slytherin boys react

tom riddle: baking something for them but they don't like it

he is engrossed in a book when you approach with a plate in hand. his eyes flick up, and with a slight frown, he says, "i don't indulge in sweets," before returning his attention to the pages.

you feel deflated but hold up the plate. "fine. i'll give them to malfoy, then," you reply, turning away.

before you can take a step, his hand clamps around your wrist, cold but deliberate. his grip tightens slightly, as though he can't help himself. without a word, he plucks a pastry from the plate, shoving it into his mouth. he doesn't chew, just holds it there, his jaw tense. "it's adequate." he says, his words slightly muffled by the treat in his mouth.

"tom, you didn't even chew," you say, raising an eyebrow.

he meets your gaze, his dark eyes calculating, his annoyance visible in the way his jaw clenches. slowly, he begins to chew, the movement stiff and forced, as though the pastry is a task to be endured rather than enjoyed. he swallows hard, a flicker of distaste crossing his face. "it's sufficient," he says in his usual cold tone.

"you don't like it," you say, your voice soft but filled with disappointment.

there's a brief silence, and his expression shifts, only slightly. he releases your wrist but doesn't fully let go. his thumb brushes over your skin in a way that feels deliberate, possessive. "you made them, didn't you?" his words are brief, but there's something underneath, a subtle acknowledgment.

a small flutter of warmth blooms in your chest as you nod. "yes, i made them."

his gaze drifts back to the plate, lingering longer than necessary, before he lifts his eyes back to yours. "then they are more than acceptable. give them to me." he pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. "i'll... eat them later. with coffee."

the realization hit you at once, and a small flutter of warmth spread through your chest as you understood what he was implying. he wasn't just offering to take the pastries off your hands, he was asking for them because they were made by you.

the corners of your lips tug into a slight smile as you offer the plate again, feeling the tension between you shift. he takes it, his fingers grazing yours.

for a moment, he simply watches you, his gaze unwavering, studying your reaction. "they're sweet," he finally murmurs, though you both know he's no longer talking about the pastries.

your heart skips a beat, the weight of his words settling in. "is that a bad thing?" you ask, your voice soft but teasing. "you said you don't like sweets."

"it's different," he says quietly, though his tone carries an edge, as if he's grappling with his own admission. he places the plate down on a nearby table, the movement slow, deliberate. his attention shifts entirely to you as he takes your hand once more, his grip firmer this time, as though he refuses to let you slip away.

"you misunderstand me." his voice is low, commanding, each word dripping with intent. "i don't like sweets. but you..." he leans closer, his breath brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "you are not a mere pastry."

your heart races as his meaning sinks in, but you can't help the confusion that creeps into your voice. "what am i, then?" you ask softly.

his gaze flickers with something almost dangerous, something he's trying to control. he lifts a hand, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin. "you," he murmurs, "are an exception." he says. "a very sweet exception."

"you're unlike anything else that's sweet." his voice drops, softer, but with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. "and i find myself unable to resist... you."

"do not mistake me," he continues, voice quiet but firm, "i have no taste for the frivolous. but you are different. and that is precisely why i cannot get enough of you."