I’ll start off by saying I adore this blog due to how amazing ur writing is & how active u r, it makes me so happy. I’m hoping you could write some tom smut where he’s the virgin & the reader (preferably a hufflepuff) is the experienced one? (cause I really can’t imagine Tom being popular or caring about sex in hogwarts). Like I can just imagine him having no idea what to do & letting the reader take in control and he’s highkey loving every minute of it (like he’s secretly just a sub).
You cannot imagine the effect this had on me. I… I am a changed person.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Nox
Summary: You’re trapped in a closet with Tom Riddle playing Seven Minutes in Heaven. What happens in the dark, stays in the dark. Word count: 4.8k Content warning: explicit sex scenes. Underage drinking I guess?
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
PART II HERE! 💖
It had taken some convincing to get you to come to the party, but you’d have to admit that it had been more fun than you’d expected – the Slytherin common room was the perfect place for a post-Quidditch game blow out, hidden away under the lake where the Professors wouldn’t hear the music blasting from enchanted gramophones, the creepy light filtering in through the tall glass windows leading into the dark waters of the lake giving the perfect background under the dim green lanterns illuminating the party.
You’re drunk on Firewhisky that a group of cheeky-faced seventh-year Gryffindor boys brought to bribe their way inside, and by the time the party is winding down at around two in the morning you’re laid out across Ruth Willows’ lap on one of the black leather couches by the fireplace, giggling and very unwilling to move.
“Alright you two,” one of the Slytherin boys you don’t recognise says, smirking. “Clear out – this is strictly Slytherin territory again.”
“Aww, come on, Hartley,” Ruth says teasingly, “don’t tell me you’re done for the night – out-partied by a couple of Hufflepuffs, are you?”
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Willows,” Hartley says seriously, pointing at her.
You sit up, the room spinning around you in a pleasant, warm way. “We can take you,” you say cheerily, resting your head on Ruth’s shoulder.
There’s a smattering of laughs from the circle of lingering party-goers – You and Ruth are the only Hufflepuffs left, but there’s a couple of Gryffindors too, and you recognise some sixth-year Ravenclaw boys whispering to each other next to the fireplace.
“A game, then,” Hartley declares, looking around the circle with a grin.
“A game!” you and Ruth echo cheerfully, lifting your drinks.
“Alright, who’s playing? Scott? Peters? How about you, Avery?”
You glance over your shoulder to the far corner of the Slytherin room at the only group left in at the party – the gaggle of Slytherin boys who had spent the whole evening sitting at the circular table looking disapprovingly at the revelry as they sipped their drinks and evidently thought themselves far too mature for such nonsense. You share an amused look with Ruth.
“No thank, you,” Avery says aloofly, turning up his nose.
“Too good for a bit of fun, are you?” one of the Gryffindor boys snickers.
“They’re just trying to show off,” another smirks back, “think they’re acting all grown up and responsible –”
“I’ll join you,” says a very unexpected voice.
The whole circle looks around in shock. Tom Riddle has stood from the table and approaches the couches, his acolytes staring after him looking surprised. “What are we playing?” Riddle asks pleasantly, taking a seat on the couch opposite you – Ella Scott from Slytherin scrambles to the side to make room for him looking like she’s just won the lottery.
“That’s the spirit, Riddle,” beams Hartley, “not like those hoity-toity friends of yours, are you?”
Riddle smiles with far too much charm as he laces his arm over the back of the couch and crosses one long leg over the other, his Slytherin boys sliding into spare places around the circle and casting him perplexed looks of surprise.
“So?” Ruth asks expectantly, grinning at Hartley. “What’s the game?”
“Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Hartley smirks.
The circle erupts; the Gryffindor boys whoop with cheers as the Ravenclaws groan and roll their eyes, and you laugh softly as your head rolls back against Ruth’s shoulder, the alcohol still making the room spin slightly.
“I don’t know this game,” Riddle says quietly through the cacophony – though everyone seems to hear him with ease all the same.
“It’s the best game ever invented,” the first Gryffindor boy grins – you think his name is Rory but you can’t remember his surname. “When it’s your turn, you spin your wand on table and whoever it points to has to spend seven minutes with you in the broom closet.”
“What is the point of that?” Riddle frowns.
There’s a smattering of snickers and Riddle’s frown vanishes at the sound, his face going strangely blank.
“Making out, of course,” Rory smirks, “catch on, Riddle.”
Riddle’s face remains expressionless but there’s a coldness to it that the others don’t seem to notice as they continue to chuckle quietly. He clearly doesn’t like being laughed at.
“Who’s going first?” you say quickly, looking around the circle to distract them.
“Hartley’s the one who suggested this, he should start,” a Slytherin girl (April…? Avril…?) smirks.
“Only because Willows goaded me!” Hartley accuses, pointing at Ruth.
“I’ll happily go first,” Ruth says with an easy smile, “since Hartley’s too chicken.”
There’s a low murmur of amusement as Hartley’s eyes narrow at Ruth leaning forward and spinning her wand on the table – only to explode into raucous laugher when it comes to a stop pointing directly at –
“Looks like you’ll be going first after all, Hartley,” Ruth says breezily, standing. “After you,” she gestures theatrically at the wooden door to the broom closet in the corner, and Hartley gets up from the couch looking extremely gobsmacked.
“Make sure you return him in one piece,” April/Avril snickers.
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Ruth says without missing a beat, grinning as she slams the door to the closet shut behind them.
“Hufflepuff’s got a set of claws on her,” the other Gryffindor boy laughs.
“Badgers are a natural predator of snakes,” you sigh, lying back on the couch and throwing back your arms in a content dizziness. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
You lie there listening to the group talk and laugh, the reedy music wheedling away in the background, and by the time the closet bursts open again it doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all – though perhaps that’s the alcohol talking.
“And that,” Ruth exclaims, falling back onto the couch beside you, “is how it’s done.”
“How’s Hartley?” you ask her, laying your head back on her lap.
“He’ll never be the same,” she says smoothly, inspecting her nails.
The group is still laughing when Hartley sits back down on the floor beside the table, his hair dishevelled and his expression rather shell-shocked.
“Have fun mate?” Rory smirks, clapping him on the shoulder.
Hartley nods blankly, and the laughter only grow.
“Alright then, who’s next?” Ruth says loudly, looking very pleased with herself.
The turn passes counter-clockwise, and April/Avril gets landed with one of the reluctant Ravenclaw boys before Edgar Peters spins Rory. Scott casts Tom next to her a very unsubtle hopeful look before she spins her wand, but when it lands on Lestrange she has the good sense not to look too disappointed.
“Alright Riddle,” Rory grins, his arm now around Edgar’s shoulders (who is blushing violently). “Your turn.”
There’s something strangely blank about Tom’s face as he leans forward and sets his wand on the table, and you let your head loll to the side to watch with interest as Tom’s long, pale fingers deftly spin his wand. You cast an eye around the circle and fail to hold in a laugh; nearly everyone is watching in utter rapture, mostly leaning forward expectantly. Your laugh is drowned out by the noise that erupts across the group when Tom’s wand comes to a gradual stop pointing directly at your face.
“Is that me or you?” you ask Ruth languidly, looking up at her from her lap.
“That’s you,” she smirks down at you, “I’ve had quite enough Slytherin for one night.”
“Alright then,” you sigh, sitting up and stretching before swinging your legs off the couch and sprightly standing.
Tom is looking up at you blankly, unmoved from the couch.
“Well come on then,” you say in amusement, waving your hands at him. “The clock doesn’t start until the door shuts, you know.”
Riddle blinks and then smoothly stands, and you totter around the couch and stroll towards the door to the closet, still buzzing from the Firewhiskey. Riddle follows you silently, not looking at you as you hold the door open for him.
“Have fun!” someone shouts from the couches to general giggles.
You roll your eyes and let the door fall shut. Darkness and utter silence immediately falls, and you realise at once that at least one of the previous players has cast a muffling charm on the door to stop any potential eavesdropping.
“Lumos Volant,” you murmur.
A little ball of warm yellow light springs from your wand and hovers happily above the two of you, casting the inside of the closet into view – it’s small and cramped, a table stacked with boxes of books and old parchments beside you and shelves crammed with all sorts of things on every wall, hedging you in. Tom is standing in the middle of the closet, his dark, even gaze on you. There’s something suddenly very funny to you about the fact that he’s still wearing his uniform, impeccable as always.
“I thought lights were not permitted,” he says quietly.
You lift yourself up onto the edge of the table, feet swinging slightly. “I thought we might talk for a moment,” you say casually, looking around the closet.
Tom hesitates. “Talk?” he asks slowly.
“You’ve not done this before, have you?” you ask him, meeting his gaze with a tilt to your head.
“I believe I made it quite clear that I’m unfamiliar with the rules of this –”
“Not the game,” you interrupt, shaking your head with a soft smile. “This.” You gesture between the two of you.
Silence returns. Tom looks at you with an impenetrable expression as you wait for his reply, your feet still swinging lightly.
“And why would you think that?” he eventually asks, very evenly.
You shrug. “Just my read on you, I suppose. Am I wrong?”
Tom just leans back against the shelves, his hands pushing back his robes and sliding into the pockets of his slacks. For the first time you take a moment to appreciate exactly how good-looking he is; the black waves of his hair, the high cheekbones, the elegant curve of his lips – and the naturally regal quality of his features only augmented by the calm composure he always seemed to radiate. It was easy to see why he’d been made prefect, why Slughorn always fawned over him, why everyone said that he’d be Minister for Magic one day.
“You know, we don’t have to do anything,” you say conversationally.
Tom arches one of his dark brows. “What do you mean?” he asks in wry amusement.
“A stranger in a closet at a party?” you smile. “With a time limit, no less… Not exactly a very romantic setting.”
“I’m not a romantic,” Tom says lightly, looking away.
“No,” you say quietly. “You’re not, are you?”
Tom’s eyes flash to yours. For a moment you think you see something almost annoyed in his eyes, like your comment rubbed him the wrong way, and then the look is gone and his attention returns to the closet. “Your read on me appears to be quite extensive,” he says distinctly.
You laugh. “Does it bother you to be so transparent?”
His lips curve into a rather unsettling smirk. “Transparent,” he echoes, looking up at the ball of light floating above. “I must say, that’s a first…”
“You don’t like being laughed at, do you?” you say nonchalantly. “Specifically when you’re being excluded – oh! Is that why you spend so much time with those horrible blood supremacists even though you’re a half-blood?”
Tom’s eyes narrow on you and his smirk vanishes immediately. Something sharp has taken over his face, and you think that perhaps if you hadn’t drunk so much Firewhiskey, you’d find it scary.
“You tell those boys what to do, don’t you? They listen to you even when they don’t want to – Avery didn’t even want to play tonight but he followed you the second you came over. Are you in control all the time?” you ask curiously. “Is that why you dress all…” you wave a hand at his absolutely perfect uniform, shoes charmed to a shine, hair set into tidy waves, Slytherin tie dead straight and his prefect badge gleaming on his robes. “Well anyway, I suppose that would explain the grades, too.”
“Extensive indeed,” Tom breathes, tone very cool. “Is there more?”
“Yes,” you smile, holding the edge of the table lightly. “I don’t think you’re one to be coerced into doing something you don’t want to do.”
“Is that so?” Tom asks icily.
You nod. “Which means you want to be here.”
“I’m regretting it already.”
“You are not,” you scoff, “or you would have left.”
“I’m considering it,” he snaps.
“Come here.”
Tom’s expression falters, his brow furrowing. “What?”
You lift a hand and motion him closer with a casual wave. “Come here,” you repeat softly.
Tom huffs disapprovingly and looks away. “If I were really so transparent you would know not to give me orders,” he says coolly.
“Tom.”
His eyes find yours immediately, and you tilt your head again. “I’m not ordering you,” you say quietly, “I’m inviting you.”
Tom frowns slightly, something very calculating about the way he looks at you in the ensuing silence. After a long moment, Tom gently pushes off the wall and takes three slow steps towards you, stopping a respectful distance from where you’re sitting on edge of the table, his hands still in his pockets.
You smile, amused. “Closer.”
The blankness has returned to his face. You wonder if perhaps that’s how he looks when he doesn’t know how to look.
Tom takes the final step towards you, just barely brushing your knees, looking down at you with impenetrable eyes. You slowly reach forward and gently take his wrists, pulling his hands from his pockets and placing them lightly on your thighs. Tom doesn’t react, he only keeps his eyes on yours, his hands utterly still where you’ve placed them. You let your own remain on top of his as you look up at him, watching his face curiously as you gently guide his hands to push your knees apart.
He blinks, the barest flicker of his eyelids, a seemingly involuntary reaction – but that was what you’re looking for. Something beyond the composure. Something out of his control.
Slowly, you glide your hands up his forearms, keeping your eyes on his face and watching for his reaction. You can feel his warmth through his robes, his body beneath the impeccable layers of his uniform, your touch traveling up to his shoulders, down across his chest, and in a single, unbroken motion you lace your fingers around his tie and pull gently.
Tom’s eyes flicker again, but he lets you pull him down towards you, smooth and slow, and you feel anticipation thrumming in your chest as he gets closer, those dark eyes fixed on yours, his expression still blank and inscrutable. He’s less than an inch from your lips when you stop. Tom pauses at once, bent to you with his hands still resting on your thighs, your knees brushing against his hips. He’s close enough that you can feel his breath warm on your face.
“Are you quite sure I can’t order you around?” you ask softly, leaning up and very gently pressing your lips right next to his mouth. Tom exhales slightly, his eyes closing. You smile and then press your lips up against his neck, right in the most vulnerable point under his jaw. “I think you might like it,” you murmur against his skin.
Satisfaction curls in your stomach when you feel his fingers press ever-so-slightly harder into your thighs. “What would you have me do?” Tom asks quietly, and he’s almost entirely successful at concealing the slight thickness in his voice – but not quite.
“I’d have you move those hands of yours,” you say softly, your lips trailing back up his jaw. “I didn’t put them there to stay still.”
Tom exhales again, tense and measured, and then very slowly his hands slide up your thighs. His hands are warm and reserved, travelling to your hips as you press your lips against his pulse point and listen to his breathing, the deliberateness of it, the brittle tension in it. Tom is trying very hard to remain in control.
You pull away and Tom’s hands fall still on your waist. His eyes have gone hooded and dark, and a flutter of excitement swells in your stomach at the sight. “Keep going,” you say quietly, gently pulling on his tie again, bringing him down to your lips and holding him there, barely a breath away.
Tom hesitates only for a second before his hands start to move again, sliding up your waist, your ribcage, the side of your chest – you nearly smile at how obvious he’s being at avoiding touching your breasts – up your collarbones, your neck, coming to a halt on either side of your jaw.
For a moment he holds you there, and you hold him there too, your hand on his tie anchoring him in place mere milimetres from you. His gaze is level but you can see the hesitation behind his eyes, feel the reservation in his hands.
“Nox,” you whisper against his lips.
The light above you goes out.
In the darkness, the warmth is all-encompassing, the sound of his breath louder, the heady, rich scent of him more potent, and the feeling of his hands on your skin more overpowering, and you lean without hesitation, kissing him slow and smooth, and…
Your stomach twists. He’s kissing you back just the same, restrained at first, hesitant like you were expecting, but when your arms slide up around his neck to pull him closer, drawing him into you, some of Tom’s restraint starts to falter. His hands against your face hold you more firmly, his breathing getting sharper, and his head tilts to the side to kiss you deeper. When you lock your ankles together behind him, the inside of your thighs pressing against his hips he breaks the kiss and you look up blindly into the dark.
“What?” you ask softly.
“I… you were right,” he says, still breathing slightly harder than normal. “I haven’t… done this before.”
“Do you want to?”
There’s a ringing silence. You frown in the dark. “You don’t have to, Tom.”
“You’ve already noted that I’m not one to be coerced into doing something that I don’t want to do,” Tom says smoothly, leaning back down to your lips.
“Right on that count too, was I?” you smile, kissing him again before he has a chance to reply.
Tom inhales and his hands pull your face closer to him, his mouth moving more insistently, and as you twist your fingers through the soft waves of his hair, you experimentally brush your tongue against his top lip. He immediately pulls away again and you laugh softly.
“Sorry,” you chuckle, “too much?”
He hesitates. “I wasn’t expecting it,” he says evenly. Some of the restraint has returned.
“Shall I do it again? Now that you’re expecting it?” you ask with no small amount of amusement.
By way of reply Tom slowly leans in again and kisses you deeply, and then – exactly as you had done – his tongue traces your top lip, like he’s mimicking you. He is mimicking you, you realise as you kiss him back enthusiastically, he’s copying what you’re doing because he doesn’t know what else to do.
If you’re leading by example, then there’s only one thing for it.
You slide your hands from around his neck down his body, pressing your hands flat against his chest and sighing against his lips – he feels good. Down your hands fall, curving under his jumper, gently tugging his shirt from his trousers, and Tom is kissing you harder and harder, stepping in closer, a hand falling from your face and slipping around your waist to pull you closer to him.
Your fingers brush his warm stomach and Tom breaks the kiss again, his head falling onto your shoulder as you touch him, your hands travelling around his hips and up his back. His skin is soft and smooth, his body lean and warm, and you’re breathing hard yourself when Tom lifts his head again.
“Can I…” he says slowly.
“Can you what?” you breathe.
Tom slowly kisses you, full and open, his lips lingering when he pulls away. When he speaks, he’s so close that you can feel his lips forming the words against yours. “Can I touch you?” he murmurs.
You laugh softly again. “If you weren’t so opposed to being ordered around, I would have already told you to.”
Tom’s arm around your waist tightens and pulls you into another kiss, and this time when his tongue brushes your lips you reach up and take his other hand from where he’s still cupping your face, gently guiding it down your neck, down the swell of your chest – Tom’s breathing takes on that same brittle quality – down your hip, your thigh, coming to a stop where the hem on your dress rests just above your knees.
Your lips draw from his and there’s a ringing silence. Too quiet. You realise that you’re both holding your breath.
“Is this what you meant?” you ask softly.
Tom swallows, and he nods.
You kiss him again, sliding his hand up your thigh and under your dress. When you bring his hand up to the hollow where your thigh meets your hip, Tom exhales again, breaking the kiss as his head tilts down. “I… I’ve never…” he says slowly, swallowing again. “I don’t know what to do,” he finishes quietly, and you can hear the conflict in his voice, his pride battling with his desire.
“Would you like me to show you?” you murmur.
He takes a breath and nods again.
You guide his hand inwards, the touch of his fingers against the outside of your underwear making heat spread across your skin. Slowly, you push Tom’s hand into place and carefully press to curve his fingers. When he feels how wet you are Tom breathes out very shakily and then – to your surprise – his lips are against yours, kissing you as you move his fingers with your own, showing him what to do.
He’s a fast learner. Tom’s fingers slide gently against you, mimicking what you show him and kissing you the whole time – it’s too much very quickly, and you can’t keep yourself from moaning as searing pleasure burns at his touch, smothered by his kiss. Soon you draw your hand away, confident that he knows how to continue, and place your palm against his cheek to draw him closer into the kiss. Tom’s grip around you tightens, his tongue meeting yours, the pressure and speed of his fingers just barely increasing and making you gasp into his mouth.
“Like that?” he asks softly.
“Like that,” you breathe, your eyes squeezing shut as tension coils in your core. “Don’t… don’t stop…”
Tom’s mouth presses hot against your jaw and your head falls back automatically, his lips moving – just like yours had – right on the vulnerable part under your jawbone.
You feel the pleasure hike, growing and growing, and then with your palm still flat on Tom’s cheek and your other curled into a fist around his tie, it hits you hard, gasping as the dark closet seeming to spin with lights for a moment before you slowly come down.
Tom slowly draws his hand from you, and over your own panting you can hear him take a long, tense breath that sounds suspiciously shaky.
“Now,” you say a little breathlessly, “it’s your turn.”
Tom is silent as you slide your palm down his neck, his chest, keeping one hand fixed around his tie as the other brushes his hip, slips under his shirt again and traces the top of his trousers.
With a small, sharp tug on his tie, Tom’s mouth is nearly against yours again and you hear his breath stutter. “Do you want me to touch you?” you whisper against his lips.
He swallows. Nods.
Your fingers curl around the button of his trousers, pull it open, and then slowly undo the zip. Tom reaches up and takes your face in his hands, taking another shaky breath as his forehead presses against yours, and you can almost imagine his eyes closing, the tension on his face, the wanting.
Slowly, knowing that you’re teasing him, you slide your hand against his skin just beneath the line of his trousers, feeling the flat warmth of his stomach, the sharp angle of his hip bone – Tom’s hands hold your face tighter and he’s trying to control his breathing as you push your hand lower, lower –
There’s a rap on the door that makes you both jump and you pull your hand from him quickly.
“Time’s up!” someone yells from outside, muffling charm broken. “That’s seven minutes!”
You suppress a laugh as you reach for your wand on the table next to you. Just when things were getting good… “Lumos Volant,” you say again softly.
From your wand the same ball of light erupts, and you freeze.
Tom is still standing in front of you, but he looks nothing like when you saw him last. The refined, impeccable, composed Tom Riddle has been replaced by a figure unlike any you’ve seen – Tom’s dark hair is tousled and curled, his eyes black with hunger, his lips slick and pink and his cheeks flushed. His tie hangs loose from his crumpled collar, his shirt untucked and his trousers still unbuttoned.
Worst of all is the way he’s looking at you.
Tom’s dark, ravenous eyes sweep over you in what must be the same way you’ve been looking at him, lingering on the sleeve of your dress fallen from your shoulder, the hem pushed up all the way to reveal your thighs where his elegant, pale hands are resting. Whatever he finds on your face catches his attention because his jaw tightens and he looks on the brink of leaning in again.
“We… should…” you say slowly, unable to look away from him.
He nods silently.
Neither of you move.
You clear your throat and force your gaze off his face, straightening your dress pointedly and standing. Tom’s uniform slides back into its usual perfection with a single wave of his hand, but as he moves to step past you, your palm flashes up and catches his chest. Tom looks down at you at once and your heart skips a beat at the heat in his eyes.
“Your… your hair,” you say sheepishly, nodding at it. “You might want to…” You reach up before he can and push your fingers through it, smoothing it out and returning it to its regular impeccable state.
Tom’s eyes don’t leave yours as you touch him, and your cheeks grow warm, pointedly not lowering your gaze to his as you work.
“There,” you say quietly, smiling at him as your hands drop.
He doesn’t step away. He just looks down at you.
Your face gets warmer still. “Listen,” you say softly, “do you… want to keep this between us?”
The barest hint of a frown appears on Tom’s face. “Why would I want that?” he asks evenly.
“I just thought you might,” you shrug.
His lips flicker into what might be called a smile. “Just your read on me?” he asks with the faintest brush of dry humour.
“So?” you smile, rolling your eyes slightly. “Would you like that?”
Tom’s expression falls sober. After a second he steps in a little closer and you can’t ignore the way your pulse spikes when he lifts his fingers and pushes your hair back behind your ear, so soft that you shiver. “Yes,” he says very quietly, “I would like that.”
You nod and quickly turn away before you can get distracted again, pulling the door open and humming absently as you step out. You know without needing to check that Tom is following you with that blank composure returned to his face.
“Oi oi,” Ruth calls, winking at you. “You sure took your time – longest seven minutes I’ve ever seen!”
“We just talked, Ruth,” you say with a wry grin, leaning against the back of the couch. “Tom is an excellent conversationalist.”
“Conversationalist?” she repeats, smirking. “Is that what they call it these days?”
“We should be going,” you say dryly, giving her a look. “It’s nearly three in the morning and we’ve got Apparating class tomorrow.”
“Merlin’s beard, if I don’t splinch myself it’ll be a bloody miracle,” Ruth mutters, standing. “Alright you lot, try not to do anything too irresponsible once we’re gone!”
You catch Tom’s eye as he sits back down on the couch, but both of you look away again.
“Good night lovely people!” Ruth calls gaudily, throwing an arm around your shoulders and leading you across the Slytherin common room towards the steps, “Oh – and Hartley.”
The circle snickers, and you chance one last glance over your shoulder at Tom – but he’s not looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the little table in between the black leather couches, on his wand resting there, still pointing at where you’d been sitting.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
PART II HERE! 💖
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