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slytherinslut0 · 5 months ago

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AWWWW i remember writing this. post bfm slump era🥹🥹🩷🩷 i love youuuuuuuu sm gg!!!!

Theodore Nott. | that’s what i said.

info: your boyfriend was telling you about his day, when he began speaking fluent Italian, knowing damn well you only knew select words. when you asked him to repeat it, he had you come sit on his lap and ended up doing a little more than just repeating it.

word count: 3k

tags: 18+, literally pure smut. pure lorenzo italian daddy type smut. lots of italian translation (apologies to all my italians out there if they’re a little off) lots of praise, riding, piv, dirty talk.

Reclining across from you, Theodore Nott your lovely boyfriend, exuded an air of relaxed confidence while seated comfortably on the expansive leather couch in his dorm room. His legs were stretched wide, one arm casually draped over the armrest--each of his current mannerisms acting as physical testaments to the ease with which he inhabited the space.

As he delved into the narrative of his day, you, nestled in the love seat opposite him, eagerly absorbed the symphony of his voice. It was a melody that effortlessly traversed between English and Italian, a linguistic dance that had always held a special place in your heart.

His words held an irresistible charm, each syllable cascading like liquid honey off his tongue. The profound rasp of his voice, entwined with his seductive Italian accent stirred something indescribable within your body. The prospect of listening to him like this every day for the rest of your life fueled your anticipation, a certainty that the allure would never lose its magic. It was a sensation you eagerly anticipated, knowing that the richness of his voice would forever remain a timeless delight.

Yet, within the fluidity of his storytelling, Theodore suddenly shifted into Italian, weaving complete sentences with a gaze that lingered through half-lidded eyes, as if this linguistic transformation were the most natural thing in the world. Ordinarily, you might have interrupted him, gently reminding him of your language limitations, but today, well, you just couldn't bring yourself to do so.

You were almost in awe, unable to deny that there was an enchanting quality to the way the words curled off his tongue. That, coupled with the intensity of his stare, seemingly compelled you to stay silent, as if under a trance. You found yourself captivated, clinging to every indecipherable syllable, a familiar heat beginning to kindle between your thighs.

It was as if he momentarily lost himself in the labyrinth of his thoughts, forgetting, if only for an instant, that your understanding of the language was confined solely to select phrases and words. This linguistic detour left you with a quizzical frown, a silent plea for translation in the midst of his enchanting monologue, and finally, noting your confusion after what felt like ages, he paused, cocking a charming eyebrow at you.

"Something on your mind, Bella?" he teased, leisurely spreading his legs further as his gaze meandered from your eyes to your lips, only to return, locking onto your gaze once more. "You appear a touch...lost."

"Theo, I must confess--I haven't the slightest idea what you just said," you admitted, a playful pout gracing your lips. Your eyes sparkled with a blend of curiosity and mischief. "And I know you're well aware that was far beyond my linguistic expertise."

"All this time, and you still haven't mastered my language, Bella Mia..." Theo, with a dramatic flair, feigned a hurt expression, his stormy eyes widening ever so slightly. "You're truly breaking my heart."

Smirking, you teased, "forgive me, amore..." your fingers traced an absent pattern on the armrest, a subtle invitation. "Please, feel free to repeat it--I love the way it sounds..."

A mischievous glint sparked behind his irises, a playful confidence dancing in their depths. With a self-assured grin, he patted his lap invitingly, his messy brown locks falling effortlessly over his forehead.

"Why don't you come over here," he suggested, his tone velvety, "and I'll gladly repeat it for you?"

Your grin widened, a flicker of anticipation igniting within you as you slowly rose from the chair, not needing a second thought. His burning stare followed your every move as you veered closer to him, an intensity in his eyes that set your senses ablaze without effort. As you approached, a slow, deliberate stride, the air thickened with a tangible tension, your pulse thumping in your throat.

No matter the duration of your relationship with Theo, each touch remained an electric encounter, perpetually reminiscent of the initial spark. His reverence for your body endured, a devotion that unfolded afresh with every caress, as if every moment were a new discovery for his hands and eyes.

Stalling in front of him, you giddily pulled your lip between your teeth as his hands found yours, guiding them to his shoulders as he pulled you down to straddle his lap. The warmth of his embrace enveloped you, his hands finding a natural place on your hips.

"Mm," he purred, burying his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling a sharp breath as his fingers dug into your skin. "So beautiful, Bella..."

You stifled a mewl as he pressed careless kisses along your neck, the playful banter giving way to a charged silence as his teeth softly grazed your pulse--the unspoken language between you both pulsating with desire and connection. The messy brown waves of his hair framed a face now tinged with a sultry charm, and the mischievous glint in his eyes promised a shared secret in the language only you two understood.

As if completely instinctively, you rolled your hips against his crotch, head falling back as his hands slid around to your ass, groaning against your neck as he aided your movements, guiding you back and forth against his growing bulge. You could already feel him throbbing beneath you, your cunt clenching in need for his touch as the only thing separating your heat from his groin was your thin layer of underwear, rubbing against his trousers.

"Ho voluto scoparti tutto il giorno..." he murmured, the same phrase he'd said earlier, the one in which you didn't understand. "...sei tutto ciò a cui riesco a pensare."

Your brows furrowed, about to question him, but exasperation quickly took over as he sank his teeth into your neck. He left vivid, possessive marks on your skin, his hands sliding up and under your skirt, tracing the supple contours of your ass. As you continued to move against him, a whirlwind of desire engulfed you, and you quickly lost yourself in the intoxicating rush.

"You're so fucking sexy," he breathed, his voice a low, deep murmur, reverberating a shudder of desire down your spine, his tongue trailing a flat stripe up the side of your throat. "Ho bisogno di te, mia bellissima piccola troia." (I need you, my beautiful little slut.)

"Theo..." you whimpered, your hands entwining in his hair, fingers weaving through his tousled auburn locks. His mouth ascended, planting tender, moist kisses along the ridge of your jawline. "Please-please-"

"Mm, you like that don't you, principessa?" His voice was a seductive purr, the words wrapping around you like silk as he pulled back a hand and gave you a sharp smack on your ass, eliciting an immediate squeal from your throat. "Tu ami grinding that dolce piccola figa on me like this, hm?..." (you love)(sweet little pussy)

In response to his words, an unabashed moan escaped your lips, louder than you had initially intended. Theo responded with a low growl, his free hand moving to your jaw, cradling it delicately as he guided your lips to his. The ensuing kiss spoke a language of its own--one of desire, need, and an unfiltered passion that surpassed any linguistic expression.

Your hold on his hair intensified as you pressed against him more urgently, the rhythm quickening. His tongue boldly slipped past your teeth, exploring your mouth with fervor. Simultaneously, his hands glided to the hem of your blouse, lifting it along your stomach. The kiss briefly broke as he encouraged your arms upward, swiftly pulling your shirt over your head and discarding it on the floor.

"Così bella..." he praised, his eyes fixated on your chest adorned by the delicate, lacy fabric of your white bralette. The intensity in his gaze felt scorching, as if it could sear your skin to ash. "Così, così bella, amore mio..." (So beautiful)(so, so beautiful, my love...)

His words took your breath away, slamming your chest like a fifty pound brick, the worship in his tone enough to render you speechless. You writhed in his lap, seeking friction, more friction that what you were currently experiencing--wanting him; needing him in every possible way. You captured his lips again, rolling your hips harder, the deep moan that escaped him found itself muffled by your mouth as you worked at the buttons on his shirt, fervently popping them free as quickly as you could.

The second his chest was exposed, you scoured it like a starved animal, the skin-on-skin contact sending a desperate clench to your cunt. You mapped his muscles to your memory as though it was the first time you'd ever seen them--the strength of his biceps, his strong, powerful abdomen, all of it hot and vibrating with need--you were breathless at the sight of his beauty under your palms, a feeling that had never once even partially faltered, no matter how many times you fucked him.

"Are you going to tell me what you said, Teddy..." you murmured, a playful smile dancing on your lips as your fingers skillfully moved to his belt, assisting in its release. "That was the whole reason I came over here, was it not?"

"Words can wait, amore," Theo muttered, his voice husky with desire, his gaze locked onto yours as he undid the zipper on your skirt, watching with blaring eyes as you tugged it off, along with your panties and tossed them to the floor. "Actions speak louder, don't they?"

"Mmfh," you moaned as he pulled you back against his mouth, his tongue running along your teeth as your bodies rocked together, his fingers gripping and caressing and squeezing every bit of your body that they could.

Pulling away, he met your eyes, heavily panting for breath as he gazed at you with a hunger that matched your own. His hands shifted, urging you to back up for a moment as he pulled his pants and boxers midway down his thighs--growling low in his chest as his thick, throbbing length sprung free, glistening with precum as it smacked against his chiseled stomach. You clenched.

He pulled you back against him, gliding you in slicking your soaked cunt along the length of his cock, his eyes burning wounds into your flesh as he watched you, lost in pleasure, lost in your need for him.

"Lo vuoi, amore mio?" (You want it, my love?) His voice barely rose above a whisper as he posed the question to which he damn well knew the answer. "You want this fucking cock inside that pretty little cunt?"

You shuddered, clenching hard in anticipation, nodding as you leaned closer, grazing your lips against his, panting heavily into his mouth.

"I want to hear you say it," he growled, one hand sliding up beyond your shoulders to grip the back of your neck, locking your gaze onto his. "Beg me to fuck you."

Your nails dug into his shoulders, entire body vibrating. "Please-Theo, please fuck me..."

"No, no," he playfully clucked his tongue, delivering a sharp smack to your ass with his free hand. You instinctively clenched again, the sensation electrifying. "In Italian."

"Gods," you groaned, his ceaseless teasing consistently pushing you to the brink of physical exhilaration in all the most delightful ways. Fortunately, this was a phrase he had taught you from the very beginning, a linguistic lesson that lingered since day one. "Per favore-per favore...ho bisogno di te..." (please-please…I need you.)

He exhaled, grunting. "Good girl."

It was a combined effort--he fisted his length, angling it at your core, your hands clutching his shoulders as you sank onto him, his thick girth stretching you wide with ease. You both collectively groaned, your walls pulsing and clenching around him as you took a second to adjust to his length, before rocking your hips in a slow, erotic rhythm; working yourself open on his cock.

Theo's eyes were glued to yours, watching your every movement as though he was afraid he'd miss something if he looked away. With a grunt, his big hands found your tits, palming and groping at the soft flesh with primal urgency, brushing his thumbs against your nipples, teasing them with soft circles. Your eyes rolled, your head falling back on your shoulders as you increased your pace, soft moans slipping past your lips.

"Esatto, piccola angioletta...così perfetta..." (That's right, little angel... so perfect) he murmured, his voice low, torn with husk. "You're so goddamn tight...squeezing me so good...così buono."

"Gods, Theo..." you whimpered, relishing in how deep he was, how big. "You're so fucking big."

Your boyfriend's hands shifted again, finding your hips, sharp fingernails digging into your skin as he thrust upward to match your movements, his cock hitting all the right spots. Your own fingers burrowed into his shoulders while you throbbed around him, lungs desperate for air, and he snarled, increasing his movements, setting a brutal pace that you couldn't match.

Cries fled you, pushed from your lungs by the carnal force of his hips, and Theodore consumed you--lips sucking at your neck, hands bearing bruises into your ass. His dick stretched you wide, fucked you deep, wracking your body with its punishment, breasts bouncing, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your skin.

You tilted your head back, his fervent mouth tracing down to your collarbone, claiming his territory across as much of your skin as possible. His cock pumped into you, beckoning an orgasm from the bottom of your brain--and as if sensing your clit screaming for attention, his hand snaked between your legs, fingers smoothly gliding over it. In response, you squealed, digging your nails into his shoulders with enough force to shatter the skin, body awash with pleasure.

"That's it, amore..." he groaned, breathless, teeth nipping at your earlobe, free hand gripping your ass with enough force to batter the skin. "Ride me like the good little whore you are."

"Fuck-fuck yes," you cried, your hips moving faster, chasing your orgasm as Theo's fingers rubbed tighter circles against your clit, increasing their relentless pursuit in bringing you over the edge. "Don't stop, Theo-fuck, please don't stop..."

"I won't, my love," he murmured, lips pressed against your ear, breathing the words into your eardrums. "Wouldn't fucking dream of it."

Theo's fingers worked magic on your clit as he thrust up into your cunt faster, harder--his cock hitting your g-spot with each aggressive movement. You could feel the pressure building inside your core, your body coiling like a tightly wound spring as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

"Theo-" you gasped, your voice practically a scream. "I'm going to-I'm going-"

"Going to what, principessa...hm?" He implored, his voice a low, husky whisper escaping through his teeth; your entire essence pulsating, trembling amid his passionate pursuit. "Verrai per me? That tight little pussy going to cum on my cock?"

You wailed, head falling back, chest swelling for air. "Yes!...Theo-please!"

"Fallo. Cum for me." He graced your ass with another harsh smack, placing wet, sloppy kisses against your jawline. "Let me feel you."

With only a few more strokes, you came undone, cunt clamping around his cock, your whole body shaking as your orgasm washed over your entirety, blazing through every nerve ending and every fucking cell. Theo's fingers continued to rub you through it, prolonging the pleasure until you were left gasping for breath, nothing more than babbling nonsensical moans and pleas leaving your lips in the aftermath of his wrath.

Theo grunted, finally peeling his hand off your clit once you were whimpering and squirming against him, gripping the back of your head and drawing your mouth to his, meeting your lips in a sloppy wet kiss, each of you sucking in sharp breaths through your nostrils as you continued to ride him, your walls tingling in post orgasmic rapture.

"Brava ragazza," he moaned into your mouth, his body shaking with the force of his impending release. "So fucking good, bambina."

His movements grew erratic, hips bucking hard as he struggled to hold off his own orgasm, the force of his pace bordering on violent. You gasped, squealed, held onto him for dear life as you rode him, attempting to match his pace, but he was possessed, starved, breaking the kiss to lean back, both hands gripping your hips, holding you steady.

"You want my cum, little slut? Hm?" He gritted out, forehead glistening with sweat, his pupils blown wide with lust. "You want me to fill up this tight little cunt?"

You gasped, nodding frantically. "Yes! Please-please!"

"fuck...I'm gonna cum..." his lids fluttered, dark eyebrows pinching in concentration, his face contorting into a scowl of effort. "Cristo-you feel così buono-shit.."

With a final thrust, he growled, groaned--his movements slowing, breath sputtering from his lungs as he exploded, pumping once, twice, three times--all before coming to a halt, cock twitching inside you as he drained his hot cum deep into your pussy. Sweat beaded each of your foreheads, bliss buzzing between your bodies as you kissed him softly, panting into his mouth as you each worked silently to come back down to earth, pulses pounding in ruthless rhythm.

Spent and fully sated, Theo cradled the back of your head, pulling you into him, his free arm snaking around your back. You wrapped your arms around his neck, keeping him inside you as you two stayed like that for a moment, relishing in the intimacy between your bodies as he softened, his lips placing tender kisses on your shoulder.

"Ho voluto scoparti tutto il giorno..." he murmured softly, a hint of amusement in his tone as he repeated the words he knew you had no idea of their meaning. "sei tutto ciò a cui riesco a pensare."

"Stop teasing me." You huffed, burying your face into the crook of his neck. "It's not very nice of you, Theo..."

He chuckled, a low hum from deep in his chest, smirking against your skin as he tightened his grip around you, brushing loose strands of hair behind your ear.

“I wanted to fuck you all day...” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “You’re all I can think about..."

You pulled back, meeting his stormy eyes. "Is that-"

"Yes." He interrupted you with a gentle kiss, smiling against your lips. "That's what I said."

#slytherinslut0’s yappin #slytherinslut0 loves pizzaapeteer sm #my bbygirl

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slytherinslut0 · 1 year ago

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😭the way i had to reblog ur tags because i giggled like a mf

Mattheo Riddle. | couldn’t help yourself.

PAIRING: Mattheo Riddle × Reader

SUMMARY: PHEW…uh-pure smut? like, extremely self-indulgent exhibitionism, with overstim thrown in there too. i’m sorry. but i’m also not. reader teases matty during class and makes him go feral.

WORD COUNT: 3.8k.

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, DUBCON, Degradation, Praise, Dom!Mattheo, Sub!Reader, Absolute Feralism, Humiliation, Spitting, Very Slight Daddy Kink, Exhibitionism, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasm, Multiple Creampie, PIV, Semi-Public Sex, Dirty Talk.

Mattheo's usually charismatic demeanour had been replaced by one of raw fury as he dragged you by the arm into a nearby closet, directly following an admittedly heated potions lecture. You could feel the fire emanating off him, his body tensed with an unspoken rage. You knew you'd fucked up.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he spat out, his voice low and dangerous as he slammed the door shut behind you, blanketing the two of you in darkness. "Trying to get me hard in class like that?"

You could barely catch your breath, the scent of his cologne and the feel of his fingers still lingering on your skin as you stood meekly before him. Despite his anger, you could see the hints of lust burning within his dark eyes, betraying the true nature of his feelings towards you.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice shaking as he backed you up against the door, your fingers trembling at your sides. "I-I couldn't help myself, Matty-"

"You couldn't help yourself?" he repeated, his lips dangerously close to yours as he spoke, hungry eyes peering down at you. "You couldn't help but try and turn me on in the middle of a fucking lecture? Do you see how fucking hard you made me?"

Advancing, his hands found purchase against the door on either side of your head, exerting a subtle but commanding pressure. As he pressed closer, you squirmed, acutely aware of the firm, insistent length of his grazing against your stomach. A tempting desire stirred within, urging you to reach out and grope him, to make him moan beneath your touch. Yet, you knew better than to push him any further.

"I'm sorry," you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper as you looked up at him with doe-eyes, filled with a mix of fear and arousal. "Please don't be mad."

Mattheo let out a low growl, his nails digging into the wood next to your head as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, his body towering over yours, already rendering you powerless beneath him.

"You want me to be mad," he muttered, his lips ghosting along your jaw in a teasing caress, heat pooling from your core and soaking through the lacy fabric of your panties. "You want me to punish you for being such a dirty fucking slut, don't you?"

A jolt coursed through your stomach, and it was then that the realization dawned on you that he might actually fuck you in this cramped closet, situated in the midst of a bustling hallway where the imminent risk of discovery loomed.

The proximity to other students and faculty outside the door intensified the gravity of the situation. Somehow, you hadn't grasped this possibility earlier, your focus consumed by your boyfriends overwhelming intensity. But now, as the weight of potential consequences sank in, you felt the increased urgency to diffuse the escalating scenario before it spiraled into a precarious exposure.

"N-no, Matty--I'm sorry," your voice trembled in a hushed whisper, the words catching in your throat. Arousal had you choking on your apology, and even to yourself, the plea felt unconvincing. "Please, let's just-"

"You think that's appropriate behaviour? You think it's okay to act like that in front of everyone, huh?" he hissed, his breath hot against your ear as he pressed his body against yours, halting your pathetic attempt at talking him down. "You little fucking tease."

Without wasting another second, he shifted, his big hungry hands roaming over your body, exploring every inch of your trembling form as he vented his frustration. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you tightly against him as he ground his hardness into the crease of your thigh, your head falling back and meeting the resistance of the doors thin wood.

"I could have you right now if I wanted to," he muttered, his voice low and menacing as his lips grazed over your lobe. "You'd let me, wouldn't you? You want my cock, don't you?"

You quivered at the feel of his warm breath against your skin, your heart racing in your chest as you wondered what the fuck he would do next. There was something exhilarating about being at Mattheo's mercy, about being on the receiving end of his fiery temper and dangerous desires. You loved testing your boyfriend for this very reason alone, regardless of how it always seemed to put you in rather precarious positions.

"Matty-" you muttered, cautiously raising your hands, gently pressing them against his sides in an attempt to ground you both, to remind him of where you were. "Let's go back to-"

"Shut the fuck up," he spat, his voice slicing through the air with a sharper edge.

One hand disengaged from your body, swiftly moving to undo his belt, and the metallic jangle of the latch snapped you back to reality. As his trousers slid halfway down his thighs, his other hand seized a fistful of your hair, compelling your gaze to meet the throbbing evidence of arousal that you had singlehandedly incited.

"See what you fucking did to me? See how fucking hard I am?" His voice was shredded, torn, almost pained, his grip in your hair mimicking his intensity as he jostled your head in his grasp. "You caused this fucking problem, you're going to fix it."

"It's not that bad, Matty," you muttered, lifting your shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, attempting to preserve a semblance of composure. Lying through your teeth was a skill you were never good at. He was so fucking hard it looked painful. "You've had worse."

Mattheo groaned, the sound reverberating as he slammed his fist against the door, bringing your head along with it. Without giving you a second to steady your blurred vision, his free hand gripped your jaw, his intense gaze locking onto yours, lips so close they’d touch with a deep enough breath.

"Yeah? You wanna' fucking test that theory?" he growled, his eyes narrowing in challenge. "You wanna' feel how much this fucking hurts?"

You mewled, entirely involuntarily, your body seemingly taking on a mind of its own. You could feel yourself getting wetter by the second as Mattheo leaned in closer, licking a hot trail up the side of your neck and biting down hard on your ear, making you squeal far louder than what you should have.

"You gonna' be quiet for me? Or are you gonna' get us caught, huh?" His hand released your jaw, navigating to the band of your panties, skillfully tugging them down your thighs. Stepping back, he afforded you space to step out of them, yet his other hand remained steadfast, refusing to abandon its hold on your hair. "You'd like that though, wouldn't you? Someone walking in to find me fucking my dumb little girlfriend like the filthy fucking whore she is."

"Fuck," another shift, and Mattheo was working his briefs down his thighs now. "I'm not a whore-"

"Mhm," he sneered, the arrogant tone of his voice making your cunt pulse. You cursed yourself internally for loving him even when he's a sadistic asshole. Or, especially when. "Says the whore letting me fuck her in a broom closet between classes."

Mattheo grunted in effort, and you didn't even notice your teeth breaking the skin on your bottom lip until his grip tightened and he yanked the fabric of his briefs over his hips, his massive cock springing free. Staring at it--tumescent, twitching, the head gleaming with pre-cum--every muscle between your hips pulsed, body flooded with hot, heavy lust.

"Shit," you breathed, snapping yourself from your trance, wincing slightly as his grip tightened on your scalp. "Says the man who got bricked up from a simple fucking thigh touch-"

At your words, Mattheo snapped, as if finally wearied by your teasing. His substantial hand seized your jaw once again, exerting enough force to clench your teeth together. A resounding thud echoed as he pressed you against the door, his other hand transitioning from your hair to encircle your thigh, drawing it around his waist.

"Watch your fucking tongue," he spat, his dark eyes piercing into your flustered skin. With feigned thrusts, he rutted his hips against you, a warning in his tone. "Keep up with the attitude and I'll put that dirty mouth to a different use. And I'll make it fucking hurt."

"Mmmph," you huffed, squirming in his grip, his cock gliding along your slick folds, catching on your clit. You knew you weren't getting out of this now, and not a single shred of you wanted to. "Fine."

"That's it," he husked, altering his grip to pry your jaw open with two fingers. "Good fucking slut."

Leaning in, he spat inside your mouth, compelling your jaw to close afterward.

"Swallow it," he commanded, his tone a blend of authority and desire. "What do you say?"

Your gratitude was a muted grumble as you complied, your body throbbing with an undeniable, pent-up need. "Thank you, daddy."

Mattheo's eyes darkened at your obedience--not daring to wait a second longer before snatching you by the hips, hoisting you up and slamming you against the door. You groaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, wanting to touch as much of his body as physically possible.

Mattheo nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, the crescents of his nails nipping at the sensitive flesh of your thighs while he angled himself at your wet, wanting core. A moan left you, your own nails scraping over the fabric on his back as he braced himself before ramming deep into your cunt--and that moan became a loud, sharp cry.

"Fuck," he whispered into your ear, hips setting a savage pace from the start. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? This is what you were practically fucking begging me for."

Words evaded you as the thick haze of pleasure fogged your mind, your body liquefying against him. Incoherent babbling--blended with groans of bliss--were the best you could do.

"Little wanton slut, couldn't even--fuck--couldn't wait until after class-" the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoed loudly in the cramped closet, making you wonder if anyone outside could hear you. The thought lit a thrill up your spine, the mere prospect of exhibitionism, of getting caught. "You're so fucking wet for me, I bet you've been thinking about this all day--my insatiable little cockslut--fuck-"

"Fuck-yes-Matty!" You could barely choke out the words between the force of his thrusts. "You fuck me so good--make me feel so fucking good-"

"Do you know how much trouble we could get into if someone catches us?" he teased, his hands tightening around your thighs, baring bruises on the tender flesh. "But you like it rough, don't you? You like the idea of getting caught with your skirt up around your waist and my cock buried deep inside this tight little pussy."

His words were hot and filthy, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge with each passing moment. He knew just how to push your buttons, how to make you cum harder than you ever had before--each syllable making your wet walls squeeze him harder.

"M-Matty-fuck-" he was ruthless, now, his cock ramming into your cunt, splitting you wider with every savage thrust. "Oh, fuck-"

You were only halfway cognizant of what was leaving your mouth--tangled streams of pleasure and pain paired with cursing pleas for more, wanting him to dig you out from the inside, hollow you until empty--and despite the risk of getting caught, you didn't care. You'd never felt so full, so complete in your entire life. Each thrust delved deeper, each one more forceful than the last, the sheer gravity of them resonating with resounding bangs against the thin wooden door.

"Mmmfh, this is what you fucking deserve-" his teeth aggressively nipped at your earlobe, warm breath forcefully coaxing over your trembling flesh as he shifted, slamming into your cervix with unyielding intensity. A torrent of yelps and pleas streamed past your teeth, met with a dismissive indifference from Mattheo, his aggression fueling the relentless pursuit of his desire. "Teasing me like a little desperate slut--carrying on until I couldn't take it anymore..."

Mattheo's merciless assault on your g-spot continued, the pleasure tainted by a numbing ache as he slammed your cervix in unison. Your nails desperately sought purchase on his back, an attempt to reclaim some agency or at least remind him that you were more than a vessel for his primal desires. Yet, lost in the grip of his own instincts, he treated you as if you were merely a doll, a receptacle for his release, a result of the absolute animalistic power you'd drawn out of him.

"Now look what you made me do," he spat through clenched teeth, voice reverberating down your spine. His words dripped with venom, but there was a hint of satisfaction in the way he spoke. "Degrade and humiliate my girlfriend, fuck her in a dusty fucking broom closet-fuck-"

"Hurts." Your eyes rolled back, disappearing into your skull as a glistening sheen of perspiration covered your flesh. Soft, lingering moans continued to escape your lips as you muttered, "hurts so good."

"Yeah, yeah it fucking does," he continued, his cock driving you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. He was moaning, panting at his own words. "I know you want to cum on this fucking cock, baby, tell me how bad you want it."

He was going to send you over the edge, talking like that. "So bad! So, so bad, Matty! Needa' cum on your thick cock, please-"

"Mhm, that's fucking right..." his hand abandoned your thigh, gliding down the front of your body. "My good little slut, so obsessed with my cock."

Mattheo leaned back, creating just enough space to let the pads of his rough fingers tease your quivering bundle of nerves. Your response was a mixture of a squeal and a moan, your hips instinctively jerking against his, each rhythmic thrust pushing you relentlessly toward the brink of release. Under your warped cries of ecstasy, you caught his desperate, growling breath as he fucked harder into you, his own moans leaking out while his thrusting became more erratic.

"Gonna' cum for me, baby?" His voice was softer now, you knew he was getting close. You knew he was barely hanging on. "Tight little pussy gonna' cum for me?"

"Please, Matty," your voice was so hoarse it was unrecognizable, your desperation palpable. "Needa' cum so bad..."

"Yeah, I feel you squeezing me..." his tone was uneven, panting and growling. "Cum."

The coil of pressure inside of you burst, enveloping you in a hot, convulsing warmth--you were crying out, cumming hard around him, your walls clamping down on his dick, milking his thick girth as you pulsed and throbbed with pleasure. Set off by your eruption, Mattheo only lasted a few more thrusts before he moaned your name, cursing through clenched teeth as he came with long, stuttering thrusts, pumping his cum deep into your pussy.

Bringing both hands back to grasp your thighs, your boyfriend buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lungs still heaving for oxygen as he paused for a brief moment, collecting himself just enough before he began to slowly resume thrusting into you, revelling in the feeling of your slick, cum-filled walls gripping his cock like a perfectly-crafted vice. You were so sensitive, so fucking overstimulated you couldn't even begin to comprehend the sensations, clearly having underestimated the sheer force of his desire, entirely.

"You feel so goddamn good," he grunted, his lips pressed against your neck, making you squirm and whine against him. "I could fuck you for hours."

"Matty," you hiccuped, your gasp getting caught in your lungs as he thrust into your sticky cunt with a particularly harsh thrust. "Too much--it's too much Matty...so sensitive..."

Dismissing your protests, Mattheo began to increase the pace of his thrusts, this time more deliberately, as though taking his time to savour the feel of your tight pussy wrapped around him. A moan involuntarily slipped past your lips as he tightened his grip, holding you more firmly than ever. Trapped within his grasp, his chest pressed your back against the unyielding wood of the door, leaving you with no visible escape route.

"Oh, I think you can," he said, his voice low and dangerous, the strain in his tone evident by the sheer rasp. "You're going to take all of it, princess...this is what you fucking wanted, isn't it?"

As he spoke, he quickened his pace, driving deeper and deeper inside of you with each thrust. Your body bucked against him, overwhelmed by the intensity of pleasure that coursed through you. You threw your head back, lids sealing shut, trembling digits grasping at his thick chocolate curls, body once again submitting to his power.

"Gods!" Your eyes rolled straight back into your head, clenching around him when he started fucking into you faster. "Can't, Matty! Can't-"

"Can't what?" he growled, pulling his face from your neck to meet your gaze, his eyes black with impatient lust, stark against his reddened cheeks. "Can't take it? Can't handle me?"

Fire rose in your chest, and on instinct, you tightened your hold on the two fistfuls of his hair--tugging at his scalp, nails scraping his skin as his throbbing cock fucked you deep. "Matt-"

"C'mon baby, you're doing so good, taking me so perfect..." his voice was sickening, almost indefinitely sadistic, and you whimpered, squirming as a firestorm raged through you. "I'm going slow, princess...just relax, breathe...I know this greedy little pussy can handle it..."

Fog seeped into your skull--you wanted to think, to speak, to do anything other than suck air into your lungs and knead his soft, curly strands between your fingers, but you were gone--possessed, swallowed by your boyfriends primal power, which only seemed to increase as his plush, wet lips found yours.

A garbled groan escaped you, muffled by the fervent presence of your boyfriend's mouth. Your eyes rolled back for what had to have been the hundredth time, losing themselves in a sea of white as Mattheo's urgency intensified. His fingernails dug into your skin, a force threatening to shatter, his shoulders tensing with an obsessive, impulsive need. Hips smacking against your flesh, each thrust seemed fueled by an unwillingness to let you go. An unwillingness to pull out.

Your breasts bounced with the escalating rhythm, a physical manifestation of the desire that consumed him. Mattheo pressed his tongue past your teeth, navigating your molars with a hunger that mirrored his relentless need, the kiss growing hungrier and wetter by the second as he slipped his hand back between your bodies, fingers relentlessly twirling over your aching, sensitive clit.

"See baby, you're taking me so well," he spoke again, his tone low and appreciative, his pace quickening, his hungry eyes dipping over your whimpering expressions. "I knew you would--you're so fucking tight around me, make me feel so good..."

Despite his soft tone, his thrusts and fingers betrayed that, and you felt the shockwave quake through your body, flesh jiggling, a wail of pain forced from your lungs as he smacked your cervix. He was ruthless, now, his cock ramming into your cunt, splitting you wider with every savage thrust, dragging you back towards another orgasm faster than you could even comprehend it.

"Wanna' cum, Matty-" you wailed, voice cracking, nails surely breaking the skin on his neck as you held onto him for dear life. "I wanna' cum for you! Needa’ cum for you-please!"

"Yeah? You wanna cum for me again, huh?" He was pushing his words out between his shallow breath, teeth grit and brows furrowed in effort. "You think you deserve that? You think you deserve two orgasms after what you did?"

You groaned, breath missing you, vision hazed with pleasure as you met his eyes--wild and animalistic with lust. You couldn't fucking believe that he was still teasing you like this, how he even had the strength left to do it. You marveled at his almost inhumane lust, his primal fervour seemingly boundless.

"Please! I'm sorry!" You were practically screaming, not giving a fuck who was outside the door. "I'm sorry Matty! Please-"

His first response was to squeeze you tighter, fuck into you harder, turn your pleas into screams as he pulverized your cunt--but then, after thinking on it momentarily, he spoke.

"Cum for me fucking slut," he hissed, the words a brunt command. "Don't you ever forget who's in control here again."

"Yes--fuck--yes!"

Lightning tore through your nervous system, leaving a wake of sparks in its path, and you clenched around his dick, shaking and spasming as your second orgasm quaked through your body with a force that could have rendered you unconscious.

Mattheo growled, gripped you to his chest, pressing his lips back to yours as he continued slamming your pussy, panting and groaning while he fucked you through your high and straight into his own--a low, feral roar escaping him, his cum spilling deep into your cunt for the second time.

Your head was ringing too loud to hear him reach climax, to your honest dismay--you only felt it. Felt the violent fucking into your cervix, felt the pitching, stuttering of his hips, felt him silence himself in your neck while he poured jets of cum into your cunt, felt him throbbing at the hilt as he stopped, his hand falling away from your dripping, aching cunt.

When you'd returned to reality, panting for breath, he'd already slipped out of you, aiding you in steadying yourself on the ground. Meeting your eyes, he reached down, gathering the cum seeping from your cunt and collecting it on his fingers. Examining your face, he smirked, free hand gripping your jaw as he forcefully popped the fingers into your mouth.

Groaning, you tried to spit it out--your mouth already drier than the desert, his salty cum only increasing your thirst--but he was persistent, reaching the back of your throat and holding there until you'd started to suck his fingers clean. He watched you, the lust dying in his eyes, replaced with a sated adoration--and he seemed to catch himself, smirking and swirling his fingers along your tongue.

When you'd finished, you whimpered, meeting his gaze with tired eyes, and he pulled himself free from your mouth, leaning down to capture your lips with his as he started piecing himself back together.

“Love you, Matty,” you muttered as he pulled away, watching him run a hand through his sweaty hair, unsticking his curls from his damp forehead. “S’much.”

“Love you too, baby,” he tutted, briskly relatching up his belt before throwing an arm around your waist to support your jelly legs. “Let’s skip charms and head back to my dorm. We’ll run you a bath.”

#slytherinslut0 loves pizzaapeteer sm #giggling

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slytherinslut0 · 2 months ago

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stop this made me giggle and cry and then cackle horridly because thank you gg !!! the fact you read this made my night lolol ilysmm

ps your pics are always so good 😭😭🤍🤍

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 21st. tom — gun play / dubcon / masochism.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom can’t hurt you, but you love seeing him try.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, i truly mean it minors stay back from this one. this is as fantasy as it comes. do not do this at home. or anywhere, ever. empty unloaded gun, gunplay, hardcore gun kink, masochist reader, sadist tom, very ooc tom riddle imo, lots of history between these two, angst and tension and emotion.

It doesn't matter how you got here—trapped in a room with Tom Riddle circling you, hands clasped behind him, his brother standing guard like a fucking solider just outside the door—it doesn't matter that your wrists are bound behind your back, rope cutting into your skin, or that you were caught somewhere deep within the manor, searching for information for the Order. It doesn't matter that you grew up with Tom and Mattheo, all those years in the orphanage, loved them both more than you ever loved yourself.

It doesn't fucking matter.

Nothing does—nothing except the man standing in front of you—nothing except the moment his hand reaches behind him, pulling a gun from where it had rested at his waist.

Yeah, uh, yeah—that might matter. Just a little.

"I never took you for someone who'd resort to Muggle weapons," you manage, but your voice is thin, a strained sound under the pulse thundering at your throat. "How refined."

Tom's eyes trace over you, stalling on the rhythm at your neck as though it's tangible before dragging back up to meet your own. He hasn't spoken in minutes, just watching, letting the silence swell, the tension grow with each passing second.

He's building it slowly, deliberately. It's always been a game to him—one he knows you'll lose.

"There's a certain appeal to them." His thumb grazes the trigger, almost absentmindedly. "So much power at the flick of a finger. No skill, no magic. Just finality."

Heat rises up your neck, settling in your cheeks, and all you can do is stare at him. He knows he doesn't need to touch you to break you—he's never had to. Tom's greatest weapon, when it comes to you, has always been his words.

He steps closer, fingers still ghosting over the gun as if he isn't holding all of your fate in his hands. He slows when his shins brush against your knees, and you hate how your pulse jumps, how you feel so small beneath him.

"You're tense," he murmurs, amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "Is it the weapon? Or something else?"

You lift your gaze because there's nowhere else to look—dark stone walls close in around you and he occupies every free inch of space between. It's laughable, really, the way your heart aches when you meet his eyes. You know he has to make an example of you, to prove something to the Death Eaters lurking beyond these walls, but despite the fire in his gaze, you can see it—the way he's holding back, just like he's done time and time again, for years.

No matter what he's become, there's still something of the boy you once knew buried beneath the surface. The boy who used to curl into you for warmth, for survival.

Your eyes flicker down to the gun again. You force the words past grit teeth. "Do you need that to feel powerful, Tom?"

There's something chilling in how natural the gun looks in his hand, the way he wields it with the same ease he uses to twist a wand. You’re certain Tom could find ease in anything, especially empty handed.

He's silent for a long moment, until he isn't. "I don't need anything to feel powerful."

The barrel catches the light as he raises it, and your skin tightens in anticipation. You close your eyes briefly as he drags it lazily up your arm, tracing a line of cold fire over your collarbone. Your heart is gone, soaring far away from this room, and a shiver rolls through you—not from fear, but from something you can't name. Something that's always belonged to him—

When the gun reaches your throat, your eyes flutter open, drawn to the sight of metal pressed against your skin.

He tilts his head, studying you. "You think this makes me dangerous?"

He tilts the gun beneath your chin, nudging your head back until your gaze meets his again. You gasp, and your thighs tense involuntarily. His eyes flicker down—he notices.

It's not the gun. It's him. Christ, it's always been him.

"No," you force out against the threat at your throat. "I think you make you dangerous."

Something shifts in Tom's eyes—just for a moment, before it vanishes beneath something more potent—determination.

He moves behind you in a slow circle, fingers brushing through your hair as if in contemplation. It's only a moment before his other hand brings the gun back, cold metal kissing the edge of your shoulder. You tense, feeling the weight of him behind you, his breath ghosting over your neck—and he inhales against your skin as he slides the gun lower, tracing the dip between your breasts, dragging like a threat down to your lap until the barrel presses against your thigh.

At this point, your heart pounds so loud you're certain Mattheo can hear it from outside the door—all you can do is stare at where his hand lingers, your mind racing ahead to the edge of terror and something far more dangerous.

"You seem...unbothered all of a sudden," Tom muses, teasing the gun up your thigh, dragging your skirts along with it. "One might expect the opposite reaction, given where this gun happens to be."

You know it's a game. Of course it's a game—his way of toying with you, forcing a reaction, demanding fear where there's none left. Except instead of fear, there's an unbearable heat curling inside you, your thighs wanting to close around the gun, to push against it, to feel it.

God, you hate that he does this to you.

"You won't hurt me," you manage, though your voice cracks. Your hips shift, just slightly, but enough to feel the cold metal slide higher. "If you wanted to, you would have."

That's the truth of it, isn't it? In the darkest moments, when you face him like this, you know with every beat of your heart that he'd never hurt you. You trust him in the way you shouldn't, in the way no one else in the world could. He could kill anyone else without a second thought, but not you.

That trust is what keeps pulling you back here, again and again, even though you've sworn yourself to the Order, even though you've promised to fight against everything he stands for.

"You always did have a death wish." He says, spitting the syllables at you, the disgust in his tone making your stomach lurch. His grip tightens in your hair. "Is that all it takes to make you pliable? My hands on you, a weapon in the room, and suddenly you're eager? Suddenly you trust me again?"

"You've never been able to kill me." You whisper, trying to sound cocky, sarcastic, but it comes out wrong—too breathless, too raw. "And you never will."

"I've never needed to." He murmurs as the gun moves again, pressing firmly against the apex of your thighs, nudging toward your clothed cunt. "You destroy yourself just fine."

You can't think, can't breathe, can't be when his voice wraps around you like this, when he presses the gun against you like it's a fucking present. Every nerve in your body is screaming, every instinct warring against itself. You want to grind against the barrel, to push it deeper between your legs. You want to trap it there, feel it pressed so tightly that you can't move. You want to drag his face to yours, taste his breath, break him.

Yet, you want to pull away and strike him across the face all the same—and that is Tom's power over you.

It's always been this way with him. You hate him—he's horrible and corrupt and so goddamn bad for you but he knows exactly what to say—exactly what to do to make you want to hurt him, to make you want to worship him in the same breath. The intensity of it steals the air from your lungs, makes a groan slip from your lips before you can stop it.

"Tell me, Tom," you grit out, forcing yourself still despite every inch of you wanting to move, wanting to react. "Would your fucking gun be on me like this if I was terrified of it? Would you be pressing it against me like this if it was loaded?"

The insinuation doesn't escape him. Not for a second. You have him pinned and it pisses him off because you fucked up by sneaking in here but there’s not a damn thing he can do to punish you for it that wouldn’t be punishment towards himself as well.

His grip in your hair tightens as the gun drags slowly over your clit, and you keen at the contact, your hips pushing into it.

"Fucking vixen," he pulls your head back roughly, his breath hot against your ear. His voice—the rawness— sends a goddamn thrill through you, makes your whole body jerk. "I have you tied to a chair, a gun at your cunt, and you still have the power to make me doubt myself.”

"That's me, Tom." You laugh, breathless. "Always ruining your fun."

His eyes flash with something—something devastating but it doesn't scare you because you've been here so many fucking times before. It only makes you arch your back, grinding against the gun harder, a soft moan escaping your lips just to spite him.

He watches you—eyes lidded, and something in the way he stares makes you ache.

"Why do you keep coming back here?" A question hissed through a tight jaw, words crawling down your spine, burrowing beneath your skin. "You keep testing me...fighting me...just to end up like this...”

You gasp. "I have to stop you—I—“

He cuts you off by yanking your head toward his until his forehead presses against yours—

"I didn't ask why you came," his nose brushes yours as he speaks. "I asked why you keep coming back. Why do you keep coming back to be...this for me?"

His voice is raw, something you've never heard in a long long time—unguarded—so fucking human. It makes the heat in your belly coil tighter, and your eyes flutter shut against the weight of it. You don't have an answer, not one that makes sense, not one that fits the way he's looking at you now.

"I-I don't know," is all you can offer.

Tom makes a noise in the back of his throat—low, frustrated, a sound that hums between you.

"Yes, you do," he hisses. "Don't get shy on me now."

He shifts the gun again, sliding beneath your panties, the cold metal making contact with your slick slit and you fucking gasp—a sound so loud you're sure Mattheo heard it—along with the rest of the goddamn house, too.

"This isn't about stopping me," Tom says, a whisper of words. "This isn't about taking away my control—not really."

He's right, and the truth of it stings. This isn't about stopping him, not entirely. You hate him for his choices but gods, you fucking crave this—him, his power over you. Every time you've come here, sneaking past the Order's notice, pretending to gather evidence, pretending you're smart enough to catch him in something—you know this is what you wanted. You know it's always been about him. The boy you survived with, the boy you loved—it's about how you've always belonged to him, even though you hate him for it.

It's always been him. Only him.

"Fuck," you gasp again as you feel the gun shifting, pressing harder against your cunt, and your mind is spinning because you can't believe he might—he wouldn't really— "…are you about to—Jesus, Tom..."

He's listening, you know he is. He's waiting for any hint of something that tells him to stop—a flinch, a breath that isn't right, the smallest sound that says you don't want this. But all he hears is you. You, the girl he's known since all you had was eachother, the one who loved him but left, who keeps coming back to him, no matter how much you claim to hate him.

He hears you submit, and it fuels him.

"You are..." he jerks your head again, roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes as the gun nudges against your soaked entrance, "...so unbelievably frustrating."

Oh, the irony. "I'm...not the only—oh gods—"

Your words crumble into nothing, dissolving in your throat as he presses the gun inside you. Cold metal pushing deep, rough ridges working you wide, the pressure burning with something almost unbearable in its fucking intensity.

Your mind hazes with it, and a groan that isn’t yours fills the room as you fight to adjust to the stretch.

"I hate this," he spits, his voice like gravel, raw and jagged with frustration, trembling with restraint. His eyes, wide and wild, stay locked on yours as though he can't tear himself away. "I hate how easy it is with you—I hate how quickly you give in, how you let me do this to you because you know I’d stop if you asked—I hate how I can never look at you without remembering what it feels like to be inside you. I hate how badly I still want that, after all these years, even though you left me. I hate you for making me want this."

Oh god—fucking hell—there's no room in your head for coherence now, no space left to argue, to resist—Tom Riddle has been so many things to you over the years, but openly, unabashedly vulnerable has never truly been one of them. Not until now. You feel it—beneath the brutality, the power—something fragile.

His forehead presses against your temple, the intimacy of it dizzying, disarming. You clench around the cold metal and he pushes it deeper.

He continues. “Admittedly, I hate myself most for wanting you to want this back.”

Your voice cracks around a sob—he’s pumping the gun in and out of you now—lewd sounds filling the room and your head tips back against his shoulder. His free hand slips from your hair and cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, a gesture that almost feels tender though you know better. His version of tenderness is as dangerous as anything else he offers.

You whinge. “T-Tom—oh fuck—I’m always going to let you win. I trust you—“

"Don't," he cuts you off in a groan against your cheek. Pumping the barrel into you, making your back arch off the chair. “You have no reason to. You know better."

You hear the unspoken words in his voice, the ones he can't bring himself to say aloud—I don't deserve it—and it makes your chest ache, makes your throat tighten—makes you want to shake him, wake him up from this nightmare—

"Of course I know better," you whisper through a gasp as he mutters a spell, something swirling over your clit that makes your eyes roll. “Gods—but you’ve never wanted me rational anyways.”

"You're right," he hisses and you hear the pain in it, a man who has everything still simultaneously has nothing and it makes him frustrated—all because of you. "I never wanted you to be rational. I never wanted you to be safe. I never wanted you to be anything other than mine."

You keen as the sensation on your clit intensifies and he pumps the gun quicker, you look down to watch his hand, the way his knuckles tense with the movement and you can almost see the restraint under his skin telling you just how bad he wishes he was pumping into you instead. You can hear your arousal—you feel the shame in it and you should be disgusted by it, by everything this is, but instead, it only makes your heart race faster.

You know there's more he's not saying—that he can't say.

He wants you to be his, but he will never let you be his.

"I hate you. What you've become." The words scrape from your lips between moans, your climax charging fast. "It shouldn't be this...this hard."

"This is why I call you frustrating. How can you hate me and still let me do this to you?" His voice is raw, burning with something you don't fully understand, but you can feel it— he's pushing deeper, grinding the gun against you with every bit of anger he has left. You're on fire, your mind spinning out of control, and the ropes digging into your skin only ground you to the pain, to the pleasure. "I'm defiling you...and yet, you keep coming back.”

"God," you grunt, sweat slicking over your skin because you’re so goddamn close and his words only drag you that much closer. "Jesus f—Tom, please—“

"Please what?" His hand slips back through your hair, eyes jerked to meet his. "You need to be more specific, sweetheart."

There's a bite in the pet name, but you don't care. All you can think of is him, of more, of everything he's doing to you, and it's not enough. It’ll never be fucking enough—

“Please!” Words fail you. “Tom—I—“

He shudders at the sound of your voice, at how helpless you are, at all the power you've given him.

"Words," he snarls, pumping quicker. "I'll give you what you want, but you’ll need to use. your. words."

“Please! I need to cum!” You blurt out. “Tom—Tom! I need to—“

With that, he kisses you to cut you off, teeth sinking into your lower lip with fervour that borders on irrational. Which, of course it is. All of this is beyond fucking irrational. It's not careful or soft or gentle, his lips searing against yours as if he's trying to claim every breath you've ever taken, every inch of space between you. And you—god, you kiss him back just as fiercely while hating yourself for the way you want it, need it, how you crave the bruises his mouth is leaving behind.

Tom groans against your lips and it's the sound of something breaking, something starved for way too long, something desperate to pour out of his blood. His tongue slides over yours, wet and warm, and you feel the ropes biting into your wrists, feel the ache where your arms strain to break free. You realize, with a pulse of helpless longing, that if you weren't tied, you'd be clawing at him—dragging him closer, letting him consume every part of you until there was nothing left.

"Feel that shame?" He whispers as he pulls back, just as you’re about to tip over. "That's your punishment.”

And then—you break, shatter, explode and the sound that escapes you is so fucking raw you don’t even recognize it. Something filled with the shame of wanting someone so goddamn bad you let them fuck you with a weapon—the shame of wanting someone so terrible you’d never be able to explain yourself to anyone with a rational pulse. The sounds come without reason, without thought—just a release of emotion that you had held in for far, far too long.

“That’s it. Let it burn.” He coos, hungrily watching you break. “You will always be mine."

A jagged sound escapes you as you twitch in aftershocks and he finally, however torturously slowly, pulls the gun free. You realize just how empty you feel without it now, how Tom made it feel so fucking intimate even though, in reality, it was the furthest from. He didn’t even touch you.

“You’re just weak. For me.” He says, as though he heard your thoughts. Part of you knows he did. He brings the gun up to your lips, urging you to part them. “Clean your mess. This is Mattheo’s gun.”

You grimace but take it into your mouth anyways, tasting the result of your need—the shame that comes along with it, the self disgust—the list goes on. Tom watches you tease your tongue around it, his throat working in a terribly dry swallow as you hollow your cheeks and suck it clean as he pulls it free.

He shudders, and for a moment his control wavers. But then he shakes his head, and exhales.

"I was meant to be alone, I understand that." He whispers, something abhorrently vulnerable, tucking the gun away before working at undoing the ropes around your wrists. “But you...you were never meant to change me. And I need you, to understand that.”

A lump forms in your throat. You taste the tears wanting to well but you force them away and instead, you nod.

“I know.”

He straightens up again and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and almost tender—so different from the way he treated you merely moments ago. It's a goodbye—you can feel it in the way his lips linger, reluctant.

“Good girl.” He steps back. "Don't come back here."

#a whirlwind of emotions is right #that last quote is my fav ever #i had so much pent up angst pour into this one #slytherinslut0 loves pizzaapeteer sm #tom riddle #tom riddle smut

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slytherinslut0 · 29 days ago

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GEORGIEEEEE SKSKKSJD ILYYYY BABES thank u for reading 🤭🤭🤭🤭 i love your live reacts so much lmfaoooo you kill me 😭😭🤍🤍🤍

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

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

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. | 2024

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

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

All is fair in love and war.

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

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

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

Right now, expectedly, is no different.

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

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

He smells intense, and it makes you dizzy.

Makes you reckless.

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

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

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

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

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

There we go.

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

He's right. This is your revenge.

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

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

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

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

Another stifled groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scowls.

"You—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He all but slams his hands down onto the armrests.

You smirk. "Good boy."

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

That doesn't escape your notice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhales through his teeth. "Stop teasing."

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

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

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

He fucking needs this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Merlin help you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if this is supposed to be his punishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, he fucking grins. "Tighter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Tom. If you only knew.

#we love them being equally crazy sksksk #pls you’re making me honestly blush and giggle over these reactions iskaoiekr i need to go hide #i love you!!!!!!!#thank you for reading my love and the wonderful reblog as always xoxoxo #slytherinslut0 loves pizzaapeteer sm #my pookie fr!!!#tom riddle smut #slytherin boys #slytherinboys

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