PERIODDDDD!! I Love When The Reader Stands On Business🙌🏼 We Ain’t Tolerating Disrespect Over

Halloween and Loki?! MY FAVOURITE COMBINATION!!! This was so wholesome🤭

Guess Who? (Loki x GN!Reader) Halloween Oneshot/Short

Summary: You manage to convince Loki to come to Stark’s Halloween Party, but why were you so insistent he came?

Rating: All ages/SFW

A/N: just a fun little oneshot, kinda idiots in love trope, best friends who are oblivious they are in love, fluffy/humour

Divider by @whimsicalrogers

“What do you mean you’re not coming?”

“Well… it’s exactly what I said. I’m not coming. I don’t know what else it could possibly mean-“

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“A themed party with strangers in tacky costumes? A ridiculous dress code to which I will be forced to follow?”

“It’s fun!”

“It’s tedious.”

You pouted slightly, shoulders sagging a little as the God of Mischief leaned against the counter, his cup of freshly brewed tea steaming next to him. His arms folded over his chest, a brow raised as he looked at you, seeing the disappointment in your gaze.

Halloween.

It seemed you were rather excited about the yearly mortal tradition, whereas Loki… Well, you heard him. He thought it was ‘tedious’. Of course, Stark was throwing a party - shocker - and whilst you weren’t usually fussed about them, this one was different because it was Halloween. Plus, you may have spent far too long making your costume. Sure, you could’ve just bought one, but it gave you something to do in your free time and you were pretty proud of it.

“I thought Halloween would be right up your alley.” You quipped, raising a brow of your own in a silent challenge. “You don’t even need to dress up, you can just shape shift into something scary.” You paused, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Or you could just go like this.” You teased, gesturing towards him. “I mean, you’re pretty scary.” Loki tilted his head, biting back a smirk.

“Ha. Ha.” He breathed out, deadpan. You grinned, eyes crinkling before a sigh escaped.

“Come on, please.” You took a step closer, standing before him. “You won’t have to talk to anyone else except me, we can just stand off to the side and judge everyone’s costumes. I know you’ll love to do that.” You tried, trying to coax him into agreeing to attend the party. Loki narrowed his eyes slightly, picking up on some hidden agenda you seemed to have behind your encouragement.

“Why is my attendance so important to you?” He asked skeptically, making you shrug faintly, trying to appear casual. “Barton is choosing not to attend and yet, I don’t see you badgering him.”

“Because he’s taking his kids trick or treating!” You argued, seeing Loki roll his eyes. “Besides, we’re best friends-“

“I’m your best friend-“

“We’re best friends-“ You repeated, making Loki smirk as he reached round to grab his cup from the counter, turning slightly away from you to do so. “And I may have a surprise for you.”

Loki’s brows raised at those words, his actions pausing. Slowly, he turned his head to look at you once again. “A surprise?” He asked, curious as you nodded. “For me?” Another nod. Loki hummed lowly in thought, lifting his cup to his lips, taking a small sip. You watched him intently, tilting your head and batting your eyelashes ever so slightly. He had to admit, whenever you pulled that move it was hard for him to say no.

With a heavy sigh, Loki conceded.

“Fine.”

You let out a whispered ‘yes’ in triumph, a smile tugging at your lips. “But-“ Loki raised a finger. “I am not staying until god knows what hour nor am I to be expected to enjoy myself.”

“Seems fair.” You mused, unable to stop the small giddy shuffle of your feet as you cleared your throat. “I promise, it will be worth it.”

Loki stood outside your quarters door, dressed in a tailored all black suit. He refused to adhere to the costume dress code, it was bad enough he was going, let alone having to dress as some sort of ghoul, the undead or something else that was considered ‘spooky’ by the humans. Knocking, he could hear rustling movement behind the door, along with a ‘just a second’. Adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket, he glanced down the corridor, spotting the familiar figures of Wanda and Vision who had seemingly dressed up as a couple - although, the reference of their outfits was lost on him.

Whilst his gaze was turned, he heard the door click open, seeing your familiar figure out the corner of his eye before he turned to look at you.

Loki’s brows raised, lips parting as he took in your appearance. You were stood with a big grin on your face, arms spread in a ‘ta-da’ manner, clearly extremely pleased with your efforts.

“So… what do you think?” You asked, watching his face closely.

Loki blinked, blue eyes trailing over your form, trying to find the right words.

“You’re…” He muttered. “Me?”

Yes, you had spent the last few weeks putting together a very rough ensemble that was supposed to look like Loki’s Asgardian attire. The horns that sat upon your head had been made out of cardboard, painted gold and fixed to you via an elastic band that went around your head. The emerald cape looked like an old velvet blanket that you’d managed to clip together around your neck with a number of safety pins, draped around your all black one piece that you had decorated with gold paint for details. It was very makeshift.

You nodded your head to his question, the cardboard horns moving with you as Loki processed the sight before him. He didn’t know if he should be offended or flattered at first, before he saw the genuine joy in your eyes. And knowing you… He knew it was a compliment and not a jab.

“Well… It’s certainly…” Loki cleared his throat, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “A look.” He mused playfully. “How long did you spend on this?”

“Too long.” You replied wryly, letting out a small laugh, looking down at your attire. “A few weeks?” You shrugged.

“So, this is what you have been doing in your free time?” He asked, raising a brow as he gestured towards you. Another nod from you. “You spent hours putting this together? You could’ve just… purchased a costume though, correct?”

“Yeah, but I wanted to go as you.” You answered lightly, meeting his gaze again. There was sincerity in your tone, making Loki’s own gaze soften a fraction. “Halloween isn’t just about dressing as something scary or creepy-“ You began to explain. “You can also dress as something you like, or someone you admire or-“

“You admire me?” Loki blinked, surprise colouring his tone. You furrowed your brows, pausing.

“Well… yeah?” You replied, your words coming out in a ‘I thought that was obvious’ tone. “But not in a ‘wow, he’s a God, he’s so cool’ way, in a ‘that’s my friend and he’s kinda cool I guess’ way.” Your words made Loki let out a sound that was a mix of a scoff and a laugh. “I didn’t do it so your ego got bigger.” You added playfully, giving him a knowing look.

Loki couldn’t stop the slow grin that tugged at his lips, the sentiment that you had chosen to dress as him for the costume party was… strangely warming. “I’m afraid that’s the exact outcome this-“ He gestured towards your attire. “-has created.” He teased, leaning casually against the doorframe, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. You rolled your eyes in amusement. “In fact, I fear my head may be too big to get through the entrance to the party-“

“Uh uh- You said you were coming, so you’re coming.” You pointed up at him, tone stern, making Loki inwardly groan. “I accepted the fact you didn’t want to dress up and let you wear your Gucci suit.” You added, making Loki narrow his eyes into a playful glare. “It’s called compromise, Loki.” With a dramatic sigh, Loki conceded again.

“Fine.” He muttered, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Let’s go make people think I’m even more narcissistic than they already believe me to be.” He quipped, raising a brow. “Considering I will seemingly be in my own company for the evening.” He mused, smirking faintly as he eyed your costume once again. He had to admit, he was secretly… endeared by it. And you did look rather good in green and gold, not that he would admit that aloud.

“If I must attend this farce, it may as well be in company I can endure.” You lowered your voice, mimicking his way of speaking. “Myself, of course. Because my own company is far superior than any of you mere mortals.” You raised your chin, feigning haughtiness as Loki raised brow, tilting his head slightly. His features morphed into a look of amusement and feigned indignation.

“I do not sound like that.” He furrowed his brows, watching as you grabbed your bag.

“I do not sound like that.” You mimicked again.

“Please tell me you’re not going to do that all evening.” His amusement slightly faded, a hint of genuine concern creeping into his voice as he took a step back to allow you to leave your quarters.

“Don’t be absurd.” You commented, one last impersonation before you let out a laugh, closing the door behind you. “No, it’s exhausting being you.” You waved a hand, making Loki let out a breath of relief, hearing you begin to head down the hall. After a moment, he realised what you had said, his lips parting, brows creasing as he quickly moved after you.

“Uh- I don’t think ‘exhausting’ is quite the right word!”

Nothing beats forbidden love🤭

draco malfoy x reader where the reader is in hufflepuf and they are in a secret relationship that suddenly gets discovered by someone

The cold stone walls of Hogwarts always felt warmer when you were with Draco, especially in this forgotten alcove nestled deep in the castle’s labyrinth of corridors. It was your secret hideaway, shielded by shadows, cloaked in silence. No one ever ventured this far, and it was perfect for moments like this—where time stood still, and the outside world ceased to exist.

Draco leaned against the wall, his Slytherin tie loosened, his stormy grey eyes locked on yours. The tension between you was palpable, not the dangerous kind but something far sweeter, something laced with longing. You stepped closer, drawn to him as you always were, your Hufflepuff robe brushing against his.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to tell anyone?” you asked softly, voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell of your hidden world. Your heart raced as you waited for his response, hoping for a different answer this time.

Draco’s expression darkened, the softness in his eyes hardening like ice. He shook his head sharply. “No. It’s impossible,” he said, his voice clipped, his tone final. “Do you have any idea what people would say? What they’d think? What my father would do?”

The mention of his father sent a shiver down your spine. You knew Lucius Malfoy’s reputation, and you had no illusions about how he would react to Draco being involved with a Hufflepuff. But it wasn’t just his family. You could hear the unspoken names in his voice—the Slytherins, the pure-blood elites, everyone who lived by the old ways, who would never accept something as simple as love if it crossed House boundaries.

“But what if we—” you began, but Draco cut you off.

“No, listen to me,” he said firmly, stepping closer and gripping your arms gently but with enough force to make sure you understood. “My father would disown me. The Slytherins would turn their backs on me. Even the Hufflepuffs would start talking about you behind your back, saying Merlin knows what. You don’t know what they’re like, the things they’d say. I won’t let you be a part of that.”

His words hung heavy between you, sinking into your chest like lead. There was a lump in your throat, and you swallowed hard, trying to push it down. You understood his fears, but it didn’t make the ache in your heart any less. You wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that you didn’t care what anyone thought, but you knew him well enough to see that no amount of persuasion would change his mind. Not when he was this adamant.

You sighed, casting your eyes down to the stone floor, but Draco was having none of it. His hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again. And for a moment, you could see it—the vulnerability in him, the conflict. He didn’t want to keep this secret forever, but he felt he had no choice.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, softer now, his thumb brushing your cheek. His voice, though still guarded, held a note of tenderness that he rarely let slip. “But it’s better this way. For both of us.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned into him, letting the tension melt away as his arms wrapped around you. The kiss that followed was gentle at first, a slow reassurance that in this hidden corner of the world, at least, you were free. His lips were warm, contrasting with the cold, rough stone at your back, and you melted into him, all your worries dissolving as his hands threaded into your hair.

Time lost its meaning when you were like this. The castle, the students, the looming threat of being caught—it all slipped away. There was only the taste of Draco’s lips, the intoxicating heat of his body pressed against yours, and the steady rhythm of your hearts beating in sync. His touch was more urgent now, his hands exploring, grasping, as though he could never be close enough, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you in case this was your last stolen moment together.

But then, the world came crashing back.

“Malfoy!”

The voice was sharp, cold, and unmistakable. You froze, the kiss breaking abruptly as Draco jerked back, eyes wide in panic. You followed his gaze and felt your stomach drop. Standing in the entrance of the alcove, his dark robes billowing like a shadow of doom, was none other than Professor Snape.

His expression was a mixture of shock and outrage, though his usually impassive face betrayed only the slightest twitch of surprise. His black eyes flicked between you and Draco, narrowing dangerously. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the walls were closing in on you both.

Draco stepped forward slightly, putting himself between you and Snape as if to shield you, though you weren’t sure if it was more out of instinct or desperation. “Professor,” Draco began, his voice tight, trying to regain some semblance of control, “it’s not what it looks like.”

But it was exactly what it looked like, and Snape wasn’t fooled for a second. His gaze turned steely as his lips curled into a sneer. “Really, Malfoy?” he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do enlighten me, then. What exactly am I looking at?”

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to have shrunk down to this one moment, with no escape in sight. What would Snape do? Tell the other professors? Inform your Head of House? Or worse—would he go straight to Lucius Malfoy?

The thought made you sick with dread.

Draco shifted uncomfortably, his cool façade cracking as he struggled for an explanation. But there was none. There was no easy way out of this.

Snape’s eyes bore into yours now, and you felt the weight of his disappointment, the judgment in his silence. You’d seen him angry before, with other students, but this—this was different. He wasn’t just angry. He was livid.

“I suggest,” Snape finally said, his voice low and deadly, “that you both return to your common rooms. Now. Before I decide to inform the Headmaster of your… inappropriate activities.”

Your heart was pounding in your ears as you nodded, too stunned to speak. Draco grabbed your hand for a fleeting second, squeezing it as if to say he was sorry—sorry for everything—before letting go. His mask was back in place, and without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the alcove, his back rigid, his expression unreadable.

You followed in silence, your heart heavy with the weight of your secret love, now more fragile than ever.

Requests are open. Send as many as you like at once.

Unspoken

bucky barnes x reader

summary: You and Steve share a steady, unshakeable friendship — nothing more, nothing less. But Bucky’s feelings for you have been quietly growing since Germany, and a mission where you and Steve get a little too close sparks something he can’t ignore.

word count: 4872

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, PiV, unprotected sex, shower sex, breeding.

A/N: requested by this anon, hope I met your expectations!

The explosion rattled your bones.

Chunks of concrete crashed behind you, and the stale air filled with smoke and ash. You coughed into your arm, stumbling forward through the haze as gunfire cracked in the distance.

A firm hand caught your arm before you could fall.

“Whoa—got you,” Steve said, steadying you as the floor trembled beneath your boots.

You wheezed out a breath and clung to his arm just long enough to get your footing. “Jesus, Rogers. Tell me again why I volunteered for this mission?”

“Because you like saving my ass,” he said, smiling through the dust. “And you owe me one after that blown recon op in Munich.”

You let out a dry laugh. “That was your fault and you know it.”

“Still counts.”

His hand slid off your arm as you both started moving again, weaving through the half-collapsed corridor. You kept pace easily — you’d run dozens of ops with Steve before. He was your comfort zone in the field. The guy you’d banter with between gunshots and lean on when everything went to hell ever since you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. He was like an older brother. Loud, loyal, and irritatingly heroic.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing at you sideways as you reached the breach point.

“Fine. Just crispy around the edges.”

Steve chuckled. “Same.”

Across the compound, hidden in the smoke and ruin, Bucky saw it all.

You, brushing soot off Steve’s shoulder with a huff of breathless laughter. Steve flashing you that boy-scout grin. The way you elbowed him — friendly, easy, close.

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened beneath his tac gear. His eyes tracked every step the two of you took, the curve of your lips when you smiled, the way Steve’s hand hovered protectively near your back like he’d done it a thousand times before.

There was nothing flirtatious about it. Bucky knew that but it didn’t matter.

Because it wasn’t him.

Bucky didn’t say a word the whole ride back. Steve tried once — something about intel cleanup, maybe a joke — but Bucky just grunted and leaned back in his seat, arms folded across his chest like a shield. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you, either.

Not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to more than anything. But looking at you felt dangerous right now. Like he’d let something slip. Like he’d do something stupid.

You were sitting beside Steve. Not close, not touching, not whispering. Just talking. Casual. Comfortable.

And the entire situation wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t done anything wrong. Bucky knew that.

But knowing didn’t change the way his stomach clenched when you laughed — not loud, not flirty, just a soft sound that still somehow made his teeth grind.

You didn’t even know. You didn’t know how long he’d wanted you.

How it started back in Germany — when you showed up at that god-awful warehouse where Steve had hidden him away before the airport fight. You were new to the team then, still rough around the edges, still learning the weight of the world on your shoulders.

You walked into that room like it didn’t scare you. Like he didn’t scare you. Everyone else flinched when they saw the metal arm. You didn’t.

You sat on the dusty floor next to him while Steve paced in the background, asking if he was okay, if he needed food or air or time. You asked him if he wanted to talk. You handed him a protein bar. You didn’t stare at the scars.

You didn’t treat him like glass.

And that—God, that was it.

He’d been gone for decades, a ghost in his own skin, and you looked at him like he was human. That was all it took. One stupid granola bar and a smile and he was yours.

He’d been nursing that crush ever since. Quietly. Pathetically.

You made it too easy. You treated him like a person, and he followed you like a dog.

But he never said anything. Never acted on it. He figured it would pass eventually — the ache, the want, the way his eyes tracked your every move like a fucking live wire. He thought if he stayed silent long enough, it’d burn out on its own.

It didn’t.

It just got worse.

Every time you touched someone else, it flared. Every time Steve made you laugh, or Sam tossed you a wink, or even Natasha slung her arm around your shoulders during post-mission drinks — it twisted something inside him.

Something ugly.

He hated it. Hated himself for it. For wanting something soft and normal when he knew he wasn’t either of those things. For feeling jealous like he had any right to be.

You weren’t his.

But today, watching you with Steve — seeing how natural you were together, the way you looked at him without thinking — it had broken something.

He’d barely been able to stay in his seat.

Even now, he could still see your hand on Steve’s chest. Could still hear the way you’d laughed — easy, familiar, like Steve was yours.

The thought made him sick.

Because for all the noise in his head, Bucky Barnes knew one thing: He wanted to be the only one who made you laugh like that.

———

The mission was over. Your body ached, your head was pounding, and all you wanted was a hot shower and ten hours of sleep.

The compound was quiet by the time you made it in. Just the soft hum of lights and the distant drone of Sam bitching to FRIDAY about his “unfair” share of the cleanup detail. You smirked to yourself as you slipped out of your tac vest, wiping dried blood off your neck with a towel from the med station.

“Rough one, huh?”

You glanced up — Steve again, leaning against the corridor wall with two water bottles in hand. He tossed you one. You caught it easily.

“Thanks,” you muttered, cracking the seal. “Next time remind me not to follow you into any building marked ‘abandoned missile silo.’”

Steve grinned. “You love the chaos.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping his shoulder as you passed. “I love not being blown to hell.”

He laughed and followed behind you, chatting casually. Debrief notes. Intel scraps. Something about a weapons crate Tony was going to lose his mind over. You half-listened, too exhausted to give him your full attention.

You said goodbye to Steve and turned the corner toward the east wing and nearly ran into a wall of solid muscle.

Not exactly a wall.

Bucky.

He was just standing there — tactical gear half undone, sweat still clinging to his temple, soot smudged across the sharp line of his jaw. He hadn’t even showered yet, and somehow he still managed to look like something out of a noir film — all shadow and coiled silence.

You blinked. “Jesus—how do you move that quietly in boots?”

His lips twitched. “Super soldier perk.”

“Creepy perk,” you muttered, but your smile softened it. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away — just stared at you. Not in a rude way. Not exactly. But like he was seeing something that didn’t quite belong in this world. Like you’d glitched the matrix.

Your hair was still dusty from the mission. There was a small scrape on your temple. Your mouth was chapped. And you still somehow looked soft — kind. Warm in the way war-hardened people rarely stayed.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, voice low. “You?”

You gave him a tired shrug. “Still standing.”

He gave a small grunt, and your eyes fell on the metal arm hanging at his side.

Without thinking, you reached out and nudged his elbow — a gentle, friendly bump. “You came in fast at the end there. That last guy had me pinned, you know.”

His mouth twitched again — not quite a smile, but close.

“Didn’t like the look he gave you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? He was trying to kill me.”

“Still,” Bucky muttered, voice quieter now. “Didn’t like it.”

There was a pause — one that should’ve felt awkward, but didn’t. Just thick. Heavy with something unspoken.

You bumped him again, softer this time. “Well… I liked the way you got between me and the bullet. So. Thanks.”

That did it.

His heart kicked once, hard, right in his chest. You were already turning to leave, brushing past him with a casual wave, like you hadn’t just set his whole damn nervous system on fire.

“Go shower,” you said over your shoulder. “You smell like smoke and brooding.”

You turned to leave and Bucky stood there for a long, long moment — head tilted slightly, lips parted, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

He ran a hand over his face.

God, he was so gone for you.

He watched you disappear down the hallway, your silhouette framed in the warm light — hair flowing, shoulders slack with exhaustion, still so effortlessly radiant even after a mission, your hips swaying with that careless kind of grace that drove him mad. You didn’t even know you were doing it — didn’t know the way his eyes followed every step you took.

You didn’t even look back.

You never did. Not like that.

He exhaled slowly, jaw working, chest tight. He’d told himself not to feel like this. Not about you.

But God — it was impossible.

You’d teased him gently, like always. Thrown him a smile and a careless jab about the way he smelled. — He should’ve laughed. Instead, he stood frozen — throat tight, jaw clenched, something unholy clawing its way up from his chest — You never meant anything by it, and still… it stuck in his there like a thorn. Not in a painful way. Just in that quiet, aching way that reminded him he wasn’t built for things like this. Like you.

He’d tried so hard to be patient. To keep things light. Friendly. Safe. You were sweet to him — always had been — but you never looked at him the way you looked at Steve. And maybe that shouldn’t matter. Maybe he had no right to want more.

But he did.

He remembered Germany — how you’d offered your hand to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like you wanted to know him. He remembered the fight on the airport — the dirt on your cheeks, the fire behind your eyes and every moment you hadn’t hesitated to stand between him and danger.

You’d smiled at him.

You’d made him feel normal.

And now, months later, that feeling hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had carved out a permanent space inside him. He liked the way you talked to him like he wasn’t broken. The way you made the world feel quieter just by being nearby. The way your laugh made something behind his ribs loosen.

He didn’t know what this was. But he knew it was more than just admiration. It had grown roots.

And tonight — after seeing you so close to Steve, the way your hand had lingered on Steve’s chest, the way he had touched your waist — something in Bucky cracked a little.

Not with jealousy. But with fear.

What if he was too late?

You’d thanked him tonight. Nudged his arm. Smiled at him like he was more than just a weapon. Like he mattered. And it overwhelmed him, because you didn’t even realize what you were doing to him.

And maybe it wasn’t enough anymore — watching you from a distance. Smiling back like it didn’t hurt. Pretending he didn’t want more.

Maybe it was time to say something. Before someone else did.

Before he missed his chance.

He didn’t even think. Just turned and walked — quiet and certain — toward your door.

———

You just stepped into the shower , steam curling in the bathroom when you heard it — a quiet knock.

Your hair was damp, clinging to your neck. Warm droplets ran down your back from where the towel didn’t quite reach. You tightened the knot at your chest with one hand and padded barefoot across the floor, thinking maybe Nat had come to scold you for leaving your boots in the common room again.

You opened the door and froze.

So did he.

“…Bucky?”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, eyes dark and wide, like you’d knocked the breath out of him. His knuckles were still half-curled from the knock, like he hadn’t expected you to actually open it.

Or at least, not like this.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, one hand flying to your towel instinctively, even though it wasn’t going anywhere. “I was just about to shower. What’s—um—everything okay?”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His eyes darted up to meet yours — polite, panicked — but they didn’t stay there.

They couldn’t.

Not with the way your bare shoulders glistened with steam. Not with the way that towel clung to the curve of your hips. Not when you were standing there, soft and flushed and so damn close, looking at him like he hadn’t just nearly lost his mind over you ten minutes ago.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he cleared it quickly. “Sorry. I should’ve… waited. Or come back.”

You tilted your head. “Come back for what?”

He hesitated.

And then… he exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”

Something in your chest fluttered — nerves, maybe. Or just curiosity. Because Bucky didn’t usually come to people’s rooms. Didn’t usually ask to talk.

You took a small step back.

“Well,” you said, voice lighter now. “You can talk while I find some clothes. Just, uh—don’t have a heart attack or anything.”

That almost pulled a laugh out of him.

Almost.

Instead, he gave a tight, shaky nod, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

The click of it echoed louder than it should have.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t move toward you. Just stood near the door with his hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw tense, like he was trying very hard not to look at you again.

But he was failing.

And you could feel it — the weight of his stare trailing your bare skin like a phantom touch.

You turned slightly, pretending to dig through a dresser drawer for something to wear. “So… what’s up?”

“I couldn’t keep it in anymore,” Bucky said quietly.

You froze — one hand still hovering over the open drawer, a cotton shirt limp between your fingers. The steam in the room had started to fade, but now it felt thick again. Dense with something unspoken.

You turned slowly. The towel was still wrapped around you, clinging to your skin. But for the first time tonight, you forgot about it. Because Bucky wasn’t looking at you like you were half-naked.

He was looking at you like he was breaking.

Like something inside him had finally snapped loose and he didn’t know how to gather it back together.

“I tried,” he said, voice raw. “Tried to keep my distance. Be your friend. Be… normal. But I can’t—not when I care about you the way I do. Not when I see you and Steve laughing and feel like I’m the only one on the outside of something I don’t know how to reach.”

Your heart squeezed. Hard.

“Bucky…”

“I don’t think you even realize,” he said, stepping forward just once — not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could see every flicker of fear in his eyes. “Back in Germany, when you first looked at me like I wasn’t dangerous… like I was just a guy you were glad to meet. No one’s looked at me like that in a long time.”

You swallowed thickly, towel knot digging into your chest with the pressure of your breath.

“I remember,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes locked on yours.

“You changed something in me that day. And ever since, I’ve been trying to figure out how to unfeel it. How to be near you and not want more. But I can’t. I don’t want to anymore.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not awkward. Just full. The kind of silence that held years of hurt, months of closeness, and one aching truth suspended in the air.

Then—softly—you asked:

“What is it you want, Bucky?”

He exhaled like it hurt. Ran a hand over his mouth, his brow. Like saying it out loud might wreck him.

“I want to know if you ever look at me the way I look at you.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Not because you didn’t want to — but because the words caught in your throat. His confession settled over you like a warm ache, pulling memories to the surface. His quiet kindness. The way he always walked on the side of traffic. How he let you tease him and never pushed when you pulled away. How his eyes always found you in a room, even when you didn’t notice.

You looked at him now — really looked — and saw the worry bleeding through every line of his face. His shoulders were tense like he expected you to walk away. And it hit you like a wave.

You’d liked him all along.

You’d just… never let yourself admit it.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly, stepping forward. Your fingers clutched the towel tighter, not out of modesty, but nerves. “I didn’t let myself think about it. About being with someone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why not? I mean... I'm sure guys are all around you.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Because wanting someone feels dangerous. It always has. Letting someone in, letting them matter… it means they can hurt you. And I didn’t think I could handle that.”

He didn’t speak. Just listened. Let you breathe through it.

“But then you came along,” you whispered. “And you never asked anything of me. Never rushed me. Never made me feel like I had to give you more than I had.”

You looked up at him then — at those soft, uncertain eyes, the way his arms hung at his sides like he was holding himself back. Always holding back.

And you felt it break open inside you.

“I think I’ve liked you for a long time, Bucky,” you said. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to want this.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly — carefully — he reached out, fingertips brushing your forearm like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched too much.

“You’re allowed,” he murmured.

You stepped into his space, towel and all, heart thundering like it hadn’t in years.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

Your fingers reached for his wrist first, light and trembling, grounding yourself in something solid. Then he cupped your face, slowly, reverently — metal fingers on one side, warm flesh on the other. You leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes fluttering shut.

Then he kissed you.

It was gentle at first. Careful. Almost scared. Like if he went too fast, it would all disappear.

You made a soft sound against his mouth — not quite a gasp, but something between surprise and relief. Your hands slid up his chest instinctively, feeling the taut muscle beneath his t-shirt, the way his heart pounded hard and steady under your touch.

He pulled back for just a breath, forehead resting against yours. His voice was raw.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast.”

You shook your head. “No. Don’t stop.”

That was all he needed. The second kiss came deeper — hungrier. His hands cradled your waist, pulling you flush against him, towel and all. You opened your mouth to him without hesitation, letting his tongue slide over yours as the air between you grew hotter, heavier.

You felt his breath catch when your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, palms dragging over the hard plane of his stomach. His body shuddered, like he’d been holding back too long.

And then his grip tightened — not rough, but needing — and he pressed you back, gently walking you toward the bed, mouths never parting.

Your towel loosened with the movement, and you felt it slip.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look down as it hit the floor — and when he looked back up at you, eyes blown wide with heat, it wasn’t just desire you saw there.

It was awe.

Like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You’re—”

You kissed him again, hard.

And he caught you, hands spanning your back, fingers dragging over bare skin like he wanted to memorize every inch. His lips moved down to your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing lightly, making you gasp.

“Bucky—”

His voice was a low growl against your skin. “You're so beautiful. All of you... God, I’ve thought about this,” he breathed, kissing a path down your collarbone, “for so long.”

You arched into him, pulling at his shirt, breathless. “Then take it off.”

He did — in one quick motion, tossing it aside. His body pressed to yours, skin to skin, heat rolling off him in waves. You dragged your hands down the lines of his back, felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

He bent to kiss you again, slower this time — like he wanted to feel every flicker of emotion behind it, to brand the taste of you into memory.

But when your hips rolled into his just slightly, instinctively, something inside him snapped.

Not rough. Not careless. Just urgent. His mouth tore from yours and moved to your ear, voice hoarse, breath ragged.

“Wait,” he murmured, arms tightening around you.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What is it?”

He exhaled hard, like he was trying to ground himself — and then, suddenly, he was lifting you off the floor. You gasped, arms flying around his shoulders.

“Bucky—!”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he muttered, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“What?” you asked, half breathless, half laughing.

His grin was crooked and dark, eyes glinting with wicked intent.

“You were about to shower, weren’t you?"

Your stomach fluttered. Heat coiled low.

And then he was carrying you to the bathroom like you weighed nothing, your bare body pressed against his chest, the door shutting behind you with a soft click.

Steam still lingered from your earlier attempt, fogging the mirror. He set you down gently, and you barely had time to speak before he was tugging off the rest of his clothes with shaking hands — his eyes never leaving yours.

Then came his boxers.

He hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband and paused — just long enough for your eyes to drop, anticipation coiling tight between your thighs.

And when he pushed them down…

God.

You knew he’d be big. You knew. But it still made your lips part in a silent gasp, heat rushing to your face, to your core, as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already dripping with precum, heavy against his thigh.

Bucky’s mouth quirked, barely a smirk, but his eyes stayed locked on yours like he was watching your every breath, every flicker of reaction.

You stood still for a beat, watching him, your eyes drifted back up — the way his chest rose and fell, the scar beneath his collarbone, the tension in his jaw — like he was trying not to devour you.

You stepped back into the shower first, letting the water wash over your skin again, warm and welcome. Your breath hitched as you turned, watching him follow.

Bucky stepped in behind you, quiet for a moment. The water slid over his chest, down the ridges of muscle and old wounds and memory. His metal hand flexed at his side. Then he looked up at you.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He moved toward you slowly, almost hesitantly, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. His hands found your hips under the stream, thumbs brushing your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, like it hurt to admit.

Your fingers reached up to tangle in his damp hair. “You make me feel like I am.”

His forehead pressed to yours.

And then he kissed you again — deeper this time, wetter, the rhythm of it syncing with the falling water. His hands roamed more freely now, down your spine, up your sides. He held you like he didn’t know where to start, like every part of you deserved to be touched.

The heat between you built slow and steady. His mouth trailed to your jaw, then your throat, tasting droplets as he went.

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, pressing you gently back against the tile, your skin arching into the chill as heat rolled off him in waves.

The water hit your shoulders, cascading down your chest, but all you could focus on was him. The slick drag of his palms across your ribs. The weight of his body slotting perfectly between your thighs.

His hands gripped the underside of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, the feel of his cock heavy and hard, brushing right where you needed him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re so soft. So fuckin’ warm—”

You pulled him down into a kiss, all tongue and teeth, water pouring over both of you as your hips shifted against his. His cock slid against your slit, teasing and hot, the slickness of the shower only making it worse — better.

“Bucky—please,” you gasped, biting his lower lip.

His head dropped to your shoulder, panting.

“You want it, baby?” His voice was low, filthy. “Want me to fuck you right here? Let the whole damn compound hear who you belong to?”

A needy whimper left your lips before you could stop it.

“Yes. Please. Do it.”

He didn’t wait another second. With one thrust, he buried himself inside you — deep, thick, stretching you so perfectly your breath left your lungs. Your head hit the tile with a soft thud, eyes flying open with the sudden, glorious pressure.

“Oh my—fuck,” you choked, clutching at his shoulders.

“Jesus, you feel so good,” he growled, thrusting again. His hips snapped forward, water dripping from his hair as his mouth crashed against yours. Each roll of his hips dragged a desperate sound from your throat.

The way he filled you — every inch, every grind — was possessive, intimate. He wasn’t just fucking you. He was claiming you.

“You hear that?” he rasped, slamming into you harder now, the sound of wet skin and moans echoing off the walls. “Let ‘em hear it. Let ‘em know this pussy’s mine.”

You cried out, nails digging into his back.

“Yes, yes—it’s yours, Bucky—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You take me so well. Look at you. Fuck.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You jerked, the sensation sharp, delicious, your orgasm already building tight in your belly.

“Come on,” he whispered against your ear, filthy and sweet. “Come on my cock. I know you want to.”

His thrusts grew faster, rougher — perfect. Your head dropped back as the pleasure overwhelmed you, and when it hit, it hit.

Your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and blinding, your whole body clenching around him as you screamed his name. Bucky groaned, stuttering inside you, barely holding himself back.

“Fuck, fuck—gonna come—”

“Inside,” you gasped, barely coherent. “Want it. All of it—”

He cursed, hips slamming deep one last time before he came with a raw moan, spilling inside you as he pressed his forehead to yours, panting.

The water poured down over you both, the heat misting your skin, but neither of you moved.

Bucky stayed pressed to you, forehead resting against yours, his hands cradling your hips like you were something fragile — something his. His breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling against yours, heart pounding like it didn’t know how to calm down.

You leaned in first, brushing your lips over his. Soft. Barely there.

But he kissed you back like he needed it — like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Slow, warm, reverent. His metal hand came up to cradle your cheek again, thumb stroking water away from your temple.

You sighed into it, into him, fingers drifting over the wet lines of his back, the ridges of muscle that had just held you so tightly.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rush of water.

You smiled faintly. “It is.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, like he was memorizing it.

Then he pulled back, just enough to smirk, eyes gleaming through the steam.

“Wanna go again?”

You blinked, caught between a laugh and a moan, your thighs already pressing together in anticipation.

“Here?” you breathed.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Unless you want me to carry you to bed this time…”

You flushed hot all over, biting your lip as heat pooled between your legs all over again.

“…or the counter.”

Vetiver.

Tom Riddle

Sumarry:: Tom Riddle steals more than laundry — and his roommate isn’t letting it slide. Slow burn, quiet tension, and things getting heated fast.

Warnings::18+,smut, the absurdity of Tom Riddle doing laundry

Tom Riddle rarely believed in feelings. He never really experienced any affection from anyone in his childhood. And sometimes he couldn't even name what he was feeling. But most importantly–he didn't understand weekness.

But there was something about you… something quiet and intangible that slowly, relentlessly, unraveled all his defenses. Something that couldn't quite put his finger on.

It couldn't have been your words — you didn't speak much in the begging — being too occupied in hating each other.

It wasn’t your gaze — you never held it long.

It was your scent.

Something strange, earthy, smoky-sweet. Like freshly damp soil or a forest just before a storm. Vetiver, he had once named it silently. Not perfume — something more. Something that came not from a bottle, but from skin. From air. From corners of a room no one looked into.

You had been his roommate for six weeks now. A mistake in housing assignments had put you together. Supposedly temporary. But no one corrected it, and neither of you asked for a change.

At first, he merely tolerated you. You annoyed him with your pure existence.

Then… he started to notice you. Really notice you. Small things that perhaps no one else would.

The way you tied your hair up. The quiet, focused expression you wore when reading. Those mornings when you barely greeted him — but always made his tea just the way he liked it.

And of course the scent.

It was everywhere. On the couch you curled up on. On the books you touched. In the air you both breathed.

Sometimes Tom felt like he was going mad. There was no escaping your stupid scent. He even thought that maybe you poisoned him with Amortenia. But he found no evidence of that.

But the nights… the nights were the worst.

Beyond the wall — so close he could almost hear your breathing — you sometimes… lived. Quiet sighs. A subtle shift. The sheets rustling faintly. And then the silence that followed. Hot, guilty, suffocating.

At first, Tom never moved. Couldn't quite believe what he has just heard. Just stared at the ceiling. Every muscle taut, holding himself back.

But one night he gave in. Gave in to the aching in his sinful body.

One hand on his body, the other gripping the pillow. Your scent like smoke wrapping around him, clinging to his skin. He imagined you— you curling under the sheets, your lip between your teeth, eyes fluttering shut as you slipped into another world.

And Tom followed you.In silent, repressed pleasure that no one else would ever see.

He woke with guilt every time.

But you only smiled at him in the mornings. As if you knew something.

He needed time to understand everything that had happened – that's how he found himself doing laundry. The fiflthy muggle way.

As the days went by he notices a misplaced shirt of yours.The next time,it was a pair of socks. Tiny things. But Tom began to notice. To look for them.

And finally, one afternoon, he found it.

Silk.

Dark, elegant, lace-trimmed. It slid between his fingers like water. His body reacted before his mind had even caught up to what he was holding.

And the scent…

Still there. Deeper than ever.

He knew he should return it. But instead…

He hid it.

Under his pillow.

That night, he didn’t wait. Didn’t listen. Didn’t hope for anything beyond the wall. He simply lay there, with the silk in his hand, and surrendered to instinct. Desperate, urgent movements. Her name whispered into the dark. Her scent filling the air, flooding his senses, sinking into his bones.

When it was over, he heard something. A soft sound. A door. A step.

Maybe he imagined it.

Maybe… not.

The next morning, she smiled again. Handed him tea. Their fingers brushed.

Tom didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

The silk remained under his pillow, warmed by the heat of his shame. The scent of her clung to his fingertips, more potent than any perfume, more damning than any sin.

He’d tried to tell himself it was harmless. A moment of weakness. A private indulgence. No one had seen. No one knew.

And yet… he couldn’t shake the feeling. The air in the flat was heavier than usual. Quiet, yes—but not the comfortable kind. It was the quiet that came before something broke.

Then—

A knock.

Soft. Barely audible. Like she wanted him to think she might walk away if he didn’t answer.

He stood before he could stop himself. The door creaked open. She stood there in a loose shirt that dipped just slightly off one shoulder, and bare legs beneath it.

His shirt.

He recognized it instantly.

A deliberate choice.

“Can I come in?” she asked softly.

Tom said nothing. He simply stepped aside. She walked in slowly, her gaze flicking across the room, assessing. Not nervous—curious. Like a cat that knew exactly where the mouse was hiding.

She sat on the edge of his bed, fingers trailing over the duvet. Her expression unreadable.

“Did you find something of mine earlier?” she asked, so casually he nearly flinched.

His throat felt dry. “I—”

“You were doing laundry,” she interrupted, tilting her head slightly. Her voice still calm. “And I’ve been missing something.”

She let the pause settle like smoke in the air.

Tom watched her like prey, unsure if he should run or kneel.

“What exactly are you implying?” he asked, voice carefully measured.

“I’m not implying,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I’m asking.”

There it was—challenge. Her power didn’t come in raised voices or anger. It came in quiet knowing, in control so perfect it became cruel.

He considered lying. Denying. Laughing it off. But his body betrayed him—hands clenched, heart racing, eyes betraying far too much.

She stood. Walked toward him slowly. And when she spoke again, her voice had dropped a note deeper, rougher.

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

She was close now. So close he could smell her again—vetiver and heat. His undoing.

And then—without hesitation—her fingers reached beneath his pillow. Found it.

She pulled the silk out slowly. Held it between two fingers like something delicate. Precious.

“You kept it,” she said. Not surprised.

He said nothing.

She stepped closer, the garment still in hand. “And what did you do with it?”

He swallowed.

She smiled. But there was no softness in it. Only dark promise.

“Did you think of me when you wrapped your hand around yourself?” she whispered. “Did you picture how I sounded? How I touched myself on the other side of that wall?”

Tom’s breath hitched.

She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Do you want me to show you?”

That broke him.

In an instant, he grabbed her waist and pushed her back against the wall. Their mouths met like a clash of hunger, desperate and bruising. She gasped into him, and that sound alone nearly undid him.

His hands found her thighs, lifted her effortlessly. She wrapped around him like she was meant to be there—soft, hot, and dangerous. Her nails dragged over the nape of his neck, her mouth messy on his jaw, his throat.

“I thought about you,” he growled, pressing her harder into the wall. “Every night.”

“I know.”

He carried her to the bed, laid her down like something sacred and wicked all at once. She pulled his shirt off, dragged her fingers across his bare chest with a low hum of approval.

He slipped the silk strap from her shoulder, then another. She watched him with half-lidded eyes, breathing shallow, daring him to worship her.

And he did.

His mouth mapped her collarbone, her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach. Every inch he kissed like it had haunted him. Every sound she made spurred him further. When he finally touched her where she needed him most, her back arched, and she moaned his name—not shy, not sweet. Possessive.

“Tom,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He moved like he had memorized her, as if every sigh and whimper guided him closer. His fingers, his mouth, his hips—all hers now. She came undone beneath him, and he followed soon after, the taste of her name on his tongue.

When it was over, she curled beside him. Sweat cooling. Breath slowing.

And in the silence, she took the silk from where it had fallen… and slipped it beneath his pillow again.

“You can keep it,” she said with a sly smile.

“Next time,” she added, brushing her lips against his neck,

“don’t make me come get it myself.”

I’m obsessed😈

AU | ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

˚.☾⋆✧ Blood Lust.

Short Summary: When you stir awake in the middle of the night, you notice Tom hasn’t come back home. Strange noises downstairs lead you to investigate, but what—or who—will you find as you do?

Warnings: 18+ only! Vampire!Tom, hunter and prey, biting, marking, blood play, nipple play, incredibly feral Tom Riddle, breeding kink, choking, praise, unprotected p in v, implied murder (side character).

A/N: FINALLY it’s out. Thank you so much for your patience, life’s a mess atm. Love you, always <3

wordcount: 3,2k

You wake.

Not by choice, but rather from the sound of a window shutting forcefully somewhere downstairs. You still, holding your breath as you listen intently, however, you are left waiting. All you can hear is complete silence. Silence that feels almost eerie now, in the dark. When you hear nothing suspicious for another minute, your focus shifts.

It must be around midnight, you think, and a quick look at the clock confirms your assumption.

It’s 23:50.

Then you hear it—the wind. You exhale sharply, closing your eyes again. It’s just the wind, you tell yourself. The wind must have shut a window downstairs. And just as you are about to drift off to sleep again—

Your eyes shoot open.

You had checked all the windows before going upstairs.

Your arm searches for something next to you—someone. However, a few taps later, and you realise the bed is cold and empty, sheets in the same place as they were when you went to bed.

He isn’t here. 

Or better—he hasn’t come back.

You sigh in defeat, sitting upright on the soft mattress, the silky sheets crumpling under the shift of weight on them. Your palm covers your mouth as you yawn, slipping into your slippers you placed next to the bed. Your legs carry you towards the nearby window, and you rest your hands on the ledge as you glance into the starry night sky, which is clearer than usual today.

In that moment, realisation hits you.

It’s a full moon.

Another loud noise has your body tense involuntarily, tearing you from your thoughts—this time it’s something shattering on the ground, similar to a glass. You walk towards the door, about to turn the key when your arm drops again.

Every fiber in your body tells you no—stay in bed, don’t go and check. Why would you? Tom isn’t home, and if there really was someone, he wouldn’t want you to get yourself in danger. Right?

You shake your head. But there is another voice inside of you, clearer than your own, telling you to check—

So you do.

You turn the key in the lock, pushing the handle down before peering through the gap.

Darkness.

A sense of relief washes over you, and you step outside, a small candle in your left hand lighting your way. The wooden planks creak under your feet, and you stop every few steps to listen—but all that greets you is silence, silence that carries an intimidating undertone.

Even as you walk down the stairs, there is nothing too unusual. The dim glow of your candle does little to illuminate your surroundings, and it really does a better job exposing yourself to any possible intruder than the other way around, but it’s better than nothing. Finally, you reach the lowest level of your shared home, stepping onto the cold marble floor tiles.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

A shiver runs down your spine as the ticking of the living room clock has you stop momentarily, an eerie tension forming in the air, growing thicker the closer you get to it. You have been wanting to get rid of the clock for a while, telling him how irritating the ticking is, especially when you pass it at night—but he is oddly attached to it.

So you kept it.

With the help of the flickering candlelight, you are able to make out an object on the floor near the living room—your favourite vase—that had dropped and shattered into a hundred small pieces. You sigh softly, crouching down to pick up the pieces, however, soon the inevitable happens—you cut yourself.

A sharp hiss spills over your lips as the porcelain breaks your skin, a drop of blood running down your finger. You curse yourself for not being more careful, looking around to find something you can wrap around the wound.

The emergency kit. In the kitchen.

Standing back up, you make your way, though you don’t get far before your breath catches in your throat and your body freezes in place. A pair of glowing, scarlet eyes advances towards you, their intensity burning through the night’s darkness better than any candle in your possession would.

You shouldn’t be scared. It’s Tom.

However, something about his presence feels different today. The energy he radiates seems stronger, needier. More feral, more unhinged. More dangerous.

Before you know it, he is there, right in front of you.

Though the light of your candle dims when he stands before you, it doesn’t take long for you to take in the state of him. Pupils dilated wide, intently focused on you, his breath coming out in short, ragged huffs. And there is blood. So much blood. The crimson color staining his lips and chin, seeping into the white cotton fabric of his robes. His eyes wander, stopping at the bleeding cut on your finger before they trail back up—slowly.

“Tom?” you whisper, eyebrows drawn together in confusion—and fear.

He doesn’t reply.

Instead, he reaches up to your cheek, brushing over the soft skin ever so lightly, barely even touching you at all. His thumb then wanders under your chin, slowly tilting your head up so you are met with his glowing red eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak—instead, he leans in, his lips meeting yours just to place a singular, feather-light kiss on them. Enough to make you taste what he’s been up to—although you’d rather not think about it. His hand leaves your cheek, grazing over your jaw and throat until he stops at your neck, pulling you in closer.

When his fingers press down on your pulse point softly, feeling your elevated, rushed heartbeat under his touch, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. Tom’s head dips then, his hot breath skimming over your ear, the tension between the both of you building rapidly. And then, a small, an almost too silent huff leaves his lips—

“Run.”

Now, obviously, this isn’t meant to be a game for you to win. It has never been. With his heightened senses and supernatural strength, you cannot escape him, and you never will. Both of you are aware of that. But the thrill of it all—it is intoxicating for both of you. So whenever he does tell you to run—you are more than happy to obey.

So you take a step back, and his arm drops to his side. One more quick glance at him, how his chest rises and falls in anticipation, how his lips are slightly parted, revealing his sharp fangs—

And then you run, as fast as your legs carry you.

He gives you a head start, knowing you won’t make it far either way. It’s dark, but he doesn’t need light to find you. The smell of your fresh blood in the air is enough for him to locate you, even if you were a mile away. He could distinguish your blood from a thousand others, and God, he would always find you.

After all, you are still his favourite prey.

With that thought, he turns to leave the kitchen, following the soft sound of your heartbeat. He can feel how quick it beats, trying its hardest to supply your body with enough oxygen. The closer he gets to you—now walking up the stairs—the stronger the scent of your blood becomes. The more he craves you.

You shriek quietly as the door to your shared bedroom flies open, your breathing stilling in an attempt to keep him at bay for just a little longer. Though you know it’s over when you hear a low scoff from outside of your closet, the door opening as a strong hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out.

“Too easy,” he growls, lips crashing onto yours, capturing you in a heated kiss. “Too fucking easy.” Suddenly his hands are all over your body, practically tearing your clothes off your body. The buttons of your blouse pop off the fabric, clattering as they hit the floor, rolling off. You barely have time to complain before you stand bare before him, and his hungry eyes are drinking you in.

Tom takes a step closer, and you squirm slightly as his cold hand softly trails over your delicate skin, pulling you in as he reaches your waist. “Been thinking about you all day. Now you are mine.” He purrs, smirking against your lips before he kisses you again, biting down on your lower lip, drawing a soft gasp from you.

“Who— who was it?” You breathe, gaze lowering to the bloodstains on his clothes, a sly grin forming on his face at your question.

“Remember Knockturn Alley? How his eyes lingered on you?” He answers, trailing kisses along your jaw.

Of course. What else.

You sigh. “Yes, I do.”

“Mhm.” He mumbles, lips back on yours, not giving you the chance to question him further.

Never breaking the kiss, he pushes you backwards until you are sprawled out on the now cool, silky sheets, not wasting another second before he joins you. One hand softly wrapped around your throat, he tilts your head to gain better access to your neck, his ragged breaths hot on your skin as his head dips, greedily trailing kisses along your jugular vein.

Your soft moans only seem to spur him on, sucking marks into your skin, your neck, collarbone, and breasts until you are nothing more than a whining mess beneath him. Only then does he pull back slightly, humming lowly in approval as his glowing eyes wander over the artwork of bruises he’s left behind on your skin.

He savours the way you melt under his touch, so good and pliant for him, anticipation building at the thought of finally tasting you. “Doing so well for me,” he mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your face, before dipping back down to continue his ministrations.

Then, for the first time that night, you feel his fangs on your skin, grazing over your neck ever so lightly—a gentle reminder of what’s to come, of the flaming hunger beneath his composure. Your body twitches at the contact, breath coming out shakily as you cling onto his shoulder, feeling his muscles under your touch.

A smirk creeps onto his face at your reaction, placing an open-mouthed kiss directly onto your pulse point. “So afraid,” he drawls, tilting your head just a tiny bit more, before you feel his pointed teeth again, not yet piercing your skin, but lingering, waiting.

“I am not—“ you try to defend yourself, however, his palm closes over your mouth, cutting you off.

“No more talking back.”

As his instinct takes over, you feel it. The familiar sting of his fangs sinking into the tender flesh of your neck, drawing the first drops of blood with a breathy groan as he tastes you on his tongue, some of it trickling down onto the sheets and your cleavage. A cozy warmth spreads through your body, easing the pain, intensifying the pleasure he is providing you with.

“Tom— oh God—“ you whimper, hands tangling in his brunette locks, softly tugging on his roots as he continues feeding on you, soft sucking noises filling your shared bedroom as he greedily drinks your blood, a tingling sensation spreading through your body.

But before he gets too lost in the ecstasy, he pulls back with a low growl, fangs forcefully retracting from your neck. For a moment he just glances down at you, chest heaving with ragged breaths. “Taste yourself,” he breathes, head dipping down until he’s a mere inch away from your lips. “I want you to taste yourself. How fucking sweet you taste for me.”

He doesn't give you much of a choice, because as soon as you open your mouth to voice your complaint, his lips are on yours, the metallic taste of your own blood flooding your senses. His hand tightens around your throat, cutting off just enough air to leave you dizzy, while the effects of his bite send your mind spiraling. Your knuckles turn white from how hard they are gripping the sheets, your body struggling to process the overwhelming sensations all at once.

But there is something you do notice. Very clearly even.

How painfully hard he is. How he can’t help but grind himself against you.

“T-Tom, please,” you whimper as he slowly pulls back, admiring the mess he’s left on your lips, thumb shakily swiping over them.

“You are ovulating.”

“I know, I—“

He groans. A low, almost desperate sound somewhere from the back of his throat. “Fuck, sweetheart. You know I can’t— fuck— hold back. Not when—“

Merlin help you.

Your hand is on his neck, never breaking eye contact as you pull him closer once more. Shaking your head, you place a kiss on his tensed jaw. “Don’t hold back.”

Another sharp inhale, and his hand is back around your throat, pressing down, not to restrict your airflow, because you can breathe very well—as well as you could breathe under the effect of your vampire’s bite—but rather your blood flow.

“Don’t wish for something you cannot handle,” he warns lowly, but you shake your head again. “God, Tom, please— I need you, just— take me.”

“Fuck—“

With your mind already blurry as a result of his bite, you only faintly notice the sound of his belt hitting the wooden planks of your floor with a thud, followed by the rest of his clothes. Before you realise it, he slips between your thighs, body pressing flush against yours. His lips wrap around your nipple, gently dragging his sharp teeth over the sensitive bud, drawing a sharp gasp from you at the intense sensation, which sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

It doesn’t take long until you feel him prodding at your soaked entrance, pressing another kiss to your lips before he pushes inside of you with a low groan, and it’s rough, it’s careless, mirroring his burning hunger for you. He doesn’t wait, no, he buries himself to the hilt with one singular, powerful thrust, tip brushing against your sensitive cervix, your brows drawing together at the sudden, sharp yet delicious stretch on your walls. A choked moan rips from your lips, body arching beneath him, which is apparently sign enough for him to pull back slightly, only to thrust back inside harder.

His head dips, breath hot against your neck as he continues sucking and biting marks into your skin before his fangs break through your flesh once more, a low, satisfied hum falling over his lips as he stills his hunger on his favourite human—you.

He soon sets a steady rhythm, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as his tip brushes over your most sensitive spot with every thrust. The flickering candlelight in the otherwise dark room illuminates the sharp features of his face each time he raises his head to take a breath, your blood dripping down his chin over the sides of his neck.

“Can’t get enough of you, fuck—“ he groans, picking up his pace when he hears your soft moans, his fingertips sinking into your waist, hard enough to leave bruises as he pulls you back into his thrusts, stopping your body from moving forwards with every snap of his hips.

Few things in this world can make Tom Riddle lose his self-restraint.

But the way you squeeze him so tight, walls fluttering as you try to accommodate his length, soft whimpers falling over your lips, all while the flavour of your blood has his mind spinning with pure ecstasy—certainly has him on the verge.

Because fuck—you are just so gorgeous, he thinks. Covered in his marks and his only, painting a canvas of his lust on your body, he just needs you to be his, forever. The bite would come, the bite to turn you into a vampire yourself, but for now—he’ll still savour the irreplaceable taste of your blood. Instead, he’ll make you his in other ways.

Tom’s eyes darken at the thought, lips slightly parted, and suddenly he has a desire other than satiating his primal hunger for your blood—he wants, no, needs to fill you—stake his claim on you.

You can practically feel the last bits of restraint he has left fading, messily feeding on you while he buries his cock deep within your walls with every sharp, perfectly angled snap of his hips into yours, deliciously dragging over all the right spots as he pounds into you relentlessly.

“Too much, Tom— please—“ you whimper, just as your consciousness threatens to slip, ears ringing and vision growing cloudy. He is barely able to stop himself in time from draining more of your precious blood, fangs tearing from your skin with a low, guttural groan. He tilts your head then, having you meet his strict, intense gaze. “Not yet, look at me. Fuck— look at me as I fill you up.”

Only with half-lidded eyes do you manage to do so, legs weakly wrapped around him as he takes what he needs, mercilessly slipping in and out of you, his brunette curls sticking to his damp forehead as he chases his release.

“You are going to be good for me and take it,” he pants, thrusts growing more erratic as you feel him twitch inside of you.

“Every.” thrust “Last.” thrust “Drop.” thrust

“Yes— fuck please, Tom.” You gasp, and with a few more sharp snaps of his hips, he spills his release deep inside of you, groaning lowly as he paints your walls with thick, white ropes of his cum.

You too come undone with a weak shudder of your body, your walls fluttering around his length, hands slipping from his shoulders. Pleasure and pain melt into one, stars dancing in front of your eyes as your vision grows blurrier with each passing second.

Tom lets you regain your consciousness, staying situated between your thighs, his cock still buried deep within your walls as he gently laps his tongue against the puncture wounds on your neck, cleaning most of the dried crimson liquid from your skin.

The next thing you remember is his fingertips tenderly massaging shampoo into your scalp, warm water surrounding your sore body as he has you resting against his chest in the bathtub. The scent of fresh rose petals and orchids fills your nostrils with a deep breath of yours. You hum softly, eyes fluttering closed again, letting him take care of you.

A flicker of satisfaction sparks in his eyes as he dries you off in front of a mirror, gently patting the towel over the bite marks and bruises he’s left all over your cleavage.

“So gorgeous, covered in my marks. And all mine.”

“All yours.”

tags: @belladonnaheartsthemoon, @riddlebella, @jo1818

smash - draco malfoy

summary: draco malfoy? smash. except you say those words a little too loud. wc: 0.9k+

Immersed in the magazine in front of you, you only caught bits and pieces of the conversation Harry, Hermione and Ron were having around you, the great hall otherwise mostly empty. It wasn’t everyday the three of you had free periods together, but when you did, the conversations were always entertaining.

Especially when Harry started complaining.

You halted your focus on the magazine at the sound of Harry’s sassy and oddly loud voice. It was as though he wanted himself to be heard. Hermione scoffed from in front of the boy and you pulled the corner of your page up slowly, pretending to still be immersed in your reading.

“At this point, Malfoy is just following in his fa-” “Malfoy?” You asked, humming apprehensively, “Smash.”

From the slytherin table, sat right behind you, Draco’s head snapped backwards, his mouth parting in surprise before he forced his features into a confident smirk. Theo, Pansy, Mattheo and Blaise held matching looks at the bombshell you dropped so shamelessly.

A silence overtook your three friends at your comment, jaws slack and faces frozen in shock. “What!?” Harry spluttered. You flicked over to the next page, shrugging your shoulders as you scoffed carelessly. “Yeah, you can complain about him all you want, but that is one attractive man.”

“If you felt so strongly about the matter, you should’ve spoken sooner.”

Your head shot up and you slammed your magazine shut at the familiar voice, your eyes widening in panic. Ron, who sat facing you, grimaced at you softly. Clearing your throat, you spun around on the bench, kicking your legs over its side. Leaning your elbows back on the table cooly, you replied “Why would I have spoken sooner if you weren’t around to hear it?”

Draco grinned and you cocked your head to the side, holding eye contact, challenging him to keep your gaze. It was silent as you stared at each other, apart from Theo’s loud exhale and Mattheo’s chuckle before he turned his attention back to his cup of tea. Finally, Draco gulped thickly, eyes momentarily flickering to look back at his friends.

Humming apprehensively, you stood up, tucking your magazine under your arm and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Makes sense you’re not a gryffindor,” You started, eyes trained on Draco as he stiffened up. You leaned closer to him, bringing your voice down to a whisper. “Find me when you’re brave enough to do something about it, Malfoy.”

And with a toss of your hair over your shoulder, you strutted out of the great hall, grinning as you heard a clatter of things behind you. Draco rushed to catch up to you, tripping over his feet as he followed you all the way from the great hall to the girls’ bathroom you dragged him into, pushing him against the wall and pressing your lips to his.

Draco groaned, immediately flipping your positions around so he had you cornered between his body and the stone wall, and he separated himself from you momentarily to ask you “What was that you said earlier?” before moving his kisses down your neck and instantly sucking on your skin to leave bruising hickeys that Harry will most definitely question.

“What? Find me when you’re-”

“No, before that.”

“Um, smash?” Draco chuckled against your skin, trailing his kisses back up your neck and towards your lips. “Would you let me take you on a date before that?” You felt your cheeks go hot at the embarrassing whimper that escaped your lips at his question, but nodded your head nonetheless.

Draco pushed himself off you with a satisfied smile, smoothing his uniform down as he stated “Good. Now, I believe you have a lesson.” You gasped deep in your throat at the realisation that he was correct, hearing the halls outside fill with chatter as students were released from their classrooms.

“Sunday. Hogsmeade.” He told you, pushing the door to the bathroom open and walking past the group of girls who were coming into the room, giving him judgemental looks as he passed them. But then they turned to you, and they were immediately gasping at the revelation of you and Draco being together. You giggled nervously, slipping out of the bathroom when they turned to look at each other, the gossip already beginning to spread.

Meanwhile, in the great hall:

Harry’s jaw dropped lower than he believed possible as he watched Draco stumble to reach you. He shook his head “We cannot let that happen.” Hermione scoffed, “Oh yes we can, and we will. I want all the details when they’re done.”

At the sounds of disgust both Harry and Ron expelled from their mouths, Hermione sighed disappointedly. “Right. I forgot you’re not girls.”

“Hey, Granger!” Hermione turned to the voice that had called out her name and she stared back nervously at Pansy Parkinson, who had a surprisingly welcoming smile on her face. “You can come discuss it with us, if you’d like. I’m a girl, and you’d think they are too based on how much they love the drama.” Hermione laughed whole-heartedly as Pansy nodded her head towards the boys around her with a joking roll of her eyes.

“Will that work if we’re getting different sides of the same story?” Hermione questioned, crossing her arms over his chest in mock rivalry. Pansy hummed, standing up and gathering her belongings. “I get his side of the story, you get hers, then we exchange?” Hermione grinned.

“Perfect. But I think she’ll want to join.”

Pansy winked. “Even better, I want all the filthy details.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @boromoony, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies

best friend's brother! tom finally gets you alone

NAVIGATION // home. tag. moodboard. more.

author's note: the demons...they're getting loud again. i'm actually so feral for possessive and obsessive tom. I fear I might make this my whole personality now.

obsession. 

tom riddle was, in every sense of the word, obsessive. the fixation and compulsion he poured into the things he loved had always been a marker of his character. tom was not the type of person to casually partake in something; for the eldest riddle brother, the best things in life were worth being consumed by. 

and he was. 

utterly and irrevocably consumed by you. 

y/n, mattheo’s sweet and innocent best friend. the one whose pretty eyes and lovely smile haunted his every waking moment. the one whose honeyed voice played in his head like a melody and enticed him like a siren’s song. the one whose gentle touch sent his heart racing until he felt as though the damned thing was going to burst out of his bloody chest. 

you had no idea what you did to him, but you would soon enough because tom had a plan. for weeks, he had been plotting and scheming. trying to find the right time to finally get you all to himself. 

fortunately for him, the opportunity arose one fateful evening when mattheo left his phone unattended in the living room. it was so easy, almost too easy, to guess his brother’s password and open up his most recent text thread with you. 

mattheo: come over tonight? 

tom watched as three dots appeared on the screen, indicating that you were currently typing a response. 

y/n: will tom be there?

now that was interesting. perhaps you were asking because you wanted him to be there. wanted him as much as he wanted you. 

mattheo: yes. why do you ask?

y/n: I just don't want to be a bother. I know tom likes to study on tuesdays and me coming over would probably disrupt that.

tom couldn’t help but smile. such a thoughtful, caring girl. he couldn’t wait to ruin you. 

mattheo: tom will be fine. so, are you in or not?  i'll grab your favorite snacks. 

y/n: you had me at snacks.

half an hour later, you were standing in the doorway of the riddle home, dressed in one of those pretty little dresses that tom had imagined ripping off of your body a million times. as the door swung open, those innocent eyes widened at the sight of him. you flushed when tom met your gaze, a light pink hue dusting your cheeks. 

"oh. hi, tom. um, is mattheo here? he asked me to come over." 

tom casually leaned against the frame, giving you a once over that only deepened your flush. "my brother just stepped out, but he should be back soon." 

"o—okay. he's probably out getting snacks." 

tom watched as you lingered in the doorway, anxiously fidgeting with the hem of your dress. he thought it was adorable that you were still nervous around him after all this time. biting back a smile, tom opened the door to his home a little wider. 

"are you coming in?" 

“hm?” you asked absentmindedly. “oh. yeah. yes, i’m coming. not like that. I mean, obviously. shit. ignore me please.” 

tom raised a brow, but said nothing as he barely gave you enough of a gap to squeeze through the door. he smirked to himself as you maneuvered your way inside, perky breasts brushing against his solid chest. tom could smell the sweet scent of your strawberry shampoo as you passed through. he wanted to drown himself in it. you timidly avoided his gaze, choosing instead to follow him into the kitchen in silence.

“would you like something to drink?” 

you nodded. “yes, please, i’ll take a —”

before you could finish your sentence, tom handed you a cold can of vanilla cherry soda. your favorite. you thanked him with a shy smile before following him upstairs. instinctively, you turned in the direction of mattheo’s room, but tom gripped your wrist and kept you in place. 

“you can wait in my room if you’d like. mattheo might be a while. he reeked of weed when he left."

you chuckled. “it does take matty forever to pick out snacks when he’s high.” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other before glancing up at tom through your lashes. “are you sure you don’t mind? I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“i’m sure,” tom confirmed. “I could use the company.” 

with that, you followed tom into his room. unlike mattheo’s, tom’s room was neat and organized. everything was perfect and pristine, much like the man standing before you. tom busied himself by putting away the books and notes on his desk while you fiddled with your fingers, not quite knowing what to do with yourself. 

“sit on the bed,” tom commanded. “make yourself comfortable.” 

“okay.” you replied in a small, breathy voice. 

carefully, you settled at the edge of his bed and crossed your legs. you drummed your fingers against your thigh, pondering how strange this situation was. in all your years of knowing tom, you had never once set foot in his room. at most, you caught glimpses of it when you passed by on your way to mattheo’s room. 

everything was so foreign and interesting. that was the desk where tom does all his studying. that was the closet where he keeps all of his clothes. that was the night stand where he places his glasses on before he goes to sleep. 

that was the bed that he laid in every night. your mind started to wander through all the things that tom had done in this bed. maybe by himself. maybe with someone else. the intrusive thoughts fired off one by one, leaving you flustered. does he soak the sheets when he gets himself off? does he tie his partners to the bed post when he eats them out? does he push their faces into the pillows as he rails them from behind? 

you were so engrossed in your dirty and filthy fantasies that you nearly jumped out of your skin when tom rested a hand on your thigh. 

“hm,” tom hummed. “you’re so jumpy, love.” 

you held your breath as he leaned closer, his face mere inches away from yours. the tension between you ebbed before he carefully took the soda can in your hand and placed it neatly on his nightstand. tom smirked when he noticed the hitch in your breath at his close proximity.

“do I make you nervous, doll?” 

“yes,” you answered truthfully. there was no point in lying. it was written all over your face. “you’re just so…intimidating.” 

“am I?” tom drawled as he slid in beside you, scooting in closer until his thigh was pressed against yours. even through his neatly pressed trousers, you could still feel the heat of his skin on yours. “maybe we just need to get to know each other better.” 

you bit your lip. “i’d like that, tom.” 

“good,” tom drawled. “let’s start with why you think you’d be a bother to me. mattheo told me you were hesitant to come over earlier.” 

you flushed as you stared at your shoes, the curtain of your hair shielding you from tom’s intense gaze. “I know you like your peace and quiet, which mattheo and I probably constantly interrupt. i’m sorry if we’re ever being annoying.” 

“you don’t have to worry about that. you could never bother me,” tom stated in a silky, flirty voice. “the only thing I find annoying is that you’re always with my brother. I just can’t seem to get you alone, can I?” 

you shivered as tom’s gaze flickered down to your lips. “well, we’re alone now.” 

“indeed we are.” you held your breath as tom leaned in closer, the bed dipping under his weight. “you have no idea how long i’ve waited for this. just you and me, without my brother to interrupt. I think about it all the time.” 

tom watched your pupils dilate, reacting to his admission. “what do you think about?” 

“I think about all the things I’d do to you. I think about the way you’d feel, the way you’d sound. if you’d scream or moan or whimper for me.” you shuddered at the sinful confession, rubbing your thighs together as heat rushed to your core. tom’s green gaze felt like a brand against your skin as a predatory look flashed through his handsome face. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” 

before you could react, tom’s mouth was on yours. the kiss was neither soft nor gentle, but instead hungry and possessive. the magnitude of his desire took you by surprise. you had always thought that tom viewed you as nothing more than mattheo’s pesky friend, the one that came over unannounced and wreaked havoc in his life, but apparently you couldn’t have been more wrong. 

tom kissed you like a man starved. he poured all of himself into the action, tangling his fingers through your hair, yanking your head backwards so he could kiss you deeper. you could barely keep up with the way he was devouring you, his tongue dominating yours while you moaned softly into his mouth. 

a gasp escaped your lips as tom picked you up and placed you on his lap. you were dizzy with desire as you straddled him, whimpering when tom bucked his hips against yours which caused his erection to rub against your soaked core. never in a million years would you have imagined tom to be this dirty and filthy as he grabbed and groped and gorged himself on you. 

your breathy moans filled the room as tom slid his right hand underneath your dress and squeezed your thigh before palming you through your panties. you melted into his touch, moaning his name softly while he growled in response. as he slid the lace aside, tom kissed your neck and teased your slit with his fingers. 

“you’re soaked, doll.” tom said with a dark chuckle. “do I make you wet, hm?” 

“yes,” you breathed, eyes rolling back as tom spread your slick ever so slowly. 

he seemed to take this as encouragement, taking his time teasing you, rubbing your clit and spreading your folds until you were reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess. 

“tom, please…”

“so needy,” tom murmured. “what is it that you want, love?” 

“I want…” you bit your lip as tom stroked your pussy. “I want your fingers. I want them inside of me. please, tom.” 

“aw, doll, you sound so pretty when you beg,” tom cooed. “don’t worry, I couldn't resist you even if I tried.” 

without warning, tom plunged his fingers into your pussy. you groaned at the stretch, face heating from how vulgar the scene unfolding before you truly was. tom watched with rapt attention as you squirmed and panted, drinking in every little moan and whimper like a fine wine. his fingers felt like magic as they curled and scissored and flicked inside your walls. the other hand that wasn’t playing with your pussy rested on your hip, gripping tightly as you grinded against tom. 

“that’s it, doll. ride my fingers just like that.” 

tom was mesmerized at the sight of you using him to get yourself off. mattheo’s sweet and innocent best friend was no longer sweet and innocent as tom fingered and ruined you like the perfect little slut that you were. his perfect little slut.

“are you going to be a good girl and cum for me?” 

tears streamed down your cheeks as you rode tom’s fingers like your life depended on it. your mascara and lipstick were both smeared, but you didn’t care as you chased after your orgasm. you gave tom a weak nod, half out of your mind with pleasure. 

tom gripped your chin and forced you to look at him. “answer me, doll.” 

“y — yes. i’m going to…oh god, tom!” you writhed as tom rubbed your clit with the heel of his palm, pushing you over the edge. 

the glimmer in your eyes right before you came unleashed something within tom. the flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes; the parted lips and strained scream, it was enough to drive him insane. he wanted to see you make that face over and over again. 

“you look so pretty when you cum, doll.” tom murmured as he bit down on your neck, staking his claim on your skin. “you’re fucking exquisite.” 

amusement danced in his gaze as you shied away from the attention, cheeks flushed from the praise. tom locked eyes with you before sticking his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean in the most obscene and erotic way you had ever witnessed. 

“don’t get all shy now, love. it’s your cum i’m licking off my fingers and i’ll be damned if you ever feel nervous around me again.” 

you chuckled in disbelief. the tom riddle in your head was supposed to be prim and proper, but the real tom was salacious and vulgar; a version of him that was better than what you could have ever imagined. still, despite the heated exchange, tom was surprisingly tender as he helped clean you up. you blushed furiously as he pulled your dress down and kissed your cheek. 

the timing couldn’t have been more perfect because soon after you were situated, the two of you heard footsteps in the hall. you barely had time to compose yourself before mattheo came barging into the room. 

“tom, have you seen my phone?” mattheo paused in surprise when he found you staring back at him. “oh, hi y/n. what are you doing here?” 

“you asked me to come over and hang out, remember?” 

“did I?” mattheo wondered aloud. “I was pretty baked earlier. guess I must have texted you then. well, i’m free now if you want to watch a movie.” 

tom smirked as you shot a bewildered glance at him. “oh, yeah sure.” 

“by the way, what are you doing in tom’s room? is he boring you to death about his coin collection again?” 

you blushed furiously. “no, uh, we were just…tom and I were…” 

“we were discussing the finer points of human anatomy,” tom lied smoothly. his smirk was still perfectly in place as he glanced over at you. “it was a rather…stimulating conversation. was it not, doll?” 

the tips of your ears were bright red as you nodded in place of a response, because you couldn’t trust yourself to speak at the moment.

mattheo rolled his eyes. “well, if you’re done being a weirdo, y/n and I will be in the basement.” 

you fiddled with the hem of your dress, not quite able to meet tom’s eyes. “um, well, I guess I’ll see you later?” 

tom winked behind his brother’s back. “you know where to find me, doll.” 

I love how you depicted the complexity of Tom’s emotions🙌🏼 This was so fun to read!!

Hidden thoughts

Pairing: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

Summary: You're allowed to take a deep dive into Tom's mind for the first time because he'd never admit things out loud.

Warnings: Slight angst, fluff, smut.

a/n: English is not my first language.

Tom Riddle is insatiable. For what, you don't think he even knows. Every time he comes, he demands more of you, soon there will be nothing left of you that he doesn't know inside out. But even that won't satiate him. It wouldn't satiate you, either. It's always push and pull. He's always there, lingering, and before you know it, he's coiled around you like the serpent he is, ready to suffocate you if you make a wrong move. His grip isn't painful in the least, but it's enough to bind you. He gently tugs your head back, compelling you to rest it against his shoulder. His velvety voice brushes against your ear:

-"Have you missed me today?"

-"Terribly" - you respond, as usual.

His eyes narrow, dark and unfathomable: "No need to lie to me."

You sigh: "But it's what I do best."

He spins you suddenly, turning you to face him, trapping you between his arms. His lips curl cruelly.

-"It’s not the only thing you excel at. You’re good at many things."

He brings his hand to your face, and though he gently brushes the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, there is nothing sweet about the gesture. He cups your chin, holding it firmly between his thumb and forefinger.

-"Being irritating foremost among them."

-"What is it that you want this time?"

Tom looks down at you, his gaze steady and unblinking. He tilts your head up a fraction, as if studying you from a new angle. The muscle in his jaw clenches, straining under his pale skin.

-"I want to know what’s going on inside that pretty little head of yours."

His voice is cool, but there’s a hint of mockery beneath it. Nimble fingers drift from your chin, tracing a path up the side of your neck, his nails deliberately scratching you as he does.

You bring his hands to your temples, which isn't necessary for the spell to work - he can invade anyone's mind just fine with legilimency without touching, but the weight brings you some comfort as you let the occlumency fade away. A brief look of surprise flickers across his features at your gesture, but he doesn't move his hands away. Instead, his eyes search your expression, the touch of his hands becoming a gentle caress as he sifts through the layers of your thoughts. It's an intrusion, a violation of your most intimate thoughts, but it feels almost tender.

-"Interesting...", he murmurs to himself. One of his hands moves down, tracing the outline of your lips with his index finger.

-"You’ve been practicing. You aren't allowing me any further in."

He lets go of your head and your thoughts, the brief connection severed. He slowly takes a step back, his gaze still fixed on you. Something about the way you look at him⎯unguarded, open, unbothered by his intrusion into your mind⎯stirs something unfamiliar within him. It grates at his nerves, like a stone in his shoe when he's walking. He isn't used to you being so docile.

-"You could have shut me out if you wanted to. I can feel you holding back."

You tilt your head to aggravate him more: "I could've, but I didn't."

He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. He can’t help but fixate on your expression. You’re too calm, too collected for his liking. Tom can handle defiant you, rebellious you, even violent you. But he has no idea what to do with you like this.

-"Are you doing this on purpose? Acting like..." He motions with his hand, searching for words, "...this, just to rile me up?"

You inform him: "You're more honest when you're riled up."

He walks over to you again, prowling like a stalking cat. He stops just a few inches away, towering over you.

-"You’re not playing fair."

-"Neither of us ever do, my love." - You retort immediately.

You know the endearment hits him like a punch to the gut even if he never lets it show. He leans in, bringing his face close to yours. His breath is hot against your skin.

-"We’re not so different in that regard. I suppose the question is" ⎯He takes your chin in his hand, the pad of his thumb tracing the plump curve of your lower lip. "What are you planning?"

You lean against him: "Always analyzing. Always suspicious."

-"Can you blame me, when the subject before me is such a shifty, maddening creature?"

-"The subject before you is very fond of you. She'd like to receive it in return."

His hand slides from your chin, tracing the column of your throat. He feels your pulse beat faster under his touch, a soft flutter beneath his fingers. He leans even closer, bringing his nose to your temple, his lips grazing the shell of your ear⎯a gentle whisper of a kiss there. "She’ll have to earn it, first." He drops his hand, sliding it around your waist and pulling you against him.

You slump against him: "Don't be so cruel. My mind is restless today, as you've just seen."

Tom's arms wind around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He tilts your head back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and unwavering in their intensity. "Your mind is always restless, my dear. Are you looking for comfort today?"

You nod, resigned: "I'm hoping it might help."

-"Is that all you want? Usually, it takes more than that to quieten your mind."

Your head rolls to the side. He brings his hand up, tangling his fingers in your hair and keeping your head tilted back. He continues to kiss your neck, savoring the way your pulse quickens under his lips. He nips at a sensitive spot at the base of your throat, hard enough to draw a moan from you, almost in warning. His other hand slides down, tracing along the curve of your buttocks.

-"You’re being awfully sweet today, darling."

-"Don't get used to it."

He grins against your skin, his grip on you tightening, almost bruising. He moves his mouth lower, leaving a trail of kisses along your collarbone, his hand at your backside pulling you closer still as his lips graze your chest. "I wouldn’t dream of it." He continues his ministrations, deliberately slow and unhurried. He can feel your body responding to his touch, your breathing growing shallower, faster. You start to relax.

He slowly walks you back until you feel the edge of the grand piano press against your legs. Then, with a deft, forceful move, he sweeps you onto the lid. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading your legs apart as his lips find the exposed flesh of your shoulders. "Much better."

-"On the piano?" - You can't help but inquire.

"Mhm." He nips at the sensitive skin under your ear, a dangerous thrill coursing through him at your breathless response. He pushes himself between your legs, pulling your hips flush against his crotch as his lips make a slow, deliberate trail down your neck. "See? Perfect height."

You groan. He grins against your skin and pushes your legs even further apart, his strong thighs wedging themselves between yours. He rolls his hips, slowly, agonizingly slow, his fingers digging into your hipbones as he brings his lips back to your neck again, sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh there. He brings his hands around, pushing the fabric of your dress out of the way. "What do you want, dove?"

-"You." You promise yourself not to beg him, as you do every time, even though if you end up breaking it more often than not.

He pushes the fabric of your dress up around your hips, his fingers slowly, teasingly tracing the inside of your thighs.

-"You’re going to have to be more specific."

-"I need you to touch me." You stop the 'please' before it slips out out of habit. This isn't about manners, it's about surrendering. You refuse to do it in a pathetic way.

He smiles, his fingers moving higher, closer to where you need him most. He kisses your neck softly, nipping at the sensitive spot under your ear. His hand slides further up, his thumb brushing against you through the thin material of your underwear. His voice, a low, sinful whisper: "Here?" He moves his hand higher, his fingers toying with the edge of your underwear. "And here?"

You snap: "Just take off the damn thing."

He leans back, watching you. A wicked look gleams in his eyes as he suddenly grips the fabric of your underwear and tears it away from your body with a sharp, fluid motion.

-"I was going to take my time with you. But I suppose I can be persuaded."

He can’t help but let out a low grumble of desire as you guide his hand to where you want it. He pushes his hips closer to yours, keeping you pinned against the piano. He slides a finger against you, slowly at first, before adding another. He brushes his mouth against your neck, biting down hard.

-"You’re so sweet when you’re behaving. I almost wonder if I should give you what you want."

-"Oh, that's good." You can only half-listen to him at this point.

His fingers curl inside you, seeking that sweet spot he knows will drive you insane. He keeps a steady, deliberate pace, his tongue darting out to trace the edge of your ear.

-"You’re being so good, dove. Tell me more. What do you want?"

-"Faster, please."

He almost smirks to himself at the pleading tilt in your voice. He obliges, his fingers moving faster, deeper. His free hand glides up from your hip, caressing your thigh, teasing you as his lips continue their assault against your neck.

-"Gods, you’re dripping, dove. You want me that much?"

-"You know I do. No need to be so smug about it, you..."

He tuts, adding a third finger. He wants to feel you clench around him, to hear the sweet sounds you make as he teases you right to the edge. His lips find yours, his kiss demanding. He bites your bottom lip, pulling away with a sinful smirk. "You’re being such a good girl today, dove. Keep it that way. No biting, no scratching, no insults. And I suppose a reward will be in order."

You mewl gratefully. He moves his mouth back to your neck, scraping his teeth over a sensitive spot there before moving lower, towards your chest. He pushes the fabric of your dress out of the way, his lips dancing over the soft, exposed flesh. He works his fingers relentlessly, intent on bringing you to the brink.

-"You taste so good, love. So sweet."

You never mention that he switches from dove to love during such moments. He'll stop if you give an acknowledgement, you're sure of it. Just as well. He never mentions that you sometimes call him Tommy while in a haze, either.

-"...I'm close...I can't..."

He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, his lips curving into a proud smirk against your neck. It's always a little victory for him. He moves a hand up, pulling your head back, exposing your neck to his lips again. "Yes, you can, dove. Let go."

You moan and writhe on the piano before settling a little in the hazy aftermath. He slowly withdraws his fingers, his breathing ragged as he tries to retain some composure. He pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist and holding you tight against his chest. His lips find your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

-"You're making this too bloody difficult for me, love."

You're unsure what he means but offer: "I can take you."

His grip around you tightens, his hand clenching on the flesh of your hip. His lips graze the shell of your ear, his voice a low murmur: "Here? On the piano?"

You shrug: "You said it was the perfect height."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes sweeping over your body as you lie back on the piano. You look delectable like this, spread out before him, a sight he has become all too familiar with. But your sweet, cooperative behaviour is something he isn’t used to. He wants to test how far your submission would go, how much you’d let him get away with. "Turn over."

You hesitate only for a second before turning over carefully on the sleek surface. He trails a hand slowly up your spine, his fingers tracing over the expanse of your back. "Good girl." He lets his touch roam further, caressing the curve of your buttocks and the top of your thighs, before moving back up to your hips. "Lift your hips."

He grips your hips, pulling you back towards him, his front flush against your back. He brushes his lips against the nape of your neck, his cock already straining against the confinements of his trousers.

-"Are you ready for me, love?"

-"Yes."

He groans at your obedient response, the last of his self-control snapping as he hastily unbuckles his belt and removes his clothes from waist down before driving himself into you. You inhale sharply. He moans, burying his face against your neck, nuzzling at the sensitive skin there as he sets a steady pace. The sound of his breath, laboured and uneven, washes over your body. He leans down, kissing your back, his hand sliding down to the dip in your lower back, pushing you deeper into him. "Fuck, you feel so good..."

You choke on a moan. He pushes a hand in your hair again, pulling on it to tilt your head so he can bite down your shoulder, his pace growing more relentless, less controlled. He gently shushes you when you whimper. "You can take it, dove...I know you can."

You brace yourself on the piano and he lets a low sound of approval. The sight of you, spread out before him on the black glossy surface, is something he wants to remember forever. He moves his hand from your hair, bringing it to his mouth, coating his fingers in his own saliva. He moves his hand down, bringing it around you again, his tongue darting out to taste your skin once more. He slides his fingers into your mouth, his voice a low murmur against your neck: "Suck."

You close my mouth around his fingers. He lets out a ragged breath and removes his hand, finding its way to the sensitive spot between your legs. "God, I love your mouth."

In any other circumstance, you'd chuckle, but his hips moving deep along with his fingers rubbing your clit makes it impossible. His mouth moves against your neck again, his tongue following the line as it works its way up to your ear. He kisses softly behind it, his breath hot against your skin, his fingers never ceasing their movement between your legs. You try to draw it out as long as you can before you reach the breaking point, but eventually...

-"Tommy..."

He lets out a shuddering breath at the sound of his name on your lips, a sound so sweet it’s almost obscene. He moves his body and readjusts the angle, his length hitting a spot that has you almost weeping from pleasure, he clenches his jaw to rein in the desire within him.

-"What do you want, love? Say the words."

-"Let me cum...please..."

His breathing hitches at the sound of those words, the sheer need in your voice going straight through him, shooting sparks of white-hot heat to his core. He buries his face against the back of your neck, his lips tracing your skin with a desperate hunger. His fingers move faster, rougher over you, the pace and the pressure designed to bring you right to the edge again.

-"Look at you, sweet girl. So needy for me. How can I say no to that?"

You gasp in relief, body almost convulsing. You tremble as the sensations wash over you, not being able to keep myself upright anymore. He steadies you with an arm around your stomach, gently easing you back down on the piano, his body hovering above yours. "That’s it. Fuck...that’s it." He lets out a shuddering moan as he finishes, bracing himself on the piano, above you. He lets his breath even out, his body still trembling slightly as he comes down from the high he’s been riding. After a few moments, he moves and lays down next to you, resting his head on your bare stomach. He lifts a hand, tracing his fingers slowly over your skin, a touch almost tender and reverent, so different from the rough way he touches you usually.

You rest your hand on his cheek. For a while, Tom stays like that, quiet, content, the only sound the soft, even breaths he takes. Finally, he opens his eyes, his dark gaze meeting yours. He studies your face quietly, taking in every little detail. Your eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, your flushed cheeks, your messy hair, your parted lips. Tom feels the tangle of strange emotions that’s settling in his chest, constricting, almost uncomfortable, but he's somewhat gotten used to it at this point, and he’d loathe to break the moment.

His hand tightens around yours as he watches you watch him. Tom can’t help but notice the quiet, tender expression on your face. It makes him uneasy, in a way. The look in your eyes... It almost makes him want to squirm.

-"Why do you look at me like that?"

-"Like what?"

-"Like that. All soft and fond. Why?"

-"How else would I look at you." It was more of a statement, even if it was phrased as a question.

Tom's eyes narrow slightly, his frown deepening at your response. He’s still unaccustomed to the gentle, tender thing in your eyes. He’s still not used to the way his heart clenches a little when he looks at the soft smile on your lips. He hates that he welcomes the the warm, syrupy sweetness in his chest, the strange fluttering sensation the sight of you makes him feel. All these things he tried to forsake but ended up wanting more of, like the greedy, foolish weakling he was.

-"What do you mean?"

You look down at his disheveled, unguarded face, lying on your stomach. "What else do you think I'd rather look at like this?"

Another frown. He’s used to being the one to unravel you, to render you a panting mess at his mercy. He’s not sure how to handle the sweet, honest words that you’re saying. He’s not sure how to react to the flutter of his heart that your words cause, so he does the only thing he knows how to:

-"You must be in a right state of mind if you’re spouting lies."

You swallow several sharp responses and make sure to stop guarding your mind with occlumency for a moment and catch his gaze. He meets your eyes, noticing the lack of barriers in your mind. He studies your expression carefully, almost expectantly, as if looking for trickery or deception. Instead of what he’s looking for, though, all he sees is earnestness, honesty. It disarms him. His expression becomes tighter than before, and he looks away. "You mean that."

You contain a sigh. "Of course." It's not easy with him. But you know it's not easy with you either. It's not easy with either of you. Yet it's somehow never too difficult, too heavy, too draining either. It’s sweet, but it’s terrifying.

His fingers are still laced with yours, tight to the point of pain. "You…you say these odd things on purpose."

You correct him softly: "Not odd, right."

You sit up and take his face in your hands. You tap a finger on his forehead. "Open up." You gently push with legilimency.

Tom frowns up at you but obeys anyway, lowering the barriers in his mind. He can’t help the small jolt of surprise when he feels the brush of your thoughts against his own. You glide through his mind as carefully as you can, trying to calm it instead of sharply prodding as you'd do when if you needed to invade someone's thoughts.

He’s quiet, almost tense, as you move through his thoughts, unused to the feeling of someone being in his brain. Your gentle touch, like the light flutter of a bird’s feathers, slowly starts to soothe the agitation and unease that’s been gnawing at him. Against his best efforts, he leans into your touch, almost instinctively.

You try to focus on the feelings he mostly feels around you. As you move through his thoughts, you find yourself enveloped in a tangle of messy, conflicting emotions. He’s had a lifetime of practice in controlling and concealing his feelings, but with you, things get… chaotic. There’s an intoxicating mixture of desire, possessiveness, protectiveness, frustration, anger, need, and affection. A dizzying array of unfamiliar, unidentifiable feelings, all triggered by your presence in his mind. You push at the unfamiliar ones. You feel Tom resist at first, pushing back instinctively, his mind trying to slam up the barriers. When he realizes what you’re doing, though, he lets them down, his thoughts and emotions spilling across to you. You feel an unexpected rush of satisfaction from him as he realizes that you’re genuinely interested in what he’s feeling. He pushes a little of the unfamiliar feelings to the forefront, allowing you to explore deeper. Tom pushed a happy memory of you in front, of a recent Christmas. Deceiving little...You put the memory aside, going deeper.

As you go deeper, your mind is assaulted by a maelstrom of images and feelings - some fragmented, others as clear as if they were happening right now. There’s flashes of memories - you, your face, your body, your smile, your touch - but mostly, there’s intense, raw emotions. A need for you that’s almost desperate, a protectiveness that borders on obsession, an affection so sharp it’s almost painful.

You latch on the affection and go further. The raw, intense affection comes to the forefront again, powerful enough to make your heart skip a beat. As you explore deeper, you come across another, similar, yet different feeling - a kind of fondness, gentler and quieter than the former, almost as if he’s hesitant to acknowledge it. It’s there, though, in his subconscious, buried deep and tangled up with a myriad of other feelings. All just for you. You hesitate after encountering the gentle fondness, not knowing which direction to search for. What were you hoping to encounter? Love? This was probably the closest thing to love he could feel. You almost didn't want to search further, doubt creeping in that you'd come up empty.

You sense a flicker of understanding pass through the chaos in his mind. He knows you’re searching for something, and he’s almost… resigned, as he realizes what it probably is. Despite the resignation, there’s a little spark of hope, a small, unexpected ember of something he never even dared to contemplate before. The hope fades, though, replaced by the usual tangle of feelings. After a moment, you feel him push a thought gently into your mind. You catch the thought, curious. He’s being careful to keep the thought quiet so as not to distract you from your exploration of his emotions, but you catch the edge of his thought all the same. It’s a simple question - Can I show you? - as well as a reluctant feeling of uncertainty. Your agreement comes in stopping exploration and waiting where he'd lead you.

You feel something shift, and then there's a strange sensation, like you're moving through his thoughts. You’re suddenly in a memory, watching the scene unfold as if you’re watching a film. You see an image of yourself, sitting at the piano. You look content and relaxed, playing a soft, melancholy tune, completely absorbed in the music. The memory seems to be from his perspective, and there’s an inexplicable feeling of peace and comfort emanating from his thoughts as he watches you, an affectionate smile on his face.

This can't be it, you think. This moment was nothing special. For all his past resistance to it, he felt love there? Doubt seeped out of you again. There was another brief flash of thoughts, almost like communication between his conscious mind and your own - It is. This moment is important. Just watch and see. The memory continues, and you watch as you finish playing the last notes of the piece. A smile graces your lips, and it’s as if a light goes on inside him, as if the sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he’s seen. There’s affection, admiration, but mostly, there’s…love. Deep, intense love.

It's almost enough to make you lose focus and and grasp of the memory. He keeps pushing you forward, sending you through another memory, this one more recent. But it’s blurry around the edges, as if the memories have already faded a little. It’s a night you fell asleep together in his bed, tangled in each other, limbs intertwined, your head laying on his chest. You look peaceful and content as you sleep, and as he looks down at you, a surge of affection and love fills his mind, the feeling washing over you like a wave. It's overwhelming. You sense him take a moment to gather himself as he continues, sending you through another - this one is more recent, much clearer. It’s the other night, when he’d woken you up in the middle of the night, pulling you out of a nightmare. He’d held you, wrapping you up in his arms as you shivered, your head tucked under his chin. He’d whispered soothing words into your hair, reassuring you, even as you clung to him tight, your hands tangled in his shirt. He’d whispered: "I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe".

He moves you through another memory - this one from a few nights ago, when you’d sat with him in the garden, the warm night breeze rustling your hair. You’d been laughing, telling him about something you’d read in your book. You looked carefree and beautiful, your happiness and mirth palpable in the air, and as he watched you, his mind is filled with a mix of protectiveness, affection, and love. He’d been completely enthralled by the sight of you, hanging on to your every word. Your heart soars. He shows you another recent one. It’s of breakfast this morning, a mundane moment. You’re sitting across the table from him, eating quietly, your eyes drifting thoughtfully out the window, when he looks up from his food to watch you. There’s a small, fond smile on his face as his eyes rake over your features, taking in every little detail. As he looks at you like that, there’s a peaceful feeling that fills his chest, a tender, quiet sort of love, one that’s so deep and powerful, you can almost drown in it.

You feel yourself slipping away from his mind. Snapping back to reality is jarring. You realize tears have been falling down your cheeks. Almost startled, you wipe them away. Tom's face is carefully neutral, but it’s not hard to see the raw, vulnerable feeling in his gaze. He hasn’t said anything, but it’s clear that your reaction matters to him. For a moment, he just looks at you, his mind carefully shielded, giving you no indication of what he’s thinking.

You let out a breath: "I love you so much."

His breath catches. He studies your face intensely, searching for any sign of insincerity, but your eyes are clear and honest, your expression unguarded. After a moment, he nods slightly, accepting the words without arguing, though he doesn’t say the words back. Instead, he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer, his arms encircling your body as he buries his face against the crook of your neck.

Eventually, you mumble: "We should get off the piano."

With some reluctance, he pulls away, shifting back from the piano. He stands up, holding a hand out to help you off. You climb down. He steadies you as you stumble against him, your legs still feeling shaky. He can’t bring himself to let go immediately though, one hand on your waist, the other on your shoulder, as if making sure you don’t fall over. When he finally does pull away, there’s a small frown on his face. The vulnerability earlier has disappeared, replaced by a more familiar, impassive, unreadable expression.

You kiss his cheek in thanks. He’s silent as you do so, his expression still guarded, but there’s a slight, almost imperceptible tensing in his jaw as if he’s trying to keep himself from reacting. After a moment, his hand comes up to your chin, tilting your head up so you’re forced to meet his gaze. You peck him on the lips. He doesn’t react at first, staying still like a statue. It only lasts a moment, though, and then he’s wrapping an arm around your waist, drawing you against him, pulling you flush against his chest. His hand grips your jaw, the other tight at your waist, holding you close. He kisses you hungrily, passionately, almost desperately, like he’s trying to pour all his mixed feelings into the kiss. Then as if nothing has happened, he straightens up and murmurs: "We should clean up." He draws his wand and the residue of earlier activity disappears off the piano.

He watches as you put your dress back on, his eyes tracing over your bare legs, then trailing up your body to where your dress still shows evidence of your earlier passion, the hem of your skirt slightly wrinkled. After a moment, he clears his throat.

You look up: "Yes?"

He keeps his voice carefully neutral, trying not to let the desire in his eyes bleed through his words. He nods at your disheveled appearance: “You look a little unkempt, my dear.”

You scoff: "Oh, apologies, darling. Perhaps you should assist in bathing me."

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk on his face, obviously not expecting that response. He strides over to you, closing the distance between you in a few quick steps. "It’d be my pleasure."

You slide away from him before he can grab you and dart to the bathroom. He lets out a huff, watching as you practically run away, bemused. He considers chasing you, but then he realises you’re heading to the bathroom, and he follows you instead.

Note: I didn't mean to violate a piano but a couch would be too boring and I didn't want to condemn the Reader to crawl on the floor in this one. This is my first time publishing smut so grant me some mercy, I'm very embarrassed.

Got me in the halloween spirit and shiiiii🤭😈

when in hell, do as the demons do

pairing: demon posing as a tattoo artist!steve rogers x tattooed!female reader (number and type of tattoos aren't specified but it's more than two)

summary: new york city tattoo parlors have a tradition of offering special deals on friday the 13th, but when you decide to try out a new shop in brooklyn, you get much more than you paid for—and end up selling your soul to a charming demon.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, monsterfucking, dubcon because magic, sex pollen elements, nonconsensual bonding, soul bonds, demon tricks, bdsm (no safe word but with check-ins), choking, sadism/masochism, pain play, very brief blood play, nipple torture, pussy spanking, face slapping, rough body play, finger sucking, dacryphilia, fingering (f receiving), degradation kink, master kink, praise kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, plaything), begging, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, biting, marking, cockwarming, aftercare, happy ending

word count: 14.5k

a/n: here's my first halloween fic for 2024! i came up with the idea on friday the 13th last month and liked it for a halloween idea so here we are! this is the fic i was talking about in my poll here, which helped me decide to make steve a demon, but i'm not great at world-building/magic-building so if the magic doesn't make sense, i'm sorry! i just wanted to write some sex pollen-y tattoo artist smut and it turned into a whole thing. this fic really got away from me 😬 whoops. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡♡

halloween fics masterlist

The first time you heard the story—the urban legend whispered around New York City tattoo parlors—you were getting your second tattoo. You were young, but not so naive, and yet, when the woman named Wanda Maximoff told you the tale in her vaguely Eastern European accent, a chill raced down your spine. 

It went like this: There was a young person who wanted to get a tattoo, and they were lured into an unfamiliar shop on Friday the 13th by the special deals they were offering. (Where the shop was located in the city varied based on who was telling the story, but Wanda had said it was a small parlor tucked into an alley in the Bowery.)

The person in the story didn’t know the shop or the artist, but they were so enthralled by the artist’s beauty and work that they made the hasty decision to get a tattoo of a symbol they didn’t understand. It was the last decision they’d ever make, because by the time the tattoo was done, they’d been unknowingly enslaved to a dark force—having sold their soul to a demon.

When Wanda had finished the story, her piercing green eyes stared at you long and hard, her mouth twisted to the side as if she was stopping herself from saying more than she should. There was a warning in her expression you didn’t understand, and you hadn’t been able to stop the fear that burrowed into your heart. For a second—just a second—you’d believed the strange, witchy woman. 

Then you’d scoffed, laughing away your fear, and insisted the story must’ve been started by a grumpy old tattoo artist who was tired of the influx of customers on Friday the 13th. It was well known that most New York City tattoo shops had special deals every Friday the 13th, and you asserted the story was just supposed to frighten away naive tattoo novices who’d get something impulsively and regret it later. 

Wanda had pressed her lips together, an inscrutable look on her face, but only nodded once before returning her focus to your tattoo. In the silence that had followed, you’d been left alone with your thoughts, and you mulled over the story, repeating your rationalizations to yourself until you believed them. 

But a sliver of fear and intrigue remained for the rest of your session and when you were done, you were relieved to leave Wanda and her creepy story behind. Something like that—accidentally selling your soul to a demon when getting a tattoo—didn’t happen in real life, and it certainly wouldn’t happen to you. 

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until, of course, it did happen to you.

Over the years, you heard the story repeated time and time again in countless tattoo shops across the city, and the fear you’d felt listening to Wanda recount her version of the tall tale transformed into curiosity, then a dark kind of delight. It wasn’t something you wanted to push away, but to hold close to your heart, to cherish.

As you got older, you found yourself telling the story to younger folks when you crossed paths with someone who hadn’t heard it. And every time you told the story, you found yourself unconsciously replicating Wanda’s Eastern European accent, making the story as scary as you could. 

Each time you saw apprehension in the eyes of those you told the tale to, something inside you unfurled and grew stronger. You’d smirk when the tattoo novices scurried away, some leaving whatever shop you were in entirely, and a shiver would race down your spine, so much like the fear you’d felt when you first heard the story, but it was no longer that. It was a quiver of devilish mirth. 

You told yourself it was normal, how much fun you had scaring off the younger folks in the tattoo shops you frequented, laughing along with the artists you knew so well. You told yourself you were just taking part in tradition by repeating the story. You told yourself there wasn’t a darkness in your heart that was wakened by the story, and craved something you didn’t quite understand.

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until you walked into Hell and your entire life changed.

Hell was the new tattoo shop that had opened in Brooklyn at the start of October, though you’d been hearing talk of it for months before then. You’d been curious about it, and the fact that none of your friends or any of the artists you frequented knew much about it made it all the more intriguing. They didn’t know who owned the shop or who was working there, and you were desperate to find out.

It wasn’t a conscious decision you remembered making, but late in the afternoon on Friday the 13th, you took the subway to Brooklyn, getting off at the stop closest to Hell. 

The day was brisk, the chill of autumn clinging to the air even as the sun shone brightly above the city. You wore a thick sweater, a skirt and some tights with your most comfortable boots to make the trek deep into Brooklyn, and you were glad for it. It was a longer walk than you’d been expecting, but pleasant enough while the sun was high.

By the time you made it to the shop, though, the sun was dipping low behind the brownstones of the nearby neighborhood and your cheeks were chilled from the crisp autumn breeze. It was a relief to see the red neon sign for Hell, and you skipped quickly down the last block to push through the door of the nondescript exterior.

You were met by a rush of artificial heat that made you smile, pleased by the respite from the frigid autumn air, which swirled around your ankles as the door closed behind you. The warmth of the parlor kissed your cheeks and thawed through your icy fingertips while you looked around. 

You were surprised to find that Hell was unexpectedly inviting. 

Inside, the tattoo shop was decorated in dark colors that fit the theme: inky blacks, vivid reds, luminous yellows and burnt oranges. But, though it could’ve been dreary, Hell looked alive and lived-in, with cozy black leather sofas in the waiting area, and artwork decorating much of the wall space. When you looked closer, you saw that many of the pieces depicted creatures of the dark. 

As you studied the artwork, you noticed a theme: Demons cavorting with human women, specifically fucking human women. You felt a tingle of something bloom between your thighs. The art was salacious and wicked, and yet, you didn’t feel disturbed by any of the imagery, only intrigued. Even a little bit aroused. 

A clearing throat pulled your attention away from the art and to the redheaded woman standing behind the counter. She asked if you needed help. 

As you approached, you noticed she was beautiful, and had a cold smile on her face, her green eyes watching you in a way that unsettled you. It took you a long moment to realize her gaze reminded you of Wanda, even though the women looked nothing alike. But you felt uneasy as you walked up to the counter.

Your smile was tentative as you inquired if the shop had any Friday the 13th deals, adding that it was tradition, just in case the woman was new to the city.

Her green eyes raked over your face in an obviously assessing look, and you felt like your heart and soul were being judged. You nearly huffed a laugh at the thought, because it was so ludicrous, but managed to keep still and remain expressionless while the woman stared at you.

After a moment, she smiled again and the expression was friendlier, like she was greeting an old friend. She introduced herself as Natasha Romanoff and apologized because all but one of the artists had gone home for the day since their appointments were done and they didn’t get too many walk-ins, being a new shop and all.

Just then, a man stepped behind the counter as if appearing out of nowhere—though, at the time, you rationalized that you’d simply been staring so intently at Natasha, you hadn’t noticed his approach. Without missing a beat, Natasha introduced the man as Steve Rogers, the owner of Hell and the only artist still around on that Friday the 13th.

“What willing sacrifice do we have here, Nat?” Steve asked, sidling up to the counter and pressing his hands on top to lean toward you. 

The first thing you noticed where his eyes—such a pure, beautiful blue that they looked like the perfect, endless sky. But as your gaze wandered over his face, you realized his eyes weren’t his only gorgeous feature. He had a strong brow that gave way to silky blond hair; a straight, sloping nose that led down to a pair of plump, pink lips with just enough of a cupid’s bow, that you wanted to lick it. 

A rush of warmth filled your cheeks at the thought and you dropped your eyes to Steve’s broad shoulders, pausing to admire the way they filled out his simple black t-shirt. His thick biceps were covered in stunningly intricate tattoos, all done in dark ink that contrasted with his pale skin. They extended down to his hands, still planted flat on the counter. 

As far as you could see, there was only a small space of bare, unadorned skin at the base of Steve’s throat—all the rest of him seemed to be covered in tattoos that snaked beneath his t-shirt. You wondered idly if his tattoos covered his whole body, eyes trailing down to the black jeans he wore, and quickly shoved the thought aside. 

Raising your gaze back to Steve’s face, you hoped your expression wasn’t giving away your thoughts, but the charming grin that spread across the hot tattoo artist’s face made you think he had an idea you were checking him out. And he liked it. 

“Or should I say,” Steve went on in a slightly lower, more rumbly voice, leaning further across the counter with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He was close enough that you got a hint of his cologne—leather and firewood—and you couldn’t help the way your body reacted, warming and tingling and yearning for him. “What sweet thing do we have coming to barter their soul for some new ink?” He winked at you, all charm, and you nearly swooned.

“I-I was just asking if you had any Friday the 13th deals,” you stammered, unsure how to act under the blinding light of Steve’s charm. You’d known and talked to your fair share of attractive tattoo artists in your life, but Steve was on another level. He was hot and alluring in a way you couldn’t put into words, which was how you found yourself blurting, “It’s tradition.”

Steve’s grin hitched higher, and he stared at you a second longer before ducking down behind the counter to rifle through the shelves. 

“Well, I’m not one to turn my back on the old ways,” he said, lifting his head to catch your eye. He gave you a look that made your knees weak, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on you, before returning to his task.

Finally, he seemed to find what he’d been looking for and stood up, brandishing a piece of paper on which some simple tattoo designs were sketched. It looked like any other sheet of designs you’d see in any other tattoo shop, and you didn’t think anything of it, turning your attention back to Steve’s handsome face.

“We didn’t have anything planned,” he explained, crossing his arms and leaning down on the counter. 

The position made him slightly shorter than you, while emphasizing the expanse of his shoulders and the thick mucles of his biceps and the veins of his forearms. It was only because his hand pointed to the paper, pulling your attention away from his big body, that you remembered he was telling you something. 

“But if you pick from these, I’ll charge you $113—how’s that sound?” He raised his eyes to yours, and you noticed how long his eyelashes were. 

For a long moment, you just stared at Steve, your mouth slightly parted while you admired his beautiful face. You had the urge again to lick his cupid’s bow, and your body warmed pleasantly as you imagined doing exactly that. Sitting in Steve’s lap and licking him all over…

With effort, you managed to pull yourself from the tattoo artist’s spell, shaking your head to clear it while you processed what he’d said. The price he’d named was a typical deal for New York City, even with the Friday the 13th discount, so you nodded absently. 

“That sounds good,” you muttered, bending over the counter to look at the sheet of paper he was still pointing to. Even his hands were attractive, with skulls tattooed on the backs and other symbols you didn’t recognize decorating his knuckles. You couldn’t help but think his hands would make a pretty necklace if they were wrapped around your throat…

Shaking your head again, you furrowed your brow and forced yourself to focus on the paper with all the designs. There was some cute Halloween-themed stuff, like black cats, witch hats, ghosts and the like. There were also some stylized numbers, like 666, and a couple pentagram designs along with other symbols you recognized.

But the one that caught your attention was something you’d never seen before. It was made up of exquisitely delicate curving lines that formed what loosely looked like an infinity symbol. There were some twists to the design that made it look harsher, more archaic.

“What’s this?” you asked, pointing to the design that called to you and looking up at Steve. Your breath caught in your throat when you met his gaze, and your voice sounded awed as you went on. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A secretive, conspiratorial smirk tugged at the corners of Steve’s lips and he leaned in a little closer, his scent invading your senses and his breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“It’s a design of my own making,” he said, his voice pitched low and intimate as he looked at you in a way that made warmth curl around your heart and trickle down to settle low in your belly. “It’s special—why, do you like it?”

It took a tremendous amount of effort to pull your gaze away from Steve’s, but you forced yourself to look back down at the paper, your finger tracing the sweeping curves and the sharp points of the design. 

“I do,” you said slowly, thinking about where on your body it might look nice. There was a spot on your ankle where you felt it would look good, like an anklet. But before you could get too attached to the design, you lifted your gaze, giving Steve a serious look. “It’s not a tribal symbol, or any kind of cultural appropriation, right?”

Steve placed a hand over his heart, like he was making a vow, and said, “I promise it’s not from any culture of man.” 

His strange answer piqued your curiosity, but you brushed your questions aside. Later, you’d understand his odd turn of phrase, but in the moment, you chalked it up to Steve playing into the theme of his shop. You figured anyone who named their tattoo parlor Hell would be a little peculiar, and you didn’t think it was a bad thing. Especially when he was so hot.

Looking back down at the paper, you let your eyes trail over the looping design a few times, feeling yourself sinking into…something. A thrilling shiver raced down your spine, a mix of delight and terror that you found intoxicating and you had to shake yourself to remember where you were and what you were doing.

Raising your eyes to Steve, you told him you wanted the design, and once the words were past your lips, you felt a sense of rightness. You weren’t the type of person to get tattoos impulsively, but this one was calling to you, and you didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to get a tattoo from the hot shop owner. 

Besides, when in Hell…

Steve slid the paper off the counter and stood up straight, his eyes going sharp as he looked between you and the design. You got the same sense you had with Natasha, that Steve was judging your heart and soul and determining whether you were deserving of the design you’d chosen. You found yourself hoping desperately that he decided you were.

After a moment, an impish smirk pulled at Steve’s mouth before his expression shifted fluidly into one of theatrical uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, drawing out the tension of the moment and stroking his jaw like he was thinking. “I was hoping to save this design for someone special.” His blue eyes pinned you with a searching look, a charming smirk on his lips. “Are you special, sweetheart?”

Steve’s charm was turned all the way up, and you felt flustered under the weight of it. Not to mention that the way the pet name rolled off his tongue made you want to do anything he asked. Twisting your fingers self-consciously, you ducked your head a little. 

“Well, I—I don’t know,” you admitted, but for some reason, your thoughts strayed to the dark pleasure you sometimes felt when you frightened others with scary stories. Did that make you special, or just a little bit depraved? You didn’t know, but you hoped it was both, and that both were equally appealing to Steve.

The tattoo artist leaned back down on the counter, the veins of his forearms bulging from his skin as he crossed his arms. Since he’d ducked down, he could easily catch your lowered gaze.

“Tell me, pretty girl,” he purred softly, his tone inviting you to lean in. So you did. 

A soft smile curled your lips when you smelled his cologne, and you relaxed a little while he kept talking in that alluringly deep voice of his. 

“Where would you like my design on your body?” 

A shiver of desire thrummed beneath your skin at the implication of Steve’s words. There was something so enticing about the way he’d phrased his question—his design on your body. It called to the darkness buried deep in your heart, and you began to suspect he somehow knew you were a little depraved. Like him. 

Steve held your gaze for a long moment, and you thought you saw something shift in the depths of his blue eyes, like a shadow passing in front of the sun. But it was gone just as quickly, and you questioned whether your eyes were playing tricks on you. 

Shaking yourself free of your strange thoughts, you finally managed an answer. “My ankle.” But it seemed your mouth had a mind of its own, because you found yourself flirting with the hot tattoo shop owner, a smirk curving your lips as you went on. “Do you think my ankle would be worthy of your design, sir?” you asked with feigned innocence.

As you watched for Steve’s reaction, you were rewarded with the sight of his eyes darkening, his pupils blowing wide like he greatly enjoyed the fact that you were flirting with him. His mouth spread into a hungry grin and he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully while he considered you, finally coming to a decision.

“Mm, I think your ankle is the perfect place for my design, sweet girl,” he rumbled, smiling to himself like he’d made a joke only he understood. Then his fingers were trailing lightly along the line of your jaw, distracting you with the tingling warmth they left in their wake as he stood up. “I’m going to enjoy this very much,” he murmured enigmatically before pulling away.

Your mind was too frazzled by his touch and how bereft you felt without it to wonder over his words. Besides, he was already calling for Natasha, who emerged from the back of the shop to help you through the rest of the intake process. It was only then that you realized she’d left you and Steve alone at the counter a while ago. 

She slid smoothly in front of you with that friendly smile of hers while Steve retreated into the back to begin setting up. Natasha walked you through all the paperwork, none of which was new to you. That was why you felt comfortable not fully reading the fine print. 

You should’ve read the fine print. 

Once everything was signed, Natasha led you into the back and showed you where to stow your purse. She pointed to the privacy screen where you could take off your tights and boots, then helped you into the tattoo chair at Steve’s station. 

When you were settled, Natasha bid you and Steve a good night and grabbed her own things before leaving out the back door. It was a little abrupt and you were left feeling confused.

You asked Steve if the shop was closing for the night—it seemed a little early, especially for a Friday. And he explained that he’d decided to close the shop early since they had no more appointments and were unlikely to get any other walk-ins. 

For a moment, you fretted over keeping him late, but he waved away your concerns. 

“There’s no where I’d rather be than tattooing my design on you, pretty thing,” Steve murmured charmingly while he pulled on some black latex gloves. 

The earnestness in his voice soothed your anxiety and you relaxed back into the black leather chair, your legs propped on the footrest while Steve created a stencil of his design. Soon, the two of you were so engaged in a discussion about where exactly on your ankle to place the tattoo that you forgot you were alone with the handsome owner of Hell. 

After trying a few things, you decided to have the beautiful design lay across the front of your ankle, the sides wrapping around to the back so it’d look like a permanent adornment. You smiled when Steve complimented the placement you’d chosen and felt heat suffuse your cheeks at his praise. 

It all felt mostly familiar to you, someone who’d gotten a fair amount of tattoos in your life. But what you hadn’t been prepared for was the way Steve’s hands would feel on your body, the smoothness of the latex belying the warmth of his skin as he curled his fingers around the back of your leg to pull your foot onto his lap. 

Warmth cascaded from the top of your head down through the rest of your body in a gentle, tingling shower, settling heavily between your legs. You pressed your thighs tight together, both to stave off the ache that was building there and to make sure you didn’t accidentally flash the hot tattoo artist.

You weren’t looking at Steve’s face, your gaze tracing the dark black ink decorating his skin and curling beneath the cotton of his shirt, but you thought you saw something flicker over his expression as he took in your reaction to his touch. You almost thought you saw dark shadows creeping into his gaze, blotting out his blue irises and making him look…demonic. 

But when you flicked your gaze up to his, his eyes were a normal, glittering blue. You gave him a small smile and internally shook yourself, chalking up the moment to a trick of the light.

It was dim in the back room, with only a few warm lights positioned in Steve’s corner of the space. Natasha had closed up the rest of the shop, leaving you and Steve alone in the space, which was separated from the front by a wall and a doorway covered in a thick, maroon curtain. 

The walls of the shop were painted black and covered in more of the same artwork you’d seen in the waiting area. The main difference was all the tattoo equipment and the floor that was a bare dark wood, instead of the burnt orange carpet that covered much of the front room. 

Hell was dark, eerie and intimate, and you suspected the atmosphere must be getting to you, that was the only thing that explained what you’d seen in Steve’s eyes. Yes, that must be it, you told yourself, settling into the chair and letting Steve get to work.

The buzzing of his tattoo needle filled the silence and you prepared yourself for the pain that you knew was coming. Little did you know just how much pleasure you’d feel that night as well.

Nothing about the tattoo process seemed amiss until more than halfway through, when you began to feel a strange kind of tingling in your ankle where Steve worked, the sensation slowly creeping up your leg. It settled heavily between your thighs, making your core ache with a yearning emptiness as your slit leaked wetness into your panties.

It wasn’t painful, the tingling feeling, but it was unnerving, like it didn’t belong to you, and you couldn’t understand where it was coming from. 

“Uh-uhm, Steve?” you started, a hint of a whine in your voice, though it was mostly drowned out by the concern you felt. You sat up straight, forcing yourself to ignore the urge to rock your hips and grind yourself against the leather seat of the chair. “Can we take a break? I feel…weird.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Steve purred, instantly pulling the needle away from your skin and wiping away blood and excess ink with a small towel. After he’d deposited the tattoo gun and cloth on his station, he turned back to you, blue eyes filled with concern as he removed his gloves. “You ok?” he asked, his warm hands massaging the back of your leg that was still draped in his lap.

The urge to moan at the feel of his bare hands on your skin was almost undeniable. It felt so good to have his strong fingers kneading your muscle and you flopped back into the chair, pressing your lips together to stifle the sound of pleasure that wanted to slip free. But you couldn’t stop the way your hips squirmed, your body aching for something… 

“I think so,” you said, finally answering Steve’s question with a tremulous smile. You still felt the odd sensation pulsing up your leg and slipping between your thighs, prompting a delicious throbbing in your core, but forced yourself to ask, “There’s nothing strange in the ink, right? Something I could be allergic to?” 

An allergy was the only explanation you could come up with, even though it didn’t really make sense. You’d gotten plenty of tattoos, surely you would’ve had an allergic reaction years ago if that had been a possibility. And the way you felt wasn’t like any allergic reaction you’d ever heard of. 

You looked at Steve with wide, imploring eyes, hoping he could make sense of what you were feeling.

He shook his head, his fingers working higher to knead the muscle of your calf, nearly pulling a moan from your lips that would’ve drowned out his answer.

“I promise the ingredients are all-natural,” he said, his tone earnest and reassuring. “There’s nothing that would cause an allergic reaction.”

Your head fell back against the leather chair, missing the way Steve’s mouth curved into a devious smirk, and tried to gather your thoughts. The strange tingling sensation had calmed, you thought, having been replaced by the feeling of warmth that Steve’s touch inspired. 

Shaking yourself lightly, you told yourself it must’ve just been the tattoo needle hitting a nerve or something. You’d never had that feeling before with any of your other tattoos, but it must’ve been something to do with Steve’s method. It hadn’t been painful, so it didn’t mean something was wrong. It was fine. You told yourself you would be fine.

“Ok,” you said softly on a sigh, letting yourself sink into the comforting massage of Steve’s fingers. Your body felt a little heavy, a throbbing desire pulsing in your core, but suspected it had more to do with the hot tattoo artist’s fingers than anything else.

Blinking your eyes open, you met Steve’s steady, patient gaze. 

“We can keep going,” you said, giving him a smile that you hoped looked brave.

You must’ve succeeded, because Steve’s mouth curved into a pleased grin and his hand slid higher up your leg and settled on your thigh just above your knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze. His big palm on your bare skin sent a riot of sensation through your body, and when he squeezed you, you felt a mirroring clench of your inner muscles, your body aching to be filled.

“That’s my girl,” Steve murmured affectionately, his blue eyes glimmering with so much proud satisfaction that you felt your face heat and you ducked your head to hide a giddy grin. 

Steve gave your thigh one last squeeze before pulling away to put on a new pair of gloves and refill his tattoo needle.  While he worked, you couldn’t help but close your eyes and sigh silently, your skin feeling much too cold without him touching you.

For the rest of the tattoo, you tried to sit still while the tingling warmth rolled through your body, settling deliciously between your thighs and teasing your throbbing core until you were dripping into your panties. You had the absurd urge to spread your legs, to beg Steve to fill you—with his fingers, his cock, anything, so long as it put an end to the ache pulsing insistently in your body. 

You tried to be good, to be still and quiet so Steve could finish your tattoo. But apparently you weren’t doing as good of a job as you hoped. 

“If you keep squirming, ‘m gonna have to tie you down, pretty girl,” Steve rumbled, his head bent low over your ankle while he worked diligently. 

His voice was so low and deep, you swore you could feel it in your belly, the delicious rumbling tenor teasing your clit, and your hips shifted again, your thighs clenching tight against your needy slit. 

“Sweetheart,” he growled in warning, his hand gripping your foot firmly and tugging on it hard enough that you slid a few inches down in the chair. 

It took every ounce of your self-control not to whimper with desire at the evidence of Steve’s strength. Your imagination flooded with visions of him tossing you around in his tattoo chair, bending you over while he pressed his bulge into your ass or flipping you onto your back and folding you in half so he could pound into your pussy. 

A whine clawed up your throat, desperation flooding your body and making you want to writhe and beg and plead, but you bit it all back. Forcing yourself to be still, you asked, “Are you almost done?” in a tight, tense voice. 

“Almost done,” he confirmed, his voice soothing. He looked up briefly, giving you a rakish grin. “You can be good for me, can’t you, sweet girl?” 

Your heart lurched in your chest. It was all you wanted, to be good for Steve. So you nodded eagerly and tried to relax back into the chair. Your fingers were digging into the padded leather of the armrests and you pushed yourself deeper into the reclined seat, doing your best to ignore the heat and desperate, aching, insistent need pounding through your body.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you said on a small huff, your eyes shut tight so you couldn’t see Steve’s reaction. Your voice was little more than a whine as you went on, “I’ve never felt like this.”

You heard Steve chuckle, the sound rolling over you like a deep, delicious wave. Then, just barely over the buzzing of the tattoo needled pressed to your skin, you thought you heard him say, “Just wait, sweet thing,” in a dark, ominous voice you hardly recognized.

But you didn’t have a chance to try to parse out what he meant, because suddenly, you felt the sensation of a cold, hard shackle closing around your ankle.

It felt so real, and so at odds with the sensation of Steve pulling the needle away from your skin, that your whole body jerked. Quickly, you sat up and stared down at your leg, but there was no metal cuff. Only the tattoo. Finished.

Fresh black ink shimmered from your skin, and you had a brief moment to appreciate the artistry of Steve’s work, the beautiful, intricate design of the symbol. The phantom feeling of a manacle wrapped around your ankle remained, and you looked up at Steve, finding him wearing a smug, devious smirk. 

You couldn’t make sense of his expression, and in the next breath, it didn’t matter, because the fire that had been simmering in your blood suddenly blazed into an inferno. You couldn’t help the pained cry that fled your lips as you fell back into the chair, desire burning a demanding path through your body and tearing through your mind. 

Your legs fell open on the leather seat, a pornographic moan slipping from your lips when the cool air of the tattoo shop brushed against your inner thighs. Your fingers tugged fussily at your sweater, trying to claw off the once-cozy garment that suddenly felt too heavy and constricting against your scorching skin. 

Your eyes swiveled in your head, seeking and finding Steve, who was standing beside the chair and staring down at you. His gaze was lit with a depraved fire and his mouth was curled into a delighted grin.

“Aw, poor little plaything, are you feeling hot and bothered?” he cooed at you in a mean, patronizing tone that was so at odds with the charming affability you’d come to expect from the tattoo artist that you felt like you’d been slapped. 

A pathetic whimper slipped from your lips, and Steve’s eyes seemed to glow brighter, his smile hitching wider, growing more hungry and more eager at the same time. Leaning over your squirming body, Steve stroked the tips of his fingers down your cheek.

Your body’s reaction to his touch was instantaneous. The burning, blistering pain of need calmed enough that it no longer hurt, and you chased Steve’s fingertips instinctively, associating his contact with relief. He let you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, chuckling darkly when you sighed happily, your mind moving too slow to process what was happening.

“Should we get this cumbersome sweater off you, sweet thing?” Steve murmured, his hands curving around your shoulders before stroking down your sides. His thumbs brushed over the tips of your breasts and your spine arched off the chair, pushing into his touch, needing more. 

You were so hot, so achy, so needy, and you somehow knew Steve was the only one who could help you feel better. Distantly, you knew it was highly inappropriate to let your tattoo artist undress you, even one as hot as Steve, but in that moment, you didn’t care. His touch through your sweater wasn’t enough—you needed him to touch your bare skin. 

So you nodded frantically, whimpering, “Yes, please, Steve, help.”

The man laughed, a dark, evil chuckle rumbling from his chest. 

You didn’t understand what was funny, but you didn’t protest because his big hands slipped under the hem of your sweater and he touched you properly. His palms were warm, his fingers calloused and rough against your belly. 

You sucked in a surprised breath when his touch sent sizzling tingles of pleasure through your body, gathering in your throbbing slit and making more wetness gush into your panties. 

If you’d been in your right mind, you might’ve felt embarrassed over how wet you were from Steve sliding his hands up your stomach, but all you could do was revel in the pleasure his touch brought you. Your mouth curved into a delirious smile as you stared dazedly up at the supernaturally handsome man like he was the center of your universe.

Slowly, almost torturously, Steve slid your sweater up until it bunched above your breasts and he paused. His hands wrapped around your ribs, thumbs stroking over your skin beneath the band of your bra. He stared down at you, his blue eyes nearly glowing with hungry desire as his gaze raked over the lace containing your breasts.

Your chest heaved with your gasping breaths, and you took the moment to try to settle. The fire in your blood didn’t burn painfully with Steve touching you, but you still wanted—no, needed—more. Your hips squirmed in the leather seat and a whine clawed up your throat until it spilled free.

“Steeeve, please,” you begged, staring up at the tattoo artist with wide, imploring eyes. At the same time, you lifted your arms above your head and sat up a little in an effort to get him to pull your sweater the rest of the way off. Instead of spurring him to move, though, it had the opposite effect. 

Steve went still, closing his eyes like he was savoring the sound of your whining voice and begging words. When he opened them a moment later, they appeared darker—the soft, sky blue of his irises darkened to an almost midnight black, with inky swirls of darkness creeping in from the edges.

Then he blinked, and his eyes went back to normal. 

You were too distracted by your body’s need to think much about the fact that his eyes had gone nearly pitch black—that he’d looked, for a moment, like one of the monstrous demons from the art adorning the walls of Hell. 

Your delirious, desirous mind let the moment slip by unquestioned, instead focusing on your lust—and on Steve. 

“Lift up for me, pretty thing,” he cooed, his tone almost gentle despite the grit and gravel in his voice. 

You did as he said, lifting your back away from the chair so he could pull your sweater off, leaving you in just your bra, skirt and panties on his tattoo chair.

In the short moment when Steve’s hands deserted your body, the blazing inferno of need returned. You groaned in pain, reaching for Steve and latching on to his wrist. The burning sensation abated the second you touched him, but you didn’t stop there, dragging his hand back to your body and sighing in further relief when you pressed his palm to your breast. 

You didn’t know if Steve pushed you back into the chair or if you fell back and he followed, but he leaned over you, his big hands kneading your tits through your bra. A moan tumbled from you as you sank into the feeling, melting beneath his touch. It just felt so good—and the rougher he got, the harder he groped your tits, pulling and pinching on your nipples through the lace of your bra, the better it felt.

“That’s it, plaything, moan for me—let me hear how much you love it when I abuse your tits,” Steve growled, leaning so far over you that his head blocked out the light above the chair. His face was contorted into a greedy expression, his eyes sharp and hungry as he watched pleasure dance across your features. “You’re such a dumb little doll, you have no idea what’s heppening to you, do you?”

His tone was mean and mocking, but your body responded to the deep tenor of it all the same, wetness gushing between your thighs while your hips writhed on the leather seat, seeking something to grind against. 

Your mind was hazy with lust and pleasure and confusion. It took you a long few moments to understand what he’d asked and when you did, it sparked a bit of fear. But even that dissolved into pleasure and you moaned, your hands clinging to Steve’s wrists—not trying to pull him away, just anchoring yourself to him. 

“Wha-what’s happening to me?” you whined breathlessly, blinking your eyes up at Steve with an equal amount of uncertainty and trust. You still didn’t realize he was the reason for what was happening, but you’d come to learn that soon enough. Not that it would matter.

“Oh, baby, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that,” Steve cooed, his tone changing so quickly back to gentle and reassuring, it nearly gave you whiplash. 

Still, pleasure swirled in your chest at the sweet praise in his words, even if they were more than a little condescending. A smile curled the corners of your lips, but you forced yourself to focus. There was something you wanted to know—something Steve knew, and you were determined to get the answer from him. You knew it was important, even if you couldn’t remember why.

“Steve, pleeease,” you whimpered, your words dissolving into a moan when he shoved the lace cups of your bra down and pinched your nipples harder, pulling and twisting them until your spine was arching up off the leather seat. It took you a long moment to remember your train of thought and continue on. “Tell me, Steve, please, I can handle it—what’s happening to me?” 

A wide smirk spread across Steve’s face and his eyes flickered with shadows that seemed to want to consume his gaze the same way he looked like he wanted to consume you. Bending over your squirming, twitching body, Steve’s face hovered just above yours, an evil kind of mischief in his expression. 

“If I tell you, do you promise you’ll take it like a good girl?”

Images assailed your imagination—Steve shoving his cock deep in your cunt, growling at you to take it like a good girl while he fucked you like a bat out of hell. Steve pounding into your mouth, grunting his pleasure as he spilled down your throat and ordered you to take it like a good girl. Steve stretching your ass around his cock, smoothing a hand down your spine as he cooed at you in that meanly patronizing tone to take it like a good girl. 

A loud, debauched moan slipped from your lips as bliss pulsed through your body. It took you a long moment to push the images from your mind and gather your scattered thoughts enough to blink your eyes open and nod up at Steve.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you said fiercely, knowing somewhere deep down that if you were a good girl for him, the visions you’d had would become a reality. And you wanted so badly for them to become a reality—at any cost. 

A devious, delighted grin spread across Steve’s face at your answer, satisfaction shimmering in his eyes. Then one of his hands let go of your breast and skimmed down your body, over your hip and down your leg until his fingers circled your ankle, just above the tattoo he’d given you. 

“This design you chose, it’s not just something I designed—it’s my mark,” he purred, putting emphasis on the last two words as if you’d know what that meant. But you still didn’t understand what your tattoo had to do with what was happening to you. His explanation just made you more confused.

“What does that mean?” you whimpered, your voice desperate and pleading. You wanted to understand, you wanted to be good for Steve and grasp whatever it was he was trying to tell you, but the meaning of his words was still out of reach.

“Think hard, sweetheart,” Steve cooed, his voice turning sweet in a way that had your belly swooping deliciously. 

When you still didn’t seem to understand, Steve’s hand slid down, his palm covering your fresh tattoo and you gasped. His touch against the mark felt like he was yanking on a thread that had been tied behind your belly button. It felt like you were tethered to something…to him, you realized. 

You were tethered to Steve by some sort of magic. The mark he’d tattooed on your skin had bound you to him…

All the air fled your lungs as comprehension sank into your mind. Your face twisted in shock and understanding, though the expression didn’t last long. 

“There it is, that’s my girl,” Steve praised, squeezing your ankle and pressing his palm more firmly down on the mark. 

The touch dragged a reluctant moan from you as pleasure swirled through your body, and you weren’t certain if it was your own or the result of the bond between the two of you. When you got control of yourself, you glared up at the devious tattoo artist, letting him see the betrayal written plainly across your face.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, baby,” Steve rumbled, his other hand wrapping around the front of your throat and tipping your chin up while he bent down until there were mere inches between you. “You heard the story, and you ignored its warning.” He tsked at you, shaking his head when you only narrowed your eyes in anger. “You weren’t careful about getting tattooed on Friday the 13th and now you’re enslaved to a dark force—you’re enslaved to me.”

He didn’t give you a chance to react to that declaration, only closed the distance between your lips, covering your mouth with his own to steal a kiss. And, god help you, what a kiss it was. 

Steve’s mouth slanted perfectly to yours, his lips soft and seeking as they brushed against yours. His tongue flicked out, licking along the seam of your lips as if asking for entry, and you were helpless to the pleasure he offered. 

Your lips parted with a soft gasp, an invitation if ever there was one, and he wasted no time slipping in. Steve took possession of your mouth, plundering your body while his hands held you firmly pinned beneath him. 

It wasn’t long before you were moaning into his mouth and kissing him back, your fingers plunging into his soft, blond hair and nails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck until he was growling into your mouth. 

His hand around your neck squeezed harder, choking you lightly in retaliation for the bite of your nails and you pulsed with so much heat, you cried out sharply, the sound transforming into a whine of need. 

Steve nipped your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste mixed with the heat of his tongue as he licked it from your mouth. When he pulled away a moment later, you could see the traces of red staining his lips—though that wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the sight of his eyes. 

Writhing shadows had blotted out the blue irises of his gaze, leaving only two fathomless pools of darkness shimmering in the warm lights of Hell. A shiver raced down your spine, unease and curiosity filling your chest as you stared at the suddenly inhuman visage of the handsome tattoo artist. 

Steve Rogers was still attractive, even with the unnatural eyes of a demon, but the shadows in his gaze changed the terrain of his face. His teeth looked sharper in his mouth, and the curve of his smirk looked more cruel. His jaw looked more angular and his body seemed bigger, broader, more intimidating as he loomed above you. 

And yet…

You liked how Steve looked when he’d shed the pretense of humanity. He was somehow, impossibly, hotter. More dangerous, sure, but also freer in a way that you found enticing. 

It took you a moment, your mind swimming with pleasure and the tingling remnants of his kiss, to pinpoint exactly what you liked about seeing Steve without the guise he must’ve been wearing. He was more himself. And this version of him, this demonic visage, called to the darkness inside of you in a way that made you feel like he belonged to you just as much as you belonged to him.

Pressing a palm to your forehead like you could push that thought straight out of your head, you forced yourself to focus on the present. “Nooo,” you moaned in a small voice, mostly to yourself because you were already thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to belong to Steve, especially if he belonged to you, too. 

But, for all you could feel the bond between you and the demon strengthening and solidifying as your tattoo healed supernaturally fast, his desire and lust mixing with your own, he still couldn’t read your mind. And he must’ve thought you were protesting the newfound connection between the two of you.

“Ohh yes, sweetheart,” Steve growled, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat and tipping your face up so he could see your eyes. 

The two shimmering pools of darkness were writhing with agitation, and you stared at them in wonder, your mouth falling open with awe. They were just as beautiful as his human eyes, looking like the surface of the deep ocean at night. 

“You’re mine, pretty little plaything,” Steve rasped, his voice low and dark and vehement, like he was determined to make you understand your new reality. “Your heart, your body, your soul—it’s all mine,” he went on, pausing only to capture your lips in a brief, but searing kiss, like he was marking you all over again. “You’re bound to me for eternity, baby, enslaved to all my whims, and I bet you know what I want rigt now.”

You did know. You could feel Steve’s lust slinking through the bond, flooding your body and creating the burning need that was so painful when he wasn’t touching you. But beneath it, you could feel your own desire, too. The yearning you’d felt for the tattoo artist that had only grown since you’d discovered his true nature as the demon from the Friday the 13th legend. 

Watching your face keenly, Steve let go of your ankle, grabbing one of your wrists and bringing your hand to the bulge in his pants. It was so big and hot and hard, even through the stiff denim of his jeans, that you whimpered. But you didn’t pull away, letting Steve use his grip to make you stroke his cock. And when he groaned his pleasure, your fingers tightened, giving his thick length a curious squeeze. 

“This is what you do to me, pretty girl, this is why you’re the one I chose,” he growled, his voice so deep, it sounded animalistic. “I knew from the moment you walked into my shop with your sweet little skirt and your dark little heart that you were going to be mine—and now I’ve got you.” 

It occurred to you to ask what he meant about your heart, but you suspected you knew. He’d looked deep into your heart and soul saw the darkness there—and it was exactly what he wanted. 

The knowledge that you were what he wanted filled you with a sense of pride, and you took over from Steve. You stroked his cock through his jeans without his guidance, squeezing him while you stared up at him, devotion written across your face while you pressed your throat into his hand, knowing the tattoos on his fingers were making a pretty necklace.

“You’re my precious little plaything, aren’t you, baby?” Steve cooed at you, sweeping his thumb over your jaw and swiping it across your lower lip. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy being mine.”

You ducked your head, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking on him, your eyes going heavy lidded as you nodded your agreement. Steve grunted a pleased sound.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” he purred, pressing his thumb onto your tongue and pushing deeper into your mouth. “You’re gonna be such a good fucktoy for your demon master, aren’t you?”

You could feel Steve’s cock twitch beneath your fingertips and you squeezed him harder, moaning when you felt an answering pulse deep in your cunt. The burning desire that had been held at bay by the realization of what exactly he was and what he’d done to you returned with a fury that would not be ignored.

“Yes, master,” you murmured obligingly after tipping your head back to slide him from your mouth. You pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb and smiled up at Steve, your eyes hungry and eager.

The demon’s gaze darkened further somehow, filling with greed and lust and just about every sin you could imagine—all promising to do dirty, filthy things to your body in the name of slaking the desire that burned brightly in both of you. 

“I knew you were perfect,” he growled, grabbing your throat and pulling you in for another kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, his kiss inciting the fire in your body to burn hotter, making the throbbing between your legs impossible to ignore. 

While he kissed you breathless, your fingers kept stroking his cock through his jeans, your other hand sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt to rake your nails through the thin trail of hair dusting his abs. Both of you groaned at the contact, Steve’s tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips thrust against your palm. 

Just as quickly as he’d dragged you into the kiss, Steve pulled away, shoving you roughly back into the chair. Your back hit the padded leather, a light, “oomph,” of surprise tumbling from your lips. One of his hands gripped your thigh possessively, fingers digging into your soft flesh while he leaned down and pulled a lever somewhere on the chair.

The footrest dropped away, allowing Steve to step between your legs, his hands groping roughly at your thighs, your hips, your tits. A low rumbling growl sounded in his chest every time his hand touched a piece of your clothing, as if they offended him personally. You squirmed in your seat, trying to find the words to beg him to take off the rest of your clothes, but all you could manage was a desperate whine.

“Are you still feeling hot, baby?” Steve asked, his tone playfully condescending as he skimmed his hands up your bare legs and tugged on the hem of your skirt—which, at that point, was barely covering anything with the way your legs were splayed open around his hips. “Should we get rid of the rest of these tiresome clothes?” 

You were nodding your head before he even finished his question, his hands making quick work of unzipping your skirt and tugging on it until you lifted your hips so he could drag it down along with your panties. He stepped back so he could pull them off your legs, raking his gaze up your body and pointedly looking at your bra.

“Take it off, fucktoy,” he growled, his tone going mean again. 

The quick change of his mood had you gasping with surprise, even as his rough voice made you gush more wetness between your thighs. You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the demon’s mercurial moods, but you liked the unpredictability—it meant you’d never grow bored.

Scrambling to do as Steve said, you pushed forward from the chair to unclip your bra and ripped it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. When that was done, the demon shoved your legs open and stepped back between them, pushing your legs up to drape over the armrests of the chair.

“Good girl,” Steve rumbled, stroking his hands down your thighs, digging his fingers in suddenly, hard enough to make you squeal and squirm. He chuckled, looking like he enjoyed your reaction, and pushed your legs wider, spreading you so fully, you felt a twinge of discomfort in your hip. But the pain was soothed away a moment later by the pleasure throbbing through your body.

A sharp exhale gusted from Steve the moment he laid his eyes on your bare pussy. He was staring down at you like you were everything to him, like you were the center of his universe. He looked like he was a mere second away from getting down on his knees and worshipping at the altar of your body.

More surprising than the way he was looking at you was what you could feel through the bond tethering you to the demon. You could feel his devotion in your soul, the sensation curling round your heart and filling you with a sense of adoration that was both yours and Steve’s. 

As much as you were his, you knew, with absolutely certainty, that he was yours, too. For better or for worse.

But the longer Steve stared down at your body, his hands unable to stop touching you—exploring every inch of your skin, his palms cupping your breasts, thumbs stroking over you nipples before he curved his fingers around your ribs and skimmed down to your hips, feeling you, learning you—the more you began to believe it wasn’t so bad being bonded to a demon.

You hadn’t noticed your gaze had drifted away from the demon, staring unseeingly over his shoulder while you reveled in the feel of him touching you, until his hand came down sharply on your slit, slapping your pussy so sharply, you cried out in surprise, tears springing to your eyes. Pleasure and pain burned through you, writhing and fighting for dominance, and you were helpless to the sensation.

“Eyes on me, fucktoy,” Steve growled, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him. His fingers dug into your cheeks, his face looming over yours while his hand came down again, spanking your cunt and making your whole body jerk in the leather chair from the sharp, stinging pleasure. “You’re my dumb little cock slave, and you’ll look at me like a good girl when I’m playing with you like you’re my own personal fuck doll—got it?”

The demon punctuated his seething question with another spank to your pussy, and it was the hardest of all, but though you expected pain, you felt only pleasure. A loud, pornographic moan, spilled from your lips while your mind swirled, your whole body throbbing like you were one big nerve ending. 

Forcing your eyes open, you found Steve watching you expectantly. You gasped for air and scrambled for words “Yes, master,” you cried, surprising even yourself when you shouted, “I’m your good little fucktoy!” 

Steve seemed appeased, a satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth while his fingers rubbed through your drenched folds. “You are, baby,” he assured you. “You’re such a good little plaything for your master.” 

His words were an alluring purr, soothing you. Then, he surprised you by shoving three of his fingers into your cunt, making your whole body shudder from the unrelenting and sudden fullness.

“Oh god,” you moaned, pleasure ricocheting violently through your body. You squirmed in the chair, feeling your pussy spasm with delight, your wetness gushing out of you and dripping down between your ass cheeks, making a mess on the chair. 

“God’s not going to help you now, sweet thing,” Steve rumbled with a smirk, pulling his fingers out of you before pushing them deep into your sopping wet hole again. “You sold your soul to me, He has no dominion over you anymore—you’re mine for eternity.”

His thumb rubbed your clit and you cried out helplessly, barely hearing his words as your body focused on the pleasure he was giving you. He pushed deeper, his fingers stroking a spot inside you that had your spine arching and your hips bearing down on his delicious intrusion. You were so wet, he fucked you easily with his three fingers, spreading them wide to stretch you open. 

“Oh fuck,” you whined, your whole body shaking with need while the demon fucked you slowly with his fingers. You watched them slide into you, your folds swollen and puffy from his rough spanking. He was moving with a torturous laziness and you squirmed, mewling for more, “Faster, Steve, please.” 

Suddenly, Steve’s fingers pulled free from your obscenely wet pussy, and a second later they were being shoved into your mouth. Your sweet, musky taste exploded on your tongue as the demon pushed them deep, making you gag on his slick fingers while he loomed above you. 

“What did you call me?” he seethed through gritted teeth, the dark shadows of his eyes roiling like a churning sea.

“M’m sowwy,” you mumbled around his fingers, drool dripping down your chin and tears spilling onto your cheeks. 

Steve’s mood immediately calmed at the sight of your tears and he made a soft shushing sound as he pulled his fingers from your mouth. “There, there, my sweet little plaything,” he cooed, leaning down to kiss and lick the salty tears from your skin. “I like it better when you call me master—can you be a good girl and call me master?”

The way Steve was bent over you, the bulge in his jeans pressed into your leaking cunt and you rubbed against him like a cat in heat, your hole aching to be filled, but you knew you had to answer his question first. 

“Yes, master,” you whimpered, “I’mma be a good girl, I swear.” 

“That’s my girl,” Steve purred, swiping the drool from your chin and pressing a kiss to your mouth. It was sweet and slow, his mouth praising you without words and making your head spin with the feeling of affection slipping through the bond. 

When he pulled away, Steve gave you a stern look, his brow lowered over his black eyes and his mouth pressed into a firm line. 

“Now, I can feel you rubbing your cute little cunt on my cock, baby,” he rumbled, his hands groping your thighs, but not pinning you down to make you stop. So you kept humping against him, your body shameless in its need for him. “But I want you to use your words—what do you want from your master?”

“Fuck me, master—please, oh g-fuck, I need your cock, master, please, please, please give it to me,” you babbled, blinking away the last of your tears to stare up into the handsome face of your demon. 

You could still feel his lust and desire and fondness thrumming through the bond he’d created, but beneath that, deep in your own heart, you felt your own affection swell. You’d had a crush on Steve before he’d sealed the bond, and—god help you—those feelings didn’t waver in light of his trickery. If anything, every touch, no matter how rough or soft, only strengthened them. 

Steve’s fingers dug into the plush flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive as he stared down at you with a satisfied smirk. 

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you beg for me, baby—not for a millennia, at least,” he murmured, ducking down to capture your swollen lips in a kiss. 

At the same time, he rubbed his bulge against your sensitive pussy, making you cry out so that he could swallow the sound down. 

Kissing him back, you whimpered into his lips, need burning through your body and making you impatient. Your fingernails raked down the front of Steve’s chest, reveling in the way his firm muscles contracted, and the sharp little breaths he took. 

You hooked your fingers under the lower hem and tugged the shirt up with a desperate whine until Steve yanked it off over his head, breaking your kiss for only a second. 

Your fingers explored the smooth planes of Steve’s chest, brushing over his beautiful tattoos as you traced his hard muscles. All the while, he kissed you, devoured you, his own hands kneading your thighs and your tits and plucking at your nipples until you were writhing mindlessly beneath him. 

“Please, master,” you keened, arching your spine and pushing your tits into his palms. “Fuck me, pleeease!” You tugged demandingly on the waist of his jeans, your fingers fumbling to undo the buckle of his belt.

Steve only chuckled maddeningly, rubbing his clothed cock into your sopping wet pussy while he pressed kisses to your jaw. 

“C’mon, baby, you can beg better than that, can’t you?” he rumbled, his tone playful and warm, but it quickly turned dark and demanding. “Beg me to split you open on my dick, to fucking ruin your pretty little pussy with my fat demon cock—use your filthy mouth, sweetheart, tell me all the dirty things you want your evil master to do to you.”

“Oh fuck, yes,” you groaned, squirming beneath him and humping shamelessly against his bulge. “Please, master—please ruin me, hurt me, abuse me,” you cried, not knowing where the words were coming from, but you suspected they were being ripped right from that dark place deep in your heart, your soul. “Fill my holes with your demon cock and pump me full of cum, wanna be bulging with your seed, master—wanna be your dumb little fucktoy for all eternity. Make me yours, please!”

You cut off on a broken, desperate sob, and Steve’s mouth covered yours with an animalistic roar, kissing you hard—like he was branding you all over again. It made you moan louder, kissing him back just as fervently.

Your head spun from Steve’s kiss, but you could feel his hands fumbling between your legs. Then, the hot, hard length of him smacked against your swollen, smarting pussy, making you cry out into his mouth. 

Steve drank down your sounds greedily, like they were the nectar of the gods. His tongue pushed into your mouth, licking into you as if trying to lap up your pleasured noises straight from their source.

“You’re fucking perfect, baby,” Steve praised when he pulled away, his voice silky and earnest in a way that made your heart warm in your chest. 

His mood had switched again, and you didn’t think you’d ever get tired of the way it could shift like the wind. It was exciting and thrilling—like riding your own personal roller coaster. But no matter how his mood seemed to shift, you always felt his affection through the bond. Your demon was just fickle about how he liked to show that affection.

“Such a good fucking girl for me, ‘m gonna give you exactly what you want, sweet thing,” Steve went on, rubbing his hot, hard length through your drenched folds, coating himself in your wetness. “Gonna bury my cock in your holes for an aeon, keep you dumb and drunk on my cock, gonna make you my precious little plaything.” 

“Yes, master, please,” you whimpered, your hands finding Steve’s waist and pulling your bodies closer, your ass sliding to the edge of the chair. “Fuck my tight little hole, please—please!” 

Something in Steve seemed to snap, and with a snarl, he folded you in half in his leather tattoo chair, pushing your knees to your chest and lining up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance. In the next breath, he shoved his cock deep into your cunt, splitting you open with such a delicious mixture of pain and pleasure that your screams filled the whole of Hell. 

Steve gave you only a moment to adjust to the sheer girth of his thick, massive cock before he pulled back and snapped his hips forward, the sound of his thighs hitting your ass making a loud clapping sound. 

Your mouth fell open, the most obscene, pornographic moans coming from your lips. Against your will, your eyes slid closed.

Grabbing the back of your head to hold it still, Steve slapped your cheek—hard—making your eyes fly back open. The stinging pain blurred into a deep, aching pleasure, and your cry of surprise devolved into a lewd moan. 

“What did I tell you, fucktoy?” Steve growled, slapping you again, harder. The pools of his eyes churned dangerously, his mouth twisted with determination as he reminded you of his earlier command. “Keep your fucking eyes on me.”

Though you knew his strikes were meant to be punishing, he was keeping a tight leash on his strength. His hand smarted but he never truly hurt you. 

It was more degrading, feeling Steve slap your face, and you enjoyed it much more than you would’ve expected. The sounds of your desperate, depraved pleasure spilling freely from your lips. 

When you managed to focus your gaze on your demon, you found Steve watching you with a smug smirk on his face. 

“Do you like it when I slap you, sweet thing?” he cooed, his hips driving into yours, fucking you deep and hard with his thick cock while he held the back of your head. He didn’t wait for an answer, slapping you again, letting your face twist to the side before forcing you back to look at him. “Do you want me to hurt you more, pretty girl?”

“Yes, master!” you cried, surprising even yourself. But you were greedy for the mixture of pain and pleasure Steve offered, finding you were quickly growing addicted to the wicked way he made you feel. “Play rough with your fucktoy—please, master, I want it!”

“Good girl,” Steve purred, grinning wider and using his free hand to slap your tits, your thighs, anywhere he could reach. The sharp smacking sounds joined with the clapping of his hips against your ass and the obscene wet noises of your pussy being fucked. “You’re such a perfect little plaything, baby, taking it like such a good girl for your master.”

Steve leaned more heavily on top of you, his hips pressing his cock so deep, you sobbed with pleasure, feeling like he was pushing into your cervix. Pain and pleasure made your mind spin, and your hands clung to Steve’s thick biceps, your nails digging sharply into his skin.

Your demon hissed out a breath at the bite of your nails, his hips stuttering and fucking more powerfully into you. He slammed against a spot deep inside your cunt that had you thrashing beneath him in the leather chair, clawing at him even more.

“Fuck yeah, sweetheart, hurt me back,” he growled, his tone taunting you meanly as he went on. “Show me what ya got, I can take it.” 

Darkness rose inside of you, and though it was tempting to believe it was solely the effect of the demon’s mark on your body, you knew it wasn’t. This was the darkness that had grown within you over the years, the one that had called out to the demon and had been so pleased when he answered your call by binding you to him for an eternity of sinful servitude. 

Skimming your hands up to Steve’s shoulders, you didn’t miss the way he looked a little disappointed at your light touch. You curled your lips in an impish grin—the only warning you gave him before you dug your nails deep into his skin, dragging them down over his inked shoulders and biceps as hard as you could.

Though you didn’t break skin, dark red lines appeared on his pale skin where it shone through and Steve groaned loudly, his hips twitching before he picked up his pace. He fucked you faster, with punishingly violent strokes that had you babbling an endless stream of pleasured noises.

“That’s it, plaything, let it out—take it out on me,” he growled encouragingly. 

You didn’t know what exactly he was prompting you to let out, but you suspected it had something to do with the darkness churning in your chest. And his reaction, his pleasure in response to the pain you’d given him, lit something inside you. The darkness unfurled further as you finally let it free, and you felt Steve’s encouragement through the bond you shared.

Tilting your hips up so that Steve could pound harder and deeper into your pussy, you reached around to his lower back, raking your nails up the long length of his muscles. You pressed so deep, you would’ve gouged into a human’s skin. But your demon was made of sturdier stuff, and he simply grunted in pleasure, fucking you harder—so hard, it nearly hurt.

Steve was glorious above you, his demented coal-black eyes staring down at you with a fathomless greed you could feel thrumming in your own heart. It made you want to hurt him. It made you want to love him. 

Frightened by both impulses, you grabbed Steve by the back of his neck, digging your nails into his skin as you pulled him down. Instead of kissing him, though, your face buried into the crook of his neck and you sank your teeth into the spot at the base of his throat, the one free of ink, biting him hard enough you thought you might actually pierce the demon’s skin.

He tasted like fire and smoke and salt. 

Steve’s growling groan rumbled in his throat and you felt it against your cheek, moaning in answer while you licked his warm, golden skin. You sucked on him hard, wanting to leave your own mark on your demon, sinking your teeth in further while his cock pressed deep inside you.

Your demon allowed it for a moment, then his hand wrapped around the front of your throat and he pushed you away, pinning you hard against the back of the tattoo chair while he climbed on top of you. The back gave way until you were laying flat and Steve’s big body was covering yours. 

The chair rocked dangerously, but stayed upright and Steve caged you in beneath him, fucking you in slow, lazy strokes.

“You bite me like that again, sweetheart, and ‘m gonna blow my load way too soon,” he grumbled, glaring at you, though there wasn’t any heat to it. Especially since you could feel his pleasure through the bond. 

“Oops,” you said, unable to hold back your giggle. Steve didn’t look nearly as amused as you felt, so you forced yourself to look a little contrite as you pouted and simpered, “Sorry, master.”

Shaking his head and huffing a laugh, you felt his humor slip through the bond and saw his mouth flicker in a smile. 

“Baby, baby, baby, what am I gonna do with you, huh?” he purred. Tilting his head to the side, he considered you with smirk. “You’ve only been bound to me for an hour and I’ve already corrupted you, sweetheart.” 

He ducked down, dragging his nose from the base of your throat up to your jaw, nipping at the spot just below your ear that had you moaning softly. Your legs clung to his sides, holding him close in the cradle of your body while he kissed your neck.  

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement, even though you both knew it was the darkness in your heart that had drawn him to you in the first place, not that he’d corrupted you. “I guess you’ll just have to keep me, master,” you said sweetly, lifting your hips to meet Steve’s languid strokes, gasping when the tip of his cock hit that spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars. 

At your words, Steve huffed a laugh, burying his face in your neck and mumbling against your skin, “As if I’d ever be able to let you go.” He rocked into your body, wringing another moan from you as he grunted his own pleasure. “Fuck, your cunt feels so good, ‘m not gonna last much longer.”

“Master, please, ‘m so close,” you whimpered into his ear. You wrapped one of your arms around his broad shoulders while your other hand dove into his soft, blond hair. You clung to your demon while he dug his arms beneath your back, holding you pinned beneath his body so he could rut ferociously into you.

“Bite me, baby,” Steve growled, pounding into you with short, hard thrusts, grinding the base of his cock against your clit with each one. “Mark me—show me I’m yours.” His voice was a desperate, greedy rasp, his need thrumming through your body through the bond, and you couldn’t think of doing anything but indulging him.

Your teeth sank deep into Steve’s neck, in the one spot that wasn’t covered in ink, and sucked hard on his skin, licking his throbbing pulse point at the same time. He growled wildly, his thrusts turning harder and meaner, his fingers slipping between your bodies to find your clit and rub ruthlessly.

You didn’t know which of you came first because it seemed like you both pushed each other over the edge in the same instant. 

The coil of pleasure deep in your belly snapped suddenly, and pleasure exploded through your body, leaving devastation in its wake as you screamed your release. At the same time, Steve groaned, long and loud, his cock throbbing deep inside your cunt while he spilled his seed into your fluttering channel. 

Your demon kept fucking you as you both rode out the waves of pleasure, your body clinging to his and milking his cock while he held you crushed to his chest. 

Your gasps for air turned to deeper breaths as you slowly came down from your peak, and you were distantly aware of Steve hauling you up from the chair and spinning around to sit while you sprawled in his lap.

As you recovered together, Steve’s fingertips danced up and down your spine while your head lay on his inked shoulder and you watched the red indents of your teeth slowly fade from his neck. A frown pulled at the edges of your mouth, and you wondered how on earth he’d managed to get tattooed if it was so difficult to leave a mark on his skin.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked in a deep, gruff voice, like he’d been on the brink of sleep. 

It took you a moment of being confused about how he could’ve possibly seen your frown before you remembered the bond. You still felt the tether to him, like a string tied behind your belly button, but you didn’t feel a tug on it until his palm skimmed down to your ankle and his hand closed over the tattoo he’d given you, which was healed somehow. 

“How did that heal so fast?” you asked, sitting up twisting around to look at your ankle. The sweeping, delicate curves peaked out from behind Steve’s hand, and you brushed your fingertips over the inked lines with wonder. 

“There was a drop of my blood in the ink,” Steve answered, and when you looked at him, he wore a mischievous smirk. “I told you the ingredients were all-natural, didn’t I?” he asked charmingly and shot you a wink, making you laugh and shake your head. 

But then your eyes fell on the spot on his neck where you’d bitten him. He’d healed so fast, you couldn’t see any trace of your teeth anymore, and you brushed your fingers over it sadly. Steve caught your hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of your fingertips.

“There’s a special method to tattooing a demon,” Steve answered your unasked question, skimming his free hand down his chest and over all the other ink on his skin. “I can teach you how,” he offered.

Your eyes had drifted down to his chest, tracing the lines of the tattoos that had been hidden by his shirt, but at his words, you glanced up—and were surprised to see the darkness had receded from his eyes, leaving them a bright, sky blue. The look he was giving you was earnest, and you felt it reflected in the bond that hummed in your body.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, ducking your head into the crook of his neck and licking the spot you wanted to mark. 

He still tasted like fire and salt and smoke and you wanted to savor him for an eon. With a sigh, you gave into the urge, licking and kissing him idly while you cuddled into his chest. Steve held you securely, your body still impaled on his half-hard cock while his cum dripped out of you, and you thought you could stay like that forever. 

Instead, after a few moments, you asked, “So what happens now? Do you take me back to hell or the underworld or whatever?”

A chuckle rumbled in Steve’s chest. The sound reverberated through your sternum where you were pressed together and you smiled into his neck.

“I figured we’d stick around Brooklyn for a couple decades, then we can head down below,” he murmured, tracing patterns on your lower back with one hand while the other gripped your ass possessively. “I think you’ll like it there—I’ve got all kinds of fun toys to play with.”

You could hear the depraved excitement in his tone and snorted a laugh. But then something occurred to you and you pushed up from his chest to sit back so you could see Steve’s face. He looked confused by your suddenly serious expression.

“When you say toys, you don’t mean other people you’ve bound to you, do you?” you asked him with your eyes narrowed. Your focus was almost entirely on the bond, waiting for his reaction. You knew you’d be able to tell if he was lying, or hiding something.

But you felt only amusement from him, and watched as a grin spread across his face. “Nah,” he said, his hand wrapping loosely around the front of your throat to pull you in for a kiss. “I’m not actually the demon from the urban legend,” he confessed. “It’s just one of the ways we trick pretty little humans like you to sell your souls to us—you really should’ve read the fine print of that contract you signed.”

You huffed an exasperated laugh, because what else could you do, and kissed your demon again. He chuckled into your kiss before deepening it, his mouth sliding possessively against yours. When he pulled away, he nipped your lower lip, soothing the sting away with his tongue as he growled into your mouth. 

“You’re the only soul for me, sweet girl.”

Your heart beat harder in your chest, and you felt his deep affection swirling with your own in your belly, twining together around your heart to create something real and deep. It was something that would grow and strengthen over the millennia you spent together.

You knew in that moment that there would be no running from the demon you’d unknowingly bound yourself to, and that you wouldn’t want to escape him anyway. Steve may have tricked you—and you’d make him grovel for your forgiveness for at least a century for that—but he was yours now, just as surely as you were his. 

“You’re the only demon for me, Steve Rogers.” 

You moaned for your demon when his hands grabbed your hips and began bouncing you on his hardened cock. His cum was still leaking out of your cunt, making a mess of both of you, but neither of you cared. Your kisses turned messy with your grunts and groans of pleasure, your bodies pushing each other toward the edge of another release as you gave in to the insatiable need you both felt for the other.

It would be a long time before that need was finally sated—so long that it was no longer Friday the 13th by the time you stumbled out of Hell, Steve’s heavy arm draped around your waist. His strong body kept you upright on unsteady knees while he walked you to his brownstone around the corner.

For years after that fateful Friday the 13th, you helped Steve keep up appearances as a tattoo artist, playing his devoted girlfriend during the day. Then at night, he took you home and made you his personal plaything, bending you over and fucking your ass with his fat demon cock or unloading his cum down your throat. 

In the rare moments when you weren’t fucking, Steve taught you how to tattoo, and the method of how to tattoo a demon specifically, all so you could leave your mark on his skin. You tattooed an outline of your teeth marks on his neck, in the spot he’d left open for you since the night you’d met.

You’d even included a drop of your blood in the ink, even though Steve said it wouldn’t strengthen the bond. But afterward, you did feel like you were close to him, and he admitted he felt it, too. 

Years later, Steve surprised you by asking you to marry him, and though you thought it was a little unnecessary, you said yes. It just seemed a bit like overkill to have a whole wedding ceremony when your souls were already bonded for eternity, but you had to admit it was a good time. Plus, all your friends and family cried happy tears—even the demons. 

Finally, when it began to get suspicious that you and Steve weren’t aging while the humans around you were, Steve passed on ownership of Hell to one of the other artists and he took you down below to the real thing. He carried you across the threshold of his house and welcomed you home, where you’d live happily together until you decided to go topside again.

There in hell, Steve spent centuries shattering you apart with his cock before rebuilding you, only to break you down into his dumb little fucktoy all over again. Together, you used every toy Steve owned. You were your master’s good little plaything while he delivered pain and pleasure that sent you to new planes of existence. 

Then, of course, Steve taught you how to use them all on him, too, because your demon master liked a little bit of pain, too.

You’d loved your time in Brooklyn with Steve Rogers, the tattoo artist and owner of Hell, but you loved your time in hell with your demon master even more. Together, you allowed yourselves to be truly free and give in to your darkness together. You allowed yourself to love him, and let him love you in return. 

It was everything you could have dreamed of, living a happy life for the rest of eternity with your demon in hell.

And all you had to do was follow one rule: When in hell, do as the demons do.

What if Loki discovers your nipple piercings? (Drabble)

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Suggestiveness, implications to sex, slight nipple play, mild pain kink, 18+ MDNI!

A/N: As someone who got her nipples pierced about two years ago, let me just tell you that it’s the biggest confidence booster ever! It’s like a dirty little secret that only you know about unless you go braless or show someone🤭 That said, this is for all my lovelies who either have their nipples pierced or are thinking of getting them done. Enjoy😉

At first he’s flabbergasted at the idea of you getting needles through your nipples. The first thoughts that run through his head are ‘why would you inflict so much pain to yourself for aesthetic purposes?’. ‘Does this mean I can’t pull on them anymore?’.🤣

When you raise your top and show him, however, his eyes darken and he stares intensely at your nipples for a few seconds. His jaw clenches and his eyebrows furrow in concentration.

He stalks closer to you without breaking eye contact with your nipples and slowly lifts his hands to trace his thumbs over the skin directly above the jewelry. His breath hitches as the light of the jewelry twinkles as if winking to remind him of the prize that lays ahead.

‘Are those hints of emerald green I see in the jewellery?’. Loki breathes heavily and slowly slides one of his hands to your throat. He gazes up to stare into your eyes with a dangerous look, pupils dilated and a hint of a smirk itching to become a sinister smile.

“You naughty little minx. I hope you’re prepared to stay locked in our room all night while I punish you for teasing me with those pretty jewels”. He squeezes your breast and caresses the nipple with his thumb. He lets out a dark chuckle when you hiss at the light sting near the freshly pierced area.

“Do not fret my love, when I’m through with you you’ll forget they even hurt”. He pushes you onto the bed and latches his mouth to your nipple allowing his tongue to gently caress the slightly swollen area.

You moan in relief and mentally praise yourself for finally getting the piercings. Not only did they make you feel sexier, but they also made your man go feral (even more than he already was).

Who knows, maybe you’ll surprise him with another one but down below where only he will ever get the privilege of looking🤭