A Voicemail From Ominis To Duncan. Im Back Hoes

he's a fucked up, horrible, living nightmare. i desire him carnally

Serenity

Garreth Weasley x GN!Reader

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hi this is a short little fluffy thing for 🎉weasley wednesday🎉, hope you enjoy :) also i dont know if scotland gets soupy but i need to write and rant about how fucking hot it is where i am so shhhhh

Prompt: It's peak summertime, and you and Garreth are in the Forbidden Forest gathering potion ingredients. But the heat is overwhelming, so you take a break in a creek you come across.

Word count: 584

Walking outside in the heat was like walking straight into a bowl of soup. It was thick and humid, the air seeming to weigh more than the trees themselves, and making anyone walking out in the open feel like sinking into the ground to escape the sun. Garreth and Y/N were certainly feeling the mid-August heat as they trod through the forest collecting toadstools and fluxweed and other tidbits they came across for his asinine potion experiments. They both walked carefully over the roots and mossy stones that littered the ground of the Forest; one could never be too careful when venturing through. The pair also carried mildly heavy sacks with them, the weight of which only made them sweat more.

Merlin, the sweating.

Y/N sat on a large root to rest, and started fanning themself to cool off. The two had already undone a few buttons on their shirts and loosened their ties, but when it was this hot outside, there was nothing much else one could do. Their hair clung to their face and their clothes clung to their bodies, and they had even considered at one point heading back early. Garreth sat down beside his friend and took a long breath before complaining:

"Merlin's beard, I feel as if I'm about to melt. And you don't look any better than I do, Y/N."

"Oh come off it, Weasley, I always look better than you do."

Y/N snorted, but what had said was true. The two were drenched in sweat and drowning in the grating sound of cicadas to add to the ambience of it all. The two sat for a moment before Y/N heard water running and stood up to look around. Not too far off behind them, was a decently sized creek, which looked cool and crisp and oh, so enticing.

"Hey Garreth?"

The ginger pushed his hair back and looked up at his companion, who was pointing over at the creek. They simply exchanged a grin as they set their supply sacks down and jogged over to the creek. It was just deep enough to lay down in without inhaling water, but that was good enough for them. The two laid down on their backs across the hard, but cool stones as they enjoyed the sensation of the fresh water lightly rushing over them. Y/N closed their eyes, taking the time to absorb and take relief in the atmosphere. The tepid water, the gentle sound of it rushing by their heads, the sound of nearby frogs that had the same idea as them. The sound of the croaking frogs was quite soothing, until one landed right on Y/N's face. That definitely pulled them out of their relaxed state.

"Eugh! Am I not already slimy and gross enough right now?"

Garreth sat up and looked down at his friend, with a grimace (and also frog slime) plastered across their face. He giggled before gently saying:

"Here, let me get that for you..."

He cupped some of the clear, cool water in his hands and gently let it pour over Y/N's face, using his thumbs to wipe away the sticky substance. When it was all cleared away, Y/N opened their eyes and stared up at the best friend, smiling. Garreth may be a goofball and a klutz, but he was brilliant to have around at times like this. The tenderness and care that he showed could make someone fall for him...

Desecration

Tom Riddle x F!Reader

18+ MDNI

HEAVY TRIGGER WARNING

Tags: p in v, loss of virginity, creampie, non-con, use of Imperio, necrophilia, murder of reader, bloodlust, dead dove do not eat

just a note before reading, please please please dont read this if youre squeamish at all, its pretty violent so yeah. but if youre into this kinda thing, please enjoy(?) and let me know if i should write more unhinged shit like this. it was a whim i got at 4am like "what if tom fucked a corpse" dont hate me im just a slave to inspiration

Word Count: 2.1k

The fresh, warm tea slid down your throat, warming your very soul on such a cold winter day. It tasted of ginger and cloves, and the heat and spice of it seemed to radiate throughout your body to fuel your evening of reading. Ever since Hogwarts, your interest in the dark arts has only grown, leading you to purchase several tomes and textbooks on the subject. The old parchment of the page made a crackling sound as you turned it, as did the fire that burned brightly in the hearth nearby. 

You were combing through the ancient spells and their effects, sipping your hot, spiced tea as you read, when your mind strangely started drifting elsewhere. The image of your room and the book in front of you seemed to grow cloudy and twisted into a very different image. The cozy, warmly lit room contorted into one much bigger, and darker as well. It was a bedroom, well decorated and lavish, clearly belonging to someone decently wealthy. Black floorboards and wall paneling, and rich emerald drapes and wallpaper to match it, not very unlike the Slytherin dormitories back at Hogwarts. The hearth stood out starkly, a green flame within to shroud the room in a certain cold hue that left you feeling slightly uneasy. A floo flame, but for what purpose?

Your eyes fell towards the bed, where two figures appeared to be engaging in something…intimate. Still mostly clothed, their lips were locked tightly, hands roaming wherever they pleased, and it seemed that they were the source of the only heat in the cold, eerie room. Upon closer inspection of the couple, you recognized yourself, a perfect mirror copy. And as your eyes darted to the man whose hand was currently gripping your waist, you quickly recognized who it was.

It was Tom Riddle, whom you fancied for quite a time during your school years together. The curly black hair, the pale skin, the handsome features; there was no mistaking it was him. But why was he suddenly in your fantasies again after years, and why did this feel so real? The two of you continued your throes of passion before Tom turned his head away from your lips (or rather, your copy's lips) to look straight into your eyes with his piercing gaze. Your copy did not seem to notice as he spoke firmly:

"The Riddle Manor, in Little Hangleton. Take the floo, and don't tarry. I do not like being kept waiting."

Right after he said that, the vision began to swirl as it did when it came about, and after a time, your room came back into view. The warm hearth, the spiced tea, the dark arts book. Home. But all of it was also accompanied by a dull headache and slight nauseous feeling. You slugged back the rest of the tea, which settled the sick feeling, before setting the book down on the table beside your chair. Something strange was happening, yet you felt compelled to comply with imaginary Tom's orders all the same. You strode over to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of floo powder, and tossed it into the fire, watching the bright orange flame turn a sickly green hue. As you stepped in, you wondered if this was all a big mistake, that maybe you would intrude on some poor family's evening. But all the same, the words came out of your mouth:

"Riddle Manor."

Instantly, you were transported to the bedroom from your daydream, feeling much better now that you didn't see any strangers or hear any shrieking at your appearance in the fireplace. However, that relief was quickly diminished as your eyes landed on Tom Riddle, standing by the bed, in the same place where he had been entangling with you in your dream. No, his presence here proved that that was no mere daydream. It was a vision. It finally clicked: Tom had planted that in your head by means of legilimency. But why?

He strode towards you, his gaze and demeanor making you feel cornered even though you were in the open middle of the room. But before you could fully process what was happening and mull over your questions, his hand firmly gripped your shoulder, his long bony fingers digging into the flesh. He was different than he had been at Hogwarts. Sure, he still carried himself well and was still handsome, but his eyes and cheeks were sunken further into his face, and he was a little more twitchy now, looking as though he had been in a room full of dementors for weeks. The eyes that once held a perpetual air of cool composure now burned with something far more sinister. Tom seemed more raw now, a little more unhinged.

"Don't ask me why I brought you here, and don't ask me how I've been over the years. I am not interested in catching up. Just get on the bed." He commanded, his voice wavering slightly.

Your face twisted up into one of confusion, wanting some answers first. Not even a letter in years, no interaction or correspondence whatsoever, and now he brings you here simply to have sex with you? Absolutely not. Sure, you had fancied him, but you still had self-respect enough to stand your ground.

"Tom, wait, why did-"

A frustrated groan emanated from his throat, promptly cutting you off. He sounded and looked manic; clearly something had happened just before he summoned you here. But before you could inquire about anything, Tom pulled out his wand and pointed it at you, and muttered out an incantation that neither you nor anyone else ever wanted to hear.

"Imperio."

Suddenly, your mind was cleared of all inhibitions and inquiries, and you felt as if you were floating. His wand remained pointing toward you, but you could not care less in that instant. In your world, there were no cares at all. Tom's voice reverberated throughout the silent room as he commanded once more:

"Get on the bed."

And so you did, laying down on the plush emerald blankets, hands at your sides and obediently awaiting his next command. Tom took no time in hovering over you, pinning you in place and hiking up your skirt, not even bothering to fully strip you. Curiously, he noticed that you were wet between your thighs. Not overly so, but enough for him to know that you were somewhat enjoying this. He contemplated a moment before deciding to lift the curse, putting his wand down on the nightstand close by. Yes…it would be much more fun to break you himself. 

Just as you were coming back into consciousness, you felt your underwear being harshly ripped away from your body and something hard being aligned with your core. Tom spit in his hand and stroked himself a couple of times before pushing the head in.

"Tom, wait-!"

Tom placed that same hand tightly over your mouth, feeling your lips moisten with the remaining saliva coating his palm.

"Quiet. If you resist, it will end badly for you. Just do as I say."

You nodded, and Tom started roughly pounding into you, painfully stretching you out and making it sting from the lack of proper lubrication. A tear fell down the side of your face from the unbearable pain, but also from the shame of knowing that you also secretly took pleasure in him using you like this. You wished he had taken more time with preparing you first, but that was simply a silly fantasy. Of course, you knew that Tom was never one to really consider the comfort of anyone but himself.

Soon enough though, the pain started to become pleasure as you fully took in what was happening. Tom hovered above you, relentlessly ramming his cock in and out of you, sweat forming on his face. Or had it always been there? Compared to the vision of heated passion he had shown you before, he was completely different in reality. There was no warmth, no desire, no savoring of stimulation, none of what she truly wanted. The only thing in Tom right now was a dull lust, and even then, it was brought about by stress, and not out of any longing for her personally. He was clearly strained and rather wired, but why? 

Tom was nearing closer and closer to his release, urged on even more so by the way your body slowly began opening up and accepting him into you. But it really wasn't you that had gotten him this riled up and raring to go. You were only an afterthought, someone he remembered from Hogwarts, and likely the most willing to come. No, Tom had been spurred on by the scene in the dining room just below the room they were in.

His father's side of the family, dead in their seats, their dinner and their bodies probably still a little warm.

The way their faces contorted with fear, the empty look in their eyes, permanently in the state of terror a mere moment before their deaths; all of it had been exhilarating to execute, quite literally. Tom's bony fingers dug into your hip as his left hand held you steady, while his right remained over your mouth, muffling the moans that simply begged to be released from your lips into the frigid air of the room. However, instead of relishing in the sounds of your pleasure, he only became annoyed. He didn't care to perceive your shameful and sickening display of lust, and as you both grew closer to your releases, you grew louder, and he only grew more aggravated until he finally snapped.

"Quiet, I said!"

He released his hand from your mouth, only to wrap it around the handle of his wand, and he pointed it at you once more. You were so cock-drunk at this point, that you didn't even hear the incantation fall from his lips before seeing a flash of green light blind your vision.

And then, nothing.

Your body was completely limp now, and your face carried the same expression as the occupants of the dining table downstairs. The sheer terror, the microsecond where you realize you're going to die, the horror of it all. Tom, however, just soaked this in, not even wanting to pull out. In actuality, his pace only increased, the gruesome nature of the act only fueling the fire within him further. Only now, after you were completely unable to perceive anything anymore, did he indulge in what you had really wanted. His hands ripped open your shirt so he could take a look at you completely exposed, for only him to see. The hand that was previously pressed over your mouth now kneaded at the mounds of flesh, relishing in the softness of them. His teeth sunk harshly into the flesh of your throat, feeling the skin break and the taste of copper flowing over his tongue. With one more incantation, Tom pointed his wand at your chest to truly complete his work of art.

"Diffindo."

The flesh of your chest was cut deeply in three strokes, as if you had been ravaged by a rabid animal. And, in a way, you had been. Tom licked his lips before dragging his tongue over the bleeding cuts, savoring the thick, metallic tasting fluid in his mouth before letting it go down his throat. 

Tom had never felt more powerful than in this moment. And upon realizing that, his cock twitched and the dam within him broke, spilling his seed within your slack cunt, furthering the humiliation and desecration of your lifeless body. He liked you better this way, without thoughts or wants or autonomy. Simply a tool, a doll he could use for his own satisfaction whenever he wanted. But sadly, you would decompose, and all his fun would end once you got too cold. But for now, he pulled out and fixed himself back up, as if nothing had just happened. 

~~*~~

Your dead body remained on the bed for a couple of days, cold and pale from the lack of circulating blood. Tom knew that this would be his last time with you before it became unsafe for him to keep you around. He tucked himself back into his trousers, watching the last couple of days worth of his seed leak out of your cold, dead cunt. The scene was sick and disgusting, truly, but Tom found a bizarre beauty in it. The juxtaposition of the seed of life being planted into something cold and dead that could never grow it filled him with a sense of disturbing satisfaction that he just loved the rush from. 

However, the body would start breaking down soon, and he needed to get rid of it. After a few moments of contemplation, he had decided to transfigure your body into something small and simple: a teacup. A teacup which, when drinking from it, would remind him of most likely the best day he had ever had. He had taken revenge on his filthy muggle relatives, and had his first go with a woman all in one night.

What's not to love?

ngl, i havent posted in like a year??? im kinda done with the hogwarts legacy fandom. more bad times have been had than good and ive simply moved onto other things. thanks to people in the past for putting a sour taste in my mouth lol

on a more positive note, i may overhaul my profile and start posting for other fandoms, currently into hazbin hotel and call of duty so yeah

fictional crushes make me delusional because I’m like yeah I could totally pull felix neumann AND vladimir makarov if they were real

blops 6 really needs that adler nipples peeking through the purple whore shirt dlc

                         horny

              horny      ^        horny

     horny               |                 horny

horny                   o ———->           horny

      horny                                 horny

            horny                   horny

                          horny

good heavens look at the time

Forgotten once again.

✩Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary: The one where Tom isn’t capable of love, but you thought you could change that. Alternatively: Possesiveness and Love become the same thing.

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this one because Tom’s character is sm fun to write. It’s interesting because despite my delusions I couldn’t ever imagine him being capable of loving someone, and if he did it would be like this. Also this is probably the last time i’ll post for the next three weeks!

Warnings: Toxic Relationships, mentions of manipulation, violence (towards others). Generally about a very toxic and unhealthy relationship so please do not read if you’re triggered by anything to do with this! My inbox is always open if you ever need someone to talk to 🫶🏼.

Songs: Leaving Tonight - The Neighbourhood

Spectre - Radiohead

Tom Riddle was many things.

For one, he was ambitious. He would achieve whatever he so desired. If he had the means to do it, it would be done immediately. If he did not, well...

He would find the means to do so. Because Tom Riddle achieved whatever he so desired.

He was also charismatic.

Tom had a natural charisma that drew people to him. Whether through his charm, intelligence, or a combination of both, he had a magnetic presence that captivated those around him. This charisma played a significant role in his ability to influence and manipulate others to further his ambitions.

Tom Riddle was brilliant. Gifted with a sharp mind and a keen understanding of magic, he excelled in his studies. His intelligence, coupled with his ambition, allowed him to delve into dark magic and ancient mysteries, seeking knowledge and power that others might shy away from.

Tom Riddle was many things, but there was only one thing he lacked.

Perhaps it was karma, some form of divine intervention, his hamartia, that it was this very thing that would be his downfall in the years to come.

Tom was many things, but loving was not one of them.

Tom Riddle was not loving. No - he was not capable of love.

Tom Riddle, was incapable of experiencing genuine love due to being conceived under the influence of a love potion, not true love. The circumstances of Tom’s conception were marked by coercion and manipulation, as his mother, Merope Gaunt, used a love potion to attract and bind Tom Riddle Sr. to her. It was artificial and devoid of true affection. This was a concrete and inexplicably tragic detail that meant Tom Riddle simply was not physically capable of reciprocating love.

Key word, reciprocating. For, it was very much possible for someone to fall in love with Tom. A cruel thing it would be, for one cannot simply love Lucifer himself and expect to be loved in return. Tom Riddle's incapacity for reciprocating love stemmed from a profound emotional void rather than an inability to elicit affection from others.

This fact was a cruel truth that you only chose to accept once it was too late. One does not simply get involved with Tom Riddle, and come out unscathed.

Tom never cared for love, really. To him, it was just some sort of transaction or tool, something to be manipulated for his own benefit. Love, in Tom Riddle's eyes, was a means to an end rather than an intrinsic value. It was a sentiment that he observed in others but never truly felt himself.

Love, however, seemed to be the most raw, human thing in existence. It was everything we hated, yet also everything we loved. It unravelled our deepest insecurities, it brought things to the surface that we had long pushed to the side. It required us to lay ourselves, bare, for the other to see. Love made us tolerate the very worst of things, love made us hate the very best of things.

Many things can be complementary in life. Love was not one of them. It was overpowering, consuming. It changed who you were.

Love was the beginning of life and the end of it. Love was part of being human.

Tom lacking this fundamentally crucial aspect of the human experience may have been the very thing that led him to despise his humanity.

When Tom had met you, it was slightly different. A puzzle piece that didn't quite fit but intrigued him nonetheless.

You were undeniably talented, a mind that had its worth. You had this air of arrogance, and whilst Tom hated unbacked arrogance, you had the means to justify it. You were self-assured, and he found it to be somewhat refreshing compared to the other people he knew (who unashamedly sucked up to him.) You didn’t fall for his tricks immediately, which made him all the more agitated, and intrigued. Rather, you seemed to enjoy being with Tom most when he’d drop the ‘perfect and polite’ facade he had. You valued honesty and bluntness, two things Tom did not do (After all, how would he gain the trust of others if he truthfully told them he planned on using every single one of them?)

However, the more time he spent with you, the more he found that he fed into what you liked. And somehow, to his dismay, he found some sort of sick satisfaction in it. He enjoyed seeing you actively seek out his presence, and as much as it went against what Tom believed, he liked the validation of having people want to be associated with him. It was a testament to how he longed to be known, to be admired. He observed, learned, and dissected your intricacies, seeing you not as an individual but as a canvas upon which he could project his desires.

He soon grew very used to you, and he didn't absolutely loathe you. As the days unfolded into months, and the months unfolded into years, a semblance of tolerance took root. He played the part, masking his true intentions beneath a veneer of charm. Tolerance morphed into a twisted form of acknowledgement — an acknowledgement that you held a role in his future ambitions, his ultimate goal.

After all, that's all he ever did anything for, right? His goals, His desires. His needs.

The evolution was subtle but insidious. What began as a detached fascination transformed into a possessive need. Tom, driven by an insatiable hunger for control, found satisfaction in manipulating the threads of your existence. Obsession seeped into every crevice of his thoughts. Your every action became a challenge to him, something for him to understand, something he wanted to have control over. His infatuation stemmed from a desire to have control, to claim your very being, to possess you like some sort of artefact in his prized possessions.

Whilst you may have been immune to Tom’s charm when you first met, you certainly weren't without your weakness. After all, Tom always got what he wanted, and if he didn't have the means to do so, he'd find it.

He became fluent in his ways of understanding you, observing every little thing you did. He dissected the very core of your being till he was sure there was nothing he wouldn't know. Casual conversations about schoolwork in the depths of the library turned to confessions about your life as the hours passed. Tom preyed on your vulnerability, sowing seeds of doubt into your mind.

He agreed with you when you expressed your frustrations at your friends, he encouraged your rash actions. He told you what you wanted to hear, and made it seem as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

As everything he did, each word he spoke was carefully calculated, a thread sewn in the fabric of your fucked up relationship, binding him inexplicably closer to you without even realising.

He pointed out things, seemingly from a place of concern, making you distance yourself from your friends. He highlighted instances where your friends might have let you down, carefully framing himself as the only steadfast pillar in your life. Tom was everything you could have needed; he understood you, and he made you feel seen.

He was selective about what he let you know. He let you know he had grown up in a children’s home, and that his mother had died. Trust was a two-way thing, and you were smart enough to detect when it wasn’t being reciprocated. He let you see what he wanted to see, for no human was perfect, and he needed you to see he had his imperfections if he wanted you to trust him.

He needed to make it seem as though you made him feel seen too.

Tom had been sitting in your room, working with you on a transfiguration assignment you both had been set. Cross-legged on your bed, he still remembers how you had sat down next to him, visibly frustrated.

Tom, ever attuned to you, asked whether you were ok because that's what someone who cared for you did. He didn't care greatly though, not in a selfless way. Rather, he needed you to know that he was the only person who knew you, the only person you needed.

You opened up about what had happened, explaining how your friends had betrayed your trust, and how they seemed to misunderstand you, leaving you feeling isolated and vulnerable. Tom, feigning empathy with expert precision, listened intently, absorbing every detail like a sponge. You began crying because it all became too much.

You never thought Tom would comfort you. You believed he'd perhaps pat your back, or assure you it was all fine. What you didn't expect, was for Tom to draw you in, to wrap his arms around you, and pull you into his chest. You didn't expect him to soothe you, and rub your back as he uttered words of comfort into your ear, seemingly shielding you from the emotions that had been weighing you down.

You didn't expect to feel safe, to feel protected. If only you knew the only thing you needed protection from, was Tom himself.

You felt special. You knew it was not in Tom's nature to do so. You had no idea how vile of a person he truly was, but you understood he was avoidant of sentiment or affection. For him to have been so tender, made you feel loved.

It was only ever bound to go downhill from there.

It was only natural that you had fallen in love with him. From there it all somewhat became a blur. In between the lines, the illusion of love was beginning to waver. Graduating from Hogwarts, you no longer held those ambitions you once had. Your plans seemed now to be a distant memory, a past life. You had Tom, and that was all that mattered.

Tom had gotten his job at Borgin and Burkes. You moved in with him. You ignored the pleas of concern from those who were near and dear to you, who Tom hadn’t managed to isolate you from.

Tom convinced you that they did not have your best interest in mind, that they didn’t like him because he was a poor orphan, working a salesperson job. He had earlier convinced you he had his insecurities about his past, and he used that to make you believe the people around you were prejudiced, that they didn't care for your happiness but rather their status being affected by who they associated with. No one would want to be acquainted with the girl who loved the charity case.

You believed him. You couldn't fathom why they didn’t like Tom. You shut them out.

It was rather terrifying seeing how quickly Tom could snuff out your fiery flame, and reduce you down to someone who became dependent on him. You rarely left the house, your life revolved around what Tom wanted, and how Tom felt.

He left you teetering on the precipe of unhappiness, fulfilling your needs to the point where you couldn’t complain for fear of seeming ungrateful, unloving.

He would neglect you, coming back from work to lock himself in your bedroom, pouring over books and writings. He wasn’t who he used to be, caring, affectionate, loving.

Shame on you for assuming you could make Tom capable of love.

His neglect pierced your soul, and when you mustered the courage to voice your needs, he snapped at you for bothering him. Tom's transformation into an emotionally distant stranger left you in a state of perpetual uncertainty.

At times, you resolved to leave him, but Tom had a knack for sensing your unrest. As though he could read your mind, he returned with offerings and apologies, painting himself as the troubled victim and casting you as the ungrateful perpetrator. Guilt became the shackle that bound you, and his apologies only deepened the wounds.

Tom, in those fleeting moments of remorse, would momentarily embody the man you had fallen in love with. You cooked dinner together. He’ d play with your hair as you read, and he fucked you as if he truly did love you. Yet, the morning after, the bed would be empty, and the reality of your entangled existence with Tom would once again sink in.

He began leaving for work earlier and coming back later. You began to doubt whether it was because of work, the day he came back reeking of dark magic.

You were undeniably clever, after all, that was what had sparked Tom’s obsession with you in the first place, and so it didn’t take long for you to connect the dots. Tom’s friends back in Hogwarts seemed more like devotees than anything else. This, coupled with him spending countless hours reading through books he wouldn't let you see, and his sudden late hours suggested to you he was dappling in dark things.

You weren't wrong, per se, but Tom was far beyond dappling in dark things. He had become the image of corruption itself.

The cycle persisted, a disheartening repetition of highs and lows that left you questioning your worth and the authenticity of the connection you had with Tom. His intermittent displays of affection, punctuated by periods of neglect and manipulation, became the norm. The more you yearned for stability, the deeper you sank into the quicksand of your toxic relationship.

You couldn't pinpoint exactly where neglect turned into heated words. Arguments turning more and more intense. Slammed doors became broken porcelain, yet the remorseful embraces remained the same.

The outside world, once filled with friends and dreams, now seemed like a distant echo. Tom had successfully eroded the foundations of your past life, isolating you from the support systems that could have provided a lifeline. His poisonous whispers had convinced you that only he truly cared for you, painting the rest of the world as indifferent or antagonistic.

The empty mornings and hollow apologies continued, and you slowly began to realise the love you once believed in had become a warped caricature, and the person you had fallen for had let his obsession manifest into your relationship, seeping through the feeble foundations.

The crisp air of Hogsmeade offered a welcome escape from the suffocating atmosphere of the shared home with Tom. As you strolled through the quaint village, a familiar face caught your eye – Elizabeth, your closest friend from Hogwarts. A twinge of nostalgia mixed with apprehension as you approached her.

"Hey, Elizabeth," you greeted, attempting a smile.

Her response was guarded, her eyes revealing a mixture of concern and wariness. "Hello. Long time no see."

You sensed a tension in the air as you tried to engage in small talk, but Elizabeth's words soon cut through the facade. "Look, What happened? You dropped off the face of the earth, and it's like you vanished after graduation. In our last year, you completely ignored all of us."

A knot tightened in your stomach as you fumbled for an explanation. "I... things have been complicated. I've been busy."

Elizabeth's expression softened, and she sighed. "Busy? More like completely consumed. We all missed you, you know? But you acted like we don't even exist. What happened to the person we used to know?"

You frown, crossing your arms. “Missed me? I only stopped talking to you because you all acted weird around me.” You respond, defensively.

“No, we didn't. You got angry at us when we told you we were worried for you. You rarely went out with us, you were always too busy elsewhere.” She corrected, and you felt a frustration bubble within you.

“No, it didn’t really seem like that. You all isolated me and the only person I had left was Tom. It was only natural that I wouldn't want to go back to being friends with you after that.” You snap.

Elizabeth's eyes widened, sympathy replacing her earlier frustration. "Tom? Are you serious? He's the one who isolated you, not us. We've been worried sick about you. You're not the same person anymore."

Who did she think she was? She knew nothing about the two of you, let alone what your relationship was like. Tom was right, these people had it out for you. They didn't care for you, not at all.

“You don't know what our relationship is like Elizabeth, so I suggest you stop making assumptions.” You hiss, glaring at her.

"We cared, but you pushed us away," Elizabeth explained gently. "You were so wrapped up in whatever was going on with Tom that you stopped caring about anyone else. It's not healthy, and we were genuinely concerned."

Elizabeth reached out to comfort you. "Listen, I know it's tough, but you need to reevaluate your situation. Staying with Tom isn't healthy, and you're not alone. My door is always open if you need somewhere to stay or someone to talk to.” She says, fumbling around in her pockets. She pulls out a receipt and hastily scribbles down an address, thrusting it into your hand. She gives you one last look of pity, and you feel enraged. You immediately apparate back home, you didn't have time for this foolishness.

You apparate back home, the confrontation with Elizabeth leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. The hastily scribbled address clutched in your hand feels like an unwanted invitation, an intrusion into the carefully constructed reality that Tom has woven around you.

As you step into the shared home, the atmosphere is unsettling. Tom is hunched over a dark tome, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as you enter.

"Where have you been?" he questions, the softness of his tone belying the underlying intensity.

You toss your coat aside, frustration boiling beneath the surface. "Out. I needed a break from all this," you retort, the words laced with the anger that has been building up.

A dangerous glint enters Tom's eyes, his composure slipping. "A break? Is that how you see it? Is it a burden to you?"

"Yes, Tom! I don’t know what’s gone wrong? One day you’re fin and the next you’re acting as though i’m a nuisance to your being," you snap, the resentment in your voice cutting through the room.

His posture stiffens, and a quiet threat laces his words. "Oh really?"

Your anger flares, a defiant fire pushing back against his dominance. "Guess who I saw today, hmm?" You seethe, venom lingering in your tone.

A momentary confusion flickers in Tom's eyes. "Who?" he questions, wondering how this could be relevant to the conversation.

"Elizabeth," you declare, watching his reaction closely.

Tom's expression darkens, and a cold tension settles in the room. "What does she have to do with anything?" He retorts, stepping closer to you.

"She told me a few things, Tom. About how I've distanced myself from everyone, how they were worried, and you know what struck me?" you press on, your anger finding a new target.

His eyes narrow, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "What?"

"That I believed it was my friends who had abandoned me, but in reality, it's been you isolating me all along," you accuse, the realization fueling your rage. You jab your finger into his chest as you speak.

Tom's composure wavers, but he quickly recovers. "I've been protecting you. You can't trust them. They're trying to pull you away from me."

"Stop. Stop it, Tom. Have the decency to acknowledge I'm not that fucking stupid. I know what you're trying to do,” You say, voice cracking. You resist the urge to shield your ears, his words burrowing their way into you as he attempts to trivialise your worries, making you out to be the irrational one.

Tom frowns, and the sight of you beginning to doubt him had bile riding in the back of his throat. H reaches out, hands holding onto your shoulders as he urges you to look at him.

“They’re lying to you. They’re trying to pull you away from me again! Can't you see this? Why do you believe them over me?” He says, voice pleading with you in fake desperation, the lengths he was willing to go to to ensure he could continue to possess you were unthinkable.

“Enough. Im fucking done. You’re so fucked up, Tom. You never loved me, did you? You only ever wanted to own me, to control me. Tell me, was it worth it? Was it ever fucking worth it, spending 5 years of your life weaving this tapestry of bullshit just so you could keep me locked up in here?” You snap, grabbing your coat.

Tom's pleading expression transforms into a cold mask, and a sinister calm settles over him. "You think you can just leave? You're mine, and you'll stay. I won't let you go." He utters.

The realization of his true nature, the toxicity of the relationship, fuels your determination. "Watch me,” You hiss.

As you move toward the door, his grip on control slips further, and an unsettling mix of rage and desperation flashes in his eyes. "You'll regret this. You'll come crawling back. You always come back." He says. You take a single look at him before slamming the door and walking off.

One cannot simply dance with the devil, and change him. He always changes you.

Tom Riddle was far beyond the devil.

You wondered if for once in your life God had been on your side when you had that chance encounter with Elizabeth. Despite your harsh words, she had accepted you into her home with open arms. The weight of the past five years settles heavily on your shoulders, and the enormity of what you've lost becomes painfully clear. You were young, so damn young, and you’d been living as a glorified prisoner, trapped by the very thing that was meant to liberate you.

But love was ugly, wasn't it? It made you tolerate the bad, it made you irrational. Love could bare its teeth into your neck, and you'd let it, for love was ugly.

It was ugly, but it was not macabre.

Tom knew where you were. Tom always did. It was already established that Tom always got what he wanted. He wanted you, and he found a way to ensure that.

At first, he did not bother you.

He believed you would come back to him, as you so often did. But when a week had passed and you had not reappeared as you always did, beautiful face flushed red, eyes glossy with tears as you wordlessly stepped in and fell back into normality, he began to worry.

If it came to any relief to you, which it might have, Tom believed he loved you. What you had was a far cry from love, an echo of what it should have been. But in the mind of he who cannot love, this is what he believed it to be. One could only wonder whether everything would have been different if he actually knew what love was. But he didn't, and he never would, so he was left with some sort of fucked up obsession that he believed was love.

Tom felt a gnawing emptiness that only intensified with your departure.

Again, he loved you, if one could call it love. It was a sick, twisted version of affection that demanded ownership. In his distorted reality, your existence became an extension of his own, a possession he couldn't bear to lose. The mere thought of you breaking free ignited a desperate panic within him.

He needed you like a drowning man gasping for air, clinging to the last vestiges of sanity.

Schopenhauer believed that the will, a blind and irrational force, dominated human behaviour. Love, according to Schopenhauer, was an expression of the will's desire.

Tom felt this indescribable gap in his life without you there, as though he simply wasn’t complete without you. The old him would have hated to admit it, but he needed you, and his need for you grew from a sickly infatuation to a desperate yearning. Love, in his distorted reality, meant ownership, and he was losing his grip.

It was a rather bleak evening, and you had a horrible feeling in your stomach as you sat on the sofa of Elizabeth’s living room, where you had been presiding for the past week.

How cruel it was, that you and Tom were so attuned to one another.

You somehow knew it was Tom without needing to see them.

As Tom had resonated with the words of Schopenhauer, you had resonated with the words of Plato. For you, love could not be controlled. Instead, it was a divine madness that took hold of individuals, transcending rational thought and choice.

You had often thought that was a beautiful thing. However, when it was love that was causing your demise, it no longer felt beautiful.

Elizabeth comes down the stairs and raises a brow when she sees you perched on the edge of the sofa, staring blankly off into the distance. She eyes you apprehensively as she opens the door.

That voice. It simultaneously sent dread coursing through you, and butterflies erupting in your stomach.

“Come back now. It's been far too long.” Tom says, his voice oh so tempting.

“Seriously? You think you can get her back with that bullshit?” Elizabeth snaps, standing at the door.

Tom, however, remains fixated on you, as if Elizabeth's words were mere background noise. Ignoring her comments, he continues, his eyes piercing into your conflicted gaze.

"Stop this. Come back. It's where you belong," he urges, the words carrying a persuasive weight that had once held you captive.

Elizabeth's frustration peaked as she turned to face you, pleading in her eyes. "Don't listen to him. He's toxic, and you don't need that in your life. You deserve so much more."

Tom's eyes bore into yours, his tone silky but insistent. "You don't belong in our business, Elizabeth. You’re as meddlesome as you were in school. She knows where she belongs."

You remain silent.

"He's killing you. Can't you see that?" Elizabeth's voice held a mixture of concern and frustration.

But Tom's voice slithered through the air once more, persuasive and relentless. "Come to me.” His words echoed a twisted sense of possessiveness, yet held such allure, spoken tenderly, enough to convince you it would be fine.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your skin. You stand up, letting out a shuddery breath. You walk towards the door.

“Fuck, stop! You don't need to go! Don't act like you have nowhere to go! I've given you my home, I’ve let you stay. Stop going back!” Elizabeth says, frustration laced in her voice.

How easy it is to claim you simply need to just “stop”, and it would all be fine.

It was never that simple. Tom's presence was poison, yet it was also the air you breathed. You had only known Tom for what felt like aeons, and you had shut everyone who questioned you out. All you had was Tom, all you ever would have is Tom.

He was home, a twisted kind that keeps you warm while slowly suffocating the life out of you.

As you walked back into his outstretched arms, a sense of numb acceptance settled over you. The outside world ceased to matter; the only reality was the one with Tom.

It wasn't love as the poets wrote or the philosophers pondered. Yet, in its ugliness, it was the only reality you knew.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around. Like a serpent, his embrace constricts around you, possessive and suffocating. You lean into him, feeling the coldness of his touch seep into your skin. It's oddly warming though, as paradoxical as it seemed.

"Where else would you go, my love?" he whispers, the sweetness of the endearment masking the toxicity beneath.

The serpent and its prey, bound in a perverse waltz of dependence and decay, disappear into the shadows, and the world outside is forgotten once again.

me trying to look for makarov content that isnt just him shipped with yuri or andrei:

Uprising

Tom Riddle x F!Reader

================

MINORS DNI 🔞

hi this is my first time writing for tumblr, and im starting off with a whopper. i dont know what all the trigger warnings are supposed to be but i tried my best to be accomodating. also my ass did NOT research but hopefully my memory should suffice and i did my best to keep characters and stuff accurate or at least adjacent. im on mobile btw so im sorry if any formatting is weird but yeah, this one is uh...pretty dark so yeah, hope you enjoy :)

TW: smut, oral (m receiving), master/slave dynamic, bloodlust, bodily harm, very very kinky Tom

PROMPT: This takes place in the infancy of his rise to becoming the Dark Lord. Y/N has been the only one to manage to get somewhat close to Tom, being his first real devoted follower, but does he really love her or is she simply a tool for power and pleasure?

Word count: 1.8k

The stone floor was cold and dry, just like the rest of the manor that had been the base of operations for Tom Riddle, or as his followers know him, Lord Voldemort. The only warmth in the room came from the hearth, which bathed the room in an eerie, orange glow. The light of a fireplace would usually be calming and comforting; yet when juxtaposed with the topic being discussed with the Dark Lord and a table full of his followers, it was as if it filled the room with an ironic coldness.

The table that stood starkly in the middle of the room sat only around ten people. Some belonged to the Black and Malfoy families, as they had the power, wealth, and influence to help spread the message of their uprising. The rest, however, were friends that Tom had made during his time at Hogwarts. He had promised them glory and power should they choose to side with him. And he had the power of the Blacks and Malfoys at his side, so why would they ever question him?

"Remember what we have discussed today, and we shall put our plan into action. This will take much care and caution to execute, lest we wish to be exposed and our movement snuffed out. You may go, and I will call upon you again when need be."

The voice of the Dark Lord reverberated throughout the room, cold and authoritative. With every word that came from his lips, it felt to his followers that he was speaking snakes into existence, coiling around their throats and threatening to squeeze if they so much as spoke a word out of turn. Tom Riddle was a handsome man, with curly, jet black hair that he made sure was always neatly maintained. His brown eyes always seemed to see right through people as if they were ghosts (and depending on who he's looking at, they soon would be). The way he carried himself and strode about the halls with his head high simply screamed that he was entirely fit to be a Dark Lord. The very perception of him was perfect, like someone you would see in a painted portrait hanging in the hall of a lavish castle.

But of course, those thoughts stayed in Y/N's mind as the occupants of the table stood and made their way to the hearth to take the floo network back to wherever they needed to be. The floo flame now bathed the room in a green hue as the Death Eaters made their exit, while the Dark Lord remained seated at the head of the table with his most faithful servant at his side.

On her knees, at his side, as he preferred. Y/N was his queen, yes, but he also still saw her as his inferior. This was commonplace at these meetings; Y/N on her knees at his side as the Dark Lord gave his orders, her head and arms draped across his lap, and a collar around her throat. The leash, of which, he kept a firm hold of. It was all a display of power and of status, complete ownership of another living soul. She had been the first one to bear the Dark Mark on her forearm, and with that, comes special treatment. Y/N was permitted the place as his right hand, able to give orders so long that they do not undermine his own. She was also given the privilege of warming his bed and knowing just enough of his plans and secrets to make her feel special and more complicit in his plots. Little pieces, crumbs of information to make her feel like she was his most trusted confidant.

As the last of the Death Eaters disappeared into the emerald flames, the Dark Lord pulled Y/N to her feet by the leash he always kept a tight hold on. Now that they were alone, he was free to slip on his other mask: the mask of the lover. Now, he was simply Tom.

"Come now, my dear, let us retreat to my chambers for the night. You look exhausted, and I don't say I blame you. Listening to that lot blabbering on about their imbecilic ideas exhausts me as well, at times."

"Of course, my Lord."

Y/N knew exactly what he was implying, as it had become a nightly occurrence. Tom would want to be pleasured by her and, to his credit, he would pay the favor back in kind. He opened the door to his chambers, which were always kept spotless and neat. The emerald blankets that adorned his bed were crisply tucked in and smooth, and there was scarcely a drop of wax on the nightstands on either side from the lit candlesticks. But Tom took a seat on the side of the bed regardless, though Y/N swore she saw his eye twitch as he saw the sheets crease underneath the weight of him. He gave a sharp tug of the leash, pulling her closer to him, and almost making her stumble.

"Kneel."

He did not have to tell her twice. She had learned the heard way that it was unwise to make him tell her twice. Y/N dropped to her knees in front of him, patiently awaiting orders. This was what life was like for her now, and she was perfectly happy with it. When it came down to it, she was still Tom's queen, and truly the one that he respected most. The thought gave her warmth as he thoroughly debased and degraded her every night after the business of the day had been dealt with. All of his frustrations, his tension, his stress, it all went into her. His queen, his pet, his slave.

"You know what to do."

Tom said flatly, in the sardonic and authoritative tone that always coated his words. And as Tom ordered, Y/N did. Her hands moved to unbutton and unzip his trousers, pulling the fabric of that and his undergarments down only enough to free his member, which stood proudly at attention just as the rest of him did every day. That was the only degree to which Y/N was allowed to undress him; Tom had always preferred to do any undressing himself, if he even did at all. But something about witnessing how eagerly and desperately his queen wished to free his cock from its cloth prison aroused him, so he had kindly allowed her that privilege.

Y/N's tongue ran up the underside of his length and swirled around his tip before her lips wrapped around it and moved back and forth. Tom was an impatient man, and did not like to be teased or kept waiting. Soon enough, his hand was tangled in her hair, almost as if he was petting her, before grabbing a tight fistful of it and forcing himself further down her throat. This meeting had been particularly grating, and he needed a release now. He moved the head of his lover back and forth on his cock, reveling in the feeling of her hot, slimy throat clenching around him. Y/N would never get a single moan out of Tom; only heavy and labored breaths, if she was lucky.

Soon, he felt he was on the edge of his release, and his hips bucked a little to fuck the throat of his queen. His queen, no one else's. Y/N was his property, his object, and no one would be able to take her from him. Tom let out a long sigh as he spilled his seed down Y/N's throat, which he had sheathed himself fully into, and with her dutifully swallowing every drop. After it was finished, Tom released his hold on her hair and allowed her to pull back and breathe for a moment.

"Tonight is going to be a little different, my pet. Strip completely and lay down on the bed."

"Yes, my lord. How will tonight be different, though?"

"Do not question me, you shall see soon enough."

Tom commanded coldly, though his voice was laced with a sadistic hunger. Y/N conceded to her Lord and master with a nod, making quick work of her clothes as she let them stay in a pile on the floor. Tom pulled her by her leash to the bed, where she laid comfortably on her back, hands at her sides.

"Now, we are going to try something a little different. It will only bring you pain, no pleasure, so be forewarned. The only pleasure now will be had by me. I must please ask you not to squirm or scream, or else it will end badly for you. Understood, my pet?"

Y/N nodded as he tucked himself back into his trousers and made himself proper again. Tom was now completely dressed, and had stated that Y/N would be receiving no pleasure, so what did he plan to do? Every question running through her head was soon answered as he pulled a dagger from the drawer of his bedside cabinet, studying it carefully. His eyes, which still were even sharper than the dagger he held in his bony hand, darted to the chest of his lover, eyeing the flesh hungrily.

Leaning down, his eyes never leaving the spot above her right breast he had fixated on, he slowly dragged the blade across the soft skin, down her chest, leaving a trail of red in its wake. Y/N hissed in pain, but did not dare move out of position. The blade stopped in the middle of her chest, below her breasts, before mirroring the mark he made on her right side to her left. On complete impulse, Tom laid the bloodied dagger on the nightstand and ran his tongue across the mark he just made. He did not cut deep enough to cause major injury, though it would definitely leave a scar, from the way it was weeping blood. The Dark Lord relished the metallic taste of her essence, letting it rest on his tongue, and letting it drip down his throat. The taboo and unnatural act he was performing was almost euphoric, and it made him feel powerful, as if he was a dementor sucking the very soul out of her body. When Tom was satisfied and Y/N's bleeding had ceased, he sat back up and gazed hungrily down at the chest of his queen, at the work he had done.

Now, Y/N was perfect to him.

Cut across her chest, was the letter V. V for the new name he had chosen for himself. A V to mark his property, a scarlet letter emblazoned upon her body so that she may never forget who she serves. And if ever she does forget, Tom would make absolute certain to remind her.