#tom marvolo riddle tom marvolo riddle x oc

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

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

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

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

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

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

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

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

It's maddening.

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

You know it's more than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"

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

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

Watc—oh no.

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

"Tom—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, fuck—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear god, what happened to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[undisclosedproxy]

Possessive, obsessive, aggressive T.R T.N M.R

Summary: A movie night where secrets get revealed with Y/N and the boys.

Popcorn flying through the air, laughter filling the homely manor and the television playing a long forgotten movie. This is how good life ha been living with the boys. Y/N was currently sitting on the warm carpeted floor in between Theodores legs, Tom was sitting to the right of them, comfortable on his own seperate arm chair and Mattheo to the left of them, taking up most of the couch sitting in the most annoying way so that he was touching both Theodore and Y/N.

”You should have heard her screaming Y/N” Mattheo laughed loudly basically wheezing at this point, ready to pee himself from laughter.

”Okay it’s not that funny. All we did was hook up and then she woke me up screaming, she was supposed to leave already.” Theodore said shooting a fake glare in Mattheos direction with his icy blue eyes. He continued to sloppily try to braid Y/Ns piece of long brown silky hair.

”You’re right. It wasn’t funny it was obnoxious. Actually it was downright absurd, only the lowest of the low human beings with that level of IQ-“ Tom started going on a very angry rant, most of the time everyone doesn’t know what he’s talking about when he has these moments of his temper betraying him.

”Come on tom, calm down a little bit?” Y/N asked with furrowed brows and a slight pout. She didn’t mind when Mattheo and Theodore start their friendly banter but sometimes Tom just doesn’t get the hint, or pick up on social settings vibes.

Tom huffed and looked away, he didn’t want to admit it but he cares about what she thinks. They all know it too.

”You pricks are both so fucking in love with Y/N, at this point it’s disgusting.” Mattheo chuckled loudly as he continued to throw popcorn at Tom. Mattheo draped a foot over Y/Ns head. She shot him a glare and smacked his foot with her free hand, the other trying to help Theodore braid her hair.

”Do not start.” Tom warned him with a harsh look as Tom continued to put the popcorn Mattheo keeps throwing at him in a trash bag.

”Oh, do not act like you weren’t going absolute crazy when she brought a guy home.” Theodore yelled extremely loudly for no reason which was so random. Y/N looked up at Mattheo with a confused look, then back up at Theodore who was fiddling with her hair trying to detangle the matt he had made.

”No i didn’t!” Mattheo screamed back obviously lying. He was trying to cover for himself in front of Y/N.

”You dickheads did too!” Mattheo yelled pointing at Tom and Theo. As he jumped up, the popcorn falling onto the floor, the popcorn kennels already in the expensive carpet. Tom groaned loudly obviously already knowing he is going to be the one cleaning that up.

“Well. We did not hex him.” Theodore said sassily as he crossed his arms with a huff, giving up on trying to untangle the braid.

”Yes.” Tom said dryly agreeing with Theodore.

”IT WAS LITERALLY YOU WHO HEXED HIM!” Mattheo screamed at Tom, Mattheo was met with Tom staring at him blankly.

”oh.” Tom said nonchalantly,

Everyone stared at him with a concerned look on their faces.

”Is this why no boys ever come back over after the first date?” Y/N asked with a dumb founded look on her face.

”Yes.” The boys all answered in the same nonchalant tone and all at the same time.

”You guys sound like a cult, i’m leaving.” Y/N said as she gets up off the carpeted floor from in between Theodores legs. She walks up the stairs while flipping them off as they stared at her blankly.

”Her ass is so fat.” Mattheo said while so obviously staring. He was met with eye rolling from Theodore, but obviously he was staring too because he had to re arrange his pants, and Tom just looking at him with a disgusted look as he grabbed a pillow and put it over his crotch as he huffed once again.

[incorrectquotesharrypotterv]

Draco: Tom is so much bigger than you.

Y/n: I could take him.

Mattheo: *just entering the conversation* In a fight, right?

Y/n: Why would I fight Tom?

[beegomess]

They dreaming about you || Slytherin boys

Summary: The boys being surprised by hot dreams with you, even without being in a loving relationship. These dreams take them by surprise, but maybe not so much, since you had been noticing some stealthy looks from them for some time on your body. Warnings: A little spicy, +18.

Requests open!

materlist here

Blaise Zabini

That scene seemed too good to be true, but it was. At least in Blaise's head it was...

His body lying on the sheets with his skirt raised and legs open gave him the view of paradise. What only improved with the fact that your fingers slowly went in and out of you while your face squirmed in pleasure and your mouth spilled a few moans, from time to time, with his name.

In the dream, Blaise just looked, almost as if waiting for the right moment to touch you, and it was certainly wonderful to see you in that position.

However, Zabini's brain was awakened thanks to the roar of the bathroom door being knocked by his roommate who had just entered. His eyes opened slowly, feeling a violent frustration taking over his body followed by shame of himself. In addition to, of course, having something he had to solve in the shower before class.

At breakfast, you were there, laughing with Pansy. As soon as Blaise's brown eyes hit you, an embarrassment was felt. However, this embarrassment was soon replaced by a desire and vivid memories of his dream, which made him ignore you during the following days, because the dreams did not stop. They even happened in naps during the day. It was crazy for him, his time in the bath had to increase considerably in the last few days. Blaise didn't know what else to do with himself.

Draco Malfoy

Oh, no. Draco really didn't use to be that kind of boy. He, in fact, was used to receiving this kind of report from other girls. So when, at his sleep, he found himself dreaming of you with his lips around him, this lit an alert in his mind.

You were the sister of one of your friends, that wasn't right. He could swear that he consciously never wanted you that way, but in fact, he was only in the phase of denial by Theo's constant warnings not to look at his beautiful sister that way.

He avoided you as much as possible for the rest of the day, you two didn't really use to be very close, but you were almost always in the same places.

The attempt to avoid you during the day worked, but during dinner he couldn't do the same. What made you look the most lascivious way at your mouth while you ate dessert and talked to your friend. It was then that he realized that maybe he was not as calibrated in relation to you as he imagined.

Lorenzo Berkshire

Enzo saw you in your pajamas several times throughout your childhood, this was common among best friends. However, something seemed to have changed in you lately, he was starting to notice more about what his body looked like now. However, he thought he had stopped there, just a common physical attraction.

Good, but that's not what happened. One morning he just woke up with a big problem in his pants thanks to a dream in which you simply kissed him on his lap.

In the dream, you were wearing those very short pajamas that you loved to wear, but that Lorenzo hated because it made him look like any pervert. His body was on his lap, using the friction between the two of you to satisfy yourself in some way. His low moans muffled by his lips caused Enzo's smiles during the dream.

However, he woke up at some point with you, already dressed for class, knocking on the door of his room. His body that was hot and thirsty freezes immediately when he hears his voice calling him and he jumps out of bed in despair.

- Enzo, is everything okay? - You ask because of his delay in opening for you.

He answered anything, just to mislead you for a few hours. It was almost impossible to avoid you during the day, you surprised him, he was always with you and suddenly he was full of commitments that didn't include you.

Enzo just didn't know what to do, since whenever he saw you, he received scenes from his dream.

Mattheo Riddle

His body was beautifully folded over a table in some classroom, his hands grabbed the wood tightly while his skirt was raised and his panties were slightly dragged to the side to give him passage. Mattheo smiled as he hit his hips against his own and saw his face, pressed against the wood, writhing with the moans and sensations he gave you.

Everything was perfect, really everything. Until he simply woke up, without any interruption, his brain simply turned off the most beautiful scene he had ever seen and woke him up out of nowhere.

He opened his eyes and began to fall for himself about the dream. Why was he dreaming that about you? You didn't even talk, nor did you have friends in common besides Astoria, who was not exactly his friend, just a friend's girlfriend.

But that's okay, he did what he had to do so he didn't have to show all his tight pants and went on with his day. For him, that was unusual, but not a total astonishment. Mattheo really liked to see his body whenever he could, but he never did more than that.

Riddle's day went on normally. Girls throwing themselves at him, Draco complaining about his father, Theo agreeing and telling about his... Until you passed next to his table to yours ahead.

Coincidentally, you were wearing the skirt of that dream, the exact same skirt. All right, it was the uniform, but you were wearing that specific model, with pleats and more round and a little shorter.

Mattheo felt warm up, not with shame, but with a sudden desire. What only got worse when he realized that his dream happened in that same classroom. The class simply dragged on to Mattheo, who decided to go out in the middle of it to be able to relieve himself minimally and try to ignore you for the rest of the day, getting frustrated about the way he felt close to you from that day on.

Theodore Nott

Theodore's night had been great until he lay down, he had lost sleep and went to the Astronomy Tower to smoke, in an attempt to fall asleep again. And when he got there, he found you doing the same as him. You two talked and laughed at nonsense while smoking, something that became common over the weeks, it was something that happened coincidentally, until Theodore started going whenever you went.

He always slept better after hearing his laugh and that day was no different, he lay down and fell asleep quickly, and everything only seemed to get better when an image of him invaded his dreams: his hands leaning on Nott's chest while his breasts shook as you slid over him, his suggestive smiles and moans filled Theo's eyes, making him think he was finally in paradise for having her.

Anyway, his paradise was quickly interrupted by Mattheo's noises when leaving the dorm. Theodore was face down, but as soon as he turned around, it was visible to see his condition through the sheet itself, which made him rub his eyes in frustration, but not out of shame but out of necessity.

Theo was the kind of boy who was not ashamed of things like this, in fact, it only encouraged him to look for you, even if it meant having to deal with the insistent scenes reappearing in his mind.

Tom Riddle

You were simply stunning with your ankles hitting Tom's shoulders as he increased the pace of the beats on you. It was almost angelic for him to see you that way. The way he got lost in you in his own mind seemed like a weakness when he woke up.

Tom thought he was bewitched by you, after all, he was the one who should get into people's minds and not the other way around. So, when this happened, he was intrigued and obsessed with you. The two of you were not close, much less had already talked more than a brief question about school subjects. And that's why his obsession with you.

Even though he was a different boy, in a more focused and studious feeling than worried about girls, he can't help but perceive you in the libraries and how the dim lights contoured his body and curves perfectly. He didn't avoid you the next day, in fact, as the days went by, Tom approached you. He never ran after girls, but he seemed willing to watch you from afar whenever he could.

He felt like an idiot, futile to say the least. But he couldn't take away from himself the curiosity and the desire to see you really squirm under him.

_______________________________

xoxo, bee🫶🏼✨

[voxslays]

TOIL AND TROUBLE — TOM RIDDLE

SUMMARY: Things you do absentmindedly that Tom secretly admires—even though he claims to ‘hate’ them. PAIRINGS: Tom M. Riddle x Reader. A/N: Soft!Tom, Tom is future Voldemort, takes place before marauders.

✮ When you call him ‘Tommy.’ Tom claims to despise it. It’s unprofessional for a future Hogwarts professor dark lord, isn’t it? Although, it brings a warmth to his heart he can’t quite comprehend. Why is it, when you cal him such a repulsive, childish nickname, he feels ‘butterflies’ in his stomach?

✮ And as of late, he can’t bring himself to make you stop—not like he used to. Don’t get me wrong, Tom still finds the name repugnant and absolutely abhors it coming from anyone but you—however, he decides he can make exceptions for you every once in a while.

✮ When you pull him away from his ‘dark’ studies. He is studying those horcruxes for a reason. If he’s to one day become one of the greatest dark wizards of his time, he needs to know this stuff. He doesn’t like it when people meddle in his business, although he finds it endearing that you care so much.

✮ Like that time when you secretly spied in on his ‘dark lord’ meeting and called him cute. Cute? Did you seriously find someone who was being enveloped in the ancient dark arts, cute? Well apparently you did, and no matter how hard Tom tried, he couldn’t help but think about you for the rest of his lonesome evening.

[butternutt613]

HEY! YOU THERE!!

Yes, YOU! Guess what? You did it!

You survived another year on this crazy, beautiful, unpredictable planet we call Earth. Take a moment; pause, breathe, and soak that in.

I am so proud of you!

I know life can be tough. Sometimes up feels like down, left feels like right, and the road ahead seems like it's constantly shifting beneath your feet. But here’s the thing: you made it through.

You are strong. You are resilient. You are powerful.

You are a being made of stardust, woven together by cosmic miracles and boundless potential. Every breath you take, every step forward, is a testament to your courage and your will to keep going.

So as this year ends and a new one begins, remember this:

You are enough. You are worthy. And you are loved.

Here’s to you! The survivors, the fighters, the dreamers. Keep shining, keep creating, and keep being unapologetically YOU!

And to my amazing moots:

I love each and every one of you. You have filled my days with endless light and warmth, even when things felt dark. You encourage me to keep moving forward, creating, writing, and sharing my insane ideas without fear. Each of you is a blessing in my life. Your creativity, kindness, and magic inspire me every single day.

I can’t wait to see what trouble we’ll get up to next year, what new worlds we’ll dream up, what stories we’ll tell, and how we’ll continue to grow together. Thank you for being part of my journey and for letting me be part of yours.

Happy New Year. Let’s make this one count.

[cardansriddle]

Deception - Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

Summary:

It wasn’t a calculated move, not at first. But now that the pieces had been set on the board, she realized the only way to survive was to play. She would have to play his game—dangerous, consuming, and risky as it was. She knew there was no other way of getting out of his clutches. Whatever his decision, she would be his prisoner for as long as he pleased.

But perhaps...she could manipulate him.

Warnings: manipulation, reader is Tom's prisoner. not proofread as always.

A/N: I loved writing this so much, I'm already thinking maybe I should continue this.

༻♛༺

The dim light of the chamber flickered as the iron door groaned shut behind her, casting her into a suffocating silence. The cold seeped into her bones as she stood, hands bound by enchanted chains that glimmered faintly in the shadows. Her captors dropped their hold on her arms and she heard the echo of their footsteps as they left the room.

And then she was alone with him.

She slowly rose her eyes from the ground and met his piercing gaze with defiance. Tom Riddle sat at the head of a grand, dark table, his fingers steepled, eyes glittering like a predator sizing up its prey. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp planes and hollows that made him both devilishly beautiful and utterly menacing. His dark hair, sleek and perfectly in place, framed a face that seemed carved from marble—pale, flawless, and unnervingly symmetrical.

"Do you know why you're here?" His voice was calm, dangerously so, each syllable wrapping around her like a devil's snare.

Her lips curled in disgust. "If you're looking for someone to cower and beg, you’ve picked the wrong witch."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, sharp and fleeting. "Brave." he murmured, rising from his chair with an almost lazy grace. He wore black robes tailored to perfection, the fabric smooth and unyielding, fitting his tall, lean frame as if it were a second skin. "But bravery without power is a liability."

He moved towards her, each step deliberate, calculated. She fought the urge to step back as he stopped just inches away, his presence overwhelming. There was an aura about him that made the air feel heavier, the room colder. 

"I’ll make this simple," he continued, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "Hufflepuff's Cup. Where is it?"

She swallowed a knot in her throat before she answered. "You will not get anything from me, Riddle." She spat.

"Hm." He hummed, his smile chilling and devoid of warmth. "Do you truly believe that?" Before she could respond, he lifted a hand, and the chains tightened around her wrists, forcing her to her knees. Pain shot through her, but she refused to cry out, glaring up at him instead.

She felt utterly vulnerable on the ground beneath him, forced to look up to him. He seemed to be enjoying himself as he let his gaze rove over her like this, on her knees, at his mercy. His eyes glimmered at the sight and there was something almost serpentine about them, as if they could see straight through to the darkest corners of a person’s soul.

"You think you can defy me," he said, crouching down to her level. His face was unnervingly close now, his breath ghosting over her skin. "But defiance only entertains me for so long."

She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to flinch as his fingers brushed her chin, tilting her face upward. "Why do you resist?" he asked almost curiously. "You know lack of cooperation will only lead to pain. You also know...I get what I want. I always win."

"You don’t win anything," she snapped, her voice trembling despite her efforts. "You take. You destroy. You leave nothing behind but fear and ruin." She knew the reply she gave was pathetic, yet she was at death's door and there was only so much wit she could muster. "I know you’ll never be satisfied. Not with Hufflepuff's Cup, not with power, not with anything."

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or something darker. He dropped his hand. "Perhaps Crucio will loosen your tongue about the Cup's whereabouts then."

A shot of fear travelled through her body, but she knew the slightest display of it would only encourage him more. So she tilted her chin upward defiantly, her heartbeat thunderous in her ears. “You think pain will break me?” she replied, her voice lower now, steadier. “You don’t understand, do you? That’s the difference between us. I can endure. You’re the one who can’t.” Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, knowing that her words would send her straight to her doom. "And no matter how many people you bend to your will, how much power you amass, you’ll never escape it,” she continued. "You’ll always be that boy trying to prove you’re more than the emptiness inside.”

His calm composure shattered and she swallowed in fear as she watched anger overtake him, eyes flashing deep crimson. "You presume to know me?” he said, his voice a venomous whisper. His hand circled her throat, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze. “You presume to know what drives me, what fuels me?”

Her eyes bore into his, unwavering despite the storm brewing in his gaze. “Your anger will be your downfall."

A low, bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Anger?” he echoed, tilting his head, his expression hardening into something sharp and cruel. “You think anger is what fuels me? That’s such a simplistic view of me, darling.”

“It’s the anger that you bury beneath your arrogance. The rage at the world that dared to dismiss you. The fury at the people who never saw you for what you thought you deserved to be.”

Something in his expression shifted—a flicker of something raw, dangerous, and entirely unguarded. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her skin as he spoke, his tone soft but laced with venom. “Careful, little witch. You’re wandering into dangerous territory.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” she challenged, her heart pounding as he stepped even closer, the heat of his body now pressing into hers. “Kill me? Torture me? That won’t change the truth, will it?”

“You’re either very brave,” he murmured, his voice like silk wrapped around steel, “or very foolish to speak to me this way.”

“I’m neither,” she countered, her voice soft but firm. “I just see you for what you are.” Her heart thundered in her chest, but she refused to let him see her falter. “A man who thinks power will fill the emptiness inside him,” she said, her words striking with quiet precision. “But it won’t. It never will.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her, his grip tightening on her throat as though grounding himself. 

He leaned in, so close now that she could feel the heat radiating from him, his lips barely a breath away from hers. “I should break you,” he murmured, his voice dark and low. “I should destroy you for your insolence.”

“Then why haven’t you?” she whispered with a trembling voice.

His grip faltered for the briefest moment, and in that hesitation, she saw the war raging within him. “Because,” he said finally, his voice thick with something she couldn’t quite name, “you’re not as insignificant as you should be. And that infuriates me.”

Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching as his words hung heavy in the air. The hand gripping her throat softened slightly, his thumb brushing against her jaw in a touch that sent a shiver down her spine.

“And what infuriates me even more,” he said lowly, his voice barely above a whisper, “is that I can’t decide whether I want to break you… or keep you.”

For a moment, his expression was unreadable, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. Then, without warning, he closed the distance, his lips ghosting over hers but not quite touching, as if testing his resolve.

The tension was suffocating, electric, and for a fleeting second, she wasn’t sure if she’d just won the battle—or if she’d lost something far greater.

She wasn't stupid. She knew either of those paths would be her downfall. He was the enemy, and she despised everything he stood for. Whether he decided to torture her until her body gave out, or keep her for himself as his personal pet, she knew she would suffer. There was no other solution when it came to Tom Riddle.

Starting this game between them, it was not something she intended to use to get out of the situation alive. It wasn’t a calculated move, not at first. But now that the pieces had been set on the board, she realized the only way to survive was to play. She would have to play his game—dangerous, consuming, and risky as it was. She knew there was no other way of getting out of his clutches. Whatever his decision, she would be his prisoner for as long as he pleased.

But perhaps...she could manipulate him.

Her mind raced as his piercing eyes held hers. She could feel the weight of his presence, suffocating yet alluring, and for a moment, her stomach churned with disgust—not at him, but at herself for even considering the possibility that lingered at the edges of her mind.

She had seen the way he looked at her—not with indifference, not with contempt, but with something else. Something dangerous. Something she could use.

If he wanted to keep her, she would play the game long enough to let him lower his guard, just enough. And then, when he believed that he had bent her to his will, that she would stay by his side, that would be the moment she would escape.

She carefully schooled her features into something unreadable. He had an uncanny ability to sense weakness, to sniff out the faintest whiff of fear or rebellion. She couldn’t afford that. Not now.

Tom tilted his head, studying her as though she were a particularly fascinating puzzle he had yet to solve. His fingers grazed her jaw, almost gentle now, as if testing her reaction. “You’re thinking something,” he deduced, “Something clever, no doubt. Shall I guess what it is?”

Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to smile faintly, a calculated tilt of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re welcome to try."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the corner of his mouth curved upward, amused. “You’re playing a game you can’t possibly win,” he said, his voice like a warning. “But I admit, I’m curious to see how far you’ll go before you break.” He knew this had become a game now. “You intrigue me,” he admitted. “That could be your greatest weapon… or your greatest weakness.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her mind screaming at her to look away, to retreat, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned in slightly, letting her lips brush over his lightly as she spoke. "And you want me," she stated. "That could be your weakness."

His dark eyes flashed with anger—or was it desire, or perhaps both, she could not tell. But she didn’t give him the chance to respond. Her hands moved to his collar, and she kissed him— hard and unyielding.

He didn’t pull away.

For a split second, the world seemed to stop, the only sound the sharp intake of breath as his control snapped. His hands gripped her waist with bruising force, dragging her closer as he kissed her back with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs. It was rough and chaotic.

She could feel the fire in his touch, the hunger that he barely kept restrained, and she knew she’d struck a nerve. Good. She would use that. She would make him crave her, make him lose himself in the illusion she was about to create.

She would make him want her—not just physically, but completely, utterly. She would weave herself into the dark corners of his mind, make him believe she wanted him too. She would let him think she was falling under his spell, that his power over her was absolute.

Her lips parted against his as she kissed him again, softer this time, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. She felt his sharp inhale, the way his body tensed under her touch, and she knew she was winning this round. He was too used to control, to fear and submission. She would give him none of that. Instead, she would give him passion laced with poison.

As his hands roamed over her, pulling her impossibly closer, her mind remained cold, calculating. She would make him trust her, make him believe she was his. And when he least expected it, when his guard was down and his obsession consumed him, she would slip away.

For now, though, she kissed him back as though she truly wanted him, as though the heat between them burned away any semblance of resistance.

She let him believe this was real.

༻♛༺

(lmk if you want part 2 for this!)

[ophelia-gaunt]

Tom Riddle || “sundays are for missing him”

summary: once hopelessly in love with Tom, reader is now left with nothing but memories of their love, and their special Sundays together. Reader! Narration basically. She’s reminiscing.

Warnings: none really, slight mention of toxic relationship (it’s Tom), sad ending :(

Pairing: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

On Sundays I miss him a little extra. They used to be reserved for us, you see? It started as a tradition back at school when we first got together, we’d spent Sundays glued to each tohers side from morning till after dinner time. There were no other friends, no knights, no duties. Just us. We would study, explore the grounds together, read against a tree by the Black Lake (he’d glare at anyone who dared to even came close to where we were sitting). Most of the warmer months were spent there, with my head on his lap as he read whichever book held his obsession for the week, and other times we’d switch, his head on my lap as I read the latest murder mystery book I had recently bought. And of course, the bloody genius he was is, would always solve the murder before the end of the book (though my fondest memories were of us both trying to solve a particularly hard one together) His handsome face frowning is we’d gotten it wrong, furiously claiming that his ending made much better sense - or his lips would curl up into a smug victory smirk if we’d gotten it right, then we’d share a victory song. His head always stayed on my lap for much longer after finishing the book.

On the colder months, we usually spent it at the Room of Requirement, exclusive to us at the time when no one else was aware of its existence. Whenever we stepped into the room, it’d transform into a beautiful and cozy flat looking space, with a big, green, canopy bed at the center, in front of the big fireplace, sporting a luxurious green comforter and several pillows (my doing which always seemed to annoy him whenever we had to stop making out and sweep the pillows onto the floor). On the left side, behind a screen, a decent sized bathtub took up room, where we’d spend hours relaxing and cuddling. A large fluffy rug covered the right part of the room, where a plush green velvet sofa and a couple armchairs sat by a large bookshelf filled with many books, manuscripts and trinkets, next to it a small radio playing 30’s and 40’s music, sometimes pausing to broadcast news about the wars (muggle and Wizarding). On the left side of the room, two work desks were placed in front of one other and, as always, a large stash of sweets piled up neatly on my own desk.

There, we’d spent hours and hours reading, chatting, making love and studying. It was almost as if we had our own home together inside the castle, in there were truly a couple, certainly arguing like an old married one, and hungry for each other as if we were newlyweds. A million secrets, promises of love, sweet nothings and plans were shared in our lovely sanctuary.

After graduation, our tradition continued. I moved in with him quickly to his family’s ancestral home, a manor in the muggle village of Little Hangleton. When he turned 18 he had been able to claim he was the son of the recently deceased Tom Riddle Senior (the similarities between him and his late father were undeniable, even to the old stuffy muggle lawyer) so the inheritance passed on to him, including the manor. But there we had grounds to explore, a small lake at the edge of the property to relax by and make love without the fear of being discovered. It was truly heaven on earth, until he started to change. Until the horcruxes they changed him. The love of my life gone in what seemed to be a blink of an eye (though in truth were many months of tears and heartbreak on my part) and what remained of him simply a dark shadow of the man he used to be. Promises of loved turned into indifference, coldness and empty looks. No proposals, no rings, no weddings, not even ‘I love yous’ were exhanged near the end. Just silent tears on my side of the bed, and impatient sighs once he heard them.

Now, after all is said and done, I can only look back at those memories with fondness and longing. Unable to stop missing the man he once was. As he vanished on a foggy April night to an unknown location in the country of Albania, I find myself in America 10 months later, left with a newborn son who has his father’s eyes, and the memories of what once was.

A/N: Omg!! This is inspired by So Long London, by Taylor Swift. English isn’t my first language. Hope you enjoyed :) please be kind. Grammar corrections are welcome, just hit me up on my dms :)

[cravingcoldoreocake123]

Birds of a feather - SMAU

ur.username

Liked by dracopurebl0od, tomriddle_ and 78 other people

ur.username About yesterday… 🤪

tagged dracopurebl0od, nottheonott, mattheo.r, enzo_berkshire, fwpansy, tomriddle_, whosblaise

dracopurebl0od Who’s the sexy blond in the first pic 😍

ur.username Me 🥰 dracopurebl0od I was talking about me.. ur.username oh!

fwpansy Bro enzo kept throwing up all over the place even on me I was literally gonna avada him then myself

enzo_berkshire can you not plaster my business all over the internet for the whole world to see please? 😒 it literally wasn’t even my fault tom dared me to take 8 shots back to back tomriddle_ never daring you or taking you any place ever again. enzo_berkshire NO PLEASE ur.username LMFAOOO

whosblaise uh designated photographer tag please? 🤨

ur.username right sorry 💔

Edit 📸 thanks to whosblaise

mattheo.r

Liked by nottheonott, tomriddle_ and 56 other people

mattheo.r Love babysitting my nephew 🤗

nottheonott somebody save that poor child

ur.username contacting CPS as we speak 😇 mattheo.r can you guys let me have my moment for once thx nottheonott never

fwpansy

Liked by enzo_berkshire, whosblaise and 28 other people

fwpansy why does he sleep like a victorian era child sick with the plague 💀

tagged nottheonott

nottheonott i did NOT consent to this getting posted.

fwpansy cry about it nottheonott take this shit down RIGHT NOW my hoes gon see it enzo_berkshire take this down pansy his imaginary hoes gon see it 😔

ur.username HE SNORES LIKE ONE TOO

fwpansy i can confirm, 0/10 experience 👎🏻 dracopurebl0od #theonottisoverparty ur.username draco get back to practice dracopurebl0od yes ma’am 🫡 nottheonott get a room ur.username, dracopurebl0od dracopurebl0od what if we’re in one already 😏 fwpansy ew

ur.username

Liked by dracopurebl0od, tomriddle_ and 100 other people

ur.username one single thread of gold tied me to you <3

tagged dracopurebl0od

dracopurebl0od you look good in my shirt, sweetheart 💚

ur.username you should see me without it 😏 dracopurebl0od already did ;) whosblaise I KNEW IT.

mattheo.r YOU OWE ME 10 BUCKS enzo_berkshire

enzo_berkshire OH SHIT ur.username Oh shit is right YOU GUYS ARE BETTING ON US NOW? mattheo.r I CALLED IT ur.username literally how mattheo.r draco’s room is next to mine… ur.username so? ur.username OH.

fwpansy AWWWWWW

whosblaise trynna be like them ahaha fwpansy i will literally kill you whosblaise mb 💔

[toctua]

Noctua hated Potions. She had no problems with other classes, except for flying on a broomstick in the first years. But Potions was torture. She didn't get the right potions often enough, she knew the theory part well, but when it came to creating, everything went wrong. After she got sick with dragon pox, everything got worse, she missed too much.

Tom politely extended her hand to help her. Although most likely he simply could not allow her to fall in grades. And Noctua could not refuse, after all, Tom is the best in Hogwarts, and Potions is an important exam that she will need for her future profession.

Tom's efforts were not in vain, after all, Noctua was diligent in her studies. But even after graduation, she hated making potions. Oh, this will come back to haunt her …

[darkmarkmarauder]

MASTERLIST

Tom Marvolo Riddle OC/AU ༒︎ 𝐏𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬

༒ 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐌𝐞

༒ 𝐃𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧?

༒ 𝐎𝐛𝐞𝐲

༒ 𝐂𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐭

༒ 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 ���𝐮𝐦

༒ 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝

༒ 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐞𝐜𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲

༒ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 ��𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 I

༒ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 II

༒ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱-𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 I

༒ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱-𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 II

༒ 𝐈𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜

༒ 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲

༒ 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 & 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Riddle Family AU

⋆｡˚⋆ 𝐒𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐮𝐭

⋆｡˚⋆ 𝐒𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐚𝐫

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Draco Malfoy OC/AU

☾ 𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Sebastian Sallow OC/AU

⛦ 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐝𝐨, 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 ⛦ 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞

⛦ 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐱 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 31st. tom riddle — breeding kink, raw sex.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: tom has a dream about fucking you raw, and decides it’s time he ditches the self-restraint.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, needy tom riddle, fingering, slight begging, desperate sex, PIV, creampie, incoherent babbling/dirty talk, breeding kink, literally the most feralized and needy and pathetic tom i have ever written .

You wake up to the feeling of Tom at your back, sometime within the early hours of the morning. 

Not an unusual occurrence, per say, but you're vaguely aware of the fact that the desperate way he's gripping your waist and pressing against you isn't just par for the course—something's off—and you don't get to wonder or question what exactly it is because within a second he's pressing his lips to your neck, murmuring your name, and stealing your cognitive function before you even get the chance to wake. 

"What—" you manage to get out, just as his hand slides up the front of your shirt and his lips continue mouthing against your neck. 

"Hm?" He murmurs, as if he's doing nothing unusual, as if you aren't completely aware he's pressed up against you like an animal in heat.

"Are you," you're struggling to get the words out as his lips graze the spot on the nape of your neck that makes your breath catch. "Okay?" 

He stills for a moment at that, before he makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, as if the question is almost funny somehow. "Should I not be?"

"I just...mmf—" a whole body shudder goes through you as his hand reaches the underside of your breasts; palming, squeezing. "You seem—different." 

"Different," he echos against your neck with a smile. "In what way?"

"Uh, needier—oh," his hand slips from your chest to the front of your pyjama pants, grinding his erection against your ass. "What's—gotten into you—"

"You, of course," he husks, and the fact that he can be cocky while he's practically pinning you to his chest is the perfect bloody summary of him. "Who else?"

"Well—I mean—" the words leave your lips in a hissing moan as his hand, that beautiful, steady hand—slips under your waistband and wastes no time in finding your clit, long fingers swirling tight little circles against it. "What—ohhh—" 

"You do know that you're asking way too many questions," he whispers, teeth nipping at your ear lobe as he runs his index and middle fingers down your slit. "I'd rather you be moaning my name as opposed to doing a million cross-examinations on my behaviour."

Well, that certainly shuts you up, at least on the verbal side of things—because the gasp that leaves your lips is not entirely something you can control, considering the fact that you're suddenly very aware of just how badly he seems to need you right now.

"I think that was progress," he croons between open-mouthed kisses, absentmindedly making you shiver and jerk as his fingers resume rubbing and massaging your clit. "Good girl." 

You whimper faintly at that, and you wish you could hate the way you react to the praise on principle only—but that's kind of hard to do when it's him, and he's doing the praising in the first place. So instead, you just try to keep any kind of higher brain function intact, regardless of it being a losing battle at this point.

"I just need you," he practically groans, and it's the strangest thing to hear him say when he's usually just fine being all smug and self-composed. "I need to feel you, now."

It's the closest thing to him pleading that you think you've ever heard, and the guttural moan you let out as he slips one of those long slender fingers inside your embarrassingly slick cunt is the closest thing to feral as you're sure you've ever been. 

"Need," you whimper as your hips jerk, and it takes an embarrassing amount of time to realize that it's a sound you've made and not some kind of vocal fry of his. "Need me, why?" 

He doesn't answer right away, not in words—just sucks your earlobe into his mouth in a way that makes you want to scream. "You're not usually this difficult." 

"M'tired." The argument is weak, at best, but you're not exactly in any kind of frame of mind to try and make sense of the situation. "And you're—intense—"

"Yes," he murmurs, that smug tone still needling your eternal irritation. "And if you must know, it really is because of you. I had a dream about you." He punctuates the sentence by slipping a second finger into your slick heat, and you barely manage to keep a whimpering moan inside that you just know he would love to hear. "Fuck. It was a beautiful dream." 

He bites at your ear again, and it occurs to you that the desperate edge to his voice might have something to do with just how good the dream of you felt—or how badly he'd clearly wanted it to be real. 

You suddenly need to hear every goddamn detail. 

"Felt you for once, without protection," he tells you, as if reading your mind, and you whimper at what you're pretty sure is a pretty profound confession. "Even better than I thought you'd feel—fuck—"

"You're not the only one who's thought about that," you manage to get out, and you're not even being coy about it—at this point you're simply trying to deal with the realization that Tom Riddle having a wet dream about you is apparently enough to turn you into a pathetic, drooling mess. "But you are the one who's always been insistent on using condoms."

Oh, the low growl he lets out at that is a dangerous sound—it's low and guttural and it makes you realize that there's a very real chance this is going to go somewhere you might have trouble walking away from. 

"Yes, well," he pauses, and you can practically feel the fire in his eyes. "I'm just realizing I might have been a bit of a fool."

"You, admitting you're a fool?" You somehow give a half-assed scoff at the idea as you try to hold onto your sanity. "I think hell just froze over."

He laughs at that—actually laughs, and it does strange things to your insides to have it directed at you. 

"Maybe I'm just in a very specific sort of mood." 

"Oh?" You manage to raise an eyebrow. "And what kind of mood is that?"

"The kind of mood," he says, in an almost growl that you're trying to interpret through the haze of trying not to moan, "where I throw all reason out the window. The kind of mood where I forget all self-restraint."

"That's a dangerous thing, coming from you," you choke out, because that is true, but you're only half-thinking through your words before you say them, half your brain stolen by the curling of his fingers inside you, massaging your slick walls. "You don't usually—"

"Never," he cuts you off, like he's fully aware of just how different this is and trying not to admit it. "Until you."

Well, you don't know what to say to that—because you know him, and you know he doesn't usually lose himself in things like this, not like he's apparently doing now. 

"Oh?" You gasp, as his thumb sweeps over your clit, making your eyes roll. "So I've made you reckless." 

His answer comes in the form of a low, grunting sound of agreement, his grip on your body shifting a bit as he pulls you back tighter to his chest, rutting his erection against your ass. 

"You've done more than that," he murmurs with a sigh right in your ear as his slick fingers slip out to draw wet little circles against your clit. "Fuck it. I need to feel you—please, let me fuck you right. No protection."

Oh sweet Mother of Merlin.

There were a lot of words in that sentence that you were fucking sure, just a minute ago, were entirely out of the question for him. Not a soul on god’s green earth could have prepared you for the feeling that utterance just invoked—and you can't help but let out a helpless, wanton groan in response—his fingers driving you directly to the very edge of climax—

"I need a word out of you," he grits, and you realize then that you're both at the mercy of something he can only half control as he ruts against you again, his fingers slowing as if he's edging you— "please." 

You wish you could give him something teasing, snarky, maybe even witty. Something to needle him for just how beside himself he is, something to call him out for the feralized broken thing he's seemingly been reduced to. 

But you can't, because your climax is right there, and he's moving his fingers too slow, denying you of it on purpose—

"Yes," you whimper, the word like an answer to a prayer you hadn't even known you were praying for, and you realize somewhere behind your consciousness that you're desperate and aching inside for so many reasons, all of them because of him. "Please, fuck. Please, do it—I need—to cum—"

And at those words—that plea—the need in them, there's no stopping the sound that tears itself out of his throat, and before you can even think he's jerking your pyjama pants off your thighs—

"Wanna feel it—" he hisses as he frees himself next, tugging you against him and lifting your thigh toward your head. "Need to feel you cum when I'm inside you."

Oh, and at this point you're begging that you'll survive this. 

You're at his mercy, as you've been before, but in a completely different way—one that seems to be fueled by whatever animalistic thing is driving him today, and you're left with no defense besides the knowledge that he's doing this because if he didn't, he may just lose his goddamn mind. 

And for as much trouble you generally get into by enjoying him being cocky and in control of the narrative, this—this is something you've never once experienced. Tom on the edge of falling completely apart in his need for you, desperation and need taking a front seat to his usual restraint and control.

He's between your thighs before you can blink, and then he's pushing in. "Oh, fuck."

It's a sensation that's completely different when there's no barrier between you, and you're pretty sure that if it wasn't for the fact that the animal in his chest has risen to the surface, taking you by the throat, you would have gasped out in a moan so loud it woke the entire fucking country—but somehow, someway, you manage to tame it. 

His face buries in the crook of your shoulder, and it's a sound of guttural relief as his breath goes shaky and unsteady right in your ear.

"Feels so good," he whispers as he sinks in—as his thick, throbbing dick disappears into your greedy cunt. "Too good."

'Too good' feels like the exact wrong thing to say right now, at least in your mind, because you're pretty sure you'll take the fact that this feels so good you're scared it might kill you to your grave. 

"Oh my god." You manage to get out the words through the haze, and you're barely even sure what you're saying, your head thrown back against his shoulder, his arm coming up to wrap around your throat. "Oh my god, Tom." 

He responds with a shaky curse of your name, and you’re absolutely certain somewhere in you is exploding, something in your gut is coiled so tight it's like holding in the biggest possible secret of the world that you're desperate to scream to someone—

"So wet. So tight. I'm never starving myself of this again." It's a confession that steals your breath, and you struggle to keep breathing, struggling with trying to keep your world from spinning away as he starts to make shallow, languid thrusts into you, free hand slipping down to your clit. "Let me feel it. Let me feel it all."

You keen. "Fuck! Please."

It's the only word you can manage in a half-hysterical moan, your hand grabbing onto the one he's wrapped around your throat as if he's saving you from certain destruction, as if he's the only lifeline you'll ever find—and maybe, you think that's okay, because you're so used by him in so many ways that right now you don't even want another.

"T-tom—" his fingers swirl your clit in perfect time with his thrusts and you're clenching so tight your entire body is almost stiff. "Tommmm—I'm fucking—"

His teeth bite down on your shoulder with such ferocity you'd think he wanted it to bleed, and you're not even sure it's intentional as his body tenses against yours, tugging you back like he's trying to crush you into his chest. 

"Yes. Yes," he hisses again, and it's broken. "Please give it to me."

'Please give it to me' are the best five words you've ever heard from his mouth, you think with the quarter of your brain that’s still functioning—and it's like you've been waiting for permission without realizing it, because you feel fireworks going off behind your eyes a moment later. 

"Oh fuckk! Yes, yes, oh!" 

You cry out, so loud you'd be nervous about someone hearing you if the pleasure wracking your body wasn't so powerful you're pretty sure you're going to feel it all the way into next week—and there's a sound like something coming undone against your skin as his teeth dig deeper into your shoulder, a sound that's like a low, guttural moan of your name before he shutters something in half-broken words you're not even sure he's meant to.

"Oh yes—god, you're tight—fuck—"

You can't answer him, but it doesn't matter, because a moment later it's all painfully forgotten with the way he lets out another moan against your shoulder—

"That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that."

It's the pet name that does something to your insides, twisting them up in a way you can't quite parse through the haze, but it's enough in the moment to make tears prick unbidden at the corner of your eyes as he jerks against you, his breaths coming in shaky, heavy pants against your skin as his own climax draw closer, and there's no way this wasn't something you both needed that neither knew how to ask for. 

"Tom," you manage to whimper, and it sounds like a prayer of your own creation. "Tom—"

It's like he needed to hear you moan his name like that in a way that's primal—because in that moment his hand moves from your neck to your hair, and he clenches his fist into it, pulling, and it's enough to make a shattered moan force its way out of your chest and up to your throat. 

"M'close. Mmm. So fucking close," he hisses against your skin. "M'gonna—fill this tight cunt."

And god, it should be alarming, because you've always been careful, careful, careful—because you've always known the risks, the consequences, but right now you're having a hard time remembering why you ever thought it was a terrible, terrible idea to let him do this. 

"You're—Tom—you—"

"I know,” he groans, and it's like a plea, as if you're saying something out loud that he doesn't want to admit he knows— "just take it. Let me—fucking breed you."

There's a moment where your chest seems to constrict violently at that, where you're almost sure you must have a heart condition because it feels like skipping a beat is the under-explanation of the century, but it's gone as quickly as it came, and god if it wasn't as profoundly hot as you know it shouldn't be. 

“Jesus—Tom—“ there're a lot of things you know you should be saying, things you'd planned to say—or not do, as the case may be—but the only thing that leaves your lips at this moment is, “please."

And he doesn't know if it's a plea or a prayer, but either way it’s all the same because there’s no stopping the sound that leaves his lips as your answer sinks into his brain, as the meaning sinks into his bones: the low, guttural, primal sound of a man losing pieces of himself in something that he doesn't care to stop. 

"Oh—" he chokes out. "Oh god—"

It's like it's taking him like he wants it to, stealing him up in a way that both makes him feel both more whole than he's ever been and like he's lost more of himself than he can possibly cope with at every other moment all at once, and you're pretty damn sure you'll be the only thing that survives it, in the end— 

And then, he explodes. "Fuck—"

It's a choked-off sound that tears violently into the room without his permission, one that claws its way out of his chest and up his throat in a way that feels simultaneously like falling into and being pushed off of a cliff straight into oblivion—

"Mmm yes. Yes. Take it—" he's twitching inside you, hips trembling as he pumps his release deep within your walls. "Fuck. Fuck yes." 

There's a million and one responses to everything he's done and said in the last few minutes that dance on the tip of your tongue, but you're not entirely sure you have the mental capacity to do more than manage a shaky whimper at this point, and all you're even remotely sure you can do is respond to his own moans and gasps with ones of your own. 

"Tom," you whimper as he finally slows. As you both work to catch your breath. "I wish you had dreams like that more often."

He just laughs, a breathless, unsteady thing.

"That's my fucking girl." He mutters. "All mine."

[zvdvdlvr]

If youve read some of my revent work, i think you can understand my fascination with vampires (or vampyres). Butttttt i realized i hadn’t written any vamp!reader for anyone in cod or harry potter

So this is my official vamp!reader x tom riddle shit post.

I like to think that Tom realized somethingwas different about you when he couldn’t read your mind using Legilimency. It was sixth year at this point and you were a kept-together, quiet student. As a Slytherin, Tom knew your name but nevr paid attention to you until sixth year: people whispered about you when you passed by, teachers were noticeably more lenient with you on almost everything, your magic was extremely powerful and you were well practiced, and how striking your features were.

Professor privilege (or ‘special treatment’) consisted of you attending most classes but ignoring everything that was going on. You never slept- Tom noted- but were always doing somthing else. The differing activities you preformed didn’t disrupt the class, but the fact that you always did something else in every class was definitely an eyebrow raiser.

Your magic was powerful. Powerful, honed, practised, strong, and memorable. Tom was intrigued by how fluid your wand movements were, how quickly you could cast a spell, how lethal your movements were, and your ability to cast spells without a wand. As a sixth year, wandless incantations were growing more and more popular. But the fact that you could preform duels without your wand- strings of spells- without so much as a twitch of the hand was extraordinary.

Tom didn’t want to say you were pretty, but in all honesty, you were incredibly attractive in Tom’s opinion. Your sculpted eyebrows paired with the stony stare in your eyes? The way your cheekbones hung over your guant face was further enhancing Tom’s interest in you. Your chin and jawline were prominent, a perfect mix of sharp and piercing.

Going more in depth in the people gossiping about you wasn’t really necessary. Some people- boys- were attracted to your facial and body features, ‘spcial treatment’, and just wanted to have sex. Other people- girls- were jealous of the interest many of their boyfriends gave you, were jealous of your smarts, and didn’t like you. You were powerful and you knew it. People didn’t like that.

These traits led Tom Riddle to the jarring conclusion that you were a vampyre. town further prove his theory, Tom often caught a glimpse of you wandering the corridors at night, paying no mind to the prefects and head boys and girls that saw you. You conversed easily ith the portraits and spirits- even befriending Peeves.

Evan Rosier was the one to bring up your existence during a Knights of Walpurgis meeting. Tom had listened to Rosier’s ideas- involving you with their agenda and bringing you into their organization. 

Tom had his doubts. He believed that you were not the right person to try to convince. Tom protested for no real reason. He himself didn’t even know why he was tensing up around your name, growing defensive as the conversation continued. Why?

Coincidentally Tom Marvolo Riddle came across you striding into the Forbidden Forrest that very same night.

He didn’t know why he followed you. Tom didn’t know that, for some reason, you intrigued and infuriated him to no end. Why must you effortlessly best him at every activity? Why must you look so unbothered after singlehandedly destroying three seventh year Quidditch players after making a bet that you couldn’t win against them as a 3 versus 1? Why, pray tell, were you the only person on Tom’s mind after seeing your sly smirk when you stumbled across something undeniably inappropriate in your book? Why you? Why-

“Stop thinking so loudly.”

Tom stood- frozen- as you moved into an open clearing. You clicked your tongue a few times and whistled. After doing it a few times in a pattern, Tom realized you were summoning something.

“What did you follow me for?” Your voice was crisp and audible despite the distance between the two of you that was closing slowly. Tom inched forward, hesitating for one of the few times in his life.

“Why did you sneak out? I could report you to the headmaster for this. You’ve done this before, so I could get you in trouble for a long time.”

You showed no reaction as you tilted your ear up. You whistled again. “Step back, please.”

Tom didn’t know why he complied but he did. A second later, a large winged animal emerged from the trees. A hippogriff, Tom realized. “Did you hear me? I said-“

“Do even know my name, Tom Riddle?” You finally turnd around. Your face was even more haunting in the moonlight. “If you have seen me sneak out numerous times before, why haven’t you already told anyone? You have nothing to blackmail me with, so I am confused by your reasoning for following me.” You watched Tom for a second. The hippogriff whinnied shyly behind you and you immediately turned your sharp gaze away.

Tom realized that he liked your sharp eyes on him. He liked when you looked at him like you could crush him- knowing that you could, in fact, crush him. But then Tom realized that you knew his name.

You cooed and murmured something to the hippogriff that was inaudible to Tom. You patted the animal’s side and mounted the beast. You cooed a few more words at the animal before turning to Tom. “If you come with me, I can answer some of your questions. You’re an awfully curious fellow, Tom. Very smart…”

“You can read my thoughts?”

“Like an open book,” you snickered. “I’m leaving in ten seconds- as does your opportunity for answers.”

The hippogriff’s feet stamped anxiously, eargerly awaiting departure.

Tom’s jaw set. Did he really want to? He couldn’t answer the question as he took a step forward.

“Bow first,” you commanded quietly.

Withholding a scoff, Tom scoured the animal’s eyes before bending down at the waist. The blasted animal waited until Tom’s entire core burned to caw and return the bow. 

Tom struggled to mount. He couldn’t quite wrap his arm and get his leg up to the beast. He glowered, hearing your breathy chuckle. “Help me.”

Your eyes seemed to smile. You reached out a hand and waited impatiently for Tom to take it.

Despite how impressed Tom was at how easily you lugged him up, he grumbled. “Where are we going?”

“To eat,” you replied simply. “Better hold on, Tom, I ride fast.”

Tom grumbled. He didn’t want to hear the coyness in your tone at the last sentence. “I don’t need to hold on.”

Suddenly, the hippogriff lurched forward and Tom’s throat let out a choked cry. He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and scooted further into you as the beast rose into the air. He grumbled some more after prying his forhead from your shoulder and opening his eyes.

“There’s food at the castle,” Tom whispered with a ragged voice. “What are you going to eat?”

“Not the kind of stuff I need,” you chuckled. “They don’t keep fresh blood for me there.”

[incorrectquotesharrypotterv]

Y/n: If I die first, promise to wait for me, okay, Tom?

Tom: Oh, Y/n. When I die, I’m taking you with me.

Y/n: I can’t tell if that’s a threat or a compliment.

Tom: I’d think of it more as a grim inevitability.

[beegomess]

How others see you as a couple || Slytherin boys

Summary: Just other people's impressions of you as a couple. Warmings: None. Requests are open!

masterlist here

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

Blaise Zabini

You have a bond that everyone envies;

Everyone comments on how you are the definition of "soulmates";

You are the couple that inspires others to believe in true love;

Your friends ask you for love advice;

You have such a deep connection that it seems like you can read each other's minds.

Draco Malfoy

The affection between you was evident in every gesture;

The connection between you was palpable, even in silence;

It was impossible not to notice the undeniable chemistry between you;

Other people felt attracted to the energy you emanated together;

The trust you had when you were together was seemingly unshakable.

Lorenzo Berkshire

You were the example of genuine and pure love;

Everyone saw you as a dream couple;

Your happiness was contagious to those around you;

The simplicity of your love was charming to everyone;

The way you cared for each other was admirable.

Mattheo Riddle

You were always a recurring topic in the hallways;

The jealousy was evident, but no one could ignore the chemistrybetween you;

The most talked about and envied couple in school;

The teachers were often bothered by the intensity of your relationship;

No matter where you were, you always drew attention;

The gossip about the two of you was constant, but it never shook the relationship;

Disapproving looks from teachers who caught you in empty classrooms were also not uncommon.

Theodore Nott

Everyone noticed the intensity of the feeling between you

Many girls felt a pang of envy when they saw you together;

It was impossible not to notice how you completed each other;

The few times Theo showed joy, it was because of you;

Theo's smile was more frequent when you were around;

You were the couple that everyone talked about and admired.

Tom Riddle

You were watched with cautious, if discreet, eyes;

Dumbledore and other teachers showed a special interest in you, given your affinity for dark magic;

You rarely showed affection in public, maintaining an aura of mystery around your relationship;

To outside observers, you seemed indecipherable, hiding your true intentions and feelings.

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

xoxo, bee🫶🏼✨

[handercover]

Y/N : *working on their own homeworks like nothing is wrong*

Tom : *glaring at people looking at Y/N as they sit in his lap,his arms around their waist and head pressed against their neck*