Slytherin Boys Oneshots

Vampire's fiance - ᝰ.ᐟ

Type: ︎︎ ᝰ.ᐟ
Words: 3,207
Summary: How would spending a night with your soon-to-be husband Tom Riddle look like in the 1940's? What about when he's a vampire?
Song(s): Swan Lake Op. 20 by Tchaikovsky, Dracula by SANNI
Warnings: Blood, violence, nonconsensual acts (grabbing, neck kissing), mention of SA, manipulation. Let me know if I missed something, I can't think of anything else right now, it's too late for my brain to function haha.
Proofread: Yes

A/N: This fic includes dark themes, if you're sensitive for such topics, please do not read.

Notice how the readers thoughts and opinions change due to Tom's actions. I wrote it that way purposefully, the readers priorities change as Tom manipulates the feminism out of her which might make the text seem a bit confusing. She becomes slightly perplexed which can be seen as the increasing of the written questions with no answers.
Also, my knowledge of what life was like in the 1940's is very limited despite me having done a bit of research before beginning to write this. Don't get mad if I describe it incorrectly, I'm trying :)
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Arranged marriages among the pure blooded families weren't uncommon at all. Alliances made to strengthen the ties between two families were a tradition rarely looked down upon. The ideal outcome were real feelings and powerful children to carry on the bloodlines. This was how the pure blood stayed pure, how they avoided having dirty half bloods carrying their names.
You had known what the friendliness between your family and the Riddle family would most likely lead to. Still, you could remember the shock and disbelief when your parents announced the news of you and Tom with broad smiles on their faces. They had decided and planned everything without feeling the need to inform you in any way, thus leading to a momentary strained relationship with them.
You remember thinking how they could marry you off to him, the son of Lord Voldemort, the epitome of coldness and lack of emotion. You could not imagine spending the rest of your life with him, but your fate had already been sealed without your consent, and the ones you had to thank for it lived with you.
The wedding would happen only when you both had turned eighteen, which was a blessing on your side. You knew families who had no mercy or patience toward their children, marrying them at a younger age. Your age currently being sixteen meant for a bit less than two years before the eternal torment you believed it to be, would begin. While waiting, your families encouraged you to spend time together, get to know each other, they said. They planned multiple 'playdates', as you liked to call them, where you'd all get together in either one of your houses, eat, and talk.
Just sit still and be quiet and look pretty, your parents told you. You hated it. Your younger brother could speak, express his emotions and bring out his opinions freely. He'd have some sort of a say in who'd be his bride when the time would come, all because he was a man.
During the first 'playdates' everyone seemed to get along except you and Tom, much to your parents disliking. You sat still and were quiet and looked pretty, ate your food and maintained on your best behavior with the ladylike manners you'd been taught since birth. She's such a good girl, you'd heard Tom's mother say approvingly, like you weren't even there. She is, right -____-? Your mother had responded, nudging you with her elbow, demanding an appropriate reply. Of course, you had said, forcing a sweet, sweet smile on your face to hide your discontentment.
However, as time went on and a 'playdate' after 'playdate' occurred, you felt your hatred slowly dwindling down to a slight displeasure. A human can adapt to anything, right?
The 'playdates' soon changed from a dinner among both families to just you and Tom being made to spend time with just the two of you. You'd sit in your or his room, most of the time surrounded with an awkward silence that seemed to swallow you whole. Sometimes you'd break it with a few words, and he'd either reply with just as few words, a sense of coldness present in his tone that got a shiver running op your spine, or he'd just look at you, acknowledging your presence but not bothering to respond.
Sit still be quiet look pretty
If you were initiating conversation, you weren't following those rules. So you stopped.