between a dream and a dream.

tom riddle's whore no crux.

[ciarvela]

➽─────❥ masterlist ⡴ ᴍᴅɴɪ. requests closed.

ᴅɪᴀ. she/her. nineteen. 𝓉om 𝓇iddle devotee .ᐟ

©ᴄɪᴀʀᴠᴇʟᴀ. i do not consent to my work being reposted, translated, copied, or fed to ai in any form.

[ciarvela]

     ❛ 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗥 ⤷ voldemort!tom

synopsis . A serpent’s inescapable embrace forces her to face the Dark Lord’s tormented hunger. tags . voldemort x reader , suggestive , possessive voldemort , captivity , coercion , stockholm syndrome elements.

word count . 1.3k | note . this is part 2 of the drabble requested by anon. ( part 1 ) | m.list

You sat rigid in the high-backed chair at Voldemort’s right hand.

Candelabras flickered along the table. Their light danced across crystal goblets untouched for decades. The manor's long dining hall stretched back into shadow, its high ceiling lost in darkness.

The silver chains were gone. For the first time since he had taken you, your wrists rested freely on the table. The skin was still raw and red, tender to the touch, but at least nothing rubbed it open anymore.

A heavy, sinuous weight shifted around your torso. 

His serpent—thick as your arm, her black scales shot through with emerald green—had wound herself around your ribs, just beneath your breasts, before looping snugly around your waist. Her body was warm, almost feverish, pulsing with each breath you took. Each tiny movement sent her smooth scales gliding against the thinness of your dress, holding you firmly in place.

Leaning forward earned an immediate warning squeeze. Twisting away only made her follow, guiding you back with gentle, inexorable pressure.

You had always loathed snakes. The mere sight of them turned your stomach, and the hairs on your arms lifted. Even now, your heart hammered so violently you were certain he could hear it.

Voldemort sat at the head of the table, his long fingers toying with the stem of his wine goblet while dinner appeared between you. The light threw the slender angles of his face, his slit nostrils, and the red eyes that never left you into stark relief.

“Still afraid of her?” he asked, nodding toward the reptile.

Her head lifted lazily beside your shoulder. A forked tongue flicked out to taste the air—to taste you. A soft hiss brushed your ear. You flinched, a startled whimper catching in your throat, unsure whether the snake would pull back or strike.

Voldemort’s mouth curved with a weary sort of fondness.

“How disappointing.” He cut a piece of meat and set it on your plate, as if this were any ordinary dinner between lovers. “In the timeline you have yet to live, she was as much yours as mine.”

You stared at your plate. The perfectly prepared food steamed there, but it might as well have been ash. “I’m not her.”

“Not yet.” His voice stayed patient, yet hunger bled through every syllable.

"But you will be. I have made certain of it this time.”

He reached beneath the table and planted a hand on your thigh. The serpent stirred, her coils constricting to force you a fraction forward, pressing your chest nearer the edge of the table—and nearer to him.

You tried to pull back, but she wouldn’t let you. 

“Please—”

Voldemort paused. Red eyes flicking up to meet yours. For a heartbeat the monster receded. Sensing the shift, the serpent loosened her grip just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you flee.

“I removed the chains,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward your wrists. The skin there was already beginning to heal under whatever subtle magic he had cast earlier. “They were marring you. I won’t have you marked by anything but me.”

Your laugh was brittle, edged with hysteria. “This is better?”

The serpent’s tongue slid against the side of your neck, tasting the fear-sweat that had gathered there. Every muscle in your body locked tight, afraid that even the smallest movement would provoke her.

“She feels your terror. It confuses her.” His bony hand shifted across the table until his fingers hovered just above yours. “You let her wrap around you like this while we ate. You leaned back against me. You let me feed you from my hand.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” you breathed. Your voice cracked.

“Because it hasn’t happened.” His eyes darkened. “Yet I remember every second. Every night you chose me when the world screamed for my head.”

“Stop,” you whispered. But your body betrayed you with another involuntary shiver as the snake shifted again, her delicate scales rubbing deliberately across your nipples through your dress.

He ignored the plea, picked up a piece of meat with his fingers, and brought it to your lips. “Eat.”

You shook your head, tears spilling. The serpent clenched, forcing your spine straight and drawing a gasp from you. Voldemort used the moment to press the food past your lips, his thumb lingering, dragging slowly across your lower lip.

“Good,” he praised quietly, red eyes half-lidded. “Very good. Swallow for me.”

You obeyed, cheeks burning. The length of her body pulsed warmly against your stomach, her head nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if comforting you.

“I hate this,” you muttered. “I hate you.”

Voldemort rose from his chair and moved behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, sliding down your arms before wrapping around you completely. 

“Hate me if you must. It changes nothing.” He pulled you back against his chest. The combined pressure of his body and the living heat of the serpent left you utterly trapped, surrounded. “I tore through time itself to claim you before my ambition destroyed what we had. Before I killed the only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth loving.”

His voice dropped lower as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “I will have that woman back. Even if I must break you and remake you myself.”

You struggled to steady your breathing. Fear still gripped you, refusing to release its hold, but his voice and the slow sway of the serpent left your thoughts tangled, making it harder to tell where instinct ended and desire began.

His hand moved down your arm before coming to rest atop her spirals between your breasts. “Feel how perfectly she holds you.” His gaze remained fixed on the serpent. “She would keep you still while I took my time with you. You begged so sweetly then. ‘Tom,’ you called me when you were too far gone for formalities. ‘Tom, please—’”

“Don’t,” you choked out, thighs pressing together.

He chuckled softly, the sound devoid of real humour. “You’re safe,” he murmured against your hair. “Safer than you have ever been.”

A tear slid down your cheek and landed on the serpent’s scales. She swiped her tongue, tasting salt.

Voldemort tilted your face toward his. His stare lingered on your wide eyes, the tremor at the corner of your mouth, the minute strain of a body fighting an impossible instinct to retreat. He bent his head. Lips grazed your cheek and kissed the tear away.

When he pulled back, his voice had gone hoarse. “I will never let you go,” he said in a whisper. “Not again. But I can be gentle. I want to be gentle with you this time.” He stayed behind you, body pressed close, his hands stroking slowly down your sides. “I am trying to be patient with you, little witch. Do not test me. I have waited years for this second chance. I will not be denied.”

His lips brushed the side of your neck in a brief, searing kiss. “Eat a little more. Then perhaps I will have her loosen enough for my hand to reach where you are growing warm.”

Her scaled embrace rose and fell with your ragged breathing. And Lord Voldemort—the most feared wizard alive—fed you another bite with the desperate patience of a man who had already lost everything once.

He would burn the world again to keep from losing it twice.

“You will beg for the monster who once held your heart.”

[ciarvela]

Hi for the "his terror his salvation" could you do something similar where he wants her but instead of chains, he uses a snake to keep her in place because he sort of controls them but the reader is deadly afraid of snakes except she isn't in the future when she was with him

( you don't have to write this, just a req. TY !)

hi!! I actually really like that idea. I might give it a try! If I end up writing it, it’ll probably be something I post over the weekend.

[deallss]

[ciarvela]

tom riddle is a massive rage-baiter but gets furious when someone successfully baits him back

[ciarvela]

⎯⎯ ᥫ᭡  condescending  praise  with  tom  riddle .ᐟ ₊ ༝ ･ ˖ ₊

nsfw , praise kink , cunnilingus , light dom/sub , dirty talk , mild degradation.

tom riddle presses his lips against your inner thigh, kissing the plush skin softly. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you and can feel the way you tremble beneath his mouth. he looks up at you with that knowing little smile.

"poor thing," he murmurs, "you're trembling already. it's alright, sweetheart. i know this is a lot for you."

you reach down and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. tom chuckles lowly, the vibration of it teasing your skin. "eager, aren't we? how sweet."

he slides your panties down as you lift your hips to help him. once they're off, he looks at your wet pussy and hums. "look at you, all nice and ready for me. you're doing so well already."

you spread your legs wider and pull his head down. tom lets you guide him, pressing his mouth against you. his tongue slides slowly over your slit, licking up your wetness.

"there we go," he breathes between long, deliberate licks. "such a good girl, letting me take care of you." he finds your clit and circles it with the tip of his tongue before drawing it between his lips, sucking gently.

a soft whimper slips from you as you roll your hips against his face, fingers tightening in his hair. tom squeezes your other hand, still laced with yours. "easy now, darling. i know it feels intense. you're being so brave for me."

he licks faster, sucking on your clit while you grind against his tongue. "that's it," voice warm against your soaked flesh. "look at you moving so nicely. my clever girl is learning so quickly."

your breaths come faster. you keep pushing against his mouth, chasing the feeling. tom holds your thigh open with his free hand and works you steadily.

“you’re right there, aren’t you?” he grumbles against you, "it's okay. you can let go. you've been so good for me."

you moan louder, hips moving quicker on his face. he sucks on your clit a little harder, tongue flicking just right until your thighs start to shake.

"come on, sweet girl," he coos. "let me feel it. you're doing perfectly."

you come hard, moaning his name, body trembling as you ride his face through it. tom keeps licking you gently until you start to calm down.

only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening, and smiles up at you. "there we are. you were exquisite, darling." he moves up and pulls you into his chest, kissing your forehead. "i'm very proud of you."

note . for anyone who needs tom to be soft and mean at the same time. | m.list

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback

[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.)

[belovedluci]

I adore Voldemort x reader fics ehehegjehddjehe it's so tasty. This definitely fed my hunger haha. And the fact I just woke up too omg 😭😭

Thank u for serving. My only complaint is that it's too short sob/j

[ciarvela]

Aaaah thank you!! I'm so happy it hit the spot!

Knowing it left you wanting more is probably the best feedback I could get!!

[changetheprophecy81]

I agree with Slughorn, I also think Tom Riddle is babygirl

[deallss]

8 змей в траве

[ciarvela]

Possessive!Tom Riddle headcannons.

Tom Riddle is not possessive, of course he isn’t.

What does it matter if he notices when you spend more time with someone else than with him? It's not as though he immediately knows when your routine changes or when you have started talking to someone new?

He's observant, that's all. Observant people notice things.

Tom is certainly not the type to worry about where he stands in someone's life. He doesn't need constant reassurance; he doesn't need reminders that you care about him, and he definitely doesn't need you choosing him over anyone else. But if you cancel plans with him, he might spend the entire day in a foul mood. If you forget to tell him you'll be late, he might send a passive-aggressive owl. And if someone else gets a smile from you that he was trying to earn all afternoon—

Well. That's hardly his fault, is it?

He doesn't care whether you stay.

He just happens to remember every person who's ever left.

Which is why he likes knowing where you are.

Why he prefers when you tell him your plans. Why he finds himself lingering in doorways when you're about to leave, asking one more question just to keep you there for another minute.

And maybe he does relax a little when you come back and immediately seek him out. He rather likes hearing about your day before anyone else's.

There's something embarrassingly comforting about knowing that no matter where you go, you'll return to him.

But that's not because he's afraid you'll leave.

Honestly, what a ridiculous idea.

Now sit down and tell him where you’ve been.

[ciarvela]

Haii so I really like ur writing and i was wondering if u could write a realistic evil evil tom 🙂‍↔️

aaa thank you, love!! realistic evil Tom is one of my favorite ways to write him 😭 requests are closed atm, but you’re kind of in luck because that’s actually the direction I’ve been leaning with him in my recent writing anyway lol.

[ciarvela]

18+

tom riddle who fucks you raw, pulls out and rubs his cum-smeared cock all over your face before shoving it back in your mouth to clean…

[ciarvela]

𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐁: Borgin & Burkes!Tom Riddle.

Tom would do anything to keep you close after Hogwarts. He could not stand the thought of you wasting away at the Ministry, your brilliance trapped behind a dull desk. That idea alone made his nails dig into his palms. So he paid the owner a little visit and convinced him to hire you at the register—creating the perfect excuse to have you right where he could watch over you every single day.

And watch he does.

The dim glow of Borgin and Burkes suits you far better than any Ministry fluorescent light ever could. You stand behind the counter in the fitted black dress he “suggested” you wear. The fabric clings to every curve as you wrap cursed artefacts for customers who have no idea that the real danger in the shop is the man leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, his eyes devouring you.

Every time you bend to retrieve something from the lower shelves, his jaw tightens as the hem rides higher, exposing the backs of your thighs. Whenever you lean forward to take galleons from trembling hands, your breasts pressing softly against the counter, nipples clearly outlined through the thin material.

His gaze licks up your spine like a hot tongue. You do not need to turn around to know his teeth are bared. He has not moved from his post by the wall and has not spoken a word, but his fingers clench against his folded arms, and you know exactly how those hands would feel unbuckling the dress’s clasp.

When the shop finally empties in the late afternoon, he does not waste a second.

Tom moves behind you without a word; his chest brushes your back as one hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down slightly, his eyes locked on yours.

“Soon,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, “we will not be stuck here. We will be so much more than what they tried to force us into.”

His lips linger on your forehead, warm and slightly dry, while his fingers caress their way down your forearm.

The real curse here was never in the artefacts.

[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.