattheo visibly paled.
Tom looked almost amused now. “You’ve been using Legilimency on my wife for the past forty-three minutes.”
Silence.
Blaise whispered, horrified, “He counted?”
“Of course he counted,” Draco hissed back.
Mattheo tried defending himself immediately. “I’m your brother.”
Tom’s gaze sharpened coldly. “Even worse.”
Mattheo looked genuinely intimidated now which almost never happened.
Tom leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm still securely around Y/N while his magic pressed effortlessly against all three boys at once.
“No one,” he said softly, dangerously, “uses Legilimency on anyone. Let alone my wife. Understood?”
Blaise nodded instantly.
Draco looked one wrong word away from death. “Understood.”
Mattheo swallowed. “…She’s not your wife.”
Tom’s expression somehow became more threatening. “She will be.”
Y/N buried her face in Tom’s shoulder immediately. “Oh my god.”
Mattheo looked deeply regretful now. “See this is why no one likes you.”
Tom looked calm again. “Incorrect. Y/N likes me.”
“That does not count.”
“It counts the most.”
Then, just to make everything worse, Tom looked down at Y/N and pressed another kiss against her forehead gently.
Mattheo gagged dramatically. “I hate this relationship.”
Tom smirked faintly. “And yet you spent an hour proving how devoted I am to her.”
“…That’s actually humiliating,” Draco admitted.
Tom’s arm tightened slightly around her waist, like punctuation. "Leave." The word wasn’t loud. It just… ended the conversation.
All three boys stood at once.
Draco muttered, “Yeah, okay, I value my life.”
Blaise grabbed his books too quickly. “We’re leaving.”
Mattheo lingered just long enough to be a problem. He looked at Tom. Then at Y/N and gave a slow, exaggerated bow. “My lord,” he said, grinning despite the fear.
Tom actually shifted like he might stand.
Y/N immediately pressed a hand against his chest. “No.”
Tom exhaled sharply through his nose.
Mattheo smirked wider. “Still got you wrapped around her finger.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Run,” Draco said immediately.
The library went quiet again after they left.
Y/N leaned into Tom. “You’re dramatic.”
“Necessary,” he muttered, not looking up from his book.
She laughed. “You’re insane.”
Tom finally glanced at her. “Don’t share your mind with anyone else. Ever.”
SUMMARY: sucking off Professor Riddle while he's talking to a student. that's the summary. have fun. ;)
WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. nasty nasty stuff. messy blowjob. exhibitionism, rough oral m!receiving, teasing, slight dumbification, he watches you in the mirror, choking on it, MESSY blowjob again bc I MEAN it, wtf is wrong with me genuinely, reader LOVES gagging on it, cumming in mouth, face slapping, cockwarming
AUTHOR'S NOTE: sometimes I question my sanity while writing these. then I get horny. then I remember yall love me. then, I hit the post button.
wordcount: 3,1k
Your knees ache, dark bruises blooming beneath the thin skin above your joints as you scrape against the rough, worn-down wooden panels of his study. You`ve been here for no more than twenty minutes—not wasting time with unnecessary talking before you sank to your knees and crawled underneath his desk, eager fingers fumbling with the metal of his belt.
Whatever this is between you two—it has shifted into something more than originally intended.
Just once, he said. One time, to improve your grade—he'd sworn to it. To himself more than to you. But one time didn't just stay one time. After two weeks of trying to convince himself he didn't crave you as much as you craved him, his resolve finally shattered.
That very day, he ordered you to stay behind after class ended, and not two minutes later, you were bent over his desk at the front of the classroom, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a bruising grip as his cock slid inside you with one ruthless thrust.
Since that moment, visits in his study have become rather routine than exception—at first, every two weeks. Now, you visit him nearly every day—late at night, when the girls in your dorm are soundly asleep, you slip from beneath the soft warmth of your duvet, cover your pyjamas with your robes, and hurry down the dark, eerily quiet corridors until you reach his study.
Just one issue today—you've been invited to a birthday party of one of your friends after dinner, and you couldn't possibly miss out on that just for the sake of your secret rendezvous with your professor.
However, after seeing him in class earlier today, his new suit fit his beautifully sculptured body to perfection—you couldn't resist. Your thighs pressed together beneath the surface of your desk, and for the rest of your lesson, the only thing on your mind was his pretty cock stuffing you full.
Needless to say, you've been aching for him the rest of the day, and when classes finally ended, you did not even bother returning to your own dorm. Instead, you looked to your left and right before taking the corner leading to the professor's residences and, with four brief knocks—as you agreed upon—announced your presence.
The door flung open with the help of a wandless spell muttered by him, not bothering to interrupt his work for your sake.
Tom knew what you came here for. Knew it the second your gaze lingered on him for too long during class, watched as your thighs clenched together whenever he so much as looked in your direction.
Needy girl.
For you to come here earlier than usual was no surprise. For you to sink to your knees before even speaking a single word wasn't either. So, he lets you do as you please without speaking a word as he continues correcting essays.
The first sound you earn from him is when you work his zipper open and free his already semi-hard cock from the confinement of his trousers, eagerly wrapping your hand around his girthy length—a low growl reverberating from the depths of his chest, dick pulsing to life in your hand.
Professor Riddle isn't a man you can impress easily. Not with outstanding performances in class, and certainly not by being bold and loud—but you, you have found a way.
An incredibly filthy one.
It was your idea to place a mirror opposite his work desk. Your idea to only wear your tiniest skirts and thongs when paying him a visit.
And Tom—he's quickly grown quite fond of your proposition for various reasons.
While he still pretended to focus on the paper in front of him when you entered, as soon as you sank to your knees, he straightened his gaze, watching as you crawled underneath the table on all fours. Your skirt slipped up far enough for him to see it—the red lace thong he left in a box beneath your duvet as a present now slick and soaked with your want for him.
This is the exact reason why he loves this goddamn mirror so much.
Beneath the table, you begin stroking him softly—not tightly enough for it to feel good, but enough to get him hard for you. His cock twitches in your hand, a pearly bead of precum rolling down his flushed tip.
From the corner of your vision, you see his arms still, the faint sound of his fountain pen adding corrections to the essay in front of him fading into silence. That's when you know you've got his full attention on you—on the feeling of your hand pleasuring him, on your reflection in the mirror as you wriggle your ass for him.
"Concentrate, professor." you murmur, collecting the wetness on the head of his cock with the tip of your tongue, humming in approval at the familiar taste. "Wouldn't want you to make a mistake, hm?"
"Quiet," he replies almost instantly, voice raspy, his cock now pulsing and rock-hard in your palm. "Finish what you've started, brat."
His left hand drops to his lap, finds your hair, and pulls you closer—an unspoken warning not to get too brave with him. At the same time, he flips up your skirt with his fine leather shoes again, which slipped down the curve of your ass.
"Now, arch your back and get to work. Want to watch how wet you get just from sucking me."
You do as he says, of course, one hand on his thigh, the other tightly wrapped around his base as you guide the first few inches of him past your glossed lips. He groans lowly when he feels your wet, hot tongue circle the sensitive head of his cock, relaxing back against his chair, his pen slipping from his hand, eyes fluttering closed.
God, he needs this after today.
You take him deeper then—eager to taste his hot cum on your tongue.
But then—just as you're about to choke around him for the first time that evening—two sharp knocks echo from the door to his study.
He tenses instantly, and you draw back in surprise. If anyone sees you two like this, you are in trouble. Big trouble. You inch closer to him beneath the desk, sitting in between his legs in order to make as little of you visible as you can—but clearly Tom isn't satisfied with that solution.
"Hide yourself in the closet," he hisses beneath his breath, watching the door handle as the person knocks another time. "Now!"
You roll your eyes at that, because the closet in his study is fucking tiny—but you decide to listen for once. Or at least, you want to listen for once—however, before you get to do so, the door flies open, and an exasperated student of the second year bursts inside, losing a few papers on the way, stopping right before his desk.
"Professor Riddle, I have something urgent to discuss!"
You sit back down, breathing out a relieved breath. He didn't see you at first glance, thank Merlin and thank whatever gods Muggles believe in.
Tom must be equally relieved, easing the tension in his muscles slightly. He clears his throat before he speaks. "What is it, Mr. Flewett?"
The younger student goes on to explain said urgent matter—and you have to keep yourself from giggling and subsequently getting yourself caught. His very urgent matter is the project due in two days. He's asking—begging—Tom for an extension.
The student must be new here. No one else would dare even think of asking Riddle this—or bursting into his study without permission.
He's talking on and on, without a single break. Trying to explain how busy he's been, that he hasn't yet started with the preparation. Making it worse for him without even meaning to do so.
This is good, you think—he's so caught up in his own problem, in his nervousness, that he doesn't notice you at all, neither as a soft laugh escapes your lips when Tom relaxes fully, and you can clearly imagine the disinterested look that must be etched into his features currently.
His hand finds your hair again then—tugging at the roots gently, shutting you up.
The student is still talking.
And your professor's cock? Twitching right before your lips and so fucking hard, his tip is glistening with precum.
What a terrible waste.
An idea comes to your mind then—lips curving into an evil little smile. This will be fun.
You arch your back again—skirt still bunched around your waist, lace of your panties damp with arousal. The sight of it earns you a low growl from him, shifting slightly in his seat.
The student stumbles over his next words, but keeps talking, explaining, apologising.
Poor Tom—he must be so damn bored. So why not spice it up a little?
Your fingers hook into the lace of your panties, slowly, teasingly easing them down your thighs until they're just above your knees, where they're bent on the floor—your soaked pussy now perfectly angled towards the mirror.
Because you know his eyes are on your reflection in his mirror, not on the student pleading with him to grant him extra time for his project. Riddle stills completely at the sight right before his eyes—but he keeps his composure. For now.
With a relaxed, bored voice, he answers his student that it's not possible to extend the due date. That this is his own fault, a missed chance for a good grade when he is already failing his class.
Tom is so good at this. So awfully talented at keeping his voice steady, his expression neutral and strict, even when his cock is leaking precum, the thick vein on the underside pulsing, practically begging for your lips and mouth. So good at answering nonchalantly, while every hidden part of his body is telling an entirely different story—hand in your hair tightening to a level that's bordering painful, thigh muscles flexing beneath your touch.
Another pearl of precum forms on top of his pretty cock, and this time—this time, you can't resist.
Your face is mere centimetres from his dick, and you close the distance within less than a second, swiping your tongue over the wet, reddened head of his cock, letting the taste of him flood your senses, thighs clenching.
Tom hisses, his hips barely staying seated with much effort on his side. He fucking hisses, not quietly either—shutting the student's rambles up effectively.
His fingers stay buried in your hair—but he doesn't make a move to push you away, instead, he keeps you right there.
"A-Are you alright, Mr. Riddle?" the younger student manages, voice trembling, as do his legs not a metre away from you.
Tom takes his sweet time to respond to that. Moments that must feel like hours to the guy pleading with him, probably already realising his mistake. In the meanwhile, your tongue darts out again, brushing over his tip with short kitten licks, essentially having his hips buck into your touch.
"Yes, yes, I am." Tom grits out, eyes focused on the mirror behind the student, watching you tease him. "We will speak about this matter later—you're dismissed."
From the periphery of your vision, you catch the blonde guy shake his head. "But professor, this is urgent… I—"
You decide it's a good time to wrap your lips around the aching head of his cock, suckling gently, one hand wrapped around his thick, throbbing base—slick with your spit and precum—the second cupping his balls, massaging gently.
"Later," I said." Tom responds, voice shaky. The student gulps, taking a cautious step backwards. "Can you not see I am quite occupied?"
Poor guy. Probably thinking this is because of him.
He nods then, retreating towards the door. "Yes sir, my deepest apologies."
When Tom doesn't spare him more than a strict glance, he leaves in a haste, the door falling shut behind him.
Tom pulls you off his cock with a wet sound the second the lock clicks.
"Dumb little girl," he murmurs, glaring down at the innocent eyes you're offering him. "I expect you to make this up to me later—now, finish what you've started. And show me, with extra effort, just how sorry you are."
"I am not sorry, though." You say decidedly before you spit on his cock, watching it cascade down the side before taking him back in your mouth.
He pretends he didn't hear you. For your sake.
The thing is, you like it messy—and Tom, Tom loves it messy. He adores how filthy you sound with him stuffing your mouth full, when you drool around him and soak him with your spit. Undoubtedly though, his favourite part is when you let his cum dribble back onto his cock and watch it drip down to his balls, mixing with your saliva before you suck it back in and swallow the mess you've created.
He fucking loves how nasty you are for him.
Right now, he's observing you bob your head up and down his length, gagging around him each time his tip hits the back of your throat—the vibrations having his fingers fist your hair more roughly, groaning lowly.
"Mmm, y’ taste so good," you mumble around his cock denting your cheek, sucking eagerly. He twitches inside you at that, hissing when your hot tongue swipes over the crown of him.
"You have a filthy mouth on you, darling." Tom replies, guiding your head down on his length until you choke—keeping you there for a little longer before he lets you catch your breath.
You smile up at him, then. "You love it, professor. Don't pretend it's any different."
The next few minutes, you gradually increase your pace—keep him lodged in your throat for longer, spluttering around him before you withdraw and wet his cock with your spit, licking it back up before your lips close around him again, and you repeat the process.
Your hand leaves his thigh, wandering between your own instead—gently rubbing circles around your neglected, puffy clit, spreading your folds as you run two fingers down your slick slit.
"Fuck," Tom's head dips back at that view. Your glistening, slick-coated pussy on display for him while you make the filthiest sounds sucking him off, gagging and moaning around him.
He is embarrassingly close. Already.
The things you are doing to him…
…And the things he will do to you in return…
"Should have you write an essay on how to pleasure a man," he rasps, hips jerking upwards when you choke around him again, allowing him to feel the vibrations of your muscles. He hisses lowly, wetting his lips at the slick sounds your fingers are drawing from your cunt.
You ease off of him for a second then, blinking up at him innocently.
"Would you let me pass—," you ask him, licking a thick stripe up the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, holding eye contact while you do so. "—professor?"
"Fuck—" he responds, groaning in pleasure when you suck him back into your warm mouth. "With an Outstanding, even."
Professor Riddle has never once given anyone the highest mark—claiming that no work can ever be perfect. It simply doesn't exist for him. Never has.
"Mmmmh," you purr, suckling on his oversensitive tip, purposely keeping him right on that blissful edge he's currently teetering on. "Generous."
He shakes his head, cock throbbing inside your mouth, your head sinking down on him until your nose is pressed against his lower abdomen. "No. Well deserved."
You quicken your pace at that, and he growls, gritting his teeth, jaw clenched tightly—he is going to come. He is going to fucking come so hard, you'll fucking struggle with it.
When both of his hands fist your hair, pushing you down on his pulsing length, you know he is going to spill down your throat any second—and when your throat closes around the invasion, and you struggle against his grip, he finally does.
Accompanied by a string of mumbled curses, he empties himself deep inside your mouth with thick, hot ropes of white cum, making you swallow around him eagerly before he lets you go.
You pull off him, sucking in deep breaths as you cough violently, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his flushed tip.
When your breathing slows down, an eager grin spreads on your lips. You dive back in—tongue cleaning your thick spit and the remnants of his cum off his cock, making nasty, slick sounds.
"Come here," he grunts, chair screeching against the wooden planks of his floor as he lifts you onto his lap, kissing your lips and wiping the drool from your chin. "You are a nasty fucking girl. Y'know that?"
Your head dips to press a kiss to his tense jaw. "Only for my favourite professor. With the others I am good. Mostly."
SMACK!
Your head whips to the side at the sharp impact his palm makes with your cheek, leaving behind a blissful sting, coaxing a moan from your lips.
"Sit down on it," he orders, dark brown eyes leaving no room for argument as they flick from your own to his hardening cock mere inches from your slick pussy. "I don't want to hear another word from that filthy mouth until I am done correcting these essays."
Your head turns to find a huge pile of papers on his desk.
No fucking way.
"But I am invited to a birthday party," you pout, fighting the hold he has on you—without success.
He huffs a laugh, lifts your hips, and sinks into your weeping, pulsing hole with one single, vicious thrust—then, lodged deep in your warm, velvety walls, he averts his attention back to the paper he left abandoned on his desk around half an hour ago.
"You will not move a single inch until I am done here with you, sweetheart. Even dumb little girls like you have to learn that every action comes with its consequences."
little funfact: I rushed through writing this as I am currently at a birthday party posting this. yep. you heard that right.
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
—
masterlist. | oneshots.
Johnny ruts into you from behind, panting heavily, “you think you could give me one more, sugar? Hm?” He pants out, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He chuckles and shakes his head as he realizes you’re in your own little world, babbling and moaning with your face buried in the mattress. He grips your hair and pulls your head back. That sure snaps you out of it. “Whattt?” You whine, Johnny leans forward and wraps his arm around your neck, putting you into a headlock position. “Think you could squirt for me?” He whispers into your ear. You whine, letting your head loll forward. “Can’t anymore..all out..” Johnny groans and takes the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it dangerously close to your asscheek “I’ll burn you, I swear to god.” He whispers. You know he will, because he’s done it before. You hesitate but nod. Johnny ruts deeper into you, trying to force it out of you. Johnny’s grip tightens, his breath warm against your ear as he pulls you up just enough for you to meet his eyes in the dim light. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice rough but coaxing now, not demanding. “Give me just a little more.” You shake your head weakly, overwhelmed, but he only smirks—half-teasing, half-triumphant. “That’s my girl,” he says, dragging his thumb along your lower back before guiding you up so your back is pressed against his chest. Johnny’s arm stays firm across your chest as he pulls you upright, keeping you balanced against him. You can feel his breath on your neck—hot, uneven, frustrated and amused all at once. “Drift off on me again,” he murmurs, voice low like a warning, “and I’m gonna start thinking you’re doing it on purpose.”You blink hard, trying to pull yourself back into your body. Everything feels hazy, too warm, too much. His grip in your hair is embarrassing in how quickly it clears your head, and he knows it. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “There she is.”Your hands scramble weakly against the sheets, trying to brace yourself. Johnny’s free hand skims down your hip, slow, deliberate, claiming its space like he owns it.“You’re really done?” he asks, not mocking—genuinely curious, though you can hear the challenge buried underneath. “Tapped out?” You nod, breath shaking. “I… I think so.” Johnny exhales a rough sigh against your shoulder, part annoyance, part admiration. “You kill me, you know that?” he mutters. “Absolutely wreck me.” The mattress dips as he shifts behind you, pulling you tighter against him. His forehead presses to the back of your neck—an unexpected moment of closeness that steals the rest of your air. Then the cigarette comes into view again, dangling lazily from his fingers. You can’t see his expression, but you can feel the grin when he murmurs, “And here I was thinking you might surprise me.” You tense, instinctively aware of the heat hovering too close to your skin. Johnny feels it—the way your breath hitches—and chuckles quietly. “Easy,” he says, brushing it just close enough to make goosebumps rise, but not touching. “I’m not gonna mark you again… not unless you ask.” Your voice barely works. “Johnny…” “Relax.” His tone softens, almost unexpectedly. “I got you.” He guides you back down to the mattress with slow, deliberate control, the kind that leaves no room for doubt or guessing. His hand slides from your hair to your back, pressing between your shoulder blades in a grounding way rather than a punishing one. “You gave me more than enough,” he mutters, almost to himself. “More than I expected.” The cigarette flicks away somewhere behind him. The room smells like smoke and sweat and the faintest hint of something gentler beneath his rough edges. Johnny settles over you, not demanding anything now, just holding, breathing against your skin, letting the adrenaline ebb out of his muscles. “Stay with me,” he says quietly. Not an order this time. A request.
like reader comes home and instantly he’s just humping her, kinda like with that two-bit fic, while kissing all over her neck and begging for her to let him have at her.
────۶ৎ spoiled rotten
or... dallas getting himself way too wind up just by thinking things through.
warnings : smut<3
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: enjoy your food, my children🙏
♱ *ೃ.⋆
It's one of those heavy, golden afternoons in your palatial estate—marble floors cool under bare feet, sunlight pooling across imported rugs, everything quiet and still except for the faint hum of the AC and the occasional, restless groan from Dallas Winston, stretched out like a lazy tomcat on your velvet chaise.
He’s not wearing a shirt. Just loose black silk pants you bought him in Paris and the delicate gold chain he never takes off—the one you fastened around his neck months ago, murmuring, “Mine” as the clasp clicked into place. His skin is golden and inked, his stomach lean and rippling, a little sheen of sweat making him glow like sin.
His feet are kicked up on your coffee table. There’s an untouched half-smoked cigarette in one hand and a crystal glass of bourbon in the other. He hasn’t shaved, hasn’t moved in hours, but his skin still smells like your body lotion, and his chest gleams faintly with the oil you rubbed into him last night when he whined about how sore he was from “being good for you.”
He’s sprawled across the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, the other trailing slowly, aimlessly down his chest, over his abs, lower... not even really touching himself, not yet. Just been lying there like a spoiled, useless housecat, thinking.
Thinking about you.
You, who paid off his bail.
You, who stocked your walk-in closet with suits just for him.
You, who lets him sleep until noon and never asks where he goes at night.
You, who lets him live like this—lounging in a mansion, full belly, fresh sheets, spoiled rotten.
Thinking about your perfume. The one that lingers on your robes, on your pillows, in the closet where your thousand-dollar heels sleep in neat little rows.
Thinking about how you’d stood at the foot of the bed that morning, slipping on a pencil skirt and gold earrings, telling him in that perfect, patient voice not to burn down the house while you were at work.
“At work.”
God, that gets to him.
It drives him a little nuts that you work. That you put on lipstick and heels and go out into the world and make more money just so you can spoil him worse. Something about that power—that control—short-circuits his brain. You’re out there earning, and he’s here doing nothing, and that fact turns him on so badly his cock’s been half-hard for an hour just lying in your sheets and smelling your pillow.
It starts small. Just the ache in his gut. A slow burn in his chest. That dirty, spoiled little heat in his stomach that simmers every time he thinks about how much you give him.
He shifts, rubbing the heel of his hand over his stomach, lazy and slow, feeling that faint ache building between his legs. It’s not urgent. Not yet. Just something creeping under his skin, tightening like a wire the longer he thinks about you.
He closes his eyes.
Thinks about the Cartier bracelet on his wrist—you slipped it on him last week and told him “Now everyone knows you’re mine.”
Thinks about the pool you let him fuck you in last weekend.
Thinks about the heavy envelope of cash you tossed on the nightstand just for being good and sitting still while you made him moan into your silk sheets.
And then—your voice. Soft in his memory.
“You don’t have to lift a finger, baby. Just be pretty for me.”
That’s it.
That’s the line that makes his hips twitch.
He groans. Palms his cock through the silk of your gifted pajama pants. He’s hard now, no question. Getting needy, but not fast—just winding up like a slow-burning fuse. He presses down with his palm, ruts up lazily, a quiet little sound in his throat as he sinks deeper into your expensive couch cushions.
He imagines you walking through the front door right now. Dropping your handbag, still wearing heels, still glowing with that scent of money and control and faint sweat from a day of handling men who aren’t him.
He imagines you looking down at him all casual like,
“You haven’t moved all day, Dally?”
And he’d say something like
“Didn’t have to. Everything I need’s right here.”
And then he’d roll over, drop to his knees like a dog, like your dog, and crawl to you just to press his face into your thighs and breathe you in while he grinds up against your leg like a damn mutt in heat.
His breath’s getting heavier now. His hand’s slipped inside the waistband. He's stroking slow, more possessive than fast. Not even chasing release—just obsessing. Addicted. Drunk on the thought of how much you’ve given him, how much power you hold over him.
You made him into this. Into a pet.
And then—
The sound of heels on marble.
The click of the front door. A soft chime and the faint jingle of your keys.
Dallas freezes. Eyes wide, pupils blown. His cock throbs in his hand and his mouth falls open just a little as he hears your voice calling:
“Dally? I’m home!”
That’s it. That’s the trigger.
He sprints. Barefoot, flushed, hair tousled, hard as a rock in those silk pants that are now tenting at the front. You barely turn the corner into the grand living room before he crashes into you like a dog off-leash.
“Fuck—fuck, I missed you—you smell so good, baby, fuck—”
His arms go around your waist like a vice, lips crashing to your neck, hot and wet and frantic. You gasp, one heel slipping slightly on the marble, before you catch yourself.
“Jesus, Dallas—what the—?”
He’s grinding against your leg before you can even shrug off your coat. Hands grabbing, hips humping, mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses up your neck like a dog in heat.
“Dally, what’s gotten into you—”
“You have. You—fuck, you did. You made me like this.”
His voice is wrecked, needy. He’s kissing you like he’ll die if you stop. Mouthing at your jaw, biting your earring, panting against your throat like he’s starving.
“You work so hard f’r me, mama, you come home lookin’ so damn good—I need it, I need you, please—lemme have it, lemme—”
He’s humping your thigh now, frantic. His cock’s leaking into your pants, and he doesn’t even care. He just ruts. Like a spoiled, ruined boy who can’t function unless you let him come on you.
“Please lemme do it, lemme make a mess on you, I’ll clean it up, I swear—fuck, I missed you—been hard all goddamn day thinkin’ about you in that office skirt—”
You grab his jaw. Force his eyes to meet yours. His eyes are glassy, wild, and pleading. “You’re humping my leg, baby,” you say, matter-of-factly.
“I know,” he whines, nuzzling into your palm.
And the way he says it—raw, desperate, trembling—makes your thighs clench.
“please, lemme have it, lemme get at you- been good, I swear—I didn’t even jerk off while you were gone. I waited- I waited like you told me to, I—fuck, I need—please—”
He’s mouthing down your neck now, kissing like it’s the only way to breathe, groaning every time his cock rubs against you just right. He’s so gone, so messy, just from missing you. Just from remembering who pays his bills and fills his closet and fucks him like he’s something precious.
And the way he says it—raw, desperate, trembling—makes your thighs clench.
Your hand fisting in his hair is all it takes.
Dallas lets out a choked groan—part relief, part need—as you yank his head back and start dragging him toward the bedroom. He stumbles after you, one hand still palming his aching cock through those stupid little silk pajama pants, the other gripping your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“M’so fuckin’ hard,” he whines, voice breaking. “Please, mama, I been good—been thinkin’ ’bout you all day—lemme—lemme—”
“Shut up, Dally.”
Your voice is cold. Commanding. Tired from work and absolutely done with his desperate babbling.
You don’t stop until you’ve shoved open the bedroom door and dragged him inside. The room smells like wealth and sex and the vanilla lotion you keep in the drawer for his skin. He’s panting behind you, pupils blown, lips red from kissing your neck. He looks like a feral animal.
“Get on your knees,” you snap, kicking the door shut with your heel.
He drops like a fucking stone.
So fast it’s pathetic.
He shudders. Knees spread, cock tenting his silk bottoms, leaking already.
“Please let me put it in you. Please. I’m yours, I’m yours—”
You don’t let him touch you yet.
You make him crawl to the bed first.
He moves slow, hips twitching with every movement, rutting the air like a dog in heat. Once he’s there, you grab a fistful of those soft silk pants and yank them down—he nearly sobs, cock springing free, flushed and leaking and twitching against his stomach.
“So hard it hurts,” he gasps. “Please—”
You push him flat onto the mattress and straddle his waist.
He’s trembling under you, fingers twitching at his sides like he desperately wants to grab your hips, to drag you down and rut into you like a filthy little animal.
“What are the rules, Dally?”
“N-no touching unless you say,” he whines.
“Good boy.”
You trail your fingers down his chest. Over every freckle and scar. Over the abs he barely earned, the tattoo you paid for, the body you own. You lean in close, kissing along his jaw.
“You gonna come just from my thigh again, pretty thing?”
“If you let me.” He’s breathless, sweating. “God, I’ll do anything. You can use me however you want—just fuckin’ touch me—”
You grind down on his cock. Just once. Just enough to make him gasp and thrust up without thinking.
“Ah—fuck!”
“I said no touching.”
You grab his jaw again, tighter now. Your nails dig in.
“You wanna be used? Huh? You wanna be my pretty house pet that I come home and fuck stupid after work?”
He nods. Frantic.
“I’ll bark. I’ll crawl. I’ll let you ride me ‘til I cry—just please, mama, please—”
So you give it to him.
You grind against his cock again, slow and mean, not giving him what he wants yet. His whole body arches, begging for more. His hands fist the sheets like a man about to lose his soul. You lean forward and start kissing his throat, sucking on the skin above the collar.
He whines—high, helpless, undone.
“Makin’ me so fuckin’ dumb,” he slurs. “My head’s full of you—I can’t even think no more—”
You reach between you and grab his cock, slick and hot, and stroke it slow—just once.
Dallas moans.
Literally moans. Not a groan, not a huff, a moan. Like a man who’s finally found god in the form of your palm.
“Ohh fuck, f-fuck—!”
You slap your hand over his mouth.
“If you wake the neighbors, you sleep in the goddamn guest house.”
He nods furiously under your palm, drooling now, eyes rolling back.
You ride his thigh until you’re soaking, and by the time you finally sink down on his cock, he’s shaking. Begging. Crying. Saying thank you between every filthy thrust.
“You’re so good to me—so fuckin’ good—mama, mama, mama—”
He comes with his mouth wide open, hands fisted in the sheets, tears running down his flushed cheeks.
And you don’t stop.
You fuck him through it.
Because this is what he’s for.
A spoiled, broken-in, collared little boy—
Good for one thing and one thing only:
Being ruined by you.
“you ever used this one before?” chris asks, holding up a pink eight-inch dildo, perfect in length and girth. his features were full of genuine curiosity as he stared at you, awaiting your response. “yes chris i own this store i’ve used almost everything in here.” you sigh, barely looking up from your phone. the leather chair under you squeaked as you adjusted your posture, fixing the slouch that you were falling into. “this shit is brand new. you must be a real freak, huh?” he jokes, smirking dumbly. “more than you could imagine,” you purr, giving him some attention.
his eyes glisten with lust at your statement. something unnamed coloured his blue eyes. “how’d it go? any struggle?” he asks, questions flying out from left and right. you squint at him as he asks you so casually if you can take 8 inches and how easily you can or cannot. he has to be stoned, but it makes you wonder what he’s got in those black cargos under those plaid boxers. “slipped in like magic. stretched a lil but nothing i can’t handle. felt every curve and vein. felt the tip near my cervix, hitting that sweet spot deliciously,” you describe, fucking with him by going into full detail.
he shifts in place while you explicitly explain how well you take silicone cock. his eyes dart from your face to your breast to your clothed lower body, looking like he wished you had fewer clothes. his mouth fell ajar as you continued shamelessly. you smile at him as you finish addressing him like you’d do a customer looking to buy. “hold off on the details, will you?” he sighs, dramatically putting a hand up so you couldn’t look at him. you roll your eyes with a chuckle before responding. “you asked disphit. i’m just being honest and practicing for when i need to sell it,” you breathe, staring at his pale palms. silence brewed for a moment, tension thick and nearly suffocating in the quiet shop.
“what else you gonna sell with that technique of yours, huh?” he quipped, breaking you from your phone again. “everything. could sell that sexy black lingerie by telling a woman how it hugs my curves, shows all the good stuff, and how good it makes my tits look, and how little of my ass it covers. or how snug the fuzzy handcuffs fit. how fast the lube got that pretty buttplug in my tight hole. how many times i came from using that clit sucking vibrator. need i say more?” you finish, raising a brow at the starstruck boy. “i’m sold,” he responds, palming his aching cock under the wet fabric.
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