synopsis: making tom do your homework is an easy feat that shows the rest of slytherin house just how whipped he is for you. | wc: 1.2k+
fem!reader (she/her pronouns), fluff, established relationship, reader is a muggleborn yet you always get your way with him (no specific house), knights of walpurgis cameos, their gossip and reactions are funny (to me), riddle era. | lordlist
Most students keep their distance from Tom Riddle — head boy, the prodigy with something dark lurking underneath that they don’t want to be caught up in. Most students anyway.
You, however, are currently sprawled across the green velvet cushions in the Slytherin common rooms beside him, dramatically slamming your potions textbook shut with a groan — making the students (largely consisting of some of Tom’s weird friends) to flinch for their lives at the abrupt noise disrupting the peaceful quiet.
“Slughorn is trying to kill me,” you whine loudly, earning you a few looks. You fail to notice them however — your eyes shut, tipping your head to rest it against your boyfriend’s shoulder.
Tom doesn’t even spare you a glance from his own work, quill gliding across parchment with infuriating ease. You peek a single eye open to watch his reaction, but all you see him do is scribble in ink. It really isn’t fair. No normal guy should have hands as attractive as that — veiny, big, powerful.
“You said the same thing last week. And the week before.”
“‘Cause it’s still true,” you pout.
“Or,” he says pointedly, dipping his quill into the pot of ink besides him, “you’re simply hopeless at brewing anything more complex than tea.”
You sit up straight, head leaving his shoulder which makes Tom shift a little at the lack of your warmth, gasping with furrowed brows at the jab. He doesn’t care to look your way. You stare harder. Nothing. So, you decide to pinch his arm.
Tom barely reacts, of course, finally glancing sideways at you — giving you a blank stare in return and an unamused arch of the brow at your childish behavior.
Suddenly, an idea pops in your head — one of great brilliance.
“Tom,” you coo, dragging your words. He hums, no longer paying you any mind and busying himself with his own work again — but you know he’s paying attention from his peripheral. You bat your lashes once, then twice, eyes wide and pleading. Your voice drips in innocence. “Will you do it for me?”
The response comes immediately.
“No.”
You huff, vexed. “Why not?”
“Unlike you, I have self respect,” he answers coolly.
You narrow your eyes, roll them, before smiling as if he made a funny joke. “I’ll give you a kiss!”
Tom scoffs. “I’m not that easily bought.”
You lean in closer, eyes glittering, soft lips ghosting near his ear. He intakes a sharp breath when they brush his lobe. “Two kisses. Pretty please?”
His quill pauses. Some of the other students peak over at the both of you at the sudden silence, having been nosy and overhearing the conversation the whole time.
“I’m not doing your entire assignment.”
“So… half?”
“Assisting,” he reiterates, albeit, still giving in to your demands. For all that Tom is, he appreciated the value of hard work and looked down on cheating… but for you, he’ll let it slide just this once (it does not end up being just once).
“Fine. Assist me then while I lie here and do absolutely nothing,” you hum in delight, patting a cushion and making yourself comfortable.
Tom exhales sharply — a mix between an exasperated sigh from how much you test his patience and a suppressed huff of laughter.
“You are completely unbearable.”
“And yet, you adore me.”
Unfortunately, he did.
Because Tom Riddle is the boy who could bend minds with a smile, and yet, for you — he is currently scribbling out your entire potions essay and rewriting it while you sit back and relax as if you hadn’t just gotten the most feared Slytherin at Hogwarts to do your homework on your command.
Across the room, several members of his inner circle — the so called Knights of Walpurgis — were watching the whole thing in disbelief.
“She didn’t even have to try,” one whispers.
“He just… did it.”
Another scowls. “She’s a mud—”
“Shut up,” a new voice hisses. “He likes her. I heard he hexed Rosier last week for making a joke about it.”
“…”
“Maybe if we get on her good side—”
“Enough.” Tom’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.
The gossipy murmurs stop immediately. The group clears their throats, looking anywhere else except at the both of you in a very obvious, idiotic fashion. None of them dared to meet Tom’s gaze… except you.
You lean over and kiss his cheek sweetly, smug and triumphant and ever so oblivious. “Well, I’ll be back later. I’ll give you the other kiss once you’re done as a reward — promise.”
You stand, dusting off your robes, already moving towards the stairs to leave the common room when he speaks out again, low but heard by all.
“Don’t stay out too long.”
You pause in your tracks, turning to face him with a tilt of your head.
“Why? Gonna miss me?”
Tom doesn’t answer your tease with what he wants to, not in front of the blithering idiots — but he doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes says ‘yes, I’ll burn this world down if it ever takes you from me’ . . . but instead, all that leaves his mouth is:
“Because your friends are irritating, and I prefer when you’re where I can see you.”
‘Sure, it’s only that,’ the students in the common room all thought collectively.
extra:
Later that night, when the common room had emptied, the Knights of Walpurgis gathered near the fireplace, voices hushed but urgent.
“I still can’t believe it,” Malfoy mutters, poking at the embers with his wand. “He ended up doing the whole bloody essay.”
“He didn’t have to,” Lestrange points out gruffly. “He chose to. Like… a domesticated pet.”
A few of them snort at that.
Rosier leans in, whispering like he’s sharing top secret intel. “I swear on Salazar’s beard I saw him almost smile when she came back down and gave him three kisses ‘stead of one like she said. He’s whipped.”
“Three?” Mulciber repeats, incredulous. “Yeah, one for each cheek, and then on the lips,” Rosier confirms, puckering his own and making kissy sounds. “Like a proper fairytale ending — if the fairytale involved a future dark lord doing someone’s potions homework.”
There is a long pause as they all try to picture it.
Avery finally exhales a laugh, making them all turn their heads his way. “He’s gone mad.”
“Mad?” Nott repeats, smirking into his goblet of wine. “Yes, mad with love.~”
That earns a few cackles and smoochy sounds — the kind that immediately dies the second a shadow falls across their little group. They slowly and carefully turn their heads to look back.
Tom stands right behind them with his arms crossed, expression unreadable, sleeves rolled up to his elbows neatly, the faintest trace of ink still on his fingertips. His gaze sweeps over each of them, cold and sharp enough to make them shudder and bow their heads in submission.
“Something amusing?” he asks softly, tone dangerous.
“No, Riddle,” they chorus at once, faces pale.
He regards them for a moment too long to make them squirm, then turns away in finality, the hem of his cloak brushing against the rug as he makes his way up towards the dorms.
But just before he disappears down the corridor, they all swear they see it — the slight pep in his step and the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.
in which… your boyfriend tom comes back to your dorm annoyed, so you decide to try and help him feel better. requested by anon here ; i don’t write for tom riddle so i hope this was okay love! (masterlist) (nav)
the tension was thick, making the air feel heavy. tom had walked in, obviously annoyed — when wasn’t he — as he set his books down onto your dorm room table.
you didn’t know what to say to him, he probably would shut down if you forced him to talk about it. so you showed him.
you walked over to the tall brunette, lacing your arms around his shoulders and looked up at him. your eyes met his intimidating glare, holding your gaze for a second too long before you made your move.
it started small, a few pecks up and down his neck before moving to his cheeks, then his lips. the kiss started sweet, no words needed. just two lovers entangled in each other.
tom’s body language changed. suddenly, he turned to face you, arms wrapped around your waist as he dragged his hands up and down your body.
he was hungry, practically eating off your face. you smiled into his lips, your plan had worked. although, when you tried to pull away to talk to him, his hand darted to your neck to keep you there with him.
“stay.” tom demanded. nothing was sweet anymore. tom’s tongue fought for dominance in your mouth, all while his hands grabbed at your ass.
you squirmed in his arms, keeping your lips connected with his as he somehow got closer to you. tom kissed you passionately, like you were the last woman alive. then, a nearly inaudible sound left his mouth, a small whimper.
tom riddle had whimpered.
the dark lord.
he immediately pulled back, face trying to remain straight but red cheeks gave him away in a second. still, he just stared at you, all while his hands ravenously groped your ass.
“you love me, don’t you?” you asked while giggling, smiling at tom’s embarrassed face.
“hush.” he twitched, leaning in for another kiss.
tessa’s notes… okay so boom trust me more will be out soon i just have a lot of requests to get through!!
Hey, anon here😁!! I BEGGG FOR SOME DISGUSTING TOM RIDDLE FLUFF OR SMUT.. anyways that all thanks ily💋💋
THE ONLY EXCEPTION
PAIRING: Tom Riddle x Fem!Shy!Reader
WARNINGS: Slightly suggestive, our girl Pans is a troublemaker, Tom lowkey threatens Pansy, disgusting fluff, and yeah! 💌
SUMMARY: You get your nails done with your friends for the first time. Tom’s never been one to like things lacking purpose, but as usual, you’re the exception.
WORD COUNT: 1,207
A/N: hello anon honey!! i chose a fluffy little piece, but i have some ideas for smut in the works for next time (and maybe you can send in some more😼)! as always i hope you all enjoy, i tried out proper capitalization rather than lowercase so let me know what you think! do we like it better with or without 🤔🤔
The first thing that Tom noticed upon your arrival back to the common room was your smile. Or rather, the way it stretched ear to ear in a display that made the edges or your eyes crinkle, radiant and carefree and so different from your usual sink-into-the-shadows entrance that Tom felt himself still. The second thing he noticed was the way Parkinson and Greengrass had you pancaked tightly between them, arms curled around yours with their done-up, gaudy nails standing out against your skin.
They were extremely lucky that you appeared so… joyful with them, Merlin knows why, or else he would’ve removed their hands from you at once. Instead, he settled for glaring at the places they rested on your forearms. And of course, the final thing he noticed were your nails, placed cautiously on your friends as they whispered conspiratorially and steered you over to him.
Tom’s eyes tracked you as you reluctantly followed them, cheeks red and gaze trained on your shoes before they came to a stop before him, Astoria and Pansy looking all too pleased with themselves. You looked like you wished for the floor to swallow you whole.
“Riddle.” Parkinson’s voice greeted, sly and husky in a tone that made him immediately irritated.
You watched his eyes narrow, dark and laced with a dangerous undercurrent that had Astoria’s confidence wavering, though Pansy seemed unaffected— per usual. After a moment of wondering whether this was worth his time whatsoever, Tom’s head dipped into a slight nod of greeting, closing the book that had sat unattended on his lap.
“Ladies.”
His voice was like the smoothest of silk, soft in the most deceptive of ways so you wouldn’t notice the satin knot being tied around your throat. You looked up then, your eyes immediately meeting his. The way he was staring at you, so intense and as if nothing surrounding you mattered, made your heart stop.
Then, without warning, Pansy grabbed your hand, ignoring your startled squeak and practically dragging you behind her as she thrust it into Tom’s view. His slow, unamused blink was the only thing that displayed his surprise.
“She got her nails done with us. Aren’t they pretty, Riddle?”
You vaguely wondered if Pansy had a death wish as you and Astoria shared a wary look. Tom was alarmingly unmoving, his stare sharp and cold where it rested on her fingers wrapped around your wrist.
“I suggest removing your hand, Parkinson. I would hate to have to do it for you.”
And for once in her life, Pansy listened, although it was done with a show of exaggeration, her palms coming up in surrender. Now that Tom could sufficiently focus, he leaned forward an indiscernible amount, focused intently on the new addition to the digits he had committed to memory.
Your nails were longer, but not so much so that it made them inconvenient or tacky. They were shaped gracefully into a rounded look, one resembling that of an almond, and were a shade of green so dark that one might think them black. More than that, they were so different from your friends’ nails that he couldn’t quite comprehend how you hung out with people with such bad taste (their nails were actually quite pretty, Tom is just allergic to color).
For someone who typically detested things that held no purpose, Tom found himself wanting to trace his fingers over yours and memorize every new angle and crevice. He found himself wanting to find how they would look interlinked with his, and how they’d feel scraping down his back. His face showed none of these curiosities, rather a blankness that left you shifting.
The longer his silence extended, the more impatient Pansy grew, foot tapping restlessly against the marble flooring as she squinted at Tom, ready to defend. You pulled your hands back then, feeling embarrassed and beginning to nervously pick at the skin around your cuticles until Tom shot his hand out, grabbing yours in a firm but soft grip.
The corner of Pansy’s lip curled up, her eyes glinting with satisfaction at the way Tom’s thumb smoothed over your skin before dropping you like you were on fire.
“Well?”
Tom glared at her.
“Well, what?”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Well, what do you think?”
You held your breath as Tom looked away from Pansy and towards you with a scrutiny like molten lava— burning as it seeped under your skin and into your veins, lighting you from the inside out. He looked away into the respite cool of stone wall, jaw clenched.
“They’re… tolerable.”
It was frustrated sounding, like it pained him to admit even the most basic of compliments. Perhaps because from him, it held more words than a thousand empty letters could say, more honesty than hundreds of adjectives could provide.
Pansy gasped theatrically as your ears turned red.
“You heard that, right Astoria? He practically said he wants to put a ring on her finger.”
Astoria laughed before she could stop it, her eyes turning wide and her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Tom turned to Pansy with a scowl.
“I said no such thing. I merely stated that the nails aren’t the most hideous articles I’ve ever seen.”
“A love declaration coming from you.”
“Watch your tongue, Parkinson.”
You watched the interaction with despair, wide gaze bouncing back and forth between them like an intense tennis match. Pansy opened her mouth, ready to hurl another taunt, but you gripped her sleeve, frowning.
“Guys.”
It was soft, but it didn’t need volume. Pansy looked at you, your face pleading and pretty, before nodding with a sigh. Tom felt his muscles relax, well— as much as they were capable of, at your voice, his hand unclenching where it was laid on his knee, tight against his black slacks.
Pansy squeezed your hand, a silent apology as she began to lead Astoria away with her, up into the girls dorms where you would inevitably meet with them later. You hesitated, then sat down next to Tom with a considerable amount of room between the two of you.
Silence. And then.
“Your friends are insufferable.”
You couldn’t help but giggle, looking over at Tom with a sweet smile. When you spoke, your voice was quiet. “Pansy isn’t usually like that. She means well.”
“Perhaps.”
Tom settled back into his book then, and you conjured some crafty sort of project you had been working on (rubber band bracelets?), and it was peaceful for a long while. Domestic, some would describe it, had not all witnesses been terrified of Tom. It might’ve even been hours before his hand crept closer to yours, which had briefly given up on your project in favor of exhaustion, and locked his fingers with yours, finally finding out what they looked like together.
He said nothing. He didn’t have to, not as your head moved to his shoulder in a sleepy display and he didn’t push you away. Not as his thumb rolled small circles over your knuckles, nor as he clumsily flipped the page one handedly.
Turns out, he liked your nails interlinked with his quite a bit. Maybe he’d find out what they’d look like down his back later.
TAG LIST🏷️: @itsravenclaw379 @booksstarryskies @stwrlghts @crazysweettooth-01 @hearts2vivi
May I request Tom Riddle with a reader who’s a snake animagus? I feel like it could be pretty interesting, Since he can speak parseltongue and I feel like since the reader can turn into a snake they can also understand it, at least in their snake form.
Also with the fact that Peter is described to have some rat features that are tied to his animagus form, I feel like it would be possible for the reader to have some snake-like features too, maybe their eyes are similar to a snake? You can decide if you want to add that or not!
Snake Eyes
💌 Tom Riddle x Snake Animagus!Reader
💭Mostly SFW: No smut but heated makeout session at the end, lots of tension, Tom being a subtle stalker.
A/N: This request was super creative! Loved writing it. I’ll also be updating my master list tomorrow with the new fics bc i haven’t done that yet… Oops.
—
He notices your eyes first.
Not in the way the others do—swooning over some imagined depth, conjuring metaphors that don’t exist. No, Tom Riddle does not romanticize. He analyzes. And your eyes are wrong.
Slitted pupils.
Barely. Subtle. Most would chalk it up to a trick of the light, or a curious charm gone awry. But Tom knows better. He watches too closely to be fooled. There’s no spellwork at play here. No illusion. Just something innate—inhuman, almost. Reptilian.
He thinks, at first, that you might be a vampire.
You’re pale enough. Cold in a way that isn’t unkind, but distant. You don’t speak unless there’s a reason, and you smile like it costs you something. And then there are the teeth—fangs, if he’s being honest. You hide them well, but he’s seen them. Once, when you laughed at something Slughorn said—an unguarded moment. They flashed.
Definitely fangs.
But you don’t avoid sunlight. You walk the grounds in the early morning with ink stains on your cuffs and parchment under your arm. You lean into the sun, even. A vampire would hiss, recoil. You simply close your eyes and tilt your head back like you’re listening to something the rest of them can’t hear.
—
He sees you again in the library.
Not unusual. You spend more time among shelves than people. But tonight, you’re in the restricted section—which is where things start to interest him.
You’re not reading anything dark. Not yet. Not quite. It’s not blood magic or soul binding or anything else that would set off alarms in the average prefect. No—you’re reading about transfiguration theory. Ancient, obscure, exhaustively complicated. Things even most seventh years wouldn’t touch, and here you are—sixth year, alone, copying equations in a notebook already overflowing with ink.
He watches from the shadow of a shelf, silent. Not because he’s hiding—he doesn’t hide—but because he doesn’t want to interrupt.
You don’t notice him at first. Or maybe you do, and choose not to react. He can’t tell. That unsettles him.
Eventually, he steps into your line of sight.
“That book is typically reserved for Mastery candidates.”
You don’t look up immediately. When you do, your expression is neutral. Not startled. Not shy. Just… mildly curious.
“Is that a warning, Riddle?”
His name from your mouth doesn’t sound cautious or impressed. Just stated. Like a fact.
“It’s an observation,” he says smoothly.
“Noted.” You return to your notes, as if that’s the end of it.
“Most wouldn’t understand half of what’s in there.”
“Most don’t try.”
“And you?”
“I try.”
That smile again. The polite one. The one that seems genuine—but just barely.
You never ask what he’s doing in the restricted section. You already know.
—
He catches you on patrol.
Late. Past curfew. The castle is asleep, but he isn’t. He doesn’t sleep much these days.
His footsteps are silent against the stone as he rounds a corner near the library’s hidden entrance—and stops. There you are. Walking calmly, deliberately, the hem of your robes brushing the floor. You don’t flinch when you see him. You just look up, eyes gleaming faintly in the torchlight.
There it is again.
That serpentine glint in your gaze. And the faintest curve of fang when your lips part in greeting.
“Riddle.”
Your tone is polite. Respectful. It infuriates him.
“Out late, aren’t you?”
“So are you.”
You both pause. It’s quiet in the corridor—too quiet. He glances at the bulge in your bag, where the spine of a thick book presses against the fabric.
“Studying?”
“Of course.”
He steps closer. You don’t move.
“From the restricted section, I assume.”
“Assume what you like.”
There’s no fear in your voice. No shame. You meet his stare, unblinking. You’re taller than most of the girls in your year. Not by much—but enough to stand level with him when he draws near.
His head tilts slightly. “You’ve got a strange look about you.”
You raise an eyebrow, a sly smile on your face, not offended in the slightest. “Do I now?”
Tom continues, “Eyes like a serpent. Skin like ice. Fangs, if I’m not mistaken.”
A beat.
“Makes one wonder…”
He leans in, just a fraction, “…are you out here because you’re thirsty? Hunting for a midnight snack?”
You don’t react right away. Just blink—slow. Then you smile. That same quiet, self-assured curve that always makes something tighten low in his chest.
You lean in until your mouth nearly brushes the shell of his ear.
“It sounds like,” you murmur, breath cool against his skin, “you’re just looking for an excuse to get bitten.”
He doesn’t move. Can’t. Every muscle in his body coils, frozen somewhere between rage and fascination.
You pull back, still smiling. Then, with a graceful step back, you nod once.
“Goodnight, Riddle.”
And you walk away.
Calm. Unbothered.
Like you didn’t just set his veins on fire.
—
He follows you into the forest next.
It’s late. The kind of late where even the portraits sleep, and the wind outside the castle howls like something sentient.
Tom’s known for days that you’ve been sneaking out. He doesn’t report it. Doesn’t confront you. Just… waits. Watches. Shadows your steps like a predator stalking another.
Tonight, you leave earlier. You think the castle’s still awake enough to mask your footsteps. But he notices. Of course he does.
He follows you past the greenhouse. Past the edge of the Black Lake. Into the woods.
And he wonders, again, if he’s about to catch you feeding.
That would explain so much, wouldn’t it? The eyes. The fangs. The stillness. Some quiet little half-vampire secret you’ve kept tucked behind polite smiles and ink-stained sleeves. Maybe you’ve glamoured the truth away. Maybe you slip out here to find some poor creature and drink it dry.
But what he sees is something else entirely. Something he hadn’t accounted for.
You pause in a clearing. Look around, silent. Then—gracefully, effortlessly—you slip your wand into your robe and kneel in the grass. Your fingers move with purpose. A whispered incantation under your breath. Magic hums in the air—thick, ancient, alive.
And then—
You change.
It’s not violent. Not grotesque. It’s quiet. Elegant. Your limbs melt into scales. Your body coils, lengthens, smooths out into the form of a sleek, silver serpent—long, iridescent, hypnotic. A creature of venom and beauty. You glint like moonlight on polished steel. Your tongue flicks once. Twice.
And you bask in it. Like it’s natural. Like it’s freedom.
Tom doesn’t breathe.
He takes one silent step forward, eyes fixed on you.
He whispers, in Parseltongue:
“You’re not a monster.”
You freeze.
Your head lifts. Your tongue flicks toward him, tasting the air.
He speaks again.
“You’re magnificent.”
You slither toward him—slow, deliberate. Not threatening. Just… watching. Measuring. You circle him once, twice, brushing his robes with cold scales. He can feel your magic humming beneath your skin, ancient and wild and precise.
Then you stop.
And shift back.
It’s over in seconds. You rise from the forest floor, grass clinging to your cloak, moonlight catching the edges of your cheekbones. Your expression is unreadable—but your eyes? They burn.
He steps closer.
“You’ve been hiding this.”
You say nothing.
“Why?”
Your voice is quiet, steady:
“Because it’s mine.”
He should feel insulted. But instead, all he feels is the quick, shallow sting of awe—of envy. Because he’s never seen anyone else do something like that. Not at your age. Not without help.
You’re powerful.
And worse—you’re not flaunting it.
You turn to go. He catches your wrist.
“You understand me, don’t you? In Parseltongue?”
You nod once.
He releases you.
“We’ll talk again,” he says.
And you smile—quiet, cool.
“We always do.”
—
He returns to his dorm late one night.
Prefect rounds had run long. Some poor fifth-year sobbing over a misplaced love potion. Utterly beneath him. He’s still irritated when he steps into his room, already rehearsing the moment he’ll collapse into bed—
And stops short.
There’s a snake curled on his sheets.
Not just any snake. You.
Coiled lazily in the center of his bedspread like a crown jewel on velvet. Your scales catch the firelight—silver threaded with darker markings now, beautiful and unmistakably you.
You don’t react immediately. Just lift your head slowly, tongue flicking once as if to say oh, you’re finally back.
Tom stares. Cold. Calculating. Silent.
Then, in Parseltongue:
“Comfortable?”
You shift, coils brushing the edge of his pillow.
“You didn’t lock the door,” you hiss back.
“You broke into my room,” Tom says plainly.
“Did I?” You respond, head tilted slightly. Tom can sense the coy tone in your voice even like this.
“Why are you here?”
A pause.
Then, a dry flick of your tongue.
“If I didn’t know better,” you murmur in that silky, serpentine rhythm, “I’d think you liked me more like this.”
He doesn’t respond. His expression doesn’t change. But his mind is racing.
You’re teasing him. Provoking him. And he’s not sure what’s worse—
That you’re right.
Or that you know you’re right.
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, stopping just at the edge of the bed.
“You think this is a game?”
You uncoil slightly. Slither forward. Lift your head until your eyes are level with his, glinting like starlight on obsidian.
“Only if you’re playing too.”
The air between you hums. Magic, tension, something older.
Finally, he speaks again.
“Change back.”
You tilt your head. A pause. And then—
Your body ripples. Lengthens. Shifts.
And there you are.
Kneeling on his bed, hair loose, eyes dark.
Looking up at him like you hadn’t just shattered whatever boundaries were left between you.
“Hello again, Riddle.”
He’s already undoing the top button of his collar.
“You’re a menace.”
Your smile is slow. Lethal.
“You like that about me.”
His collar is unbuttoned. His breath is shallow. Your knees press into the mattress, and he’s still standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he hasn’t quite decided whether to hex you or keep you.
You smile.
“What’s the matter, Riddle?” you murmur, voice low and full of smoke. “Snake got your tongue?”
That’s what does it.
He moves—sharp, precise, and then your mouth is on his, all tongue and heat and teeth.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.
It’s possession.
A warning.
A challenge.
He kisses like he brews poison—carefully, deliberately, with enough heat to scald. And you match it. Bite for bite. Breath for breath.
Your fingers curl into the front of his robes. His hands never touch you, not really—just hover near your jaw, as if gripping you would be surrender. But his lips part against yours, and that’s enough.
You pull back just enough to drag your tongue—slowly, deliberately—along the sharp line of his jaw. A single flick. A taste. Like a snake testing the air.
He shudders.
You feel the tremor in his body and smile against his skin.
“Sensitive,” you whisper.
Then, fangs.
Just a hint—you nip his bottom lip, the sharp edge of a fang catching him just enough to sting. Not to hurt. To tease. The kind of bite that says I could sink deeper if I wanted to.
His breath catches.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice rasping with restraint. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
You lick the faint trace of blood from his lip and smile again.
“I think I do.”
For a moment, all he can do is look at you.
Like he’s seeing something ancient. Something powerful. Something that slipped through the cracks in his armor and slithered straight into his spine.
And when he speaks again, it’s quiet. Dangerous.
“Get off my bed.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t stop you when you lean in and kiss him once more, slower this time, and then crawl backward off the bed like a queen giving back her stolen throne.
You disappear through the door without a word. Without a glance.
And Tom Riddle is left alone.
With the taste of you on his lip.
And a hunger in his chest he doesn’t know how to name.
Summary: After graduating, Riddle has kept to himself, but during a heatwave, he is lured back into the pureblood sphere and confronted with you once more. Your relationship never was simple. And why do pureblood events always seem to lead to discussions of marriage?
Tags: Blowjob, P in V, Unprotected sex, Light Dom/Sub, Dom!Riddle, Good girl, Princess, Brat taming, Sort of established relationship (it's complicated), FWBs, Arranged marriage, Pureblood culture, Pureblood!Reader, Mild angst/arguments, Riddle in love as much as he is capable of, Mentions of alcohol, Dialogue-heavy.
Word count: 6k
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Authors note: I wrote this like maybe two months ago and have been waiting to post it during a heat wave for maximum immersion but the heat hasn't quite reached my country until now so... this fic went a completely different direction than I was planning it to originally... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡
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The summer sun beat down in a way scarcely anyone alive could remember it doing before. Humidity made the air wobble in the distance, a thin film of moisture clinging to every surface the outdoor air could reach, Tom Riddle's skin included. He would really rather be anywhere else than here, sitting in the unforgiving heat and forced to listen to the sounds of the wizarding world's most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes in their sun-soaked mania, shouting, laughing, jumping into the pool in the hopes of impressing the opposite sex. Since graduating from Hogwarts, Riddle had experienced almost an entire blissful year without the heirs to various pureblood fortunes bugging him. For appearances' sake, he had hung around the rich, pompous assholes his whole school career, trying his best to fit in and tolerate their raucous behaviour for the sake of farming crucial career connections. Moving to Knockturn Alley, away from the wizarding world's high society, had been a reprieve. Yet, when Evan Rosier invites you somewhere, you are a fool to turn him down, especially when you might need his wealth and connections in the near future. And even the great imperturbable Tom Riddle cannot resist the siren song of pool access, free food and drink, and a place to stay that isn't his cramped, overheated Knockturn Alley flat during the hottest days of the year. Riddle figured he should actually be rather relieved he was invited, given his recent disappearance from the pureblood scene, without any real family connections to keep him invited to any events that may have taken place over the last year. It meant that he was not yet forgotten, which would be useful when the time came. Just another reason that he had forced himself here against his better judgement. He wished more and more that he hadn't, with each cannonball another guest did into the pool, leading droplets of chlorinated water to fly over onto Riddle, where he sat on a sunlounger, even though he had picked this one specifically for being the furthest from the pool. The book he had brought with him to read was ruined. Rosier had drunkenly promised to replace it, but Riddle highly doubted it was a vow that would be remembered enough to be honoured once the alcohol wore off. If only this had been an intimate affair, rather than seemingly every young pureblood from age eighteen to twenty-five having been invited. However, Riddle had to admit to himself that had the occasion been more intimate, his invitation likely would have never come. He needed this, at least to remind these young, undeservedly powerful people that he existed.
A voice cuts through his agitated thoughts. He's been blocking out the sounds of shrieking and laughter for the past hour, so the fact that a voice has been able to pass through his mental barriers is abnormal. Even more so as it isn't a shout, a shriek or a holler, but rather a calm sound. Something in his body recognises the tone before his brain fully can. Squinting against the sun, Riddle's eyes slide from their focus on the leaves of a nearby tree to the edge of the pool in front of him. There you are, your arms crossed and resting against the warm stone at the edge of the pool, your lower body still submerged in the cool water, your wet hair clinging to your shoulders and back. Though you are also squinting from the harsh light, Riddle spies a familiar playful smile on your face.
"The life of the party, like always, Riddle," you tease, tilting your head away from the sun to better observe him. He's tense, more tense than anyone else here, no doubt. Sober then, you presume. His shoulders are squared, even as he attempts to sit back against the lounger in a relaxed manner, his hands half-fisted at his sides. A white linen short-sleeve covers his upper body, clinging to his skin in places where the sweat is just too much, the top few buttons popped in a look that is nothing like Riddle. An unavoidable evil given the weather. Still, he is much more covered than any of the other men around. His hair is wavier than usual from the humidity, yet still perfect as ever, only sticking to his skin slightly at his temples. A sheen of sweat glistens on every part of exposed skin he has. When he first arrived, he had been wiping it away in an attempt to look unaffected by the heat, but the action had eventually proved itself pointless, though under your gaze, he felt the urge to reach for his handkerchief once again. He nods calmly in acknowledgement of you, hating the fact he's actively having to fight down a smile in return. "Surprised you're here," you muse. You hadn't seen him since the party Nott hosted the week of graduation.
"I'm surprised myself," he grumbles quietly, watching as Lawrence Avery runs up to the other end of the pool and dives in without any regard for the splash he makes. People around him laugh and cheer; Riddle merely wrinkles his nose in a subtle sneer, quickly fixing his expression when he hears you giggle at his disdain. You always used to taunt him, tell him he looked like a disgruntled kitten when he scrunched his nose like that. He's glad you abstain from mentioning it now, his temper is already fragile from the heat. As you lift yourself out of the pool, his eyes cannot help but stray to your body, the way your swimming costume clings, the droplets that tumble their way down your smooth skin. He reaches for his iced lemon water, which is no longer home to any ice, and takes a sip to hide the quirk of his lip as you saunter over and seat yourself on the sun lounger beside his like you own it. You might as well. He watches you stretch out, wringing out your hair onto the warm stone below. In this heat, the wet patch will evaporate in a matter of minutes. Once he sets his drink back down on the glass table between your sun loungers, you reach for it and help yourself to a sip without his permission. You are the only person in the world he would allow to do such a thing unhexed, and by the look on your face, he understands that this is exactly why you have done it. A test. He's passed.
"The things you do for appearances," you tut, shaking your head. "Am I to understand you haven't been for a dip?"
"And torture myself further? I would only contemplate swimming if there were about three dozen fewer people wasting space in the pool," he scoffs, eyes skimming the large crowd in the pool before returning to you as you stir his drink by the straw. "At least I have the appearances justification, what is your excuse for being here?" he challenges, reaching for his drink, which you hand to him, maintaining fierce eye contact as he takes a sip.
"Believe it or not, I'm still expected to maintain appearances even with the family connections… and anyway, all my friends are here," you nod toward a group of girls in the pool. He remembers well that you used to hang around with those same girls at Hogwarts. He hums in understanding; he supposes you were right, and either way, you did not really need an excuse to be here. The two of you had just always liked looking down on the rest of the pureblood troop, so much so that he sometimes forgot you were actually one of them. At least by blood. The air between you goes quiet, both of you watching the debauchery taking place in the pool for a moment. Riddle's shoulders are still squared, and you can't help but wonder what has him so on edge. You know better than to ask directly. "So… what have you been up to since Hogwarts? I haven't seen your mugshot in the Prophet yet, so it can't be anything too exciting," you joke, smiling triumphantly when his lip quirks in amusement.
"Perhaps I am just good at avoiding the Aurors," he suggests, keeping his tone neutral.
"I don't doubt it," you chuckle, settling back in your lounger and closing your eyes to block out the sun that is still unreasonably harsh, especially for the late hour. With your eyes now closed, Riddle allows himself to observe you, his eyes gliding down your body and back to your face. Your hair is already drying slightly. He's unsure how he's managed to go so long without looking at you.
"I've merely been focusing on my internship at Borgin and Burkes, how about you?" he clarifies, not sure why he's concerned about you getting the wrong idea. You heave a dramatic sigh, which has him arching a brow.
"My parents are trying to marry me off, of course," you huff. Riddle's arched brow transformed into a deep scowl. He knew arranged marriages were a large part of pureblood culture, but once again, he had forgotten that it would therefore affect you. To him, you had always been above it all, everything.
"Marrying you off would be… such a waste," he bemoaned, unable to mask his disapproval, his eyes straying to the pool once more, observing your selection of suitors. All idiots, none deserving of somebody like you. No doubt you would throw yourself from a window if you were stuck married to somebody like Avery or Rosier, he knew you that well. What a waste of a talented mind. And a pretty face. And a great body. "Tell your parents you refuse," he demands, leaning closer, straightening himself up so he can look down at your sun-flushed face. You smile and shake your head lightly.
"You're preaching to the choir here, but it doesn't work like that. I cannot simply refuse to marry," you wipe some sweat from your brow. Riddle scoffs.
"Of course you can, simply say you won't, threaten them if you must." This statement has your eyes snapping open, finding his. The frustration is clear on his face, but so is the conviction.
"Threaten them? Riddle, they're my parents!" you protest, sitting up to stare straight at him now. "And anyway, I've been waiting for a specific proposal before trying to outright refuse," you trail off, adjusting the strap of your swimming costume at your shoulder. "I suppose that has been in vain."
Riddle catches your implication immediately, even though the idea takes him by surprise. Had you been waiting for him to make an offer to your parents? It was not something the two of you had ever discussed, yet you said you'd been waiting for it, not merely hoping. Going through his memories of your various conversations over the years, he tries to recall something he might have said that would have given you this impression. He comes up empty. Sure, the two of you had… something going on, it was plain to see, and had he been a regular pureblood heir, it may have made a lot of sense to anticipate a proposal, but he wasn't, and you of all people knew that well. Frankly, even if he had wanted to offer marriage, he had completely forgotten that it was a pureblood custom currently taking place. Certainly, he'd rather you be with him than with someone like Carrow, who was currently downing an alcoholic beverage while in the pool without a care for whether it all got into his mouth, but marriage? No. Never. Well, not on such short notice anyway.
"Of course you can threaten them." His voice is tight, his eyes glued on the house elf scrambling to make everybody's drinks. He can feel your face fall further. Even without exact words, you both know he has just rejected you. For a weak moment, he wants to take it back. He fortifies once more at your voice.
"You don't have parents, Riddle, you do not understand the duty a pureblood has for their family," you spit. He had anticipated you going low, but the statement still stung. You knew his family history; you were one of the only people who truly did. You knew how badly he wished he was like everyone else here, even if he tried to act above it all. The two of you go quiet for a long moment. Riddle does not wish to apologise for rejecting you, but he knows you won't apologise either. He rolls his shoulders, trying fruitlessly to release some tension from his body. The weight of your gaze presses into the nape of his neck until he's forced to speak from the sheer pressure. No one else had this effect on him.
"Even if you married somebody more… intelligent, the expectation would still be that you stayed at home and popped out heirs, which is a waste of your skills, you know that," he tried to placate you without apologising, but he could already hear you rolling your eyes.
"I have no choice, the only agency I have is to request somebody I tolerate, which was a waste of time, evidently," you grumble and rub your face in frustration. What had you been thinking? That Riddle would reveal he was planning a romantic proposal and had been saving for your dowry. You knew him better than that, but perhaps you'd hoped that he liked you enough to save you from your misery. Of course, he wouldn't; it would require a sacrifice from him. He sacrificed nothing for anybody but himself. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. It's not his fault. If you had the choice not to get married, you would take it, and he has even less desire for romance than you do. He has big plans, you know that. You hated it when you were reminded of the fact that deep down, you were a romantic, an optimist. Even more so when you remembered who exactly it was that this optimism had senselessly latched itself onto. Foolish girl, Riddle had used to tease you when you'd leave your essays for the last minute. He was right. "I can't believe that I missed you."
"Missed me? You didn't even write me," he counters, finally turning to look at you once more, eyes still thin from the sun.
"Neither did you," you counter, running your fingers through your damp hair, shaking it out in his direction, not caring if droplets splashed onto him. In fact, at this moment you would rather relish it.
"Well, I never claimed to miss you," he smirks, earning a glare from you, which he accepts greedily, knowing that if you were truly angry, hexes would be flying. He leans closer, reaching out to gently cup your jaw, pleased when, despite the venomous look, you let his thumb caress your cheek. "I did miss you, princess," he whispers, placating you, but unable to stop himself from using the nickname you so hated just to make sure he wasn't being too vulnerable. "You know you're my favourite," he punctuates his words with a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand. Your gaze turns back to the pool, but you hate to admit that you do feel a little better for Riddle having said that. Grumbling, you help yourself to his lemon water again. The silence stretches on and on. Oppressive. Unhappy. Eventually, Rosier announces that the house elves have finished preparing dinner and for everyone to come help themselves. A table has been laid out a little way away from the pool, full of salads, grilled meats and vegetables. People begin to pull themselves out of the pool and migrate toward the table and the surrounding seating. Despite his hunger, Riddle doesn't yet move, wanting to avoid the worst of the crowd. You rise to stand as your friends climb the pool steps, intending to join them to eat. "Darling," you stop at the sound of his voice. "Don't be a stranger," he murmurs smoothly. "You are the only tolerable thing in this manor." His words give you pause. You want to be angry, but on the other hand, you know you've been naive. You stand there motionless, watching as your friends pause at the edge of the crowd and look around for you, chewing your lip.
"What room are you staying in?" you finally ask, your voice quiet. You can hear the smirk in his tone as he responds.
"Room seven, second floor, east wing. I'll be expecting you," he reaches out, squeezing your wrist in- what only in Riddle's world could count as- an affectionate gesture.
You amble off, reuniting with your friends, who, of course, have many questions about your discussion with Riddle. Purposely avoiding revealing that you'd discussed marriage with him, you herd your friends toward the food table. The hour is already late, but hardly anyone notices as the sun is still bright and eager. The atmosphere has mellowed slightly, but drinks still flow freely, and exaggerated laughter fills the air. Sitting at a table with your friends, you feel eyes on you. You know it's Riddle without having to look; he's always had a particular weight about his gaze, one you've grown rather familiar with. Really, he would be an awful husband. He was doing you a favour in his own way.
Your evening is spent watching the other pureblood boys, trying to deduce who would be the lesser of a dozen or so evils. A few had already presented themselves hopefully to your parents, but you weren't convinced by any of them as of yet. At a snail's pace, the sun began to set, though the temperature did not seem to want to abate. You indulged in a few drinks, enjoying the puddings that the house elves had slowly brought out as the main course dwindled. Riddle's gaze had ceased a little while ago, and you hadn't seen any sign of him since. Perhaps he had already retired to bed; he certainly gave the impression at no point today that he was enjoying any of the festivities. If he was trying to sleep, you weren't sure if you should bother him; the few times you had happened to wake him over the years, he had always been rather cranky. Though in this heat, you could not imagine anybody sleeping, let alone Riddle, who presumably was partially cold-blooded by virtue of his Slytherin heritage.
You allowed another hour to pass, perhaps longer; it wasn't like you were monitoring a clock while chatting with friends and watching the boys show off. Unbeknownst to you, Riddle was growing impatient in his room. He could hear cheering and laughter from his cracked-open window, but could not see the goings on in the back garden. As ridiculous as he knew it was, he couldn't help conjuring up images of you lip-locked with one of those rich imbeciles. Before he'd left, he had seen you, observing them, assessing those men the way he might assess an artefact that came through Borgin and Burkes. Calculating and impersonal. Perhaps you had made your choice and were getting it over and done with. The thought made him deeply uneasy, more so than he would have expected.
A telltale feeling of prodding at the corners of your mind alerts you to Riddle's impatience. You know he isn't actually trying to read your mind; he knows you have well-manned mental defences, he's merely begging for your attention in his usual arrogant way. As much as you want to make him wait, suffer for a moment, you are growing bored with the peacocking display in front of you. Excusing yourself for bed, you head inside. The respite from the heat is only mild and rather temporary as you head further into the manor. House elves skitter out of your way as you look for an indication as to which way is east. Riddle's prodding returns like a persistent headache, and you wish you could tell him to shut up. You fortify your defences, hoping he gets the hint. Clearly, he takes this as you ignoring him, because the prodding only intensifies. He could be such a drama queen.
Once you've found your way to the east wing and climbed the stairs to the second floor, the prodding stops abruptly. A door down the corridor swings open; he'd only stopped pestering you because he'd heard you coming. He greets you at the door with a measured expression that has you rolling your eyes.
"You know, for someone who doesn't want to marry me, you're rather clingy," you tease, letting yourself in and lying on his bed. He watches you keenly.
"Clingy? How so?" he inquires with deceptive calm. In response, you merely prod at his mind like he had been doing to you a few times until it shows on his face that he gets your point. "I simply wanted to remind you that you were expected here."
"I might have been getting it on with my future husband," you taunt, watching his shoulders square and his jaw tick. It's deeply satisfying, but it also stirs in your lower belly.
"That's what I was worried about," he hisses quietly, approaching you so smoothly it's as if he's floating. You wouldn't be surprised if he'd taught himself to do so. It was probably only a matter of months.
"Worried? Why? You have no claim over me," you retaliate, unable to keep the pleased smirk from your face. You loved it when he got jealous. Which was surprisingly often considering the air of casualness he always tried his best to inject into your interactions. He fixes you with a withering look that only widens your smile.
"I know you are upset, but do not act like you weren't holding out for my proposal a mere few hours ago." He climbs onto the bed, positioning himself over you. "We are special to each other," he husks, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that is unfamiliar to you, despite the intensity Riddle had already shown you over the years. His head drops to your throat, peppering a few kisses, not caring about the sheen of sweat on your skin, biting and sucking the skin into his mouth, set on leaving a mark. You try to ignore the way your pulse jumps as his teeth sink softly into your skin, irritated that he no doubt can feel as much as his lips skim the hollow of your throat now. He knows exactly which bits to bite and which ones to kiss. He's had plenty of practice with you, as much as the two of you don't ever discuss it. You're able to wriggle your arms out from under him, pushing him onto the other side of the bed, coming up to hover over him. He sighs, knowing you're actually annoyed and not just teasing. His hands move up, cupping your shoulders, then trailing up your neck to your jaw. "You can't marry anyone else; you'd be miserable and I— I… would be miserable," he begins, rubbing his thumbs against your flushed cheeks. Heat? Arousal? Anger? Probably a little bit of all three.
"I told you, I have no choice about this," you spit. "I would love to simply decide not to like you can."
"Darling… you sprung this all on me—"
"Well, excuse me for thinking you might have thought about it, considering it's all I've heard about the past year!" you burst out, cutting him off. Riddle's jaw ticks in frustration, one hand moving from your jaw to cover your mouth.
"Listen to me," he growls. "You sprung this on me, but—" he emphasises as he feels your mouth trying to move beneath his palm, tightening his grip on you in a warning to stay quiet and listen. Be a good girl, he'd sometimes tease, now he seemed to mean it. "I have given it some thought, considered what it would be like to attend your wedding to somebody else and… I have concluded that my only option is to marry you."
"How romantic," you grumble, your voice heavily muffled against his hand. He can still make out your words, rolling his eyes. A deep breath, he tries to steady himself to say something he never thought he would.
"It's my only choice because you belong to me." his eyes stray to the window, unable to meet yours. "Because I love you, in my own way," he coughs, as if the words almost made him gag. He said them anyway, hoping you realise he means it, because he isn't sure he will ever be able to say it again. Silence. It stretches on and on as you stare down at him, bewildered. Love? Even when you had been expecting a proposal, you had not been expecting love, merely a practical agreement for both of you. A gentle bite to his palm lets him know to move his hand. He still cannot look at you. You open your mouth to speak, but words fail you. He's done to you what you did to him earlier, sprung this on you. Whether you love him in return or not doesn't matter; you had not been prepared for this conversation and find yourself unable to say it back, even as the feeling begins to bloom in your chest. The years of sitting in the corner together, sharing a secret world, above all the rest. The occasional hookup that was never discussed because it didn't have to be. Being the only one allowed to know him. You cannot speak, and Riddle cannot look at you. What a mess.
Without other solutions, you elect to speak one of the secret languages you and Riddle have. Shifting downward, your lips connect with the now mostly dry material of his linen shirt. Just a peck, but it's enough for Riddle's body to react, jolting slightly in surprise. Still, he is too unsure to look at you, trying to relax his body as you begin trailing gentle kisses down his chest, toward his abdomen. The first kiss that hits bare skin, where his shirt has ridden up slightly, causes another jolt that Riddle tries his best to tamp down. Your hand slides up to find the button of his dark linen shorts, toying with it a little and waiting to see if he has anything to say, looking up at his handsome face through your lashes. Riddle remains quiet, though there is an obvious tension to him, his eyes glued on the ornate ceiling as if the mouldings are more interesting than what you're up to. The shyness isn't like him, you know he just needs a moment. The Riddle you know when you're alone together isn't shy; he's all-consuming, but you can't help but feel a little honoured to see him like this. He's calculated about his veneer, few people alive could likely attest to seeing Tom Riddle unsure. Slowly, you slip the button from its hole and work the trousers down enough to reveal his boxers. He's not hard yet, but he is clearly stirring awake, so you continue the kisses at the waistband of his boxers, warming him up. It works a charm, likely the anticipation more than anything else, as he hardens and swells before your eyes. Little by little, you move down the waistband of his underwear, continuing to pepper kisses just above it. You feel him against your jaw, warm and insistent. As you move to press kisses to his length through his boxers, Riddle finally finds his voice.
"Must you tease me?" he grumbles, finally looking down to meet your eyeline, trying to hide how affected he is by the way you're looking up at him. "This is the worst possible time you could choose to be a brat."
"Be careful what you say, or I'll really start being a brat," you counter, gently biting the skin below his belly button.
"Then you'll get what's coming to you," he promises, and you can't help the smile that breaks out against his skin. He looks away, but can't fully hide that he, too, is smiling. You decide to play nice, for now, and resume what you were doing. Your hand finds him through his underwear, applying a gentle pressure as you continue your teasing kisses. He can't help but sigh, his hips shifting slightly against your hand. He'd missed you terribly. Why hadn't he written to you over the last year? Just to maintain some flimsy act that he didn't care for you? No matter what happened now, he wouldn't make that mistake again. He'd write to you until you got a restraining order. Until you had him imprisoned. Then he'd write from prison too.
He feels himself twitch as you finally free him from the confines of his boxers, and then his brain goes blissfully blank. All he can focus on is the wet warmth of your mouth as it wraps around him. Only his tip at first, but it's enough to draw a deep groan from him. Your tongue laves over him with precision, swirling and flicking, tasting the slight saltiness of his pre-cum as it arrives. Riddle's body vibrates with deep grunts of pleasure, only growing louder as you relax your jaw and accept him in a little deeper. His hand threads gently into your hair, pulling slightly as he knows you like it. The hum of approval you let out only serves to heighten his pleasure, the vibration very pleasant.
"What a good girl for me," he groans as your hand, which had merely been holding the base of him until now, begins to move up and down his length as your head bobs over him. You take him as deep as you can with each descent, using your hand to attend to the rest, eyes meeting his as he looked down to watch you. Keeping your eyes on his, you flutter your lashes, pulling off of him for a moment to lewdly lick at him like an ice cream for just a moment before resuming your previous actions, reminding yourself to breathe through your nose. The display, though only brief, clearly affected him very much, making him twitch and groan. You felt his grip on your hair tighten slightly as you took him even deeper this time, causing yourself to gag slightly. He did not push you further down, just pulled you up a bit, helping guide you into a depth and rhythm that worked, his eyes threatening to slip shut from the pleasure. He fought the urge, wanting to take you in. "You look so gorgeous like that, princess," he husks, not noticing the nickname had slipped out. He makes a noise of disapproval as you pull off, your hand stilling at the same time, looking up at him with dark thunderstorm eyes. He grumbles. "What?"
"Princess," you repeat with annoyance, pushing yourself up to sit back on your haunches. Riddle groans.
"Don't be a brat, you know I mean it affectionately." He sits up, grabbing your upper arm and dragging you toward him. He presses his forehead to yours. "It just slipped out."
"And you just slipped out of my mouth," you counter. Riddle twitches at the memory of the sensation.
"You're such a little brat," he hisses. "I'm giving you one chance to go back to what you were doing like a good girl," he says, studying your expression as you shake your head in defiance. "I warned you, princess," he purrs, quickly rolling the two of you over so he's above you. "I'm going to have to punish you, princess. I wonder if that's exactly what you wanted," he smirks, his hands moving to peel you out of your long-dry swimming costume. He spreads your legs roughly, smirking at the sight of your glistening folds. "Turned on from sucking my cock, huh? You are a good girl, even though you try to pretend not to be." He holds you down by your arms, although your protests are hardly real, slight wriggling in an act of trying to escape, when really you're spreading your legs wider for him. He ruts against you once. Twice. Before he angles himself to catch on your entrance. He wants to push right in, but he hasn't been with you for a while, so he forces himself to slide in a little slower. The whine you let out rewards his decision greatly. Even though you've taken him a few times before, there is a noticeable stretch. Your back arches off the bed for a moment as he fills you up, settling snugly inside of you. He continues to hold you down, his hips beginning to roll, withdrawing from you halfway and thrusting back inside harshly, dragging purposely against your walls. He revels in your needy whining, concluding that this is what you were really hoping for when you went down on him. As much as he liked your mouth around his cock, this was better by far. He keeps up his harsh pace, one hand slipping between the two of you to find your clit and rub at it with conviction to ease the feeling of his rough thrusts. Your eyes are scrunched shut, head thrown back against the pillows, and your moans are rapidly increasing in volume as he grows rougher and rougher with you. How had he ever given this up? "Good girl, taking me so well, where's that smart mouth now, huh?" he taunts between groans of his own, offering you a particularly deep stroke when you open your mouth to retort in order to shut you up. You whine, but don't bother trying to talk again, the sensations clouding your mind. He was always so good at this, made to fit inside you, made to please you. He felt the same about you, all his, made for his pleasure. "Tell me, princess, that you belong to me," he growls. You resist, keeping your mouth shut for a while, but with each subsequent thrust, each circle against your clit, you find yourself more willing to answer. "Who does this greedy little cunt belong to?" he asks again, his own voice faltering, but you can barely notice over the sound of your own moans and the slap of wet skin against skin.
"You," you whimper after a few more futile moments of resistance. "I belong to you." Riddle's lips crash to yours; the kiss is all tongue and teeth, harsh and uncoordinated, but filled with unbridled passion. A few more frenzied thrusts and you're falling apart, shouting out your pleasure for anybody to hear, unable to care in the throes of passion. Your back arches, your cunt pulsing, milking Riddle for all that he has. He grunts loudly against your lips, holding you down on the bed as his orgasm overtakes him, emptying thick ropes of cum deep inside of you, like it's his birthright to do so. You're hardly complaining, chest heaving with the aftershocks, burying your face into Riddle's neck.
The two of you had slept together before, but it had never been so intense. Both trembling with aftershocks long after the movement had ceased. Riddle lies on top of you, catching his breath, feeling almost dizzy. He knows it's more than the physical act this time, although that had been amazing by itself. He shifts slightly off you, accepting you into his arms as you settle as if to sleep. Despite the heat in the room, you're both pressed as close together as possible, his cock still inside of you, not able to fully soften. His thoughts are elsewhere, however, as he remembers his earlier confession and your lack of response. Hesitating, but looking down to see you resting like a pleased housecat against his chest, he decides to take your actions as affirmation of similar feelings. You want to marry him after all. He would have to rethink his future a little, but he found himself willing to, for you and only you. Leaning over you carefully, he dug around his bag by the bedside until his hand brushed against something radiating dark magic. His hand closed around exactly what he'd been looking for, Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Something told him it would fit you perfectly, and, somehow, it did.
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Professor Slughorn had barely announced the end of the lesson when you jumped up from your seat, swung your back over your shoulder and fled the scene with hurried steps, attempting to escape your boyfriend's presence.
Had he said something hurtful? Well, technically no, but also, kind of, yes.
It was silly. Really, awfully silly. And yet, you couldn't help but be annoyed with Tom, who was as oblivious as a rock and did not even after a thorough explanation understand what was happening.
Before you could even finish your thought, footsteps neared you from behind, Tom's long legs catching up with you nearly effortlessly. He tugged on your robes to slow you down, keeping his voice low so as to not attract unwanted attention. "Would you be so kind and share what is bothering you?"
“No, don’t talk to me. I am mad at you and would like to continue that for the time being," you retorted simply, your head held high, not sparing him any further attention and instead continuing your rushed pace towards your dorm.
Tom sighed with defeat but did not let off either, keeping up with your pace so easily, you now had another reason to be mad at him.
“Still because of that silly Tom— Tommydachi game?” Tom asked when you rounded the corner to the dormitories, having you roll your eyes at him.
Men.
“It’s To-mo-da-chi," you hissed, fumbling with your keys to open the door to your dorm and finally put several metres and a thick, soundproof wall between you and him. "The world doesn’t revolve around you, Tom.”
Finally, the oak door creaked open with loud protest, and you shoved yourself into the sanctuary of your dorm—though too slowly to properly close it behind you.
“What even happened?” he asked, now trailing behind you as you plopped down on your bed with a deep, exasperated sigh.
You had explained this to him so often that each time you repeated the memory, it just made you more angry.
“Mii me complimented your hairstyle, and Mii Tom responded that mine reminds him of his grandma’s.”
There it was. That stupid, awful grin spreading on his face, raising an eyebrow at you.
You dramatically dropped back onto the soft mattress of your bed, folding your arms over your chest. "Don't look at me like that, Tom—I am clearly hurt, and all you do is make fun of me."
Tom huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But darling, that’s not what I would say. And that counts more than some pixels on screen shaped like me.”
Your lips formed a pout, and you strictly avoided his gaze.
“You were mean.”
“Technically, it wasn’t me who—“
You wave a hand in his face, signalling him to shut up.
“Tom, just— just be quiet. Not right now."
Though Tom didn't let up so easily. He kept asking questions, kept pestering you to see the game you'd been obsessed with for weeks—while you were trying to calm your silly thoughts and the urge to throw the nearest pillow at him.
"You are worse than your Mii-self." you complained, sitting up and opening the nightstand drawer to reveal your Nintendo Switch, which you'd smuggled onto school grounds.
"Here," you say after switching it on, tossing it onto his lap. "See for yourself. Your digital self hates me."
Now, seeing Tom play Tomodachi Life was definitely not on your bingo card for that year, but you didn't complain. After five minutes, he was so absorbed in the game a slight crease had formed between his brows, and his usually textbook posture had vanished—his shoulders relaxed, back curved.
You scooted closer to him then, watching him play with those cute pixelated versions of yourselves—smiling when you saw his efforts to get Mii Tom to like you back. He constantly grabbed his little digital self and dragged him towards Mii you—though often Mii Tom was busy staring into the distance or distracting himself with more important things instead of talking to you.
Nearly two hours had passed when your eyes got droopy, a yawn escaping your lips. The sun had set a few minutes ago, and the last few orange rays did little to illuminate your room.
You loved watching Tom play your favourite game—especially because up until now, he refused to touch anything with a screen. But he was determined to guide Mii Tom towards making it up to Mii you, and that alone made your heart flutter in your chest.
Maybe you should forgive him after all.
When another yawn fought its way past your lips, you were about to tell him to leave it for tomorrow—but Tom turned towards you suddenly, his eyes gleaming with joy.
"I want to marry you—I mean, Mii me asked Mii you for marriage!"
Oh.
Your two Miis were enjoying a Ferris wheel ride when it happened—Mii Tom was starstruck and irrevocably in love with Mii you.
"Please say yes, please yes," you whispered, cheering when your pixelated version agreed to his proposal.
On the screen of your Switch, you watched your two small lookalikes exit the cabin, their little faces beaming and content as they strolled through the market, holding hands.
Finally, you thought. It only took fifteen hours of game play to get stubborn Mii Tom to fall in love with you. Sometimes those games were awfully realistic.
"Uhh— don't look. Look away, sweetheart." Tom urged, hiding the screen from you.
But it was too late. You had already seen it.
Mii Tom had a love-at-first-sight moment with the Mii version of your best friend, essentially abandoning you for them and forgetting about your engagement altogether.
"TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE!"
꣑ৎ author's note: this masterpiece came to my mind thanks to @yuunarii-arii who was so kind to create Mii Mar and Mii Tom for her island—and guess what he told Mii Mar. yup. here you got proof:
a good day to kick this pathetic orphan boy into the nearest puddle.
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thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3
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masterlist. | drabbles.
── · ˚ 𝜗ৎ 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒. ⛥ — starring .ᐟ tom marvolo riddle x hufflepuff!reader.
ᥫ᭡. content & warnings ! reader speaks french, tom is a little bitchy but we prevail. very cutesy, very fluffy. 1k words. request ! hii 🌞🌞 could i request something about tom with a very sunshine, cheerful gf whose love language is physical touch (who’s maybe from hufflepuff???)? :) Also I really like the prompt "i think i'm gonna fail this test-" "it's okay, you pass in my heart." "That means nothing." but you can do it without the prompt if you want, anything would be great!! i <3 your writing — anon.
the concept of tom with a partner who radiated warmth was novel… it certainly took many people by surprise when the embodiment of both slytherin and hufflepuff decided to go public with their relationship (well as public as tom allowed, he was a very private person). but it would not have been a surprise to anyone who observed them closely considering you had been friends since second year, and by friends you meant you stuck to him like glue and took him under your wing because he was terrible at socialising for the sake of it.
it started when you found him in the library during your first week back to school. you were assigned summer homework but you forgot to actually complete it because who assigns children homework for the holidays, especially ones who were just first years? anyway, you snuck into the library during dinner and found tom seated by the window, a book propped open on the table and his figure was hunched over it. you would have ignored him if it were any other day but this was the first day back and he decided to skip out on dinner in favour of reading? so you did what any decent person would do and ambled over to him with soft steps.
“hello,” you greeted, taking a seat in front of him and placing the textbook you needed onto the table as well “how come you’re sitting here alone?”
it seemed like the young boy cared little for being decent as he continued to skim his book instead of lifting his head up to greet and speak to you. you huffed, crossing your arms and tapping your foot against the floor “i know you, you were in my herbology class, right?”
“well considering that slytherin and hufflepuff shared herbology last year, you’d assume we had class together.”
“ah, so you’re rude,” you nodded “should’ve expected that from a slytherin.”
he finally looked at you, his dark eyes looking into yours and you noticed a faint smirk on his face “isn’t it considered more rude to be prejudiced and believe stereotypes?”
“not if you actively feed into them,” you countered.
he scoffed “touché.”
you perked up, hands splaying over the wooden table “tu parles francais?”
his brows furrow and a hint of a frown replaces the smirk he wore “no, it’s a common word used in english too.”
“but you understood what i said?”
“i’m not obtuse, i understand basic french.”
“why’s that?”
“because i learnt the basics,” he shrugs “but why didn’t you use an article for ‘francais’, isn’t that wrong since it’s a noun?”
you smile and shake your head “well you’re correct but native french speakers prefer to miss out on the article since it’s easier to say and flows smoother!”
he hums before going back to reading but you ignore your book to continue talking to him “why did you stop?”
“i came here.”
“do you want to continue learning? it’s good to have an extra language under your belt.”
he looks up at you with an arched brow “i don’t suppose you’d be my teacher?”
“pourquoi pas? je parle francais avec facilite.”
now his arms are folded over his chest as he leans back in his seat to assess you “and why would you do that?”
“because it’s fun to teach and you seem like good company,” you chuckle at the face he makes, one of complete disbelief “what?”
“i’ve never heard someone describe my company as ‘good’.”
“you have to stop surrounding yourself with rude people then.”
and that was the story of how your friendship with tom riddle began! it was only natural for your relationship to progress into something much closer and more intimate considering you were the only person he allowed in. and perhaps you wore him down with how much he saw of you and how often you hugged him despite him standing awkwardly stiff in your arms.
“hello, my lovely thomas!” you greeted. he groaned as a response— one you deemed insufficient as you placed your hand on his face, cupping his cheeks to turn his head towards you “that’s no way to greet your girlfriend.” you mimic the forced pout on his face and he rolls his eyes while you take a seat on his lap.
“good afternoon, my lovely princess,” you wilfully ignore his sarcastic smile and plant a kiss on his cheek.
“what are we studying today?” you ask, looking down at the textbook thrown on the table surrounded by haphazard papers when you catch what is written you lift your head up to read the notes written on the blackboard of the empty classroom “what? that test after—”
“lunch?” he finishes “i know.” he drops his head to rest his forehead on your shoulder “i think i’m going to fail.”
“awe, it’s fine, you pass in my heart.”
he lifts his head to stare up at you with an unimpressed gaze “that means nothing.”
you grimace jokingly “ouch, i see you’ve still retained your rude streak,” he sighs and leans back “i jest, you’ll be fine, you’re the smartest student in this entire school, if you fail that means the test was wrong.”
he chuckles “right,” he returns your kiss, albeit chaste and quick. all it does is cause you to beam further “would you like to join me in my active recall?”
