slytherin boys react

tom riddle: you feeling insecure in a dress

you stand in front of him, his gaze fixed on you, his expression unreadable. the seconds tick by, the silence stretching painfully long, and yet, he doesn't say a word. doubt and insecurity creep into your mind as you fidget with the hem of your dress.

unable to bear the silence any longer, you finally speak. "are you just going to stare?"

he doesn't hesitate. his voice is calm and steady, unnervingly composed. "yes." his gaze sharpens as he takes in the sight of you. his expression remains eerily stoic.

you fidget again, the silence making you more self-conscious. insecurity coils tighter around your chest, and you blurt out, "do i look bad?"

he answers immediately, his tone clipped. "no." he offers no further explanation despite sensing your insecurity. he simply continues to stare, his face impassive, unreadable.

biting your lip, you feel the need to break the tension. "why aren't you saying anything else?"

he lets out a soft chuckle, though it's more of an amused breath than a laugh. his eyes travel over you slowly, deliberately, before he steps closer. "because words fall short, y/n," he murmurs, voice low and measured. "you look like art."

he pauses, his gaze lingering on you with an almost predatory focus. "a masterpiece," he continues, his eyes tracing the line of your dress. "a work of art that demands to be admired." he moves closer, his presence consuming now, standing mere inches away. his eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, making your pulse quicken under the weight of his stare.

"so allow me to look," he whispers, his hand reaching out, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your dress. his touch is deliberate, careful, as though he's handling something precious.

"let me admire you," he murmurs, his fingers trailing along the curve of your waist, lingering just shy of touching your skin. he's holding back, almost teasingly, the restraint in his movements palpable. "you are exquisite."

his hands rise to your shoulders, his grip firm yet oddly gentle. he leans closer, his lips barely an inch from your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "you are like a masterpiece in a museum," he whispers, his tone dark and velvety, "so captivating that i cannot tear my eyes away."

he pulls back just slightly, his eyes still burning into yours, as if he's reading every thought in your mind. "you're a work of art that should not be touched," he murmurs, his voice soft yet commanding, "for fear that one might tarnish its perfection. but i, y/n..." his grip tightens just slightly. "i long to touch you."

his hand trails up to your cheek, his touch almost reverent as his fingers trace the line of your jaw. "i want to leave my mark on you," he continues, his words precise, as though he's thought about this for a long time. "to leave my fingerprints on your flawless skin, so that all may know you are mine."

his eyes darken as he speaks, the hunger in his voice unmistakable. "no one else deserves to lay their eyes on you, let alone their hands. you were created to be admired, to be worshipped, by me alone."

his hand slides down to your neck, his thumb tracing the smooth skin there with a maddeningly gentle touch. "and worship you, i shall," he murmurs, his voice dripping with control and possession. "my perfect canvas."