psych! ; tom riddle

01;

SHE WAS PECULIAR with her coiled hair and fidgety fingers. He could not draw away his eyes while her own casted over a tome with such utter concentration he was sure it would just burst to flames. And while her immersion was so grasped by whatever was scratched within the leather-bound book it looked perfect unordinary to him.

He couldn't help but plummet, diving into the freshwaters of her mind and watched as the reflection of the words seeped into her cerebral.

blah blah blah psychoanalysis blah blah blah behavior blah.

Must muggles be so boring?

His sneer, suppressed below his breath danced with the tendrils of his teacup steam and while the room smelled faintly of coffee and baked goods the only thing he could manage to focus on was the smell of her.

Lavender and seaside shampoo it hit his senses as the late fall air slipped through the doors entrance with a billow and the little tendrils of her mismatched shaded hair tickled at her neck and cheeks and they swayed to the sound of the wind-spirit.

He wished to draw away, away from the silent picture show of her conscience where he fought the irritable questions and confusion that stained his own thoughts.

Whats the point of studying the brain, who fucking cares?

And yet, why was he so enraptured by her?

He blames his sudden interest in muggle lifestyle while he plans away the destruction of the world itself, perhaps it was the suffocation of his apartment where leather-bound books of his own stacked to the ceilings and desks covered in ink puddles and parchment scrap. Perhaps he wanted a little fun, and what was more fun then complete manipulation of innocently unbeknown prey?

Nothing.

So he stands, slick with ringed fingers pressing down trousers and a pressed white button up that reveals an appropriately (yet always alluring) sliver of his chest. He plans to leave, tired of mundane life of muggles and he now craves a new notion of bloody fucking murder, quick and easy with a hope of pleading agony on the side. His sight however is still captured within the cages of skull and intellect, and albeit he's confused on why he's stayed so long he can infer that her mind was the most interesting compared to the rest— and thats not saying a lot.

But she catches his interest when her voice rings through him, as if she's talking to him within silence and he knows its just her thinking, perhaps spitting words she just drank up for comprehension but when he stills, hand just reaching to the door handle he hears it so loudly he suddenly wishes to clasp his hands to his ears and coil or better yet be sucked up by the earth whole.

Psychopath: manifests as amoral and antisocial behavior, lack of ability to love or establish meaningful personal relationships, extreme egocentricity, failure to learn from experience...

He suppresses a laugh below his breath, and he's not cretinous, the word is familiar, the definition however always vague and while her shinny American voice ripples from her consciousness to his own he's suddenly enlightened to say the least. If not for the word he'd had thought she was describing him— was he offended? hardly.

But he absolutely fucking interested now.

He rolls around ideas and swishes it behind his lips, tongue tasting sweet venomous temptation and swallowing like rich wine till he feels intoxicated by it, and when he deduces what scheme that transposes itself within him he can only smile wickedly as he turns, hearing the tap or his shoes on hardwood and— oops?

"God, are you serious?" she exclaims with a tone of aggravation and an emulsion of flushed cheeks turned crimson. He could not help but audit her. She was pretty, with a wild mane of hair and rolling valley green eyes, her cheeks rosy and lips glossed and her fingers embezzled with jewels, silvers and golds. She was beautiful , he could admit that, though appearance never really interested him. He wasn't some awkward adolescent boy, he knew his way around and often awoke in early morning light with a naked women or two snoozing across his sheets.