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slytherinslut0 · 17 days ago

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SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 10th. tom riddle — oral sex, experienced!tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: your ex couldn’t make you orgasm, so you were certain you were broken. tom shows you just how wrong you are.

warnings: 18+, SMUTTT MDNI, tom riddle can eat me aliv—sorry who tf said that?, tom riddle is such a realist; he sees a problem and he finds a solution, tom is a munch, praise kink, oral f!receiving, experienced tom, hufflepuff!reader.

Months pass, and your project remains the only thing Tom ever prioritizes when it's you asking.

Progress is slow—slow because you're usually far too busy talking to actually focus—yet, he always stays. He listens, even when the things you say should bore him, even when they mean nothing at all. He sits there—giving you hardly the barest scraps of himself in return as you fill the space between you with everything that crosses your mind.

Things he'd never waste a second hearing from anyone else.

And tonight, to no-one's surprise, you're doing it again—rambling on about nothing and everything all at once. You've got this way of talking—weaving tangents into something almost poetic, and usually, he lets it fade into the background as he works. You're saying something about the differences between the seasons, or maybe it's just some other kind of sentimental nonsense—at this point, he's not entirely sure.

It's easy to tune out. He tells himself he's not really listening.

Until—

"Actually, I guess I should clarify that—it's all hypothetical. I don't date," he doesn't know what you said before this, but he's certainly intrigued by it now. "And really, it has nothing to do with like, self esteem or anything, I'm just broken. Best to save someone the trouble."

That stops him cold. It's not so much the declaration that you don't date—he could have guessed that himself—but more so the way you've just called yourself broken.

It's not a word he's ever heard you use before.

"What do you mean, broken?" He asks, the question coming out far more blunt than he probably intended.

It just seems so out of character for you—you've always been an optimist, far too annoyingly positive to speak of anything this way. He blinks when you freeze, and blinks again when a moment of self consciousness seems to pass over your face—and he notes how that's a first for you, too.

"Broken...as in, uh, not normal," your eyes flit down to your lap, tracing the wood beneath where you're seated on the floor in his dorm. "My ex made that very clear in his assessment of me."

The mention of an ex is something he'd been anticipating—you're in your twenties, after all—but it's the idea that your ex is the source of you calling yourself broken, that he can't quite swallow.

"You're 'broken' because of one ex?" He says, and he can't stop how derisive and skeptical his voice sounds. He doesn't care to try. "I'm not following."

"I'm what you'd call, damaged goods, I think," you murmur, and there's an almost self-deprecating smirk on your face. He can't help but think how he's never seen that look on you, either. "I've got a slew of unhealthy baggage that comes along with me. You know, childhood traumas, abandonment issues, daddy issues—"

He snorts at that—daddy issues—and your head snaps up, smirk deepening despite yourself.

"Don't snort at my daddy issues," you huff, and there's a familiar annoyance in your voice that puts him at ease. "They're valid and real."

"I'm not denying their validity," he counters, his own smirk beginning to surface. "But daddy issues? Come on. You're not some tired cliché ripped out of a teenage romance novel. I refuse to accept your declaration of brokenness until you give me factual reasoning."

You laugh at that—alive and genuine—and for a moment, he's reminded of why he even tolerates you in his space at all.

"Fine," you cross your arms over your chest. "What do you want to know then?"

He makes a low, contemplative sound at that—because there's a million questions that come to mind with the words damaged goods—and after a moment, he settles on the one that falls out first.

"What is it, precisely, that makes you broken?"

You sigh, a bit theatrically—he knows you're just putting on a show and he wants to laugh at you for it—but he reigns that in, for now, while you figure out how you're going to respond to that.

The truth is, you don't know how to tell him the real reason you're broken—the part that has nothing to do with the laundry list of emotional baggage you could rattle off with ease. It's something...different.

Something more physical.

"I don't know, okay?" You're getting defensive. You're not sure why but you are. "Just—forget I said anything. We have this assignment to—"

"You dodging the question tells me it's more than just psychological," he cuts you off, leaning back into the couch. The way he's looking at you makes it clear—there's no way he's letting this go. "You getting defensive tells me you're embarrassed by it."

You sigh again, leaning back on your palms to mirror his body language, though it doesn't feel half as natural on you as it does on him.

"And you, being an insufferable arse, is telling me I never should have mentioned it in the first place."

His smirk at that makes you want to glare at him.

"Stop dodging," he says. "You brought it up. You don't get to take it back."

It's a challenge—the gleam in his eyes is practically screaming so. You're not sure why the sight of it makes something low in your stomach clench, and you're even less sure of why you want to tell him something like this—something you haven't told anyone else—not friends, certainly not family.

Whatever the reasoning, you can feel yourself relent.

"Maybe," you pause, the look on his face makes you second guess yourself. "...maybe I don't want to tell you because I'm afraid you'll look at me differently." You glance down at your lap, fingers twitching against the yellow pleats of your skirt before finally meeting his eyes again. "And I kind of like the way you look at me now."

Something like curiosity passes over his expression at that—but it's quickly hidden by the type of skepticism that tells you he still doesn't believe you're being serious.

"You're overthinking it," he replies, unmoving. "Whatever it is you think you're going to tell me, I'm not going to look at you differently. You're still you—no filter, unabashedly verbal—"

"Too verbal. Too positive, too loud," you finish his sentence for him—because you know that's how he thinks of you. "Too annoyingly optimistic. Far too hufflepuff for your cold snake skin. I know."

"Exactly," he says, tongue running over his bottom lip in attempt to quell his smirk. "So I reiterate. There's nothing you could tell me that would change that."

"Fine," you relent, giving in begrudgingly because you know there's no other option. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He just lifts a hand at that, as if to say; whatever you think it is, I can handle it. The action makes you suck a breath into your lungs, trapping it there.

"You're right," you say after a long exhale. "I have a slew of psychological bullshit that would take the span of a year for me to fully go over in one sitting—but, I'm fine with it. That's...that's not the thing that made me call myself broken."

He says nothing, just makes a motion with his eyes for you to keep going.

"It's, uhm...physical." You whisper, and your brain is moving too much and too fast and you're not even completely sure how to say it without sounding insane. "And...I don't know, I just...I can't orgasm. No matter what. I just can't—it's frustrating and embarrassing and it's the reason my ex ended things."

There's a silence that follows, and he knows if it were anyone else, they'd probably find a way to comfort you. Reassure you. Tom, however, isn't anyone else—

"You're joking," he says, and his tone is incredulous again.

A self-depreciating laugh leaves your lips involuntarily, the sound of it making you almost want to cringe.

"Would it be less embarrassing if I was?"

He's still just watching you, dissecting your words as if waiting for you to crack a smile and confess this was all some stupid joke—and the vulnerability of it aches like a stab to the gut.

"This is the reason you think you're broken?" Is what he goes with when he finally realizes you're being serious. "Because you haven’t orgasmed?"

The bluntness of it makes you flush, makes you wish you could sink into the floor. "I know it's not normal, okay—"

"It's not an abnormality, either," he asserts, with casualty. "You might just have a disconnect."

You blink, caught off guard—not just by his choice of words, but by how matter-of-fact he sounds, like this isn't the mortifying confession it feels like.

"A disconnect?"

"A disconnect," he repeats, looking you over, something clinical slipping into his eyes. "Between mind and body. And considering how loud your thoughts are—"

"Hey—" you snap, suddenly feeling a bit indignant, but he just continues on.

"—it's not surprising that you can't get out of your own head."

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he's not a therapist, so what the hell does he know? But the certainty in his expression makes you pause. He doesn't look patronizing or condescending, just...assured. Like he knows exactly what he's talking about.

You hesitate, lips parting, a protest forming on your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, he raises a hand to stop you.

"Come here," he says, standing up from the couch.

You blink, trying to decipher what the hell he's implying—because if anything, the last thing that's going to make you less paranoid about intimacy is proximity.

"What?"

He just looks at you, making a motion with two fingers, beckoning you to stand.

"Don't ask questions. Just come here."

It's an order, and it makes your spine tingle in a way that's definitely not comfortable—but you get up from the floor, and move closer to him anyway, closing the distance between you with only a few steps until you're close enough to him that you can practically feel the heat that seems to come off him in waves.

It's weird—he's suddenly too much all at once—you're so much more aware of him being in front of you than you think you've ever been before and it does not help that he's just looking at you—as if studying you—blinking only once as he raises those same two fingers to your neck, resting them against the pulse point at your throat.

Your entire body tenses. His touch is far more gentle than you ever imagined it being, something disarming that makes your pulse beat faster against his fingers as a result—and because this is Tom, with all his smug and certainty—he gives you a look that tells you he can feel it before he slides his fingers up to rest on your forehead.

You scowl at the motion, but he clicks his tongue, the sound as condescending as it is amused.

"I told you, you're an overthinker." He murmurs, eyes dipping to your lips. "Too much noise."

You want to refute that—mostly because you're not overthinking, you can't be—he's just so unequivocally overwhelming—

"I'm not—"

You start, but he moves his fingers from your forehead and places them against your lips—

"Quiet." He scolds, and that makes something low in your stomach clench. "Your body knows what to do. You're just letting your thoughts get in the way."

You long to protest again, just for the sake of defiance—but then his fingers are against your collarbone, and that motion in your stomach becomes a bit more of a squirm—

"Your body is trying to tell you something," he whispers, watching each little hitch in your breath. "But you're too busy talking over it to hear what it's saying."

You realize—with a sort of horror that's laced with something a little more uncomfortable—that he's right. Your body is trying to say something. It's communicating through the unsteady force of your breaths, through the clench of your fists against your skirt—

Of course, he notices. He's noticing far too much.

"Relax," he murmurs, and now he's trailing those same two fingers in an unhurried path down your shoulder. You suddenly regret every decision that led to you wearing a T-shirt. "I'm not going to bite you."

Something about the way he says it makes you wish he wasn't quite so convincing—the familiar banter you long for gone with the sharp exhale that comes out of your mouth as his fingers encircle your wrist—

"Your pulse is racing," he says casually, far too casually for how much effort it's taking you not to scream. "Does that seem broken to you?"

Gods—you want to respond—you really, really do— but your thoughts flatline when you realize his touch has shifted. He's no longer just holding your wrist; he's guiding your hands to rest against his chest, and—

"There you go," he whispers, and the tone of it tells you he knows exactly what it is he's doing to you. "See? Your body's doing exactly what it's meant to do. You—" his fingers trail up your arms, and his voice gets lower. "—are not broken."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of your hands on his chest and the way your palms are clammy against the fabric of his shirt. He's shifting you now, deliberately crowding you, and it's only when you feel the edge of the couch press against the back of your calves that you realize—perhaps a second too late—exactly what it is he's doing.

You stumble back onto the leather, and he follows—crushing his lips to yours.

You gasp, startled, because despite everything you truly hadn't seen this coming. The kiss is messy, clumsy, and his hand finds the nape of your neck, tugging at your hair with just enough force to make it sting. And inevitably, when you gasp again, he takes it as an invitation to work his tongue into your mouth, other hand slipping under your shirt—trailing up your stomach.

You're trembling now, and he makes a low sound at the realization. Your brain is racing to catch up, and the irony of this isn't lost on you—he'd just claimed you weren't broken, but he might as well be destroying you himself.

He parts from your lips only to trail his own across your jaw—

"You're shaking," he murmurs with a smirk against your throat—as if he's taking immense pleasure in the fact—you hate how smug it makes him sound. "Do you want me to stop?"

You want to tell him he's being a bastard, but then his lips press to that spot on your neck—the one that makes your breath hitch and your pulse stutter—and you find yourself whimpering at the sensation.

"No," you breathe, and you'd be embarrassed by the pleading tone in your voice if you weren't so lost in the moment. "Don't stop."

He makes another low, satisfied noise at that.

"Good," he whispers. "No thinking. Just feel."

You swallow—throat dry. It's unfair how easily he's dismantling you with nothing but his mouth and hands. Unfair how he's leaving you breathless and unraveling while somehow making you feel seen in a way you can't explain, even with your eyes shut.

"Tom," you find yourself whimpering, and you aren't even sure what you're asking for—you just know you want more as his lips trail lower—as his fingers work to tug down your skirt. "Gods."

"Shh. Feel me," he murmurs, almost possessively, his lips brushing lower, grazing over your stomach, then your pelvis. "Let your body do the talking."

You've got your hands tangled in his hair before you even know what you're doing, and you hate the fact that you're pretty sure you'd melt into a puddle if he weren't holding you together.

"I feel you," you whimper as he kisses lower. "You're all I feel."

He makes another low sound at that, and you just know it's the response of ‘yeah, that’s right’—but then he's between your legs, panties shifted out of the way, and the first sweep of his tongue against your clit makes all coherent thought shift to static.

"Oh! God," you gasp, the word barely escaping before dissolving into a whimper when he does something with his tongue that makes your vision blur. "Tom—oh, fuck."

He just makes that smug, satisfied noise against you again before his tongue swirls over your clit and you find yourself almost cursing whatever deity made him so good at this, because it's not fair how quickly he reduced you to a whimpering, shaking mess beneath him and—

"Don't stop," you find yourself babbling, digging your nails into his scalp and knowing you look like a goddamn wreck as he makes a meal out of you—tongue lapping up your slick and swirling your clit before sealing his lips around it and forcing your back off the leather beneath it. "Please, don't stop, please—"

It's all you can manage to say. Your thighs are shaking now, and you're sure he's got you dripping all over his face with how soaked you are. He knows you're falling apart and he just keeps going— your brain ceasing function in favour of just focusing on how fucking close you are—how close you are to something you've never felt before in your life—and you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore but it's incoherent and loud—

"I need—" you whimper, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know he has it. "I need—I need—“

"Let go," he murmurs against you, the roughness in it vibrating up into your belly. "I dare you."

There's still a little bit of you functioning on autopilot, just enough to tell you that when he murmurs those words—vibrations rattling up your cunt and into your chest—you're completely done for.

It’s merely a few seconds later that your high reaches its peak and he just keeps lapping as you shake apart beneath him with an intensity you've never felt before in your life—orgasm shredding you apart at the seams. Your thighs clamp around his face, your eyes squeezed shut, ears ringing so loud you barely register his low, muttered praises: "good girl," "so good," "there you go."

You’re fairly positive your legs will never be able to support you again when you finally come back down, feeling entirely like jelly as he pulls back, tongue flicking over his lips to clean off whatever's left of you.

And without thinking, you grab him and pull him up, crashing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. He tastes like you, like him, like something you can't quite describe—and it makes everything feel intense and unbearably real all at once.

He gives you a moment, as if letting you recover, just languidly kissing you back—and you have to be honest with yourself and admit that this kind of makes you want to scream.

"A disconnect," he smirks against your mouth, the tone still smug. You manage a weak smack to his shoulder, though it does nothing to wipe the satisfaction off his face. "Still sure you're broken?"

You hate that he's right. Hate that he's managed to pull a reaction from you that you didn't think was possible. But as you sit there, shaky and spent, you know you can't deny the truth: no, you're not broken.

"Not broken." You whisper back. "You will be though, if you don't stop smirking at me like that."

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genshingorlsrevengeance · 5 months ago

Note

how many times do i have to teach you this lesson old man

Ya know what? What if I want to be thirsty on main? AS A MATTER OF FACT:

(Genshin Impact/GFL) Stripping their S/O's clothes off

Genshin: Arlecchino, Clorinde, Chiori, Furina, Rosaria, Shenhe Girls' Frontline: M4A1, M16A1, AK-12, AN-94, Springfield

NSF-W BELOW THE CUT!

I WILL BE THIRSTY ON MAIN

Arlecchino's sharp gaze doesn't flinch as she's slowly tearing off S/O's shirt, one of her darkened fingers trailing down to their chest.

Despite how much S/O is squirming and avoiding to meet her gaze, Arlecchino pays it no mind and continues to study their body.

It was enticing to her, knowing that S/O belonged to her, and nobody else.

Which meant that there was no problem with her getting to see S/O's body with no obstructions.

One of her hands grab's S/O's face and forces it to look at her while the other quickly yanked their waist forward, making S/O yelp in surprise.

(Arlecchino) "Keep your eyes on me, S/O. I want to see all your reactions perfectly."

Arlecchino had the faintest appearance of a smirk as the hand on S/O's waist slid down underneath their pants and removing it, watching S/O flush red.

(Arlecchino) "Hm, much better."

Clorinde takes care to not rip any of S/O's clothing, lifting their shirt off slowly as both their breathing gets heavier by the second.

She can't help but admire their chest, with one hand brushing across it and just gently squeezing it with her fingers.

Seeing S/O's face, they were bright red. Clorinde doubted that she was faring much better, but it didn't stop her.

With a nervous chuckle, she meets their eyes with a smile.

(Clorinde) "I do not think I've had much opportunity to say how beautiful you are."

To make things fair, she unbuttoned her own shirt and felt her chest bounce free, knowing S/O was staring right at them.

Now that she was matching them, she leaned in to kiss their neck, hearing S/O moan positively in response.

(Clorinde) "I will match the pace we're going...If you would allow me?"

Chiori had S/O standing as she was "measuring" them, despite the fact she was missing all of her tools inside the bedroom.

It was then S/O quickly realized what Chiori had in mind, as she hugged them from behind, deftly unbuttoning their shirt and hearing her hum.

(Chiori) "As good as you look with my clothes on, you look much better with nothing on, S/O."

Her voice had a teasing air to it as she promptly lifted their shirt above their head.

S/O's body twitched from her fingers rubbing themselves all over their stomach, but one firm hand pushing lower stopped them from moving.

(Chiori) "Ah, no moving until I say so. I'm still measuring after all."

She unzipped their pants before yanking it down, a small chuckle coming from Chiori as her hands moved up from their stomach to their chest, her breath hot on the back of their ears.

(Chiori) "Good, keep still like this."

Furina took a deep breath, mostly to steady her own nerves, before moving to slide S/O's jacket off.

(Furina) "...N-No, I don't need help! I can do this!" Probably...?

Every few seconds she hesitated to continue as the embarrassment building up within threatened to explode.

...There was also the heat she was deliberately avoiding to mention while finally working up the courage to take their shirt off.

Furina stared with her mouth agape before quickly shaking her head and closing her eyes, fists clenching.

(Furina) "D-DON'T TEASE ME, OKAY?! I'M TRYING MY BEST!"

(S/O) "...But I didn't say any-"

(Furina) "I demand silence! Just...give me a moment to compose myself!"

It took a full thirty minutes for her to remove both their clothing, and somehow that made her more flustered than the fact they were both naked.

Rosaria skips straight to the main course, no hesitation or waiting.

Immediately, she goes for their pants and yanks it off, throwing it behind her as it hits the bedroom walls.

And without warning, she bites the inside of S/O's thigh, making them moan as her hands keep S/O's waist locked in place.

(Rosaria) "Quit squirming, or I'll bite you harder. Then again, you'd probably like that."

Rosaria kisses each spot that she gives a hickey to, teasing S/O by touching them everywhere except the one place they were almost begging, making her smirk.

(Rosaria) "Maybe I'll listen if you strip for me first."

If they wanted her, Rosaria was going to make S/O work for it.

As much as she loved S/O, there was some bit of sadistic pleasure knowing that they went along with her demands solely because it was her, knowing they'd refuse anyone else.

And she was going to live that fact up to the fullest tonight.

Shenhe simply takes off all her clothing, setting it to the side neatly, and doing the same with S/O under a minute.

Then she...just sat there.

(Shenhe) "Our clothes are off now, S/O. Is there anything else you wish for me to do?"

It was a little awkward. Shenhe didn't really know how to be seductive or erotic.

Yet, it was her blunt way of just instantly getting them naked that made her all the more endearing, cutely tilting her head in confusion at S/O's flustered expression.

(Shenhe) "Your face is heating up. Are you feeling alright?"

It took S/O a few minutes to explain to Shenhe what they wanted to do with her.

In which she nodded, and complied.

(Shenhe) "Please relax, I will make you feel good."

M4 reverts to her demure self for a few seconds before quickly regaining composure.

She strips down herself to match S/O, feeling her own core heat up from doing so.

M4 laid S/O on their back before giving them a kiss, her hands sliding down to the sides of their waist, feeling a slight twitch as she did so.

She smiled gently, a quiet but pretty giggle escaping her lips.

(M4A1) "You're cute when you're like this, S/O."

Leaning down, she kissed them on the nose, both of them laughing as she situated herself on top.

(M4A1) "Please, let me repay your love and kindness tonight."

M16 was surprisingly not drunk as she took off her clothes and frantically doing the same with S/O's, her hands struggling to unbutton their shirt.

(M16A1) "Damn...stupid...!-"

Pouting a little when S/O helped her, she sat by their side, dumbly staring as her one visible eye not so subtly stared below their waist.

(M16A1) "...U-Uh, right. We should get that off too, huh?"

Her usual bravado and confidence is gone, not used to sharing such an intimate moment with someone she loved.

Nor did she even expect to have someone she loved this way to begin with.

(M16A1) "Don't make too much fun of me, alright...Can...you help me take off my skirt?"

Smugly humming to herself, 12 has no issues taking S/O's clothes off, even with her eyes literally closed.

(AK-12) "Mind if I take a peek, S/O?~"

Her glowing pink eyes opened and studied S/O's body with growing interest, nothing left to imagination anymore.

12's hands teasingly brushed up on S/O's thighs, before moving underneath their pants and feeling them freeze up.

(AK-12) "Mind taking these off for me? It's getting in the way."

She could've easily done it herself as she was sitting behind them, but 12 figured it'd be more fun to make S/O do it.

And she was right.

94 nods and helps S/O out of their clothes relatively easily.

Though she is confused on what to do next, she could tell how nervous S/O was.

(AN-94) "I'm afraid I'll need instruction for whatever is next...Kiss you? V-Very well."

She closes the distance between their bodies as her small frame leans into them, slowly shifting their clothes off the bed as she does so.

Personally, she wanted to move them into their proper places in the drawer, but she assumed S/O didn't really care about that right now.

If this made them happy however, it would make her happy.

(AN-94) "I will make sure we are both satisfied tonight. A-And...thank you for trusting me."

Springfield slowly takes off her own shirt, her large bust being freed and leaning into S/O.

(Springfield) "Let's get comfortable, dear."

She helps S/O's clothes off, all the while lovingly planting kisses on their neck, collarbone, anywhere skin revealed itself.

Sitting directly behind them, she didn't have a good view of what S/O looked like in the front with nothing on, but Springfield was going to change that.

Having them lean back onto her, she could now see everything perfectly fine as she let their clothes hang off the edge of their bedframe.

(Springfield) "You look beautiful as always...Do you mind if I enjoy myself tonight?"

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