Jennifers Body (2009) Dir.: Karyn Kusama

Jennifer’s Body (2009) dir.: Karyn Kusama

this idea just came to me rn: reader and tom have been writing secret notes to each other and leaving them around the castle for the other to find and reader finally gets the courage to confess/flirt in a message but for some reason the note never gets to him :( and its kinda angsty bc reader takes his lack of response as a rejection but ends with him finally finding it

A/N: I went feral when I read this so obviously I had to write it ASAP. I changed the premise only slightly, I hope you enjoy!!! And thanks for the super cute idea, I'm really feeling the soft fluff tonight 🥺💖

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Ink From The Well

Summary: “We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there with a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together. “Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles. [GN reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house ★ fluff ★ mutual pining]  Wordcount: 3.1k Warnings: none

ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

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The Potions dungeon is always cold, always a little damp, and only ever lit by sickly yellow lights hanging in grim iron cages from the hewn stone ceiling, but it has an ethereal, sinister sort of beauty to it. The Charms classroom is nearly the reverse, bright and wooden and polished, smelling faintly like fresh popcorn and lined with teetering stacks of bound parchment. The Greenhouses are beautiful too, burnt orange bricks lined with vibrant green weeds, gnarled tables bowing under the weight of strange, colourful plants, and vein-like vines spreading up across the grubby glass ceiling panes in a way that always casts the sunlight into dappled streams. There’s something to love about every classroom the castle, but there’s one that you love most of all.

Transfiguration isn’t necessarily your best class, and Dumbledore isn’t necessarily your favourite teacher, and yet walking into his classroom fourth period on Tuesdays and first period on Fridays never fails to make you smile like nothing else can. It’s not so much the classroom itself that you love, but rather where in the classroom your desk sits. It’s in the back row, first on the left from the door.

Because that just so happens that, in second period on Wednesdays and fifth period on Mondays, Tom Riddle sits down at the very same desk.

Professor Dumbledore likes to ask questions with two correct answers so that even when you answer correctly, he can still be a little bit more correct than you, you’d written absently one day on a scrap of parchment. You’d rolled the scrap between your fingers until it was a twig-thin scroll and discarded it into the inkwell of your desk when the bell rang, forgotting about it completely until the following Tuesday. Perhaps you would have missed it if you hadn’t remembered the note, leaning forward to check if it was still there. You’d not been expecting much but your brows had raised in surprise when you’d caught sight of a little square of very yellowed parchment sitting in the bottom of the well, nondescript and folded along perfectly aligned edges.

You’d pulled it out quickly, replacing it with your ink pottle and sitting back without anyone noticing – though you hadn’t had a chance to open the note until Dumbledore turned his back to write up a very long explanation of the dormant life potential of live creatures transformed into inanimate objects.

You’d pulled the square note from under your textbook and unfolded each razor-sharp margin to reveal a single sentence written in an alluring slanted script.

And in this practice, is it Dumbledore’s intention to challenge his students or to insist on retaining the intellectual high ground?

There had been a strange exhilaration to it. Someone had actually found your absent thought, someone had taken the time to indulge in writing out a reply. Your response, which you’d left folded up, flat, and covert in the bottom of the inkwell just like the stranger, had read;

Conscious or subconscious?

It had been at the forefront of your thoughts walking to class that Friday, your heart skipping a beat when you’d peeked into the ink well as you’d sat down and found another yellowy square of parchment.

Your implication is not lost on me.

Your excitement had dwindled, your smile slowly fading. It wasn’t much to reply to. Fearing that the close-ended comment had been a subtle request to end the strange exchange, you’d left the inkwell empty when the bell had rung, and an entire month had passed before you’d scribbled out another note to the stranger in a fit of boredom.

This class is 30% people trying to impress Dumbledore, 5% Dumbledore actually being impressed, 15% him saying the phrase “now I’m sure the problem here immediately presents itself,” 20% an unhinged monologue, and 30% watching the guy next to me create monstrosities that defy imagination out of common household items

And there it was. A reply waiting for you three days later as if the month-long silence had never occurred.

You’ve left very little allowance for actually practicing Transfiguration in those calculations. Perhaps Dumbledore would be more impressed if his students spent less class time writing to strangers and more time paying attention to his unhinged monologues.

Which had made you retort with a sarcastic accusation that they, too, were spending class time writing to strangers, and then they’d replied with an equally sarcastic invitation to compare grades, and that had been that. A reply waiting for you in every single Transfiguration class, not a single one missed, each note growing a little longer until you started to wonder what would happen if one of the other students who sat at that desk took a peek into the inkwell by chance between your conversations.

You hadn’t had any idea exactly who you’d been writing to until one fateful Wednesday when, after realising a little too late that you’d left your textbook sitting beneath your desk the previous day, you dashed back to the Transfiguration classroom during break to retrieve it. The double doors were open, the previous class was still filing out, Dumbledore calling after them about the upcoming due date for the very same essay he’d assigned you yesterday.

You wait for the crowd to clear a little, craning your head around the door to see if you can pre-emptively spot your book on the ground under your desk when you catch sight of the person still sitting there. At that moment he’s placing a tidy stack of notes into a simple black folder and sliding it into his bag, head bowed to his task and leaving you to stare quite freely at his very striking profile. You watch frozen as Tom Riddle stands, slings his bag over his shoulder, leans forward, and in a fluid series of very nonchalant motions, picks up a capped pottle of ink and drops a small cleanly folded square of parchment into the empty inkwell in its stead. He turns and steps through the door into the corridor as he stows his ink in his bag, looking up curiously when he notices you standing there motionless.

You stare at him, coming to terms with the impossible realisation that apparently, you’re very good friends with Riddle, the jewel in Slughorn’s crown, most likely to be Minister for Magic before 40, and current record holder for number of Outstanding O.W.L.s in Hogwarts history. Plus there’s the whole thing about him being catastrophically gorgeous.

Tom has paused in front of you, expression polite but with a definite hint of amusement as he clicks his bag shut. “Are you quite alright?” he asks, lips just barely quirking.

“Yes,” you say hastily, turning for the door and leaning down to seize your book off the ground where you’d left it. “I forgot my book,” you mutter as you pass him with averted eyes, hoping it’s enough of an explanation to write off your slightly erratic behaviour as you try to flee the scene.

“We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you.

It’s your turn to hesitate. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there, lips still quirked, a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together.  

“Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles.

“I just found out,” you say, waving a little sheepishly at the door.

He turns to you, striding closer with intimidating ease and his smile visibly growing as he watches your eyes widen – but he moves straight past you with nothing more than a single quiet comment in your ear, lilted with humour. “I await your reply.”

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your friends. Everyone is in love with Tom and you can’t help but suspect that things would quickly get out of hand if anyone found out that you’ve been in close correspondence with him for the past four months, even if you hadn’t technically known it yourself. And things had already become hard enough now that you knew who was reading the notes you left, and whose hand was penning his replies.

You try very hard not to think about it too much, you try not to wonder if he smiles when you write something funny, if he looks forward to your answers to his questions, if he thinks about the notes outside of class like you do. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s just messing with you. Maybe it had been the anonymity he’d liked about the interactions, and now he’s just humouring you.

It’s useless. You’ve been wondering who was on the other end of the notes since the beginning, wondering exactly which of your peers is made up of this striking mix of shrewd humour, clear intelligence, and measured charisma, and it’s very, very hard to continue as if things are normal once you know that it’s him.

It’s not really that surprising that he evidently noticed your replies shortening, becoming steadily more stilted and less familiar as your nerves get the better of you – though you’d hardly expected him to be so blunt in pointing it out, and you definitely hadn’t anticipated how he’d apparently been interpreting your distance.

Were you disappointed that it was me?

You reread Tom’s note countless times. It lies open and looming at the head of your desk for half the lesson as you try very hard to focus on the class to no avail.

Is this seriously what he’s been thinking? Is it a joke? Is it supposed to be so clearly ridiculous that you’re supposed to understand it as just his way of coaxing the real answer out of you?

You write out your reply, knowing it’s the overly cautious way forward but unable to bear the thought of misinterpreting him.

What do you mean?

In the three days before you get his answer, you find yourself actively avoiding any situation in which you might see him – you attend meals at peak hours to get lost in the crowd, you avoid the library like you’ll disintegrate if you set a foot inside, and you don’t dare stray near the 6th floor on Saturday when you know for a fact that Slughorn is hosting some poncy get-together in his office.

When you finally sit down on Tuesday at your desk, you don’t even pretend to pay attention to Dumbledore starting the class at the front of the room. You seize the yellow parchment square from the inkwell and hastily flatten it on your desk.

I’ve noticed that you’ve been somewhat different since we met. I’m sorry if you were disappointed to learn of my identity, if you’d like to retire our correspondence I promise to let it go gracefully.

Your eyes widen. You pick up the tidy little square and hold it a little closer, barely believing what you’re seeing.

The parchment bears tiny little ink marks, the faded ghosts of letters adjacent to the pitch black carefully constructed script of his insane note. You could just barely make out some of the words – reserved, one of them seems to say, apologies, says another, a couple more faint letters here and there but nothing else you can properly decipher.

It’s heart-wrenchingly obvious what the marks are.

Tom must have drafted the note at least once before leaving this final version for you, his ink bleeding through onto the parchment below.

Dumbledore’s open hand suddenly appeared in front of you and you jump out of your skin, looking up with burning cheeks and a thundering heart. “Note-passing is not tolerated in my classroom I’m afraid,” Dumbledore says kindly, “now please hand it over, and content yourself with note-taking for the remainder of our lesson.”

You crumple up Tom’s note into a ball over the snickers of the rest of the class, placing it in Dumbledore’s hand and ducking your head in embarrassment as people cast looks your way from all over the room. Dumbledore nodded and made his way back to the front of the classroom, and you try to ignore the way people were still giggling at you.

Tom had drafted the note. He’d drafted it.

It’s this more than anything he’d actually written that makes you consider actually answering him honestly.

When everyone’s attention finally slides away from you and Dumbledore is helping a trio of boys at the front of the class with their Augor charms, you surreptitiously tear off a scrap of parchment. You carefully write out your reply, hoping that Tom doesn’t pay half as much attention to your handwriting as you do his. If he did, he might notice that your lettering is a little more shaky than usual.

I wasn’t disappointed at all, Tom, kind of the opposite. You just make me nervous.

You fold it very hastily just to get your own nearly-confession out of your sight before you second-guess yourself, slipping it underneath your ink pottle. Your heart’s beating too fast considering nothing’s actually happened yet.

It takes all of twenty minutes after class ends for you to regret being so honest. You have to force yourself not to go back and retrieve your note before Tom’s lesson the following day, dreading someone seeing you and demanding an explanation. Instead, you throw yourself into a series of distractions that are almost successful in keeping your mind off your square of parchment sitting in that little wooden nook waiting for Tom’s elegant fingers to lift it from its hiding place.

You don’t know what the hell to expect when you sit down on Friday, but nothing could have prepared you for what you found in your inkwell when you leaned forward.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

You sit back, stomach sinking so hard your throat closes up like you’re about to be sick. It’s the first time in half a year he’s not left you a reply.

It had been really stupid to read into those marks, he’d probably just been writing notes for class overtop of the note. It had been really stupid to read into any of this, now that you think about it. You drop your ink pottle into the well, jaw tight, wishing you weren’t this disappointed.

There’s nothing there the following Tuesday either, the nook sits empty and dusty and silent. When Friday comes and there’s still no note you start to accept with grim, hard-to-swallow shame that your confession hasn’t gone unanswered at all. The silence is his answer.

Maybe it had been a ruse after all. Maybe he’d lost all interest in the game when he’d found out you’re just like everyone else in the school, harbouring feelings for him. You have no trouble coming up with increasingly mortifying reasons for his silence over the week that follows, and  you very quickly come to the resolute decision that you need to put the entire ordeal out of your head – clearly Tom already had.

You’re winding your way back to your common room after a late night finishing Slughorn’s assignment on the ethics of using fairy blood when you hear the footsteps.

Someone was running somewhere nearby, echoing through the vaulted stone ceilings and airy corridors, and you pause at the corner looking around curiously as the footsteps seem to be getting much, much louder. You jump back a bit as Tom suddenly skids to a stop in front of you.

You blink at him, stunned. His normally pale face is flushed, the black waves of his hair slightly stuck to his forehead, his lips parted and he’s breathing hard, his tie askew and his usually perfect robes hanging slightly off one shoulder. He’s leaning forward a little, squinting at you as he tries to catch his breath.

“Tom,” you say in utter astonishment.

“He just gave it to me,” Tom says through hard breaths, lifting a small scrap of paper in his hand that, with a feeling much like being impaled through the stomach with a large icicle, you instantly recognise as your note. “Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore just gave you my note?” you ask dumbly, still very bewildered by his appearance.

Tom nods. “I went to ask him some questions, about some of the comments he left on my essay,” he manages to say, his dark brows pulling together and his chest still rising and falling a little more than usual. “And afterwards, he asked if I recognised this.”

You find yourself wishing violently Dumbledore had thrown the thing out. “He caught me reading yours the other day,” you mutter, holding your books a little tighter to your chest and looking away. “He must have seen me hide it.”

“He just gave it to me,” Tom repeats, holding it out a bit more.

“Well he may be a little unhinged but he’s still pretty sharp,” you quip, turning your shoulders away and hoping he takes the hint and lets you leave. “I’m not surprised he knew it was for you, I suppose he recognised your handwriting in the first one –”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Tom interrupts loudly.

You go very still, staring at him again. Tom’s lips press together, and he finally lowers the note.

“I just wanted to tell you,” he adds with a slight frown, and if this wasn’t Tom Riddle you would have sworn that there was something almost awkward in the way he averts his gaze from yours.

“Did you run here?” you ask suddenly, even though the answer is very obviously yes.

Tom’s uncomfortable look intensifies, and you watch him shift slightly on his feet with a mixture of deep gratification and a sudden bursting fondness so intense you feel a smile appear on your lips.

“How did you know I was here?” you add curiously, turning back to him.

“I saw you when I was in the library earlier,” Tom says quickly, sliding the note into the pocket of his trousers like he’s hoping you somehow won’t notice. “I thought I might still catch you.”

You nod slowly. Tom’s eyes are now flicking between yours and the smile on your lips like he’s trying to figure out exactly what this combination of emotions means and someone’s timing him to do so.

“Well,” you say after a long second, taking a step back down the corridor and savouring the sight of him standing there with his ruined hair and dishevelled uniform before you have to turn away. “I await your reply.”

He nods wordlessly, watching you retreat, and you bite back your smile as you force your eyes off him and hurry away.

Maybe you’d been a little too harsh on Dumbledore after all.

𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭, tom riddle

summary: in which, y/n decides to deliberately disobey her boyfriend to fulfill some unspoken fantasies.

pairing: fem!reader x tom riddle. use of she/her pronouns.

contains: possession, degrading, teasing, orgasm denial, edging, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), dom/sub themes, spit, innocence kink if you squint, rough sex, unprotected sex, over stimulation

notes: all acts are consensual. characters are of age.

word count: 3,461

requests are open!

She had already started the night off right, exactly how she planned. Y/N stood in below Tom in a tight black dress that was completely flattering to her figure. The silk material enveloped her form, cut a little bit to low at the chest and rid a little too high on her thighs for Tom’s liking. 

His stare almost melted the fabric off of her body. Hot and heavy, he stood over her, her back to the door and chests almost pressed together. He left some intentional space between the two of them. He was quite literally blocking her from leaving. His hand held the door handle strongly, making the veins in his hands completely visible to her as a way of coaxing his girlfriend into not going to the party tonight.

Tom wasn’t one for parties, but occasionally he’d accompany his girlfriend with a strong hand around her waist and an intimidating scowl on his face so any of those dimwitted boys that would drool over her wouldn’t stand a chance to even talk to her. That’s if she asked nicely enough, and usually in exchange for some favors.

His eyes swept down her frame, disapproving of the outfit. “Absolutely not. Go change.” He stated firmly. His words were sharp and definite. She knew no matter how much she argued, she wouldn’t get her way. Not tonight.

“Why? Don’t you like it?” Y/N ran her hands down the dress, fingers tapping nervously at her side.

He almost scoffed at her response, he hates when she plays dumb. “You know that isn’t the reason, doll. You look like a slut. It’s basically lingerie.”

“Is that all so bad?” She asked, subconsciously tipping herself closer to him. She wasn’t offended by his words. More so, turned on.

He ignored the way her innocent eyes looking up at him made him twitch in his pants. “For me, and my eyes only, no.” He said, emphasis on his use of the word ‘my’. “But, I will not have you looking like that at a party full of drunk, horny, guys. Not fucking happening.”

She sighed, tucking hair behind her ear. “Tom,” her hand trailed down from his collar bone to his hand. 

“Don’t start. Go change, or you aren’t going. End of story.” He shook her hand off of his arm and walked away, leaving her standing alone, back still pressed to the door, pout placed pretty on her lips.

Everything was going according to plan. She took a deep breath- almost bracing herself for what she was about to do. She had never deliberately disobeyed him before. Before any last minute second thoughts could stop her, she opened the door and left.

Close to an hour had past and reality set in. It filled her with excitement, and even a little bit of fear, because she didn’t know what he was going to do to her. He didn’t follow her out of the dorm room like she anticipated. So now, she waited in a room full of intoxicated adolescents in an arousing, uncertain anxious feeling that settled in the pit of her stomach.

Instead of dwelling on what was going to happen, she decided to enjoy any sort of time she had left. Maybe, nothing would happen. And sneaking out in the black dress, disobeying him, would get her nowhere. But there was always a possibility.

Hands that weren’t Tom’s made their way to Y/N’s hips on the dance floor. It wasn’t uncomfortable or unwanted, it was exciting and new.

So she danced with him- a Ravenclaw boy with dark hair and a sharp jaw. Even though there was a drink or two in her system and in the long run this dance wouldn’t matter, it still mattered that it was a Ravenclaw instead of Tom. She wished the strong hands gripping at her sides were his.

There wasn’t a day that past by when Tom didn’t orchestrate what she wore to these parties. Not just clothes, but makeup too. Claiming that dark lipstick and false eyelashes made her look like a prostitute. Heels and push-up bras made her look like a whore, and long skin tight dresses like this one made her look slutty.

It wasn’t because those things were true, it was because he wanted to have her, all of her, to himself. He wanted her to dress up pretty like this for him, and only him. The thought of any guy even looking at Y/N in any of those things- dark lipstick, false eyelashes, heels, push-up bras and skin tight dresses made his blood start to boil.

The possession wasn’t something she hated. It’s something she welcomed instead. Yes, his behavior was slightly toxic. They were both aware. But, that didn’t matter to either of them because-

“What the fuck is this?!”

Sharp words pierced the air behind her. For a split second, she didn’t want to even turn around and see. He grabbed her wrist and almost tore y/n off of the second party’s body. Even though anger encompassed every cell of his body, he pulled her in close to his side.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Touching MY girlfriend?” His grip on her arm grew tighter, to the point where it almost hurt.

“Uh, I- look man, um, I don’t want any trouble,” He scrambled for words. Anybody in the room could clearly see the fear in his eyes.

“Let’s just go,” Y/N said shyly, tugging the sleeve of his shirt to the direction of the door. The blaring music drowned out her fruitless attempt at swaying his decision.

He looked down at her, a look he knew all too well. A look that said, 'Don’t do anything, please?’

He shoved her off of him slightly, and took a step forward. “You’re lucky. You’re fucking lucky your jaw isn’t broken. If I ever even see you looking in her direction ever again, I swear to god.”

After one last menacing look to assert his dominance, he grabbed Y/N and dragged her out of the common room.

“Tom, I-” She started, trying to keep up with the fast pace he had storming down the hallways back to his dorm.

“Shut up.” He said, and continued looking forward.

“We were just dancing,” She said, ignoring what he just told her to do. A slight tone of annoyance in her voice.

“What did I just say? Just dancing, huh? You might as well have just gotten on your damn knees and shoved his dick down your throat, Y/N.” He scowled at his own words. The thought of that was absolutely sickening.

He had already told her to shut up once, so saying something in protest would not be the best option. Continuing on until they were in front of his room, he fumbled with the lock until the door swung open and he pushed her inside and onto the bed.

He stood before her, his dominant presence making her knees grow weak even though she was already sitting down. The way that his button up shirt sat across his broad chest made her think sinful thoughts.

All she could think about was him using her. For his pleasure only. The thought of him relentlessly fucking her even if she already came- because all that mattered was that he wasn’t done yet, was a reoccurring thought. Teased and tortured into submission, she would be his.

He placed his hands on the bridge of his nose and sighed audibly, thinking about what to do with her, how to put her in her place.

“I can’t fucking believe you. Honestly.”

She looked up at him, innocently of course, a slight apologetic look playing on her features. Her fingers moving nervously in her lap.

Even though pure anger flowed through him right now, he couldn’t ignore the way the dress rid up her thighs and looked constrained against her skin. Especially her chest.

“And now you have nothing to say? For fuck’s sake, y/n.” He looked down at her and was.. displeased to say the least when he saw her eyes fixated to her hands.

He took a step forward and forcibly moved her face to look right at him. His hand rested on her cheek, his touch firm yet soft. The security of built trust and knowing he would never hurt her calmed her nerves slightly.

“Answer me when I speak to you.” He said, his tone laced with lust.

His thumb traced her face down to her bottom lip, parting them slightly.

“I’m sorry.” Was all she could muster. He was well in between her legs now, spread open in front of him with no friction. The mix of being so close and his strong hold on her face made her apology sound more like a whine.

“Are you really? Or are you just saying that so I’ll forget about your behavior and fuck you anyways?” He held direct eye contact with her as he spoke.

Y/N was left speechless at her helpless position on the edge of the bed. He smirked to himself, and knelled- dipping between her legs.

He moved his hand up the skin of her inner thigh, making her shiver. Skin heating up at the places he touched. His touch was feather-light, nowhere near enough. He slipped his hand under the dress and pulled upwards, so it sat on her hips exposing her soaked underwear.

He slid his hand up further on her inner thigh. Admiring the existing hickies he’d left on her skin previously. Her mouth open slightly, trying to control her erratic breathing.

“Didn’t even respond to me and I’m already giving you what you want,” His pointer and middle finger ghosted over her clothed clit.

“Please,” she breathed. Pleading for some sort of touch.

“Yeah?” He pressed his fingers down ever so slightly, just enough to draw out an aching whimper. “Fuck, you’re dripping. Already. I haven’t even touched you and your panties are a mess.”

The way the vulgar words rolled off his tongue so easily but were encased with heat and desire caused a light moan to fall from her lips. With that, he pressed his fingers firmly into her through her underwear.

The simple action caused her hips to lift into his touch, rubbing herself on his fingers. “So fucking needy,” he tutted. “Go ahead, get yourself off on my hand. You fucking slut.”

The way he spit out his words caused her to move faster, chasing the feeling. The way Tom rubbed against her clit, hitting exactly where she needed it to, mixed with the bucking of her own hips made obscene noises leave her pretty lips. 

He slid her underwear aside and admired how her arousal dripped down her cunt. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. He was almost mesmerized by her pussy, even if he’d seen it a million times. He cursed himself again, because he remembered he was supposed to be punishing her.

Tossing the thought aside, his hand snaked around her waist and pulled her closer to his face. He inched closer, and trailed his finger from her clit to her entrance. He slid it in the smallest bit, teasing the hole. Looking up at her, her head was tilted back almost, but not enough that he couldn’t see her face. She gripped the sheets in her fists. So much so that her knuckles went white.

“Please, please, please.” Knowing Tom, he’d tell her to use her words. “Please, Tom, I need more- fuck,” y/n pleaded, looking down at him.

He shushed her gently and licked her clit. Y/n let out a choked sob followed by more desperate pleas. He continued to work at her clit as his finger slid deeper, drawing out longer moans and cries of his name on her tongue.

He let his finger slide further, picking up a steady pace that was agonizingly slow. His was tongue now relentlessly flicking her clit. He felt her thighs move together, immediately pushing them apart to get at her deeper. 

Even though she was impossibly wet already, Tom pulled his head back and harshly spit on her cunt. His mouth went back working impossibly fast on her clit. The taste of her on his tongue alone made him roll his hips, erection blaring between his legs.

His light groans against her, his strong hand pressed on her inner thigh, the noises that equaled absolute filth, it was all too much.

He felt her walls begin to tighten around his finger. He pressed up, hitting her g spot exactly. She inhaled sharply, chasing her high that she needed so desperately.

And then, it all stopped.

Tom stood up, locking eyes with her as he stuck his finger into her mouth, locking in her whimpers. She took his wrist in her hand and sucked on his finger, hips rutting into the air. After she finished her task, the begging resumed. “Please, no, keep going-,”

“Come on, angel. You know you don’t deserve that.” He spoke, starting to undo buttons on his shirt.

She bit her lip in anxiety. The same aroused uncertain feeling pooling in her stomach from earlier mixed with the need from a denied orgasm built up enough courage to say what she wanted to say.

“Use me.”

“What?” His cock dripped even more pre-cum at the sound of that, causing a very visible wet spot on his pants.

“Use me, Tom. I’m yours. Do whatever you want to me. I’m asking you.” She begged, pulling him closer by the belt. Her hands rubbed at the sides of his thighs as she stared sweetly up at him.

“Fuck princess, is that what you want?” He asked, even though he could tell from the sound of her voice she was more than sure.

“Yes. Please.” She pleaded, still looking up at him.

“Okay. You know what to say if you want to stop. Take off your clothes.”

Happily she obliged. Her cheeks growing hot at his intent stare as she lifted her dress over her shoulders and slid off her dampened panties onto the floor. He palmed himself through his pants at the sight of her placed so elegantly on the edge of his bed, cunt dripping onto the sheets, making himself groan. 

As much as he loved how the black lace of her bra against her skin, he wanted her completely naked. His hand snaked around her back and unhooked her bra, leaving her completely bare in front of him. She swallowed and let out a shallow breath that she didn’t know she was holding.

“Stand up,” he commanded, holding her wrist as she did so. His hands trailed down her skin and stopped at her thighs, spinning her body around. He took her arms behind her back, holding them in place with one strong arm as he pulled her even closer with the other, erection twitching against her bare ass. 

She sighed in pleasure as her clit ached for more friction. He breathed her in, hot caramelized sugar filling his senses as he tucked hair behind her ear to grant access to the smooth skin on her neck. He kissed down the span of it softly, nipping just above her collarbone. He pressed a hickey into her neck, tongue fluttering over the area to soothe the sting. 

And with that, the soft moment of kissing halted. He let her arms free of his grasp, and pushed her face down onto his mattress. His hands skimmed the bare skin of her ass, savoring the touch on her skin. His palms ignited fire within her stomach, positioning her up so her pussy pressed against his clothed cock.

Right before she could even vocalize the pleasure of feeling him against her, he backed up and started to unbuckle his belt and pull it through the loops. He pulled down his zipper with his palm, discarding the unneeded articles of clothing onto the floor. 

He held the base of his cock and pressed it to her clit, and down to her entrance drawing out a long moan. 

“Please, Tom. Need you so bad, please,” she whined against the sheets. 

And with that, he pressed himself fully into her, groaning at how easily he slipped in and how he felt around her. Already the pleasure was unbearable for him. Going from not being touched at all to completely inside of her was an escalation of intensity that he loved. He let out a low moan and started moving his hips.

Giving her no time to adjust to his length (not that she needed to), he began pounding into her. His hands found themselves at her hips. His grasp strong enough that it stung so deliciously and would defiantly leave marks in the shape of his hands, and he loved that. He loved that parts of her body only he could see were decorated with sinful marks. 

His pace was merciless and unforgiving, hitting her exactly where she needed him with each snap of his hips. The sounds that left her lips were pornographic and muffled, making Tom twitch inside of her. 

He pulled out briefly, and they both wined lowly in sync at the loss of him inside of her. He pulled her up, her back flush against his front. Their bodies scalding hot pressed against one another. He slipped back in and resumed his brutal pace, but this time, being so close to one another caused him to hit deeper than before. 

His hand wandered around her to her cunt, thumbing her clit. The other arm holding her in place, never breaking his rhythm. She screamed out in pleasure. 

“Yeah? I want you to remember about this moment the next time you even think about dancing with another guy,” He spoke breathlessly against her skin. His tone rough, folded in with jealousy and pleasure. “You think anyone else can make you feel this good? Fuck you like I can?” 

“Mmm, fuck,” she moaned. 

“Answer me.” 

“No, only you, shit-” she gasped. Back arched against him. His pace was unforgettably rough, his fingers still circling her clit as he moved in and out of her. She was on the edge, any moment the rubber band could snap inside of her. He trailed open mouth kisses on her shoulders, speeding up his pace on her clit. He could feel her gripping around him, both of them knowing that she was close.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m gonna cum, I-” she screamed out. The grip on her hips got tighter, fucking her through her orgasm. He felt her cum drip down between where the both of them met, the noises growing wetter and more obscene. 

“Tom, jesus,” she moaned. She wasn’t used to this, even though she’d already came, his pace didn’t slow down. 

“I’m not done yet.” 

Just those words alone ignited the fire in her stomach again. Her legs shaking against him from her previous orgasm, moaning out in the delicious sting of over stimulation. He pressed her down to the bed again, placing his strong hand on the base of her ass.

“I know you’ve got another one in you, can you cum again for me?” He asked, not once breaking his pace. His thick words drew her closer again, along with the new feeling of her already fucked out cunt continuing to be tortured. 

“Mhm,” she whined out breathlessly. Her second orgasm building fast in the pit of her stomach. 

His hips faltered, the first time she felt him break his pace. She felt him twitch inside of her, knowing he was close. His hold on her hips tightened along with the feeling in her cunt and stomach. He let out a low groan, and the next thing she knew she felt him spilling out inside of her. With that, the band snapped again and they came together, Tom fucking through both of their orgasms.

With one last thrust, he pulled out of her and she dissolved into the overwhelming pleasure she just experienced. He took a step back and watched both of their releases pour our of her. 

“My god,” He whispered. He helped her up and pulled her closer, the sweat that adorned both of their bodies glistening under the light above them.

“Are you okay? Was that too much?” He asked, kissing her forehead.

“No,” she responded almost immediately. “It was so good.”

“Okay.” He said. “Don’t ever pull something like that again, though,” smiling a little bit, still kissing her. 

She laughed lightly and nodded, basking in the feeling knowing that he wasn’t mad at her. “I’m going to go shower, want to join?” 

“Obviously,” he replied, and with that, the fucked out couple went to wash off their ungodly activities. 

a/n: hi! i hope you enjoyed! it’s my first full length smut one-shot, so please let me know what you think :3 <3s and reblogs appreciated. 

entry wound.

summary : remus promised never to leave you, but youth is not eternal and his love for you proved to be just as fickle.

warnings : angst! + ridiculously prosey (if that’s a word)

notes : so weird and terrible but i found it in my notes app from forever ago! like or rb if you enjoy this mess at all <3

⇨ remus lupin masterlist.┊ marauders masterlist.

enjoy your youth — the rallying cry of the adult nation. it’s a well meaning mantra repeated by parents and kin to every young fledgling about to fly the nest.

you had always sworn to yourself you would never be damned to such an empty faith; the religion of broken bottles and burnt polaroids littered across a neutral-toned carpet, bitter and angry over the events of your teenage years. and yet you had become exactly what you had most feared. a shell, a receptacle, a husk, an adult. because for you the years you had spent at school were not saturated with beauty but instead snared within the roots of misfortune, turning you into a hollow vessel for pain.

you had always sworn to yourself you would never be damned to such an empty faith; the religion of broken bottles and burnt polaroids littered across a neutral-toned carpet, bitter and angry over the events of your teenage years. and yet you had become exactly what you had most feared. a shell, a receptacle, a husk, an adult. because for you the years you had spent at school were not saturated with beauty but instead snared within the roots of misfortune, turning you into a hollow vessel for pain.

you had always sworn to yourself you would never be damned to such an empty faith; the religion of broken bottles and burnt polaroids littered across a neutral-toned carpet, bitter and angry over the events of your teenage years. and yet you had become exactly what you had most feared. a shell, a receptacle, a husk, an adult. because for you the years you had spent at school were not saturated with beauty but instead snared within the roots of misfortune, turning you into a hollow vessel for pain.

your memories were of a brown-eyed boy. the way the hair at the nape of his neck curled gently around the back of his throat like the tenderest of snakes. the scent of the books he feasted upon, gorging himself on words and printed inky pages. the curve of his mouth, adorned with his hand-rolled cigarettes and expensive alcohol in glasses that gleamed in the aura of wonder that beamed down upon him. the tears in his eyes as he promised you he’d always remember you. that the war wouldn’t change anything. that you’d always be able to close your eyes and picture his arms encircling you, a cage you would willingly submit yourself to, as he twirled you around the room. that uptown girl would always be your song. that he didn’t kiss sirius at the slug club parties and the truth or dare games or on the top of the astronomy tower, and that he would never leave you.

but he forgot you. the war changed him in ways unexplainable with any words in the human dialect. closing your eyes now conjured the picture of a boy defeated, a boy has broken as he broke you down into stardust and bones. told you that love couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t be enough anymore. you hadn’t felt the caress of those arms in years, the press of his biceps around you, the rhythmic twirling that lulled you into security. uptown girl brought nothing but a sense of agonising loss. and perhaps for you, the relationship had turned sour, a bitter taste in your mouth, the remnants of poison —but that of the holiest concoction, whose saccharine mixture slips down the throat with all the ease of a skater upon the ice. for even though remus has chosen sirius, chosen to destroy the palaces you built with him and shoot your castles out of the air — you were infatuated with him. obsessed with the mere idea of him. everything you’d dreamed was gone, but your burnt polaroids brought you grim satisfaction and your alcohol numbed the overwhelming beige that you were drowning in.

for long ago, the first time remus lupin had told you that he was in love with you, you’d built him a ten-foot-tall pedestal. you’d seized your messiah with an iron vice and distilled him within an orb of crystalline, a clandestine object which you’d claimed to be your heart. all this time you kept him there. and every time the yearning to become a skeleton slinks like a shadow down the soft curvature of your spine you peer in, and observe your angel, your light, your most glorious addiction. you were never one to deny yourself the most delectable of delicacies, and in your foolishness, you had fallen into a trap disguised as a beautiful morsel, and now all you were reduced to was a gaping entry wound.

♥︎͏ ͏ 𓂃 my taglist ! : i currently don’t have an active taglist since i’ve only just started posting fanfiction. for now, i’ll be tagging some mutuals- once i get up a few people i’ll start tagging an actual list! please click here to add yourself to my future taglist. @claireunoia @faeaura @winterwisteria @rorysglimore @tatums-rileys @itsmentalillness @just-a-smol-spoon @lavhoes @biderboy @mrdockluvr. love u sm!

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. ┊ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦. ┊ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Jung Ho Yeon By Shin Sun Hye for Elle Korea, April 2022