#Riddle

[bluessmau]

Not Unsolicited

In which the Overblot Boys send Fem!Reader a dick-pic, and Reader ends up liking it.

Requested by Anon. Early relationship.

Warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader (AFAB and MtF-friendly), OOC, sending of nudes, consensual reception of nudes (Reader likes receiving it), mentions of sex, mentions of virginity

Riddle Rosehearts

Leona Kingscholar

Azul Ashengrotto

Jamil Viper

Vil Schoenheit

Idia Shroud

Malleus Draconia

[rabioa]

˙⋆✮Vampire Town✮⋆˙

TWST Modern Vampire AU

Featuring Rook, Idia, and Riddle <3

Imagine you inherit an old manor from your eccentric grandmother and decide to move there. Your grandmother swore up and down on the supernatural, and even though you didn't believe her, you still loved her. The house is on the outskirts of a small and cute town, but little do you know, the town of Night Raven is a secret haven for vampires and humans to live peacefully together.

A/N: Hi guys!!! Welcome to a new au i thought of <333 I was inspired by @r-aindr0p with their rook x rollo supernatural au. Reading it made me realize how fun so many twst boys would be as vampires >:) I have so many ideas about this au that I need to work out. I know the direction I wanna go with Malleus is, and I have a vague idea about the octatrio that idk if it is too weird lol. If you have any questions or asks about this, then send them in!! Anyways, happy reading!! <33

🏹 Vampire!Rook who you saw as a shadow out your window in the first week. One day, you catch him staring at you through your window and you freak out on him. After that, you're closing the curtains in your room and ruining his favorite stalking people watching past time!!

🏹 Vampire!Rook who is bemoaning the loss, is determined to get in your good graces and this time do more than just peep through windows. He's leaving gifts of game, animal skins, and other trinkets. You've even gotten some rather expensive jewels from him! Each item is accompanied by a letter that borders creepy and romantic. He compares the jewels to your eyes and says they pale in comparison. He gives you skins of pretty creatures he found, stating how you are worthy of such luxuries and more. The game is his way of making sure you're well taken care of, as he writes about the importance of eating healthy. Some parts are in French and you have to pull out a translator app for them, but you're just kinda stunned.

🏹 Vampire!Rook who one day hears some burglars trying to break into your beautiful home, and non non, he cannot allow them to harm his precious little human! He handles them before they can even get in, and you see him do that and... well, maybe he's not as bad as you thought. After all, he's protecting your home. Hell, he didn't even mention the noble act, acting the next day as if everything was normal. After that, he does fall into your good graces. Now you (sometimes, if he's not being overly creepy or annoying) into your home! He still leaves you game but he seems to prefer watching over socializing often, so you leave him be. He seems harmless enough...?

🎮 Vampire!Idia who's in your walls!! Well, not really. It turns out your grandmother allowed a vampire long ago to live in a small room for free. You didn't know he was in your house. There was a door that was stuck closed, and the window pointing into the room had thick black curtains covering it. One night, when you had to slip out to do something, you see the window is open.

🎮 Vampire!Idia who screams when you enter his room through the window. You scream too. You're both screaming. He has the audacity to throw a Hatsune Mike plushie at your face and it baffles you enough to stop your screaming contest.

🎮 Vampire!Idia who you demand to know why is in your house and he demands to know why you're in his room. You thought vampires couldn't enter without getting permission! Was it all a lie? It turns out, it was true. He just gained permission from your grandmother to enter that room, and he's never left it, so he didn't need permission to enter a room he's already in. You think he's joking, but after hearing the slang he uses, you could believe in another eccentric vampire being friends with your grandma. You leave him be in his room (although he's now forced to unbarricade the door from the bookshelf covering it) and you occasionally pop in and socialize him. You still haven't figured out how he feeds yet. How does he get humans when he's in his own bubble? Oh well, that's not your problem (you hope).

❤ Dhampir!Riddle who is the sheriff of the town. On the first day of you moving in, he pulled up and gave you a thick book of rules you must follow. He also told you a few rules for the day and pointed out various rule violations of your house (the bushes in your yard are overgrown by six inches and you are to say the exact words "Welcome in dear guest," whenever you let someone into your home). It turned out the rules are meant to help accommodate vampires and humans living together, and although some rules do seem straight-up nonsensical (you can't have certain flower combinations in the front yard and certain combinations in the backyard, unbirthdays parties cannot have chamomile tea, and hedgehogs always have the right of way on streets amongst other absurd rules).

❤ Dhampir!Riddle who invites you to an unbirthday party after you get accustomed to vampires. The party turns out to be a delight! You meet some new vampires and humans, and party with them. It's a bit odd, to have a pleasant conversation with him before he suddenly shouts at Ace, a fresh vampire, to not wake up a mouse sleeping in a teacup before he returns his attention to you, chatting away as if he didn't just turn red in the face.

❤ Dhampir!Riddle who enjoys chatting with you and has taken it up to visit your house at least once a week as a "security check," since he knows the manor you live in is a vampire magnet. These checks are just him giving stern warnings about breaking rules until you can coax him into your kitchen to share some pastries with you. He's unused to your natural curiosity as you always ask him about Dhampirs. They're rare, and you're just trying to understand the world you've discovered. He turns a cute red when you ask him to open his mouth to inspect his fangs. He obliges but is flustered the entire time. It's cute to see him so flustered and perhaps even relaxed with you.

[solxamber]

Riddle, Romantic, “Chai Tea” by audrey ( here’s a link if you need it: https://youtu.be/eGMQ82ujZtQ?si=niFp-AZx61FTnUb1 )

valentine’s day is a top tier holiday because it guarantees the cutest fics <3

real!! i really do enjoy the valentine's season

"With you, it's easy" || Riddle Rosehearts

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Chai Tea by audrey

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 670

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Pre-relationship, mutual pining, fluff

The soft clink of porcelain echoed in the quiet café, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the comforting scent of cardamom. You sat across from Riddle Rosehearts, your hands wrapped around a steaming cup of chai. Outside, autumn leaves danced lazily across the cobblestone paths, but inside, everything felt still—like the world had paused just for the two of you.

You were mid-sentence, rambling about a song you’d heard earlier in the day. "I think you'd like it," you said, taking a sip of your tea. "It’s got this really soft piano bit that reminds me of the rain."

Riddle watched you with quiet focus, his eyes softer than usual. He wasn’t particularly interested in the song—music had never been his strong suit—but the way your eyes lit up, the small curve of your lips as you spoke, was a melody all on its own.

Why does it feel like this? he wondered, fingers curling gently around his own cup. Every moment with you was calming yet exhilarating, like standing on the edge of something unfamiliar but wonderful. He wasn’t used to this kind of comfort. Rules had always been his foundation, structure his shield. But with you, there was no need for defenses.

"You’re not even listening, are you?" You teased, your voice cutting through his thoughts. The playful accusation was paired with a smile, and it made his stomach flutter.

He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. "I am listening," he replied, more defensive than he intended. His gaze dropped to the swirl of tea in his cup. "I just… don’t have much to add. But I like hearing you talk."

Your cheeks warmed at the rare vulnerability in his voice. He likes hearing me talk? The thought made your heart beat just a little faster. You reached across the table, lightly brushing your fingers against his hand. "I’m glad you’re here, Riddle."

His breath caught. No one had ever said that to him so simply, so earnestly. His fingers twitched under yours before he let them rest, allowing the contact without pulling away. "I… am glad too."

Later that evening, Riddle found himself thinking about the way your hand had felt against his—warm, gentle, grounding. It wasn’t grand or dramatic; it was simple, like the warmth of tea on a cold day. And maybe that’s what terrified him the most. Not the intensity of his feelings, but the ease of them.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop replaying every detail of his expression. The faint pink dusting his cheeks, the way his gaze softened when you touched him. Does he feel the same? You tried to silence the hope growing in your chest, convincing yourself that Riddle was just being kind. After all, emotions were hard for him, and you didn’t want to read too much into every little gesture.

A week later, you found yourselves back at the same café. This time, Riddle spoke more. He asked about your day, listened intently as you shared small, inconsequential details. In return, you asked him about his studies, about Heartslabyul, about things that made him light up with passion and pride.

The conversation flowed like the tea between you—effortless, warm, soothing.

And then, as you both reached for the sugar jar at the same time, your fingers brushed again. This time, Riddle didn’t pull away. His hand lingered atop yours for a second longer than necessary.

"You’re important to me," he said suddenly, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Your heart skipped a beat. The vulnerability in his eyes was unguarded, raw. "You’re important to me too, Riddle," you replied, just as softly.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it was full of understanding, like a shared secret spoken without words.

In that moment, surrounded by the scent of chai and the rustle of autumn wind outside, both of you realized that maybe this quiet companionship had always been love in disguise.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[moaa]

navi

[asterafroditis]

Hiii! I was wondering if you'd be willing to write a riddle x gn!reader? Specifically, something in which reader is part of heartslabyul, and a major rule breaker, but somehow they manage to defend themselves against riddle's collar everytime (if it's through their UM or another quick spell is up to you), so it's basically a rivalry where riddle tries to get them to follow the rules and reader just teases him constantly and riles him up. But teasing riddle is like their way of getting their attention and it's low-key working yk? Is this alright? I hope you're having a great day btw!

𐔌 . ⋮ caught red-handed .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Riddle Rosehearts' x troublemaker gn! reader

𓏵 578 words

ᝰ.ᐟ 3rd Person POV, no pronouns used, unestablished relationship with reader, fluff

Had fun writing this so I hope it fulfills your exact request ヾ(＾-＾)ノ feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

"Rule number two hundred forty-nine," Riddle snapped, scarlet eyes blazing as he pointed an accusatory finger. "You must wear pink while feeding the flamingos! Pink, not—whatever that is!"

You glanced down at your outfit—casual Heartslabyul uniform, pristine except for the red ribbon you’d lazily looped around your wrist. Not pink, sure, but close enough in your book.

With an exaggerated sigh, you tossed a handful of pellets toward the flamingos. "Oh no, Heartslabyul’s delicate ecosystem is ruined because I’m not wearing pastel." You shot Riddle a teasing grin. "Guess you’ll have to collar me, Housewarden."

Riddle’s lips parted, undoubtedly to shout "Off with your head!"—but you were faster.

The moment the telltale glow of his magic circle flickered to life, you flicked your wand, casting a quick counterspell that fizzled out his collar like a candle in the wind.

"Too slow," you sang, spinning on your heel and strolling toward the garden path.

Riddle sputtered, clearly caught between outrage and disbelief. "Again? How do you keep—no, I refuse to let this slide! Rule-breakers will not be tolerated under my watch!"

"You say that every time, Housewarden," you called over your shoulder, "but I’m still standing here, rulebook intact."

This little dance had become routine. You’d break some ridiculous rule—like sipping lemonade with honey at 8:01 PM or daring to pick a flower on a Wednesday—and Riddle would storm over, spell at the ready, only for you to deflect it like clockwork.

It drove him insane.

"Rule-breakers like you are the bane of Heartslabyul’s order!" he'd seethe.

But you knew better. Beneath the frustration, there was always that slight pink dusting his cheeks, the twitch of his lips when you threw a particularly cheeky remark his way.

Like now, when you stood on a stool during the evening tea party, dramatically holding up a cup of non-herbal tea.

"Breaking rule one-fifty-three!" you declared. "Herbal tea only in the evenings? Boring. I prefer black. Go on, Riddle, do your worst."

The glow of his magic circle bloomed. Your counterspell shattered it instantly.

Riddle’s eye twitched. "You’re insufferable!"

"And yet, you’re still here, chasing me like a protagonist in a romance novel," you teased, hopping down from the stool and sidling up to him. "Should I start calling you my knight in shining armor, Housewarden Rosehearts?"

The blush that spread across his cheeks was worth every detention you’d narrowly escaped.

But the thing about teasing someone like Riddle was that, eventually, the tables would turn.

One day, after you’d accidentally left a marron tart on the Unbirthday Tea Party table (rule 562, whoops), you sauntered into the lounge, fully prepared to deflect another collar.

Except Riddle was already there, arms crossed, gaze steady.

"No counterspell this time?" he asked, almost smug.

You blinked. "Huh?"

He stepped forward, eyes gleaming with something that looked suspiciously like triumph. "You've gotten predictable. I asked Trey to borrow your wand for 'inspection.' It’s currently locked in my study."

Your mouth fell open.

"Off with your head," Riddle said sweetly.

The collar snapped into place before you could even think of a comeback.

And damn it, the worst part?

He looked smugly adorable about it.

You sighed, half-exasperated, half-impressed. "Guess you finally caught me, Housewarden."

Riddle’s smile softened, just a touch. "I always do, eventually."

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind so much.

[lafashionlsta]

DOUBLE TROUBLE???

I have no idea if RSA Quartz likes Azul but I definitely think it’s the opposite of NRC Quartz. RSA Liánhuā is red because it’s the opposite of green but NRC Liánhuā is a both green and pink and gray due to being in ramshackle so it depends.

SOMEONE GET THEM OUT

Quartz oc by @quartztwst

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 23rd. tom riddle — wet dreams, house rivals.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: tom’s been infiltrating your dreams, and you decide it’s time to call him out on it.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNIIII, coercion!!!!, dark!tom, mind manipulation, religious undertones, gryffindor!reader, enemies if you squint, fingering, squirting, begging, dream sex, tom riddle is his own warning, so much praise, dirty talk, verbal sparring.

You've never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a child, the smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, a shift in the walls—would jolt you awake. For years, you chalked it up to some ingrained survival instinct, some form of trauma response to whatever part of your childhood still haunts you. You got used to it.

But lately, it isn't sound that’s been waking you. It isn't movement or foundation shifts, either. It's the dreams.

Dreams—strange, lucid, intense dreams of him. Always him. Dreams that make you feel like you're drowning, like you're flying, like you've found a new level of intoxication that you'd never imagined possible—and each time the dreams wake you up, the sheets (and whatever bottoms you may have been wearing) are always soaked, and your thighs are always shaking.

It's maddening.

They feel too real to be anything but a violation, his presence bleeding into your subconscious regardless of how much you try to fight it. You know it means something is wrong. You'd tried to rationalize yourself into going back to sleep, telling yourself it's just hormones or some form of stress, but you're too smart to believe your own excuses.

You know it's more than that.

He's haunting you in your sleep—in the most unexpected way. The dreams are always lucid enough that you can feel it—you can feel him—his mouth on yours, his hands on your hips, his dick bullying your fucking cervix and his magic on your clit—leaving behind nothing but hunger. Hunger that's so intense it makes you want him in a way it almost scares you.

You tell yourself you hate him, you've always hated him—but denial only lasts for so many days, as you realize you can't look at him or talk to him without the dreams forcing their way to the forefront of your mind, making you remember the feelings and the sensations and how much, despite hating him, you want them to be real.

You wanted to believe it would pass. That this was nothing but a phase, a trick of your overactive mind. But deep down, you knew the truth. Tom Riddle has wormed his way into your head, into your dreams—out of spite—and he's not letting go.

So after a hell of a week of this—with damn near zero hours of sleep—you decide to seek him out. To put an end to this madness. Once and for all.

It takes every ounce of courage and Gryffindor-like reckless bravery you can scrape together just to go through with it, but somehow you do. Somehow, you make it across the castle, make it to his door. You're in your pyjamas, for Merlin's sake. It's 1 a.m., and the slick still coating your thighs from what had to have been your tenth lucid orgasm in a matter of a week is a humiliating reminder of why you're even here at all.

And when the door opens, you have the strange feeling that he's been expecting you, even as he makes a great show of acting surprised to see you, looking you up and down with a lazy, smug glance that makes your pulse quicken so viscerally you lose the last shred of sanity you were pathetically clinging to—

"What the fuck—" you prowl forward without hesitation, forcing him a step back into the room. "—are you doing to me?"

Even if you're not imagining some form of surprise in that smug little smirk, he does his best not to let it show.

"Me?" He says, all pretend innocence, flicking his hand out to shut the door behind you with some spell you don't care to name. "You'll have to be more specific."

You glare at him, refusing to acknowledge how unfairly attractive he looks in just sweatpants and an oversized shirt—because of course, even casual looks like this are a weapon in his arsenal.

"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," you snap, and you're not sure if it's your lack of sleep or some form of desperation-fuelled bravery, but you're suddenly invading his personal space, poking an accusing finger into his shoulder. "You're fucking haunting me—"

He blinks. "I’m haunting you. And how am I doing that?”

There's a part of you that knows it's a trap—that this is probably exactly what the smug bastard in front of you has been wanting, but your brain is so deprived of sleep and your body is so starved of respite that you decide 'fuck it'—you want answers, and you're going to get them.

"You're in my dreams," you say, bluntly, forcing an exhale alongside it. "You've been in them every night for a week straight. I haven't slept a bloody minute."

That's when it happens—the tiniest flash of amusement in his eyes, so brief you might've missed it if you weren't ready to tear his fucking throat out.

"You're accusing me of giving you dreams?" He asks, in a tone that makes you want to grab him by the front of his shirt and make him cut the bullshit, and you can't tell how much of your own expression is irritation and how much is lust. "You think I've somehow managed to invade your mind?"

"Don't be condescending," you spit, trying to focus on the spot between his eyebrows that makes the heat in your core roar the least, "and don't act like you're incapable. As much as I can't bloody stand you, we both know damn well your mind magic is strong enough to do this to me—"

"Mind magic," he echoes with an amused snort, "you think I'm doing some kind of mind magic to invade your dreams, is that it?"

He's so damn good at this, you think—infuriatingly good. The way he's playing it off like the idea is absurd, completely laughable—

"Fucking precisely.” You can't hide the heat from your voice. You don't care to try. "These aren't just dreams. They're—they're strong. I feel you. Your hands, your tongue, your—"

Dick. You can't even bring yourself to say it.

And the bastard just smirks, like he's reading your mind anyway. Like he knows. That glimmer in his eyes—arrogant, insufferable—only confirms it.

"Hm," he says with something bored, running a hand through his hair. "Your subconscious—"

"It's not a bloody subconscious thing," you cut him off, uninterested in whatever bullshit he was about to feed you. "It's you. You're invading my dreams—I feel you—my body fucking feels you—"

He laughs at that. Like some sick, sadistic freak. He actually laughs—

"Listen to yourself." He says, with a mocking tone that makes you want to shove him. "Are you that desperate to hate me that you're pinning your dreams on me?"

"Hate doesn't even begin to cover it," you spit, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. He shifts slightly, his back brushing the wall. "You've got a hell of an ego, but even you have to know this isn't something I'd want. I wouldn't put you in my dreams willingly if you paid me to do it—"

He hums, smirk never faltering, if anything it fucking grows at the tirade.

"You've been dreaming of me for a week," he points out, coolly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. "And now, here you are—standing in my dorm in the middle of the night, dressed like this." He takes a step toward you, now. "Do you know what that's called, sweetheart?"

Your lungs hitch at the pet name. Your mind is at war with your cunt and it's losing—

"Delirium?" You choke out, noticing another flash of something in his eyes as the gap between you closes. "Insomnia? Sleep deprivation?"

He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.

"No," he says, in a tone that makes you seethe. "It's called obsession."

"Oh. The irony," you can't help but hiss at him, heart pounding because he's in your space and you're in his and this shouldn't be getting to you the way it is. "It's rich, coming from you, that you'd put that on me when—when you've been mindfucking me every goddamn night—"

"Mindfucking you?" He repeats, almost lazily, as his gaze drops, sweeping over you—your pyjamas, the clear lack of bra, the flush creeping up your neck. "Is that what you think I've been doing? You think—"

The way he doesn't even deny it—doesn't argue the accusation—makes your blood boil in a way you can't control.

"It's the only explanation. You've been—you've been—" you cut him off but your sentence falters because his gaze is moving so deliberately, dragging over you like he's cataloging your weaknesses, and the anger curdles into something raw and desperate. "God, Tom, I just need it to stop. I'm so fucking tense and tired. I'm so wound I can't even focus—I'm wet all the time—"

His eyes snap up to meet yours at that, and he gives you a look you can't even begin to interpret. You bite your tongue, realizing the words that left your mouth just a moment too late to pull them back, and you know you've lost the upper hand in this, somehow. You feel the ground slipping from under you and you hate the way your body shivers as he takes another slow, deliberate, step forward.

"Is that what you are?” He wets his lips. "You've come all the way here, in the dead of night, in your pyjamas, half out of your mind with exhaustion because you're wet. Isn't that right?"

You know better than to answer, though you feel yourself walking straight into the trap he's set.

"Piss off," you snap, but the bravado in your voice is paper-thin as he takes another step forward. He's so close now that his scent overwhelms you—leather and spice, something sharp and smoky that makes your head spin. You recognize it, of course you do; it's the same as in your dreams, and the familiarity makes your knees feel unsteady. "You're—"

"Don't act so offended," he leans closer, his voice a low murmur, quiet, almost silky as it wraps around you, and suddenly you barely remember what you were so pissed off about. "You can't even deny it. I made you cum tonight, didn't I? In your dreams."

Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"

He takes one more step and now you're backed right up against his desk—and gods, Tom's tall, so much taller than you—and it feels like he's looming over you, caging you in.

"Mhm." There's a flash of triumph in his eyes as you lose your words. He leans down, breath grazing your ear just as he brings two fingers to your temple, pressing the pads against it. "Let's watch, shall we?"

Watc—oh no.

A cold sense of dread washes over you as you catch on to what he's insinuating, merely a second too late—

"Tom—"

He whispers something, something that pulls you under, and the next thing you know—in a flash of consciousness you didn't even consider possible—you're staring at yourself inside a dream you remember all too well. A dream sequence where you're moaning and trembling beneath him, your head thrown back, eyes rolling in unabashed pleasure as he drives into you, hips snapping with thrust after thrust after thrust—

And it's one thing to have felt it in the safety of your dreams, in the dead of night when you woke slick and desperate, clenching around nothing. But this—this is visceral. You can't look away because it's projecting inside your mind: the flush blooming across your chest, the arch of your back, the way your lips part with every desperate breath. You hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth, mingling with his low, guttural grunts—and worst of all, you can feel it.

You can feel every ounce of pleasure he's giving you, as if he's giving it to you now.

"Mm," you hear him hum from infront of you—it's too much—you're lost in the memory, the dream, and it's a strange, voyeuristic, intimate experience to watch yourself and him like that. "You're worse off than I thought."

You’re gripping the wood of his desk so hard your fingertips are numb, heart flying out of the room as his hand slowly slides from your temple down to your jaw, holding you in place—

"Stop it." You manage to hiss at him, trying to force some semblance of control back into yourself—the last thing you need is to start melting against this bastard. "Tom—"

"You feel that?" He murmurs, breath brushing your neck, and you can't even focus on anything but the sensations he's forcing through your memory—seeing him above you, feeling him inside you. "You do, don't you? This is exactly what you've been feeling all week, isn't it?"

You want to snap at him, cuss him out, but oh god—

"Damn you," you hiss, even as his hands slide down to your hips—and it almost feels as if he's touching you twice, as if there are two sets of hands on your body. "Fuck, Tom—"

"Mm, you look good from this angle," he murmurs, and you fucking keen as you watch, in your mind, his hands slide over your stomach, pushing up your shirt and exposing your tits, groping as he fucks you. You keen as you feel it. "You love this, don't you? You want this."

"I—" you gasp, trying to convince him, or yourself, or goddamn anyone. Still fighting some invisible battle between resistance and submission because you hate that he's right. "I—god, what are you doing to me—"

"What am I doing to you?" He whispers, and you're not sure if the question is rhetorical, or if he's giving you permission to ask it. "I'm not doing anything that you aren't letting me do."

Your knees feel like they're about to buckle, and it's taking all your strength just to stay standing because the pleasure playing out in your mind is pouring into your veins and you can't even fathom how it's possible but you can't do anything to fight it—

"Oh, god—" you moan, unbridled, your physical body slumping back onto the desk as you feel the slick between your thighs, growing with every goddamn thrust. "Oh my god—"

He takes the opportunity of you slumped back against the desk and instantly leans down, bringing his lips to your ear—

"Not even god could keep your legs underneath you." His hand creeps up your thigh. "You're helpless."

"Helpless," you repeat, with a shaky gasp, and you hate how much the word turns you on. This is the first time you've ever been called helpless, and you're not even sure that you care. He's got you in his clutches, he's winning, and it's so infuriating and so goddamn perfect. “Tom—please, please touch me. I need to—fuck—"

You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck in a way that has you trembling with want, but—fucking hell, that's not what you need—you need his hands on you, you need him to just—

"What do you need?" He cooes, and there's a sly tone to his voice that makes you want to throw yourself at him all over again. "You need to cum?"

You moan, low and needy, writhing against the desk because this fucker—he knows exactly what he's doing. He’s got the upper hand here and you want it back. You want—

"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "I need you to—I fucking need you—inside me—"

As soon as that leaves your mouth, the dream fades from your vision and he's urging you to lay back. There's a soft thud as he places a hand on the desk next to your head, and he leans down, bringing his lips back to your ear, and you can't remember a time when you've ever wanted anyone else this bad.

"I'm touched," he murmurs, fingers slipping to the waist band of your pyjama pants, "that you want me that bad."

"I hate you," you manage to gasp out, but that's a lie, and you think he knows it. His fingers on your skin as he pulls your pants down make you ache for him, and you're struggling to not make another sound that will give him ammunition. "Why do you have to—"

"Why do I have to what?" He asks, and you know he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. "Tease you? Make you helpless?"

Your pants get hardly half way down your thighs before he decides it's enough and slides a finger through your soaked slit, and you can't hold back the moan that tears itself from your throat.

"Fuck, you're soaked.” He hisses through his teeth. “You've been sitting in your dorm for days, hm? Dreaming of me touching you, wishing you could touch yourself without thinking of me—do you want to cum, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you gasp out, and you're not above begging at this point. "Yes, god, please—I want to fucking cum—"

"There we go," he cooes, and he's enjoying this more than you'd like to acknowledge. "You know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that?"

"I'd say at least a week," you throw back, in a vain attempt to keep a shred of your dignity, but that's hard when he's circling his fingers around your clit and your body is jerking against the desk beneath you. God you really are helpless. "Because that's how long you've been plaguing my head, giving me wet dreams like some goddamn incubus—"

He chuckles at that, and you hate him a little less when he slips two fingers inside you, "You think I'm a demon?"

"You certainly act like one," you choke out, because he's crooking his fingers and your mind is going fuzzy and he's not going to let you get the upper hand back, even for a second. "Fuck—oh, yes, yes, yes."

"You've got me all wrong," he says, with a smile that would be boyish if it wasn't so sinister. "Demons come to punish you. I'm here helping you get that relief you've been needing so badly."

"Just want t-to help me," you moan as his long fingers work you open, thumb brushing your clit, "out of the kindness of your heart—"

"Out of the kindness of my heart,” he repeats, with a mocking tone, and it's the way he murmurs those words that's making your thighs clench around him until he grabs the fabric of your pjs bunched around them and pushes your legs up to your chest, working his fingers impossibly deeper. "Out of the goodness of my soul—it's what I do, darling, I'm known for my benevolence—"

"You're a good man," you know he can tell you're being sarcastic, but his fingers are filling you so fucking full you're nowhere near ready to start a fight again when you're this close to losing your goddamn mind on his desk. "You're such a good man, Tom—“

"Mhm," his breath tickles your ear. "What else am I?"

"So good with your fingers," you're moaning, and he's going to get a bigger ego than he already has. You're too far gone to care. "God, you're so good, I'm going to—"

"Yes, you are," he answers, and it takes you a second to realize that he's not correcting your words anymore. He's simply telling you that you are, in fact, about to fall apart for him. "Give it to me. You've earned it."

You almost want to snap back at him, you almost try to, but you're so far gone the words don't form on your tongue and you're not sure you'd be able to fight the fire pooling in your stomach.

"Oh, fuck—“

He doesn't even let you finish that, he just dips his hips down, bringing his hand that's not buried in your slick up to cover your mouth, muffling those strangled screams before they spill out and echo down the hall—

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low hum against your skin. "Be a good girl. Let it all out for me."

And it's that; that stupid combination of cooing warmth and the phrase 'be a good girl' that sends you over the edge, and you're muffling your gasps and moans and screams against his palm because gods, what would happen if someone heard you? What would happen if people realized what Tom Riddle was doing to you—your house rival, your sworn enemy—

"There we go," you're falling apart and he's watching you as if he owns you, as if this is where you belong—writhing beneath him, release squirting out around his fingers. "Ride it out for me. Such a good girl, you needed this so bad, I can tell you were aching for this."

You're struggling to say anything back, the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan of his name, and you've always known how bad he was, heard from other girls how good he could be with his hands, but this—you've never had this, never been this before.

"Such a fucking mess," he's murmuring, his voice low and rough and so goddamn beautiful. “How'd that feel? Hm?"

"So—so good," it feels like the words are being forced out of your throat, and you're struggling to think with enough clarity to form anything that's not an embarrassing moan of how much you needed this. "Needed it, need more, I—"

"More?" He murmurs as he slips his fingers free, and he's bringing his other hand up to your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he brings his soaked fingers to your lips. "Greedy girl."

You're not thinking about the implication of him calling you that, you're not thinking about how you should fight back, you're not thinking about how much you hate him���you’re just thinking about the sinful taste of you on his fingers, when they press against your tongue. Without a second of hesitation you suck them clean, tasting yourself, and it's obscene. You're obscene. But you don't care, it just makes that ache in you grow worse—you need more, you need him.

Dear god, what happened to you.

“So good," he murmurs, the praise dripping like honey from his tongue. You hum and he exhales. "I'll find you tomorrow."

"You'll find me tomorrow?" You repeat, as he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, and you're struggling for air, your chest heaving beneath your rumpled shirt. "What are you going to do, come into my room?"

"I'll come into much more than your room," he says, with a laugh that dances with promises of sin. "Now go. Before someone finds you here."

You push yourself up on trembling arms, pulling your pants up your thighs, your heart hammering in your chest because—god, that was incredible, you want more of it, and you can hardly even believe it happened. With a breath, you force yourself to move.

You look back at him as you get to the door. Your legs are shaking and you're not going to hold it against yourself for needing the wall to support you as his eyes rake over you, the corners of those lips curled up his signature smirk, and you want to hit him so goddamn bad—but then he speaks, like he read your mind, and it snaps you out of it—

"No dreams tonight." He says. "Scouts honour."

"You're no boy scout," you throw back, and your voice is a little breathier than you'd like. "And this changes nothing."

He smiles, slow and languid and knowing. "Of course."

You want to roll your eyes at the condescension dripping off his tongue, but you're worried that if you stay here any longer the only words on your tongue will be 'do it again'.

"You just owe me." You say as you crack the door open.

"I owe you," he agrees, and you think that his smile is just a little too genuine—like he would give you anything you wanted, just for another taste of that. “I'm keeping score, darling. Sleep well."

You hate him for calling you that, you hate his stupid smile, you hate the way he knows he's got you.

What he doesn’t know, is that you’re going to make him pay.

"Good night," you mutter, and then you open the door and slip out into the hallway.

[pawnyao]

Old shit post

[microsff]

There was only one bed.

The farmer put his sack of grain down. "I think we're in the wrong story."

"Who worried about crossing a river?" the fox said.

"Julius Caesar," said the hen.

"What?" said both farmer and fox.

"Never mind. Lets just work out how we all can get some sleep.

[lemonwerewolf]

Overblot Riddle and Leona wallpapers I made for the first TWST Horror Zine

[knbwn]

rkgk my commission

[bluessmau]

Blast from the Past

In which Fem! Reader is from the past (around the 1950's) and is having a hard time adjusting to the present. Luckily, the Overblot Boys are here to help her!

Fem!Reader (afab and mtf-friendly!). Established relationship. Fluff. Requested by Anon.

Riddle Rosehearts

Leona Kingscholar

Azul Ashengrotto

Jamil Viper

Vil Schoenheit

Idia Shroud

Malleus Draconia

[mommynott]

MATTHEO DOGGY STYLE MATTHEO DOGGY STYLE MATTHEO DOGGY STYLE🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

recently discovered your page and love it.

DOGGY STYLE MATTHEO ALRIGHT BET GOT IT 🫡

You’re too sweet anon! Appreciate you bunches 💋

Alright let’s get this show on the road…

Mirrored

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: Friends with benefits has always been a fun time with Matt, especially in his favorite position. He just can’t get enough of you.

Warnings:18+, MDNI, SMUT, CHARS 18+, COLLEGE AU, dom!mattheo, rough sex, dirty talk, mirror sex, smacking, praising, PIV

Friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. No strings attached. Whatever you wanted to call it, you and Mattheo Riddle had been hooking up for a few months now. And yet again here you were, face down ass up in front of the splotchy dirty mirror in his dorm room. This wasn’t anything new though, doggy was Matt’s favorite position. Seeing you on your knees for him, there wasn’t anything…and I mean anything fucking better for him.

Smack- His heavy palm lands on your ass, the redness spreading all around your cheek. You glance up at him through the mirror, seeing him pound into you senselessly, a smug smirk painted on over his features, seeing the way your skin rippled from each thrust he gave you. “Fucking take this dick, doll-“ He growled, your moans echoing off of the stone walls around the dorm. Smack-

Yet another hard slap to your bottom, his handprint welting across your cherried skin. “Y-you fuck me so-so good, Matty!” You cried out from pleasure. His nails dug into your hips, surely marking you up all over while his eyes would move from yours in the mirror back down to your juicy ass that he loved so fucking much. “God- My favorite fucking ass right here” -Smack smack smack- a few more fast slaps from Mattheo, his darkened chocolate gaze glued down to your perfect ass, watching his cock slip in and out of you with ease.

But you couldn’t help but feel pride wash over you. Sure, Mattheo slept around like crazy but knowing your ass was his favorite? Fuck. He was only feeding your ego while you pressed yourself against him more so. Your siren-like eyes looking at his reflection. “And don’t you fuckin’ forget that, Riddle.” His tongue outlined the inside of his cheek, a taunting yet dangerous look forming in his eyes before he started to go even harder than before. Showing you he indeed would never forget that. Because if he was honest? You would always be his favorite.

Hope my smut sluts enjoyed💋

As always, requests and asks are open!🌙

Divider is from @anitalenia 🖤

[solxamber]

Ruined || Riddle Rosehearts

In which he slowly realizes that he'll never be able to look at anyone else, he's been ruined for everyone else but you.

Riddle’s hand trembled slightly as he lingered over the pastry display, his eyes darting between options. The thought of indulging felt reckless, wasteful even, but the ache of exhaustion gnawed at him.

You stepped beside him, your presence a quiet anchor. Without hesitation, you gestured to the strawberry tart.

“That one,” you told the waiter, your voice steady. “He’ll have that.”

Riddle blinked, startled. “But I—I didn’t even—”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” you replied gently, turning to him with a small, knowing smile. “You’ve had a long week. This will help.”

When the tart arrived, he stared at it like it was some foreign object. Slowly, he took a bite. The sweetness hit his tongue, and his chest constricted—not from the sugar but from the overwhelming realization: you knew.

You had seen his fatigue, his silent need for comfort, and you didn’t push or pry. You just… provided.

He couldn’t meet your eyes after that, afraid they might betray the way his heart ached—aching because no one else had ever seen him like you did.

It was late at night, and Riddle sat on the dormitory steps, his arms crossed tightly against the evening chill. He’d come out for fresh air, but he’d forgotten how biting the breeze could be after sunset.

You found him there, looking small and cold under the moonlight. Without hesitation, you draped a blanket over his shoulders.

He blinked at you, startled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Riddle,” you said softly, crouching down to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to freeze to death just to think. Take care of yourself too, okay?”

He stared at you, his heart stumbling over itself. The way you said it—it wasn’t pitying or scolding. It was kind.

You stood up, ruffling his hair lightly before heading back inside. He watched you go, the blanket still warm around him, and realized with a pang that no one else had ever made him feel so… cared for.

Riddle’s pen paused mid-signature as he glanced at the stack of paperwork on his desk. It had been shrinking steadily for the past week. Tasks he usually had to chase others down for were already complete. Events he’d normally plan were already organized. Even the Heartslabyul garden had been pruned to perfection.

At first, he thought he’d finally whipped the dorm into shape, but a quick inquiry revealed the truth: you. You had been handling the tasks quietly, never asking for credit or praise.

When he caught you refilling the ink on his desk before slipping out of his study, he finally confronted you. “Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I know you can handle it, Riddle. You always do. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

His heart tightened painfully at your words. He sat back in his chair, feeling a warmth spread through him that no one had ever sparked before. Who else would do this for me?

Riddle wasn’t one to admit weakness, but the fever had hit him hard. He barely remembered collapsing into bed, but when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was you.

You were slumped over beside his bed, your hand still holding his, a damp cloth on his forehead and an empty glass on the nightstand.

His throat tightened. He tried to sit up, but the movement disturbed you. You blinked awake groggily, immediately sitting upright. “You’re awake!” you said, brushing your fingers across his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re still warm, but better than before.”

Riddle stared at you, his chest tightening at the sight of your tired eyes and messy hair. “You stayed here… all night?”

“Of course,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You’d do the same for me.”

The warmth in his chest spread until he couldn’t look at you without his heart pounding. He didn’t deserve this—your care, your kindness—but he wanted to, desperately.

The duel had been a simple training session, but when a stray spell came too close to Riddle, you had thrown yourself between him and the blast without a second thought.

Riddle caught you before you stumbled, pulling you close to steady you. His eyes widened as he realized what you’d done. “Why did you—?”

“Reflex,” you said, brushing yourself off like it was nothing. “I know you’re strong, but it was heading right for you.”

Riddle felt his heart lurch. You didn’t step in because you doubted him. You stepped in because you cared.

He realized you’d done it before—pulling him out of harm’s way, even when it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t patronizing; it was just… you.

He couldn’t stop the blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his ears. “You don’t have to protect me,” he muttered, his voice softer than usual.

You grinned, nudging him playfully. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t get singed.”

Riddle looked away, hiding his burning face. He couldn’t even find the words to respond, too overwhelmed by how much he wanted to pull you into his arms and never let go.

The moment the teapot cracked, Riddle’s world narrowed to that single shattering sound. He stared at the broken pieces, his hands gripping the porcelain as his chest tightened. It wasn’t just a teapot—it was his control, his composure, his legacy.

“Riddle.” Your voice cut through the panic, calm and resolute. You stepped closer, holding out your hands. “Give it to me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s irreplaceable. My mother—”

“And I’ll fix it,” you interrupted firmly, your gaze unwavering.

His breath hitched. “You can’t just fix something like this.”

“Riddle.” Your tone softened, but your resolve didn’t waver. “Trust me.”

Something in your voice broke through his panic. Against every instinct, he handed the pieces to you.

The next day, you presented the teapot to him, its cracks filled with shining gold. He held it in his hands, staring at the transformed porcelain.

“You used kintsugi,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You smiled. “I figured something this important deserved to be beautiful, even with its flaws.”

He couldn’t speak. All he could do was hold the teapot and try not to fall apart as he realized that no one else would have done this for him.

When a classmate asked him out, Riddle was so blindsided that he barely registered their words. He stared at them, their earnest expression blurring into the background as a single thought consumed him: It’s not them. It’s not you.

His mind betrayed him, conjuring images of you: your quiet understanding, the way you smoothed over his rough edges without hesitation, the way you saw him.

The classmate’s words faded entirely, and all he could think was that they didn’t know him—not like you did. They wouldn’t care for him like you did, wouldn’t anticipate his needs, wouldn’t challenge him, wouldn’t ruin him the way you had.

“I… I can’t,” he finally choked out, his voice trembling.

He walked away, his hands shaking, his heart a storm of realization. You had set a bar so high that no one could reach it. You had unraveled his meticulous rules, his expectations, and left him longing for something he’d never allowed himself to believe he could have.

Later that day, as he wandered the courtyard, still shaken by the confrontation, he saw you passing by. You were laughing at something Ace had said, your smile bright and easy, the sunlight catching on your hair.

The world stopped.

It hit him like a spell to the chest. He would never, could never, love anyone else. No one else could make him feel the way you did. No one else could understand him like you.

You turned slightly, catching his eye, and offered him a small wave before continuing on your way.

Riddle pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady the wild thrum of his heart.

You had ruined him for anyone else—and he didn’t want to be unruined.

Masterlist

[moaa]

navi