BITE ME; tom riddle

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DRIPPING OF water drops on stone was beginning to drive him mad while yellowed pages crinkled between fingertips and eyes burned into inking letters as if it were to evaporate under his gaze.

He had left the library in hast, leaving wordless lips stained red to part in curiosity when he slipped while his own mind flew to overdrive in a frenzy. Far beneath of surface of Hogwarts he found himself engulfed in a nook of stone, cool on skin, surface wet as white shirt litters ink muck though too enhanced on book pages he doesn't seem to care.

Cold skin, thick wine, glow intoxicating and eyes a red sun so bright it was blinding while the hue of it made him choke. His hunch was becoming apparent while the words filled him up whole and shoulders tensed when pages flipped and flipped— paper cuts clipping at his skin while fingertips swept over his lips in hope to relieve the sting.

But the iron on his tongue from his own speared skin was enraging— he shouldn't have to bleed— he was far too illustrious to be inflicted with just a pathetic thing as a paper cut. But his nerves sidled to burnt charcoal when his eyes stumbled over words till he saw it—

vampire

Oh the smile was wicked— while invisible checks marked boxes. One check— two check— three fucking checks and into oblivion he went.

The hiss of snakes coil around his feet and pierce venom of rascality into his bloodstream for that was what she was...was she not?

And to tell him he was mistaken would be arduous for the fact was— Tom Riddle was never wrong.

His tongue clicking behind white teeth— though fangless he too had a bite but Imperia was a mystery he was solving by the minute and when eyes finally found his answer he was rolling in a drunken haze of victory— it was too easy however, and his proof was only printed on the newspapers of his conscious alone, so what was he really to do?

Wicked wicked wicked he was— living in limbo where the devils neck was wrapped with iron chains tugged by his own hands— because he was worse than the devil. There was never really a possible description or name for what this boy was— though charming could do if it were not for the bane that stained the air in which his words of menace snapped at. For, on occasion Tom Riddle was anything but charming; and these particular occurrences could be spotted when white yew cuts tensioned air on a marble chopping block and blood is spilled with a laugh of pure pleasure and nothing but.

But all is quickly forgotten when eyes looked away— you saw nothing while his chin jots out and claimed superiority and perhaps thats why charming worked so well— it wasn't his pleasantry— it was his spell.

His pace was quick once he slipped out from the chambers of blood stained stone and scales of snakes and while the patter of dress shoes woke slumbering portraits his gaze fixated on red eyes on his conscious and robes of black and emerald kissed over his dressed ankles with a chilled spine of anticipation. In no more than minutes if not less Ton Riddle was at the Slytherin common room and hissing Merlin below his breath. It was empty— while the clock hanging ticked to fifteen past two but sleep was not even a factor on his mind. The thought of such an exertion was never a notion he deemed he really needed— while circles dark hung below jade eyes and face often pale, he had far too many important things to do and sleep would discernibly get in the way of it all.

"Malfoy, up!" his sneer ricocheted off stone walls when he slipped into moonlight kissed chambers where a blond lay in a heap of spun sheets and a whispered rumble below his breath— but Riddles demands was icing his body like algid winter on water and when he tensed below his gaze he shuffled out of his bed as if he had never been sleeping at all.