Giving in to your obsessive stalker Tom Riddle.
You thought you could get away with it.
It was an innocent act. A sweet smile tugged on your lips while you handed him his neatly rolled parchment that the wind had moved infront of you. It was very unusual to him. The way you hadn't given him a reaction others would—fear.
An act of kindness that gave him the wrong idea.
Ever since then, the corridors you walked in were emptier than ever. People avoid you, some of your belongings too appearantly—no reason you can think of. Except, when letters appeared in your dorm it gave you the terrifying idea that it was because of a stalker.
It was all smartly planned. Letters were written using a typewriter, preventing you from getting just a glimpse of who was behind it all.
It started from compliments that crawled down your spine, to comments of what you're exactly wearing that day, to long precisely detailed paragraphs of his fantasies, to confessions of who he murdered.
You spent nights bawling your eyes out about another student getting hunt down. She was a good friend, or that's what you portrayed she was. Tom knew, heard the opposite and took matters into his own hands. He killed those who didn't like you. He thinks it's inhumane to hate someone so kindhearted. Which is quite something, coming from him.
Tonight you unraveled letters once more.
"Come to me and everyone else will be untouched."
Your stalker's plee. With trembling fingers, you opened the other letter next to it.
"Library, fourth table behind the bookshelf. Whenever you're ready, my dearest darling."
You shivered. It was handwritten. An attempt for you to give in. To prevent harm to your classmates.
But that's not what scared you.
What did was that you knew who wrote it.
You recognized it on chalkboards, group works, projects, ripped pieces of paper, on a rolled parchment.
You didn't even want to know what would occur if you didn't go—a massacre, probably.
Desperate to keep everyone else safe, you took slow hesitant steps to the given destination. It bugged you to even consider going, but from the letters, it seemed that he had no intent in harming you—just others so he can keep you to himself.
You shook a breath. It was now past curfew as your fingers gently grasp the locked door of the library. It was spell proofed, how could you even get in?—
The door beneath your palm opened itself to your touch. Part of you thought it wasn't too late to turn back, the other told you it was selfish if you did. With a gulp, you stepped in to be greeted with darkness other than the dim light from the moon passed through the framed windows along with the fragrance of paper, old parchment, and misty wood.
Air got caught in your throat as you linger a little closer behind the said bookshelf. Your eyes shifted to the table, the books laying around, the window, it explored everywhere, all except Tom Riddle.
He leaned on the exact table. Gaze deadly, but lurking nowhere dangerous.
Your eyes brimmed with tears while none fell. His hands carefully found their way to your waist, gently pulling you closer.
As you were completely still, his head was at the crook of your neck—nose grazing the shape of it, sending shivers down your spine. He then inhaled your scent sharply before kissing your jaw.
"I don't want you to be afraid of me." His stern voice whispered. You clenched your jaw, pissed at somehow finding comfort in his hold.
"I'm not." You squeezed out from your throat and felt him slightly smile against your skin.
"I need your word." He muttered as your shallow breaths initiated hesitation.
"I'm all yours." You exhaled, almost stuttering. Though it surprised you when it came out more willingly than it should. He's a fucking murderer for goodness' sake. Keep it together. Keep it to—
"Mmpngh—!" You whimpered quietly and clutched your fingers on Tom's arms as his teeth lightly sunk into your neck, possibly creating marks. You felt his lips twitch into grin when he heard your little reaction.
He pulled away to press his lips against yours. You froze, and mentally scolded yourself before melting into the kiss. Once you pulled away first for air, he went straight back to attacking your neck.
From pecking to sucking leaving you in a mesmerizing mess. The proximity of it all was making it seem like it was unholy, but from his view, this was everything but filthy.
You yourself was overwhelmingly pure. In his hands, it was the definition of otherworldly. It was all he wanted.
It was utterly ridiculous. How he'd easily fell vulnerable at the idea of you. It was about time you came to him, or he'd absolutely lose it.
Weakness—it was what he hated the most. But at your vicinity, it didn't hurt. It didn't burn or cackle at his presence. It lingered. And this time, it wasn't a burden to carry, it was something to hold.
Because in that moment, not only you were his, but he knew he was yours too.
Tom foolery on my mind rn 😋
