BITE ME; tom riddle

ᴘʀᴇʟᴜᴅᴇ

THE WORLD grows tiresome— when you've lived in it for exactly two hundred and seventy-seven years. But thats hardly an issue when you look like a perfect and bodacious sixteen year old.

One would consider learning the same courses, seeing the sun rise and set every day, would all grow quite mundane. After all how can almost two hundred years of existence get interesting abruptly? And in truth, however mostly kept a secret, Imperia Athan was growing quite tired of it all.

Tired of learning the same flick of the wrist, the same spinning in place, the same excuse— oh I transferred from Durmstrange.

She had grown aweary of late night meetings with Dumbledore, and the same repetitive questions if whats, hows and ifs. She was sick of it all— but she couldn't die so what was there to do about it?

Absolutely nothing.

She had contemplated offing herself far too many times, but the myth of wooden stakes and garlic and burning in sunlight were hardly a commodity for the answer.

The fables of coffins and blood sucking demons— however deemed fascinating in literature and entertainment was far from reality— her life was completely and utterly boring, and suppose at this point she yearned for coffins and demons or anything to make this limbo the slightest bit interesting. 

She'll despise her wishes once they come true however— when her savior becomes a nightmare wrapped in the sleeves of duende and seduction.

Sure, blood sucking in the depths of night could be 'cool' for a archetypical and average person, but the taste of deer on her tongue too had grown quite old. At times she could barely restrain the urge to say fuck it and just wipe out the entirety of the sixth year student body— but as adventurous and supernal as it sounded in her head, she knew that wouldn't be such a facetious idea in materiality.

So, Imperia continued the monochromatic and arid life of textbook carrying, night mischief and spell casting. The usual things she— after doing it about one hundred times— knew like the back of her hand.

That was until she 'transferred' from Durmstrange and met him.

The smell of his blood as it pulsed through his veins was galvanizing she had concluded. Perhaps it was the power that swam and collided in blood cells or the way his heart, once beating whole had sudden felt as if it had been split in half, then in threes, then in fours. And perhaps that enticed her, it had become a rather a  curious matter that slithered it's cacophony into her pretentious soundless mind, and simply the way he bit as his inner cheek until blood was drawn and licked at cigarette scented lips made her utterly enraged and beguiled all the same.

Things weren't so mundane then when she walked the hallways she'd walked hundred or thousands of times, but this time she could hear his heart beating from ten corridors down and she turned veracious and ardent.

Let me sink my teeth in, let me draw blood, let me kill you or keep you— I haven't quite decided.

Her beauty was one of sorts that fit what she was, a monster— but a stunning one of that matter.

Her looks were meant to draw you in as the devil was always alluring— watching as you commit the sins you tried so hard but couldn't resist to do, then draw you into the depths, the heat, the chaos of your wrong doings. Her eyes were meant to spark question and all the same leaving you wanting more. Her smell, oh my merlin her smell, was intoxicating, so intoxicating it drove you mad— mind hazy, eyes unblinking, mouth dry, and heart beating erratically and fast that she smiled because she could smell the blood that flushed into you cheeks.

However the fact of such her blood craving secrets stayed just that— a secret. Would it be better if she let it spill like blood from the corners of her lips? Perhaps. Or, she could actually be burned at the stake and that idea was not really her cup of tea. One person had known however of her little... flaw of sorts. Albus Dumbledore who, believe it or not, despite the appearance of drastic age was younger than she.

She was a brilliant girl to say the least, quite mature after all that usually comes with almost two centuries of age. She was well spoken and quite mischievous when need be and in many ways she had a maternal aura despite looking like still a child herself. Would she say her face was a weakness? Hardly and regardless, beauty tended to solicit and a bold mind tended to intimidate and a combination was a befitting mixture of underestimation and stupefaction.

Maybe thats why Tom Riddle liked her so much. Perhaps he liked the fact that she was so entirely unpredictable, the fact that not even he knew what she was doing or would do or had done— and even though that thought enraged him he yearned to figure her out.

And that regaled her because there was no possible way he could— or so she thought.

The plot thickens with beating blood however, after all Tom Riddle always gets what he wants. And poor Imperia should've seen it coming when his smirk knitted onto his face and eyes flashed red, and she denied warning because how could he hurt her?

But death or physical pain was what she constituted as hurting but oh boy was she off.

Nevertheless, he was obsessed infatuated and wanted it— immortality— and thats what she had, and he wanted her.

Intoxication, infatuation, fixation, or fear.

Maybe he loved her, maybe he feared her.

But Tom Riddle didn't love nor fear, and vampires couldn't die.

Well, maybe they were both wrong.

in which a boy chases a vampire and wishes to be bitten.

in which a vampire chases a boy and wishes to be kissed.

b i t e m e—

o r k i s s m e—

I H A V E N T D E C I D E D.