#oh it hurts. oh its bitter

[pentaghast]

if im honest i like king alistair w a warden queen! theyre happy ur honor!!!

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

but not everyone likes fun and games.

it was only supposed to be silly, lighthearted, something to bring a smile to your face. and how could they have known that somewhere inside you is an animal that still holds the fear of being trapped, held down, torn apart?

(could be considered a sort of side-part to the Bitter-Bones saga, that weird edgy angsty thing i did a while back that was abt Sun n Moon disliking a self insert and the self insert taking it badly lol. maybe this takes place when sun n moon are trying to be nice n make up for being huge jerks for so long lmao)

[spotsupstuff]

Okay, I was going to explain a possible path for a worm of the string au with Sparrow complaining one day that the puppet can't leave the chamber to relive the fever of being in one place and that her thesis being rejected and then Caper reading the thesis and iterating that idea and then he somehow manages to get off the string.

But getting off the umbilical without reason or explanation is more funny!

Imagine if that starts happening to the others iterators?

Pls tell me his face is priceless! More so if it is a red lizard (do train lizard exist in your au?)

Also, how would Notos and Haboob react to Sparrow?

Now, you mentioned that when Sparrow killed the red centipede she was not in the respawning cycle. What is the age that the Ancients enter the cycle?

staring like a deer caught in headlights GSDLKMCLK this man should either have internal bleeding from a Red Liz bite or bad damage in the coconut and Yet he's 👌 how puzzling n yah! train/hurricane lizards Are real in the Serotonin Take!

as for Notos n Haboob, assuming it's in the off string post-ascension thing too:

they'd like each other! :D

and the respawn cycle is entered once the etheric body is finished growing which is around like.... 20-23 years old

[binguspoletooth]

It's so strange thinking about the 1 or 2 times I've been with a guy I was always servicing and stuff and never really receiving? Hard to really put into words but I feel like I was always way more into them than they were into me... The one other guy who seemed really into me was nice but... Life gets in the way...

[sunshinestardrop]

I want to throw up I Keep thinking about what Gege did to Gojo and GOD its so TERRIBLE

LOVE IT

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[rucow]

do u ever think about how there's 8 dagoth siblings.....the number of scorpio. the number of transformation and death and rebirth. the number of the serpent. ough

or. do u think of how dagoth ur was probably formed from voryn's last dying thoughts, and that involved thoughts of their family. of keeping their family safe and away from the heart and all the wretched things it can do to a mortal's soul

do u think that's why the ash vampires (voryn's siblings) can't go near the heart in the game? bc voryn didn't want them to be corrupted. so dagoth ur channels the heart's power through themself instead (because they are already dead and there's no hope left for them) and spreads it to their siblings to keep them alive indefinitely. voryn's last self sacrificial feelings carry on through dagoth ur

and do u think that voryn's siblings serve dagoth ur as loyally as they do, despite all of them being very sane of mind and rational (while dagoth ur Isn't) in return for the love and care that voryn held for them before all of this happened? when they were all a normal, untainted, living family? do you think so too? i do

[cealesti]

i wish i was at a point of my life where my anger could be productive, where i could use it as fuel and shield alike. but im not. im tired, im at the end of my rope, im exhausted. i want this done, i want this over, i want OUT.

i hate feeling hatred. i always try to center myself in love and care, even when i'm pissed off or scared, but it's been too fucking long and im so fucking angry and i hate them for still existing near me.

i hate them for fucking me over like this. i hate them for lingering after they've done it. i hate them beyond words at this point. and i HATE that no one gives me the fucking space to be this angry

[satanssquidgy]

How are people so rational and capable of not being bitter

[mars-ipan]

i think i’ve talked about it already but i fucking hate when people misconstrue my hatred for the military as hatred for soldiers/veterans. a huge part of my hatred for the military as an institution is the way they fuck over and exploit their soldiers and then abandon their veterans. like that is 50% if not more of why i hate the military

[aetherbladedstick]

.

[chuluoyi]

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒

- sylus x reader

you suspect something’s off when you catch your lover with the hunter girl, so you decide to give him the cold shoulder. his way of winning you back? trapping you in a bet—if he wins this underground fight match, you’re back to being his

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—brief smut, comfort, total fluff, assassin!reader (not l&ds mc), based on sylus' card radiant brilliance

note: this has been looong buried in my drafts since before my writer's block started :') again, a part of the assassin!reader that started with strictly (un)professional

Your lover— he is definitely hiding something.

“Mmph!” A moan escaped you mid-kiss as his palm suddenly cupped your right breast, squeezing and stroking it, while two of his left fingers thrusted inside you, getting you wet.

His fevered lips and tongue melded with yours, his wicked fingers driving you to the brink of madness—and oh damn, the devil that possessed them felt so heavenly—as he pressed you against the vanity, bending you over its edge.

A knowing gleam flickered in his eyes. “Mm, you talk too much, woman.”

Your thoughts blurred, teetering on the edge of control, yet deep within, a spark of aggravation incessantly burned, especially when you remembered the person you had caught him manhandling earlier this afternoon—

Miss Hunter.

“Sylus—! Stop!”

"Tch." He pulled away with a hiss as soon as you pushed his chest away with everything you had. Just like that, you were left high and dry; the emptiness his fingers had left behind made you instinctively cross your legs. "Why are you so uncooperative tonight?"

"You—" Gasping for breath, you clutched your slipping nightgown, glaring sharply at him despite the discomfort of the hard surface beneath you. "You really think you can shut me up... with sex?"

"I'm telling you, nothing happened." Sylus’ lips curled with a smug hint of satisfaction, only fueling your irritation. "Didn’t know my woman had such a jealous streak until now."

If there was one thing you’d learned from years by Sylus' side, it was that everything he did had a purpose. If it had been some random bimbo hanging around the casino or his resorts, you wouldn’t bat even an eye.

But this was the Miss Hunter—the very girl he had spent decades searching for, the one with whom he shared a bond so profound that he had forsaken everything just for the chance to find her again.

And compared to her, you were just his bedwarmer... who just happened to catch his eye.

"You two were kissing," you accused almost spitefully, the words laced with bitter edge.

His grin vanished, replaced by a look of distaste. "We were not."

You knew what you saw—he cornered her in the furthermost corner of the base, far away from even from the prying eyes of Luke and Kieran, and they were definitely just an inch away from each other. "Then what were you two doing?"

"Can't we talk just like acquaintances do?" The lack of viable answer gnawed at you. If there was nothing to hide, why didn’t he just say so and put your suspicions to rest?

"Will you do her like you do me?" The venom in your voice startled even you, slipping out before you could stop it. "Ha. I should’ve known..."

By now, he had this sour yet stern look in his face that made you almost shudder but you stood your ground. His tone was almost mocking, "Insecurity makes you so bitter, sweetie. Get yourself together."

It felt like a prick in the heart. Oh. As heartless as you were in the face of blood and gore, you still had it apparently when faced with your lover's conniving red eyes and sinful lips.

But more than that... as they said, heartbreak is one thing, but your ego is another.

"To hell with you!" you snapped, sitting up straight. Sylus blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the look on your face—was it showing the hurt? Or just plain defiance? Even you weren’t sure as you spun on your heel and stormed out of his room promptly.

Not for the first time, the very idea that he might be getting on with another woman twisted something inside you, the ache sharper than you expected. It suddenly saddened you to a degree that it brought mist to your eyes.

For the next three days, you ignored Sylus almost completely. He tried to get back to your good graces, but you paid him no mind, acting as if he didn't exist.

“Missus, please— just say yes!”

And caught in the crossfire, poor Luke and Kieran had become his reluctant messengers.

You unconsciously shot a sharp glare at the twins. Perhaps it was the mental strain you were putting yourself under, but you truly hadn’t meant to scare them more than they already were.

"Boss is really cranky when he isn't in a good mood," Luke pleaded, clasping his hands together. "Please just help us this time, will you?"

"He promises he’ll make it right!" Kieran chimed in with a hopeful grin. "As soon as he wins his match this weekend, you’ll see—there’s nothing to worry about!"

Sylus and his penchant for boxing. You knew these underground matches were something he indulged in now and then, and you'd let him be.

But this time...

"How are you so sure he's going to win?" You lifted your chin, a taunting smirk curling your lips. "And no, I'm not going. Tell him that."

"Missus, you have to see reason— there is no way Boss is having an affair—" Kieran insisted, shaking his head in frustration.

"Boss is whipped!" Luke cut in, throwing his hands up. "For you! Can't you see?!"

"..." For a solid five seconds, silence blanketed the room. You arched an eyebrow so high it made Luke look like he'd just spilled the world’s best-kept secret, while Kieran slapped a hand over his mask in exasperation.

And things were obviously not getting better—

"Ha. I'm what?"

You could see the twins visibly gulping the very second Sylus' voice boomed across the hall, and you rolled your eyes.

"Pfft," he let out this low chuckle as he made his way towards the three of you. "Hear that, sweetie? Luke isn't wrong."

"..."

"The little kitty's anger hasn't subsided, I see," he murmured, tilting his head to the side with a playful smirk, arms folded across his chest. "Such little trust you have in me."

You sighed. "Don't tempt me to hate you prolifically, Sylus."

"You wound me," he retorted, ruby-red eyes narrowed. "I have been nothing but honest and transparent."

You turned away, pressing your lips into a tight line. Deep down, you knew how childish all of this felt. Maybe it was nothing, after all. Maybe, just like he said, it was your insecurity twisting things.

And why are you so insecure, anyway?

"Keep your eyes on me, kitten."

Suddenly, caught off guard, you almost yelped as he tilted your chin towards him, forcing you to meet his gaze. Your heart raced wildly, but you fought to keep it in check.

"I win, and you’ll do what I say," his eyes flicking from yours to your lips, his voice a velvety whisper in your ear. "But if I lose... you can have your way—however you want."

Your pride took over. A second later, you jerked your face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction. To salvage your dignity, you let out an indignant scoff.

"Best hope you lose then."

You’d never been fond of crowds, let alone sitting in the stands of a boxing match.

And yet here you were, clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers—the twins had practically shoved them into your arms before bolting away—surrounded by the deafening roar of fans.

You would punish them later, you so would. It was humid and you were fuming. There was nothing interesting here, and to top it all off, Sylus’ turn to the ring was taking forever.

Until it didn't.

When he finally stepped into the spotlight, you caught sight of him on the big screen. And in that moment—when that devilish smirk curled his lips—you could’ve sworn he wasn’t aiming it at the crowd.

He was throwing it right at your direction.

And oh, how the rapid and traitorous thump-thump-thump inside your chest drowned out everything else, as if the roar of the crowd gradually faded at the realization.

How is it that he always manages to get your heart in his grasp?

. . .

When they said this sport wasn’t for the weak, they weren’t lying. No matter how tough you thought you were, you still flinched every time the opponent’s fist connected with your lover’s jaw.

Despite all the aggravation you harbored about him, watching him stumble and get knocked back felt like a punch to your own gut. In that moment, all you wanted was for it to end.

And when it finally was—when the referee raised Sylus’ arm and declared his victory—you exhaled a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief washed over you in a quiet, fleeting wave.

However, reporters and cheers quickly swarmed him, and the distance between you felt even greater then. There he stood, proud as ever, lofty as if standing atop clouds, surveying the world with thinly veiled contempt. Meanwhile, you…

You were still dissatisfied. Sylus had a way of winning everything he set his sights on, while you remained stuck with your own petty grievances and emotional baggage you subjected yourself to.

It was vexing, really. How you wanted him to win and not at the same time. How you wanted his everything and knowing you would never be able to.

“What’s the secret to winning this match?!” one reporter asked, voice brimming with excitement.

Sylus answered with a casual smirk. “I made a bet I absolutely can’t lose,” he said coolly. “So, I won.”

The girls in the stands erupted into deafening cheers at his response, their shrill voices forcing you to cover your ears.

The nerve. You scoffed, irked by his answer and by the crowd’s adoration. You decided you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of you lingering here any longer.

Snatching up your bag and that damned bouquet, you marched toward the exit with long, determined strides when—

“Ooh? And who is this special person?!”

“Ah, look, there she is.”

You froze mid-step as the spotlight suddenly pinned you in its beam. Whirling around, your breath caught as you saw Sylus descending from the arena, his gaze locked onto yours.

What the hell?

For a moment, you froze in utter disbelief as he approached you with that effortless grace, as if the crowd around him didn’t exist. Before you could piece together your fragmented thoughts, he was already standing before you.

“Are you mad?!” you murmured in a hiss, your voice barely louder than a breath over the distant roar of cheers, yet pointed enough to pierce the air between you.

Sylus, however, only let out a snort, swiftly snatching the bouquet from your arms, and pulling you by the shoulders— his breath tickled you ear as he whispered:

“Got you.”

—and before you could react, he crashed his lips on yours in a bold kiss that at sent the crowd into an instant uproar of cheers.

“Whoa, whoa! The champion! Look how manly he is!”

“He has a girlfriend?!”

“Oh, my! To be that girl!”

“—!” You almost pushed him away, only to falter when you realized his kiss was anything but forceful. It was deep but disarmingly gentle.

Sylus pulled back just as quickly, his eyes twinkled with mischief as he took in your stunned expression.

“You’re mine now, sweetie,” he said with a smug grin, giving you a light pat in the head.

The way his eyes crinkle as he looks at you... Your cheeks burned, and your heart thundered in your chest, drowning the roars of the swooning crowd—

Because in that moment, you could’ve sworn there was nothing but pure adoration in those mesmerizing garnet eyes of his.

“You've gone and done it... What if anyone recognizes us?”

Later that night, freshly showered and wrapped in silk nightgowns, you sat at the edge of the bed, towel in hand as you dried your wet hair. You cast a glance at Sylus, who had just bathed with you and now lounged nearby with an unbothered grin.

The events from this afternoon still felt like somewhat of a dream to you. You had never been under that much of a spotlight before— too used to a life shrouded in shadows, quietly biding your time, preparing to brandish your blade when the moment came.

But through Sylus, every now and then, you caught a glimpse of what it felt like to stand on the other side of that darkness. And it felt freeing— like you could finally breathe, unburdened by the scent of blood and gunpowder.

"Wouldn't that be fun? Imagine the headlines," he shrugged nonchalantly. "The Onychinus leader and his missus... masquerading as a boxer and his fan for a day."

You huffed, shooting him a stink eye. "That's not even funny."

Despite the public display that Sylus had more or less pulled and made the two of you known as lovers even in underground world, there was still a gnawing curiosity at the back of your mind, feeding your insecurity—

The sight of him and Miss Hunter replayed again in your mind's eye. It was never fun finding them together in such close proximity.

And yet, in the end... he returned to you, still. Unspoken it may be, but Sylus had always taken your side so far.

You let out a long, resigned sigh. That caught his attention as he turned to you. "What is it?"

"Nothing," you quipped, slightly grimacing. "Forget it. I'm going to sleep."

Sylus raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on you. Even when you hid it, he knew what you'd wanted to ask and if you asked it now, he would tell you.

The way your face had fallen bothered him more than he'd like to admit. He rose from the recliner and moved to your side. "No, you won't be sleeping."

"What?"

He knelt beside you, gently taking hold of your leg, and pressed a kiss to your calf, his touch warm and unhurried as he met your gaze with a sly smile.

"Sylus..." you eyed him with incredulity, feeling yourself getting warm.

His red eyes crinkled. "Don't you want to ask me something?"

Your hand reached out to caress his face, and he leaned into your touch. That simple act alone brought a small, intrigued smile to your face. "No."

"Hmph. Really?"

"What?" You traced your fingers on his sharp jaw, admiring it. "You think I'll demand you for answers about whether you're two-timing me with Miss Hunter again?"

Sylus tilted his head, relishing the way your fingers cradled his face, staying quiet, however.

You were really great at this pushing and pulling game. It irked him to see how detached you seemed now when he knew a part of you had been fazed by it days ago.

He disliked it when you tried to hide what you were feeling. He hated it even more when you doubted him for anything. But seeing how unhappy you had been lately rattled him.

"Nothing happened," he said in a low voice, catching your hand and locking eyes with you. "Would you feel better if I had told you that since the beginning?"

"Who knows?" you replied with a soft shrug, a wry smile on your lips. "You didn't tell me before."

What a vixen. The thought simmered in his mind. Mine, though.

Like a cat pouncing on its owner, Sylus suddenly moved, going straight for your lips and pinning you to the bed. Intertwining his fingers with yours, he pried your lips open with his tongue.

Yet despite it all, you felt how gentle he was. The Sylus from before would just fuck you senseless and be done with it, but the one with you now... he treated you with an unexpected tenderness, as if savoring every second with you.

He pulled away only when you were breathless, the saliva string between your lips breaking as he gave you a moment to gasp for air. His gaze softened, lingering on your flushed face, a satisfied smile curling on his lips.

"You will see for yourself tomorrow. Tonight, however..." he trailed off, his lips hovering just above yours.

But you placed one hand on his chest and another on his neck, looking up at him with bleary eyes, the vulnerability in your gaze tugging at something within him.

"Actually, I'm a bit exhausted..." You found his intense gaze and blinked slowly. "So, can you be not as rough?"

"Ha." Sylus let out a snicker at your request, taking the hand you had on his chest and pressing a soft kiss on it.

What a precious little thing you are. Your face right now... It was a look he couldn’t resist, one that made him want to protect you and ruin you, all at once.

His smirk lingered. "Of course, sweetie. I'll go easy on you tonight."

And true to his word, he didn't break his promise.

Even as he pinned both your wrists above your head, capturing your lips in a heated kiss—

—as he dived between your legs, his tongue skillfully devouring your clit—

—and as you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

And later, when he pulled you into his arms and murmured softly until you drifted to sleep.

When you woke up the next morning, it was because of two things.

One— it was freezing. Your thin nightgown was definitely no match against the biting chill of a winter morning.

And two— Sylus wasn't here.

You wondered where he could have gone as it was his bedtime, but as you pulled the comforter closer to keep yourself from shivering, something caught your eye.

It took you a full three seconds to process it.

There was a ring on your finger.

"Huh...?" You were jolted awake by the sight of the glittering ruby. It was intricate, yet strangely nostalgic, reminding you of Sylus' eyes. How? Why?

You immediately turned to the nightstand, your gaze landing on a small jewelry box sitting neatly atop it. You scrambled for it, the name of the jeweler embossed on the lid caught your attention. It wasn’t from anywhere in N109 Zone.

It clicked to you at all once. So, that was why he was with Miss Hunter?

But more than that, what caught your heart was when you flipped it open and found a note inside, with a scrawled handwriting you would never mistake for anyone else's—

Because forever is too long and boring to be spent alone. So, your answer is…?

[konigsblog]

OCTOBER 2ND — RAPIST!SIMON. You should've known better. Walking around with an ass like that in such a skimpy, revealing dress... What were you thinking?

2024 KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. (DAY 2)

TW/CW: NON-CON.

Prey. Simon couldn't hold back on his selfish, abhorrent urges. You were a sight for sore eyes, drunkenly stumbling out of a pub all alone with no-one to shield or guard you, your tiny and skimpy dress exposing and revealing your soft, addictive body. You could feel Manchester's harsh, bitter wind against your skin, raising goosebumps on the surface. You winced with each dreadful step as you weakly wandered through the city, your vision quickly becoming impaired, worsening with the toxicity of the drinks. Therapy wasn't enough for someone as debauched and ill as Simon. He couldn't pry his watchful and predatory gaze from your weak and confused figure, the depraved voice in his rotten mind only encouraging him. Go on, Simon. This is your only opportunity...

Control, something he yearned for, desperately tried to grab a hold of. His grip was firm on your delicate anmd gentle skin, much softer than his, with scars littering his body. His hold was tight and threatening enough to leave deep, agonising marks. His sinful touch left imprints along your thighs as he pried your legs apart with the intent to violate you with his disturbing desires, with one finger pressed against your lips, slowly wiping a wandering tear away while silencing you with the sheer, brutal size. You winced and cried out, drowned out by the distant traffic noises in the far distance. The intense ache only worsened — intensified, and grew with each deep, relentless thrust. “Filthy slag. You want this. I know it.”

Despite the horrified and intoxicated pleas that dripped from your lips, your cunt only reacted to his actions despite how deranged and immoral they truly were. Simon longed, and dreamt for this moment. Now, here he was, finally taking authority over a vulnerable and drugged woman who was too hypnotised by the alcohol and its effects to defend herself. Helplessly clawing at him for survival through his ruthless attack. He stuck three thick, calloused fingers down your warm and velvety throat, earning himself a broken and mortified gag. Your tight and slick hole oozed around his thick and growing shaft, with pearly drops of your sweet, sweet ecstasy coating him. Oh, it wouldn't hurt to snap a few photographs of your misery, would it?

“You were askin’ for it. Look at the state of you, Doll.” He spat, his eyes darkening and narrowing in on you, admiring the crimson that dripped and rolled down his lengthy cock, the way he speared and prodded you with his twitching and pulsating cock. You trembled violently, with the Autumn rain kissing your cold, bruised skin, slowly washing away his sinful touch and the blood that stained your thighs.

It would be cruel to leave you all alone, bleeding uncontrollably between your filthy, dirty legs in an isolated alleyway, wouldn't it? He'll just take you home, chain you up, and keep you as his own personal meat.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, virginity loss, degradation, abuse of power, Christianity, blasphemy, medieval times, corrupt priest, torture devices, abuse, punishment, misogyny, public humiliation, execution of non-named characters

♡ FEM reader

A scold's bridle, sometimes called a witch's bridle, a gossip's bridle, a brank's bridle, or simply branks, is an instrument of mirror punishment utilized by the church to publicly humiliate women who speak out of turn.

And you’ve unfortunately been deemed one of them…

You can only regret it now—wish you’d kept your mouth shut—wish you’d just held your tongue and spared yourself the poetic justice. You’d even been warned—that’s the dumb part, the part that makes the regret even more bitter. You’d been told gossipping would only land you in a world of hurt, and you, brave-faced and foolish, had ignored the advice. And now you’re facing the consequences.

Branks, an awful contraption, act as a muzzle in an iron framework, caging the head—quite like a helmet—a heavy helmet. Tight and trapping, it’s enough to make your head ache after a mere minute of wear. But that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is the bridle-bit—a metal wedge about two inches long and one inch wide in size, of which they slide into your mouth, pressing down on top of your tongue—silencing you entirely. 

But being unable to talk is only the first and least of many discomforts—as it also makes your jaw cramp up, and makes a humiliating amount of drool run wild down your chin—making you look like some or other rabid street mutt that’s ben muzzled for its own good.

The chunky metal collar you’re made to wear doesn’t help negate that imagery, nor does the bell attached to it—drawing in the crowds to the town square where you’ve been put on display, fastened to the tron for public judgment and ridicule.

Oh, and they are full of it today.

Standing there, an army of justice—warped faces and pointed fingers. The kids throw rotten fruit, and the elders fouler words—calling you a Jezebel. 

At least you’re not alone up there but sharing the burden with a handful of other miscreants. One’s bent over in the pillory beside you—another three stand next to him up on the gallows, shaking in their piss-soaked boots, noose loosely around their necks—soon-to-be hangmen. 

Thank God the worst things are thrown their way—at least they’ll be set free of it soon. 

The poor sinners hang there still as the sun starts to set and most of the crowd’s gone home for the day, crows picking at the jelly of their dead eyes while the town’s church officer leads you away by leash.

With your hands and arms bound behind your back, you stumble barefoot and gracelessly through the streets—yanked along all the way from the town square up the hill to the church at the top for your final ruling. 

You’re made to kneel on the cobblestone where the clergyman chains your iron collar to the wall.

You’d always pitied those put in the jougs, though you’d also thought them deserving—never knowing you’d be one of them someday. Now you know first-hand what being deserving means. In a town as small as this, where word travels as quickly as you can speak them, only a few ill thoughts will turn everyone against you.

Everything is in a state of discomfort, but at least you’ve finally escaped the town people’s heckling—now secluded in the peaceful quiet of God’s house to reflect in solitude. 

Or… at least, that’s the standard procedure for such offenses.

“Alright then, little magpie,” the church officer announces while unscrewing the cruel headpiece.

It’s surprising. You’d for sure thought he’d leave it on. It was your understanding that it’s common for the scold to wear the bridle until morning and only then be freed. 

But in any case, be it by pity or mercy, you’re ever grateful nevertheless and won’t complain. 

But then, promptly after freeing your mouth from the bit, the man takes hold of your exhausted jaw and gives you a grave warning in its replacement, “Speak out of turn again, and it will go back on for another day in the tron.”

Goosefleshed and ashen from the spoken threat, you do your best to abide by it and remain quiet like the other church mice.

To which the father hums pleasedly, “Nod your head for me if you understand now, magpie.”

You do, looking up at him obediently—hoping he’d see it as enough and deem your punishment fully served, maybe even remove your bonds and collar as well.

“Good.” 

He smiles knowingly, then drops your head. Scoffing loudly, “But of course… a bitch will always prefer being free from the muzzle… Don’t necessarily make ‘em well-behaved.”

You flinch at the words, eyes wide, looking up into his gaze, feeling small under the weight as he leers down his nose at you worse than that of the crowd earlier. 

But what really makes your stomach curl are his ringed hands and how they move to his robes.

“Let’s see if this newfound virtue of yours is true and not just another one of your brazen tricks, shall we?” he suggests, leisurely undoing the knots to his drapes.

“When I’m done, and if you have managed to hold your tongue, I’ll consider you disciplined enough to return home,” he explains, dropping his attire unceremoniously by his feet before taking hold of your chin again. “If not, the bridle will go back on, and we will continue the lesson in the morning and every day onward until your mouth is as honest as if in the confessional.”

Your eyes flicker between his and peaking forward, barely withstanding whimpering when laying your eyes on it—the thing below his belly nearing your face.

“Remember now, magpie, no making a sound—neither word nor moan. I want complete silence.” 

The grip on your chin tightens, and your eyes dart back up to his. 

“Now open that gossiping trap of yours and accept God’s judgment.” 

His other hand holds it in a gentler caress from your face, giving it a few languid rubs before knocking it against your sealed lips, ordering them to open. 

It shocks you—enough to have you swallow a gasp—almost making an illicit sound that would all but seal your fate with the scold’s bridle for another day of suffering.

“Did you not hear me, girl? I said–” Impatient and roughened by his anger, he lets go of your jaw and deals a sharp blow to your cheek next. “Open your no-good sinning mouth!” 

The hand goes to your hair next, tangling within the tousled locks to give your scalp a hard tug.

Again you’re in danger of making a sound but manage to stifle it by screwing your eyes shut—quickly baring your tongue for the priest and pliantly accepting the salty offering placed upon it soon after as if receiving communion on any other Sunday mass.

“That’s it, magpie—” he says then, softer now in praise. “No more tall tales, no more nagging.” His grip eases up but remains to hold you steady as he slowly and rightfully slides his length down to the very back of your throat. Groaning, “Just be a good girl, now. Close your lips around me and suck—and you’ll soon be forgiven.”

You obey, locking your lips around him, tasting the sweat and tang, withstanding gagging as you force yourself into suckling and swallowing the foreign flavors down. 

“Good. You see?” he sighs out in a groan, pleased while fucking your mouth. 

Tangling both hands in your disheveled hair, he sets a rhythm of pulling you away and reeling you back in close—a tempo more than fair for an amateur throat like yours—only just deep and fast enough to make his weighty balls swing and graze your chin on every thrust. 

“If all a woman does is run ‘er mouth—only using it to bitch and moan—they’ll never learn what it’s truly good for,” he gruffs, sinking deeper and settling there, holding your skull in place from pulling back. “But I’ll show yah—don’t worry.”

Your head soon heats up—bleeding red and thick with it—feeling tight and trapped and in dire desperate need to draw air—or at the very least, make some sort of discomforted sound in lack of it—yet under strict order to remain deadly silent. 

“Good god, girl—I’m going all the way down that tight, hot guzzle—” he drawls, bullying deeper—and deeper. Hissing as he bottoms out, “Just the way God intended!”

His hips stutter, wearing your throat like a holster—lips stretched around his fat shaft, kissing his pubes with your nose buried in his well-fed belly.

With eyes rolling back beneath tightly shut lids, seeing spots of light in the enclosing void, you can’t help but flinch when hit with the glob of spit that falls and splatters between your brows. But at least the laughter that echoes throughout the church hall drowns out the sound of your heaving for air once he finally pulls out and frees your throat.

Maintaining a fist in your hair, he keeps you close—your temple to his hip, nose-kissing his strung shaft—struggling to catch your breath while his chuckles die down into humored hums.

“I’ve never had a throat that deep before,” he scoffs with a cruel smile—yanking your hair once again, pulling it back to make you face up. “One might call it witchcraft.” 

Another hard slap is dealt in the same spot as earlier. 

“Are you a witch maybe, magpie?” 

And a third smack. 

“Do I haf’to tie you to the stake next—have ourselves a roast?

Feeling your cheek sting white-hot, you shake your head—fighting to keep your whimpers at bay as silent tears dampen your cheeks—puffing up and rushing with blood post-strike, dulling to a numb yet lingering ache.

He doesn’t show mercy. Instead, it seems the pitiful display only makes him more rowdy—shoving you down to the cold cobblestone with an evil gleam in his eyes.

“Then let’s see you praise the Father,” he barks. “Bow and kiss his holy floor. I’ll judge whether you're a witch or not.”

You’re leash only barely gives you enough leeway to lower yourself. Hands remaining bound up tight behind your back, balled up and shaking in their knots as you bend over until your lips brush the dusty church stone.

“No, not a witch… but—” he hums, though not entirely convinced yet. “A true Christian would savor the taste of God's house.”

Your brows cinch, but you still do as suggested—producing your tongue and dragging it across the filthy tile—collecting dry silt and larger grains of sand—leaving behind a darkened wet trail on the otherwise ashen rock.

“That’s it, magpie,” the clergyman croons with a sneer. “Put that gossipping little tongue of yours to better use.”

You obey, eyes closed, continuing to lick the floor like a dog—fearing worse things would come if you didn’t. Wanting it all to be over and figuring if you just listen, it’ll be done quicker and as pain-free as you could hope.

“But do you deserve it?” he asks then, after a pause of watching you with his cock in hand, tugging it with raspy breaths getting rustier—continuing with a gritty tone, “An unwed woman can only serve the lord if she’s pure.”

His other hand returns to your hair for a third time, pulling you up by the tresses in a stinging grip.

“Are you pure, magpie?”

Goosefleshed by his darkened tone, you cower under his pointed glare. Keenly nodding your head as much as his hand allows.

Still, he doesn’t seem convinced. Huffing, “We’ll see.” 

He drops you again. Now, with a new order, “Turn and bow with your tongue back on the floor.”

You do as he says, though shakily. Gut folding and churning within—throat tight, even under the metal collar, snaring—making your head pound with alarm as you shift on your knees until you’re facing the wall with your back to him, lowering your head down until your swollen cheek neatly squish against the cool stone—tongue splayed out on the earthy rock once again—with your rear raised for the priest’s inspection.

Your nails sink into your palms in the same painful crescents as before while the clergyman lifts your greyed and tattered frock like he’s unveiling a blushing bride—and, similarly to the groom, throws the skirt atop your sloped back, bunched up with the rest of your dirtied dress—leaving your legs and thighs and ass bare to his preying eyes.

He rumbles heavily, pleased by the sight of your pretty little virgin cunt—quivering in the crude and callous open air.

Crouched behind you in perfect level with it, you can all but feel his eager leer rake through you before his finger does—slicing through your pussy-lips and quickly disappearing inside your formerly untouched hole.

You flinch, squirming at the unfamiliar feeling—breaths damp against the ground as you await the verdict.

“It’s tight,” he grumbles, assessing you with a knuckle-deep digit, before scoffing, “But surely… no true virgin is this wet.”

Your eyes widen at the accusation, and he slips his finger out again and stands up with a sigh, “I can’t make sure with a finger alone.”

Then suddenly, he grabs onto of your hanches and lifts your hips higher until your thighs straighten up—and promptly lays his still-hard and hot-blooded member to rest between the cheeks. With his knees bent, a toppling tower over you, he slides through the crevice, rubbing upon your scrunched asshole as he does.

You stir for the first time, but his hold tightens in turn.

“Keep that tongue out, magpie. And don’t you dare make a single sound, y’hear? Or else the branks go back on.”

You fall still—scared in place—eyes screwed shut as his cock falls from the peak of your ass down to your glistened entrance, prodding the small opening with the tip, trying to force it inside, but kept at bay until the narrow ring of muscle finally gave and allowed him to tear through.

“Wheew—undoubtedly a virgin!” he whistles with his head gaining purchase. Groaning at the close fit. “Taut and tight and sensitive—and just perfect for taking seed.”

Meanwhile, you suck in a gasp—tongue still pinned to the floor—only barely managing to suppress the cry that had wanted to follow. 

Choking it down, you nurse yourself through it with a string of deep breaths instead—even as he starts prying further inside—letting your cunt hold the head as he gives it shallow digs, working you open to take his full length.

“That’s it—good magpie,” he moans, pulling you back on his cock by your hips, treading you on like a sleeve. “Take it deep.”

He starts thrusting, and your breath weakens into thin stutters—tongue hanging limply from your mouth all on its own. Eyes glazed, looking toward nothing—rocked steadily as the corrupt priest pounds you like a cheap whore—sore cheek scraping against the stone floor. 

And still, you’re silent—as if having taken a vow.

The only sounds echoing throughout the church are the clergyman’s grunts and the steady fwop fwop fwop of his balls clapping your sopping cunt—almost reminiscent of the church bell’s clangoring.

“Almost there now, magpie,” he chimes from above. “Milk my cock and take my seed in your womb, and you’re forgiven.”

It almost sounds too good to be true. Even as everything aches and you’ve become certain you might just remain mute forever onward, the thought of freedom is enough to bring new hopeful tears to your pitiful eyes. So, as the warmth of his release soils your inside, it’s also joined by overwhelming relief.

A moment or more passes. You don’t take your tongue off the floor, and he remains above you, pumping his load into your deep, dumping it all at depth as if burying some dirty secret. 

At some point, he pulls out—cock now sluggish and spent. You feel its spillage matte on the inside of your thighs—also hidden as he drapes your skirt back in place.

Unbothered with his own clothes, he stands there before your bowed body—now with an accent of full-bellied satisfaction as he pronounces you free of sin in bad Latin—crossing his chest and kissing his knuckle before looking up to the ceiling at the God you’d grown sure he didn’t even believe in.

“Rejoice, magpie,” he mocks while leaning over you to untie your hands. “You’re now free to go.”

But as you lift your head, he still holds out on removing your collar. 

Holding your chin instead, he looks down at you like before, saying, “But it would do you good to remember…” His free hand taps your cheek, softer now but hard enough to make you cringe. “You run that bitch mouth again, and in my church on your knees is where you’ll end up. Understand?”

And just like before, you nod your head for him—still as silent as a church mouse eager to escape the beast’s ugly jaws.

He seems pleased with that and gives you a crooked smile, purring, “Good.” 

He then fishes the keys to your collar from his heaped robes and, at long last, unlocks it from your throat.

And by God, as you wobble out of the church, it feels as if you've been let free from hell.

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[slytherinslut0]

Mattheo Riddle. | We Are Done

Info: Mattheo calls things off during a nasty fight where you were only expressing your concern for his safety, putting an end to your months-long complicated fling. When he inevitably gets hurt and finds himself in the hospital wing as a result of his recklessness, you pay him a little visit, eager to get your revenge.

Word count: 5k

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Toxic Behaviours, Sadism, Masochism, Intense Bloodplay, Restraint, Dom!Reader, Sub!Mattheo, Begging, PIV, Sexual Punishment, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation.

A/N: went all the way to the depths of hell for this one☠️

The journey from the bustling opulence of the Great Hall to the clinical confines of the hospital wing unfolded like a protracted soul-search, nearly forty minutes of introspection that could have singlehandedly redefined the word regret.

A seething turmoil churned within, its intensity drawn solely from the arid kindling of memories involving your ex fling, Mattheo Riddle. Despite the passing week of newfound solitude, the inner maelstrom showed no fucking signs of abating.

The recollection of your fleeting intimate moments swarmed you, a ceaseless loop that played out in the theater of your mind--like an unresolved holodrama with seemingly no fucking end.

His imprint stained every fragment of your life; in the solitude of the shower, mental echoes followed the course of water, little rivers reminding you of the ones tracing intricate paths down his sculpted physique. Within the shared space of the common room, the mental tableau featured his fingers engaging in an intimate ballet, leaving the taste of his lips lingering in your mouth as they ever-so-dominantly stifled your lusty sounds.

And somehow, that wasn't even the worst of it. Oh, not even close. It was during the nocturnal realm that the memories unfolded their cruelest chapters.

In the shroud of night, it transcended beyond the mere visual replay of his figure dominating yours, or the sensory exploration of his hands traversing the curves of your body. It wasn't just the recollection of his teeth sinking into your neck that lingered. No, the intricacies of your mind wove a far, far more nuanced tapestry.

Nighttime summoned forth the vivid recollection of the encompassing warmth emanating from his broad chest, the haven discovered within the embrace of his strong arms, and the fragrant allure of his messy hair, intertwining with the visceral memories of each intimate encounter. His burning gaze that had seared into your consciousness was more than a mere look; it was an indelible mark, haunting the very core of your thoughts with the echoes of shared passion.

These were the nocturnal specters that besieged you behind closed lids, engaging in an unwelcome dance as you wrestled with the elusive embrace of sleep. These very memories, like a relentless blacksmith, stoked the inferno within, leaving behind the most acrid, bitter residue on your tongue--a taste of anguish and betrayal.

The haunting question echoed through the corridors of your thoughts: why had he subjected you to this intimate claiming, an emotional prison woven with shared intensity, only to abruptly extinguish it with the cold finality of three, sad little words.

"We are done."

And thus, even after the amount of passing time, all it took was a single sideways glance exchanged between Pansy and Draco during their spirited debate over impending assignments to inspire the catalyst for your abrupt departure. With a forceful clatter, you slammed down your fork and pushed up from the table, commencing a determined march into the unknown.

Their speculative gazes undoubtedly trailed your abrupt exit, but you paid no heed. The entire school was privy to the fact that you and Mattheo were done, seemingly officially this time--terminated by a colossal spat prior to one of his ludicrous nighttime escapades in the forbidden forest. Mattheo's hospitalization, a testament to the recklessness that marked him and his band of fools, left him nursing scratches, cuts, bruises, and a sizable gash on his lower abdomen.

Pansy's calls faded into the periphery as you strode away, your indifference resonating louder than any response could convey. The world around you blurred into inconsequential background noise, drowned out by the burgeoning tangle of spite that commandeered your thoughts. Initially relegated to the forefront, this resentment had now metastasized, occupying every crevice of your headspace.

The recollection of his outburst haunted you, a violent reaction triggered by your attempt to dissuade him from venturing into the forbidden forest. Advising caution, you found yourself confronted with accusations of control and a stifling of his fucking freedom. Hurtful words cascaded from his lips during that argument, culminating before he recklessly endangered himself in the perilous forest. All the moments of vulnerability you shared with him, surrendering yourself without reservation, only to be met with his callousness when you were simply trying to safeguard him.

And as the embers of revenge blazed within, so did the deafening roar for closure. The need to settle the score and the yearning for resolution thrived in the wake of an emotional maelstrom.

‘We are done’ felt insufficient—it couldn't conclude there. You wouldn't fucking allow it.

Approaching the hospital wing doors, a surprising fortitude replaced any expectation of your confidence wilting under the imposing pressure. Strangely, a heightened anger welled within you, as though Mattheo Riddle were the sun, each step forward intensifying the scorching heat enveloping you. With a decisive gesture, you flung the door open, your breath held in suspense as your eyes canvassed the beds. Yet, he remained conspicuously absent, amplifying the frenetic flutter in your heart into an unrestrained whirlwind.

"Miss? May I help you with something?"

You pivoted sharply, eyes ablaze, as if embers sparked from your gaze. "Mr. Riddle. Mattheo. Where is he?"

The nurse swallowed, brows furrowed in confusion, but she cautiously gestured toward the hall, taking a step forward. "We moved him into a private room yesterday. His father requested it. Third door to the left."

Your eyes rolled involuntarily as you turned away,  a silent commentary on the absurdity before you. Suppressing the impulse to scoff required a fucking Herculean effort--of course, his father would demand a private room for him. The bloody entitlement was as predictable as Mattheo's suffocating arrogance.

As your determined march neared its end, you found yourself standing before the designated door, caught in a tumult of fear and fury. Fingers trembled, folding in waves in a futile attempt to expel the excess energy coursing through your veins. This ritual had proved futile throughout the previous week, and it yielded no different results now. A frustrated exhale escaped through your nose as you charged through the doorway, propelled by a relentless surge of emotion.

Mattheo Riddle's vulnerability exceeded all expectations as he lay in his opulent private chamber. Shirtless, his body displayed a cruel artwork of black and blue hues, stretching beyond the healing gash on his abdomen. A chaotic tapestry of scratches adorned his shoulders, arms, neck, and the once flawless canvas of his face, now disrupted by a thin, blistering line over the bridge of his nose. A swallow lodged in your throat as you beheld him, a striking portrait of agony that rendered him almost unrecognizable.

"Why the hell are you here?" He stared at you, expression vacant. "Can't you comprehend simple instructions?"

With a cool, unwavering gaze, you shot back, "And miss the chance to witness your glorious downfall? Not a fucking chance, Riddle."

Mattheo clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply as he adjusted against the sheets. "You're insufferable."

You sneered, advancing with measured steps. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."

Advancing, you scrutinized his form, taking in the mosaic of fresh scars that adorned his skin. Arriving at the bedside, your gaze drifted downward, noting that beneath his waist, he was clad only in boxers. A scant, white sheet was the sole guardian of whatever remained of his dignity.

Mattheo's snarl reverberated in the room. "If you're here to extend your fucking pity, please, spare me."

A sharp retort escaped your lips, your eyes dancing with a hint of amusement. "Oh, I'm not offering pity...though you do present quite the pitiable fucking sight, I'll give you that."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" Mattheo's voice carried an edge, his eyes narrowing with impatience. “I told you, we are done.”

A pregnant pause filled the room as you let his question linger, a mental reel replaying the relentless week of torment he had unleashed upon you. Your gaze lingered on his tousled chocolate curls and once-enticing plush lips, forcing yourself to traverse the memories of months marked by a tumultuous dance between pain and pleasure. The realization hit like a sledgehammer--all those moments, the highs and lows, seemed to have led to an abyss of pure fucking nothingness.

A furrow etched your brow as you looked down at him. "It's unbelievable that I let myself get ensnared into feeling something for you."

"Your feelings were your own choice," he quipped, his head falling back with an air of indifference, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Don't blame me for your poor judgment."

Your frown etched deeper lines on your face, the surge of anger unmistakable. "Regardless, you still manipulated me like a fucking puppet."

"Amusing how complaints disappeared when you were screaming for more every damn night," he retorted, lids fluttering with evident irritation. "Your anger's just a cover for the fact that you'll have to find a new playmate now...have fun chasing those highs, princess, but I promise you'll only end up disappointed."

Your jaw dropped in disbelief, gaze narrowing into a potent mix of anger and hurt. "You're a real fucking prick, you know that?"

Mattheo regarded you with eyes that seemed to hold nothing but emptiness. His silent response coaxed your hands to curl into tight fists, and your chin to tremble with the pressure of boiling blood. You hadn't come here for him to treat you like a mere specter, to act as if you were invisible, as if you were nothing--something you knew you had never been. And still weren't.

"Answer me," you hissed, your voice shaking with a blend of frustration and desperation.

He remained silent, his gaze an unyielding anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions. The void in his pupils became increasingly maddening, an inscrutable abyss that left you grappling with the uncertainty of what the fuck he was even thinking right now.

"Answer me, Riddle." Your demand sliced through the air, a fervent plea for any sign of acknowledgment.

But he remained stubbornly mute.

Your chest surged with frustration, the world momentarily blurring in your escalating anger. "Say something, damn it!"

It was only when the sting of his skin met the back of your hand, and red streaks of blood marked your knuckles, that you realized you had slapped him, reopening the scab on his cheek. Yet, that wasn't the shocking part--though it certainly played a role--what truly stunned you was the quiet, wanton moan that escaped Mattheo's lips, his lids fluttering while his body tensed against the bed. In awe, you gulped.

And then, a peculiar, wicked force stirred within, a voracious entity feeding on the months of torment he had subjected you to. Something that hungered for more.

So, succumbing to its dark allure, you withdrew your hand and unleashed another sharp, resounding slap across his cheek. Blood painted his face, and Mattheo groaned, fingers clutching at the sheets as his hips thrust into the air, his arousal blatantly revealed beneath the fabric. Spellbound, you observed as he collapsed back onto the mattress, his eyes fluttering open, holding a gaze that teetered between vulnerability and desperation.

Between the conflicted expression in his eyes and the pulsating bulge between his legs, the sinister impulse within you deepened, intertwining with a more primal sensation. One unmistakably identified as pure, unbridled lust.

"You fucking like that, don't you?" You breathed, your lips twisting into a sadistic grin.

"Are you trying to hurt me, princess?" Mattheo's intense gaze focused on you, alternating between his increasing arousal and your exasperated expressions. "You'll have to put in more fucking effort than that..."

"Hm." You hummed, grin widening. "If you insist."

You locked on to Mattheo's gaze, feeling empowered by the way his normally stoic expression was now clouded with a burning need. With a coy smile, you swung your knee onto the hospital bed, letting your skirt ride up around your hips and exposing your panties. His brown eyes lingered between your legs, and you could feel the heat of his gaze against your skin as you climbed over him, straddling his strong thighs. He tensed as his eager cock twitched beneath you, silently begging for more.

The power dynamic between you had shifted so drastically in this moment. Mattheo Riddle, famed for his cunning and ruthlessness, was now completely at your fucking mercy. It was an intoxicating feeling, knowing that you had the power to make him feel truly vulnerable.

"So weak," you spat, a wicked grin spreading across your face as you dipped your hips just enough to skim the head of his cock. The sight of his full-body convulsion was mesmerizing, and the shaky breath that left his lips told you everything you needed to know.

You could tell he was still in pain, but there was something else there too--desperation.

"Poor boy," you murmured, running your fingers down the curves of your own figure, taking pleasure in the sensation of your own heat as you slipped your hand between your thighs, caressing yourself. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

Mattheo's eyes fluttered closed, his mouth falling open in a low groan. It was clear he was entranced by the sight of you touching yourself, and the way your words dripped with sinful seduction only added to his lust.

"Yes," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "This is what I want."

"Look at you...so fucking needy..." you clucked your tongue and chuckled, extending out your free hand and running it along the wounded flesh of his chest, digging in with a little more force than you'd intended, judging by the groan that left his lips and the blood that split through the scab. "You're such a pathetic mess, Matty...it's almost too easy to control you like this..."

"Go to hell." His jaw tightened, a vein throbbing in his temple as he recognized the truth in your words. "You don't control fuck all."

"Oh, is that right?" you snarled, leaning forward and pushing your hands into his stomach, pressing down on his wound with added force, now. His face twisted in pain, and he let out a strained grunt. "How about now?"

Your heart was thundering with adrenaline, and while you had undoubtedly expected him to be furious at you for causing him harm, as he met your gaze, you saw something else entirely. There was a desperate need in his eyes, a yearning for more of the pain and pleasure that only you could provide. His lips were parted, his breaths coming in short gasps as he struggled to contain the sensations coursing through him. Despite the pain, there was a sense of longing that tugged at your heartstrings, filling you with a powerful desire for more of this intoxicating mixture.

"More," he whispered, his voice low and husky with need, barely above a breath. "Do it again."

"Oh, I don't fucking think so..." you sneered, your cunt clenching involuntarily at his request. But you were determined to make this man suffer. To humiliate him just as bad as he'd humiliated you, time and time again. "If you want something, you’ll have to ask for it nicely…I want to hear you beg for me."

Mattheo grunted again, bucking his hips, trying to grind back despite the pain of his injuries. Finding that impossible, his hands went to your waist, gliding up and down your thighs as he attempted to move you faster along his member, craning his head forward to get a better view. You scowled and smacked him away.

"I don't recall extending an invitation for your touch," you asserted, a glacial edge to your voice. "Why would I want your hands on me? After everything you've fucking done?"

His fingers balled into fists, exhaling when his head fell back against the pillow. You could feel him aching below you, already entirely fucking anxious to get inside of you. But then, he was still, hungry eyes trained on yours as he waited for your prompt.

"That's better," you purred, and found the next words coming out before you'd even thought them. "Good boy."

Your hips moved sinuously against his, a deliberate motion that left him breathless, his fists tensing against the desire to seize hold of your flesh. The surge of power was intoxicating, a heady blend with the fervor of your overwhelming desire and simmering rage. More than ever, your yearning for him to suffer consumed you. With a wicked grin, you lifted your hand to your lips, sensually running your tongue along the length of your crimson-stained fingers, sucking off the remnants of his blood. The sharp note of copper lit up your palate, sending a delightful shiver through your being.

"Mmm...you taste so good." You met his gaze between the long licks of your digits, his taste coating your mouth. "Wanna try?"

Mattheo remained silent, his gaze tracing the movement of your tongue as he moistened his lower lip. You enveloped one of your fingers with your lips, emitting a soft hum as you sensually cleaned it, gliding it in and out with deliberate slowness. Finally, you withdrew it with a wet pop, eyes rolling in dramatic effect.

Mattheo's jaw constricted, the sinews in his forearms taut from the tension in his fists. "Please..."

But you, unfazed, dipped your fingers back into the trail of blood leaking from his gash, adorning your skin with a bold red hue before returning them to your mouth.

"Mm, not good enough, I’m afraid..." you murmured, eyes twinkling with sadistic satisfaction. "You'll have to do much better than that, big boy..."

A growl echoed in Mattheo's throat while he gripped your thighs, pushing you down onto his swollen cock. His own hips thrust up against you, seeking any friction, any pressure at all from your heat. Frowning, you slapped his hand--and to your amazement, he pulled back, averting his gaze.

"These hands of yours are growing quite fucking insolent," you observed with a sly smile. "It's high time we addressed their rude misbehaviour."

A sinister grin etched across your lips as you shifted, smoothly extracting your wand from its thigh strap. With a deft flick, you summoned restraints, securing Mattheo's wrists to the metal headboard. His lips parted, eyes smouldering with desire, pulsating beneath you as the tightness closed around his wrists. Once finished, another few flicks ensured the door was locked, and the room was cloaked in a silencing charm.

"Much better," you said, tossing your wand aside. The gleam in your eye was almost maniacal as you reveled in the exquisite agony you were causing him, feeling a sense of power and control that you had never experienced before. "How's that feel, hm? Ready to utter those pleas for me, Riddle?"

"You're going to regret this, little witch..."  he spat out through gritted teeth, his gaze locked onto yours. "Nothing you could do to me is worse than the fate that awaits you when I get out of here…your days are fucking numbered."

Involuntarily, you clenched at his threat, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you dipped your fingers back into the pool of blood emanating from his wound--and with a decisive move, you seized his jaw with your free hand, thrusting your bloodied fingers past his teeth before he could voice a protest.

"Now isn't the time for your futile threats, Mattheo," you husked, tilting your head. Your fingers pushed forcefully into his throat, emphasizing your point. "Look how fucking pathetic you are...if only your friends could see you now...big tough guy, bound and gagged by his own bitch…it’s beautiful, really."

Abruptly, you withdrew your fingers, leaning back to assess your handiwork. His wrists were securely bound, a vivid red imprint gracing his skin, while his mouth shimmered with the subtle traces of his own blood. It was a tableau of perfection--humiliating yet exquisitely so. The image of him squirming against the taut restraints, his chest rising and falling with each desperate breath, compelled your hand between your legs. Sliding up your skirt, you explored through the delicate lace of your panties, skimming eagerly over your clit.

"Fuck," you murmured, glimpsing his mouth, “you look perfect like this."

This was retribution, and as you teased yourself while admiring the pathetic sight of him, thoughts buzzed with the torment he'd inflicted--the scalding intensity of his erratic behavior, the icy indifference he wielded, treating you with disdain, unfounded accusations of infidelity, and the frigid distance he maintained. The searing resentment flared as you recollected the havoc he'd wreaked upon your life.

It was months of emotional manipulation. A pattern that was impossible to acclimate to. His cycle of hot and cold, the relentless mistreatment, the baseless accusations, and the moments of aloofness, all preceding his inevitable return, pleading for your affection--this was the culmination of his deeds. More than anything, this was the reckoning he deserved.

"Come on, princess..." he muttered, eyes wide and pleading. "For Godrics sake, please...fucking please..."

A grin creeped across your lips, your heart leaping with excitement. You'd finally fucking broke him.

"There we go, Matty...that wasn't so hard, was it?" You purred, inching backwards along the length of his thighs, reaching out to pull the cover from his waist in an excruciatingly slow fashion, exposing his black briefs. "I love hearing you beg for me...you're being such a good boy..."

Mattheo's response came in the form of an exaggerated huff, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently pleading for your touch to alleviate the burning desire between his legs. Your grin expanded, reveling in the palpable tension.

"You want me to fuck you, Matty? Do you think you fucking deserve that?" You cooed as you caressed his erection through the fabric, glaring at him while he jerked and shook from your touch. It was incredible, watching him trying to thrust into your fist, whimpering, head lolling while you sped your ministrations. "Do you think you fucking deserve me?"

His groan reverberated, his body twitching beneath the firm clasp of your fingers. His lids fluttered, and his head arched back in a nearly imperceptible shake of denial.

"You never fucking deserved me, did you?" Your frustration at his silence echoed in the air as you delivered a sharp crack across his face, prompting a gasp from him. "Fucking answer me, Mattheo!"

"No!" he finally hissed, his knuckles whitening as his entire frame tensed. "Fuck! No! I didn’t…”

"That's right, you didn't…” you laughed, shaking your head. The sinful delight coursing through you at his torment was undeniable. "At least you can finally fucking admit it...a tiny step towards what might pass as progress, I suppose."

As Mattheo huffed, not daring to meet your eyes, you sighed, finally feeling as though some of your anger had dissipated. Not by much, but by enough. Granting him the smallest percentage of mercy, you wrapped your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, freeing his needy, throbbing cock--the length of his smooth heat springing back and slapping against his belly, a low groan leaving the depths of his throat as it did.

You clenched at the sight, the pool of heat in your abdomen expanding throughout your entire body now, your mouth practically watering at the mere vision of him. Just when you thought this whole thing couldn't get anymore perfect. Gods, he was undeniably fucking delicious.

"Tell me what you want, Mattheo..." you said, wrapping your fingers around his cock, slicking the bead of precum around the head, twisting your wrist as you stroked him. "Tell me what you need."

His eyelids pressed together in bliss as he panted, the rhythmic movement of his throat visible with each swallow. In the throes of pleasure, he surrendered himself to the intensity of your touch, the heat enveloping him in a cocoon of sensation.

"You..." was his only reply, head snapping back and forth, thighs tensing, cock twitching. "Please-fuck-"

"You like that?" you purred, biting your lip. "You like when I jerk your cock like this? Hm?"

Mattheo's jaw was slack with desire, his voice laced with breathy need, "yes..."

"Yeah?" You purred, tightening your grip, increasing your pace as you stroked him, leaning down slightly to spit on the tip, slicking your saliva along his shaft. "Who else could make you beg, huh? Who the fuck else can make you this fucking hard?"

"Fuck-" he choked, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, you could tell he was close. "No one-princess-fucking no one..."

"Mhm...that's fucking right, Riddle..." smiling, you threw your head back, your other hand resuming its motion on your clit, teasing yourself as you continued stroking him. "You know you can't fucking live without this...I don't know why you have to make things so goddamn complicated..."

"Fuck," he hissed, sputtering your name, "please, fuck me, please. I fucking need you."

"Shit...you're just spoiling me now," you mewled, your pussy clenching undoubtedly at his words. "Such a good boy...so eager to please me, hm?"

Mattheo released a long, exasperated sigh as you released him, shifting yourself closer. With a swift motion, you shimmied your panties to the side before you aligned his cock with your dripping core--the moan that escaped your throat was deep and lengthy as you sank onto him, feeling every inch of his hard, aching cock stretching you wide, filling you up with ease. Mattheo's body lifted from the bed in response, a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream escaping his chest as you enveloped him to the hilt. Leaning forward, you placed your palms on his stomach, shifting your weight to the heels of your hands as you began to slide up and down his shaft.

"Fuck," you breathed, lids fluttering. "I missed this cock...shit, you feel so good..."

Mattheo's only response was a string of shameless, guttural moans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he surrendered to the potent mix of pleasure and pain. His body writhed beneath yours, his abdominals tightening in response to your movements. You panted heavily, bouncing up and down on his cock, taking pleasure in every inch of him slamming deep into your wet, eager pussy.

With each movement, you drove Mattheo wild with desire, listening to his moans grow louder and more intense with each passing moment.

Having control was entirely different--you were able to drag him into you, squeeze him tight with your walls while you slowed your pace, slam down onto him and make him howl. You watched him struggle below you, realizing he was trapped at his peak--and you were happy about it. This. This was close to what he deserved.

"I fucking hate you," you growled, the depth of your emotion evident in every word. "You embedded yourself into every part of my life and now you want to just fucking end things? Just go back to being fucking strangers? Over nothing?" Your voice cracked, the words flowing from your lips without restraint as you continued to ride him, hips moving in an untamed rhythm. "Why do you always fucking do this to me? Fuck-why?..."

Between his deep groans, his shuddering gasps as his wrists fighting their resistance, he managed to shake his head, his noises only growing louder the harder your rode him.

"I...I'm..." the words were forced through barred teeth, his eyes pleading for mercy. "I'm fucking sorry."

"Are you mine, Mattheo?" Your voice was strained with exertion, sweat growing on your forehead. "Were you ever fucking mine? Or was it all just a big game to you?"

"No,” he stammered, almost wincing. "No!"

Unable to resist the intense sensations coursing through you any longer, you brought your fingers back to your clit, setting a frenzied pace as you massaged the stiff nub with the pads of your fingers. You could feel Mattheo pulsing inside you, could feel his overly urgent need to cum, but right now, all that mattered was your own pleasure. As you worked yourself toward climax, your breaths grew ragged, soft moans escaping your lips as your body responded to your own touch. The pressure inside of you was building with each passing moment, urgent and insistent, and you knew that you wouldn't be able to hold off for much longer.

"Say it," you panted, eyes rolling and body trembling as you slammed down on him again and again. "Tell me who you fucking belong to."

"Fuck-fuck..." he grunted, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Please, princess...you keep squeezing me like that and I'm going to fucking cum-"

"If you want to cum, you'll fucking say it, Mattheo-" you practically moaned, entire body quivering with excitement. "Fuck-say it..."

A string of whimpers slipped past Mattheo's lips, his fists balled so tight it looked almost painful. "Fuck--you! I'm yours, fuck..."

Every word leaving you was a curse, and between every word was a strangled moan, resonating through your throat as you worked your clit fasting, fucking yourself on his cock harder.

"Gods, Matty, I'm going to cum," you moaned. "I'm going to cum on this thick fucking cock-fuck..."

Without being able to hold off any longer, you shattered, your hips jerking and twitching in an erratic rhythm, free hand digging into the flesh of his chest as you clenched and pulsed around him, forcing another onslaught of pleasured whimpers to leave his throat before he too reached his high--the tight heat of your orgasm sending him over the edge, twitching and thrashing beneath you as you continued riding him through your collective highs, not beginning to slow until the aftershocks began to rumble through you.

And after you stalled, you allowed yourself a moment to regain composure before you wearily eased yourself off him, releasing a prolonged breath--with a cautious movement, you reached over and gathered a sampling of your intertwined cum on the pads of your fingers, briskly bringing them up to his lips.

"Taste what I did to you," you murmured with a smirk, relishing in his groan against your flesh. Methodically, you glided your fingers against his bottom teeth, leisurely pulling them from his mouth. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

His breaths lingered in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of his silence, his eyes seemingly unable to leave your form. With deliberate movements, you leaned over, deftly undoing the restraints that bound him. As you meticulously adjusted your appearance back to its usual state, a mask of calm control, your gaze shifted towards the door, a calculated glance.

"May your recovery be swift, Riddle," you uttered with a tone that held a hint of farewell. "Until next time."

[rxmxa]

𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐮𝐩 ❤️‍🔥

my ideas + observations on what lilith aspects might look like in daily life <3

Lilith-Sun Aspects: Getting noticed right away by people especially when a group setting, being liked by people on the surface level but secretly they disapprove or frown at your actions when you turn around, men judging you, standing your ground at all costs, not knowing when to back down, being a natural leader, challenging societal norms with who you are and forms of self expression, walking into a meeting or class wearing a bold outfit and peoples heads turning but not a word is uttered, getting dress-coded at work or school, your boss or teachers feeling uncomfortable to say something to you, people feeling like you are being "messy" when you question the norms, not addressing rumors. knowing you're gonn stir things up when you are walking into rooms and not caring, being told to change, being told you're too much, men wanting to date you but then wishing you would be "easy to work with" or wanting to date you and then get mad when they can't dominate you, you thinking "what don't they fucking understand? I just don't want to be like them" being afraid of your individuality not being recognized that you go to extremes at some moments

Lilith-Moon aspects: the type of people to actually answer with the truth when you ask them how they're doing and then you're kind of shook because you thought they were gonna sugarcoat and be like "I'm fine" being painfully honest or blunt, talking about feelings considered taboo (like no one really likes to talk about how they are jealous or bitter or other shit like that, they just hide it or project it) but lilith-moon will say they're feeling that shit. this reminds of the song wildflower by billie eilish. this aspect is women talking shit about you, having trauma with you, women in your life judging you or pointing fingers at you for not falling into the "good girl" category. being told you're wrong for how you feel, feeling intense or moody and other people being able to pick up on it, other people seeing you as magnetic but also unpredictable and they can admire you for being real with them but it also might scare them, mom saying you are a wild child or just too much to deal with when you get "emotional", you wanting to yell "no im not fucking okay and im not gonna sit here and pretend I am"

Lilith-Venus aspects: men want you and see being with you as a challenge, they want to be with you to show off but then get mad when they cant change you, being called a "tease" or saying that you lead people on, men lying about you, spreading rumors about you, men saying they "talked to you" or dated you after texting you LMAOOO.. just fucking lying! being villanized for your beauty, your beauty feeling like its making you a target, women seeing you as competition, women spreading rumors about your beauty (oh she probably got this and this done or oh she shes only pretty because xyz), men in relationships looking at you and thinking you are manipulating them when you're not doing anything, feeling like anything venus related (beauty, art, relationships) in your life gets distorted, your relationships always feeling like a battlefield, being sensual + in tune with your femininity and then people expect you to tone it down, you might do something like wear red lipstick or heels or a nice dress and be told its too much but someone without this energy in their chart probs wouldnt get that reaction, you wondering "what's the difference between me and her? Why do they treat her like that and me like this?"

Lilith-Mercury aspects: being blunt, hurting someones feelings without meaning to, getting criticized for whatever you say, trying to be more "polite" but then it feels so exhausting, cursing a lot, cursing from a very young age and/or in professional settings, saying what other people refuse to say for the sake of being polite or because its a "superior" this is the person that in the meeting will the supervisor "In my opinion, this isnt a good idea and it isnt helpful to us", people talking shit behind your back, the person who dissects other peoples words down to the stutter, punctuation and fucking COMMA! How did they say it? What word did they say first? lilith-mercury will read between the lines and force you to say what you are refusing to say or putting in a passive aggressive manner, might refuse to engage with passive agressive people until they say it with their chest, "could you repeat that?" energy, "what did you mean by that?" energy knowing damn well what they meant, talking about politics at the dinner table during the family reunion, talking about sex in the break room at work, playing the devils advocate, reading smut, writing smut, loving dirty talk. trying to use their words for something good but people always making them feel like everything they say is just always wrong, pausing before they strike with their tongue, hating small talk, feeling uncomfy with small talk, people trauma dumping or ovesharing or vice versa, feeling suspcious of people that use pretty words with them, they wonder "What do they want from me? They're trying to get something from me...."

Lilith-Mars aspects: the first to get to moving and get shit down, getting easily annoyed at people that dont have the same drive, being angry at weak people or people that cant keep their word, "Are you gonna help or just fucking stand there?", being seen as abrassive, people avoiding you or shrinking back because of it, men wanting to compete with you, people feeling threatened by your ambition, the type to get nice things in life and people spread rumors that you had to xyz to get it, people thinking you're being confrontational or too angry when you address something face to face and up front, feeling out of control with your anger as a kid, people trying to push your buttons to try to get a reaction of you and then acting shocked when they do, fiercely independent in their routines, working out intensely, craving intensity in relationships, lines blurring between love and war "If I'm going to be the bad guy might as well get something out of it"

Lilith-Saturn aspects: a major dislike of authoritative figures, feeling resentful at being told what to do, wanting to do the opposite of what you do, "im not following this rule just because its always been followed", setting your own standards and expectations, "I prefer to find out for myself", questioning the system or cultural and societal norms and traditions that you find antiquated or unfair, people respecting you for your disciple but wishing you were easier to boss around, other people saying you're too cold or detached but you just dont wanna give them the chance to fuck you over, finding peace in the space between order and chaos and you perfecting that mix, wondering if life would be easier if you were "softer", choosing to form your own opinions on people, "thanks but I can decide for myself", feeling like you're held to expectations other people aren't

Lilith-Pluto aspects: not afraid to talk about the ugly shit in life, the taboo, trauma, control, power struggles, fear, jealousy because youve been familiar with it before, people being a little afraid of you, people saying youre too intense or even dangerous, people projecting onto you and getting mad or "disgusted" with you when you see right through them, being able to pick up on changes in peoples mannerisms, digging deeper in conversations, people suddenly confessing things to you, people not understanding why they feel drawn to your presence, people either approach it or go in the other direction, you come across as someone who has been through a lot but its only made you stronger, "im not afraid of the dark parts of life", going through something traumatic and years later thinking about it and coming to realization that you wouldn't change a thing, that it made you who you are, being okay with being seen as the villian in someones story