SYNOPSIS: a dark lordโs 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.
Voldemortโs 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 didnโt 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.
โYou donโt remember,โ he said softly. โOf course you donโt. How could you? You have not yet lived it.โ
The darkness swallowed your panicked breaths. Every desperate inhale made his jaw tighten.
โI told you last night,โ he continued. Red eyes met yours, and you recoiled.
โIn 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.โ
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.
โYou used to trace the scars on my hands,โ 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.
โYou kissed them. You told me they were beautiful.โ His hand dropped.
โYou said I was beautiful, even like this.โ 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.
โYou were magnificent,โ he said, his thumb wiping away the tear. โYou argued with me.โ
Your expression faltered. โWhat?โ
"Constantly," he said, a thin smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. โYou were insufferable.โ
He shifted his hold under your chin, turning your face a fraction closer to his.
โTell me,โ he whispered, almost pleading, โwhy do you look at me as the others do? As though I am nothing more than death given form?โ
You wrenched away as if his touch burned.
โI donโt know you,โ you breathed, your voice cracking. โYou keep telling me stories, but I am not her.โ
โNot yet,โ 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 manorโs 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 everythingโto 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 youโwaiting for some flicker of recognition in your eyesโbut the woman he mourned belonged to years you had never lived.
โI killed you once,โ he said to the window, his voice hollow. โWith my ambition. With my need to become more than a man. And now I have stolen you before you could even choose me.โ
He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, red eyes sliding shut.
โWhy wonโt you love me?โ The question was barely audible, meant only for himself. โWhy canโt you see what we could be again?โ
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.
authorโs note: thank you for reading. feel free to reblog and leave feedback! (i canโt stick to a theme, sue me.)
hii!! how do you feel about a radiohead/nirvana/the smiths/blur etc. reader x tom? I donโt know I just had this idea and thought you could make it better and make it a fic!! no pressure, xoxo!! ๐ซ๐ฉท
hi! i do listen to the smiths every now and then. theyโre 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, heโd start collecting favorite records, develop way too many opinions about them, and then insist on sharing all of it with his partner. itโs a really cute idea. iโll definitely keep it in mind, though i canโt promise anything! ;))
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ | โ๐๐๐ง๐๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ง๐ข๐ญ๐.โ โTOM 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: tomโs 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 didnโt. 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 mortalityโs 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 paperโthe 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 professorโs 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 desecrationโthe 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 himโa 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 youโwhether a gasp or a wail, he cared notโas 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 โ 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.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ | โ๐๐๐ง๐๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ง๐ข๐ญ๐.โ โ 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: tomโs 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 didnโt. 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 mortalityโs 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 paperโthe 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 professorโs 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 desecrationโthe 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 himโa 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 youโwhether a gasp or a wail, he cared notโas 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 โ 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.
เปเพเฝฒโ 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.
เปเพเฝฒโ His love is kept at bay, and he only gives you small amounts of itโjust enough to keep you from leaving.
เปเพเฝฒโ At night, he reads to you. He says it's to make you more civilised, even though the book he picks is 1984.
เปเพเฝฒโ 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.
เปเพเฝฒโ He can take praise from anyone. Anyone, that is, except you.
เปเพเฝฒโ Almost obsessively invested in your academic performance, he remarks, โShe is expected to have proper marks as well. How barbaric of her to earn a poor grade.โ
เปเพเฝฒโ His tongue circles against the inside of his cheek whenever he is jealous.
เปเพเฝฒโ Each night before sleep, he braids your hair, his fingers uncharacteristically gentle as they move through every strand.
เปเพเฝฒโ 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.