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sincere1ystar · 5 days ago

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NOOOO NOOOOO IT CANT END LIKE THIS😭😭😭😭😭 I HAD HOPE FOR THEM💔💔

౨ৎ꣑ৎI Wish You Were My Last Words౨ৎ꣑ৎ

[fem reader] contains: angst pairing: fem reader x billy the kid summary: snapshots of you and billy author’s note: angst hours <3 thank you so much for 800!! and thank you to my darling @phantomamour for proofing <3 Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

Your hair was spread out like the creeping branches of a tree over the pillow, covering the curve of your neck in fingers. On your shoulder, Billy could count each embedded line in your skin, constellations he named in his head without any real words. With one palm flat on the clean white of the sheet, your other hand was curled into itself, tucked into the center of your chest as if it were holding a secret.

He knew he could touch you, but it didn't feel possible. Somewhere deep inside himself, Billy knew he wasn't supposed to. It wasn't that you wouldn't want him to, just that he wasn't worthy. Often, he felt that way about being in this house, the mere ornate air of it enough to feed his family for months. You were the only thing in it he knew, and even then, it wasn't enough. Mysteries folded beneath your waves, peeked out briefly in each line on your back, every flicker on your face.

"I can feel you looking at me," you mumbled, shifting to lie on your back. The corners of Billy's lips turned up, and he let his arm stretch out under you.

"C'mere," he muttered, watching your eyes catch on surprise for half a moment before you complied, settling your head on his chest and closing your eyes when his palm found the side of your head, thumb following the line of your hair slowly. It didn't matter how many times you met like this. Every time he wanted to touch you, you reacted this way. Feeling hazy in a sacred sort of way, Billy's words flowed from his mouth like water from a creek. "When does everyone come back?"

"Hours," was your simple response. He pressed his mouth to your head.

He collected these moments like his little brother collected stones every time they went to the river. Joe would lay them out in the sunshine on the grass, each pebble of water clinging to the surface as it was collected into thin air. Billy did the same every night with the memories containing you, watching them dry until he plunged them back into the water of his subconscious.

This one would shine through. Even as he tried to stay here with you in mind, body, and spirit he couldn't help but think it. Your cheek was smooth on his bare chest, the covers sloping down over your back until they submerged the bottom half of you. He felt as though he could sculpt you from memory. The sun caught on your hair as it crept through cracks in your curtains, showing him little bits of gold on you that he could see without.

"Ma thinks I've got a girl," he mused, casting his gaze down when you shifted your head on him. Your eyes were still closed, and he made a game of counting each eyelash.

"Do you?" He tapped his thumb on your temple playfully, hooking his arm under yours and pulling you up so he could bury his nose in your hair. You smiled into his neck. "I'm sure she's lovely."

"You know you're as good as my girl." Billy was muffled, his lips still on your head. He pulled back, smoothing where he'd kissed with a careful hand.

"But I'm not." You said it so matter-of-factly that it caused a strike of guilt in his chest, tallied alongside the others. Knowing well that you didn't mean to make him feel that way, he wasn't sure why it always hit him. The terms of this had always been the same, and you didn't seem to have an issue with it. He was the problem.

There was a pause, a pocket of utter silence that could have defined reality, changed his mind about everything. You were draped over him and he could feel your heartbeat, and for a second, he let himself know that his own was for you, your life and your soul. Then you broke it, wrapping your fingers around one of his own and holding it. "Would I ever be?"

Billy let the question linger, testing it out in his head. Down the road, if he'd made something of himself, if his income was consistent. If he could walk into a place like where you lived and feel welcome, not like an intruder. "Maybe." He couldn't bear to tell you no.

"Your maybe is better than anyone else's always," you murmured dreamily. Billy was drunk off your scent, your voice, your being. He kissed your forehead, relishing in your giggle. "Scratchy."

"I know, I know," he smiled, leaning his cheek on the top of your head, already trying to work time to shave into his plans for the next day.

"When do you think you'll get tired of me?" Another matter-of-fact question. You gathered answers to such queries the same way one might wildflowers. He watched you let go of his thumb.

Billy put his hand on top of yours, burying the pads of each finger between your crevices so he was holding it fully. He inhaled you once more, letting it guide each word from his mouth. "When I'm dead. But not even then. I'll miss you too much."

His arm was firm under your hand, which was hanging limply over the crook of his elbow. At this point in time, you had given up trying to look interested, or even content. Whenever he smiled at you, it was a task to suppress the urge to grimace.

Maybe it was his eyes. To you, they were void of all emotion, any of the ones you knew anyways. His lips moved without purpose, and he dressed like he was hiding something. You had learned his name, let it bounce around in your head trying to find a place to fit, and ultimately disposed of it. This man was identified by sounds, feelings, questions. He didn't have any of the charm necessary to obtain a woman by himself, only proven further by the sole reason you were being seen with him.

It was a good deal, you supposed. Your father got rid of you and got a connection to what was considered a good family. The man next to you never needed to learn how to court. And every woman in the world was now safe from being his. It worked for everybody except you, but that was something you'd given up on.

The acceptance was dreary. It felt like a winter night, when the sun isn't out long enough to make anyone happy, and when people try to fill the void of time with false cheer that doesn't do a thing to make up for it. Disappointment. That was a good word.

The man was talking again, and you turned your head to the side, looking for a distraction. Horses at the hitching post were still save for their flicking tails, and there was a group of men slouching in formation outside the bar, a cloud of cigar smoke and low voices. Your eyes caught on one- he was already looking at you. The sky was darkening, but if it wasn't you would see his eyes there.

Billy hadn't changed since you'd stopped seeing him, but absence made you feel as though he had. But you knew if you went back to him in the same way, every part of him would be familiar, every line consistent under your hands.

"You shouldn't be seeing us both," he'd said, folding his arms and leaning against your porch railing. You could still see his eyes under the shade of his hat. "I won't come by anymore."

You'd been silent, not understanding the feeling that had you stricken. He had seemed to be waiting for you to say something, but all the beginnings of your feelings had boiled down to quiet. "If that's what you want."

He'd still watched you, refusing to tear his eyes from your face. Something in you flicked your heart, telling you to hold on tight to him, to tell him you didn't want him to leave. You could tell him right now about your father's arrangement, about how you didn't want this in any way. His arms could be open to you. You could knock off his hat and kiss him.

Every 'could have' accompanied your thoughts as you looked at him now. And he clearly wasn't going to look away. As the man led you through the doorway of the bar, you forced yourself to look forward. Billy wasn't yours. You weren't sure if anything was.

Hours later, you were still in the dimly lit room, numbed by every word the man chose to speak. His hand was weighty at your side, but not in any comforting way. You pushed it off and he took no notice.

Wandering, you observed the others in this space, your head almost spinning. There were too many sounds, too many faces. You were about to crumble into a ball like a dropped handkerchief, uncaring if anyone stepped on you or retrieved you from there.

That was the truth of it. You were alone here like a dying star, too exhausted to care if anyone could see the light burning out.

"Hey." Hands under your arms, pulling you up as you began to fall. You hid your face in a shoulder, closing your eyes and wishing to go far, far away from here. "He's gone. Come sit with me for a minute."

"He's gone," you repeated, hating the relief you felt.

"Saw him walk out with someone else's girl," Billy was saying, walking you over to a table and pulling out two chairs, one at a time so he could still hold onto you. It was unclear when you'd figured out it was him, but you were too hazy to care. When he sat down, you ignored the other chair and fell into his lap, drawing in a deep breath.

Billy let you slump against him for a moment before his big hands found your waist, lifting you to sit where he'd originally intended. You tilted your head against the back of the chair, looking at him through heavy eyes. "Another girl."

"I'm sorry." He sounded sincere.

You straightened, shaking your head. "I don't care what he does. I don't care."

He made no comment. Your eyes found his hand on the table, resting beside an opened bottle. Reaching over, you swiped it, taking a drink and setting it back down with a thunk, all with the weight of his stare on your shoulders. The alcohol sent a spark through you, and you crossed your ankles, meeting his eyes again. "You're here alone." It wasn't a question.

Billy lifted his chin, staring at you. "Maybe."

You swallowed. "You haven't found a girl to go home with."

"No."

"Do you want one?"

"No." A rush of disappointment washed over you, and you weren't sure why. Already, you'd spoken more to him than anyone in weeks. Maybe you'd expected it to be strange with him, but it was like finding normality again. The first taste of it since the man.

"I'm sorry about your ma." It slipped out in a whisper. "And Joe." Billy seemed to soften, and you used the opening, resting your hand over his and squeezing. "I'm sorry." The last part was more and you both knew it.

Time froze. It was just you and him, knees nearly touching, watching each other, waiting for the other to say something important. Your heart spun a veil around you both, and his eyes were drawing you closer, beckoning for you to sink into him again, to drown this time.

He exhaled through his nose, turning his palm around under your hand and clasping your fingers together. "I'll take you home, sweetheart." The veil tore. You knew nobody could have heard it except you.

Billy didn't let go of your hand, his touch as he helped you onto his horse gentle. He'd always treated you that way, as if you were delicate, as though he could break you. Nothing had changed.

It was how you knew he didn't know that he was only handling the pieces of you now.

When it started again, it felt like a dream. He would return to his lodgings with your scent on his clothes, the ghost of your kiss on his neck, his chest, his mouth. Leaving for a little while had done nothing to discourage what had been planted the first time he'd ever seen you.

It hadn't been by choice. He'd have stayed and watched you at every stage from afar, picked you up every time your accompaniment knocked you down and never expecting anything in return. In his heart he knew he could have done it forever.

A desperate attempt at robbery had changed it all. Remembering it was a blur, and some days he wasn't even sure what had happened. He'd stumbled from town to town, drunk off memories and the idea of you. Months had slipped through his fingers in the blink of an eye, and he tried to cleanse himself of all he'd left behind.

But you were tightly stitched into his essence. And so he'd found himself back, in a place he'd never thought he'd return.

The haze of how it happened again was the furthest thing from his mind right now. Upon recollection, he could recall searching, scheming, knocking on the door of the house he knew was yours now and hoping nobody would answer. It was a phantom in his mind, whispering for him to keep his feet planted, to wait no matter how long it took so he could at least see you again.

When the door swung open and you were on the other side, he nearly lost his breath. Billy could have died happy knowing he'd seen you one more time.

He'd entered. Spoken to you. Then done more than speaking.

His thoughts protested. They pointed out the wedding ring on your finger, reminded him where he was kissing you.

But your hands were so soft, and you were whispering how much you'd missed him, how you needed him. Before he knew it, he was saying those very same things, knowing he meant them.

It was the missing piece to his existing, the purpose, the reason, the only thing he cared about in the world. That you wanted him, and he wanted you back. Billy didn't say anything about your husband, and neither did you. He fell into a state of pretending whenever he met you from then on. He imagined he was your love, that he'd bought you this house and he was taking care of you. He imagined you were his, because he was yours so completely.

He'd wait until your husband left each night you sent a message and then circle to find you again. You would be waiting, as lovely in darkness as in light, and he'd raw you in for a kiss, let it bleed into more.

Here he was again in the thick of you, wanting you as his girl and cursing himself from before. How foolish he had been.

Now you were stretched out, bare and beautiful and borrowed, between his legs, breathing soft. His arm laid across your middle, legs bent to cradle you in. Your hand came up to hold his wrist, and he smiled, stroking his finger over the underside of your breast.

There were a million things neither of you would say. You wouldn't ask him where he's been all this time or why he left. He wouldn't ask you about why you were so pale now, so thin. He wouldn't do anything but drink in the time he was allowed.

Despite it all, when he looked down, nuzzling his nose into your hair and about to say something along the lines of how beautiful you were, he froze when he saw the purpling mark on your side, just barely out of sight.

Had it been daytime, he would have caught it right away. Had it been daytime he would have been brave enough to ask you about it. These moments were so scarce, so hurried. His eyes were shut when he'd kissed down your stomach earlier, in a rush to get where he knew you needed attention.

A question of it parted his lips. He was so close to asking, so close to knowing. You sighed softly, squeezing his wrist and reaching your other hand up behind you to touch his face. Billy turned his head to kiss your palm, catching your hand with his fingers. He brought them down to rest on your stomach, never once letting go.

He wouldn't muddy this time with talk of the one who'd caused the mark. Even without you telling, he knew. Besides, no good would come of knowing. Only enhancement of his hatred for someone he didn't know. And he'd dredge up this precious moment with the angel in his arms asking about the life he knew you wanted to escape. Why else would you be here with him now?

The protector in him flared. He tried to stop himself, begged with himself not to ruin this. "What if you came with me?"

You shifted against his chest. "Hm?"

He couldn't stop himself. "What if we left together?" Letting go of your hand, Billy moved to cover your bruise with his palm. "I'll have to leave sometime. Folks are still after my head for what happened last year."

Quiet. He wished he could dive into your head, pry every one of your thoughts out to cup in his hands and keep safe. The mystery of you was part of why he loved you. You were a question, but he still knew you, knew you better than anything in the world. But now he was through with not having you.

"I can't," you said quietly, thumb tracing a circle on his wrist. "My husband-"

"Fuck 'em all," he whispered, shaking his head and kissing your hair. "It's you and me. It always should've been you and me."

"You didn't want me." He felt his heart begin to chip. You curled into yourself a little as you said, "And I didn't blame you."

"Hey." Billy sat up straighter, and you got off his chest to face him, crossing your arms to hold your shoulders so your breasts were covered. "I've never been good enough for you. It was the only thing stopping me. It wasn't right of me, sweetheart. I know that now."

Your eyes were heavy. "I've been broken, Billy. I think I always was. And you were so gentle with me all the time. I would have been anything with you that you wanted."

"Baby," he whispered.

"You need to leave," you said softly, looking down, your hands still on your shoulders. "Maybe this was a mistake. I'm sorry for everything."

"No, no." Billy reached out, cupping your face in both his hands. You looked up at him, and he made a wish for every mark of pain and strife in your eyes to be erased. "You need to leave with me. We'll go far away, angel. He'll never find us. Nobody will." You sniffled, leaning forward into his arms, and he held the back of your head, hiding his nose in your hair and trying to breathe you in again. You weighed nothing in his arms, his heart bearing the brunt of it.

Turning your head, you pressed a kiss to his chest. Billy shook his head, arms tightening around you. I love you, he said over and over again with every bit of him.

"You always knew how to find me, Billy," you breathed. He didn't let go. "I'll be here if you need me again."

#my heart just tore into two #NO I WILL NEVER RECOVER #billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #daisy’s fic recs 🧺

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iniquitousyearning · 2 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.