I have this crazy craving of a trans man riding me, no strap, no nothing, just him moving his hips against mine saying with a shaky voice how good it feels while our bodily fluids mix
(edited because there is been a LOT of misintepretations)
little blurb! lust potion, overstim, james potter x reader
“Ah—s-slow down, honey—” James’s face burned a deep, flushed crimson, his messy hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. His hazel eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion, lashes fluttering as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Can’t, Jamie… it burns,” you whimpered, voice wrecked and desperate. But you didn’t slow. You couldn’t. Your hips slammed down harder, grinding your abused clit against the base of his cock in frantic, sloppy circles, sending sharp electric shocks up your spine. Thick globs of your mixed cum leaked obscenely from your puffy, wrecked pussy with every brutal bounce, coating his balls and the sheets in a slick, filthy mess.
His spent length twitched violently inside your tight, dripping cunt, hypersensitive and aching, yet still rock-hard thanks to the lingering effects of the lust potion. Whoever had slipped it into your drink had clearly never imagined you’d ride him raw all night like this—relentless, insatiable, milking him for every last drop.
Yet here you were still taking him, drop for drop, your greedy pussy clenching and fluttering around his throbbing cock as if you’d never stop.
Your full tits bounced wildly, nipples hard and glistening with sweat, while your pupils were completely blown, eyes black with potion-fueled lust. You looked feral. Possessed. “P-Please… help me. Need it—need your cock so bad, need more—”
James groaned, wrecked and helpless. He’d started the night furious, ready to murder whoever spiked your drink. Now he was just a panting, overused mess, his poor cock red, swollen, and hypersensitive after being milked dry multiple times. He didn’t think he had anything left.
But fuck… he could never deny you.
With a desperate, guttural sound, he thrust up weakly into your sloppy, cum-drenched cunt, the wet squelch loud and obscene as your greedy walls clenched around his thick length. Your eyes rolled back instantly, a broken, slutty moan ripping from your throat.
“Fuck take it,” he rasped, voice hoarse, gripping your hips with trembling hands and forcing you down onto every fat inch. “Fuckin’ milk me dry, honey. Use me till I’ve got nothing left.”
You rode him even harder, pussy fluttering and gushing around his twitching cock, lost in the endless, burning haze of the lust potion.
By the time the potion finally began to fade, James was a boneless, shuddering wreck beneath you his cock spent, voice gone, body covered in sweat and cum, while you collapsed onto his chest, still weakly grinding against him, whimpering for just one more.
mr "i don't fall in love" nott, shaking as he tries not to fuck everything up, 18+!
I know this took forever, forgive me🙏
Theodore Nott has had more girls than he can be bothered to remember.
He took them wherever was convenient. An empty potions classroom that still reeked of burnt lavender, the narrow alcove behind the tapestry on the seventh floor, once pressed against the icy window of the Astronomy Tower while snow blurred the grounds below. He never lingered afterward. Never asked if they finished. When it was done he slid free, reached for his shirt, and fixed them with a stare sharp enough to cut glass: time to leave. Most scrambled for their clothes and slipped out without a word. The ones who hesitated learned quickly that his silence was not an invitation to ask questions.
So the fact that he is trembling now feels like a betrayal carved into his bones by his own damn body.
His hands shake as they rest on his thighs, a tremor he cannot kill. He keeps his gaze locked on the oil painting above your headboard. Mermaids dragging combs through seaweed hair, their eyes too knowing, because looking at you is impossible. You sit close enough that the heat of your bare leg brands itself against his beneath the sheets. The contact burns, a slow, spreading fire that knots his stomach and steals the air from his lungs.
The room smells of you. Warm sugar from the treacle tart you shared earlier, the crisp bite of peppermint on your breath, the faint trace of the rose oil you smooth along your collarbones after showers. Every inhale drags more of it into him until he is drowning in the scent. The sheets whisper when you shift, silk sliding over skin, and the sound lands low in his gut like a fist.
His pulse hammers at his throat, loud enough he swears you must hear it. Sweat prickles along the nape of his neck. His fingers flex against his own legs, nails digging half-moons into his palms just to feel something he can control.
Your thigh brushes higher, deliberate, the satin heat of you gliding along his. A helpless sound catches in his chest, half snarl, half plea and he hates himself for it.
He is Theodore Nott.
He does not shake.
He does not want like this.
Yet here he is, undone by nothing more than the weight of your leg against his and the quiet promise in your eyes, trembling like the boy he never allowed himself to be.
He is unraveling, thread by thread, and he can feel every single one snap.
Any other night, any other girl, this would already be finished. He would have had her bent over the footboard or pressed face-first into the pillow, hips snapping with mechanical efficiency, mind already halfway to the cigarette he’d smoke afterward. Over in minutes. Forgotten before the sheets cooled.
But you have lived under his skin for months now, a slow-acting poison he never bothered to antidote. Months of turning down every sly glance in the corridor, every whispered invitation slipped under his dorm door. Months of lying alone in the dark with his cock heavy and aching, trying to summon the memory of some forgotten mouth, some forgotten cunt, only to find the thought curdle the instant it wasn’t yours. He has jerked off so many times to the sound of your laugh echoing in his head that his own hand feels like a stranger’s now.
He told himself it was a fever. A sickness. That first time your fingers brushed the inside of his wrist in the library and his entire body lit up like a struck match; that had to be illness. The way his stomach flipped whenever you tilted your head and smiled, soft, crooked, devastating; clearly some strain of dragon pox no healer had named yet. Love was not a word in Theodore Nott’s vocabulary. Love was weakness. Love was a blade turned inward.
Then came the night of that stupid fucking ball he should have never asked you to. You in that red dress that clung to every line of you, he seen it every time he closed his eyes. A nightmare, surely. The way you had looked at him all night, eyes bright and wicked, and the last of his denial burned to cinders. He remembers the way he felt when he got home, a cigarette burning into his lungs and his heart slamming against his ribs so hard he thought the bud might shatter in his hand. Obsession, pure and ravenous, sank its teeth in and refused to let go.
He still clung to one pathetic scrap of hope: that if he finally had you, buried deep inside you, your nails raking down his back, your taste flooding his mouth, the hunger would quiet. One night to purge you from his blood.
Except now he is perched on the edge of your bed, palms slick, pulse roaring in his ears, and he cannot even manage to shove his own fucking boxers down. The elastic band trembles against his hips because his hands are shaking too violently to grip it properly. Every breath full of your scent drives him closer to madness, closer to bolting. The fire in the grate has settled into low, hungry embers; the light licks across your bare shoulders, turns the curve of your collarbone into something sacred.
One wrong move, one flicker of fear in your eyes, and you will vanish. He knows it the way he knows the weight of his wand, the taste of blood in his mouth after a curse. You will slip through his fingers like smoke and he will be left with nothing but the echo of this moment and the knowledge that he ruined the only thing that has ever mattered.
So he sits frozen, every muscle locked, the last of his arrogance crumbling into dust.
He is not sick.
He is not cursed.
He is in love with you, catastrophically, irreversibly, and the thought of hurting you, even by wanting you too much, is worse than any pain he has ever thought of enduring.
The hope dies quietly in his throat.
There is no fucking you out of his system.
There is only you.
And he is royally fucked.
“I can’t, fuck, I can’t do this.”
The words rip out of him, raw and ragged, and the second they hit the air he sees the light in your eyes dim. A flicker, quick and bright as a snuffed candle. Your throat moves with a small, wounded swallow. You nod once, slow, already pulling back inside yourself, already preparing to be the one who leaves early and hopes he's gone when you come back.
He has ruined it. Just like he knew he would.
“No, no, not like that.” His voice cracks open, nothing left of the low, arrogant drawl he wields like a blade. It is small, frantic, stripped bare. “Fuck. Help me. I’m drowning.”
You blink. Once. Twice. The confusion writes itself across your face in delicate lines, your brows drawing together, lips parted on a question you haven’t voiced yet. Then understanding slides in behind your eyes, soft and wicked and fond all at once.
A laugh slips out of you, low, velvet, delightedly skating down his spine in joyous little trembles. You move before he can brace for it.
You rise up on your knees and swing one leg over his, settling into his lap like you belong there. The heat of you lands flush against him. Your bare skin, slick want, the impossible weight of everything he has been starving for but is scared to take. His cock jerks against the thin cotton still trapping it, aching so fiercely the breath punches out of him in a broken groan. Your thighs cage his hips, your warmth seeping through him like spilled honey.
His hands fly to your waist on pure instinct, fingers splaying wide over the dip above your hipbones, gripping as though you might dissolve if he doesn’t anchor you to him. His palms are damp, trembling; the calloused pads catch on your skin and he feels the shiver that runs through you in answer.
He drags you forward experimentally, slow, deliberate, the cotton of his boxers the only thing left between you. The first roll of your hips is torture, wet heat gliding over the rigid length of him, the friction sharp enough to tear a groan from his chest that sounds more animal than human. He's had women spend lengthy amounts of time pleasing him trying to get a noise out of him, you grind over his underwear for christ sake and he can't help the noises.
You make this sound. Small, breathy, punched out of you and it spears straight through him, hotter than any spell. He needs it again. Needs to chase it, bottle it, drown in it.
He moves you again, firmer this time, guiding the roll of your body until your slick folds drag over the tip of him and your thighs tremble against his. Another moan spills from your lips, higher, wrecked, and he feels it in his teeth.
“I’ve never—” His voice is gravel soaked in whisky, barely recognizable. “I’ve never done this.”
You still for a heartbeat, thighs tightening around his hips. Your hair has come half-undone, dark strands sticking to the flush riding high on your cheeks. You look like sin and salvation all at once.
“Never done what, Teddy?” you murmur, soft, teasing, wicked.
That name.
The one his friends sling at him like a curse when he stumbles back to the dorm at dawn with your scent still clinging to his skin. The one he would have drawn blood for anyone else daring to use. From you it’s a blade made of honey, sliding slow between his ribs and twisting until his heart stutters.
He can’t answer with words. Instead he rocks you again, harder, watching your head tip back, throat bared to the low light. Your pulse flutters beneath the thin skin there, frantic as a trapped bird. He wants his mouth on it. Wants to feel the beat of you against his tongue while you fall apart.
He has spent years taking.
Never giving. Never caring if they finished, if they breathed his name like a prayer or a curse. Pleasure was a transaction, quick, cold, forgotten.
But you are flushed and trembling above him, lips swollen from his teeth, and suddenly the only thing that matters in the entire rotting world is how many times he can pull that sound from your throat before you break open in his hands.
He slides one palm up the arch of your spine, fingers threading into the mess of your hair, tugging just enough to bare more of your neck. His other hand stays locked on your hip, directing the slow, filthy grind that has you both shaking now.
“Never wanted to make anyone feel good before,” he rasps against the hollow beneath your ear, teeth scraping the skin there until you shudder. “Never cared for anyone to stay.”
You answer with a broken whimper and a roll of your hips that drags the head of him through your slick heat again, and he decides then and there that he will spend the rest of his life learning every single way there is to please you.
He lifts his head, eyes blown black with want, and the words come out rough, scraped raw. “I don't want to hurt you.”
His mouth finds the column of your throat again before you can answer, teeth closing over the frantic beat of your pulse. He bites down, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to brand, and feels your answering shiver pour straight into his bloodstream.
You laugh, breathy and wicked, the sound curling hot against his temple. “How about I stay on top,” you whisper, “and I decide if it hurts.”
The suggestion alone should offend him. Theodore Nott does not relinquish control. He never has. Girls have been bent over desks, pressed against walls, fucked silent in the dark while he set the pace and the depth and the end. No one has ever ridden him. No one has ever dared ask.
But then your shirt is peeling away, sliding up the soft plane of your stomach, over the swell of your breasts, catching for one aching second on the lace edge of your bra before it’s gone. The bra follows with a hushed sigh of fabric, straps slipping down your arms like water. The sight of you bare above him, skin gilded by firelight, nipples drawn tight from the cool air and his stare, knocks every thought from his skull.
He would let you do anything right now.
Anything.
He would let you sink a blade between his ribs and twist just to keep you looking at him like that, half drunk on power and half soft with want. He would let you ruin him, gladly, if it meant your thighs stayed locked around his hips and your pulse kept racing beneath his hungry tongue.
His hands glide up your sides, reverent, greedy, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. He can feel the tremor in his own fingers and doesn’t bother hiding it anymore.
“Take whatever you want from me,” he says, voice shredded. “Just don’t stop.”
You shove his boxers down just far enough and he springs free, heavy, flushed dark, the blunt head already slick and shining. It lands against his stomach with a harsh slap that echoes in the quiet room, long enough that the sight of it steals the air from your lungs. Thick enough that your fingers would barely meet around him. A single vein traces the underside, your mouth watering to have it under your tongue.
You swallow hard, the sound too loud in your own ears, and try to school your face into something calmer than the sudden clench of heat between your thighs.
“Fuck,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it. “You’re big.”
Theo makes a wounded noise, half laugh, half groan, his head falling back against the headboard. The praise, whether you meant it that way or not, hits him like a hex; his cock jerks against his navel, leaving a gleaming streak across the taut skin of his stomach.
“Don’t,” he rasps, voice cracking on the edges, “don’t say things like that if you want me to last.”
His hips roll up without permission, seeking you, the flushed crown nudging between your folds, sliding through slick heat. The contact drags a raw moan from your throat, high and helpless, and his hands clamp down on your waist hard enough to bruise.
He is shaking again, harder now, every muscle drawn tight like a bowstring. His breathing is shallow, ragged, the pulse in his neck hammering so fast you can see it flutter beneath the skin.
You rise up on your knees, thighs trembling already, and wrap your small hand around him. The heat of him pulses against your palm, velvet over steel, slick with the bead of want at the tip. A full-body shudder rolls through him at the first touch; his head snaps back against the headboard with a dull thud, a broken sound catching in his throat. He has spent countless nights with his own fist locked around himself, picturing this exact moment, trying to conjure the softness of your grip, the weight of your stare. Reality is crueler and kinder all at once: your fingers barely close around his girth, and the difference makes his vision blur.
You draw a shaky breath that trembles in the quiet, then begin to sink.
The blunt head nudges inside, stretches, burns. One inch. Two. Halfway and your thighs are already quivering, stomach drawn tight, breath hitching on something dangerously close to pain. It has been too long for you, and even if it hadn’t, nothing has ever been this much. You pause, nails biting crescents into his shoulders, trying to breathe through the overwhelming pressure.
Theo’s hands hover at your hips, barely touching, feather-light, terrified to push. His eyes are screwed shut, jaw locked so tight in restraint that the muscle jumps beneath the skin.
“God, you’re tight,” he grits out, voice shredded. “C'mon, baby… let me in.”
The plea cracks open something raw in his chest. You feel him throb inside you, huge and blazing, and the clench of your body around him drags a tortured moan from his lips that sounds like it’s being ripped out of him. He is strangling on restraint; every muscle in his thighs is rigid beneath you, hips twitching with the need to thrust but refusing to move.
He forces his eyes open, and the sight of your lips parted, lashes wet, faint pain flickering across your face, nearly undoes him completely. Guilt and hunger war inside him so fiercely he can taste iron where he’s biting the inside of his cheek.
“Breathe,” he whispers, thumb stroking the sharp bone of your hip in useless little circles. “Just breathe, love. I’ve got you.”
He would sever the damn thing from his body before he let it hurt you more than you could take. The thought is violent and immediate and utterly sincere.
You exhale, long and shaky, and sink another inch. The stretch flares white-hot; pleasure and pain braided so tight you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Theo’s head falls forward against your collarbone, breath scalding your skin, a low, continuous groan rumbling in his chest as your body flutters and fights and finally starts to yield.
“There you go,” he rasps, reverent, shaking with it. “There you go, sweetheart. Just like that.”
You take the last inches in one slow, deliberate slide, and the world narrows to the place where your bodies lock together.
A ragged exhale puffs out of you as your hips finally settle flush against his. He is buried to the hilt, impossibly deep, the blunt head of him kissing a spot that makes your vision spark at the edges. Your thighs tremble violently; every muscle in your legs is drawn bowstring-tight, trying to hold you upright while your body wages war against the overwhelming stretch.
Theo’s hands have gone still on your hips, fingers splayed wide, gripping hard enough that you’ll wear faint bruises tomorrow like secret signatures. His forehead rests against yours now, damp strands of hair clinging to both of your skin. He is shaking harder than you are, a full-body tremor that rattles through his ribs and into yours.
“Fuck,” he whispers, the word trembling on his tongue like a confession. “Fuck, you’re—Christ, you feel—”
He can’t finish. The sentence fractures into a low, broken groan that vibrates against your lips. You are molten around him, scalding silk, clenching in helpless little pulses that drag another helpless sound from his throat. He can feel every flutter, every breath you take, the frantic drum of your heart echoing in the slick heat wrapped tight around his cock.
You stay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest shift will split you in half. Your palms are flat against his chest; beneath them his heart is a trapped thing, slamming so hard you can feel it in your bones. Sweat beads along his collarbones, catches the low ember-glow of the fire and turns to liquid gold.
“Breathe, baby,” he manages, voice raw and careful, like he’s talking you down from a ledge. “Just breathe for me.”
His thumbs sweep slow, soothing arcs over your hipbones, but the gentleness costs him; you feel him throb inside you, huge and blazing, and his breath stutters against your mouth. He wants to move God, he wants to move, wants to drag you down and fuck up into you until the bedframe cracks, until your voice splinters on his name. You can feel the need coiled in his thighs, the microscopic roll of his hips he can’t quite stop.
But he doesn’t. He locks every muscle and lets you set the pace, even if it kills him.
You shift just a fraction, testing, and the drag of him inside you pulls a soft moan from your throat that you barely recognize as yours. Theo’s answering groan is guttural, pained; his head falls back against the headboard, exposing the long, strained column of his throat.
“Stay there,” he rasps, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “Just—fuck—just stay like that a second. You’re so fucking perfect I can’t—”
He cuts off on a hiss when your body flutters again, involuntary, greedy. His hands slide up your back, palms spread wide, pressing you closer until your breasts crush against his chest and your mouth finds the salt-slick skin below his ear.
“So full, Teddy,” you whisper against his pulse, tasting the frantic beat of it. “I can feel you in my stomach.”
The words break something open in him. A shudder rolls through his entire frame, and when he finally drags his eyes open they are wrecked storm-blue and wet, pupils blown wide and swimming with nothing but infatuation with you.
“Move when you’re ready,” he says, voice shredded velvet. “Take whatever you need. Just—let me feel you.”
He is yours to ruin now, trembling beneath you, every breath a plea.
And you have never felt more powerful in your life.
You start to move, barely more than a roll of your hips at first, a slow, filthy grind that drags him through every inch of you and back again. The stretch still burns, but the burn has turned sweet, molten, addictive. Each circle of your hips draws a broken sound from his chest, mumbled curses and whispered praise falling in unison. His hands slide to your thighs, just to have something to hold onto.
His thumb finds your clit without looking, calloused pad slick with you, and begins to rub in tight, perfect circles that make your breath catch on a sob. The rhythm is lazy, maddening, matching the slow drag of your body on his.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
Your eyes lock on his, storm-blue gone almost black, wet at the edges, utterly ruined, and the intimacy of it is worse than any touch. He sees every flicker across your face, every gasp you can’t hold back, the way your lips part when the pleasure coils tighter, tighter.
“Theo—” It comes out cracked, pleading.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, thumb pressing harder, hips rocking up to meet you in shallow, careful thrusts that still manage to jolt stars behind your eyes. “Let me see you come, love. Need to see it.”
You shatter with his name on your tongue, body clamping down around him in pulsing waves that rip desperate moans from his throat. Your back arches, nails raking red lines down his chest, thighs shaking so violently he has to band an arm around your waist to keep you from collapsing.
He follows you over the edge merely two thrusts later.
His hips snap up hard, burying himself impossibly deep, and he comes with a broken groan that sounds like your name and surrender all at once. Heat floods you in thick pulses; you feel every spurt, the way he throbs and empties himself inside you until there is nothing left to give.
For a long moment the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the low crackle of the dying fire.
Then his arms are around you fully, gentle now, reverent. He eases you down against his chest without pulling out, keeping himself buried inside the warmth he never wants to leave. His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair, cradling the back of your skull.
You feel his lips brush your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Soft, endless kisses pressed like apologies and promises into your skin.
“Stay,” he murmurs against your brow, voice hoarse and small. “Just stay right here.”
You nod, boneless, and nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. He reaches blindly for the duvet tangled at the foot of the bed, drags it up over both of you until you’re cocooned in warmth and the fading scent of sex and rose oil and him.
His fingers trace lazy circles along your back, over the notches of your spine, counting them like rosary beads. Every so often he presses another kiss to your hair, breathing you in like he’s making sure you’re real.
Minutes or hours later, when your heartbeats have finally slowed to the same rhythm, he whispers into the dark, so quietly you almost miss it.
“I’m yours, you know. Completely fucking yours.”
You smile against his chest, press a kiss over the frantic beat of his heart, and let the weight of his arms and the lingering heat of him inside you pull you under.
He holds you like he’s afraid the dawn might steal you away.
It won’t.
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