phantom sorceress

tom riddle's whore no crux.

[ciarvela]

𝐃𝐈𝐀’ nineteen. she / her. chronic T o m R i d d l e devotee. writes about dark fantasy. vignettes. canon & alternate universes.

{..} 𝐌.𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. Read at your own discretion.

ask box open since i am always down to talk about our dark lord. thoughts, theories & thirsts are welcome!

[ciarvela]

“𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.” — voldemort!tom

SYNOPSIS: a dark lord’s tormented obsession with the woman who once loved the monster he became. m.list

TAGS: voldemort x reader. time travel. kidnapping. yandere vibes. possessive behavior. | wc: 893

The manor lay silent except for the crackle of the hearth and the occasional rattle of chains.

Voldemort stood by the tall window, gazing out over the fog-shrouded grounds. His long fingers rested against the cold glass.

Behind him, you shifted.

Firelight danced across the vaulted ceiling, casting flickering patterns over silver chains that slid against one another with a delicate sound like wind chimes in a graveyard.

Beautiful. The sort of sound that might have belonged in a cathedral if not for the way they circled your wrists.

You pulled instinctively against them. They did not give.

Voldemort’s mouth curved slightly.

His polished boots made no sound on the Persian rugs as he finally moved away from the window. You shuddered as his shadow fell across your lap.

He inhaled loudly; the sour tang of your fear made his teeth ache.

A gloved hand hovered near your throat. He didn’t touch you, but the leather brushed the damp strands of hair stuck to your skin.

His eyes lingered on yours. These were not the eyes that had once met his as his wars consumed you both. This was you, pure and unspoiled by him. Innocent in ways that made his gut twist and turn.

In the crumbling timeline from which Lord Voldemort had clawed his way back, you had been everything. You had dared to look the monster in the eye and still reach for the man beneath.

But hunger makes fools of kings, and his appetite for eternity had sharpened its teeth against your throat.

“You don’t remember,” he said softly. “Of course you don’t. How could you? You have not yet lived it.”

The darkness swallowed your panicked breaths. Every desperate inhale made his jaw tighten.

“I told you last night,” he continued. Red eyes met yours, and you recoiled.

“In the future that was, you stood at my side as my equal. You understood the necessity of what I was building. You loved me for it.”

Your lips trembled. He stepped closer, his robes gliding across the creaking boards. He crouched before your chair, bringing his face level with yours. Your scent filled his lungs.

“You used to trace the scars on my hands,” he murmured, his voice lowering. Voldemort lifted one hand between you, turning it so the firelight caught the pale lines crossing his skin.

"From carving my own way out."

Rough fingertips moved slowly over the longest one.

“You kissed them. You told me they were beautiful.” His hand dropped.

“You said I was beautiful, even like this.” He gestured at his serpentine features with a bitter twist of his mouth.

You blinked hard. A tear slipped down your cheek. You tried to turn away, but he caught your chin, his skin icy against your jaw as he guided your gaze back to his.

“You were magnificent,” he said, his thumb wiping away the tear. “You argued with me.”

Your expression faltered. “What?”

"Constantly," he said, a thin smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. “You were insufferable.”

He shifted his hold under your chin, turning your face a fraction closer to his.

“Tell me,” he whispered, almost pleading, “why do you look at me as the others do? As though I am nothing more than death given form?”

You wrenched away as if his touch burned.

“I don’t know you,” you breathed, your voice cracking. “You keep telling me stories, but I am not her.”

“Not yet,” he murmured, pressing into the space where your collarbones met.

He had ripped you from your quiet life in Muggle London. A witch of rare ability, you were locked away in his manor’s gilded cage.

The ancient Time-Turner had blazed against his palm as he stepped through the veil. The world had still been soft, malleable. He had brought you here to mold you gently, to show you the glory you would one day share.

Yet now you sat trembling before him, because the man who had once been your everything had become your jailer.

His hand fell from your chin. He rose slowly and turned away so you would not see his expression crack.

He had returned to fix everything—to take you before his need for power could poison the love he was convinced you were always meant to give him.

Instead, here you were: his prize, his salvation, and already his greatest failure unfolding before his eyes. You looked at him with the same terror he inspired in the rest of the wizarding world. He had become the very thing that destroyed you in the first timeline.

He kept searching for her in you—waiting for some flicker of recognition in your eyes—but the woman he mourned belonged to years you had never lived.

“I killed you once,” he said to the window, his voice hollow. “With my ambition. With my need to become more than a man. And now I have stolen you before you could even choose me.”

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, red eyes sliding shut.

“Why won’t you love me?” The question was barely audible, meant only for himself. “Why can’t you see what we could be again?”

You remained silent. Only your frightened breathing filled the space between you.

His gaze dropped to your trembling lower lip, caught on a memory he could no longer reach.

author’s note: thank you for reading. feel free to reblog and leave feedback! (i can’t stick to a theme, sue me.)

[ciarvela]

hii!! how do you feel about a radiohead/nirvana/the smiths/blur etc. reader x tom? I don‘t know I just had this idea and thought you could make it better and make it a fic!! no pressure, xoxo!! 🫂🩷

hi! i do listen to the smiths every now and then. they’re a little more modern than the era i usually write tom in, but i can totally see him finding some really good music after graduating and getting kind of obnoxiously picky about it lol. like, he’d start collecting favorite records, develop way too many opinions about them, and then insist on sharing all of it with his partner. it’s a really cute idea. i’ll definitely keep it in mind, though i can’t promise anything! ;))

[ciarvela]

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 | “𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞.” —TOM R.

synopsis: In a world where nothing lasts, tom riddle finds the one thing he cannot lose.

pairings: tom riddle x reader. words: 770. warnings: tom’s pov. body horror. obsession. love as possesion. non-consensual magical bounding. morally dubious character.

Tom Riddle had sorted the world into two categories early on: things that lasted and things that didn’t. His life had been spent warring against the latter.

What he had not anticipated was that your temporariness would eventually become his problem.

A soft tsk escaped him. Above all else, he was a man who classified, who ordered, who took what resisted him and found the precise angle at which it yielded.

You shattered that order.

To him, you were the solitary flaw in mortality’s design, the one presence capable of making his forever feel less like triumph and more like a very long time to be alone.

Tom had manoeuvred against death before.

Splitting his soul had required no second thought. Yet this fragment had lived in him for weeks since the murder, and the rest of his soul rebelled against the unnatural containment. Behind his sternum sat a tight, persistent ache, like a bruise that never fully formed. Sleep, when it came at all, was fitful. The severed piece tugged at its moorings, straining toward its missing half.

Never before had a piece of his innermost self felt like a gift, still he imagined presenting it to you wrapped in white paper—the colour of a light you would not reach.

If he had been a gentler man, he might have offered you flowers.

But he had chosen that snow-white shade on the evening he sat in his professor’s office, listening to the sand clock run beside your heartbeat, already knowing that one day only the clock would remain.

Age would silver your hair. Accident would still your pulse. Time, with its vulgar appetite, would steal your voice, your warmth, the taste of your name on his tongue, and the way your hand fit in his.

The woman he had first cherished in the pages of his diary would be swept away by the same indifferent current that devoured everything beloved.

He refused to allow it.

And so his magic finally found its truest purpose.

You were the form the spell had always been meant to take. A torn fragment could not be forced into just any vessel; the container had to endure what was placed inside it.

So he had watched you. Where you held, and where you did not: the throat that bent back to his kisses, how you still reached for him even after learning exactly what he was.

The ritual required an act of violence, of course. But Tom had come to understand that love and violence shared a grammar; only the direction of the lesion changed.

Others would call it desecration—the mutilation of the soul, the hollowing of the self. But Tom had never trusted the moral vocabulary of people who died.

You would no longer belong among them either.

You would carry him and, in carrying him, keep him—a heart continuing to beat around his presence for as long as he permitted.

He wanted to be the last thing your body ever sheltered.

His most exquisite Horcrux.

Should his power ever fracture, yours would hold the seam. Should yours ever falter, his would refuse to let you fall. In this single act, the wizard the world had already condemned as a monster found the perfect symmetry he had always sought.

There was no hesitation in the incantation. Weeks of wrongness undone in an instant.

His molars rang before the pain sheared up through his jaw. Blood flooded his mouth, thick as communion wine, forcing him to swallow around it before it ceased to be his, arrowing out of him and into you.

On the other side of the room, your body arched violently, hooked beneath the ribs and pulled upward. A sound tore from you—whether a gasp or a wail, he cared not—as the invasion rooted itself beneath your breastbone.

A wound opened. It drank him in. And sealed.

When the light faded, a raised scar remained, etched in the delicate cursive of his name.

The shard settled in the cradle of your chest with parasitic devotion. Your rhythm slowly aligned with his will. You would feel him behind your eyes when you blinked, in the catch of breath before you spoke — the abiding certainty that you were no longer alone within yourself.

Tom Riddle did not look at what the weeks of harbouring the splinter had cost him. A chamber within him stood empty at last, a cold cavity where it had once fought to remain whole.

But when he looked at you, he saw no loss.

And in his taxonomy of feeling, permanence had always been the only word that meant mine.

[lonaah]

you could have written Romeo and Juliet but Shakespeare could have never written this absolute masterpiece! AND IM BEING SO HONEST THIS MADE MY NIGHT

[ciarvela]

oh my god that’s so sweet of you. thanks a million! I'm so touched to see this. it truly gives me such a drive to write more!!

[ciarvela]

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 | “𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞.” — TOM R.

synopsis: In a world where nothing lasts, tom riddle finds the one thing he cannot lose.

pairings: tom riddle x reader. words: 770. warnings: tom’s pov. body horror. obsession. love as possesion. non-consensual magical bounding. morally dubious character.

Tom Riddle had sorted the world into two categories early on: things that lasted and things that didn’t. His life had been spent warring against the latter.

What he had not anticipated was that your temporariness would eventually become his problem.

A soft tsk escaped him. Above all else, he was a man who classified, who ordered, who took what resisted him and found the precise angle at which it yielded.

You shattered that order.

To him, you were the solitary flaw in mortality’s design, the one presence capable of making his forever feel less like triumph and more like a very long time to be alone.

Tom had manoeuvred against death before.

Splitting his soul had required no second thought. Yet this fragment had lived in him for weeks since the murder, and the rest of his soul rebelled against the unnatural containment. Behind his sternum sat a tight, persistent ache, like a bruise that never fully formed. Sleep, when it came at all, was fitful. The severed piece tugged at its moorings, straining toward its missing half.

Never before had a piece of his innermost self felt like a gift, still he imagined presenting it to you wrapped in white paper—the colour of a light you would not reach.

If he had been a gentler man, he might have offered you flowers.

But he had chosen that snow-white shade on the evening he sat in his professor’s office, listening to the sand clock run beside your heartbeat, already knowing that one day only the clock would remain.

Age would silver your hair. Accident would still your pulse. Time, with its vulgar appetite, would steal your voice, your warmth, the taste of your name on his tongue, and the way your hand fit in his.

The woman he had first cherished in the pages of his diary would be swept away by the same indifferent current that devoured everything beloved.

He refused to allow it.

And so his magic finally found its truest purpose.

You were the form the spell had always been meant to take. A torn fragment could not be forced into just any vessel; the container had to endure what was placed inside it.

So he had watched you. Where you held, and where you did not: the throat that bent back to his kisses, how you still reached for him even after learning exactly what he was.

The ritual required an act of violence, of course. But Tom had come to understand that love and violence shared a grammar; only the direction of the lesion changed.

Others would call it desecration—the mutilation of the soul, the hollowing of the self. But Tom had never trusted the moral vocabulary of people who died.

You would no longer belong among them either.

You would carry him and, in carrying him, keep him—a heart continuing to beat around his presence for as long as he permitted.

He wanted to be the last thing your body ever sheltered.

His most exquisite Horcrux.

Should his power ever fracture, yours would hold the seam. Should yours ever falter, his would refuse to let you fall. In this single act, the wizard the world had already condemned as a monster found the perfect symmetry he had always sought.

There was no hesitation in the incantation. Weeks of wrongness undone in an instant.

His molars rang before the pain sheared up through his jaw. Blood flooded his mouth, thick as communion wine, forcing him to swallow around it before it ceased to be his, arrowing out of him and into you.

On the other side of the room, your body arched violently, hooked beneath the ribs and pulled upward. A sound tore from you—whether a gasp or a wail, he cared not—as the invasion rooted itself beneath your breastbone.

A wound opened. It drank him in. And sealed.

When the light faded, a raised scar remained, etched in the delicate cursive of his name.

The shard settled in the cradle of your chest with parasitic devotion. Your rhythm slowly aligned with his will. You would feel him behind your eyes when you blinked, in the catch of breath before you spoke — the abiding certainty that you were no longer alone within yourself.

Tom Riddle did not look at what the weeks of harbouring the splinter had cost him. A chamber within him stood empty at last, a cold cavity where it had once fought to remain whole.

But when he looked at you, he saw no loss.

And in his taxonomy of feeling, permanence had always been the only word that meant mine.

[ciarvela]

“𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚, 𝙞𝙛 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚?” 𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘴.

TBA.

Rendered Infinite. • in a world where nothing lasts, tom riddle finds the one thing he cannot lose.

Her terror, His salvation. • a dark lord’s tormented obsession with the woman who once loved the monster he became.

Boyfriend!Tom Riddle.

[ciarvela]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒: Boyfriend!Tom Riddle.

໒ྀི₊ If an argument between you turns into a genuine fight, he locks you in an empty classroom so you can hurl every insult you please. He stands outside in the hallway, leaning against the wall, and nods along with the more creative curses.

໒ྀི₊ His love is kept at bay, and he only gives you small amounts of it—just enough to keep you from leaving.

໒ྀི₊ At night, he reads to you. He says it's to make you more civilised, even though the book he picks is 1984.

໒ྀི₊ If you get sick, he will swear that he won't take care of you. But every time you wake up from a feverish sleep, there is fresh tea on the nightstand and a healing draught waiting next to it. At last, you see him sitting on the edge of your bed with a lunch tray on the desk behind him.

໒ྀི₊ He can take praise from anyone. Anyone, that is, except you.

໒ྀི₊ Almost obsessively invested in your academic performance, he remarks, “She is expected to have proper marks as well. How barbaric of her to earn a poor grade.”

໒ྀི₊ His tongue circles against the inside of his cheek whenever he is jealous.

໒ྀི₊ Each night before sleep, he braids your hair, his fingers uncharacteristically gentle as they move through every strand.

໒ྀི₊ He doesn't care about boundaries when he thinks you're in danger. He is in charge of your safety, and every line you draw becomes meaningless the moment he decides he needs to cross it.