harry potter ϟ smut one shots

while darkness lurks.

cw: degradation, overstimulation, teasing/edging, praise/validation, boot worship, fake sympathy, rough sex, gagging/a little bondage, slight slapping/biting, slight coercion/manipulation, slight dub-con, overstimulation, possible humiliation, slight aftercare

word count: 7614 (longest one yet)

the beginning of this chapter is inspired by the parts of chapter 19 from (18+) Blessed Are The Snakes by plasebo3ff3ct ! so if you like this chapter (or even if you don't) go read it. it is so damn good i literally cannot begin to tell you. 

so sorry for the long wait i hope you enjoy it (:

the meeting, as always, is boring. truly, terribly boring.

i look around the table; a smooth, deep cherry wood that stretches for what seems to be miles. people sit high and regal, like they own the world. acting as if they are better than everyone else. i'm sure that's what they think.

i, personally, don't. but i am left for those thoughts to be swirling in my mind. hidden for only me to hear.

"you will understand soon, ciara," a rich baritone voice rings in my ear. they, apparently, hear my thoughts too.

i flinch internally, but from the outside i know how i look. a cool mask of indifference and superiority clouds my expression. like i said, a mask. not truly me. from what anyone can see if they peer my way, i am like everyone else at this table. here by will, by a desperate want to rid the magical world of the "filthy scum that run rampid".

what a sorry group we are⏤correction: they are.

people talk, spitting out words that i do not catch. maybe they are talking about foreign affairs, or maybe just sharing their oh so kind thoughts on muggleborns. at one point, it's easiest to just tune it out.

looking around at the numerous death eaters, i notice their faces. there are both men and women⏤and a snake apparently? i'm not sure⏤sitting along the edge of the table. they range in age, but none as young as me. the smiles⏤grimaces, truly⏤are either cruel and unnerving or none existent. no in between.

there are a few faces i recognize: bellatrix lestrange, a mad hatter among us; narcissa and lucius malfoy, clasping hands under the table so no one notices; fenrir greyback, who keeps running his tongue along his sharpened teeth; a youngish boy close in age with me, greasy hair atop his head and bears a name i can't be bothered to remember.

everyone, i notice, wears shades of black, but never the deepest color of nothing.

that is reserved for the man at the head of the table. tom riddle.

he, the one we're forced to call my lord, stares down at us all. acting all high and mighty, loving how we bow to him. i would have thought that the older death eaters would despise serving someone younger than them, but no. they all willingly worship him like he truly is the muggle god.

how pathetic.

"the only pathetic one, darling, is you." tom's voice rings in my ears, and i know he has been able to hear my every thought this entire meeting.

i shiver at his words, hating how they affect me. yet a sick part of me loves the way he somehow whispers to me as if he is standing beside me, even though he sits far away. his words force me to remember all the times he said similar whispers while i was shaking under him as he kissed along my neck. remember the times when his soft hands caressed me in the dark of night when we were alone under the covers of my bed. with each word, no matter how innocent, make me remember the trysts full of lust and desire.