SWAN SONG; tom riddle

𝖛𝖎𝖎

dear tom,

          how are you faring up there without me? is life everything it should be and more without my 'incessant pestering' as you constantly described it?

          in the beginning, i truly thought you enjoyed my company. how naive i was.

          though even after i knew how much you detested me, i was still at your side, subservient all the while.

          how pathetic.

          it's no wonder you killed me.

          i might have done it myself rather than give you the satisfaction had i known what you were planning.

          i suppose it's too late for 'what if' now, isn't it?

          i do hope you've been left unsatisfied.

          i openly admit my shortcomings and the crippling shame that comes with it but i can, at the very least, least pride myself on making tom riddle come.

          perhaps it was the delirious pain that came hand in hand with your unquenchable libido, possibly the euphoric trance of being brought to the brink of death and of release, then being pulled back. or perhaps it was simply because i derived pleasure from being cut open like a cadaver.

           but you liked it as well, didn't you? the twisted scenarios that played out in an endless loop inside your abyss-deep mind? my bedroom was the morgue and i was your corpse. a clean canvas for you to paint with your ichor and other things.

          of course you liked it, vile bastard. and so did i. our wildest fantasies consisted of you hovering over me, tybalt's cool steel blade in your hand, primed to mutilate my skin as it had once done to mercurio.

          though your dagger had already been baptized with your blood. because before you pierced with ivory skin of my stomach, you asked me to do the same.

          it was strange for me, i will not lie. tom riddle willingly giving up control, and with such an unstable character, no less.

          the incessant paranoia in the back of my mind was persistent in convincing me it was some sort of trick on your part. but i was a slave to my desire and the idea of denying such beauty before me was unfathomable.

          you watched me with hungry eyes, twin black voids that almost made me lose my focus as i carefully dragged the cool metal against your skin.

          "harder" you had said, hissing in pain as i plunged the dagger into your lower abdomen. the sound of your pain briefly satisfied my ravaging hunger, my cheeks as crimson as the steady stream of ichor dribbling from the open wound. but you didn't stop me did you? no, you said nothing, allowing your authoritative aura to speak for you. "continue" it said.

          that night alone felt like a fever dream. what i would give to experience it again.

what began in a ritual of blood and pain resulted in the foulest illustration of mortals unable to deny each other. two damned soul sampling all life had to offer within the span of one evening.

          but like everything else i, or any one else loves, you had to go and ruin it, didn't you?

          if one good thing came of all of this, is that your plan to be rid of me backfired horrendously on your part. because who else besides me was twisted enough to want those things. of course you could settle for a more vanilla approach in the future but where's the fun in that?

         since i'm well aware nobody would do to you what i did, i know you've been left unsatisfied. i must say it's been a delight watching you carnal frustration unfold right before my eyes.

          i never thought i'd see the day tom riddle couldn't finish.

my wounded ego can finally take solace in the notion that i, and only i, could satisfy the bastard heir of slytherin.

call it love or call it pity but i wrote this with the intention of bringing some much coveted lust back into your dreary existence. if this letter doesn't give you a stiff one, i'm afraid you may be out of order, my love.

          feel free to let your imagination run wild while reading this. just try not to break yourself, yes?

yours,
florizel