#Tom doesn’t hate it

[devdevlin]

A brief (and inappropriate) retelling of Hermione's polyjuice incident.

DON'T ASK. I don't know where this came from, ok? Ok. My pregnancy brain is fried and apparently, I don't know what shame is anymore, so here you go, have an odd and uncalled for drabble. I'd say don't judge me... but tbh, I probably deserve it 🤷‍♀️

"Ahh!"

At the distant, high-pitched scream, Tom slowly lowered his newspaper.

There was a concerning stretch of silence, until a quiet shuffling from upstairs started; hurried, panicked footsteps, ones that told him he needn't get up. Whatever the problem was, it would undoubtedly come to him.

Tom resumed his reading.

Sure enough, not even five minutes later, and the footsteps gradually pattered their way down the stairs.

"...Tom?" he soon heard echoing in from the other room.

"...Yes?"

"Can you... I think I need your..."

Hermione, he knew, would rather eat her own pants than come to him for help, and so, properly intrigued, Tom folded his paper and put it aside. "What's wrong?"

There was another pause and some more shuffling from the doorway, before a quiet, "do you promise not to laugh?"

Tom laughed. "That will depend on what you're about to say."

"Tom!"

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Promise you won't laugh!"

"Fine, fine, I won't laugh," he promised, leaning forward eagerly in his chair. "Just come out. You're starting to worry me."

Another stretch of quiet. But then, right as Tom was about to get up and force her out—

Hermione stepped into the room.

Tom prided himself on his self-control. It was one of his best qualities, one that set him far apart from the rest of his peers, but even he wasn't above snorting at the sight of her.

She immediately turned and walked back out.

Tom, at a complete loss, covered his mouth and muffled his chortling as he got up and followed after her. "I'm sorry," he called out. "Wait, really— I'm sorry. It just wasn't what I was expecting, that's all."

He caught her in the kitchen, where she whirled back and glared at him. "You promised!"

"I did, I know. I'm sorry," he said, but he wasn't really. Because with a pair of ginger ears and a squashed nose, with her pants riding low enough on her hips for a long, bushy tail to poke out the top, she looked... hilariously...

Cute.

"Are you going to help me or not?!" she snapped, gesturing to herself.

Tom looked her down and up, taking her all in. Huh. She had claws, too. "How did this happen?"

"I... a little bit of polyjuice, is all. But I must've added the wrong hair..."

"It would seem so," he said. "Whatever were you playing with polyjuice for?"

"I... well... I just wanted to... surprise you," she admitted. "I know you don't like to celebrate, but I thought... it's your thirtieth. I had to do something, and I thought this might be a way to do it that you'd be okay with."

"You thought I'd like it if your gift... was yourself in the form of a cat?"

"No! No, not a cat..."

"Who were you supposed to be, then?" he asked suspiciously.

"...N-no one."

"Hermione."

"I..." she sighed, and then grudgingly muttered, "I was trying to turn myself into you."

This time, he tried—he really did—but his laugh couldn't be helped.

"Tom!"

"Sorry, sorry," he repeated, "I'm sorry. But, honestly, why would you—"

"I have another batch upstairs," she said, flushing. "Once I was you, I was going to come down and offer you the other batch, so that you could turn into me, and then... I thought we could... you know."

Slowly, as her words sunk in, Tom grinned a wide, involuntary grin. "Actually... now that you say that... I'm not quite sure I do know," he said, stepping towards her. "Why don't you tell me more?"

Hermione crossed her arms. "This is humiliating enough without you rubbing it in! You know what I mean!"

"Do I?"

Her ears flattened.

"Well..." he said, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing again as he closed further in. "As unfortunate as this all is... it doesn't all have to be for nought. Maybe we can still... make this work."

"...I beg your pardon?"

"Just me... you..." He leaned into her and reached around to trail his hand along her thigh, until he reached the base of her tail at her waistband. He gently gripped the base. "...and your tail..."

He slipped his fingers down the length of it, over the silken, ginger fur, until she swatted him off.

"No! I— stop that!"

"Why?" he said. "It'll take hours to wear off. I can think of several good uses for all this until then."

"Absolutely not!" she snapped, pushing back from him. "Wh-what do you mean, good uses?"

"What do you think I mean?"

"I... I think that if you can't help me, then I'd rather not know about—ahh!"

As she'd turned to storm off, Tom took hold of her tail and pulled, hard enough that she stumbled back, her back colliding flush against his front.

"Something like this, I think," he murmured low in her ear, keeping his grip on her tail tight, holding her in place.

"Tom, that—ow, that hurts."

"Good."

She tugged to free herself, but Tom didn't let go, and twisted them to shove her forward, pinning her between himself and the counter.

"Ow, I mean it!" she hissed.

"So do I," he drawled, and now that he had her pinned, he took her tail in his other hand too, and sliding it up, right to the base, and stroking down its length firmly. "Tell me... what does it feel like?"

The tip of her tail twitched against his leg at his touch. "It's... ah, um," she squeaked. "Sensitive."

"Is it? Well, why don't we find out just how sensitive it is..."

"Tom—"

"Shh, shh," he shushed, slipping his fingers around the tail and down, down beneath the waistband of her pants to where the fur ended and the smooth patch of skin just below it started.

He felt it as she shivered and a tremor jolted up her spine, joined by a quiet, gentle—

"Oh," he breathed, "you can purr?"

"I... I didn't know... I didn't mean to..."

Tom laughed into her neck. She sounded mortified.

"It's all right," he told her, stroking even lower, brushing right against where the skin became silky and started to pucker. "I don't mind, but... now that you mention it, I do wonder how it'd feel if you purred with my dick in your—"

"Tom!"

"I'm just curious. It is my birthday, after all..."

[unlawfulchaos]

Ice: Hey kiddo, breakfast is ready.

Baby Bradley: Thanks. Should I give the old bitch some, too? I think he's upstairs.

Ice: We've already talked about this. Slider called Mav that ONCE in the heat of an argument and you are NOT supposed to repeat it.

Ice: Also, yes.

[lovebeatriceplz]

Thinking about! Severus Snape, who was truly alone. If you haven’t read the books, they confirmed that his father was a drunken bastard, and he did come from a broken home. Lily was the first person in his life to love him, and he unintentionally pushed her away, and held her cold stiff body as the life left her eyes. I also believe that he sees Dumbledore as a friend, yes, he swore to follow Albus after lily’s death, but a part of that loyalty came from the heart. Dumbledore has many flaws and has done some questionable things, but he did indeed love Severus as well. So in his entire thirty something years, two people truly loved him, Lily was killed by Voldemort, and he was forced to kill Albus himself. Now, Harry could have loved him to, every time I enter this phase again I’m overwhelmed by the feeling that a friendship could have developed between the two, but when Snape looked at Harry he saw James, he just couldn’t let go of that bitterness (which is not his fault that’s a human emotion). It’s not until he’s on his deathbed, when he tell Harry “you have your mother’s eyes”, that’s him acknowledging and accepting that a piece of Lily was always with him, a piece of someone who loved him was always there. In this essay I will-

[punch-love]

tom holland’s spider-man ruined fandom perception of the character in 9000 ways but the worst is making people think that peter is nice and a sweetheart when really he’s an asshole who people find immensely hard to be around

[calkale]

not to bring this up AGAIN but i cant believe they did that to ilsa

[saintsir4n]

— there are some things I want to say, many of which are regarding race!

The fact that Francesca Amewudah-Rivers is receiving hate the fact she’s playing Juliet is not surprising, since people do not need reasons to hate black women. She’s a dark-skinned pretty woman but of course, because she has prominent black features she’s seen as manly and shouldn’t be playing alongside someone like Tom Holland. I’m not one to put down people but Tom Holland is not God’s gift, and neither is he publicly defending his co-star, a matter that I won’t get into as the focus is Francesca. The role of Juliet is one that was originally played by a man, and since then has been played by people of different ethnicities, some being black women. The fact people are using her appearance or the fact she’s deemed as “not conventionally attractive” is disgusting as if that’s an excuse. I’m glad that over 800 black actors signed a letter in solidarity because of the racial abuse as well as the production company who issued their own statement.

POCs especially darker-skinned women are constantly the target of racial abuse even over things that don’t exist and yes I am talking about fan-casts, especially tangled. I haven’t watched the film but I know the source material isn’t from Brothers Grimm but a Persian poem written in the 10th century by Ferdowsi, 8 centuries before it was turned into a “German folklore.” It’s hilarious how micro-aggressions and racism come out when people think white characters aren’t at the centre of it all. People crying about how their younger selves Would hate to see a stunning South Asian actress in the place of a blonde hair, blue-eyed ADAPTION of an original when brown and black girls had little to no representation at all. “Why can’t we stick to the originals?” Please look up what the original is before you start with your insults specifically those who are crying on TikTok or trolling on Avantika Vandanapu’s Instagram.

And lastly, stop bringing Tiana into it. She’s based on a real person just like Pocahontas, their race is important to their stories, black and indigenous, it’s tiring and also just foolish to post edits of “if they can have an Asian Rapunzel why can’t we have a white Tiana” when it’s clear that missed the plot of the princess and the frog, blind to/ ignoring its micro-aggressions (that are written in solely for a black character) and are just showing their bias all in defence of a film that doesn’t even exist.

And before anyone starts on “Why don’t you just invent your own characters?” Many have tried and the movie itself wasn’t watched, had little to no promotion or has been whitewashed but of course that gets little backlash.

And don’t get me started on wish…

So just to conclude, stop attacking us!

[invisiblearsonist]

I could’ve told everyone on the planet that coriolanus snow was gonna break down and go nuts just from the fact that he gets a buzzcut. never ever trust a buzzcut.

[anythingbyadriannelenker]

hello, would you like some tea? i’ll put a kettle on. please have a seat. hey, i was wondering, dear friend, if peeta jackson had been cool and decided to include Tom Bombadil in fellowship of the ring, who would he have cast? i’m not necessarily asking for a fan cast but rather which medium-famous late 90s actor (á la cate blanchett or hugo weaving) would have been cast by pete jacket and fran walsh themselves. also, who would have played Goldberry? cream or sugar?

[mangora]

Disventure Camp AU where Aiden’s house is haunted and Riya’s a poltergeist who is actively trying to kill him meanwhile Jake is just some regular ghost who hates him and he keeps doing mildly annoying things like leaving his fridge slightly ajar or taking the cap off of his toothpaste so it’s a little dry in the morning

[halliserres]

watching iwtv 1994 when ur fully sam reid-pilled is so painful

[chuluoyi]

Snow lands on top… SNOW lands on top?? Chu don’t tell me it’s TBOSAS and Coriolanus Snow?!

ahaha you’re so right!!😋 i have a thing for murderous white haired man i’m afraid :’))

[zarophod]

the only character in succession who looks good in a turtleneck is Stewy. and also Shiv. and literally anyone else that isn’t Tom i fucking hate Tom Wambsgans in a turtleneck omg

[lilnasxvevo]

I have to say something. Why does every man on Succession either have a homoerotic obsession with another guy or have a guy who is homoerotically obsessed with him

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 4th. tom riddle — bondage, begrudgingly!sub tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. | 2024

summary: revenge is sweet—but getting tom riddle to beg is so, so much fucking sweeter.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, reader gives tom a lust potion in retribution, PIV, desperate sex, tom so out of sorts he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, so much teasing it’s painful, dirty talk, light bondage, choking.

All is fair in love and war.

This might not be love, but it isn't just war, either. It's something messier, something darker, something with teeth. Every time you and Tom Riddle play this game it seems to follow the same trajectory, almost like a dance—step, feint, clash, retreat—a push and pull, a ritualistic give and take until someone takes a little too much and the tension boils over to something like this. 

A locked door. A stolen breath. His body pressing yours into some surface and his hands on your throat, or in your hair, or at your waist with—

"You did something to me." Growled at your neck. 

Right now, expectedly, is no different.

"What could I possibly have done to you?" You drawl, bored blowing off your breath. "The great Tom Riddle himself."

You want to sound dismissive, condescending—just enough to light a match to his already fraying patience—but Tom is too keyed up to take the bait, and that alone thrills you. You can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell the clean, addictive scent of his hair, the musk of dark magic religiously woven into his skin. 

He smells intense, and it makes you dizzy.

Makes you reckless.

"You’re funny," he exhales, the force of it stirring your hair. He's ripping off his jacket now, rolling up his sleeves like he's ready to wrestle the devil himself. "This is your idea of revenge, isn't it?"

There's a shrug, something vindictive set in your shoulders just to get under his skin that much more—spurred on by the sheer state of him before you; those perfect curls a mess, onyx eyes burning with something primal. 

"This, meaning what, exactly?" You watch the corded tension in his neck tighten as he shoves his hair back, hands visibly unsteady. "You'll have to be more specific."

He lets out a stifled groan from somewhere deep in his chest at that—he's struggling, and he knows you know it, a delicious little factoid that has his patience stretched so thin it's almost see-through—

"You're enjoying this," he snarls, forcing himself over to a nearby loveseat and slumping down into it. His voice is half-hoarse, strangled by the effort it's taking him to keep this much distance between you. "You—fuck."

There we go. 

Unable to stall the grin off your lips any longer, you move forward with something predatory—something devious in each step perfectly placed just to spite him—a deliberate sway of the hips, the slight rise and fall of your chest—anything, really, just to break him that much faster. 

He's right. This is your revenge. 

"Oh, Tom," you creep around behind his chair, lips leaning toward his ear. "Are you feeling alright? You're looking hot."

You take note of the way his jaw pulses as he grinds his teeth. The way that one simple word from your mouth—spoken in the type of low, sultry tone that could make even a dead man hard—affects him.

"You're wicked," his head falls back to look up at you, lips glistening like he's salivating over the mere sound of your voice. Still, he's fighting it—still trying to deny you the satisfaction. "Did you know that?"

"You love it," you murmur, fingers slipping their way over his shoulders, down his chest. You lean closer, catching sight of the sharp bulge straining against his trousers. "Look how much you fucking love it."

Another stifled groan. 

"You don't want to do this, sweetheart," he hisses—and there's the nickname, the nickname you've told him you hate. His way of retaliation. "Not now." 

"And why not?" Your fingers dip lower, tracing over the definition of his abdomen. "Because you're not in control? Or because I am?"

He's fighting himself—you see the war play out on his face in the way his brows knit together—the way his lips part briefly only to swallow back whatever words were about to crawl out of them. 

He's never been very good at being at anyone's mercy, least of all yours. 

"You think you're in control," the words rasp against his throat, as if speaking them too loud might shift the balance. "You're delusional."

"Maybe," you whisper, lips brushing his cheek, the curve of a smirk curling into your voice. "Maybe I'm absolutely batshit." Your hand slips downward, slowly, over his stomach to his belt, fingers ghosting the buckle. "But we both know why you dragged me in here, Tom. Don't we?"

He scowls.

"You—" 

The moment you brush against his bulge with the barest touch, his hips jerk forward—words disintegrating, raw instinct betraying his restraint.

"God, look at you." You nearly choke on the heat between you. If this isn't the sexiest fucking thing you've ever seen. "Just admit it, Tommy. Admit you need me to fi—"

You don't get to finish. Something in him snaps—

"Fucking—" he's moving on auto-pilot, hands reaching up to seize you and yank you closer. "—fix this, then." 

In a blink, you're in his lap with his grip on your hips and he's growling—one hand slipping up to the back of your head to fist your hair and force your mouth to his before you get the chance to snap back—

And as soon as your lips collide it's a fight for dominance—teeth clashing as your tongues tangle, both of you biting and pulling at each other like animals. You're grinding against him and he's excruciatingly-hard beneath you and you can practically hear the intensity of it, both of you caught up in the sheer feral force of this—no rhyme or rhythm, no control—just hunger, desperate and unrelenting, like something unleashed that neither of you can put back in its cage.

After all but an eternity of this, you wrench back with force, breaking the kiss and shoving yourself upright. His head falls back against the chair, chest heaving, his lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide and glittering with fury—or lust. You’re sure it’s a bit of both.

He's trying to gain control, his hand still fisted in your hair, arms trapping you in place like he thinks he can still win this. 

But you see him now, raw and undone, and you know better.

"You want me to fix this," you murmur, skating your fingers over his chest lightly enough to make him twitch. "Then put your hands on the armrests."

He wants to fight that, you can tell—wants to yank you back into him, wants to wield that weapon of a tongue—but other things take precedence now, like you, here, on his lap—so close to giving him everything he needs.

You think, to him, the demand must sound less like an order and more like salvation. 

He all but slams his hands down onto the armrests.

You smirk. "Good boy."

Unsurprisingly, he scowls again, a dangerous flash in his eyes—but that doesn't stop his hips from jerking greedily when you grind down against him—fingers digging into the leather underneath them, twitching like they want to make you do it again. 

That doesn't escape your notice. 

"Mm. Just incase." Pulling out your wand, you cast a spell that binds his wrists to the chair. "I know how you are." 

His expression shifts instantly, lips curling back into something like a snarl as he yanks at the invisible binds. They don't budge—your work is seamless—his own spellwork mastered and turned against him.

"I'm going to fucking digest you," he spits, all venom and heat, eyes blazing as he pulls harder. "When I get out of this chair, you'll—oh, you'll beg for-"

You shut him up with your mouth, crushing your lips to his. It's all teeth and tongue, desperate and wild, as your nails rake down his chest and he arches into you—

"Who says I don't like it when you make me pay, baby?" You breathe, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw a groan from deep in his throat. "Maybe it's my favourite part."

For a moment he doesn't respond—he knows that's true. You love this game too much not to toe the line when possibilities arise. He's pulling uselessly at the binds again as you roll your hips against him, dragging him further into ruin.

"You are," he chokes out, head tilting back as your teeth scrape along his jaw, "an infuriating, wicked little witch."

You huff against his skin, against the pulse point at his throat and the sensitive area under his ear—he's squirming—making strangled, animal sounds that have you seeping through your panties. 

"You're only just noticing?" You’re drinking in his hypersensitivity for all it's worth. "You're losing your touch."

He scoffs, or tries to—it comes out closer to a moan stuck between shallow breaths. 

"Noticed it...the day I met you," he gasps, hips jerking up as you rock against him. "But, fuck—you've gotten a hell of a lot worse."

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it's the company you keep—specifically, the one pinned beneath you. 

"You're just mad I'm beating you at your own game," you’re grinding down harder, fingers drifting to the buttons of your blouse. "You're a terrible loser."

"And you're—" he starts, but his words falter when you pull the last button free and shrug the fabric off your shoulders, exposing black lace and soft skin. "—an insufferable winner."

"I think the real problem," you toss your shirt to the floor, hands returning to slide down his chest again, undoing his buttons now. "Is that you secretly love losing to me." 

You'd think that would earn another snarl from him—or perhaps a sharp retort about how he'd never lose to anyone, or how he’d never enjoy being at your mercy—but he's clearly too far gone to keep up with even that as he watches you, all but trembling at your touch. 

"Stop—“ he twitches when your fingers glide over his exposed chest, trailing lower. "—talking."

"Make me," you make your way to his belt buckle, taking your time to undo it, sliding the leather free before moving to the zipper of his pants, dragging it down even slower. "Oh, wait. You can't."

He’s helpless to fight the growl you force out of him at that—a vicious sound that makes you clench. His fingers tighten around the armrests, yanking hard against the bonds holding him in place. Useless, you both know, but it doesn't stop him from trying, from straining against them like he might will them to break through sheer desperation alone. 

He exhales through his teeth. "Stop teasing." 

"Now where's the fun in that?" you dip your hand below the waistband of his boxers. He jerks beneath you as your fingers tease just enough to make his breath catch. "You should be grateful l'm taking pity on you—" your tone as soft as it is mocking, "—being oh so kind to help-"

Another groan, another almost snarl. "Stop. Teasing." 

Oh, how the tables turn. You know precisely how he's feeling—you've been here like this, with him, a million times before. It’s the sweetest torture. One you’re sure he doesn't want you to stop—not really. Not with a lust potion dripping from his pores. 

He fucking needs this.

"And what happensssss," you drag your words out as your fingers glide slow, featherlight strokes up and down his rock of an erection. "If I don't?"

His response is a wrecked string of profanity—some of it strangled, some of it guttural, and none of it in English. He's not even remotely coherent anymore, and you're not surprised. Eloquence had abandoned him long before you'd even stepped into the room.

"I will—" he hisses through clenched teeth as you tease your thumb over his leaking tip, "— fuck—I will fuck your ass so hard—“

Now that gets a moan from you—the filthiness of his words, at the way his voice drops so dark and low it should probably be a fucking felony. He's swearing, writhing, desperate, and you're absolutely dripping from it—from the way Tom Riddle has unraveled into this devastating, feral thing underneath you.

"Is that what you're thinking about right now?" Another murmur, lips brushing against his ear as you shift to tug his pants and boxers down. "Fucking my tight ass? Punishing me?"

"Without mercy," he spits, breath hitching as you free him—his cock springing out, thick and throbbing, twitching in time with his shallow gasps. "Fuck—"

You pull away to get a better look at him—and god, the sight almost makes you lose your mind. The man always so put together, always so self assured and smug and in control of every goddamn thing—reduced to this. 

"Such a vulgar mouth, for such a pretty face," leaning forward, you lick a slow, deliberate stripe up his neck. He tastes like sweat and sin. Just how you like him. "Tell me more."

"Fuck," his head tips back involuntarily, exposing his throat to you like it's instinct. He's twitching as you grind your slick heat along his shaft, soaking him, teasing him until his hips buck up against you. "Put me inside you—"

You're barely holding onto yourself, every roll of your hips against him leaving you dizzy and aching—but you drag it out, grinding down harder.

"That's an order, isn't it?" You breathe, catching his earlobe between your teeth. "You giving me orders now?"

"I'm giving you pleas," he rasps. "You fed me a potion that's made me so hard it physically aches, and now you're sitting here—fucking teasing me—"

"Retaliation," you reply with a smile. "You're the one who thought it was a good idea to feed me a truth serum before dinner at Malfoy's."

That night still lingers in both of your minds—things involuntarily said that can't ever be unsaid. Things that still make Draco avoid your eyes at every turn.

"A mistake," he grits out. In any other moment, you know he'd be smirking. "A mistake—I'll admit it, fuck-"

"You're not the type to make mistakes," it’s a true statement, one overridden by the feeling of his dick twitching as your hips still, going maddeningly idle. "You wanted the Malfoy’s to know I'm yours. And now, well, now I have to show you that you're mine."

There’s a moments pause at that. One that makes you realize just how loud your pulse is pounding in your ears. Tom looks at you, holding your eyes until—

"I am," he concedes, finally throwing in the towel with a gasp that's half desperation, half devotion. "Yours. So fucking take what's yours."

"Oh, baby," you purr, cupping his cheek in your palm. He leans into it without realizing, like he's starving for your touch. "I always do."

And with that, you rise up—slick soaked inner thighs leaving damp spots against his half pulled down trousers—humming with a smirk as you slide a hand over his chest, nails raking over his skin, holding him down against the chair—

"Be still," an order. "Or I'll take it a hell of a lot slower."

His whole body shudders at that—but does what he's told and keeps still—chest swelling with each shallow breath as he watches you—dark eyes flicking from your lips to your tits to your cunt—muscles straining and wrists firm against their binds. 

"Just—do it," he mutters through parted lips and clenched teeth—squeezing his eyes shut. "Please."

The world stops. Time freezing to nothing. You swear you'd forgotten how to breathe.

Please. Like it's a holy thing, a sacred word to be used only in worship. Like he's said something he's never uttered in his life. Please. Like a prayer, like a begging benediction. You'd never loved the sound of anything from his lips quite like you do that. 

You will hear it again. You long to make him say it until he forgets every other word he knows.

"How could I refuse that?" His eyes fly open as you reach down, gripping his aching length and gliding the head against your soaked slit. "Fuck, you're so big. So hard."

"Hard," he echoes as his hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction. "Because this is—torture."

"And whose fault is that, Tommy?" You taunt, just barely sinking down, letting the tip of him sit against what you know he wants. "Oh, that's right. Yours."

"Mine," he grunts before his patience finally snaps in half and he jerks his hips up—shoving his cockhead inside you with a strangled moan. "Fucking mine."

Oh, Merlin help you.

Your head falls back with a moan, eyes slipping shut as the sensation steals the breath from your lungs. He stretches you in the way only he can, and for a moment, you think you should punish him for disobeying you by taking back control—but you can't bring yourself to care about anything other than how fucking good it feels.

"Yours," you breathe, rolling your hips to take him just an inch deeper. "All yours."

"More," his voice cracks, the veins in his neck straining. "Take more. Please."

Theres the word again—please. It makes you weak, makes you greedy. Makes you break and give in on the sheer knowledge of how much it fucking pains him to say it. 

"Oh, gods"" you moan, shifting your hips to take him deeper still, inch by aching inch. "Fuck."

"Take it," he sneers, as if it's his turn to taunt you. Even like this, he's still the same bastard. "You can take more than that."

You curse lowly and sink your nails into his chest for it—because it's the kind of challenge you can't win, even like this you know you'll still lose. He knows it too. 

"I can," you hiss, sinking another inch deeper, and then another. "But can you?"

"Can I?" There’s a mocking lilt to his voice that knows. "Release my wrists, and we'll see."

Christ. That's a question you don't want to answer because you know anything other than yes would be a lie. It's tempting. You know as soon as you let him go he'd put those beautiful hands to use—he'd take back control and you'd immediately let him. Like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Even if this is supposed to be his punishment.  

"Be," you gasp, sinking down all the way and clenching tight as he kisses your cervix. "Quiet."

He lets out a sharp, strangled curse—a guttural string of something you think might either be Latin or Parseltongue—something rough and beautiful all at once—and you decide, right then, that it's undoubtedly the most sinfully delicious thing you've ever heard. 

"I love it when you swear," you manage to breathe out through moans, rolling your hips and savouring the stretch, the ache, the impossible fullness of him inside you. “And I love it even more that it's in languages I don't know—makes me wonder what you're saying."

"Things that'll get me slapped," he grunts, and the tone he uses is the one that promises trouble—trouble, if you let him go. "Or hexed, perhaps."

"Mm. I should hex you right now. I’m considering it," you’re gasping between moans, pleasure buzzing in your brain. "So hard."

"I think, right now," the words split between a groan as your nails leave faint red lines on his shoulders—as you clench around him again, dragging your slick walls up and down his shaft in rhythm. “If you tried to hex me, I’d let you. If it meant you’d keep going.”

You almost take him up on it. You love him like this far too much. So much it’s almost pathetic.

"Good boy." You force the words out, fighting through the sting on your cervix every time he bottoms out inside you, slamming against it. "So. Fucking. Good."

"Jesus Christ," he chokes, muscles taut as the veins in his neck strain. His hips jerk up to meet you at every bounce, greedy for more. "Don't stop."

"Oh, I won't," you dig your nails deeper into his skin for balance. The sting shoots through his body, his reaction delicious. "Not until l've made you swear to every god in the sky."

"Shouldn’t take long," he hisses through his teeth, shoulders cresting as your pace grows faster, more erratic. "I'm practically praying now."

"Good," you breathe, thighs burning as the heat coils tight and relentless inside you, every roll of your hips making you feel fuller, wetter, closer to falling apart. "I want to hear you pray my name."

"You're sadistic," he hisses. "Fuck."

"Pot, kettle," you taunt, biting lightly at the curve of his neck—not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to make him feel it.

The sound he makes—half moan, half growl—is filthy.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" You murmur, dragging your lips toward his ear, breath molten. "You like pain. I know you do."

"I'd like to inflict some right about now," his voice breaks as you nip at his earlobe. "My hands on your throat. That smart fucking mouth—"

"Mmm," you hum, rolling your hips slower, deeper. "And what would you do with it?"

"Fill it," his voice is broken, head tipping back as his body begs for release. "Fuck. I'm so fucking close."

"You're filthy when you're desperate," you whisper, dragging your hand up to his throat, fingers wrapping around it, squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch. "I fucking love it."

His eyes flash—for a moment, you're not sure how he'll take it—your hand curling around his neck, fingers pressing against the pulse hammering beneath his skin. The unpredictability of him—always teetering between fury and something far more intense—makes you hesitate, even in this state. You wonder if he'll snarl, buck you off, or somehow counteract the spell to rid of the restraints entirely—

But all he does is swallow against it, hips jerking up, cock pressing bruisingly deep—dark eyes fixing on your lips, wild and glassy with want—

And then, he fucking grins. "Tighter."

"Freak," you moan far too loudly, heat pooling low in your belly as you oblige, tightening your grip. You bounce faster, adrenaline fuelling you, panting growing sharper with every wild bounce. "Cum for me."

"Like I have a choice," he rasps, voice shredded, his teeth gritted as his eyes squeeze shut. "Fuck—ffffff—"

The sound he makes when he finally breaks—guttural, filthy, your name torn from his lips—is fucking devastating. Devastating enough to drive you directly to your own orgasm, eyes rolling back and crying out words you aren’t even aware of as he shudders and jerks and tenses underneath you.

"Oh, fuck-yes," you breathe, riding him through it, clenching hard until the aftershocks start to fade out, as you slow your pace. “Tom—“

"God," he gasps, his head falling back in exhaustion, voice stumbling over the word. "God. Fuck."

The incoherence coming from his mouth is a treat—and through your fog, for only the most fleeting of moments, you wonder who exactly he's praying to when he says that.

His chest is rising and falling like he's just run miles, sweat-slick skin glowing in the low light. His head rolls forward, eyes still heavy-lidded, and when they meet yours, there's something feral still dangling in their depths. A lingering hunger that makes your breath hitch.

"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He finally speaks after he finds whatever oxygen is left in the room. "To ruin me?"

You're still seated on him, still full of him, and even now, you can feel him twitch inside you. Strong potion.

You exhale with a smirk, feeling your pulse slow. "You're still in one piece, aren't you?"

He laughs—dark, deep, and utterly sinful. It's the kind of laugh that promises you haven't won anything at all. His wrists flex against the bindings, and you swear the leather creaks.

"For now," his tone is almost gentle, but the fire in his eyes betrays him. "But if you think I'm going to let you walk away after this..." he grins. "You're more delusional than I thought."

Oh, Tom. If you only knew.

[ailoda]

updated: 24.01.25

ᯓ★ smut

Delirium (✘): stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you. - avenger!reader (@flowersforbucky) (warning: sex pollen, i.e., dub-con, explicit verbal consent prior)

Special Girl (❤❅✘✧): being friends with benefits definitely has its perks, especially when the friend in question is as hot as Bucky Barnes - but when you're feeling insecure about the arrangement, Bucky makes it clear to you that you're more than just a friend. @kinanabinks) (warning: mentions of neglectful childhood)

Scary? My God, You're Divine (❤✘): your marriage to Bucky Barnes was crucial in stopping the rivalry that had been getting rather violent recently between the two families. You agreed to it. But there was one little problem. Although people knew of Bucky as being a ruthless, fiercely loyal, and feared hitman, no one had ever seen his face. In the rare occasions when he’d been seen out during assignments, it was rumoured that he always wore some sort of mask which covered most of his face. So you ended up marrying a man, and had no idea what he looked like. But surely that wouldn’t be an issue. It’s not like his one touch would get you addicted. Who cared what he looked like? It’s not like you could grow to love someone like him anyway… right? - mob!au (@sinner-as-saint)

Sting (✘): TattooArtist!Bucky praising you during a session. (@adrinktostopyourthirst)

↪︎ Fling (✘): your tattoo artist left you hanging and you’re fed up enough to come and collect his excuse. (part two)

Blurred Lines (❤❅✘✧): when choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you. (@ellemj)

Closer (✘): you’d never felt like this before, it was like some primal instinct deep down inside of you. You just needed to be close to him. The only problem was that you were already wrapped in his arms and it still didn’t feel close enough. (@tom-holland-parker)

Water Proof (✘): Bucky Barnes is pretty sure that his arm is water proof. He'd been in water with it before. Turns out his arm can handle water, but not p*ssy juice. (@vivwritesfics)

Book Boyfriend (✘): Bucky is better than any book boyfriend. You'll prove it to him. (@navybrat817)

In Your Arms I'm Born Again (❤✘): you want to find out exactly how many times is too many times for the super soldier. (@bonky-n-steeb)

What Are Friends For (✘): when you threaten to swear off men for good after your last bad date, your neighbour and friend offers to help change your mind. (@gogolucky13)

Down Bad (✘): Bucky using his metal hand as a vibrator. (@flowersforbucky)

I Hate You (✘): after ending up on SHIELD's radar, you're moved into the tower against your will. Of course, you can't stand the one man that you have the most in common with. (@ellemj)

new! Play Pretend (✘): when Bucky is injected with a substance that leaves him desperate for release, you offer your help. (@wkemeup) (warning: sex pollen trope, i.e., dub-con)

new! A Quiet Escape (✘): during a holiday stay at Clint Barton’s home, you’ve been desperately trying to steal a moment alone with Bucky—your super-soldier boyfriend—but the Avengers are constantly interrupting. Between Clint’s kids, Steve’s “bromantic” grocery runs, and Nat pulling Bucky into sparring sessions, it feels like you’re constantly fighting for his attention. Frustration finally boils over when you confront Bucky about your lack of privacy, only to discover he’s just as eager for some alone time as you are - and willing to do anything to get it. (@thebarneschronicles)

new! Revenge Sweeter Than Honey (✘): when Bucky’s professor unfairly grades his college assignment, ruining his perfect GPA, he finds a way to get revenge — And doesn’t his sweet little wife look delicious? (@thevillainswhore)

new! Caught Myself A Cute Little Doll (✘): the Winter Soldier caught himself a cute little doll. (@sergeantbarnessdoll)

new! Pretty Little Thing (✘): your long-time crush, Bucky Barnes, is a regular at the bar where you work, and tonight, it’s impossible to avoid serving him for the first time. (@marvelouslizzie)

new! Now or Never (✘): based off the prompts "You know my door is always open for you, right?" and "You're already wet sweetheart." (@fandoms-writings)

[baileyboo2016]

THIS IS LITERALLY ME WITH GULLIVER OMG