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@sweetestsallow
christine 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ early 20s. she / her. tom's darling. theo's princess. HP universe fic recs / archive.
ⓘ this blog contains explicit & nsfw content. please be sure to look at any author warnings/tags. you are responsible for your own online media consumption
catalog ─ slytherin boys hogwarts legacy golden trio pick your poison
sideblog ─ jujutsu kaisen blog ;; @sweetestsukuna
soooo i recently got back into anime (specifically jujutsu kaisen), so i went ahead and made a separate fic rec blog @sweetestsukuna.
if there are any jjk or anime fans here, feel free to check it out if you’re interested!! i’ve been a lot more active over there since my hyperfixation kicked back in, so that’s why i’ve been a bit MIA on here.
soooo i recently got back into anime (specifically jujutsu kaisen), so i went ahead and made a separate fic rec blog @sweetestsukuna.
if there are any jjk or anime fans here, feel free to check it out if you’re interested!! i’ve been a lot more active over there since my hyperfixation kicked back in, so that’s why i’ve been a bit MIA on here.
and they were roommates.. based on this ask! 18+
If you want a non 18+ version just let me know! Oral f! Receiving, relationship denial, dirty talk!
You were just roommates.
At least, that’s what Mattheo Riddle told everyone when the question came up, his voice low and lazy, like the words tasted boring on his tongue. But his mates weren’t stupid. They caught the way his dark eyes dragged down your body every time you walked into the kitchen, gaze lingering on the sway of your ass in those tight little shorts you wore around the flat. They noticed how his palm always found the small of your back when the group went out for drinks — possessive, warm, fingers pressing just hard enough through your shirt to make your skin tingle for hours afterward.
Just friends who happened to live together. That’s all.
Your cheeks burned pink every time your friends shot you those annoyed, knowing looks across the table. As if they didn’t see the way your jaw tightened and anger flared hot in your chest whenever some girl leaned too close to him at the bar, laughing too loud, touching his arm like she had any right. As if they didn’t notice how you stayed up late, stomach twisting with something that wasn’t quite hunger, waiting for the sound of his key in the lock so you could finally eat together — the two of you at the tiny kitchen table, shoulders brushing, the air thick with unspoken want.
Just friends…
…who fucked from time to time.
It was only natural, really. Being crammed into the same small flat, breathing the same air day after day. Coming home after a long, stressful shift, bodies buzzing with leftover adrenaline and frustration. The kind of tension that had to go somewhere.
Like right now, for example.
He’d had a brutal day — boss riding his ass, forced to stay late again until the fluorescent lights felt like they were burning holes behind his eyes. The second he shoved the front door open, the flat welcomed him with the rich, savory scent of the meal you’d cooked: garlic, herbs, and something warm and comforting that made his stomach growl. But the real hunger always hit when he saw you.
You looked fucking sinful in that tiny pajama set — soft fabric clinging to every curve, the hem riding high on your thighs, the thin straps slipping off one shoulder. Barefoot in the kitchen, humming softly as you plated his food, looking so damn domestic and delicious he felt his cock twitch instantly.
What else was he supposed to do?
Before you could even turn around fully, he was on you — strong hands gripping your waist, spinning you around and lifting you onto the cool kitchen counter in one smooth motion. The plates clattered behind you as he dropped to his knees right there on the tile, shoving your thighs apart with rough palms.
“Missed this pretty little pussy all day,” he growled against your inner thigh, voice rough from exhaustion and pure need. His hot breath ghosted over your already damp folds, making you shiver.
He didn’t bother with teasing tonight. Mattheo buried his face between your legs like a man starved, tongue dragging flat and slow over your swollen clit before flicking rapidly against the sensitive bundle of nerves. The wet sounds of his mouth working you filled the kitchen — slick, hungry slurps mixed with his low groans of satisfaction as he tasted you. Two long, thick fingers pushed inside your fluttering hole without warning, curling instantly to stroke that perfect spot that made your back arch and a broken moan tear from your throat.
Your hands flew to his messy black curls, tugging hard as your hips bucked against his face. The counter was cold against your ass, a sharp contrast to the scorching heat of his mouth and the relentless pump of his fingers, stretching and stroking you open. He sucked your puffy clit into his mouth, tongue swirling, while his fingers fucked you deeper, faster, the lewd squelch of your wetness echoing with every thrust.
“Fuck ngh— Matty—” you gasped, thighs trembling around his head.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and wicked. “Only fair, baby. You made me dinner…” His tongue flicked your clit again, making your whole body jolt. “…just gonna enjoy my dessert first.”
He dove back in, devouring you with renewed hunger — tongue relentless, fingers pumping harder, the pressure building fast and filthy until your legs shook and you came hard, crying out his name as your walls clenched around his fingers, soaking his chin and the counter beneath you.
Mattheo didn’t stop until you were whimpering and oversensitive, only then rising to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just finished the best meal of his life. His cock strained hard against his trousers as he leaned in, kissing you deep and dirty so you could taste yourself on his tongue.
“Best fucking part of my day,” he muttered against your lips, voice husky.
Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, he reached for the plate you’d made him.
“Just roommates,” he’d probably say later, cigarette between his lips while you were still catching your breath, legs still spread on the counter.
But the way he pulled you into his lap to eat, one hand possessively on your thigh and the other feeding you bites between kisses… told the truth.
braver than me
pairing: sebastian sallow x f!mc
summary: sebastian is a coward. lucky for him, she’s not.
word count: 3.3k
warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, kissing, pining, no use of y/n, sebastian is a coward
a/n: there’s just something about writing sebastian being hopelessly in love. like yes yes pls brain more!! i think it’s all the angst i’ve piled up as wips in my gdocs. enjoy n have a good day my loves!
[ao3] [wattpad]
sebastian was by no means a bashful man.
he’s been called many things in his time, but bashful had never made the list—not like confident, brazen, or his favorite, audacious. better yet: arrogance with legs, as ominis often put it, though in his typically snide way. sebastian, for his part, didn't mind it. matter of fact, he wore it like a badge of honor, shiny and dazzling. to him, there was a certain satisfaction in standing out. if everyone else was scrambling to find their place, sebastian had already claimed his. carved it out of sheer determination.
so why—why in merlin’s name—was he suddenly so timid when she was near? why, when it came to her, did he suddenly lose all sense of the man he thought he was?
it wasn’t as if he hadn’t spent every waking moment in her company. their time together had become so familiar, so entwined in the fabric of his daily life, that he'd stopped counting the hours they'd spent laughing, bickering, teasing—just being. she had become a constant, more than a friend, really. though "friend" was probably the closest word, but now? it felt wide off the mark. especially since a friend didn’t become tongue-tied when talking to her. a friend didn’t feel his pulse race when her fingers brushed his in the corridors. and a friend certainly didn’t blush like a fool at the sound of her laugh.
and it’s not like sebastian wasn’t aware of it, of course. he wasn’t blind to his own shifting thoughts and feelings. he had enough sense to recognize the telltale signs: the quickened heartbeat, the constant wandering of his thoughts back to her, the way his chest felt too tight when she was near. schoolboy feelings—childish, ridiculous, and entirely beneath someone like him. yet here he was, drowning in them. but knowing didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
there were moments when he thought about just telling her outright. dropping the weight of his feelings at her feet and dealing with whatever came after. it seemed so simple in theory. but in practice? all that mettle goes flying out the window.
instead, he became an embarrassing, bumbling mess. words tumbled out of him awkwardly, half-formed and nonsensical, or worse, he’d overcorrect and lean too hard into teasing, only to feel an immediate sting of regret when her expression faltered ever so slightly. she deserved better than his idiocy, but merlin help him, he didn’t know how to be anything else when it came to her.
for someone who prided himself on his charm and quick wit, sebastian had never felt so completely, hopelessly out of his depth.
in fact, it had gotten so bad that he’d taken to actively avoiding her. hiding. the idea was absurd, really. he was sebastian sallow, for merlin's sake. avoiding her was something someone with far less nerve would do. but there he was, sneaking through corridors, ducking into alcoves. he’d even locked himself in his dorm on more than one occasion, feigning a headache or some other excuse when ominis inevitably called him out on it.
but eluding her was becoming a cruel joke—one hogwarts itself seemed eager to play along with. the castle, grand and labyrinthine, conspired against him in ways he couldn’t quite explain. it was as if every hallway, every twisting corridor, every hidden nook was designed to lead him straight to her.
sebastian was on his way to a secluded spot he'd claimed for himself—quiet, tucked away, the perfect refuge for the pages of a book that promised to keep his mind distracted. that was the plan, at least, but luck—his luck, at least—was as cruel as ever.
he turned the corner and, there she was. she sat on the wide sill of a stained-glass window, knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on them as she stared out toward the lake. her hair caught the light just so, the golden afternoon sun casting a soft glow around her that made her look almost ethereal.
as if on instinct, his heart skipped in giddy betrayal at the sight of her. but even as his chest swelled, his mind betrayed him, blanking entirely—completely and utterly useless, as it always seemed to be when she was anywhere in his line of sight. if he didn’t move soon, she’d surely find him staring ridiculously at her. but he was rooted to the spot, staring like a fool. it's not too late to keep walking. he could just move past her, pretend he hadn’t seen her. it wasn’t like she’d spotted him yet…
“i know you’re there, sebastian. i can see your reflection in the glass.”
her voice shattered his internal debate, soft but laced with unmistakable amusement. she turned her head toward him, her lips quirking into the faintest curve, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
every plan of escape evaporated in an instant at the sight of her smile.
“where were you headed to?” she asked, tilting her head as if daring him to lie.
he swallowed hard, clearing his throat in an attempt to appear nonchalant, but his voice came out in a stammer. “i… uh, y’know, j-just around,” he mumbled, immediately cursing himself for how he sounded because not one single syllable of that had been nonchalant.
“by around, you mean away from me?” she accused, her tone light but sharp enough to cut through his feigned indifference. “you think i haven’t noticed how you’ve been avoiding me like the plague?”
his stomach dropped, panic bubbling to the surface. “w-what? no,” he blurted, far too quickly and far too loudly to even be remotely convincing. “why would i be avoiding you?”
she shrugged, one of her brow quirking upwards. “you tell me.”
“well, i’m not.” he insisted, gripping the leather-bound book in his hand like it was some kind of lifeline. he waved it slightly for emphasis. “i’m only… looking for a nice, quiet place to read my book.”
her eyes narrowed playfully, but there was something curious lingering in her gaze. “okay, prove it.”
“prove it?” he repeated, blinking at her as if she’d just asked him to duel her right there in the hallway.
“sit with me,” she said simply, shifting slightly to make room on the windowsill beside her. her smile widened puckishly as she patted the empty space next to her. “you know, i find this spot quite serene, nice for reading. there's even a great view of the lake, and the added bonus of my presence. isn’t that just what you're looking for? unless, of course, you really are running from me.”
sebastian froze, his mind racing as every excuse he could possibly muster flitted through his head. he could still walk away, couldn’t he? he could laugh it off, make some joke, anything to escape the situation before he made an even bigger fool of himself.
but the look in her eyes held him there, rooted in place, and something in him knew—she knew exactly what she was doing. she was testing him, waiting to see if he’d take the bait. and if he ran now, she’d never let him live it down. worse, he wasn’t sure he would.
gathering every ounce of composure he could muster (which, to be honest, wasn’t much), he crossed the short distance between them, his legs feeling like lead. slowly, he perched on the windowsill beside her, keeping just enough distance to keep himself from spiraling further but close enough that her warmth brushed faintly against him.
“there,” he muttered, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the lake outside. “happy?”
her smile softened, though he couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her to see it. “very,” she said, her tone softer now, less teasing.
sbastian tried—really tried—to focus on his book, but it was pointless. her presence beside him was unbearable in the best and worst ways, every tiny shift she made pulling his attention away like a magnetic force. the soft brush of her shoulder against his, the faint scent of her perfume, the way her hair caught the light—it was maddening.
and just when he thought he couldn’t handle more, she scooted closer to him.
“sebastian, have i done something to upset you?” she asked, her voice gentle but tinged with an earnestness that made his chest tighten.
his fingers toyed with the edges of his book. “what makes you think that?” he asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.
“oh, really?” she dragged the word, sarcasm biting in her tone. “you hide from me, you don’t talk to me, and when you do, you can barely look at me. it’s… quite unsettling.”
that sounded like a challenge, and if anything, sebastian never backed down from a challenge. so with a sharp exhale, he forced himself to look at her directly. his dark eyes locked onto hers, and though his intention had been to put her at ease, his intensity clearly had the opposite effect.
she blinked, recoiling slightly as a blush spread on her cheeks. “nevermind, that’s even more unsettling. merlin.”
her words threw him, his brow furrowing as his mouth twitched into something between a scowl and a smirk. “i-i thought you wanted me to look at you,” he replied, his voice coming out higher than intended.
“yes, look at me—n-not bore holes into my soul.” she argued, crossing her arms defensively.
sebastian let out a frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair. “i don’t understand what you want from me.”
“just—be normal!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “merlin knows you haven't been in a while!"
she huffed, turning her face toward the window, as if the act could somehow hide the deep crimson spreading across her cheeks.
sebastian, on the other hand, rather than feel chastised, found himself even more endeared. it only proved her right—he hadn’t been normal (whatever normal meant) in a long while. a normal sebastian would’ve jumped at any opportunity to tease her, to throw a cheeky remark her way that would’ve left her rolling her eyes or swatting at him playfully. he would’ve poked at her for being so flustered, delighted in the way she tried to mask it with her sharp wit. but now? now he felt utterly and hopelessly unarmed.
was it possible to be both terrified and thrilled at the same time? because that was what she did to him—tied him in knots while making him feel like he could take on the world. and yet, every time he tried to find the words to express even a fraction of what was going on inside him, they tangled in his throat, leaving him helpless and, frankly, hysterical.
she bit her lip as she traced invisible lines on the frosted panes. “i can't believe it’s come to a point where i have to say this,” she muttered. “but i miss you, sebastian. i miss my friend.”
that would have made his heart stop, if only she hadn’t said the word “friend.” it seems that word haunted him more than it should. reminded him of his place—of his cowardice.
he could feel the way his chest subtly deflated, the way his shoulders drooped just a fraction, as though the weight of her words had suddenly doubled. had she noticed? he hoped not. it was humiliating enough to feel the sting of disappointment so fiercely; he couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be if she saw it, too. because then she’d ask. and if she asked, he’d have to tell her everything because, merlin help him, he wasn't sure he had the fortitude to resist her charms.
he opened his mouth, determined to say something—anything to reclaim a shred of normalcy—but all that came out was a pitiful, incoherent, “i…”
she turned to look at him then. “what is wrong with you lately?” she asked, her voice softer now, though still tinged with a hint of frustration. “you're not… you. you’re quiet and… iffy. you're driving me insane, sebastian.”
you’re driving me insane, too. he wanted to scream, but, of course, he didn’t say that. instead, he swallowed hard, his hands fidgeting awkwardly at the pages of the book on his lap, as though they could somehow express the things his mouth refused to.
“i—i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally managed, though it sounded weak, even to him.
her eyes narrowed, locking onto his as though she was trying to see straight through him. for a long beat, she didn’t say anything, and sebastian swore she’d hit him with a petrificus totalus. he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—he could only wait as she weighed whatever thoughts were swirling in her head.
she opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. when she finally spoke, her voice was steadier. firmer. “oh, to hell with it.”
sebastian didn’t know she could scoot any closer, but she did. the small distance that had remained between them disappeared, and now their noses were practically touching. his pulse quickened, the heat from her proximity fraying every last one of his nerves. her gaze bore into his, and he could do nothing but sit frozen, utterly at her mercy.
“since you don’t have the courage to acknowledge it,” she began, her voice quieter but no less pointed, “i will.”
she gulped. "something’s changed between us, sebastian. don’t try to deny it—i know you feel it too. otherwise, you wouldn't be acting like this."
feel it? of course he felt it. it was all he did these days—feel everything where she was concerned. every stolen glance, every unspoken word, every lingering moment that left his heart racing long after it ended. it consumed him to a pathetic degree. and yet, despite the storm in his chest, he couldn’t seem to find his voice. his hands clenched the edges of his book, knuckles white, as he stared at her in wide-eyed silence.
she took his lack of response as an invitation to continue. “the lingering stares,” she pressed, her tone softening as her cheeks flushed deeper. “the buzz when our hands accidentally touch… it’s unnerving for me too, but that doesn’t make it right to run from me.”
the words pierced straight through him, guilt and longing twisting like a knife in his chest. she deserved better—better than his awkward, stilted avoidance. better than his cowardice.
“what are you saying?” he managed to croak, though his voice was hoarse, and his heart felt as though it might burst from his ribcage.
her cheeks burned brighter—adorable, if only the situation wasn't so utterly terrifying—and for a moment, she hesitated. but then she squared her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and met his gaze with unwavering determination.
“i’m saying, sebastian, that i like you, and i reckon you like me too,” she said, her words coming out in a single breath, as if rushing to get them out before her courage faltered. she exhaled sharply, as though trying to steady herself, and added, “and it’s about bloody time we talked about it.”
sebastian stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. the confession was so unexpected, so raw and vulnerable, that for a moment, he didn’t know if he’d imagined it.
she liked him? she liked him.
the words echoed in his mind, each repetition making his chest swell just a little more. for a fleeting second, he was over the moon. but then, just as quickly, he came crashing back down to earth.
this wasn’t how he’d imagined this conversation going. not even close.
in his head (where he’d been stuck too often lately), he’d planned it all out—he’d bring her a bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked himself, maybe something with those little blue ones she seemed to love so much. he would give a heartfelt speech, every word meticulously practiced, rehearsed so many times in his mind that it could rival a monologue from shakespeare’s plays. not to mention, he would be the one to confess, not the other way around.
but no. his backbone—if one could even call it that—had failed him time and time again, and now here he was, caught off guard and utterly useless in the moment he’d dreamed of for weeks.
her voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “well, say something, damn it!” she huffed, nudging him hard enough in the shoulder to make him sway.
he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as the reality of her words sank in. His lips twitched into a small, almost disbelieving smile. “you’re right,” he admitted softly. “something has changed.”
her breath hitched slightly, her expression a mixture of hope and uncertainty. “and?”
“and… merlin’s beard, i’m terrible at this,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his face in frustration. he took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet her gaze, even though it felt like his heart was doing somersaults in his chest.
“i do like you,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “i like you more than i can even put into words. that’s probably why i've been such a wreck lately. i kept telling myself i’d tell you eventually, but every time i got close, i just panic and ruin it.” he gestured vaguely at the space—or lack thereof—between them. “and now… now you’ve gone and done it for me.”
a smile twitched at her lips, though she tried to suppress it. “so, what you’re saying is, this is my fault?”
“well, if you’d just waited a little longer—”
“oh, shut it, sebastian,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes but stepping closer nonetheless. “i don’t think either of us would’ve survived waiting any longer.”
“still,” he said, his tone softening, “you deserved something better than my stammering and sweating and… all this.”
“i don’t need much,” she said, her voice gentler now, her gaze softening. “i just need you. preferably not running from me next time, though.”
"yes, well," sebastian let out a shaky breath, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. “i think i’m done running.”
and for the first time in what felt like forever, his infamous brashness finally roared back to life. without overthinking it, without letting his nerves take hold, he lunged forward. his hands found her face, warm and soft beneath his fingers, and he kissed her. the book on his lap tumbled to the floor with a dull thud, but he didn’t care. it was clumsy, a little too eager, but he didn't care. he didn't care because he was kissing her.
the world tilted, narrowed, and then disappeared altogether. there was only the gentle press of her lips against his, the faint intake of her breath, and the way her hands instinctively gripped the front of his robes to steady herself. it was messy, impulsive, and absolutely him—no, them.
when the kiss broke only slightly, her breathless giggle sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. she leaned just far enough back to meet his gaze, her eyes dancing with amusement. “i suppose this makes us friends again?”
sebastian groaned, resting his forehead against hers. “please, gods, no,” he muttered against her lips, his voice dripping with mock horror.
her laughter bubbled up, light and free, and she tilted her head slightly, her smile almost mischievous. “what, you don’t want to be my friend, sebastian?”
“not even a little,” he said, grinning despite himself. his thumb brushed over the curve of her jaw, his gaze flickering between her lips and her eyes. “no, i’d much rather be whatever this is.”
her grin softened into something more tender, her hands sliding from his robes to rest lightly against his chest. “i think i’d rather like that too,” she admitted softly.
sebastian chuckled, a deep, relieved sound, and leaned in again, pressing his lips to hers once more. this time, it was slower, deliberate, like he was memorizing every second. then again, and again, each kiss growing lazier, sweeter, as if he had all the time in the world to be here, with her, like this.
between the kisses, he muttered softly, his voice thick with emotion. “thank you…” a kiss. “thank you…” another kiss. “for being braver than me.”
FICMAS #11— IS IT NEW YEARS YET? / theodore nott
december 31st
theodore nott x reader
summary: after the shittiest year of his life, theodore turns to you to make his new years one of a kind... based on the song 'is it new years yet?' by sabrina carpenter!
warnings: fluff, drinking, kissing, swearing
words: 4k
a/n: last fic of the year!!! so insane, i love you all sm 🥹🤍
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Theodore had always been good at pretending. For years, he’d kept himself locked behind a cool, unshakable exterior—the kind of calm that made people either envy him or wonder if he cared about anything at all. But tonight, even that mask felt brittle, cracked at the edges, much like the rest of him.
“Remind me again why we’re here?” you asked, leaning against the frosted window of the Astronomy Tower. The glow of enchanted lanterns cast a soft light over the room, catching in your eyes, and for a moment, Theo thought it might be enough to distract him from the ache in his chest. Almost.
“Because you insisted,” he replied, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
You arched a brow, your breath fogging the glass as you tilted your head to glance at him. “I insisted you spend New Year’s Eve somewhere other than brooding in your dormitory. I didn’t insist you drag me up here to freeze.”
His lips tugged into a faint smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thought you liked the view.”
“I’d like it better if my fingers weren’t turning blue,” you retorted, pulling your coat tighter around you.
It wasn’t the first time you’d seen Theo like this—quiet, withdrawn, carrying a heaviness that made it hard to meet his gaze for too long. The past year had gutted him in ways he wouldn’t talk about, and you’d learned not to push. Still, it hurt to watch him disappear into himself, piece by piece, especially when you knew he wouldn’t let anyone else pull him back.
Theo leaned against the opposite wall, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his posture casual, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His gaze flicked briefly to the courtyard below, where the rest of the school gathered for the New Year’s celebration. The laughter and cheers floated up, muffled by the tower’s height, and Theo’s scowl deepened.
“I just didn’t want to be down there,” he muttered finally.
You didn’t press for more. You didn’t need to. The holidays had a way of making the lonely feel lonelier, and while Theo would never admit it aloud, you could see he was tired of pretending he wasn’t one of them.
“It’s a stupid holiday,” he added, his voice low and rough from too many sleepless nights. “All this talk about new beginnings, fresh starts... it’s bullshit.”
You exhaled sharply, half amused, half exasperated. “You’re starting to sound like an old man.”
“Maybe I feel like one.” His smirk this time was wry, almost self-deprecating. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘new year, new me’ people.”
You shrugged, leaning back against the window and fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve. “Not exactly. But I think people need something to hold on to, even if it’s just an excuse to drink champagne and pretend next year won’t be just as bad.”
He let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Optimistic as ever, I see.”
You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips quirking up in a way that softened the air between you. “Well, someone has to balance you out.”
That earned a genuine smile, fleeting but real, and for a moment, the heaviness in the room seemed to lift. It was like this with Theo—comfortable in a way you couldn’t quite explain. He’d been in your life long enough to know when to push and when to let you sit in silence, and you’d learned to do the same for him.
But tonight, there was something restless about him, something in the way his fingers tapped against the railing or how he kept glancing at the watch on his wrist. Midnight was creeping closer, and with it, the end of the year he clearly wanted to forget.
His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, and though the heaviness in his expression didn’t vanish, something in it shifted—faint, fleeting, but enough to make your chest ache.
“What would you do,” he said suddenly, leaning his forearms on the railing, “if you could start over? Like, really start over. No past, no expectations—just… blank.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard. “You mean, if I could erase everything?”
“Not erase,” he corrected, his gaze fixed on the shimmering stars above. “Just… leave it behind.”
You hesitated, your stomach twisting at the thought. “I don’t know if I could. Even the bad stuff… it’s still part of me, you know?”
Theo’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded slowly, as if he’d expected that answer but didn’t know what to do with it.
“You’re overthinking again,” you said softly, looking down at the wooden floor. “It’s New Year’s, Theo. You don’t have to have it all figured out tonight.”
“I don’t have anything figured out,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’ve got me. That’s something.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fall away, a heavy silence settling over the two of you.
“So, what’s the plan?” you asked, breaking the silence. “Brood until midnight and call it a success?”
“Sounds efficient.” He lifted a bottle to his lips, taking a slow sip before adding dryly, “What were you expecting? Streamers? Confetti?”
“Maybe a little less gloom.” You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “It’s New Year’s, Theo. You’re supposed to be… I don’t know, hopeful or something.”
“Hopeful,” he repeated, like it was a word in a foreign language. “Yeah, maybe next year.”
You rolled your eyes, but the frustration in your voice was half-hearted at best. Theo had been like this for weeks—withdrawn, sharp around the edges, like he was daring someone to try and cut through. And if anyone was stubborn enough to try, it was you.
Pushing away from the window, you stepped closer until you were standing in front of him. “You know, if you wanted to wallow in misery, you could’ve done that without dragging me into it.”
Theo tilted his head, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “And miss the opportunity to ruin your night? Never.”
You scoffed, though your lips twitched upward despite yourself. “So, again I ask, what’s the plan? Sit here, sulk, and drink yourself into oblivion?”
“Pretty much,” he said with a shrug, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his eyes evenly. “I do, actually. But it involves you putting on something other than that sorry excuse for a jumper.”
He glanced down at himself—oversized knit, fraying at the cuffs, like he’d fished it out of a charity bin. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything,” you said flatly. “Get up. We’re going out.”
Theo groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re relentless.”
“And you’re boring.” You shot him a pointed look. “Come on, Theo. Don’t make me start this year regretting that I wasted my night on you.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, his dark eyes searching yours. Then, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. “Fine,” he said with mock exasperation. “But if I hate every second of it, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.” You grinned, and this time, it reached your eyes, warm and teasing in a way you knew would get under his skin. “Now hurry up. Midnight’s not going to wait for you.”
Theo groaned for the fifth time in as many minutes, his breath fogging up in the freezing night air. "Tell me again why we couldn’t just stay in the tower?"
You shot him a glare, tightening your scarf around your neck. "Because, Nott, there’s only so much of your self-pity I can take before I start considering throwing myself off the Astronomy Tower."
“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Theo’s smirk was sharp, but there was no real malice behind it. It was the kind of banter that had always come easy between the two of you—even if, lately, it felt like you were the only one trying to keep it alive.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” you shot back, falling into step beside him as the two of you trudged down the snowy path toward Hogsmeade.
Most of the village was still alive with revelers spilling out of The Three Broomsticks or clustered around the twinkling fairy lights strung up in the square. You glanced over at Theo, who was walking beside you with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. His expression was unreadable, his jaw tight, but at least he’d come without too much of a fight.
“Seriously, though,” you said after a moment, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Why do you hate New Year’s so much? It’s not like anyone’s expecting you to make a big speech or kiss anyone at midnight.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” he deadpanned, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “And for the record, it’s not just New Year’s. I hate most holidays. They’re all the same—just another excuse for people to pretend their lives aren’t completely miserable.”
You rolled your eyes, though there was a part of you that couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. Theo had always had a way of looking at the world like it was already halfway broken, and this year, with everything he’d been through—especially being home with just his sorry excuse for a father—it was hard to blame him.
“Not everyone’s as cynical as you, you know,” you said, your tone softer this time. “Some of us actually enjoy the whole ‘fresh start’ thing.”
“Yeah?” He glanced over at you, one eyebrow raised. “And what’s your big resolution for the year, then? Start reading your Potions textbook before the night before exams?”
You snorted. “Not quite. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Theo didn’t reply, but there was a flicker of amusement in his expression that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you were starting to chip away at that armor he’d wrapped himself in.
“This feels like a mistake,” he muttered as the two of you stopped in front of a pub that was noticeably rowdier than the others.
“That’s because you think everything fun is a mistake,” you shot back, grinning as you pulled the door open. The warmth hit you immediately, along with the unmistakable scent of spiced cider and butterbeer. Laughter and music spilled out into the street, and you gave Theo a look. “Come on, live a little.”
“Live a little,” he echoed dryly, but he followed you inside anyway. The pub was cramped and noisy, filled with students and villagers alike, their laughter and chatter blending together in a kind of chaotic harmony. Someone in the corner was strumming a guitar, and a group near the bar was singing along with a warbling charm. Theo scanned the room, his expression bordering on skeptical. “This is your grand idea?”
You rolled your eyes, dragging him toward the bar. “Yes, and you’re welcome.”
It took some effort, but you managed to snag two seats at the end of the counter. The bartender—a cheerful woman with rosy cheeks and an apron dusted with flour—came over almost immediately. “What’ll it be, lovebirds?”
Theo’s brow arched slightly, and he opened his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it. “Two Firewhiskeys, and keep them coming.”
He gave you a sideways look as the bartender bustled off. “Bold choice. Didn’t know you could handle your liquor.”
“I can’t,” you admitted with a shrug, the corner of your lips twitching upward. “But if I’m spending New Year’s with you, I might as well make it interesting.”
That earned a quiet laugh, soft and unexpected, and for a moment, Theo almost looked like himself again. But then the drinks arrived, and the reality of the night crept back in.
The first round went down easy. The second was harder. By the third, Theo had stopped pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself, though he still had that guarded look in his eyes, like he was bracing for something to go wrong.
“Okay, your turn,” you said, pointing at him with your mug. “If you had to make a resolution—”
“Which I don’t,” he interrupted.
“—but if you did,” you continued, ignoring him, “what would it be?”
“Not to make resolutions,” he replied without missing a beat.
“Cop-out,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Come on, there’s got to be something.”
He hesitated, the edge of his glass resting against his lips. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off entirely, but then he set the drink down and exhaled slowly. “I guess… I’d like to stop feeling like this.”
“Like what?” you asked gently.
Theo’s gaze dropped to the counter, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Like I’m carrying around a graveyard.”
The weight of his words settled between you, heavy and unspoken. You wanted to say something—anything—but nothing felt right, so instead, you reached out and placed your hand over his. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to make him look up.
He sighed, running his other hand through his hair. “And maybe… Maybe try not to fuck up as much this year.”
The words were casual, but there was something raw in the way he said them. “Theo…”
“Don’t,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “It’s fine. Just drink your butterbeer before it gets cold.”
You frowned but didn’t push, instead lifting your mug and taking a long sip. If Theo wasn’t ready to talk, you weren’t going to force him. But that didn’t mean you were going to let him wallow in silence, either.
“You’re not alone, Theo,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the noise of the pub. “I know it feels like it sometimes, but you’re not.”
His lips parted, but whatever he was about to say was lost in the din of laughter and clinking glasses around you. He stared at you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours, and you could see the crack in his armor, the rawness he tried so hard to hide.
Before he could respond, the bartender came back with another round, breaking the moment. Theo pulled his hand away, and you let him, though you couldn’t help but notice the faint pink that had crept into his cheeks—not from the alcohol, but from something deeper, something unspoken.
As the minutes ticked closer to midnight, the pub’s energy seemed to swell. The noise was deafening—laughter and shouting from every direction, the clinking of glass, the music blasting from somewhere, and the din of excited chatter about the year ahead. You felt like you were drowning in it, and, for a brief moment, you regretted pulling Theo into this madness. He was still fidgeting, his eyes darting around the room like he was searching for an escape.
“So,” you began, nudging him again, this time a little harder than before, “you ready for this?”
Theo shot you a sideways glance, his lip curling slightly in amusement. “For what, exactly?”
“Midnight,” you said, as though it should be obvious. “You know, the whole New Year’s thing?”
“Right,” he muttered, not looking at you, instead staring down at his drink. “Still not feeling it.”
“Yeah, well,” you said, leaning in, voice dropping into something softer, “you’re not getting away that easily. You promised me fun tonight, remember?”
Theo’s eyes flickered up to yours, and for a split second, you thought you saw a hint of hesitation in them before it was quickly replaced by something more guarded.
“Come on,” you said, nudging his shoulder. “We’re leaving.”
Theo didn’t even look at you, just let out a half-exasperated, half-amused scoff. “Leaving? What are we—”
Before he could finish, you grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the door. “Come on. I know you’re not having fun in here.”
He barely put up a fight. You both stepped outside, the cold air biting your skin immediately. You ignored the shiver down your spine as you led him toward the back of the pub. There was a small alleyway that led to a ladder up to the roof—a place you had discovered on a whim during a previous trip to Hogsmeade.
He froze at the sight. “What the hell are we doing?”
You didn’t even hesitate. “I want to see the fireworks. Alone. On the roof.”
Theo looked at you for a moment, tilting his head as if he couldn’t believe you were real. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Dead serious,” you said, reaching up to grab the ladder and stepping on. “Come on!”
“I’m going to regret this,” Theo muttered as you started up the ladder, his voice a little strained as he climbed after you.
“No, you’re not,” you replied, trying to sound more convincing than you felt. “It’s just us, no crowds, no noise. I need a break from all of this... chaos.” You glanced over your shoulder, catching his eyes briefly. “I know you do too.”
There was a long pause before he muttered a soft, “Fair enough.”
The climb wasn’t long, but by the time you reached the rooftop, the chilly wind was already biting, and you couldn’t help but huddle in your coat as you looked out at the glittering view of the village below. The cold didn’t bother you so much now, though. The sound of the laughter and chatter from the pub faded into the distance, and for a moment, there was just the two of you, standing under the vast, starlit sky.
Theo joined you on the rooftop with a sigh, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t speak at first, just stood beside you, looking out at the distant lights of the village. You let the silence stretch between you, the air sharp with unspoken thoughts.
“How’s this?” you said, attempting to break the tension. “Better?”
“Much,” Theo said with a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Still don’t know why you were so keen on climbing a roof, though.”
“I like the view,” you said, scanning the horizon. “And the fireworks are supposed to start soon. Thought it might be nice to see them from up here.”
Theo didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stood next to you, his body tense as he stared at the lights of the distant village, his face softening in the cool wind.
“You ready?” you asked, turning to look at him.
He snorted quietly. “Ready for what? My so-called ‘fresh start’? Sure.”
You chuckled. “Whatever. So what’s it going to be? Resolution time?”
“I already told you,” he muttered, his voice low. “Not a fan of resolutions.”
“Right, right,” you teased, nudging him again. “Sticking with the ones from before?”
“I don’t know,” Theo said, turning slightly to face you. “I guess, it’d be to stop wasting my time on things that don’t matter.”
Your heart skipped a beat, though you couldn’t quite tell if it was the alcohol or the weight of his words that made the air feel so heavy. He was looking at you now, his gaze intense, but you didn’t look away.
“Wasting time, huh?” You smiled softly, the words feeling like they were meant for more than just a joke. “Guess that means you think I’m a waste of time, then.”
His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes flickered to the dark sky, the distant rumble of the fireworks growing louder.
“No, I just…” he said quietly, almost as if he wasn’t really talking to you. “Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing, though. Wasting time... pretending I don’t care about things that I do.”
You swallowed hard. “Theo…”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the words seeming to get tangled up in his throat. “I don’t know, okay? It’s just... this year was shit. I’m not even sure how to look at next year, let alone what I’m supposed to care about.”
You took a step closer to him, feeling the distance between you shrink just a little. “Well, you care about me, don’t you?”
Theo looked at you sharply, his gaze unreadable for a second. But then, his lips curled into that familiar, crooked smirk—the one you couldn’t decide if you loved or hated.
“I care about a lot of things,” he said, voice teasing now, though there was a rawness to it that hadn’t been there before.
“And what about me?” you asked, your voice quieter, almost challenging.
He was still smirking, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you, the vulnerability he usually kept hidden just barely breaking through.
“I don’t know, maybe I’ll figure it out next year,” Theo said with a shrug, but his eyes were on you in a way that made your breath catch in your throat.
You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “So, what’s your plan for when the countdown hits?”
His lips twisted in a half-smile, though it seemed more wistful than anything else. “I don’t know. Same as always. Just another minute, another year gone by.”
You studied his face, wondering if there was more to that statement than he was letting on. “You don’t have to keep pretending everything’s fine, you know.”
Theo was silent for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the lights below. But when he spoke, his voice was lower, less guarded than usual. “I don’t know how to not pretend anymore. It’s easier that way.”
Before you could respond, the countdown began to echo from the village below, the cheers growing louder with each passing second. You reached out, tugging gently at the sleeve of his coat, a playful grin pulling at your lips.
“Ten seconds,” you said. “You’re not really going to start the year off alone, are you?”
Theo gave you a look, but there was something softer in his eyes now. “Not many options around us.”
You stepped closer, your heart thudding in your chest as you locked eyes with him. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to settle for me then, won’t you?”
There was a brief pause, a beat of hesitation, before Theo’s lips twitched upwards into something a little less bitter, a little more real.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess I will.”
The countdown rang out through the night air, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop. You hardly noticed anything else, your focus locked entirely on Theo as you took a step closer, the space between you shrinking until you were almost nose-to-nose.
And then—right at the stroke of midnight, just as the world below erupted in cheers and the sound of fireworks filled the air—you didn’t think. You just acted.
You grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him towards you, the moment electric between you both as you tilted your head up to meet his lips.
He responded immediately, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you in, while the other held your lower back, his touch burning through the thickness of your coat. It was slow at first, almost tentative, like he wasn’t entirely sure this was real, but as the kiss deepened, it became undeniable—the tension, the unspoken emotions finally spilling over, the relief of everything that had been building between you.
The fireworks exploded above, but you didn’t see them. All that mattered was the way Theo’s lips felt against yours, the warmth of his body pressing into yours as the sounds of celebration and life faded away. It was just you and him now, the rest of the world vanishing in the noise of your first kiss.
The only thing you could hear was the beat of your own heart, the sound of his breath mingling with yours as he pulled away just enough to look at you.
“Happy New Year,” he said, breathless.
You smiled, a quiet laugh escaping you. “Happy New Year, Theo.”
For once, you didn’t feel the need to say anything else. You just stood there, in the silence that followed, watching the fireworks light up the sky—together.
And maybe, just maybe, this year would be different after all.
ficmas taglist: @winnie1emon @ur-local-wizard @satosugu4-ever @ankoluvs @superstargirll @slytherin-princess-x @abeoavita @mattheoriddle101 @georgiastars13 @smoooore @mattheoriddles-sluttt @2dloveshp @mattysprincess @catching-fire-in-the-wind @revesephemeres @esmerai-artemis @clar2aa @iamaconfusedpan
── .✦ DAY FOUR | [02/17] : DRACO. ♡ ₊˚⊹
prythian's princess presents... day four of the valentine special ⋆.˚ .ᐟ you know what they say. nothing is better than the original. this one is a match up between me and @writingsbychlo because we’re obsessed with this man.
[findom] — a fetish lifestyle in which a financial submissive desires to give gifts or money to a financial dominant.
[daddy kink] — a fetish in which the submissive is aroused by viewing their dominant partner, usually older, as an authoritative figure.
home ✦ special ✦ more
draco malfoy was accustomed to the finer things in life.
when it came to riches and luxury, draco spared no expense; a motto that now applied to you. after all, what belong to him belonged to you too. every single galleon in the malfoy vaults were at your disposal. draco loved spoiling you, constantly taking you out on shopping sprees and lavish holidays. in his mind, it was his job as a provider to ensure that you were well taken care of.
you deserved the world and draco was damn well wealthy enough to buy it for you.
with a smile, draco looked up from his desk as you strolled into his office toting shopping bags full of designer bags, expensive lingerie, and shoes that cost the average person's yearly salary. draco chuckled when you propped yourself up on his lap, kissing his cheek in greeting.
"did you treat yourself today, darling?"
you nodded. "do you want to see what I bought?”
as always, draco agreed and watched patiently as you modeled everything for him. he sat back in his wingback chair, silver eyes heavy lidded as his cock strained against his neatly pressed trousers while you recounted the price of each purchase. you knew how much he loved it when you spent his money.
every time draco saw one of your expenses charged to his card, he got half hard knowing that you would never want for nothing. a smile graced his handsome face when you told him that you saved the best for last. his breath hitched when you shed the dress that you were wearing, revealing an emerald lingerie set that he couldn’t wait to tear to pieces. you wouldn’t mind. draco would probably purchase the entire store as an apology.
“do you like it, daddy?”
a shiver of pleasure slithered up his spine as you crawled towards him in nothing but lingerie and heels. draco caressed your cheek as you settled between his legs, looking up at him through your lashes with pure adoration. you shivered as those steely silver eyes flashed with desire, drinking in the sight of you kneeling before him.
“you look exquisite, love,” draco murmured as he brushed his thumb against your bottom lip. “like a pretty present all wrapped up for me.”
you preened at his declaration, gently taking his hand and pressing soft kisses on each of his rings. draco smiled proudly as you paused to admire his wedding ring; the companion of which was sitting snugly on your left hand. you feigned innocence, gazing at him with a doe eyed expression before sucking softly on his fingers. draco groaned as you lathered his digits with your spit, taking his middle and pointer finger down with a soft moan. he leaned down to kiss you, but you placed a hand on his chest to stop him.
“you’re always taking care of me, dray,” you murmured softly as you unbuckled his belt. “it’s my turn to take care of you.”
you wasted no time taking off his trousers, mouth watering when his cock finally sprang free from its constraints. much like everything about him, draco’s cock was just…pretty. you stroked him in your hand, marveling at how pink and thick and delicious he was. draco watched through heavy lids as you leaned down and placed a kiss on his tip.
“how did I get so lucky?” he said in awe.
“I should be the one asking you that,” you responded as you licked up his precum. “consider this as a thank you for everything that you do for me. you take care of me, you provide for me, you never let me lift a single finger and I adore you for it. thank you, daddy.”
draco threw his head back as you wrapped your lips around his cock, gripping the base of his shaft so you could take all of him. you pumped him with your hands as you bobbed your head up and down his length, gaging every time he hit the back of your throat. you smiled and admired the view. getting on your knees for draco had always been your favorite way of showing how much you appreciated everything he did for you.
there was something so beautiful about draco when he was like this, his platinum hair disheveled and sex-tousled, falling over his stormy eyes while his lips parted in pleasure. his fingers threaded through your hair, jaw clenching while he bucked into your mouth. he looked like a perfectly crafted sculpture with his sharp cheekbones and regal nose, veins protruding from his forearms where the sleeves of his ridiculously expensive shirt were pulled up to the elbows, strong thighs flexing underneath your touch as he caged you in.
“this pretty throat was made to be fucked,” said draco as he watched your lipstick form a ring on the base of his cock. you were sure that your makeup was a mess by now, but you didn’t care. all that mattered was the man before you. “you’re a fucking dream, love.”
with a smile you cupped his balls with your free hand, giving attention to them both as you sucked softly. draco shivered in response, chuckling to himself as you left lipstick marks all over him. curses flowed freely from his mouth as you took him down your throat again, sucking your cheeks in to suction him in while you pumped him with a steady rhythm.
“that’s it, darling,” draco moaned as tears streamed down your cheeks, saliva pooling from your mouth while you continued sucking him off. “keep sucking on my cock just like that. god, you’re perfect.”
you hummed at the praise, the vibrations of it echoing in your throat and providing a pleasurable sensation to draco. you could tell he was close by the breathy cadence of his moans, those silver eyes rolling back as the tension built inside of him. when his abs tensed underneath your fingertips, you quickened the pace to bring him to the finish line.
“fuck, i’m coming,” draco declared through ragged breaths.
as his hips rutted, you felt his hot cum shoot down your throat, filling your mouth with his familiar salty taste. you swallowed every drop, the bobbing of your head slowing down to capture all of his cum. draco sighed in satisfaction as you released him with a pop, a fond expression permanently etched on his handsome face as he wiped the corner of your mouth.
“such a good girl for daddy,” draco praised. “I think that deserves another reward. is there anything that you want, love? a car? a yacht? a jet? name it and it’s yours.”
you smiled up at him, pretty and doe eyed. “well, I did see this diamond necklace in the vaults…”
“consider it yours, darling.” draco said as he kissed you softly. “we’ll go to gringotts and fetch it right away.” silver eyes flashed with lust as his silky voice caressed you like sin. “then, i’m taking you back here and fucking you with only that diamond necklace on.”
mattheo riddle | divorced to lovers.
⠀۪ ⊹︵︵︵ ︵︵︵ ⊹ ⠀۪
⠀۪ ⊹︵︵︵ ︵︵︵ ⊹ ⠀۪
♡ it wouldn’t be born of disloyalty on mattheo’s part—he was far too obsessed with you to even glance in another direction. much less because his feelings had faded. it would happen because two strong personalities rarely last forever, especially when one of them was mattheo riddle—a man riddled with vices, flaws, and irreparable mistakes.
♡ the first weeks after the divorce would be extremely complicated for him. habits he had given up for you—smoking anything that produced smoke, drinking anything laced with alcohol, and using any kind of drug—came back in full force. why not, right? he no longer had his anchor. nothing tethered him anymore, so why pretend otherwise?
he would try to forget you in every way imaginable—and when i say every way, i mean it. he’d go to brothels on hazy saturdays with single friends he’d made at the bar, the type of friends who you only find at the bottom of a glass, and sleep with women who were nothing like you. he couldn’t stand seeing someone beneath him who even remotely resembled you, but what he truly hated was that no matter how much he imagined you in the place of whoever he was inside of, it was nothing like you. nothing ever tasted like you. nothing carried your scent. nothing echoed the way you whispered his name as though he were the only man left in the world.
♡ your absence would settle into him like winter. on cold nights, with no one to hold, it would ache in ways he couldn’t outrun. when he passed by a perfumery in hogsmeade and saw your perfume on display, displayed it so carelessly, remembering you were running out of it and fighting the urge to restock it and buy it again. he would feel you—or the absence of you—in all 206 of his bones, as if you were breaking them and setting them back into place, still shattered, never quite healed. he would see the photo he’d placed from when you were still teenagers at hogwarts resting on the mahogany desk in his office at the ministry of magic, and shed salty tears that had once been sweetened by your love.
“mate,” theo said, his own wedding band glinting on his ring finger. “you need to do something about this. you can’t keep walking around drinking, smoking, and sleeping around like you’re eighteen.” theodore could be terribly rational, mattheo thought with distaste. “you have to move on,” the italian advised, but his words fell on deaf ears. mattheo didn’t care that he was acting half his age. he understood his childhood friend’s good intentions, but fuck—it felt like he was grieving. he was, in a way, and he would live however he needed to. after all, you had been the one to tell him that burying emotions only made them fester.
♡ mattheo would keep his gold wedding band on his finger, the gold dulled but unwavering on his finger, as if he were still married to the love of his life instead of waiting for the post to deliver the divorce papers. he preserved your much smaller and more delicate ring in its original box, no longer adorning your ring finger—the one that once carried the biggest billboard of mattheo’s possessiveness. he left the small velvet box on the bedside table of the impersonal, empty apartment he now calls home, the one mattheo had bought after leaving the house you once shared. every night he looked at his ring and remembered your face the night he proposed to you in spain—how your eyes shone and how your “yes” came in a voice as velvety as the box the ring had come in.
none of that existed anymore. like a wizard struck by a brutal avada kedavra, those moments vanished into the air. they became nothing more than memories—sweet and bitter all at once.
♡ when the papers arrived at the dull apartment, he stared in shock at your signature in ink. beside it, a small wrinkle in the white page disrupted the document’s professional appearance; mattheo recognized it instantly as a tear. your tear. one he would have caught with his calloused finger, maybe even tasted, depending on the moment. it was enough to send a familiar wave of rage crashing over him—but not at you for signing. anger at himself for letting you slip through his fingers. anger for not stifling his difficult nature when he should have. hatred at knowing, with sickening certainty, you were suffering, because even without contact, mattheo knew you like the back of his hand—and that sure you were as broken as he was was devastating. the pristine paper didn't stand a chance. soon, the piece of what had once been a sturdy trunk of a beautiful tree was torn apart, and the document rendered useless.
mattheo ran the entire way to the house you once shared—it wasn’t that far, he realized, because what was the point of living far from you?—and appeared at your door like a drenched, trembling dog, hyperventilating, his breathing uneven, his chocolate eyes so unbearably sad they didn’t look like riddle’s at all. he looked at you the second you opened the door and, in an instant, emptied his pockets, the torn divorce papers spilling out, just as shattered as both your hearts.
“i’m not signing a damn thing,” he said breathless, chest heaving. “i can’t do this. i’m not giving up on you that easily.”
you looked at him, unsure of what to do. you noticed he still wore the wedding band you had exchanged. you hesitated, caught somewhere between instinct and memory. the truth was, signing those papers had taken nearly superhuman strength—you didn’t want to sign them. you didn’t want to let it all go officially, and most of all, you didn’t want to move on—not without mattheo.
“i know i’m difficult,” mattheo stepped into your house, his height casting a shadow over your smaller frame. “and i know you deserve better than me. someone easier. someone… good.” his voice faltered, but he pushed through. "but no one, and i guarantee you this, will love you the way i do. you were the first and only person who managed to pull me out of the abyss i was thrown into at birth. i know i’m being selfish, and that alone proves i don’t deserve you—but i never said i was a perfect man.” tears blended into his bronze skin, impossible to tell apart from the rain.
that vulnerability was rare.
“take me back,” he pleaded. “please. accept me as yours again.” he said, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming in its familiarity.
the words didn’t seem to reach your tongue. the reason you had ended things had already blurred beneath the overwhelming flood of feelings. it didn’t make sense anymore—maybe it never truly had—and you found yourself leaning toward saying yes. would mattheo be willing to work on what had torn you apart? would he be willing to start over from scratch?
your doubts vanished when, without hesitation or pride, he sank to the floor before you, his soaked black trousers dampening your freshly cleaned floor. seconds later, rummaging through his pockets, he found what he was looking for—your ring. your initials were still etched inside, untouched by time or distance. mattheo held it out to you, mirroring—though far more melancholic—the day he had asked for your hand.
“take this back,” he pleaded once more. “it could never belong to anyone else. marry me again, my love. marry me every day, every morning we wake up and every night we fall asleep. accept what is, and always will be, yours. choose me again, like i’ll always choose you.”
your heart held no doubt or hesitation.
kneeling in front of mattheo, your soft hands cupped his tear-streaked face. when your lips met, it wasn’t just a kiss, but everything you had lost and everything you were willing to risk again.
“yes,” you finally said. the future was uncertain, and that much was certain. but for mattheo riddle, rare second chances were never wasted, and he would make sure you knew that.
more.
@solasuniverse i lost your ask because tumblr decided to not let me post it the first time 💀 but there you go, honey. i hope you like it and i am so sorry for taking so long xx
© govnder, 2026.
three weeks - m.r
fight, breakup, kiss, makeup? yeah something like that. mdni. oral. a little swearing. outside of that, kinda sweet xoxo
It’s been three weeks – three long weeks and your ex still hasn’t gotten the fucking hint. It’s hard to breakup with a guy like Mattheo; not because he doesn’t understand how a breakup works but because he just doesn’t want to. You’re his – his toy, his cock sleeve, his pet, his salvation and there isn’t a thing in the world that he won’t destroy or sacrifice if it means having you to himself. This is why after 112 missed calls and close to 400 texts that have blown up your phone in the last 48 hours that you’ve wilfully ignored, he’s standing at your dorm door – feeling frustrated, horny and well, just fucking relentless.
The first few knocks are gentle; knuckles rapping at the hard wood while he stands out in the corridor on his best behaviour. He knows you’re in there; he can hear that ridiculous bubble gum pop music that you always listen to that grinds his gears coming from your stereo-system flooding the dorm room. Hell, if the knocks don’t get more and more aggressive as the seconds pass. He knows you hate this side of him – that you despise his temper. It was the reason the two of you broke up in the first place and then again, and again. It doesn’t matter though; his fists are pounding at the door for you to let him in.
Is it truly a breakup if you keep getting back together? If you keep running back to him? Mattheo is convinced it’s just a break – some time needed apart for you to appreciate him again and that’s why he’s here. Rumour had it you were heading out tonight with an older Ravenclaw boy of all fucking people on a date to some fancy ass new restaurant in Hogsmeade he had to be sure that it was indeed just a rumour. Not fact. He’s still knocking, and you can hear him – the agitated breaths, the hardened scoffs, the way he calls our name out to open the door before he bashes and bursts through it. He was willing to play nicely for one – well, by his own set of rules, but when you refuse to open up just to test his patience, he plucks out the spare key you gave him when you first got together from his pocket and lets himself inside. He wonders why he didn’t just do it in the first place.
The familiar scent of soft florals and burning candles which encapsulate your dorm hit Mattheo square on as he steps inside, and he finds himself suddenly at ease. He feels oddly at home. At peace. Glancing around; he isn’t able to find you at first, so he calls out your name with a hint of affection laced through his voice, yet you don’t respond. How odd. A little weird. That is until he hears humming coming from the bathroom. Ah; the tune doesn’t match the music that the stereo is playing but he knows you well enough to tell that you’re probably standing in front of the vanity mirror, a towel wrapped around your body, probably at the point of your makeup routine that you’re applying mascara, and he decides to pay the bathroom a visit.
“Hi Princess.” He greets you with a dark and dry drawl as he makes himself comfortable, resting up on the doorframe of the bathroom and crosses his arms, eyes eagerly tracing your silhouette as he glances over you. You’re a sopping wet mess; hair half dry, face half made up – mascara being applied just like he guessed it, all you’ve got left is to swipe some lipstick on, dry off and slip into whatever you’ll be wearing for tonight. Mattheo smirks as you glance his way; only half surprised to see him and you roll your eyes almost poetically, letting out a heavy sigh rather than asking why he’s here.
“Riddle.” You address him coldly, not in the mood for whatever bullshit reason or excuse he has for coming into your room and potentially ruining your night, but you have to admit to yourself that he looks good. Fuck he always looks good – but that tight blue jeans and black t-shirt combo does something for you – something weird, something to your libido. If a psychologist studied your thought pattern regarding what happened to your brain when you saw him like this, you’d probably be classed clinically insane. And you – fuck. To him you look like heaven. A rush of memories float behind his eyes of how many times he’s had the pleasure of thrusting into you senseless in the shower and his lip twitches, eyes darkening at the fact he’s just missed out on that opportunity.
“To what do I own the displeasure of a visit?” “Bored, horny, thought I’d come and see you.”
You both knew that his response was an absolute lie and yet neither of you say anything. He bites his lip. You notice it. He gives you that look. The one that screams “I need you. I want you” but you know better than to just give in as much as you want to. Life has been… safe for the last three weeks. Albeit boring at times but it was what you thought you wanted. What you thought you needed. All up until Mattheo fucking stood in the doorway while you tried to get ready for what would possibly be a nice, normal, decent date.
“I’m busy tonight – you need to leave.”
Your instructions are met with a snicker. His gaze is on you like that of a predators. Heavy, dominating, seductive. Within a few long strides, he’s standing behind you; glancing into your eyes using the mirrors reflection and with his hands on your hips, he can feel that you’ve already started to become weak. His lips skim across your shoulders, up the side of your neck, he nips at your pulse point, you let out a shakey breath. He knows he has won before any form of back and forth bickering even begins so he flickers his tongue across your earlobe and whispers as softly as can be… “I’ve missed you.”
Your shoulders drop, your eyes shut, you let out a whimper of his name and that’s all it takes to confirm within yourself that you’ve missed him to. You shouldn’t, but fuck… you can’t help it. He’s addictive in every fucking sense of the word and you’re forever willing to dive in headfirst into whatever chaos he brings along with him. You shake your head; not in defiance but because you need a time out already with what he’s making you feel and Mattheo buries his head into the crook of your neck murmuring sweet nothings as his fingers dance across the hem of the towel you’re wrapped in – teasingly tiptoeing towards you core as the tips swipe across your folds, feeling just how wet you’ve already gotten and he’s been here less than a minute.
“How long until your date comes?”
You glance at your watch and bite your lip.
“…fifteen minutes.”
He smirks and begins to toy with your clit; his thumb rubbing the most excruciating of teasing circles against it and you lean back against his chest almost forgetting how to breathe as he confirms that all he’ll need is ten. Dropping to his knees, Mattheo spins you around, requesting that for now you keep the towel on as he presses the softest of kisses up the inside of your thighs. He needs this. He needs you. You need this and fuck – he’s going to ensure he makes you feel good. So good that you’ll question if that date tonight will be even worth it.
You whimper as his tongue slides between your folds and he groans out a greeting of hi to your pussy like he’s missed an old friend. You rest a hand on his shoulder, the other on the vanity unit to keep yourself upright and he wraps one arm around your waist, the other around the top of your thigh promising silently to keep you steady tonight. His teeth nip gently, nose brushing against your clip, lips working their magic as you get wetter and wetter and fuck… he slips in two fingers without warning which cause you back to curve, head to tilt, hand resting on his shoulder creeping up to knot within his curls and keep Mattheo exactly where you need him.
“You taste so fucking delicious...”
God, you hope that’s true.
“My princess with the perfect pussy…”
His compliments were never good.
“I’ve been good – I promise. Cum for me?”
Since when has Mattheo ever been ‘good’.
Tongue and fingers working together, your mind is in a frenzy; Mattheo has totally lost his from the noises that are leaking from your lips as quick as your wetness is coating his chin and before you know it; the towel you’ve had wrapped around you falls to the floor and the sight before him is too good to be fucking true. You in all your glory. Fuck, he suddenly needs more than you’re currently giving him. Not yet though – he can be good. He thinks. He just fucking admitted it. He watches you – can see your eyelashes fluttering, feel your walls clenching around his fingers, hear your ragged breathing and that’s when he backs off. Just enough to know that you’ll tug him in by his messy locks and moan out, “Fuck – Mattheo, d-d-don’t.. don’t fucking stop.” And that’s how he knows he has you. He’s won you back. You’re his. You aren’t going on a date tonight. Hell no. This preparation, this foreplay, this ‘getting all dolled up’ for some fucking jerk he doesn’t know but is jealous of – it’s all his.
“Be a good girl…”
He spanks the side of your thigh and your hips buckle toward him, far enough away from the vanity that he’s able to drop the hand that’s firmly around your waist down to your ass to squeeze as his teeth graze over your clit and you cum on his tongue; a waterfall of slick juice trickling down your legs which he laps up with pleasure licking your skin clean. Your mind is blank. Your skin is warm. You look down at him and he’s wearing a shit eating smirk of victory that you can’t ignore.
“Gimme a minute…”
You struggle to find your phone – knock over some toiletries off the counter as you struggle to text your date for a ‘rain check’ and just know, that a dinner date with anyone else any time soon is a fucking no.
NINE. knifeplay — tom riddle
warnings — smut 18+. enemy!tom. knifeplay (carving). blood. you are responsible for your own media consumption.
kinkmas mlist. more.
“sit still.” tom orders, his tone sharp and icy. he drags the knife along your bare skin, making you shiver at the sensation before leaving you trembling on the bed to lock the door. you’re well aware you got yourself in this situation— pressing your enemy’s buttons until he had to drag you to his room.
you expected him to simply intimidate you though, to show you who holds the power between you two— and well, he did. just not in the way you expected, as he twirls the shiny, reflective knife around in his hand, approaching you with an air of authority and purpose exuding from him.
“look at you. so submissive just for me… and your trembling body— so delicate and fragile.” he growls, cocking one brow as his eyes rake over your body on his bed, your skirt flipped up and your damp panties exposed. you don’t know where this sudden desire to let him take control came from— maybe you wanted him to be in control for once, to see what he was capable of.
“this does not mean that i’m submissive for you, riddle.” you mutter, causing an amused smile to dance on his lips, but he doesn’t reply. he doesn’t need to, because he knows the real truth. he takes the knife and presses it against your inner thigh, prompting you to spread your legs wider, and you obediently do, surprising yourself once again.
feeling the cold blade against your bare skin makes you swallow hard, and he slowly presses it into your flesh, gauging how you react to the touch of the sharp metal. despite glaring at him with narrowed, defiant eyes, you don’t protest one bit, letting him drag the knife over your body, only prompting him to take a step further.
“tom wait—” you stammer, starting to feel a slight tinge of hesitation, but your words are immediately cut off when the blade presses into your thigh, digging deep into the skin. you hiss at the painful, sharp sensation, your hands reaching for the sheets to steady yourself as you feel tom slowly carve letters into your soft skin— T.M.R.
fresh, crimson drops of blood trickle down from the open wounds onto his white sheets, staining them, and he admires the sight before him as if he’s observing an unique, yet beautiful art piece.
“perfect.” he murmurs, his low voice still devoid of any emotion and his icy, dark eyes fixed on the fresh wounds on your thighs. he inches closer to you, casting a dark shadow over your body on the bed, before placing the knife right under your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
“if they start to fade, i expect you know where to find me. don’t make me have to come find you again.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
reminder: reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated and keep me motivated. ty! ♡
────۶ৎ hoe
tom riddle doesn’t know how to be gentle. good thing you don’t want him to be.
warnings: smut, degradation, choking, dom!tom, creampie, mild dumbification, brat-taming.
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: inspired by i love you hoe by 9lives & odetari. enjoy <3
𓏲 ࣪₊ ❥ 𓂃 more
ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝
"you love it when i fuck you like this, don’t you?"
his voice is silk and venom, curling around you like a curse, like a promise. tom riddle isn’t gentle. tom riddle doesn’t know how to be gentle.
his fingers are wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you dizzy, just enough to make you feel owned. he’s got you bent over his desk, robes bunched up around your waist, legs shaking, drooling over his cock as he bullies his way deeper, harder, rougher.
"oh, look at you," he purrs, his free hand sliding down to slap your cunt, sharp and wet and obscene. you jolt, moaning high and desperate, and his grip on your throat tightens.
"you’re fucking soaked," he chuckles, dragging his fingers through the mess he’s made of you, bringing them up to his lips, tasting you like it’s nothing, like it’s casual, like it doesn’t make your head spin.
"such a desperate little whore," he breathes, teasing the tip of his cock over your slit before pushing back in, slow and deep, too deep, stretching you wide around him.
you can’t think, can’t breathe, all you can do is take it, take him, take the way he ruins you over and over again.
"bet you’d let me fuck you in the great hall, wouldn’t you?" his smirk drips arrogance, teeth grazing your ear. "right on the dining table. let everyone see who you belong to. let them watch while i split you open on my cock."
he pulls out just to slam back in, knocking the air from your lungs. you sob his name, clutching at the desk, but he only laughs, cruel and beautiful, fucking you through it.
"say it," he orders, voice dark, dangerous. "say you’d let me use you however i want. say you’d let me fill you up in front of everyone, let them see my cum dripping out of you."
your moan breaks, body clenching around him, and he groans, low and wrecked.
"fuck—" he snarls, hips snapping against yours, pace brutal. "filthy little thing. you love it, don’t you? being fucked like a whore. being used."
his hand snakes down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing messy circles, dragging you closer and closer and closer—
"come for me," he growls. "make a mess on my cock. prove you’re mine."
your body obeys before your brain catches up, pleasure ripping through you, white-hot, blinding, your cunt fluttering around him, sucking him deeper.
his hips stutter, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, filling you, claiming you, making sure you’ll be dripping with him for hours.
he stays there for a moment, breathing heavy, forehead pressed against your shoulder, before he’s moving again, already hard, already ready to ruin you all over again.
"oh, you thought i was done with you?"
his fingers tighten in your hair, jerking your head back, his smirk sharp, wicked.
"think again."
ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝
thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.
So we got obsessive and possessive Mattheo. Are we going to get part 2 with his best friend?? Is it going to be Theodore?? I'm sorry, I'm so curious 🫣🫣❤️
I knew this was going to be asked and before you say anything, yeah, I had a little too much fun with this. Mattheo's version can be found here. Not edited; sorry.
If Theodore had a favourite sound in the world, well it had to be your whine – especially, the broken little ones that you desperately tried to swallow down when his head was buried between your thighs and your boyfriend was sleeping just a bed away.
“Theo…”
Your fingers had tangled into his hair like you couldn’t decide whether to pull in him closer or shove him away without being discreet. It was wrong, oh so fucking wrong – but the way the tip of his tongue flicked across your clit all slow and deliberate and merciless has you vision bursting with stars and sin.
You’d gotten up for a glass of water in the middle of the night; a somewhat harmless ritual whenever you spent the night with Mattheo and ended up crashing in the boys dorm. What wasn’t harmless, was the way Theodore’s eyes had followed you through the dark, hungry and unblinking as you tiptoed around trying not to make a sound. All it had taken was a crook of his finger and a silent pat on his mattress at the spare space beside him to have you crumble at the suggestion like you’d been waiting – hoping – praying secretly for the invitation.
“I overheard what you and your little friends were talking about the other day principessa---.”
The warm rasp of his voice against your ear made your stomach churn and knot.
“My cum as lip gloss huh? That’s probably the sweetest thing you’ve ever said about me, filthy girl.”
You turned, half ready to deny the words you had undoubtedly said, but with his hand sliding up your thigh, bold and deliberate any chance of a comeback had died at the back of your throat. The smirk he wore etched across his lips told you that there’d be no lies tonight. Theodore’s mouth found yours before you even had a chance to try and correct the situation. The kiss was hungry, claiming; like he was letting you taste something he knew you’d never be able to clean.
And that my friends, is the start of how you ended up clawing at his bedsheets; your panties he had stuffed between your teeth a weak attempt to try and keep you silent as his tongue dragged heavy through your slick folds like he’d been starving for a taste. He sucked at your clit until your thighs trembled, eyes flickering up to gaze and appreciate the scape your body had on offer before he drove his tongue in deep – savouring every whimper, cry and moan you tried – and failed – to swallow.
The curtains on the bed separating the two of you from where Mattheo blissfully slept unaware of what his girl and best friend were up to were paper thin. Every creek of the mattress beneath you, every wet sound of Theodore’s mouth on you; hell, it was a miracle that you hadn’t given yourselves away. The danger of being caught didn’t exactly help – no, it only made you wetter.
His arms wrapped tightly around your thighs, a hand pressed to your stomach to try and keep you still rather than squirming, when you orgasm finally broke free – it wasn’t quiet and well, either were you. It ripped through you violently, shamelessly, a little too loud. Your body trembled intensely and that hand he had on your stomach; Theodore had to clap it over your mouth as your body arched against his face and you screamed euphorically. He rode out your spasms like he owned them; lapping at your cunt until you were shaking, spent and fucking destroyed.
When he finally managed to lift his head, chin slick with your arousal and eyes gleaming precariously, he crawled over you up the bed, leaning in close as he painted a sketching of kisses lazily against the crook of your neck. He was close enough that the whispered tone he was about to speak in was ready and apt to burn your skin.
“Pathetic,” he murmured. “Moaning for me while Mattheo’s a few feet away. Do you think he’d still look at you the same way if he knew his perfect precious girl was cumming on his best friends tongue?”
Your wide eyes gave away the guilt which had begun to wash over you causing him to smirk as his fingers took grip of your jaw cruelly, forcing you to look straight at him.
“Don’t worry though, sweetheart; our secrets safe with me. I won’t tell your precious Matty.” Theodore’s thumb pressed against your spit wet lips, shoving your panties and the taste of yourself back into your mouth with a grin that would make the devil blush. “But you will tesoro.. one way or another.”
Gentle lover - MR nsfw
I can’t stop thinking about gentle Mattheo. Who after a nightmare craves your love and attention, wanting not only to nestle into the comfort of your arms but your pussy. He wants nothing more than to be as close to you as possible. His heart swells when you agree knowing it will give him the distraction he needs; and you’d do anything to make him feel better. Even when it’s the middle of the night, you’re half asleep and aching from the orgasms he bought you early in the day, your willingness warms him.
Tender kisses, soft caresses he’s sure to be the gentlest of gentle with your tired body, restraining himself from fucking you into the abiss. He’s so grateful for you in times like these, when he needs you the most. The love and warmth he feels when he slides into you, body hovering over you. His eyes watching the way your eyes remain closed, small tired pants of breath exhaling. His lips brush against yours with a tenderness you’re not used to, releasing deep sighs from your throat.
The relief and clarity he feels from gently fucking into you, seeing the pleasure rise up in you, as your hold tightens. Louder whimpers leaving you as he nestles his forehead in the crook of your neck, lips kissing, marking your skin. “So good for me”….. “I just needed to feel you Angel”….. “so much better when I’m buried in you.” It’s a contrast from his usual manner, but it just makes you fall more in love, seeing the depth of his two sides. He’s quick to fall apart, continuing to be the sweetest of lovers as his hands grip your hips with a gentle touch.
And with a glowing heart he moves once again back into his fetal potion, arms encapsulating around you. Pulling you tightly towards his chest, he’s lulled back to sleep by your shallow breathing and warmth. The last thing you recall is being fed a sweet whisper of love and devotion. A man who loved you with everything that made him, deeply, truly and utterly.
A simple act of watching a masterpiece in its natural element. Darkness, cold, and death.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 wordcount: 7.3k pairing: professor!tom riddle x f!you warnings: 18+, age gap, professor x student, praise kink, loss of virginity, unprotected p in v, rough, choking, hair pulling, slight primal play, swearing, fingering. Masterlist
Throughout all your years in Hogwarts you were told the Forbidden Forest was the place to be feared and respected. Countless stories of students lost and never found had been passed down through generations. The Herbology Professor mentioned that the flora was every bit as dangerous as the fauna, and the Astronomy Professor—oh, how you hated her!—reminded about the lunar cycles affecting most of the beasts lurking in the shadows. At that, the crescent moon smirked at you, pouring its silver liquid onto your slumped shoulders.
They taught you to fear eight-legged creatures, bared fangs, and eyes that glowed in the dark. But they never warned you of the monsters far more cruel and unforgiving than any Acromantula or Centaur—the kind that don’t hide but stand right in front of you.
The sullen, grim figure loomed like a sleepless guardian; soft breathing was tangled between dense spruces, and the hushed whispers of green leaves wrapped around you like a blanket. Though, it didn’t bring a sliver of comfort. It was cold, damp, and the air hung heavy with the cloying smell of sodden soil. The perfect setting for a Muggle mystery novel where the girl would be discovered at dawn, lifeless and forgotten.
A sense of unease settled in as the chilly drizzle began to tease the back of your neck. You shuddered; your hands tugged at the scarf in search of warmth.
“It’s not that cold,” a voice, silky and prickly as a burr, which littered the hem of your robes, came from behind.
Professor Riddle was dressed in all black, but his face, pale and unnervingly beautiful, glowed. The piercing eyes darted between you and the yawning maw of the Forest as if weighing your usefulness for today’s mission. You watched as the droplets traced the sharp lines of his features before turning into shimmering dust on his coat to form constellations against the fine wool. Looking for a sky that was covered by clouds, you were met with a daunting realisation that the stars left for you were the ones sinking into the darkness of his clothes.
“I’m not cold,” you hissed through chattering teeth, the words nearly lost in the mist of your own breath.
He didn’t press further; his mind already revolved around the artefact he believed was hidden somewhere deep in the Forest, in one of the ancient tombs. Of course, it was unwise to trust some shady bloke from the Hog’s Head Inn, especially one with a charming smile and polished boots. Tom Riddle knew this firsthand.
You called it intuition or even a sixth sense, quietly admiring your professor and his abilities. In reality, he was simply… hungry.
A hunger that can’t be satisfied with grandiose feasts, a hunger that borders on irritation. A hunger that makes him reckless. To wake you in the middle of the night—Tom was beholden to a restless desire to devour.
“Professor Riddle,” you called to him, “where are we going exactly?”
Somewhere in the distance, a crow snickered.
You could’ve refused him, you could’ve stayed under the protection of your bed, but as a devoted student you had no choice but to comply. In truth, all it would have taken was a single ‘no’... But there you were, shivering and loathing yourself for not having a spine.
“Follow my steps. No looking back, no talking. Wand always ready.”
“I know,” you quelled the need to roll your eyes.
“And leave the attitude, young Miss. The Forest has no mercy for the arrogant.” The Professor glanced at you over his shoulder.
You nodded and drew your wand, the coiling tension dissolving into anticipation of what was about to be uncovered. Your hunger was of a different kind—the sort that feeds on the attention of the only man to whom your entire world narrowed down.
The Professor Riddle’s coat disappeared into the night and took away the stars you had been so desperate to grasp. You followed. As always.
There were no lengths you wouldn’t go to for him, and maybe that was your grave mistake. *** The scariest part of being in the dark is thinking you are not alone, hoping that those rasping sounds are no more than a trick of your active imagination. Every hesitant step, every occasional glance was filled with thoughts of why on earth did he drag me out of my bed. The Professor’s broad back held no answers to your questions; it seemed to raise even more of them, making your head buzz like a hive. Long and exhausting walks in the Forest usually meant crawling through bushes and gnarled roots, which were insistent on grabbing your robes with their twisted fingers. Add to that the feeling of being constantly watched, and you would have the most delightful way to spend the night!
You hurried to catch up as the Professor quickened his pace.
Tom felt the pull. He knew something was close not by instinct, but by the pure gravity of dark magic. It even had a taste—a coppery, suffocating taste of ash and burnt parchment, dancing hand in hand with static before a storm. Also… your perfume. Yeah, those haunting notes he had got used to savouring on the tip of his tongue after classes with your year.
A faint twitch of his shoulders caught your eye. Perhaps the chill had finally reached him, or he was just consumed be the very purpose of the journey. You had learnt not to question Professor Riddle in moments like these, yet your throat ached with the weight of a curiosity you could barely restrain.
“A few turns and we will be there,” Riddle spoke in a rough voice, popping the bubble of questions ready to burst from your lips. “Are you tired?”
Same as ever, it was not concern but a simple assessment of whether you still held any utility for his mission.
“No, you can count on my utmost vigilance, Professor,” you muttered and forced yourself to clamber over a fallen tree.
Where Tom Riddle moved with the effortless elegance of a predator to whom the Forbidden Forest was a mere playground, you stumbled blindly. Someone could have woven a new tapestry of you—an awkward sight, much like the dancing trolls on the seventh floor. Your heart leaped, robes swished, and the ground met you with tangled clumps of cobwebs and the remains of some unlucky creature.
Oh, but the savior was right here! A knight in shining armor…
The Professor caught you by your wrist at the last second, and you ended up in his embrace instead. Firm, strong arms closed around your waist, fingers digging into the soft curves.
“Can I?” Tom arched a black brow, lips curled into a smile that didn’t have a tiny bit of warmth—only a cold, bristling annoyance.
A hot flush crept up your neck, painting your cheeks in such a pretty shade of embarrassment. His gaze involuntarily drifted down your body, to where your chest was pressed against his through layers of warm clothes. There was that pull again, like someone had put a noose around his throat and tugged, though the hand holding the other end was nowhere to be seen.
You missed this. You missed his presence, his cologne—a perfect mix of spiciness and sweetness, his smoldering heat seeping into your skin and finding all the spots that craved him. Touching your professor without fear of being caught was one of those secret wishes. Too bad your sole source of intimacy was tramping through the dark woods. Very romantic, very Tom Riddle.
The Professor leaned in, hot breath ghosting over your parted lips.
“You can,” you retorted.
His lips grazed yours, a hair away from delivering the toxin your blood thrummed for. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your lungs drank in his scent like it was the only air required for your system to function properly.
The side of his mouth lifted in a mocking expression. Oh, poor, young soul, trapped in his cage with an open lock. Tom saw you. He truly did. Your burning desire to please and submit, your eagerness to be useful, regardless of your fear of rejection. Why be afraid when he had already made it quite clear—you were his in every aspect of your existence?
Tom Riddle sought power in trust. With you, he was unstoppable.
But he had to let go. For now. His hands lingered for a heartbeat as they slid down your hips, before he shoved them into his pockets and straightened his back, tall and imposing. Above, the canopy of trees knit together so tightly even the moonlight struggled to pierce through the branches. When a twig snapped nearby, you flinched as if someone had violently dragged you back from a trance. Magic pulsed at the tip of your wand.
A grey hare stared at the Professor with beady eyes. So small and fluffy, must’ve been lost in this big, unforgiving forest! Fate is cruel to the innocent. Maybe that’s why Riddle snapped the hare’s neck with a casual spell. The hunger grew still.
“For—for what?!” Your high-pitched squeak startled a flock of birds, and the shadows answered back in your own voice.
“It scared you,” he stated coolly; Tom’s attention fixed on something between the trees then. “We are almost there. Keep up.”
Lumos faltered in your trembling grip, the lifeless creature lay on a carpet of withered leaves.
“And you killed it simply because it scared me? A hare?! Professor…” You caught at his sleeve.
Tom glanced at you over his shoulder with a face of stone, as though taking a life was nothing more than a daily chore. Which, in truth, it was.
“Have you forgotten the rules? No talking.”
“But… It was pointless! You killed it for the sake of killing!” He gently uncurled your fingers from his sleeve and turned away to create distance.
The hare’s death was, indeed, pointless. One of the few. Just… Tom bit the inside of his cheek he wanted to kill. He needed to feel the thrill of the thread of life being cut off by his sheer will. No flashing curses, no sharp hexes, not even a wand had been drawn. This thing had dared to scare you, it had forced a reaction, a spasm in your body and ice in your veins. No, you shouldn’t be afraid of anything when Tom Riddle was close; he would always protect you, no matter what.
There were no lengths he wouldn’t go to for you, and maybe that was his grave mistake.
You followed him into the depths of the forest, waiting for an explanation. The Professor gave none. *** Dust clung to every intake of air, and you felt like you might throw up. Robes were covered in dirt, hair stuck to your sweaty forehead, and your heart was hammering against your ribs ever since you two entered this godforsaken place. The old crypt, with no nameplates or tombstones, offered no hint as to whom this grave belonged to. You didn’t care, though. Especially when you were busy stepping over bones, gnawed by centuries of rot. They crumbled into ash under your feet and bled into the filth. A wave of nausea washed over you, and you swallowed a bitter lump in your throat.
The Professor’s steps were silent against the stones; he shed his coat and put its shrunken form into his bag. The black shirt hugged him tightly, veins prominent on his lean forearms where his grip on the wand intensified with every turn you two made through the winding corridors. He looked like he belonged there—the very air seemed to part for him, and, no surprise, you couldn’t stop staring. A simple act of watching a masterpiece in its natural element. Darkness, cold, and death.
“So, what are we searching for, Professor Riddle?” you asked when the silence became too awkward. Thanks to Merlin he couldn’t see your cheeks flushed.
“We are going to find out sooner or later. One thing I know is that this artefact must be truly dangerous.” His answer came quickly and sharply. “I suggest you do not touch anything if you wish for your limbs to stay attached to your body.”
Tom caught you when your fingertips were within inches of touching one of the runic stones on the wrecked pedestal. As if burnt, you hid your hand in your pocket. The stone emitted a final, pale flare before cracking right in the middle. You gasped and stepped back. Well, that was very telling.
“We’ve explored a lot of places in the Forbidden Forest, but I’ve never seen this exact crypt,” you mused and ducked under the Professor’s arm as he opened one of the doors.
A breeze of fresh air made you pull your robes tighter when the stomach-churning stench of burnt flesh and the sweetness of putrefaction touched your nostrils. Even more than the Astronomy Professor, you hated that smell—Merlin, it reminded you of the first trip to the poachers’ camp with him. What was meant to be a simple test of your skills had evolved into a literal hell. You used to be afraid of fire, but after that night, the fear of becoming Tom Riddle’s enemy had been etched into your bones instead.
You never knew you would be given a chance to see how human skin blistered and sloughed off a face in wet strips. Not quite a sight for an eighteen-year-old girl who was so happy to be around her favourite professor. Add to that a memory of how he appeared amidst the dancing flames of the dying night—like pleasure existed solely in the glass eyes of the victims, whose last dawn was painted not in the yellow of the rising sun, but in the roaring chaos of Fiendfyre.
“Neither have I,” Riddle agreed, his lips curled in repulsion. “Though, I must admit, it’s rather… stimulating to delve into new territories, don’t you think?”
It shouldn’t have sounded so hypnotizingly inviting. Stimulating? Oh, Merlin, as if hearing him speaking wasn’t enough stimulating.
“I think you, Professor, just like old, dirty things that reek off dark magic and…” you kicked a small green urn, which immediately toppled over to spill its insides across the ground, “…oops!”
Tom smirked; your heart did a little jump.
“It could have been someone’s grandfather, you know?” His amusement made you grin, and you came a little closer until you could see the flecks of gold in his irises. “And what about these ‘old, dirty things’ you mentioned? We both know I prefer quite the opposite.”
His playful taunt coursed through your body and settled deep in your lower stomach. In the murky light of the crypt, he saw your eyes shimmer—a playful glint within them forced the hunger inside him to bare its fangs. To him, you were a sin wrapped in an innocent smile and a gentle touch on his arm.
“Really, Professor?” Your hand skimmed over his forearm until your fingers closed around his. He didn’t return the gesture, but didn’t pull away either. “You seem to pay more attention to the dead rather than the living.”
“You have my undivided attention now, Miss,” Tom purred, the sound was low and laced with amusement—a bit out of place for the solemn atmosphere of the crypt. “What are you going to do with it?”
Oh, you wished to do a lot actually. Maybe start with proper kissing? Then you would finally get a glimpse of what was hidden beneath his fine shirts and that meticulously constructed exterior. What would it take to make his eyes roll in pleasure? You weren’t experienced, even your first kiss was stolen by the Professor himself, but you had what it took to be successful. Enthusiasm. Passion.
That man from the Hog’s Head Inn mentioned the artifact had the power to show one’s true desires and force them to satisfy them no matter what. An interesting addition to the collection of bizarre relics he had acquired.
Tom Riddle knew his desires and how to command them; so, when your lips brushed against his jaw, he let out a low hum and gently pushed you away. His ear caught a hushed thrum that could’ve been mistaken for the distant sounds of the forest.
“Professor…” you pouted, displeasure and confusion slowly turning into irritation. Was he doing it on purpose?! Or was he straight up torturing you?
“I think I heard something.” He broke the spell with the immediate switch in his behavior. A mischievous tang was gone. “Stay behind me, and if I tell you to run—you run. Do you understand?”
Your mouth opened, but you nodded in agreement.
“Tell me you understand.” Riddle pressed his thumb into the thin skin of your wrist where your pulse quickened; a jolt ran through your body at how cold his touch was.
“I understand, Professor.”
A rush of adrenaline made you tremble; your sweaty palm gripped the wand so tightly it might snap.
Into the next room you both crawled; the tiny stones bit into your knees, yet the pain dulled to a distant rumble as a coppery scent flooded your senses. Every hair stood on end, as if a storm were rapidly approaching. Dark magic had that unmistakable ability to attract, to cut open your very core and bend its deepest secrets to the will of a power that had neither beginning nor end.
This area was simply… bare: the carvings on the walls had been erased by time, piles of cobwebs were long abandoned by their makers, and the clean air fought its way back into your lungs that were filled with dust and decay.
In the center lay a pin. A simple silver pin. A thing so ordinary you thought it might be a cruel joke.
Tom couldn’t tear his eyes away. Deep within, he felt something in him stirring; the faint glint on its pointed tip beckoned his touch to test how sharp it truly was. For an amateur in the Dark Arts, it was a signal to be cautious, because where an artifact calls, no answers should be given. His steps were slow, measured, and now he could decipher that the hum was, in fact, a chorus of whispers. They were relentless to rip out a much-needed answer.
“What is this?” You looked at the pin with growing curiosity.
“Can you understand what’s it saying?” His hand hovered over it—Revelio uncovered nothing, like this thing was a pin indeed. No curses or hexes, not even ancient magic staining the surface.
Nothingness. The most insidious lie a dark artefact could tell.
You listened, but your ragged breathing and the thrum of blood in your ears might have drowned out every other sound. Or there were none of them at all.
“I don’t hear anything, sir.”
“Interesting…” Tom trailed off, and his focus narrowed to the pin before him.
Then the Professor heard it. A soft rustle of fabric, a low sigh, and the lingering taste of you filled his mouth. He blinked, as if it were his imagination, but when he felt the press of your body against his back, he finally realised what the whispers had been about. You.
How his title sounded almost provocative slipping past your lips in a room crowded with students; how your broken moans caressed his ears when his fingers were knuckles-deep inside you; how you will sound with his cock pounding into you from behind.
Salazar, why do you have to stand so close to him? For what fucking reason must you … exist? You make it impossible to balance between professionalism and amorality.
“Shit,” Professor Riddle hissed as he felt the pin bite into his fingertip. A small bead of blood bloomed on the skin, and his chest constricted.
Not in pain. No. In hunger. In a hunger so ravenous it instantly became impossible to resist. He knew a murder wouldn’t help—that wasn’t what he wanted.
Slowly, Professor Riddle turned to face you.
His muscles tensed; a hot rush of liquid fire replaced his blood, and every sense sharpened to hear, smell, and see.
To hear your little sighs spilling from those swollen lips; to catch the scent of your skin and the addictive notes of your perfume; to see your eyes searching for his, worried and hopelessly in love. Cute. He had to swallow you. All of you. Now. Or he might die. Or fuck you right here in this crypt with the dead watching. Salazar, so foul and utterly arousing.
Your head tilted in a silent question as a stray lock of hair fell onto your face. He brushed it away and leaned in to deliver a warning you never imagined you would hear from him.
What Tom truly desired was you.
“Run,” he murmured, the ghost of his touch sent hot shivers down your spine. You took a step back; fear seized you in a steel fist, and your knees almost gave out.
“What…?”
The darkness in his eyes shifted, warped into a void with a growing appetite to consume and claim.
You had promised to listen to him.
Every part of you protested.
“Run and don’t look back.”
But you weren’t stupid.
You ran.
Through countless corridors you fled: crawling where needed, leaping where you must, until the crisp night air embraced you. Your escape was made of centuries-old oaks and twisting paths, worn by hundreds of forest creatures. Centaurs, spiders, snakes, or trolls—who cared when the true threat was snapping at your heels?
In every corner, the red eyes were watching, far away, yet so devastatingly close, as if you stood still with your leg caught in a hunter’s snare.
Your lungs burned with such ferocity that every breath felt like a blade opening your chest. Tears and panic blurred your vision into a haze of colourful dots, and the last anchor in the dark was the dying hope that Professor Riddle was testing you again. So, you ran deeper into the heart of the woods—very much convinced he would find you. He would find you and bring you back, because… Fuck, because he always came for you!
With these thoughts, your legs finally gave out, and you were brought to your knees. Before you—a massive tree trunk, draped in cobwebs where dew shimmered on the delicate threads. Behind—the crickets sang, their song a mockery of your naive dreams of being his one and only. Perhaps, for a second, you could allow yourself the luxury of a glass castle floating on its cloud nine. All while your palms clutched at your chest to steady the crumbling dream.
First came the silence. He was there. Even the forest creatures recognised that a greater presence had arrived. Then came the voice— warm and golden, like the richest honey. You couldn’t hide a treacherous smile breaking through the grimace of pain and exhaustion.
“I told you to run,” it spoke.
“I did,” you returned, words weak.
“Still, we are here.”
You couldn’t see his face, yet to picture his nostrils flare, lips press into a thin line, and shards of ice sparkle in his irises took little effort for an observant eye like yours.
“Why would I run from you, Professor, if you were going to catch me anyway?” you responded.
He stood there, shrouded in night. Only the ghostly starlight illuminated the silhouette, woven from power and something soft, intangible, that made you reach for him every single time.
Misleading warmth had a tendency to burn far too deep, leaving scars in the form of deep cuts on a maiden’s heart—a heart that ached and craved to be noticed. Through blood and tears.
And Professor Riddle had noticed. Who knows if it was for the better?
“Stupid thing. You should’ve listened to me,” his velvety voice poured over your clouded mind like syrup.
All alone in the dark. You. And him. A doe and a wolf—a tale as old as time. You had long since outgrown those childhood stories for little girls.
Tom’s desire merged with a primal instinct, fueled by the appetite-whetted chase and heightened by his pent-up frustration. He should have made it right for you, to ease you into the thought of intimacy with him through proper dates or private time spent in his room. Gentle, thorough and very, very attentive. Riddle was a gentleman to his very marrow. He had learnt to bide his time and wait for the perfect opportunity to pounce and tear apart everything your world depended on.
Then he saw your glazed eyes, reddened cheeks, and parted lips.
Fuck it.
The feast begins now.
In two strides, he caught your elbow and forced you upright; Tom pushed you against the tree. Your gasp was silenced by his grip on your hair. Wild strands, ruffled by the wind, were pulled painfully tight in his fist. Hard, hot body was a shield, cutting off any path of retreat.
His weight, heavy gasps against your ear, and the insistent hand already snaking its way under your shirt turned off every coherent thought. Now, there was fear, arousal, and the heady taste of the forbidden.
“Professor!” you yelped, nails digging into the tree. “What are you doing…”
A slight arch of your back urged him to pull you closer, to let him know you wanted it as much as he did. His growing need strained against his trousers, twitching and leaking pre-cum. The gentleman was forgotten the moment you first opened your legs for him during the kiss. The gentleman was forgotten when your cunt swallowed his fingers.
The gentleman would be forgotten when his cock split you open.
“Shh, quiet,” he cooed, big palm cupping your jaw to angle your face so he could peer into your eyes. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”
A lie. He was a liar.
Your head was spinning with countless possibilities of what he might do to you. Surely, there were to be no lessons on curses or lectures about dark artefacts tonight.
One nerve after another began to quiver under the Professor’s scrutiny. Tantalizingly slow, deliberate where he should’ve rushed, he was memorizing every part of you—from your stomach to your ribs. His fingers found your hardened nipple behind the safety of your simple bra. Was it the cold or the aching hollow low in your belly that made you arch your back and your pulse flutter? Your underwear was soaking through, even shame began to creep in—so terribly tainted, so obviously aroused from the running.
“Scared?” he wondered when the occasional shiver of your body became too noticeable.
He knew it wasn’t fear, oh no. His nails dug into your flushed face, the tip of his nose drawing small circles over your temple. A carnal smirk twisted his mouth—the predator’s triumph, and the prey’s surrender.
“I have nothing to fear when I’m with you, Professor.”
How adorable was your trust in him; so much even his chest tightened for a moment from a long-forgotten feeling. It could have made one’s soul ring with delight, had it not been splintered and drowned in a viscous murk. Hunger remained—a feverish need to claim what belonged to him wholly. To have you, and have you again, until his name was carved not just into your heart, but echoed in every sound that left your throat.
“That is your mistake, darling,” he scoffed, the obsidian of his gaze melted into liquid glass.
You looked at lips you couldn’t stop thinking of. Whatever dark curses stained them, whatever malice they spoke, your desire never wavered. The ‘right’ to kiss him—how you called it—trapped you in the delusion of having power over him.
As if.
The Professor shoved your head aside; your cheek met the wood. A startled, strangled whimper broke from you at the rough scrape against your skin.
“No.”
Equally lethal—an order and a hex.
The burning path under your shirt led to the waistband of your trousers. Buttons flew open; cold air, full of the scent of earth and electricity, licked at your bare stomach. Riddle’s hips were pressed into yours from behind, and the certainty of his desire was prominent against your arse. Bursts of fireworks surged through your blood, searing in every single cell like embers.
Mind corrupted where the body remained pure.
Filthy, lewd dreams of your Professor had settled into their rightful place at the edge of your mind; he would take you whenever he pleased: sprawled across his desk, in an abandoned classroom, a grimy lavatory, or the steamy depths of the Prefects’ bathroom. Maybe even slipping into your dormitory under the stars...
But… the Forbidden Forest? This was beyond the reach of your darkest fantasies.
“So wet for me,” he murmured, his hand ghosting beneath your trousers, fingertips finding the slick heat.
Teeth chattering, every sound was swallowed. Your knees folded, kept upright by his thigh wedged between your legs. Forced into such a weak position, your eyes screwed shut in shame.
“Did that chase through the forest turn you on so much? Or is it simply me?”
The confidence in his voice bordered on a cruel mockery—a taunt at the way your body betrayed you.
“Is this whole ‘role model’ act just a show? While inside, you’re nothing but a depraved little slut?” He yanked your hair back, the sharp sting of pain forced tears to blur your vision.
“Come on, tell me, Miss.” The solid weight of his thigh grinding against your center. You squirmed, torn between the urge to escape and starving for the friction. “Has anyone else touched you?”
The humiliation was nearly unbearable. So evil, wicked, and yet, the thrill of the prohibited and unattainable ignited a fresh surge of fervour.
Professor Riddle chuckled; his knuckles dipped in between your folds and brushed against your clit. Again. And again.
“I asked you a question, Miss.” His tongue caught a stray tear on your cheek; the salty taste of your despair made him purr. “Has anyone laid their hands on you?”
He knew all the answers he needed. He knew you never had (and never would) anyone but him. For it was Tom who buried you under piles of extra assignments to ensure you had no life beyond his classroom. The lingering looks of other boys on you were noted. And a quiet rage boiled inside—mostly at himself.
To mark you as his own was strictly unallowed. For now.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. Your professor, the Head of Slytherin House, and the very future of the wizarding world. You? A girl in her final year at Hogwarts. Two separate worlds, two different paths.
But Tom cut his own way, defiant of any beaten tracks.
“No one, sir,” you exhaled reluctantly, a frown twisting your face.
Moisture had gathered above his lip, and he slowly licked away the beads of sweat. Pinned between him and the tree, with the night as the only witness to such wickedness; Riddle felt that heavy, sharp ache—his mind drowning in the sensation of your arousal coating his fingers.
If the world held any injustice, it lay in the raw need to feel the Professor inside you, while he took his time in putting off the inevitable. His fingers, cock, tongue—anything to silence the emptiness. You would be happy to have anything he had to offer.
Your chest heaved, the night chill scraped at your cheeks and bare legs. You had regretted the stockings you had forgotten in the rush. The Professor’s thigh ground between your legs in an agonizing rhythm.
Back and forth. You let out a string of curses.
“Language,” Tom warned slyly.
He pushed you off, and you clawed at the wood, barely catching yourself as your support vanished.
Riddle’s hand, still glistening from your wetness, unfastened his trousers and let them slide down until they pooled at his ankles in a heap of fabric; the ice-cold of his belt buckle kissed your flesh. His cock, thick and rock-hard, rested against your backside.
The blood drained from your face. Professor Riddle sure was big, no need to see it with your own eyes to accept the fact.
You’d listened to your friends’ gossip about their lovers, fully aware that the first time would be painful. But if your partner was… uhm… ‘well-equipped’, it would be twice the torture.
Pain never scared you. To be weak what terrified you, greatly. Disappoint him as a woman. And then that bitch of the Astronomy Professor would have her hands on him, Merlin damn her!
A newfound confidence rose within, and you arched your back in a silent invitation.
Tom tilted his head to the side, a sharp tug on your hair forced you to meet him with wide eyes full of determination.
“Will it hurt, Professor?” you asked, as though discussing academical matters.
He felt the need to comfort but refused to soften the truth.
“It will, but you’ll manage.” His hand wandered beneath your underwear; fingertips slid between your folds and nudged your entrance. “I’m going to prepare you for me, okay? Stay still.”
You nodded and gripped his wrist with an unsteady hand, searching for the control that had been lost a long time ago.
At first, one finger pushed in with ease; your walls greedily took him to the last knuckle. A gasp was torn out of your mouth.
“You’re such a good girl, darling, such a good girl…” he hummed, a teacher’s pride bleeding into the rasp of his voice.
The raindrops drummed against the leaves only to die mid-air, never reaching the ground.
His second finger met a slight resistance, but Tom shoved it inside with a little bit of force. A small cry echoed in the dark.
“Just like that, darling.” Two of his fingers moved, deep and steady, enough to soothe your nerves. Your back arched, mouth fell open in a failed attempt to fill your lungs. “So tight and wet… You are going to take me so well, right? I know you are.”
A single image of his cock buried to the hilt inside you, how your pussy was going to squeeze him so deliciously, made him throb painfully. Sticky, white drops stained your hiked up robes. His fist tangled in your locks, pinning your head to the tree with a crushing grip.
Riddle pulled your strings like a master puppeteer. He had mastered the art of playing with his prey. To force them to their knees, make them beg and grovel beneath his feet. Tom had to wonder—how long it will take before he breaks you, too?
“Sir…” you mumbled; your hand clutched at the tree, seconds from snapping your nails.
Filthy noises of your sopping cunt around his fingers carried deep into the forest.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Tom’s thumb circled your clit, and your fidgeted.
Torture it was, indeed, standing on the precipice of the orgasm only to be forcefully pushed back.
“Please, I want you. I want to come,” you whimpered, unaware of the effect your words had. “I’m ready.”
Oh, darling. You weren’t ready at all.
Professor gently stroked your clit a couple more times with a feather-light touch before he withdrew. Ropey strings of your arousal clang to his palm.
Tom Riddle was a man of patience. But the primal desire, sharpened by the strange artefact he had left in the crypt, urged him to fill you to the brim. Virgin or not, Tom didn’t care.
He smeared your moisture along his shaft.
“I won’t be gentle with you,” Riddle groaned, his hand moved to grab your waist, guiding his cock in between your folds.
You shook. Having your head freed, you could look at the Professor, only to see his half-lidded eyes clouded with fog; the crimson bloom on his high cheekbones warmed something inside.
A small, subtle roll of your hips, and the tip of his cock grazed your clit. You both exhaled; the temperature reaching a fever pitch.
“Please, Professor. I want it,” you uttered the words your heroine had repeated in a thousand imaginary scenarios—the ones where an older version of yourself and Professor Riddle met every night within the haven of your mind.
Tom drew in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. With a visible tension, he entered.
Your walls reluctantly stretched, stinging and aching for him to stop and to never stop. A coppery taste of blood flooded your mouth as your teeth broke the raw skin. You recoiled to escape, to ease the pain that was flooding your senses, but the Professor dragged you back with a harsh clamp.
“Where do you think you are going?” The growl sent your pulse skyrocketing.
Across your vision, bursts of colour swirled in a kaleidoscope.
Riddle pushed his cock deeper into you, but the tightness of your cunt made him feel uncomfortable.
“My beautiful girl, come on. Take me. I know you can.” In your chest, the heart cried. “You were made for me, darling. Just a little more. For your professor. Take. Me,” he nearly hissed, the edges of his words dissolving into the velvet grace of Parseltongue.
A rough slam, and half of him was buried inside. Your pussy spasming around his thick length; scream scratching at your throat. Every thought was consumed by the weight of his cock. It was a hideous violation of every rule, yet a destruction in the most beautiful form.
Everything was aflame—the tongues of fire licked at your arms, legs, neck, and chest. They coiled in your belly as the reminder that hell was more enticing than heaven could ever be.
Thrust after thrust, his cock filling you with every agonizing inch. This madness was exhausting in every part of its existence. Pleasure surged through your veins like flashes of lighting.
Never in your life had you been told about this overwhelming fullness. How, in truth, the intensity of it drowned out everything else entirely. Not one of your bloody friends had ever told you what it was like to fuck your professor. Tell anyone, and they’d never believe. You and the Professor Riddle? No way.
“Sir,” you mewled. Your palms were stinging grom the splinters driven deep into your skin. “Sir, please. I can’t… Please.”
“You can, my sweet girl. You are doing such a good job, taking me so well,” he hummed into your ear.
Riddle’s large hand locking around you, one pressing firmly into your lower belly. He drove himself inside, forcing you to arch your spine until his cock was swallowed completely by your needy cunt. The insufferable desire to pound into you sparkled behind his closed eyelids—just for you to remember every vein, every ridge. He would rewrite you to his own image, so pliant and delicate, unraveling in a blur of languor and anguish beneath his touch.
Perfect.
“Fuck, like that, sweetheart. So good… You are making me feel so good.” He pressed into the small bulge formed low in your belly.
The Professor took everything you possessed. Nothing of what had remained he didn’t already own. And what was left for you?
His hand closing around your throat to suppress the air? Or the fierce slam of his hips against yours that made his tip nudge your cervix?
Tom pulled away almost fully, the obscene, squelching sounds were muffled by your shared moan. In one violent plunge his balls slapped against you, and he stilled. His vision darkened at the feeling of your pussy throbbing around him, so small and dripping. That was entirely different from what he had with that stupid Astronomy Professor.
The feeling was akin to murder: copper in his mouth, warm blood on his hands, and the thrum of magic under his skin after another ritual.
He would break you. And put the broken parts together. All for himself. A perfect student for her favourite professor. Vile enough to spark a crooked smile, crude as the rhythm of his hips, and staggering to the point of feeling your pulse trapped beneath his fingertips.
Thrust. His cock filling you. Thrust. Your insides flutter. Thrust. He bites at your ear. Thrust. A drop of blood from your lower lip falls onto the leaves.
“Not so hard, hm?” His hot tongue stopped the crimson path. “I want to hear my name, darling. Do it. As you’d done it with your fingers beneath the desk during my lectures.”
Of course he had noticed, you never thought he wouldn’t. But the way he taunted you, a sardonic comment about your secret left you reeling. The name, Tom, lost in the humid haze of the Prefects’ bathroom. The name, Tom, had been gasped against your pillow, while your slick-stained sheets were wrapped around your legs.
Tom. Tom. Tom.
“Tom…” it slipped out on its own, rehearsed and practiced to perfection.
Quietly, uncertain, as if the forest might scold you for the audacity.
“Louder.” His voice became as hard as his thrusts.
So deep, raw, and it was impossible not to turn into a sobbing wreck.
“Tom.” He eased the grip on your throat.
When you thought you had finally adjusted to him, he’d always find a new angle that made you scream and cry from the stretch.
“More.” The Professor’s hand found your clit and stroked it with efficient movements, pushing you to collect the shards of your consciousness.
In this torturous rhythm he held you like a captive, a pretty little hostage for his satisfaction.
“Tom!” The name was ripped from your bruised throat; a shattered moan hung in the air.
“My good girl. Breaking so well for me… Poor thing.”
Professor used you as he pleased, hand seizing your throat with force enough to crush your windpipe. The bursts of white-hot light blinded you, as though molten metal were being poured down onto your skull.
Everything below hurt, resisted the feast Professor Riddle had made of your body. His hunger was alive, gloating and devouring every single piece of you.
An affair that wasn’t supposed to exist at all. A seventh year. A young, handsome professor. The first extra lecture on the Shield Charm for you. The latest extra lecture with his tongue in your mouth and his fingers fucking you.
You were close, he could tell by the way your pussy fluttered, and how your hands were hopelessly trying to hold onto him—his forearms, hips, shoulders. You were clawing for anything solid, only to find that the very ground had been brutally stolen from beneath you.
“Yes, come for me, darling. Let go.”
You cried; the tidal wave of orgasm hit you with such ferocity that for a split second you went deaf, blind, and numb. He pressed onto your throat, sharpening your ecstasy to the point where it became excruciatingly dizzying. Goosebumps skittered across your skin, they were searching for an escape from the ruin of your self—a shrine that was crumbling, brick by brick, to its foundation.
“You were so amazing, so perfect for me… I’m so proud of you,” he groaned; his own release painted your clenching walls in white.
The world rushed back in, an unwelcome flood of noise and scent. You slumped against the Professor, head lolling back to rest on his shoulder.
For Tom, the return from heaven felt endless, marked by the salt of your tears, sweat, and blood.
“Sir...” you sighed breathlessly when his lips had found yours.
He kissed you with laziness. Sweet, tender. Like any good teacher, he sometimes used the method of the carrot and stick. Every good girl deserved a treat. And you were the best.
“You will have your highest mark in my class,” he smiled after breaking the kiss.
“Tom, I—”
He interrupted you with a weak roll of his hips, cum trickled down the inside of your thigh.
“It’s Professor Riddle, Miss.” His fingers found the sticky mess between your legs, and he groaned. “Don’t forget your place.”
oneshots | ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
CRAWLING BACK TO YOU.
♡ SUMMARY: your boyfriend, Tom, can't make you come. good that you know someone who can—and just so happens to be his brother and your ex, Mattheo.
♡ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. cheating. Tom girlies, close your eyes while reading. lack of aftercare, emotional distance, sexual frustration, reader searches for comfort and finds it, nipple play, LOTS of kissing, teasing, dryhumping, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight overstimulation, praise, possessiveness, soft sex turned rough, religious themes hinted (nothing major), creampie, cum play, DISGUSTING bonus ending pls don't judge me.
♡ AUTHOR'S NOTE: what day is today? a good day to post a fic like this. <33
wordcount: 4,0k
Your first knock is quiet, careful, measured. Still, you flinch. In contrast to the eerily silent corridors, it’s a sharp, loud sound, slicing through the night like a deadly curse, sending a shiver down your spine—sealing the fate you’ve chosen for yourself at last.
Your legs tremble—although it’s April and officially spring, a chilly breeze sweeps along the castle’s thick walls, having you shrink into your woolly cardigan and abandon the confident expression you practiced in the mirror just before you left.
Seconds pass, seconds in which your heart hammers wildly against your ribcage, as though attempting to break free—mind like body, you suppose. You listen closely, but no sound comes from behind the thick oak door of his dorm. A weird, silly feeling expands in your chest, clawing its way up your throat.
And silly, it is—seeking out your ex, your boyfriend’s brother—in the middle of the night after Tom fell asleep beside you.
You are well aware that this is wrong. That you shouldn’t do it, should leave your past behind you, once and for all. Should cuddle up to your boyfriend instead and shove these insistent, mourning feelings to the very back of your mind.
Today, though, you couldn’t help yourself. Not any longer—aroused and aching, slick between your thighs. Restless with the need to come, to release your pent-up frustration, which has been building for months now.
In truth, Tom is a good lover—great even. What he does, he does well. He just never does quite enough.
Again, you should not let your thoughts stray this far. Not under any circumstances. But... with Mattheo, it felt different. Intimacy felt like a special connection you shared, both of you at your most vulnerable, and yet you never once felt unsafe in his arms.
You felt cherished and loved, and now—with Tom, it feels distant. It feels as though being intimate with him is a chore, a necessity to keep your relationship above water when otherwise it’s drowning.
Most of the time, he does not even bother kissing you, reassuring you, or encouraging you. It’s so shallow, you have never gotten to experience an orgasm with him. And he does not ask, either. When he is done, you are too. Left wanting as he turns around and dozes off—leaving you to your thoughts. Thoughts, which often include his brother, and, in the end, help you reach your high too—on your own.
If anything, though, you feel ashamed. You left Mattheo for Tom for a reason. You sought maturity and responsibility—and found just that with Tom. He’s ambitious, has his goals set, and is hardworking.
You found stability but, in exchange, traded love and affection.
Still, you chose this path for yourself. You are well aware, all things considered, Tom provides the traits you’ve wanted in a partner and has never denied you assistance with school-related work. Has been there for you and been a great companion.
You should’ve never left his dorm tonight.
And for a moment, you consider turning around. You consider returning to your bed, which has most likely cooled out by now, and try to be the girlfriend Tom expects you to be, deserves you to be.
Another moment passes, and you blink the tears that have gathered at your waterline away.
You are so unhappy. So desperate for a gentle touch that finally—
You knock again. Harder. Louder. Please open, you whisper into the darkness of the night, the words forming a misty cloud in the chilly air surrounding you. Please, Mattheo. I need you.
This time, a low groan—unmistakably Mattheo’s—rumbles from inside, and a second later, footsteps near the door.
The lock turns, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
The door opens just wide enough that he can peek outside—and yet, the mere presence of him spreads instant heat throughout your body, warming you from the inside.
His chocolate-brown eyes take no longer than a split moment to recognise your face, prying the door open further.
“What are you—” his eyes rake over your body, not suggestively, but observingly. When he realises you are wearing nothing more than thin satin pyjamas, he takes hold of your wrist and pulls you inside.
Mattheo switches on a small lamp, and it’s then when you are able to see each other properly that worry wipes the soft smile clean from his face.
“Are you all right? Has something happened?” He asks quietly, insinuating—his eyes darting between you and the door.
Even after all this time, he is still more worried about you than his own brother. Mattheo has always prioritised your safety over anything else, and the realisation makes your heart hurt. Tears finally spill, and you sniffle, turning away from him.
Mattheo gathers you in his arms then, wrapping them around you gently, protectively, letting you calm down. His hand smooths over your hair, brushing his fingers along your spine and whispering soothing words near your ear.
As soon as you calm yourself, you reluctantly part from the comforting warmth of his body, his thumb wiping away the moisture that has gathered on your cheek as his brown eyes, full of worry, gaze down at you.
And then, when he sits you down on his bed, you spill your heart out to him.
Everything you’ve been holding in for months leaves your lips, and with every sentence, your soul feels lighter. It feels as though your pain transfers to him—his eyes growing darker as minutes pass, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists beside him.
When you are done, there’s a long, agonising silence. So long and uncomfortable, you question whether it was the right decision to let him in on this.
But Mattheo—Mattheo only pulls you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you just as he did before. No judgement, no questions. Just quiet understanding and comfort.
After his lips brush a kiss on the top of your head, he reluctantly lets go of you. His eyes bore into yours, with an intensity and emotion you aren’t sure you can handle coming from him.
“Why?” he asks, quietly—but there is no trace of malice in his tone. “Why didn’t you come sooner? I could have— maybe I could have done something.”
You shake your head. “Being here right now is a mistake, Mattheo, and you know it. I shouldn’t have shared this with you, let alone come to sit on your bed. Tom is asleep, I should— God, I should leave.”
“Is that what you want?” he asks, curling a finger beneath your chin and tilting your head up, urging you to look at him. God, his eyes. The warmth of a crackling fireplace, intertwined with the sweetness of dark honey, staring down at you.
No, I don’t, you want to reply, but the words do not form on your tongue—still, your lips part, though for a different reason entirely.
The sheer proximity of him wipes reason from your every thought, and when his face inches closer, you don’t dare stop him.
Instead, you allow the relationship with Tom to drown, pulling yourself back above water in the same moment and sucking in the first breath of fresh oxygen in what feels like months.
When his lips brush over yours in a gentle, encouraging motion—as though he’s giving you a trial, a promise of what’s about to come—you don’t pull away. You whimper but reciprocate his invitation, and that is enough for Mattheo to deepen the kiss. He’s holding you close, one hand at the nape of your neck, the other resting just above your jaw, drawing soft patterns on your cheek with his thumb.
When he eases back, he swipes it over your lips, and you whimper again—but Mattheo pulls away, taking a moment to look at you—confirming by your hazed expression that yes, you do want this. That you need this just as badly as he does.
And then, your back hits the mattress, and Mattheo’s mouth is on yours again, more feral and hungry than before, while he’s hovering above you between your spread legs. His hands are on your shoulders this time, and with the tip of his finger, he traces along your collarbone, revealed by the V-cut of your pyjama top. He follows the seam downwards, and you can’t help but offer yourself to him, arching your back to encourage him for more, whimpering into the kiss.
God, how Mattheo has missed this. You, obediently spread out beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, drawing the sweetest sounds from your swollen lips, which send a concerning amount of blood rushing straight to his already semi-hard dick.
All the while, your brain is screaming more, more, more, but all he’s giving you is barely-there touches, kisses that nearly make you beg for more.
In reality, Mattheo wishes to devour you—but after all these months, not knowing whether he’ll ever get another chance—he's savouring you. Slow, deliberate affection, just like you deserve, not rushing you through it.
His hips brush your thigh, and fuck—you nearly forgot what it feels to be desired—genuinely desired. He’s pressed up tight, trailing heated kisses down your neck, slowly undoing the buttons at the front of your shirt—rocking his growing erection against you, subconsciously so.
His fingers carefully peel the satin aside, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple, and you gasp at the sensation. Never in all those months—
“Poor thing. So frustrated, hm?” Mattheo rasps, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “So frustrated, even the smallest touch makes you writhe. God, whatever shall I do with you?”
More. Touch me. Please.
“Mattheo,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his brown curls. “I—”
But he doesn’t let you finish your sentence.
“Let me show you— please, let me show you how you should be loved. Let me make you forget about him, sweetheart. Let me make you mine again.”
His lips trail a path of kisses along your sternum, down your tummy, halting briefly at the hem of your shorts, his eyes longingly gazing up at yours from below, a silent question swirling in the depths of them.
Yes. I need this. I need you.
As if he heard your thoughts, his fingers hook into the material of the only fabric still covering you, gently tugging it down your thighs alongside your panties.
“This is a bad idea,” you try again, huskily, but there is no sincerity behind your words. He merely shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curving into a playful smirk. He knows you are lying. And when his thumb finds your clit—swollen, begging for attention, drawing slow, torturous circles over it—you don’t tell him to stop, no. You chase his touch, angle your hips to offer more of yourself, revealing more of your glistening pussy to his hungry eyes.
Even in the dim light emitted from the lamp in the corner of his dorm, Mattheo can see your arousal—and subsequently can’t help but dip his thumb lower, collecting some of what has gathered at your entrance. He makes you watch when he brings it to his mouth and licks it clean, groans when he tastes you on himself.
As though you were the forbidden fruit no man dares to touch—but if it’s for you, Mattheo doesn’t care. Doesn't care if he fucking burns for it. You will be his damnation, even after all this time.
“Oh— oh God, Mattheo, this is— so perfect, but such a bad idea.”
“Bad idea?” he repeats, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “You know what a bad idea is? Leaving you to yourself like this—soaked and so. fucking. sensitive.”
The worst part is that he is right. And that you have wanted nothing more than for someone to take care of you, to pleasure you as you do them.
Your mind is hazy with lust, with the need to come, and you give yourself the last push, shoving any remaining thoughts of Tom into the take-care-of-it-later folder of your mind.
Then, your lips part, Mattheo studying you intently. “Please, touch me. Make me feel good. Make me yours again.”
Mattheo’s mind efficiently shuts off after he takes in those words and repeats them around five times in his mind to make sure he understood you right.
Hell, he won't let any second go to waste.
He presses one last kiss to the inside of your knee, then grabs your thighs and spreads them apart, far enough for him to fit in between. He’s feral—almost as feral as you are. His head dips, tongue delving between your folds, gathering the moisture seeping from your entrance and bringing it to your clit before his lips wrap around it effortlessly. And God, months without this kind of affection have made you overly sensitive. This feels as close to heaven as a mortal may reach in their lifetime—and you force your eyes open to watch him, watch your ruination.
You study him intently as he pleasures you, as though it’s the very thing he was made for, as though there is not a single thing he’d rather do. And there most likely isn’t.
Seeing him like this—fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, moaning against your pussy, savouring your taste on his tongue—has molten heat form in your lower stomach, and the familiar, yet almost forgotten tingles spread throughout your entire body, having you grab and tug on his curls, press him more firmly against you.
Mattheo licks, sucks, drags his tongue through the mess between your folds, fucks you with his tongue, and is so fucking vocal about it. Praises you, encourages you.
“Good girl. So fucking good for me,” he nearly growls, spreading your legs impossibly wider. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? Just needed me between those pretty fuckin’ thighs, making you remember how good it can feel, hm?”
You don’t answer. Can't answer when he flicks his tongue against your sensitive clit, kisses it, and sucks it between his lips again.
You are about to come. God, you are about to come, and you don’t think you have ever felt this fucking good.
Don't stop, please, don’t stop.
He doesn’t stop. His hands leave your thighs, one of them intertwining with your own, reassuring you that he’s here to catch you when you let go, the other dipping lower, coating two of his fingers in your slick before he presses them against your entrance and pushes inside ever so slowly.
“Come, pretty girl. Come all over my face like I fucking taught you.”
Mattheo curls his fingers right against that sensitive spot inside you, and you don’t have any other choice but to follow his order even if you so wished.
His teeth graze your clit, fingers pumping deep, encouraging you with a low groan—and the vibrations of it finally send you over the edge. A broken moan slips past your lips—swollen from biting into them—and your fingers fist his hair tighter, thighs clamping around his head as stars dance in front of your eyes. You shake, you sob, and as your climax rips through you, so violently you think you may actually skip the dying part and ascend straight to heaven—he is there. He holds you, he praises you, and most importantly, doesn’t stop. Not until he’s drained every last drop of pleasure and you whimper due to the sensitivity.
Brushing one last soft kiss to your clit, he sits up, taking in your spent form with pure satisfaction.
He looks gorgeous like this. Chin soaked with both his spit and your arousal, lips swollen and reddened, hair a mess. In that moment, you realise you’ve missed him more than you thought. Not just because he always puts you first, but because he’s genuine with his feelings, careful with his words, and gentle with his affection.
“Fuck,” Mattheo exhales a long breath, a grin spreading on his face. “You did amazing. So fucking good, just like I remember.”
You whisper something in that sweet, velvety voice, and Mattheo doesn’t quite catch it but leans down to kiss you again anyway. You taste yourself on his lips and can’t help but lose yourself in the feeling of it.
Now, that the bliss of your high is slowly fading, you are feeling courageous. More than.
You reach between the two of you to palm his erection through his underwear, and his lips still against yours for a moment—but then, a wicked grin lets them curve upwards, and he lets them crash against yours again—coaxing you, making you feel bold.
With your hands on his strong shoulders, you finally circle his waist with your legs, and you can’t help but grind against him. Dragging your soaked pussy over his erection, still covered by the annoying piece of fabric he hasn’t bothered taking off yet.
Mattheo growls, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
He is holding back.
Reluctantly, you drop your head on the pillow beneath you, staring up at him, your palm brushing over his cheek affectionately.
“Mattheo, I want you— I want you inside me, please.”
Fuck, he thinks. You don’t know what you are asking from him. Once he feels your warmth around him, there is no fucking way he’ll ever let you leave again. No fucking way. And you are asking so sweetly, having come all this way here to pour your heart out to him—you deserve a reward.
His underwear is discarded somewhere on the floor, and not too long after, his toned body is framing yours, his hard cock dragging over your cunt as he slowly works his hips against your own.
“Please,” you whimper, and he adjusts himself just slightly, allowing his length to slip between your glistening folds. With every oh-so-gentle thrust, his weeping tip bumps against your still overly sensitive clit, and your nails claw at his back, moaning his name. Anything to get him to lose his patience.
You fucking need this.
“Mattheo. Please, I am begging you. You are my only, please let me have this.”
He curses under his breath, and yet, he straightens himself, hand beneath your neck to make you look at just how hard and needy he is for you. You moan at the sight of his soaked cock, caused by both your and his own arousal.
“Watch us when I push inside you. Watch how pretty you look when you take me.”
His hand fists your hair at the back of your head, supporting you—and then, with a throaty groan, the head of his cock slips past your entrance, having you both gasp at the same time. He's going slow—savouring every inch as you both watch him disappear inside your slick walls, pussy clenching tightly around the welcome invasion.
“So— so good, fuck, Mattheo— more, please, more.”
You think you hear something along the lines of “greedy fucking girl" before he lowers your head, braces his arms on either side of your face, and then drives home. All the fucking way, until the head of him nudges against your cervix, and you shriek in both pleasure and pain.
And Merlin help you, you want more. Harder, rougher. Give me all of you, Mattheo, your eyes damn near beg.
But he—he already looks fucking broken. Like the porcelain doll your grandmother displayed on her windowsill, with tiny cracks all over her once perfect exterior. They did not make her any less gorgeous, though—if anything, she looked like someone loved her properly.
And you love Mattheo, too. You’ve left your marks on him, on his soul, having him panting and breathing and moaning above you, thrusting so slowly, so carefully, you might as well tell him to break you too.
Your legs tighten around him. Encouragement. Please, please, don’t hold back.
Mattheo breathes out a pained whimper, meeting your eyes.
“I won’t— sweetheart, I won’t last long like this, fuck. It's been— been a while.”
Oh God.
You shouldn’t ask this. Hell, your mind should stay put for just once. Don't let your thoughts wander. But you ask nonetheless. “How— how long?”
“Nine months.”
You ended things between you nine months ago.
“Oh God, Mattheo. Don’t tell me—”
He nods. He nods, kisses you slowly and desperately, and then looks at you with an expression so close to hurt, you wish you had never asked.
“I want you. I only ever want you. And if I can’t have you, then I—”
“Mattheo— hey, look at me,” you shush him, cradling his face in your hands. “You have me. All of me. I belong to you, just as much as you belong to me. I was stupid not to realise it. I am yours. All yours, from now until the end of time.”
“Hmph—” he whimpers, increasing his pace, hips snapping against yours furiously, knocking the air from your lungs with every harsh thrust.
“Fuck, baby. Don’t say those things when I— when I am so—” he groans, a crease forming between his brows, concentrating. His cock twitches inside you, and it’s the only confirmation you need.
“Give it to me. Please. I need you. All of you. I need this.”
His thrusts grow erratic, deeper and rougher just as he knows you love it, and it takes everything in him to hold back. Hold back just a little longer to get you where he needs you.
He knows. He remembers. After all these months, he remembers, knows your body better than you do. Better than anyone—including Tom—ever could. Because they don’t care. But he does. Mattheo does and always has cared about your pleasure, your safety, your comfort. About you.
“Fuck, you are strangling me, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck—
You only nod, breathing heavily, just like him. And then, his thumb is back on your clit, drawing perfectly tight circles around it, all while locking his eyes with you.
“Tell me,” he rasps, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who does this wet, tight pussy belong to? Hm?”
Lord, you haven’t been to a confessional in ages, but perhaps it’s time to visit one some time soon. Very soon.
“It’s yours, Mattheo— fuck, it’s all yours,” you cry out, scratching his back as he slams into you, growling at your confession. His hips stutter just as you lose yourself in the bliss of a second, even better and more wrecking climax than the first. Only through the thick, hazy clouds enveloping your every sane thought do you feel as he empties himself inside of you, gently letting his body collapse on top of yours afterwards, sucking in deep breaths.
The waves of your pleasure almost drown you, but when you calm down, you reemerge, unharmed, feeling blissfully satisfied—brushing your fingertips along his spine, soothing him the same way he did with you.
What does not reemerge is your relationship with Tom.
And it won’t. Never again. You are home, and you are happy. You are exactly where you want to be.
In your lover's arms—in Mattheo’s arms.
・・・
bonus ending because I’m feeling myself today:
“No. Off. Keep those off,” Mattheo drawls from his side of the bed, arms tucked beneath his head as he watches you get dressed the next morning, nodding towards your panties just as you are about to step into them.
“Mattheo,” you warn him, but he gestures you over with one hand, sitting up on the bed.
You do as he says for once, intrigued by the sudden change in his expression. He gently, carefully kisses you when you stop at the edge of the bed and then smiles at you.
“Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he purrs, and reluctantly, you do.
Mattheo’s fingers dip between your folds, coating them with your combined arousal of the previous night, now beginning to drip out of you. You hiss, sore, but lean into his touch anyway—though he withdraws as quickly as he began, bringing his glistening fingers to your lips.
You open them, but he shakes his head.
Instead, he draws an M on your lips, smirking when he admires his work.
“For when you kiss him good morning. One last time.”
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.
©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.
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A/N pt2: forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I will be seeing priest!Tom in the confessional, I promise.
tom riddle. | this is your punishment
PAIRING: tom riddle x fem!reader
SUMMARY: prefect tom riddle catches you breaking the rules again, and this time decides to provide a different type of punishment he’s certain you won’t soon forget.
WORD COUNT: 4.7k
TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, dubcon (entirely consensual), dom!tom, brat!reader, BDSM (light), intense kink, sexual punishment/ forced orgasm, inappropriate use of magic/spells, clit-stim orgasm, begging.
You had thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes to dance with disaster. Thirty minutes to dodge destruction. Thirty minutes to descend into the depths of the library, infiltrate the restricted section, slip the book on occlumency you clandestinely borrowed back into its rightful place, and ascend back to your dormitory before the harbinger of your nightmares—Head Prefect Tom Riddle—emerges from the prefects' bathroom and winds his way back down to the dungeons.
Thirty minutes felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. The weight of impending doom pressing down on your chest as you crept through the darkened corridors, each shadow a lurking menace, each creak of the ancient floorboards a deafening scream that could betray your presence.
And though the stakes were disastrously high, you weren't entirely worried; you knew Tom Riddle's schedule as intimately as the lines on your palm, and he was nothing if not a creature of habit. But of course, there was always the chance. The slim, terrifying possibility that he might deviate from his usual routine. And being caught by him was the absolute last thing you needed right now.
Every second felt like a blade poised above your head, ready to drop at the slightest misstep. It was no secret that Tom Riddle had it out for you. By now, it was practically etched into the very stones of Hogwarts, a fact as immutable as gravity. Everywhere you went, every step you took, he was always there—watching, waiting, eager to catch you in some transgression.
The relentless scrutiny was exhausting. The number of detentions you'd served was staggering, the punishments you'd endured endless. Not to mention the droning, entirely condescending lectures and disappointed yet gleeful stares he always made sure to give you as he personally hauled you to Dumbledores office.
It was all bullshit, and certainly had nothing to do with your frequent rule-breaking or constant sneaking around. No, of course not. You most definitely never toed the line. You were as innocent as they come. As pure as the driven snow. In your mind it all boiled down to the fact that Tom Riddle had it out for you, plain and fucking simple. A personal vendetta written into the fabrication of his identity.
Because even if he did. Even if he did somehow manage to track you and uncover your clandestine activities by just being the perceptive cunning bastard that he is, there are certain things that simply defy logic. Some occurrences that just don't add up.
There are just some instances that can't be explained, save for the simplest conclusion: Tom Riddle has been inside your mind for months.
And that was precisely why you sought out the book on Occlumency—you needed it. Needed to learn how to block Tom out because if he wanted to play mind games, you were determined to play better. You were determined to keep up.
You knew Tom took pleasure in continually getting one step ahead of you, and as much as it utterly ticked you off—perhaps a twisted part of you enjoyed being caught by him—savoured the banter you shared including his threats that next time he'd take matters into his own hands, since even Dumbledore was growing tired of your antics. Perhaps you revelled in provoking him, in defying him like no other student dared, relishing the thrill of the chase.
Perhaps you simply loved to hate him. Because he was always so goddamn good at everything, always in control. It was maddening, intoxicating, and you couldn't deny the rush it gave you. His perfection was a thorn in your side, and yet, you craved it, sought it out like a moth to a flame, even if you'd never admit it.
Not to yourself, and most definitely not to him.
As the night droned on, you managed to make it to the library unscathed, slipping into the restricted section unseen. Everything was going according to plan, not a soul around to forsake you. And yet, just as you slipped the book back onto its origin shelf, you heard a distant yet distinct voice, accompanied by the determined clacking of perfectly polished dress shoes.
"—ah, yes. I believe I informed him that I would have an answer by tomorrow evening."
That voice. You could never fucking mistake it.
"—well, yes, Mr.Riddle—but he said—"
"No matter." The footsteps ceased. "You'll both await my determination until tomorrow's eve. Continue pressing and I will see to make you wait two more."
The bile rose in your throat, threatening to spill over onto the floor beneath you. His arrogance had always been a towering monument, casting shadows that seemed to suffocate all reason. Sure, he was the brightest star in the firmament, undeniably brilliant with features rivaling the gods themselves—chiseled jawline, captivating dark eyes—practically born to bask in his own glory.
Yet, for all his outward perfection, his self-assurance bordered on the verge of the grotesque.
"—yes, o-of course, Mr. Riddle..." you stifled a distasteful scoff. You weren't sure how that individual was even standing with such lack of spine. "—t-thank you, sir."
You didn't stick around to hear a response or the lack thereof. The voices were far enough to keep you breathing but close enough to damn near make you faint because you knew he was most likely just outside the iron gates. You couldn't afford to ponder the improbability of his presence or the surrealness of your predicament. You had to move—deeper, further out of sight.
Which was going perfectly well until you rounded a corner with a little too much intensity and collided directly into a small round table. The sharp screech of wood against wood cutting through the thick silence like a blade, echoing ominously in the vast, dim library. Panic seized you, every nerve electrified, as if the table's cry had been your own.
And it was roughly ten devastating seconds after this that you heard the creak of the iron gates opening behind you, and those same polished footsteps drawing forward with haste.
Fucking hell.
You'd spent enough time in the Forbidden Forest to know how to keep your calm, to know how to effectively avoid being noticed—how to silence your footsteps and slip around obstacles without leaving a trace, how to mask your scent with earth and leaves, how to blend into the shadows to avoid becoming prey to the creatures that lurk in the depths. Yet, the only predator you'd never been able to successfully evade was the one you were currently running from.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
A shadow that clung to you, a hunter whose senses were always sharper, whose instincts were always keener. No matter how well you hid, he always seemed to find you, as if he could sense the very beat of your heart.
Tonight—to your naive surprise, was no different.
"Think you can hide from me, do you?" Tom's voice slithered through the narrow gap between the shelves, smooth and dark as midnight. "Not quite stealthy enough, I'm afraid."
You pressed your back against the cold wood, trying to steady your breathing, but his words seemed to wrap around your throat, squeezing the air out of your lungs and replacing it with something dizzying.
"Why don't you come out, little snake?" He purred, his footsteps drawing closer, each one a death knell. "We both know how this game ends."
Little snake. Two words that rooted you to the spot. It was impossible, inconceivable that he could know it was you. Yet the nickname, the venomous familiarity of it, left no room for doubt.
You slipped around the corner, the two of you making calculated moves like chess pieces. Your board was one of evasion, his one of domination. The gates were in clear view now as you paused to determine his position, silently mapping the space between here and there, certain that if you ran fast enough you could make it—if you moved quietly enough he wouldn't know which direction you were heading.
"You're only making this worse for yourself, darling." Arrogance so thick you weren't sure how he wasn't choking on it. And as much as you detested it, something about it sparked heat between your thighs. "You know I always win."
With the desperation of a cornered, wounded animal, you decided you were done playing and began making a silent yet brisk path toward the gates. You knew you could get about three shelves deep before you needed to take cover again. The silence was deafening, urging you to move faster.
And just as you were about to reach your next hiding spot, just about to duck back in between the shelves, a sudden sensation of pressure coiled around your ankle, cementing you to the spot.
"What the f-"
It was as if the very air had turned to iron, suffocating you with its weight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared down, disbelief flooding your senses. The once innocuous carpet beneath your feet now glowed with enchantment, its fibres twisting and contorting, snaking around your ankles and climbing steadily up your calves.
"There she is." It was an echo from behind you, deep vocal inflection choking you with its pride. "Always so deliciously predictable.”
The fibres wound tightly around your upper calves, constricting tighter against your leggings as you squirmed, struggling to free yourself. Tom appeared beside you with a leisurely saunter, his smirk so smug it seemed almost tangible.
Your frustration bubbled over into a groan of disbelief. "You charmed the fucking carpet?"
"Of course," Tom replied. "Why do things the hard way when magic can do it for you?" He stepped closer, his eyes roaming over you, drinking in your entirety, running the tip of his wand up your arm. "You should know, little snake, I always find a way to catch my prey."
You watched as two dark eyes dipped low, lingering over the thickness of your thighs, fighting against the tendrils of the enchanted carpet that had now crawled tightly around them. You certainly felt like captured prey, tangled in a web of his making, awaiting his next move—and he certainly didn't miss how tantalizingly prepared for him you were, like a gift waiting to be unravelled.
"Impressive, Riddle—you've really outdone yourself this time," you spat the words through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to smack his wand away, battling the unwanted heat pooling in your core. It was the way he was looking at you. The way you wanted him to keep doing it. "Guess you can add 'carpet tamer' to your long list of accolades now, huh?"
Tom huffed, a glint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he forced them up to meet yours. The corners of his lips curled upward in a smirk, every pore radiating control. He looked at you as though you were a puzzle he had already solved, a game he had already won.
"Now now, darling, no need to be so dramatic." His free hand reached up and grasped your jaw, kinking your neck back as he stepped closer to you. "Though, I think 'little fucking brat tamer' might be the more notable achievement to add to the list."
Your stomach leapt, your teeth sinking into your tongue for a moment as you fought to gather your sanity. Your defiance was draining like sand in an hourglass.
"Hm." You huffed, the grip on your jaw firm as steel. "Quite the mouthful."
"So I've been told," he shot back, his eyes glinting like shards of glass under the dim light. "You'd know all about mouthfuls, wouldn't you?"
"You fucking wish." You hoped he did.
His smirk deepened, his fingers digging into your skin like iron claws. You could tell he was amused by you, as though you'd just delivered the punchline of the century, as though you were the world's most revered stand-up comedian. It was maddeningly infuriating and dangerously captivating all at once.
"Still wielding that weapon of a tongue, even when you've so clearly lost." He remarked with a click of his own tongue, releasing his grip on your jaw. Stepping back, his eyes devoured the sight of his spell tangled around your thighs. You caught the tension in his jaw before his eyes snapped back to yours. "Tell me, little snake, do you know why I admire this spell so much?"
Your gaze remained fixed on him, anticipation crawling over your skin like a colony of ants as he scrutinized you. You offer him a shake of your head, a scowl etched deep on your features. "Can't read your mind, Riddle. Not everyone is a skilled Legilimens like yourself."
Tom's chuckle rang out, swallowed by the thick tension in the air, suffusing the oxygen you desperately tried to gulp down. He moved to circle you, and you felt his presence looming behind you, his body brushing against yours like a whisper in the wind. One hand found your hip, however softly, as though he was reluctant to touch you.
"It's a very versatile spell, darling," he dismissed your sass, his voice stripped of all emotion as his lips hovered closer to your ear. "The best part being...I know exactly how to manipulate it to get you to listen."
Words withered on your tongue, attitude wilting in your lungs, and oxygen fleeing from your veins—never to return. Tom's looming presence behind you was enough to make your chest constrict, but his words—his words were a different beast altogether. In the countless times he's caught you, never once did you imagine yourself here, like this, with him.
And never once did you imagine yourself enjoying it this fucking much.
"One might describe it as remarkably adaptable, catering to a multitude of desires..." his hand floated away from your hip, his fingers subtly dancing—the coils responding to his ministrations and slithering higher up your thighs. "And you, little brat, have a plethora of desires at this moment, do you not?"
Your jaw nearly smacked the floor as you watched him command the spell without the aid of his wand. You felt your stomach twist into an iron knot, something heating your blood to flame. Perhaps you underestimated him, perhaps you-
"F-fuck-" you gasped as the charmed fibres slithered between your thighs, coiling higher and higher, wrapping around your waist and ensnaring your arms at your sides. The pressure on your cunt sent your head reeling, your entire body quivering. "Tom...what..."
You know Tom is just beaming with satisfaction, the tremor in your voice eliciting a low growl from deep within him as his hold on your hip resumes, his lips teasing the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"Speak up, little doll, articulate your thoughts," he murmured, his words dripping with cunning like poison. "I know you possess an abundance of them."
You suppress a groan, squirming in a futile attempt to free your wrists, to move against the relentless hold. The heat of Tom's presence behind you has your senses in a frenzy. Your head spinning, your body silently yearning for more. You despise how much you're enjoying this, whatever this even is.
You whimper, lids fluttering. "This...this isn't fair..."
"Neither is disobeying the rules every fucking chance you get—but here we are," his hand brushed against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing, his voice drifting further from your ear. "You should understand, this is all your own doing...the charm merely responds to your desires, adapting to fulfill them.”
That insufferable bastard. The list of descriptors you'd use to paint his portrait would stretch longer than the very library you're standing in, and then some. Every time you think you've unraveled his mysteries, he unveils another layer that exposes just how brilliantly twisted he truly is. How charming. How intoxicating.
You loathe him, relish in despising every fiber of his being. Yet you can't deny the fact that he outmaneuvered you, in the most tantalizing manner imaginable.
But still, you attempt to deny it. "That's...that's not..."
He muses. "Isn't it?"
Tom withdraws his hand from your thigh, and almost immediately, you ache for its return, the absence of his touch leaving you yearning. Caught off guard by the tendrils of the charm exerting pressure against your core, teasing over your clit, you squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip to stifle any sounds.
"It appears you have a penchant for challenging me..." his voice is a certain murmur. "It seems the charm knows precisely why.”
All the smugness of a deity himself, a walking, talking colossus among mere mortals. As inevitable as the sunrise each morning. It made you want to bare your teeth at him, but instead, all you could manage was a groan, struggling against the pleasure his charm inflicted upon you.
"I'm not quite certain what you would deem a fitting punishment..." he continues, voice as deep as the depths of your desire. As dark as an all encompassing black hole. "—given the countless ones you've endured in the past months, which have clearly taught you nothing."
You groan again, your head bowing as you gaze down at the tendrils of the enchantment, ensnaring you in the clutches of a man with teeth of diamonds, fingers like razor-sharp claws. It'd been a relentless dance of dominance between you for years, a battle of wills that always seems to end in his favor.
You despise how he effortlessly wields his power over you. How he has so easily read between the lines of your story—knowing precisely the effect he has on your body, knowing exactly what you crave.
You fight back a moan. "Mmmff—fuck..you..."
Tom maneuvers his mouth to your ear, his presence pressing against you from behind, the ghost of his breath caresses your skin as he whispers;
"You wish you could."
Beautiful, insufferable bastard.
"Fuck," you huff through gritted teeth, sweat gathering behind your neck, fingernails biting into your palms as you clench your fists, still battling against the overwhelming pleasure. "Get out of my head.."
You feel a low chuckle resonate against your back, its vibrations stirring something primal within you, his fingers grazing against your side.
"Do you truly believe this is mere manipulation, little snake?" Tom's touch begins to ascend, feather-light and elusive, barely registering against your clothes as he presses closer behind you. "I am intimately acquainted with your desires, darling. I've been privy to them for months." You can almost taste the smugness in his voice. "The truth is fairly simple—you crave me, and you despise yourself for it."
Tom takes a deliberate step back, circling around to stand before you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form. Your breath comes in rapid gasps, your skin flushed with desire, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from him. You yearn for more of him, yet you resist acknowledging it, even to yourself.
It's as though he can see your thoughts, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in. "You'd go to any lengths to avoid admitting it, wouldn't you?"
"Gods—" he's right, and you hate him for it. “Mmmf.”
Tom hums softly, his lips barely suppressing a smirk as he steps closer to you. He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he tilts your chin, compelling you to meet his gaze.
"How about we try a simple question?" His dark eyes bore into yours, their depths ablaze with a devilish glint. "Do you wish it to stop?"
You're rendered speechless. The egotistic side of you wants you to say yes—while the other, larger part is consumed with an insatiable hunger for more, for him. The charm swirls over your clit, applying increased pressure against your leggings, causing you to bite down on your bottom lip again to stifle a desperate moan. You couldn't answer him if you tried.
Tom's eyes roam over your face, not willing to miss a thing. "Use your words...tell me what you need..."
The sensation against your clit intensifies further, as if dancing to the rhythm of his words. You can feel his gaze boring into you as the heat between your thighs surges, and you realize you're on the brink of climax. And Tom knows it.
"Fuck..." your hips twitch involuntarily—torn between craving more friction and fleeing from it—your mind a whirlwind of uncertainty. Tom brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, his gaze fixed on his own movements, and you feel yourself unraveling, succumbing to the scorching intensity of his eyes—two dark pools of permanent ink. "Tom...please..."
His grip tightens. His jaw clenches. "Say it."
Shame courses through your veins, searing your skin like molten lava, the prickling sensation drowning you. You're on the verge of climaxing from an enchanted carpet, a manifestation of his spell, and the humiliation threatens to consume you.
"I need you-" you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips in a pitiful plea, desperation sinking its claws into your soul. So close...too close. "Please—please, I—I don't want to cum from this—I..."
Oh, but you do. You most certainly fucking do though the mere thought of admitting it feels like a dagger twisting in your gut. Tom's eyes glint with amusement, his head cocked slightly as he regards you with a faux expression of pity, as artificial as the plastic plants in the common room.
"I've truly made a mess of you, haven't I?" His hand glides down from your face, tracing a path along your neck, lightly grazing over your collarbone. "Tell me what you want from me."
Gods, you ache to strike him—yet crave to kiss him and cry out his name with equal fervour. Your defiance lies shattered, a broken relic at your feet.
You peer up at him, pleading. "Please, Tom, please touch me—I need you..."
A smirk toys at his lips, his fingers slipping under your jaw once more to hold you steady as he leans in closer.
"Touch you?" His voice is like a loaded gun, his fingers the bullets—intent cocked and ready to annihilate, but instead he taunts you, keeps you on edge, pressing the barrel against your temple just to see the look in your eyes. "You want me, the man you so madly fucking detest, to touch you."
You lack the strength to command him to go to hell, but oh, how you wish you did. Just to witness his reaction, to see what he’d do next. Despite his appalling self-assurance, you can see behind the mask—see how he is genuinely taken aback by your submission, as though he never expected you to surrender, to confess your desire for him.
"Tom, please..." you beg, trembling with anticipation, your impending climax a rapidly swelling tide. "I want you...I want you to make me cum—you-you win."
Tom pulls back from your ear to regard you, his gaze fully focused this time. He takes in the sight of you—trembling, panting, wide-eyed before him—his expression conveying complete contentment in simply observing you as you struggle to persuade him to touch you.
That familiar taunting grin lingers upon his lips, uncontainable, and you know he's relishing this moment far too much.
"I know," he says softly, his thumb tracing your jawline as his hand falls to your neck. "I always do, don't I, little doll..."
His voice drifts over you like smoke, thick and intoxicating, wrapping around you in a dizzying embrace. The intensity of the charm wavers slightly, granting you a momentary reprieve to catch your breath as Tom leans in, so close that you can feel his exhales caressing your lips. Your head spins, every sense overwhelmed by his presence.
"But you deserve this—" he continues, his voice a rumble like thunder through your veins. "—you deserve to be humiliated like this, to break for me without my hands ever touching you." His mouth hovers just millimeters from yours, taunting you with its nearness. "This is your punishment, little doll...and you're going to take it."
The pleasure between your thighs swells once more as the charm resumes its sinuous movements and you can't suppress the moan that escapes your lips, mingling with the groan of utter frustration. All you can do is stare at him.
Tom hums, amused. "Because you revel in it, don't you? Being a little disobedient brat..."
Your eyes glaze over, your pulse soaring as Tom's breath once again brushes against your parted lips. The ache for him is almost unbearable, as if he's injected something into your veins, rendering you unable to function without him. It's maddening, in the most exquisite way imaginable.
"You're-ohh-fuck.." your voice comes out as a moan, low and breathy, the words trailing off as the charm adds pressure to your clit, stars dancing at the edges of your vision. "Gods..."
"There we go, just as I like you,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over your jaw. "Unable to unleash that pretty little mouth. Perfectly shattered for me."
You clench around nothing, yearning to scoff. "Mmmf—never..."
Tom chuckles at your feeble attempt at defiance, though the sound carries a hollow, half-hearted quality. You both know you've passed the point of return. His fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, until his palm cradles your face, his thumb brushing gently across your lips.
"Is that so?" He murmurs softly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "Well then, go ahead...let that pretty mouth run wild...prove that your defiance is more than just an act..."
The way he wields his power has you teetering on the brink of madness, and you despise the fact that you've revelled in every torturous moment of it. You long to snap back, to wield your tongue, to curse him—anything to grasp onto even a shred of control. But every fucking word is a struggle, every moment not focused on your breathing is an achievement.
You squeeze your eyes shut, channeling all the energy you have left. "You...you're such an...arrogant—mmf—I...I hate you..."
"Mhm. You hate me." He cooes. "And yet, here you are..." his voice is as soft as feathers, as warm as the morning sun, the unmistakable taunt laced within. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, slipping between your teeth. "...falling apart for a mere spell, begging for me, for my touch..."
You feel Tom's thumb pressing against your tongue as you whimper. You attempt to speak, to convey something, but instead, you find yourself instinctively sucking lightly against his thumb in response.
"Mm." Tom's brow lifts slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He seems pleased with your reaction. "A much better use for that mouth."
You're beyond caring about the way he's taunting you, how he's systematically humiliated and debased you, stripping away every ounce of defiance without ever even touching your skin. Tremors wrack your body from the overwhelming sensations, rendering coherent thought nearly impossible.
Your head lolls to the side, constrained by his hand, as waves of pleasure crash over you, your climax approaching rapidly and dangerously.
"Fuck-I'm..." you manage to squeak, his thumb still nestled in your mouth. "Mmmf-"
Tom's eyes darken with satisfaction as he watches you unravel, his thumb pressing deeper into your mouth, a silent command for you to keep sucking. The enchantment continues its relentless assault—tightening around you, swirling over your clit and amplifying the pleasure until it's almost unbearable.
"Go on," he murmurs, his voice a blend of silk and steel. "Let go for me. Show me just how much you need this."
Your body trembles violently, your muscles tensing as the climax rips through you. You can't hold back the moan that escapes around his thumb, your entire being consumed by the intensity of the release that you've desperately fought off for so long. Tom's grip on your jaw tightens, keeping you in place, ensuring you can't escape the exquisite torment he's orchestrated.
"There it is," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Perfectly broken, just for me."
Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it's almost painful, his thumb buried in your mouth muffling any sounds of pleasure that threaten to escape. The evidence of your desire pools between your thighs, your embarrassment stripping you raw as you slowly begin to return to reality, the spell gradually losing its grip around you.
You struggle to find your breath, your thoughts, your sanity, but Tom doesn't grant you much reprieve before he's tugging your head back towards his, forcing you to focus on him.
"You should see yourself." He withdraws his thumb from your mouth, trailing the remnants of saliva over your cheek as he assesses you. "You're a vision."
You try to summon the strength to argue, to reclaim some semblance of defiance, but the attempt dies in your throat, unable to comprehend the fact that those words sounded like a fucking compliment. Your body is trembling with the aftershocks of your climax, and you can only manage a soft whimper. He looks at you as if you are his masterpiece, perfectly crafted and beautifully ruined.
"Remember this, little snake," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Remember how easily I can break you. How much you crave it."
You exhale slowly as you feel the charm dissipate, the carpet settling back into its rightful place at your feet. Tom's hand falls away from your face, but the tension between you remains palpable, neither of you daring to make a move.
"And as for the book," he adds, his eyes flashing to the bookshelf behind you, the one home to the Occlumency text you borrowed. "You may want to keep it. You're not nearly as skilled as you think you are."
And with that, he smooths out his uniform and strides past you without a second glance.
thank you to my babies @doremimosasol and @pizzaapeteer for proofreading this. means the world to me🖤
teach me! 18+!
nerdy! theo makes a comeback, virgin! theo😋
“L-like this?” Theo’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
You should have been mortified.
Your brilliant, geeky best friend was kneeling between your spread thighs, glasses slightly fogged, staring up at you with wide, reverent eyes. Your panties were still on. The simple cotton now embarrassingly ruined as the pad of his thumb pressed tentatively against your swollen clit through the damp fabric. The gentle pressure sent a sharp spark of pleasure racing up your spine.
Your cheeks burned hot. The girls’ dormitory was supposed to be empty over break, but the faint creak of the old castle and the distant howl of wind outside made your heart hammer with the thrill of possibly being caught.
Yet the real embarrassment was lower—how shamelessly wet you were. Your arousal had completely soaked through the cotton, making it cling obscenely to every slick fold of your cunt. The fabric was translucent now, molded to your puffy lips and the aching little nub under his thumb. Every tiny shift of his hand made the wet material drag deliciously against your sensitive flesh.
His nervous silence stretched. You watched Theo’s throat bob as he swallowed hard, uncertainty flickering across his face. His hand started to retreat, ready to pull away and flee in awkward defeat—
Your fingers shot out and wrapped firmly around his wrist, stopping him.
“That’s fine, Teddy,” you breathed, voice a little shaky. “Just… erm, a bit more pressure?”
You weren’t exactly the world’s best sex-ed teacher. You’d had your share of fun nights, sure, but guiding your awkward, brilliant best friend through his first time touching a girl was something else entirely.
Still… he had asked so sweetly, eyes wide and hopeful behind those frames. And you really hadn’t expected him to be a complete virgin. Awkward? Yes. But hot? Undeniably. The glasses gave him that sexy-intellectual look, and the quiet hours he’d spent in the gym had carved lean, surprising muscle beneath his usual sweaters.
Theo gave you a shy, boyish smile that made your stomach flip, then refocused between your thighs with adorable concentration. His thumb pressed more confidently this time, rubbing firmer circles over your swollen clit through the soaked cotton. The increased pressure dragged the wet fabric deliciously against your sensitive folds, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
A soft, breathy moan slipped from your lips.
The sound seemed to light something up in him. His shoulders straightened, and when your hips rolled up instinctively, chasing more of that delicious friction, a flicker of pride crossed his flushed face.
“Can I— um…” He swallowed hard, cheeks burning crimson. “Can I see you?”
The words came out clumsy and mortified, like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He’d never been this close to a real vagina before, and the awkward phrasing made it painfully obvious.
You took pity on him. With trembling fingers, you hooked the drenched fabric of your panties to the side, fully exposing yourself to his hungry gaze.
Theo’s breath hitched sharply. His mouth actually watered at the sight of your pretty cunt—glistening, puffy, and slick with arousal. The cool air kissed your heated flesh, making your clit throb visibly under his stare. He couldn’t believe you were letting him see this, touch this… that you were trusting him with something so intimate.
“You can, um… use your fingers? Or your mouth… or whatever you’re comfortable with,” you offered, voice embarrassingly breathy. Even you sounded like a nervous virgin, too focused on chasing your own pleasure to give him any real instruction.
Theo didn’t seem to mind one bit.
His long, slender finger teased your weeping entrance, circling the slick, fluttering hole while his thumb kept up its steady, orbiting pressure on your swollen clit. The dual sensation made your thighs tremble.
“Mmm… you’re pretty,” he murmured, face flaming scarlet the instant the words slipped out. He couldn’t stop himself. You were pretty—devastatingly so. The prettiest girl he’d ever known. Always kind to him, always defending him when others laughed at his awkwardness. Your body was every single wet dream he’d ever had, soft and warm and glistening just for him right now.
“Pretty” didn’t even begin to cover it.
There was no time to dwell on the compliment. In the next heartbeat, his finger pushed inside you—slow, a little uncoordinated and timid, but eager. The stretch was delicious, his digit sliding deep into your tight, soaking heat until his knuckle brushed your folds. He curled it experimentally, searching, and the moment he grazed that spongy, sensitive spot inside you, your back arched off the bed.
“Ah—fuck, right there,” you gasped, hips bucking involuntarily into his hand. “Theo—yes, just like that…”
Theo was drunk on your praise. The handsome boy’s eyes darkened behind his slightly fogged glasses as he added a second thick finger, stretching you open with a wet, obscene sound. He bullied that perfect, spongy spot inside you with surprising accuracy, curling and stroking until your walls fluttered desperately around his digits.
“I—I’m gonna cum if you ke—”
Your warning dissolved into a broken gasp as his thumb pressed down harder on your swollen clit, rubbing tight, firm circles. You shouldn’t have been surprised—he seemed to be good at everything once he set his mind to it. Your fingers threaded desperately into his soft brown hair, tugging hard as you searched for something to anchor yourself.
A shaky, needy moan tore from Theo’s lips at the sharp pull on his scalp. His cock was painfully hard, straining desperately against the front of his trousers, the ache so intense it bordered on torture. He’d jerked off plenty of times before, of course, but nothing compared to the raw, overwhelming need flooding his veins at the thought of making you fall apart on his fingers.
“I want you to,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with lust and awe. His fingers never stopped their relentless rhythm—thrusting deep, curling perfectly, thumb working your throbbing clit without mercy. “Cum for me… please.”
You couldn’t have stopped it if you tried.
Your orgasm built fast and low in your belly, a coiling heat that tightened with every thrust of his fingers. Theo’s pace quickened, confident now, his eyes locked hungrily between your thighs—watching with rapt fascination as your slick pussy clenched and fluttered around his two thick fingers, your swollen clit throbbing visibly against the pad of his thumb.
Your eyes rolled back, head falling against the pillows as a fresh gush of arousal slicked down his hand and wrist. Your moans climbed higher, turning shameless and pornographic, raw and needy.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck, Theo!” you cried out.
Theo moaned too at the sound of his name on your lips, the desperate way you gasped it. He’d imagined this exact moment so many nights alone in his dorm, fist wrapped tight around his aching cock, pumping frantically while he pictured you falling apart for him. The reality was so much sweeter.
Your orgasm crashed over you without mercy. White-hot pleasure exploded behind your eyes as your walls spasmed violently around his fingers. Your toes curled hard, thighs instinctively trying to snap shut around his hand. But Theo held you open with surprising strength, palm pressed firmly against your inner thigh, almost salivating as he watched your pussy pulse and gush, soaking his fingers and the sheets beneath you.
Your back bowed sharply off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat. Only then did he slow his movements—gentle, careful strokes now, easing you through the aftershocks exactly the way he’d read about in those hidden books he’d never admit to owning.
You came down slowly, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Soft, trembling aftershocks still rippled through your body, your pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers as he gently eased them out of your soaked heat. A thin string of your arousal stretched between his digits and your glistening folds before breaking.
Theo’s gaze never left you. With wide, reverent eyes, he lifted his slick fingers to his mouth and licked them clean slowly, almost experimentally at first, then with growing hunger. A low, surprised groan rumbled in his chest as he tasted you. Warm, sweet, and heady. His tongue dragged between his fingers, chasing every drop of your release like it was the most addictive thing he’d ever experienced. The sight alone sent another lazy pulse of heat through your spent body.
Still breathing hard, you managed a soft, teasing smile. “Want me to, um… help you too? It’s only fair…”
Theo froze, cheeks flushing a deep, mortified crimson. His hand dropped quickly to his lap in a futile attempt to hide the evidence.
“No— I, um… I already…” His words trailed off into embarrassed silence. The dark, wet patch on the front of his trousers was impossible to miss—his cock had twitched and spilled untouched the moment you’d cried out his name and clenched around his fingers. The fabric clung obscenely to the outline of his softening length, sticky and warm against his skin.
You bit your lip, a fresh wave of arousal stirring despite how thoroughly he’d just wrecked you. “Fuck… that’s hot.”
Theo’s head snapped up, surprise and shy delight flickering across his flushed face.
“Next time, then,” you promised softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
He’d be a liar if he said the words didn’t send a thrilled little spark straight through him. A next time. With you. The thought made his spent cock twitch weakly in his ruined trousers, already half-interested again.
A shy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, still tasting you on his tongue. “Yeah… next time.”
💿💿💿📀💿💿💿💿💿📀💿💿💿💿📀
There will be a part two, I love this dynamic so much.
