#Riddle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iniquitousyearning · 6 months ago

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SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you.

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

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bluessmau · 1 month ago

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Not Unsolicited

In which the Overblot Boys send Fem!Reader a dick-pic, and Reader ends up liking it.

Requested by Anon. Early relationship.

Warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader (AFAB and MtF-friendly), OOC, sending of nudes, consensual reception of nudes (Reader likes receiving it), mentions of sex, mentions of virginity

Riddle Rosehearts

Leona Kingscholar

Azul Ashengrotto

Jamil Viper

Vil Schoenheit

Idia Shroud

Malleus Draconia

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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Giving Them Chocolates on Valentine's Day with: Heartslabyul

Go here for other dorms

Riddle Rosehearts

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you approach Riddle. He’s seated in the Heartslabyul garden, engrossed in a book, completely unaware that his life is about to change forever.

Your hands are sweating. Fantastic. Nothing says “I love you” like handing someone a heart-shaped box drenched in pure nervousness.

“Riddle,” you say, voice admirably steady despite the chaos in your soul.

He looks up, eyes widening slightly at your presence. “Good afternoon. What brings you here?”

You very calmly thrust the box toward him like a knight presenting a sacred relic. “Happy Valentine’s Day. I made this for you.”

The change is immediate.

Riddle freezes, his entire face flaring up like a traffic light on its final warning. His fingers twitch as he hesitantly accepts the box, staring at it as if you’d just handed him the crown of a foreign kingdom.

“You… made this? For me?” His voice is slightly higher than usual. The poor guy is barely holding it together.

You nod, feeling your heart slam against your ribs. “Yeah. And, um… I like you. A lot.”

For a second, you’re terrified he might actually faint. His ears are burning, his posture unnaturally stiff as he processes your words in real time. You can practically see the gears in his head jamming.

Then, slowly, carefully, he sets the box on the table beside him, takes a breath, and stands.

And before you can react, he takes your hand in his, bows slightly, and presses the lightest, most delicate kiss against your knuckles.

It’s so soft. So warm. So utterly, devastatingly polite—yet scandalously romantic—that your brain completely short-circuits.

He lifts his gaze to yours, still impossibly red but full of something achingly genuine. “I… accept your feelings,” he murmurs, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly. “And I—I… I like you as well."

You’re gone. This is too much. His flustered sincerity should not be this cute.

Riddle clears his throat, attempting to compose himself—but he absolutely fails because his blush is creeping down his neck now. “A-Anyway. Shall we have tea together? I’d… like to enjoy this properly.”

You nod, still speechless.

Somehow, this went even better than expected.

Trey Clover

You’re standing in an empty classroom, clutching your carefully wrapped box of chocolates like it’s a lifeline. The room is quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock and the absolute hurricane of nerves raging inside you.

Trey stands across from you, looking as effortlessly cool and put-together as ever, the picture of someone who probably never panics over something as simple as chocolate. Which is unfair, actually, because you’ve been agonizing over this moment.

“I, uh…” You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I made these for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Trey blinks in surprise before his expression softens into something warm. “Oh?” He takes the box with careful hands, like it’s something precious. “You made these yourself?”

You nod, but you can’t bring yourself to watch him open it, your stomach twisting into a knot. “Yeah. I know they’re probably not as good as what you make, but—”

“You’re nervous.”

You flinch when you feel the lightest touch under your chin, his fingers tilting your face up. You hadn’t even noticed him stepping closer.

Your breath catches when you meet his eyes. They’re so gentle, full of something soft and unreadable, and suddenly, this moment feels a lot bigger than just some chocolates.

“You really think I’d compare this to something I bake?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing just below your eyes before dropping away. “You made this for me. That alone makes it special.”

Your heart is going through it.

“I—” You swallow, trying to gather your thoughts before you combust. “Trey, I like you. That’s… that’s why I wanted to do this.”

There’s a small pause. And then—his smile.

It’s real, not his usual easygoing grin but something genuine, touched, and just a little bit shy.

“I like you too,” he says, his voice warm as honey.

Oh. Oh.

You barely have time to process it before he straightens up, still holding the chocolates in one hand while the other slides into his pocket. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Let me walk you back.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His smile quirks at the edges, teasing now. “Gotta make sure you don’t run off before I can ask you out properly, right?”

Your heart is doomed.

Cater Diamond

You find Cater in a quiet hallway between classes, leaning against the wall and idly scrolling through his phone. The second he notices you approaching, he perks up, flashing you an easy grin.

"Hey, hey! Fancy seeing you here." His eyes flicker down to the heart-shaped box in your hands, and his grin turns teasing. "Ooooh, what’s this? Someone’s got a Valentine?”

Your stomach is doing backflips. But you force yourself to hold out the box, pretending you’re not dying inside.

“For you,” you manage, voice steady despite the heat creeping up your neck.

Cater blinks. Once. Twice. His usual playful energy pauses, just for a second.

“For me?” His voice is light, but there’s something in it—something careful. “Like… me, me?”

You nod, heart hammering. “Yeah. I like you, Cater. That’s… why I made them.”

And for the first time ever, you see Cater Diamond speechless.

He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve just told him the greatest plot twist of the century. Then, all at once, his grin returns—brighter, realer, and just a little bit unsteady.

“You’re serious?” He lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “Like, you—out of everyone—actually like me?”

“Obviously?” You shift the box toward him, raising a brow. “You gonna take these or what?”

The teasing snaps him out of it, and he laughs, reaching forward to grab the chocolates and, in the same movement, presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

Your brain blue-screens.

“There,” he says, still grinning as he pulls back. “A little thank-you for totally making my day.”

You open your mouth—whether to yell, combust, or actually form words, you’re not sure—but he’s already linking his arm with yours, spinning you both toward the exit.

“Sooo, where do you wanna go for our first date?”

“What—wait, first date?”

“Duh!” He holds up the chocolates with a wink. “You confess, I accept, we date—it’s the natural order of things.”

An absolute success.

Ace Trappola

You don’t even get the chance to find Ace before Ace finds you.

"Whoa, what’s this?" His voice is all mock innocence as he suddenly appears at your side, eyes locked onto the box of chocolates in your hands. He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like he’s just witnessed a scandal unfold. "No way. You? Giving out chocolates? Some poor soul's gonna get victimized today."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Victimized?"

"Yeah, y'know—" He gestures vaguely, rocking back on his heels. "Swept up, led on, utterly ruined for anyone else. Tragic, really."

He’s dying of jealousy. You can see it. Feel it. Smell it in the air like cheap cologne.

You roll your eyes, already fed up. "Well, if you’re so concerned, maybe I should just eat them myself."

Ace laughs. "What, you’d steal your own chocolates? That’s cold."

"Not really, considering they were meant for you."

Silence.

Ace stares at you, frozen mid-smirk. His brain just blue-screened. You can see the processing bar loading at 2% completion.

"...Huh?"

You sigh, shifting the box in your hands. "I made them for you, dumbass. But if you don’t want them, I guess—"

You don’t get to finish that sentence because suddenly, Ace is clutching the box to his chest like it’s the last treasure on earth.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up—who said I didn’t want them? I want them!" He’s grinning now, the brightest, cockiest, happiest grin you’ve ever seen on him. "You serious? You really made these for me?"

You cross your arms. "Yeah. But you’re being a brat, so I kinda regret it now."

"Nah, too late! No take-backs!" He laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. Then—softer, realer, a little bit breathless— "You really like me, huh?"

You hesitate, suddenly flustered under the weight of his gaze. "...Yeah."

His fingers tighten around the box. "Good. 'Cause I like you too."

Your breath catches.

Ace tilts his head, there’s a warmth in his eyes now—something soft, relieved, like he’s been waiting for this. "Thought you’d never notice, y’know? Been here the whole time, just waiting."

You scoff, rolling your eyes to cover how fast your heart is beating. "And yet you were so ready to tease me about it."

"Of course!" He throws an arm around your shoulders, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. "What kinda boyfriend would I be if I didn’t mess with you at least a little?"

"Boyfriend?!"

"Uh, yeah? You confessed, I accepted, now you’re stuck with me forever. Basic math."

Mission accomplished (You think?)

Deuce Spade

It’s just another casual hangout, nothing out of the ordinary—except for the heart-shaped box of chocolates you’ve been hiding behind your back like it’s a live explosive.

Deuce is sitting on your couch, totally unaware of the internal chaos happening mere feet away. He’s relaxed, chatting about his day, but the second you clear your throat and step forward, he pauses mid-sentence, sensing danger.

"Uh… you good?" he asks, blinking up at you.

"Yeah. Fine. Totally normal." You inhale, ignore the full-body cringe threatening to consume you, and hold out the box. "This is for you. Happy Valentine’s Day."

Deuce freezes. Like, actually freezes.

His eyes dart between you and the chocolates like he’s trying to make sure this isn’t some cruel prank. His hands are shaking just a little when he reaches out, carefully accepting the box like it might disappear if he blinks too fast.

"You—" His voice cracks, and he immediately clears his throat, ears burning red. "You made these? For me?"

You nod, trying so hard to play it cool. "Yeah. I like you, so… yeah."

For a second, nothing happens. Then—his grin.

It’s shy, just a little wobbly, but so ridiculously bright that your stomach does a full gymnastics routine.

"You… like me," he repeats, as if he needs to say it out loud to believe it.

"Unless you don’t want them, in which case, I can just—"

"No!" He clutches the box to his chest like it’s his most prized possession. "No way, I—I want them. I just—" He exhales, a little breathless, still grinning like an idiot. "I can’t believe this is happening."

You barely have time to process that before he straightens up, determination flickering in his eyes.

"Can I—" He swallows. "Can I take you on a date? I mean, since you—since we—" He gestures vaguely at the chocolates, too flustered to form a proper sentence.

You laugh, heart so stupidly full. "Yeah, Deuce. I’d love that."

His breath catches. Then he nods—fast, like he’s locking it in before reality can take it away. "O-Okay. Cool. Great. I’ll—I'll plan something good, I promise."

You grin. "I’d expect nothing less."

Deuce beams.

He looks down at the chocolates again, still holding them like the most precious thing in the world.

And honestly? You think this might be the best decision you’ve ever made.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

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pawnyao · 1 year ago

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Old shit post

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst wonderland #malleus draconia #malleus #leona #leona kingscholar #riddle #riddle rosehearts #twst idia #idia shroud #idia #ruggie bucchi #ruggie #yuusona #twst yuu

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random-twst-things · 1 month ago

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*Riddle, about to collar Ace*

Trey, trying to intervene: Riddle, you have to be the bigger person in these situations.

Mc/Y/N/Yuu, who was listening in: He can't, he's only 5'2.

Ace: HAHA-!

Cater, who was also listening in: PFT-!

Trey, exasperated (grinning very slightly): At this point, you're all going to be collared 😮‍💨

Dividers from/by @/cafekitsune

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lemonwerewolf · 10 months ago

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Overblot Riddle and Leona wallpapers I made for the first TWST Horror Zine

#twisted wonderland #twst #lemonwerewolf art #my art #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #riddle #leona #goo

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knbwn · 2 months ago

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rkgk my commission

#my art #fanart #illustration #rkgk #twisted wonderland #twst riddle #riddle rosehearts #riddle #artist support #artists on tumblr #im busy rn but i was overtaken with the demon #dont think too much about the logic i got the shading just right so i dont want to ruined anything by fixing it <3 rkgk for a reason

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lk2222 · 11 months ago

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Trey is a really good friend

#dtw #twst #twst meme #twst memes #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland memes #disney twisted wonderland memes #heartslabyul #riddle #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle rosehearts #trey #trey clover #twst trey clover #twst mc #twst yuu #twst reader #twst x reader

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bluessmutifyplaylist · 4 months ago

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Dearest writer, if may full fill a wish.

Very tall S/O and their Twst ‘short’ kings, going daily things lovingly so publicly, taking role of the parents. Very normal.

Until either of who thought the idea placing a spell that heightened sensitivity and arousal (in different forms)— taking form a succubus tattoo right above the pelvis.

Teasing, Bicker, Challenge, Milk.

Hey, y’all! ColorMyTree is open, and if you’d like to leave a message on my tree, feel free to do that! You don’t need to log into anything, and it’s totally free! :)

Characters Include: Riddle, Ruggie, Azul, Kalim, Epel, Lilia

Warnings: 18+, Succubus/Incubus!Tall!Reader, GN!Reader, handjobs (char receiving), overstimulation (Riddle, Ruggie), safeword usage (Riddle, Ruggie), oral (Lilia), praise and degradation (Lilia, reader receiving)

Riddle Rosehearts

We all know that Riddle is not the most experienced when it comes to sex. All that his mother told him about it was that it was used for procreation, and that’s partially because she lives within the constraints of an unfulfilled marriage.

When Riddle met you though, a literal sex demon… he found himself intrigued. You had to teach him a lot. Luckily, his medical knowledge meant he knew the science behind it, so he wasn’t completely in the dark.

Now, you needed help with studying for an upcoming test. He needed a bit more experience in sexual matters. You both worked out an agreement where you would be able to put your mark on him if you passed the practice quiz he gave you.

Fortunately for you, you passed, and you nearly tore off his pants to get to his member. Now, Riddle is not the largest person you’ve been with… but you were very satisfied with him. Part of the reason you got off was because he whimpered and moaned as you stroked your hand up and down, making sure to massage along the tip of his cock to make his entire body tremble.

“Sevens, please!” He cried, feeling tears of overstimulation well up in his eyes as he came yet again, his cum dripping down his member and all over your hand. However, you didn’t want to stop. Instead, you just used it as lube. “Crayon!”

When he said the safeword, you pulled your hand away and started to help him clean up, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You did amazing, baby… Let me take care of you, okay? I’ve got you…” You whispered with a soft smile, going to grab him a glass of water and a warm, damp towel.

The praise alone could have made him melt into a puddle right then and there. No one had ever really taken such precious care of him. To be fair, this was the first romantic relationship he had ever been in, but knowing that you were a sex demon who has had an indefinite amount of partners before him… and to know that you have remained loyal to him despite his inexperience… made him quite happy.

In the morning, he woke up and started to get dressed, albeit with shaky legs, and he noticed a new addition to his body. A tattoo, a mark, on his lower belly. It was a heart with wings, and that’s how he knew that it was permanent. The relationship was for-real, and he felt his heart go a bit fuzzy with happiness.

Ruggie Bucchi

Now, Ruggie has a lot more experience with sex compared to others on this list… and he very much is a pillow princess. With how hard he has to work for Leona, time spent with you is time he would prefer to spend relaxing… and since you were a literal sex demon, you had no issue with it.

Pretty much every night, he finds himself at the point where he’s shooting blanks, the tattoo you placed on his pelvis glowing each time he came. The amount of noise complaints you both have gotten was insane, but you were able to shut them up by using your power to manipulate them into leaving you two alone.

Anyway, tonight was no exception, and you two were at it again. You smiled as you pumped your hand up and down, whispering small praises into his ear while he moaned and arched his back.

“You are doing so well, baby…” You whisper, feeling his cock throb in your hand. Your free hand was scratching right behind his ear, hitting a spot that you knew would get to him. “Moanin’ so pretty for me…”

“Fuck!” He exclaimed as he held tightly onto your wrist to give him some sort of stability. “You’re gonna… be… the death of me… sweets!” His reaction made you giggle, and as he came once more, you brought your hand up to your lips and licked it clean. Save for the donuts he ate, he had a relatively healthy diet, so it was very neutral in taste. But… to you… it was better than heaven.

“Do you want another one?” You asked, giggling again at how hard he was panting. His face was flushed bright red as he shook his head. “No thanks, toots… I’m done… Crayon.” The use of his safeword made you nod and leave to go grab tools to pamper him with. A warm, damp cloth… and glass of water… a donut or three… He deserved it, to be honest.

Azul Ashengrotto

Being a student and being the manager/boss of an entire restaurant… then also being the one to use his magic to conduct deals and contracts can be exhausting for the cecaelia. Luckily for him, he has a partner who supports him in all that he does.

And by ‘support’, I really mean sitting under his desk in his office, jerking him off whenever he came in. You didn’t require anything in return. He was your boyfriend, and you wanted to help him relieve his stress in a healthy way. What healthier way is there than sex in his office in the Mostro Lounge?

Today was really no different. Before he came in, you placed a pillow under his desk and perched yourself there, waiting until he came in. When you heard the door open, you smiled happily. “Darling, are you in here?” He called out, sitting in his chair and looking under the desk. You only nodded, reaching to undo his belt and his pants and taking his cock out of his briefs. Carefully, you start pumping your hand up and down, pressing a kiss to his tip. Azul laid back in his chair, sighing softly and using his tie to muffle himself.

A few minutes later, he splurted all over your face, and you increased the speed of your hand so you could get it all, and you smiled happily as you licked up what you could.

“Thank you, honey…” You said, looking up at him as he started getting himself tidied up. You caught a peek at the tattoo you left on him, making you happy that he didn’t try to cover it with foundation or anything. He smiled at you, handing you his handkerchief before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “No… thank you, my pearl.” He responded as he helped you up off of the floor.

Kalim Al-Asim

He has 30+ younger siblings. He knows how sex works. He also loves to party, so I don’t think he’s a virgin at all. However, he hasn’t really experimented with anything or anyone until you came along with your kinks.

He had no idea that sex could be so… good. You make him feel seen and heard. He trusts you wholeheartedly and completely, and you are careful not to break that trust… especially after what happened with Jamil and the truth came out and whatever.

Now, every night, you both sleep in his dorm room since you basically moved in, and you end each day with a little something… And tonight, you were trying overstimulation with him.

Pretty tears escaped his eyes as you made him cum for the third time, but he couldn’t help it as he kept bucking into your hand while you stroked his cock up and down… up and down… in slow, pleasurable movements.

“Please…” He whimpered. His dick was in pain… but it just felt so good. He couldn’t quite shoot anything out anymore… he was running on empty… but your hand felt amazing against the sensitive skin. “More… m-more…”

You gently wiped his tears away, pressing a kiss to his temple as you ran your thumb over his tip with a smile.

“I’ve got you, baby… let go… you can do it… one more for me, please?”

He nodded and gripped onto the bedsheets below you both, crying out as he shot another blank… but you could feel him twitching in your hand. Getting up, you grabbed a warm towel to help him soothe the aching a bit.

“You did so good, love…” You whispered as you grabbed him a pair of pajama pants. He smiled as he laid back on his pillows, snuggling into your body when you returned.

Epel Felmier

How does one become manly? Lifting weights, exercising… all of this is in the WikiHow instructions (a real thing, btw). However, another step was becoming a ‘sexual dynamo’... luckily for him, his partner was a sex demon.

That led to him asking if you would do him the favor of taking his virginity, which made you a bit hesitant. You stated that you didn’t feel comfortable taking his V-card for a reason such as ‘becoming a man’. It felt a bit backwards. However, you did agree to giving him a handjob.

Now here you were, smiling as you had a whimpering Epel who was trying to hold his shit together, having already came twice before. But he didn’t want you to stop… for what reason? He didn’t quite know anymore. But it felt so good against his sensitive member.

His hand was clutching your wrist as he bucked up into your hand; the sounds coming from his lips are in his native Southern accent. In your eyes, he had never looked manlier… after all, not a lot of guys can go more than once in a round.

Soon, he feels another orgasm coming, and his hips start losing their rhythm as he chases the last high of the night. You sped up your hand, and soon, he was shooting his load all over, and you caught some in your mouth. You’d have to thank Vil later for the food he prepares for Pomefiore because Epel’s cum did not taste horrible. It was actually quite sweet.

You pulled your hand away, making sure to go clean it before coming back with a warm cloth for Epel, who was panting heavily with a cherry-tomato face.

“Epel… I don’t know why you don’t view yourself the way that I do. You are the manliest person I know… considerate, caring, at least for me, and you managed to last three orgasms.” Your words really touched him, and he smiled as you helped him clean up, ready to finally be the little spoon.

Lilia Vanrouge

Now, Lilia is no spring chicken. He’s getting older. However, statistically speaking, older people tend to be the freakiest (statistically proven that elderly people have the highest rate of STD’s). Moving on, the bat fae is one of the freakiest people on this list, and he is quite proud of it.

The fact that you are a sex demon, literally, did not phase him. After all, you are more than just your species. And he was and is more than willing to satisfy any and all of your needs and wants. He is experiences, having participated in nearly every kink and fetish imaginable.

Honestly, everyone is glad that you have taken Lilia off their hands. With your constant need for sex, he is quite occupied so he can’t go around spooking people for shits and giggles. Instead, he is busy in the janitor’s closet with you as you stroke your hand along his member.

“Darling, really… this is the third time today,” He teased, knowing that he was easily seduced by those adorable puppy eyes and that adorable pout of yours.

“Can’t help it…” You respond as you press a kiss to the tip of his cock. “Wanna make you feel good…”

Well… how can Lilia say ‘no’ when all you want to do is take care of an old man? His hand reached to pat your head appreciatively while you finally took him into your mouth, and you hummed in satisfaction.

“You’re doing so good for me, my dear…” He uttered as he slowly thrusted into your mouth, making your eyes roll back and water at the same time. “Taking me like the little slut you are…”

Soon, he felt his cock throb, signalling that he was close. Gently, he sat still as he filled your mouth up, smiling as he was emptied once more.

“Thank you, darling…” He whispered as he pressed a kiss to your forehead while you swallowed his cum happily.

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iniquitousyearning · 3 months ago

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SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 23rd. tom riddle — wet dreams, house rivals.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: tom’s been infiltrating your dreams, and you decide it’s time to call him out on it.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNIIII, coercion!!!!, dark!tom, mind manipulation, religious undertones, gryffindor!reader, enemies if you squint, fingering, squirting, begging, dream sex, tom riddle is his own warning, so much praise, dirty talk, verbal sparring.

You've never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a child, the smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, a shift in the walls—would jolt you awake. For years, you chalked it up to some ingrained survival instinct, some form of trauma response to whatever part of your childhood still haunts you. You got used to it.

But lately, it isn't sound that’s been waking you. It isn't movement or foundation shifts, either. It's the dreams.

Dreams—strange, lucid, intense dreams of him. Always him. Dreams that make you feel like you're drowning, like you're flying, like you've found a new level of intoxication that you'd never imagined possible—and each time the dreams wake you up, the sheets (and whatever bottoms you may have been wearing) are always soaked, and your thighs are always shaking.

It's maddening.

They feel too real to be anything but a violation, his presence bleeding into your subconscious regardless of how much you try to fight it. You know it means something is wrong. You'd tried to rationalize yourself into going back to sleep, telling yourself it's just hormones or some form of stress, but you're too smart to believe your own excuses.

You know it's more than that.

He's haunting you in your sleep—in the most unexpected way. The dreams are always lucid enough that you can feel it—you can feel him—his mouth on yours, his hands on your hips, his dick bullying your fucking cervix and his magic on your clit—leaving behind nothing but hunger. Hunger that's so intense it makes you want him in a way it almost scares you.

You tell yourself you hate him, you've always hated him—but denial only lasts for so many days, as you realize you can't look at him or talk to him without the dreams forcing their way to the forefront of your mind, making you remember the feelings and the sensations and how much, despite hating him, you want them to be real.

You wanted to believe it would pass. That this was nothing but a phase, a trick of your overactive mind. But deep down, you knew the truth. Tom Riddle has wormed his way into your head, into your dreams—out of spite—and he's not letting go.

So after a hell of a week of this—with damn near zero hours of sleep—you decide to seek him out. To put an end to this madness. Once and for all.

It takes every ounce of courage and Gryffindor-like reckless bravery you can scrape together just to go through with it, but somehow you do. Somehow, you make it across the castle, make it to his door. You're in your pyjamas, for Merlin's sake. It's 1 a.m., and the slick still coating your thighs from what had to have been your tenth lucid orgasm in a matter of a week is a humiliating reminder of why you're even here at all.

And when the door opens, you have the strange feeling that he's been expecting you, even as he makes a great show of acting surprised to see you, looking you up and down with a lazy, smug glance that makes your pulse quicken so viscerally you lose the last shred of sanity you were pathetically clinging to—

"What the fuck—" you prowl forward without hesitation, forcing him a step back into the room. "—are you doing to me?"

Even if you're not imagining some form of surprise in that smug little smirk, he does his best not to let it show.

"Me?" He says, all pretend innocence, flicking his hand out to shut the door behind you with some spell you don't care to name. "You'll have to be more specific."

You glare at him, refusing to acknowledge how unfairly attractive he looks in just sweatpants and an oversized shirt—because of course, even casual looks like this are a weapon in his arsenal.

"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," you snap, and you're not sure if it's your lack of sleep or some form of desperation-fuelled bravery, but you're suddenly invading his personal space, poking an accusing finger into his shoulder. "You're fucking haunting me—"

He blinks. "I’m haunting you. And how am I doing that?”

There's a part of you that knows it's a trap—that this is probably exactly what the smug bastard in front of you has been wanting, but your brain is so deprived of sleep and your body is so starved of respite that you decide 'fuck it'—you want answers, and you're going to get them.

"You're in my dreams," you say, bluntly, forcing an exhale alongside it. "You've been in them every night for a week straight. I haven't slept a bloody minute."

That's when it happens—the tiniest flash of amusement in his eyes, so brief you might've missed it if you weren't ready to tear his fucking throat out.

"You're accusing me of giving you dreams?" He asks, in a tone that makes you want to grab him by the front of his shirt and make him cut the bullshit, and you can't tell how much of your own expression is irritation and how much is lust. "You think I've somehow managed to invade your mind?"

"Don't be condescending," you spit, trying to focus on the spot between his eyebrows that makes the heat in your core roar the least, "and don't act like you're incapable. As much as I can't bloody stand you, we both know damn well your mind magic is strong enough to do this to me—"

"Mind magic," he echoes with an amused snort, "you think I'm doing some kind of mind magic to invade your dreams, is that it?"

He's so damn good at this, you think—infuriatingly good. The way he's playing it off like the idea is absurd, completely laughable—

"Fucking precisely.” You can't hide the heat from your voice. You don't care to try. "These aren't just dreams. They're—they're strong. I feel you. Your hands, your tongue, your—"

Dick. You can't even bring yourself to say it.

And the bastard just smirks, like he's reading your mind anyway. Like he knows. That glimmer in his eyes—arrogant, insufferable—only confirms it.

"Hm," he says with something bored, running a hand through his hair. "Your subconscious—"

"It's not a bloody subconscious thing," you cut him off, uninterested in whatever bullshit he was about to feed you. "It's you. You're invading my dreams—I feel you—my body fucking feels you—"

He laughs at that. Like some sick, sadistic freak. He actually laughs—

"Listen to yourself." He says, with a mocking tone that makes you want to shove him. "Are you that desperate to hate me that you're pinning your dreams on me?"

"Hate doesn't even begin to cover it," you spit, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. He shifts slightly, his back brushing the wall. "You've got a hell of an ego, but even you have to know this isn't something I'd want. I wouldn't put you in my dreams willingly if you paid me to do it—"

He hums, smirk never faltering, if anything it fucking grows at the tirade.

"You've been dreaming of me for a week," he points out, coolly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. "And now, here you are—standing in my dorm in the middle of the night, dressed like this." He takes a step toward you, now. "Do you know what that's called, sweetheart?"

Your lungs hitch at the pet name. Your mind is at war with your cunt and it's losing—

"Delirium?" You choke out, noticing another flash of something in his eyes as the gap between you closes. "Insomnia? Sleep deprivation?"

He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.

"No," he says, in a tone that makes you seethe. "It's called obsession."

"Oh. The irony," you can't help but hiss at him, heart pounding because he's in your space and you're in his and this shouldn't be getting to you the way it is. "It's rich, coming from you, that you'd put that on me when—when you've been mindfucking me every goddamn night—"

"Mindfucking you?" He repeats, almost lazily, as his gaze drops, sweeping over you—your pyjamas, the clear lack of bra, the flush creeping up your neck. "Is that what you think I've been doing? You think—"

The way he doesn't even deny it—doesn't argue the accusation—makes your blood boil in a way you can't control.

"It's the only explanation. You've been—you've been—" you cut him off but your sentence falters because his gaze is moving so deliberately, dragging over you like he's cataloging your weaknesses, and the anger curdles into something raw and desperate. "God, Tom, I just need it to stop. I'm so fucking tense and tired. I'm so wound I can't even focus—I'm wet all the time—"

His eyes snap up to meet yours at that, and he gives you a look you can't even begin to interpret. You bite your tongue, realizing the words that left your mouth just a moment too late to pull them back, and you know you've lost the upper hand in this, somehow. You feel the ground slipping from under you and you hate the way your body shivers as he takes another slow, deliberate, step forward.

"Is that what you are?” He wets his lips. "You've come all the way here, in the dead of night, in your pyjamas, half out of your mind with exhaustion because you're wet. Isn't that right?"

You know better than to answer, though you feel yourself walking straight into the trap he's set.

"Piss off," you snap, but the bravado in your voice is paper-thin as he takes another step forward. He's so close now that his scent overwhelms you—leather and spice, something sharp and smoky that makes your head spin. You recognize it, of course you do; it's the same as in your dreams, and the familiarity makes your knees feel unsteady. "You're—"

"Don't act so offended," he leans closer, his voice a low murmur, quiet, almost silky as it wraps around you, and suddenly you barely remember what you were so pissed off about. "You can't even deny it. I made you cum tonight, didn't I? In your dreams."

Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"

He takes one more step and now you're backed right up against his desk—and gods, Tom's tall, so much taller than you—and it feels like he's looming over you, caging you in.

"Mhm." There's a flash of triumph in his eyes as you lose your words. He leans down, breath grazing your ear just as he brings two fingers to your temple, pressing the pads against it. "Let's watch, shall we?"

Watc—oh no.

A cold sense of dread washes over you as you catch on to what he's insinuating, merely a second too late—

"Tom—"

He whispers something, something that pulls you under, and the next thing you know—in a flash of consciousness you didn't even consider possible—you're staring at yourself inside a dream you remember all too well. A dream sequence where you're moaning and trembling beneath him, your head thrown back, eyes rolling in unabashed pleasure as he drives into you, hips snapping with thrust after thrust after thrust—

And it's one thing to have felt it in the safety of your dreams, in the dead of night when you woke slick and desperate, clenching around nothing. But this—this is visceral. You can't look away because it's projecting inside your mind: the flush blooming across your chest, the arch of your back, the way your lips part with every desperate breath. You hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth, mingling with his low, guttural grunts—and worst of all, you can feel it.

You can feel every ounce of pleasure he's giving you, as if he's giving it to you now.

"Mm," you hear him hum from infront of you—it's too much—you're lost in the memory, the dream, and it's a strange, voyeuristic, intimate experience to watch yourself and him like that. "You're worse off than I thought."

You’re gripping the wood of his desk so hard your fingertips are numb, heart flying out of the room as his hand slowly slides from your temple down to your jaw, holding you in place—

"Stop it." You manage to hiss at him, trying to force some semblance of control back into yourself—the last thing you need is to start melting against this bastard. "Tom—"

"You feel that?" He murmurs, breath brushing your neck, and you can't even focus on anything but the sensations he's forcing through your memory—seeing him above you, feeling him inside you. "You do, don't you? This is exactly what you've been feeling all week, isn't it?"

You want to snap at him, cuss him out, but oh god—

"Damn you," you hiss, even as his hands slide down to your hips—and it almost feels as if he's touching you twice, as if there are two sets of hands on your body. "Fuck, Tom—"

"Mm, you look good from this angle," he murmurs, and you fucking keen as you watch, in your mind, his hands slide over your stomach, pushing up your shirt and exposing your tits, groping as he fucks you. You keen as you feel it. "You love this, don't you? You want this."

"I—" you gasp, trying to convince him, or yourself, or goddamn anyone. Still fighting some invisible battle between resistance and submission because you hate that he's right. "I—god, what are you doing to me—"

"What am I doing to you?" He whispers, and you're not sure if the question is rhetorical, or if he's giving you permission to ask it. "I'm not doing anything that you aren't letting me do."

Your knees feel like they're about to buckle, and it's taking all your strength just to stay standing because the pleasure playing out in your mind is pouring into your veins and you can't even fathom how it's possible but you can't do anything to fight it—

"Oh, god—" you moan, unbridled, your physical body slumping back onto the desk as you feel the slick between your thighs, growing with every goddamn thrust. "Oh my god—"

He takes the opportunity of you slumped back against the desk and instantly leans down, bringing his lips to your ear—

"Not even god could keep your legs underneath you." His hand creeps up your thigh. "You're helpless."

"Helpless," you repeat, with a shaky gasp, and you hate how much the word turns you on. This is the first time you've ever been called helpless, and you're not even sure that you care. He's got you in his clutches, he's winning, and it's so infuriating and so goddamn perfect. “Tom—please, please touch me. I need to—fuck—"

You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck in a way that has you trembling with want, but—fucking hell, that's not what you need—you need his hands on you, you need him to just—

"What do you need?" He cooes, and there's a sly tone to his voice that makes you want to throw yourself at him all over again. "You need to cum?"

You moan, low and needy, writhing against the desk because this fucker—he knows exactly what he's doing. He’s got the upper hand here and you want it back. You want—

"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "I need you to—I fucking need you—inside me—"

As soon as that leaves your mouth, the dream fades from your vision and he's urging you to lay back. There's a soft thud as he places a hand on the desk next to your head, and he leans down, bringing his lips back to your ear, and you can't remember a time when you've ever wanted anyone else this bad.

"I'm touched," he murmurs, fingers slipping to the waist band of your pyjama pants, "that you want me that bad."

"I hate you," you manage to gasp out, but that's a lie, and you think he knows it. His fingers on your skin as he pulls your pants down make you ache for him, and you're struggling to not make another sound that will give him ammunition. "Why do you have to—"

"Why do I have to what?" He asks, and you know he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. "Tease you? Make you helpless?"

Your pants get hardly half way down your thighs before he decides it's enough and slides a finger through your soaked slit, and you can't hold back the moan that tears itself from your throat.

"Fuck, you're soaked.” He hisses through his teeth. “You've been sitting in your dorm for days, hm? Dreaming of me touching you, wishing you could touch yourself without thinking of me—do you want to cum, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you gasp out, and you're not above begging at this point. "Yes, god, please—I want to fucking cum—"

"There we go," he cooes, and he's enjoying this more than you'd like to acknowledge. "You know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that?"

"I'd say at least a week," you throw back, in a vain attempt to keep a shred of your dignity, but that's hard when he's circling his fingers around your clit and your body is jerking against the desk beneath you. God you really are helpless. "Because that's how long you've been plaguing my head, giving me wet dreams like some goddamn incubus—"

He chuckles at that, and you hate him a little less when he slips two fingers inside you, "You think I'm a demon?"

"You certainly act like one," you choke out, because he's crooking his fingers and your mind is going fuzzy and he's not going to let you get the upper hand back, even for a second. "Fuck—oh, yes, yes, yes."

"You've got me all wrong," he says, with a smile that would be boyish if it wasn't so sinister. "Demons come to punish you. I'm here helping you get that relief you've been needing so badly."

"Just want t-to help me," you moan as his long fingers work you open, thumb brushing your clit, "out of the kindness of your heart—"

"Out of the kindness of my heart,” he repeats, with a mocking tone, and it's the way he murmurs those words that's making your thighs clench around him until he grabs the fabric of your pjs bunched around them and pushes your legs up to your chest, working his fingers impossibly deeper. "Out of the goodness of my soul—it's what I do, darling, I'm known for my benevolence—"

"You're a good man," you know he can tell you're being sarcastic, but his fingers are filling you so fucking full you're nowhere near ready to start a fight again when you're this close to losing your goddamn mind on his desk. "You're such a good man, Tom—“

"Mhm," his breath tickles your ear. "What else am I?"

"So good with your fingers," you're moaning, and he's going to get a bigger ego than he already has. You're too far gone to care. "God, you're so good, I'm going to—"

"Yes, you are," he answers, and it takes you a second to realize that he's not correcting your words anymore. He's simply telling you that you are, in fact, about to fall apart for him. "Give it to me. You've earned it."

You almost want to snap back at him, you almost try to, but you're so far gone the words don't form on your tongue and you're not sure you'd be able to fight the fire pooling in your stomach.

"Oh, fuck—“

He doesn't even let you finish that, he just dips his hips down, bringing his hand that's not buried in your slick up to cover your mouth, muffling those strangled screams before they spill out and echo down the hall—

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low hum against your skin. "Be a good girl. Let it all out for me."

And it's that; that stupid combination of cooing warmth and the phrase 'be a good girl' that sends you over the edge, and you're muffling your gasps and moans and screams against his palm because gods, what would happen if someone heard you? What would happen if people realized what Tom Riddle was doing to you—your house rival, your sworn enemy—

"There we go," you're falling apart and he's watching you as if he owns you, as if this is where you belong—writhing beneath him, release squirting out around his fingers. "Ride it out for me. Such a good girl, you needed this so bad, I can tell you were aching for this."

You're struggling to say anything back, the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan of his name, and you've always known how bad he was, heard from other girls how good he could be with his hands, but this—you've never had this, never been this before.

"Such a fucking mess," he's murmuring, his voice low and rough and so goddamn beautiful. “How'd that feel? Hm?"

"So—so good," it feels like the words are being forced out of your throat, and you're struggling to think with enough clarity to form anything that's not an embarrassing moan of how much you needed this. "Needed it, need more, I—"

"More?" He murmurs as he slips his fingers free, and he's bringing his other hand up to your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he brings his soaked fingers to your lips. "Greedy girl."

You're not thinking about the implication of him calling you that, you're not thinking about how you should fight back, you're not thinking about how much you hate him—you’re just thinking about the sinful taste of you on his fingers, when they press against your tongue. Without a second of hesitation you suck them clean, tasting yourself, and it's obscene. You're obscene. But you don't care, it just makes that ache in you grow worse—you need more, you need him.

Dear god, what happened to you.

“So good," he murmurs, the praise dripping like honey from his tongue. You hum and he exhales. "I'll find you tomorrow."

"You'll find me tomorrow?" You repeat, as he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, and you're struggling for air, your chest heaving beneath your rumpled shirt. "What are you going to do, come into my room?"

"I'll come into much more than your room," he says, with a laugh that dances with promises of sin. "Now go. Before someone finds you here."

You push yourself up on trembling arms, pulling your pants up your thighs, your heart hammering in your chest because—god, that was incredible, you want more of it, and you can hardly even believe it happened. With a breath, you force yourself to move.

You look back at him as you get to the door. Your legs are shaking and you're not going to hold it against yourself for needing the wall to support you as his eyes rake over you, the corners of those lips curled up his signature smirk, and you want to hit him so goddamn bad—but then he speaks, like he read your mind, and it snaps you out of it—

"No dreams tonight." He says. "Scouts honour."

"You're no boy scout," you throw back, and your voice is a little breathier than you'd like. "And this changes nothing."

He smiles, slow and languid and knowing. "Of course."

You want to roll your eyes at the condescension dripping off his tongue, but you're worried that if you stay here any longer the only words on your tongue will be 'do it again'.

"You just owe me." You say as you crack the door open.

"I owe you," he agrees, and you think that his smile is just a little too genuine—like he would give you anything you wanted, just for another taste of that. “I'm keeping score, darling. Sleep well."

You hate him for calling you that, you hate his stupid smile, you hate the way he knows he's got you.

What he doesn’t know, is that you’re going to make him pay.

"Good night," you mutter, and then you open the door and slip out into the hallway.