— at first i think he’d be very secretive, i mean the guy is a cannibal, he just doesn’t want to scare you off
— he will eventually open up about that side of his life but even then i think he’d never actually show you, especially if you’re just a normal civilian and not a proxy or something of its sorts
— so no meal-sharing with this cannibal hottie, sorry
— loves to lay his head on your chest and to feel you running your fingers through his hair
— HE PURRS
— you are the only one who knows about his past, or at least about what he could remember
— i feel like he hates PDA, he’s a very secluded and serious person so i can’t really see him being so openly loving
— he’s silly on private tho
— sometimes he forgets he’s stronger than normal humans and accidentally hugs you too tightly :( he apologizes obviously but feels soooo bad
— lives in constant fear of accidentally hurting you too bad, he has claws, fangs and a very intense appetite for human flesh
— i feel like him hurting you is bond to happen at some point, nothing major, maybe just a scratch or a bite from when he was feeling too lovingly
— he immediately feels bad and that just fuels his fears, after that he gets way too careful around you
— your personal bodyguard, pharmacy and doctor lol
— pays too much attention to you, immediately stiffens up if he notices a small change in your scent, if you’re fidgety, if there’s something different in the way you’re breathing
— he’d be all over you in seconds, checking your pulse and jumping from question to question before you can even answer them
— loves to compliment you randomly, your hair, your clothes, especially your smell
— he will get shy if you do the same, nervously chuckling before turning away so you don’t see him blushing
— the ultimate shy gentleman
— he will always be ready with his arm out for you to take and hold into, holding your chair out for you, bending down to tie your shoes
— just say the word and the man is there to serve you
— randomly shoves his nose into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, multiple times a day
— groans when he does it 👀🤤
— he also loves to feel you close, feel the shape and texture of your hands, run his fingers through your arm, play with your hair
— when a depressive mood hits him, it hits him hard. he falls into slumps of silence and melancholy, shuts you out for days before encouraging himself to get up
— immediately searches for you after it, needing comfort and love
— while he seems to be a very serious and nonchalant guy, he feels everything too deeply, he’s just good at hiding it
— incredibly emotional
— jack thought he had grown numb to love after everything that happened to him, but after meeting you, he feeds on every sweet bit of affection you provide him with a warm smile and a “God, what did I do to deserve you?”
— pays attention to the smallest details you mention. if one day you talk about a specific book, a new pair of shoes, perfume or anything else, don’t be surprised if in a few days, you come home and find it on the table with a cute note from him
— he becomes a pile of whimpering and purring mess in your hands if you give him neck kisses, he pretends to not like it at first but he secretly loves it
— they get him all mushy
— dates with him consists on long walks through the woods in the middle of the night
— random late night visits without warning!!! you’d come back home and he’d already be inside your house lol
— after a hard day of work he just wants to cuddle with you, dealing with the other creeps is very tiring
— goes into ruts, good luck 👍
all rights reserved to sorrowpoetry, do not plagiarize, reproduce or translate my work.
I need a pt.2 for 7 minutes in heaven with Riddle Roseheartssssssss 😫
Riddle would being SO tense around him after the fact and the Reader being so gentle with him I need to see it
「 SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN PT 2 」 . . . !
⊹˚.⋆ riddle rosehearts x male reader | he/him pronouns, amab physicality ,,
“Seven Minutes in Heaven. All that I need when I get with him.”
Riddle Rosehearts has never indulged in any of his desires.
After playing a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven with the dangerously charming Ramshackle Prefect, Riddle isn’t sure he can control himself any longer.
⊹˚.⋆ warnings: anal sex, anal fingering, amab reader x amab character sex, dry humping, loss of virginity ,,
w.c. 6k
two -> one (this is part two!)
The days following the kiss in the closet was a special hell for Riddle.
He felt your presence like a phantom limb, an ache where you had once been. He saw you everywhere. In the library, your head bent over a book. In the cafeteria, laughing with your friends. On the courtyard, walking with Leona. Every sighting was like a jolt, a painful reminder of the closet, of your tongue in his mouth, of the hard press of your body against his.
He did the only thing he knew how to do. He avoided you.
If you entered a room, he found a reason to leave. If he saw you in the hallway, he would abruptly turn down a different corridor. He buried himself in his work, in his duties, in the ancient, unchanging rules of the Queen of Hearts. But it was no use. The rules offered no comfort. They couldn't erase the memory of your fingers in his hair, couldn't silence the echo of your voice in his ear. He was distracted, irritable. Ace and Deuce were on brink of getting collared almost daily, and even Trey’s gentle prodding couldn’t pull him out of his funk.
You, on the other hand, seemed entirely unfazed. You’d catch his eye from across a room and give him a slow, deliberate smile, a smile that said I know what you’re thinking about. It was infuriating. And it was working.
He wanted you. He hated how much he wanted you.
I’m Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that closet. He’d replay the kiss, the way you’d guided him, the sound of your groan when he’d tentatively ground against you. He’d wake up hard and aching, your name a silent whisper on his lips. The shame was a physical weight, but it was no match for the gnawing, desperate hunger.
Deep down, he wanted you to do it again.
He wanted you to end his misery by pining him up against the wall and ruining him all over again.
So he decided to take back control.
The idea was born from desperation. A way to see you, to be near you, without the messy, unpredictable chaos of a party. A setting with rules. A setting he could control.
He found you after your last class, leaning against a wall scrolling through your phone. You didn’t look up when he approached, but he knew you knew he was there. He could feel the shift in the air.
“Finally done avoiding me?” you asked, your tone light and teasing as you finally lifted your gaze. Your eyes crinkled at the corners, that same smile playing on your lips.
Riddle bristled, his cheeks flushing. “I have not been avoiding you,” he lied, his voice tight. He clutched the strap of his satchel like a lifeline. “I have been busy. Housewarden duties.”
“Right, duties,” you said, pushing off the wall to stand before him. You were taller than him, and you had to look down to meet his gaze. He hated how much he liked that. “So, what can I do for you, Housewarden? Need help collaring Ace and Deuce? Or…” You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “…are you here for round two?”
The directness of the question sent a jolt of heat through him. He took a reflexive step back. “No! Of course not! That is— that was a gross violation of—” He stopped, forcing himself to take a breath. He was losing control. Focus on the plan.
“I… have been distracted.” Riddle started, the words dripping out of his mouth like molasses, thick and slow. “I need to cleanse you from my system, Prefect.”
His eyes were shut in embarrassment, squeezed tightly to avoid your gaze. The tips of his ears were a burning crimson, spreading to his face. The slight quiver of Riddle’s lip as he awaited your response was tantalizing.
“Cleanse me from your system?” You laughed before leaning in, brushing your nose against Riddle’s. “What are you implying, Housewarden?”
He jumped back, stumbling. He glared, though it lacked its usual bite.
“Don’t play coy. I… You are… a distraction. A nuisance. My duties have been lacking due to… you. To that. The… incident.” He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. The embarrassment was suffocating, but he pushed through it. “I am proposing a solution.”
“I also have a solution,” you purred, leaning in again. “A kiss a day keeps the Riddle grumps away.”
He made a choked noise, a cross between a squeak and a gasp. “Absolutely not! That is the opposite of the solution! That is the problem! My solution… is an arrangement.”
You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “An arrangement.”
“Yes. We will… engage. As needed. To alleviate this… distraction. In a controlled environment. With rules. My rules.” The words tumbled out of him, a desperate, breathless rush. It was a terrible plan, and he knew it. It was a transparent excuse to touch you, to be with you, wrapped in the flimsy paper of logic and control. He watched your face, bracing for ridicule.
Instead, you simply stared at him, your expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, a slow smile spread across your lips. It wasn't a teasing smile this time. It was something else. Something… knowing.
“Okay, Housewarden,” you said, your voice a low murmur. “I accept your proposal.”
Riddle blinked. He hadn't actually expected you to agree. He felt a dizzying rush of panic and triumph. “You… you do?”
“I do,” you confirmed, stepping back to give him space. “Your rules. All that good stuff. When do we start?”
“Now,” he said, the word out before he could stop it. The thought of having to wait another night was unbearable.
“Now?” You chuckled. “A little eager, aren’t we, Riddle?”
His face burned. “It is a matter of efficiency. Procrastination is against the rules.”
“Right. The rules.” You gestured down the hall. “Lead the way, then. Your room or mine?”
The casual question sent another wave of heat through him. “Mine,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “My room is… more secure.”
Of course. The Heartslabyul dorm, with its rules and its guards and its perfect, suffocating order. His sanctuary. And now, it would be the stage for his downfall.
He turned and started walking, not waiting to see if you were following. His steps were brisk, shoulders square, but the way he kept glancing back at you. His eyes shyly keeping track of you behind him.
The small, almost invisible tremor in his hands gave him away.
This was a terrible idea. Possibly the worst idea he had ever had. And as he led you down the familiar path towards the rose gardens, towards the dorm that was his cage, he had never been more excited for anything in his life.
You had enlightened a fire within him. The desire to be free.
Riddle’s room was exactly what you’d expect: immaculate, orderly, and suffused with the faint, sweet scent of roses. Books were stacked precisely on shelves, a quill lay perfectly parallel to the edge of his desk, and the bed was made with military sharpness. Everything had its place. Everything followed the rules.
You, standing in the middle of the room, were a beautiful, chaotic disruption. You dropped your bag on the floor with a soft thud, breaking the perfect silence. Riddle flinched.
He stood by the door, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a sentinel guarding a fortress. “Rule one,” he began, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room. “This remains strictly confidential. No one is to know. About the… arrangement. Or its… occurrences.”
“Occurrences,” you repeated, a smirk playing on your lips. “Got it. Our dirty little secret. What’s next?”
Riddle’s grip on his own hands tightened. “Rule two. This is purely physical. A method to… recalibrate our focus. There will be no emotional entanglement. No expectations beyond what is explicitly stated within these walls.”
You hummed, taking a step closer. “Okay, so we can fuck, but we can’t cuddle and talk about our feelings. Seems fair. And rule three?”
“Rule three,” he said, swallowing hard as you closed the distance between you, “I am in charge. All activities will proceed according to my direction and my timeline. You will follow my lead.”
You were now standing directly in front of him, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from your body. You looked down at him, your eyes dark and amused.
“Is that so?” you murmured, reaching out to trace the collar of his uniform with a single finger. “You’re in charge.”
His breath hitched. He fought the urge to lean into your touch. “Yes. I am the Housewarden. This is my dorm. My room. My rules.”
“Your rules,” you echoed, your finger moving up to the line of his jaw. Your touch was feather-light, but it sent a current of electricity straight through him. “Alright, Housewarden. I’m all yours. What’s your first command?”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with possibility. This was it. The moment of truth. He was in charge. He had control. He could set the terms, dictate the pace, ensure this remained nothing more than a clinical, efficient procedure.
He looked at your lips, then back to your eyes. He could feel his heartbeat hammering against his ribs, a frantic drum within his chest. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Especially, with you.
His hands slowly wrapped around your neck, interlocking as he leaned forward He had to stand on his tippy-toes to even try and meet you. His eyes were half-lidded, and a soft breath escaped him. The tension of the moment was a taut string, vibrating with unspoken need. He closed the small gap, pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss was hesitant at first, a tentative exploration. Riddle was leading, but he was navigating uncharted territory. He moved with a careful precision, as if following a diagram he’d only just seen. But then your hands came to rest on his waist, pulling him flush against you, and the diagram went up in flames.
You deepened the kiss, and a soft, needy sound escaped his throat. He was melting against you, his careful control dissolving in the heat of your mouth. He hadn't realized how much he needed this, how badly he'd craved your touch since that night in the closet. The memory was a pale, ghostly thing compared to the solid, overwhelming reality of you now.
He was the one to pull back, panting, his face a magnificent shade of crimson. He stared at you, his grey eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning horror. He had lost control. In less than a minute.
You grinned, a slow, lazy, predatory thing. “Rule three’s already broken, Housewarden.”
He scowled, a flash of the old Riddle returning. “No, it isn’t. I… I concluded the initial phase. As planned.”
“Right. The initial phase,” you said, your thumb stroking circles on his hip. “So, what’s phase two?”
Phase two. He hadn’t planned a phase two. He’d barely planned a phase one. Panic flared in his chest, cold and sharp. He needed to regain the upper hand. He needed to prove to you—and to himself—that he was still in control.
He took a step back, breaking your hold. “Phase two,” he said, his voice regaining some of its usual authority, “is relocation. To the bed.”
You raised an eyebrow but obeyed, sauntering over to the perfectly made bed and sitting on the edge, looking expectant. You patted the space beside you.
Riddle’s throat went dry. He walked over, his steps stiff and measured, and sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. The mattress dipped slightly, the proximity a roaring silence.
He turned to face you, his expression serious. “There are… further protocols for this phase.”
“For a virgin, you sure are determined to take the lead here.”
Riddle flinched at the word, the truth of it striking him like a physical blow. He hated the idea of being so transparent, so easily read. He hated the way you said it, not with mockery, but with a sort of gentle, devastating certainty.
“That is immaterial,” he snapped, his voice tighter than before. “I am the Housewarden. I am… educated. I understand the mechanics.”
“The mechanics,” you repeated, a low chuckle in your chest. “Alright then, Professor. School me.”
Your hands went to the hem of your uniform jacket. In a smooth, unhurried motion, you shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. Then your fingers found the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one, exposing the lean muscle of your chest, the sharp line of your collarbones.
Riddle watched, mesmerized. His breath caught in his throat. He had seen boys without their shirts before, in the locker rooms, during equestrian training. But this was different. This was a performance. For him. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, his own hands fisting in the pristine fabric of his bedsheets.
The last button came undone. You shrugged out of the shirt, letting it join the jacket on the floor. You were all lean lines and sun-kissed skin, a stark, beautiful contrast to the sterile, rose-scented order of his room. You were an open book, all the messy, glorious pages laid bare for him to read. You were everything he wasn't.
“Well?” you asked, your voice a soft rumble. “What’s the next lesson?”
Riddle’s mind went blank. All the rules, all the protocols, all the careful diagrams he’d constructed in his head scattered like dust. There was only you. He was supposed to be in charge. He was supposed to be teaching you. But the only lesson he was learning was how completely, utterly out of his depth he was.
He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. “I… you,” he stammered, hating himself for the weakness. “Lay down.”
You gave him that slow, knowing smile again and complied, stretching out on your back atop the covers. You put your hands behind your head, a picture of lazy confidence. “Like this?”
“Yes,” he breathed. He knelt beside you, his movements awkward and unsure. His gaze roamed over you, tracing the lines of your torso, the dip of your navel, the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of your trousers.
“Get on top,” you commanded softly.
The direct order, the complete inversion of the established power dynamic, sent a jolt through him. He should have protested. He should have cited Rule Three, reclaimed his authority. Instead, he found himself swinging a leg over your hips, straddling you, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your body.
The position was intoxicating. He could feel the heat of you, the solid strength of your body beneath him. He was looming over you, the undisputed superior in every physical sense. But he had never felt more powerless.
“Now what, Housewarden?” you asked, your hands coming to rest on his thighs, your thumbs stroking slow, maddening circles. “What are the mechanics for this part?”
He didn’t know. He only knew that the pressure of your hands, the heat of your skin, was making it impossible to think. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on your shoulders, and kissed you again.
This kiss was different. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a desperate, messy collision. He poured all his frustration, all his confusion, all his desperate, aching want into it. He bit at your lower lip, and you groaned, your hands tightening on his thighs, pulling him closer. He could feel you, hard and insistent, pressing against him, and the thought that he was the cause of it, that he had done this to you, was a heady, terrifying drug.
He ground down against you, a clumsy, uninhibited motion. A ragged gasp tore from his own throat. It was too much. The fabric of their uniforms was a coarse, irritating barrier. He needed more. He needed to feel you.
He scrambled back, his hands fumbling with the buttons of his own blazer, then his vest, then his shirt. He tore them off with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, not caring where they landed. He needed to be bare before you, needed to match your vulnerability. He was pale, slender, all sharp angles and delicate bones. He felt like a moth drawn to a flame, and you were the fire.
You watched him, your eyes dark and hungry. “Come here,” you murmured, and he went, sinking back down onto you, skin to skin.
The contact was a revelation. Your chest was warm and firm against his, your skin a different texture entirely. He could feel your heartbeat, a steady, reassuring thrum against his own frantic rhythm. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent—clean, like soap and something uniquely you, something that had been haunting him for weeks.
He felt your hands on his back, tracing the line of his spine, mapping the topography of his body. Your touch was reverent, exploratory. It wasn't rushed. It was as if you were learning him, memorizing him.
“Riddle,” you whispered, and the sound of his name on your lips, rough and low, sent a shudder through him. “Tell me what you want.”
He couldn’t. The words were lodged in his throat, a tangled knot of shame and desire. He had spent so long being told what he wanted, following rules written by someone else. The concept of articulating his own desire, of naming it out loud, was foreign and terrifying.
Instead of speaking, he showed you. He began to move again, a slow, deliberate rocking of his hips. It was a question asked without words. A plea.
You answered. Your hands slid down to cup his ass, guiding him, encouraging the friction. You rolled your hips up to meet his, and the world narrowed to the slick slide of skin against skin, the building pressure, the soft, breathy sounds that were escaping him with every thrust.
He was losing himself. The careful, controlled Housewarden was dissolving, leaving behind only this raw, needy creature. He bit down on your shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. To claim you. You hissed, a sharp intake of breath, and your grip on him tightened, pulling him impossibly closer.
“Is this part of the rules, Riddle?” you panted, your voice strained with pleasure. “Marking me up?”
He lifted his head, his eyes glazed, his lips swollen. “You are…” he gasped, “a rule violation. All of you. This entire… situation. It must be… documented.”
You let out a breathless laugh, a beautiful, chaotic sound that made his chest ache. “Documented, huh? You’re a real romantic.”
He didn’t know what romantic meant, not in this context. All he knew was that he was on the verge of something, a precipice he’d never stood on before. The pressure was coiling in his gut, hot and tight. He was moving faster now, chasing that feeling, his movements becoming erratic, desperate.
“Look at me,” you commanded, your voice firm.
He forced his eyes open, to meet your gaze. Your pupils were blown wide, the color of your irises a thin ring. Your face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on your brow. You looked as wrecked as he felt.
“Can I fuck you, Riddle?” you asked, the question blunt, shocking in its simplicity. The words, so crude, so direct, struck him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't in the rules. This wasn't part of the plan. The plan was mechanics. The plan was controlled, efficient procedure. This was something else entirely. This was surrender.
He was already panting, half-delirious with need. He couldn't form words. He could only nod, a frantic, jerky motion of his head.
“Say it,” you urged, your hands stilling on his hips, holding him in place. “Tell me you want it.”
The denial was automatic, a reflex born of years of conditioning. “I… I don’t…” he started, the protest weak even to his own ears.
But then you rolled your hips against him, a slow, teasing grind that sent sparks shooting up his spine, and the lie died on his lips. He did want it. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything. He wanted to be consumed by you, to be ruined by you, to let go of the rules and the control and just feel.
“Please,” he choked out, the word a ragged, broken thing. It was the closest he could get to an admission. It was a surrender.
That was all you needed.
In a swift, fluid motion that left him breathless, you rolled him over, pinning him beneath you. The world tilted, the carefully constructed order of his bedroom upended. He was on his back on the pristine sheets, looking up at you, your body caging his. The positions were reversed, and with it, the power. He should have felt panic, a desperate need to reclaim control. Instead, he felt a dizzying, terrifying sense of relief.
You hovered over him, your arms bracketing his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch the mechanics of it. He could feel you zipping down his fly, sneaking your hands into his briefs. His whole body tensed. He could feel your thumb pressing against the base of him.
But then you paused. “Riddle.”
He didn't open his eyes. He couldn't. He was too exposed, too vulnerable. A shuddering breath left him.
“Riddle, look at me.”
His eyes fluttered open. Your expression was not predatory or mocking. It was… intense. Focused.
“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice a low rumble. A genuine question.
He could only manage another nod, a small, helpless movement.
“Good,” you murmured, and then you kissed him, a deep, drugging kiss that stole the air from his lungs as your hands moved with a new, singular purpose. You freed him from the confines of his trousers and briefs, your touch sure and confident.
Your name escaped his lips, a whispered gasp. He had never said your name in this context, had never let it blend with breath and pleasure. The sound of it was alien and thrilling.
You broke the kiss, resting your forehead against his. “Breathe,” you commanded softly.
He tried. He really did. But he couldn't seem to get enough air, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He felt exposed, laid bare in every possible way. Not just physically, but emotionally. All the walls he had so carefully built over the years were crumbling, and you were walking through the rubble.
You shifted, settling between his legs. He felt the slick, cool touch of lubrication on your fingers, a practical, efficient motion that was so at odds with the chaos tearing through him. Then he felt a pressure against his entrance, a strange, intrusive sensation that made him tense all over.
“Relax,” you murmured, your other hand stroking his hair, a soothing, rhythmic motion. “Let me in, Riddle.”
The words, the gentle authority in your tone, were a key turning in a lock he didn't know he had. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to consciously unclench his muscles. The pressure increased, and then a finger was inside him. It was strange, uncomfortable, but not painful. It was… intimate. A violation. A connection.
You moved slowly, carefully, giving him time to adjust. You watched his face, your gaze tracking every flicker of discomfort and surprise. When you added a second finger, a sharp, stinging ache made him whimper.
“Shhh,” you soothed, your thumb stroking his cheek. “It gets better. I promise.”
You curled your fingers, and a jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure shot through him, making him arch off the bed with a choked cry. His eyes flew wide. He had never felt anything like it. It was like a switch had been flipped, a new circuit of sensation he never knew existed.
You did it again, and again, watching him, learning him. He was a mess of incoherent sounds, his hands clutching at your shoulders, at the sheets, at anything to ground him. He was completely at your mercy. And he was adrift on a sea of pleasure.
“Please,” he gasped, the word torn from him. “Please…”
You seemed to understand. You withdrew your fingers, leaving him feeling suddenly, achingly empty. He watched, his breath held tight in his chest, as you coated yourself, your movements economical, practiced. Then you were positioning yourself, the blunt head of your cock pressing against him.
This was it. The final surrender. He closed his eyes, bracing himself.
You entered him slowly, inch by painstaking inch. There was pain, a deep, stretching burn that made him grit his teeth. His body screamed at him to stop, to push you away, to reassert control. But a deeper, more primal part of him, the part that had been starved for this, for you, held him still. He bore down, accepting the invasion, the ownership.
When you were fully seated within him, you paused, giving him a moment to adjust. He could feel the frantic beat of your heart against his chest, the warmth of your breath on his face. He felt… complete. Whole. As if a piece of him he never knew was missing had finally clicked into place.
“Riddle,” you breathed, your voice strained with the effort of holding still. “Open your eyes.”
He did. The world swam back into focus. You were above him, your face etched with a concentration so intense it was almost a reverence. You looked at him as if he were something precious, something to be cherished. It was an expression he had never seen directed at him before. It unraveled him.
You began to move. The first thrust sent a fresh wave of pain through him, but it was quickly chased by pleasure as you brushed against that spot inside him again. You set a slow, steady rhythm, a deep, rocking motion that filled him completely. His body, already primed, responded eagerly. He met your thrusts, his legs wrapping around your waist, pulling you deeper.
The pain faded, replaced by an all-consuming heat. His world shrank to this: the slide of your body in and out of his, the friction of your skin against his, the sounds you made, the sounds he made. It was a symphony of chaos, a beautiful, messy, perfect violation of every rule he had ever lived by.
He felt himself climbing, higher and higher, the pressure building to an unbearable peak. He was babbling now, nonsense and your name, a litany of please and yes and more. His hands were tangled in your hair, pulling you down for a desperate, messy kiss.
He came with a silent scream, his back arching, his whole body convulsing. It was a white-out, a supernova of pleasure that wiped his mind clean. For a single, glorious moment, there were no rules. There was no Queen of Hearts. There was no duty, no expectation, no disappointment. There was only the blinding, all-consuming feeling of you.
The last thing he registered before the world went dark was the warmth spilling inside him, your guttural groan of release, and the feeling of your lips on his forehead.
His eyes were shut, taking in the gross amount of pleasure that he just went through. That you just gave him.
He didn't want to open them. He was afraid if he did, the spell would break, and he’d be back in his sterile, orderly room, with the crushing weight of his failures and the suffocating rules.
He was limp against the sheets, a ragdoll in the aftermath of the storm. He could feel the sticky mess between his legs, the dull ache in his muscles, the phantom ghost of you still inside him. These were the consequences. The evidence.
And then he heard the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet snap of a button. His eyes flew open.
You were laying beside him, hand gently twirling a strand of red hair with your fingers. Your other arm served as a pillow for your head. You looked calm, content. As if you hadn't just spent the last hour systematically dismantling his entire world.
"You're still here."
The words were out before he could stop them, a small, pathetic whisper of surprise.
You turned your head to look at him, a faint smile on your lips. "Where else would I be?"
The simple question was loaded. Where else would you be? In his mind, this was where it ended. The act, the "occurrence," was concluded. The arrangement had been fulfilled. The logical next step was for you to leave, to return to your own life, to the people you belonged with, leaving him to clean up the mess and pretend it never happened.
"I... assumed the protocol concluded with the... act," he said, his voice hoarse. He felt a fresh wave of embarrassment. He sounded like an idiot, talking about protocols when his body was still humming from your touch.
You propped yourself up on your elbow, your expression unreadable. "Rule two," you said, your voice soft. "No emotional entanglement. Cuddling is not a requirement. I get it."
You started to move, to swing your legs over the side of the bed, and a jolt of pure panic shot through him. He didn't want you to go. The realization was so stark, so undeniable, it stole his breath.
He didn't think. He just acted.
His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. It was a clumsy, desperate motion. He felt the delicate bones beneath your skin, the frantic pulse at your wrist.
"Wait."
You stopped, looking back at him, your head tilted. You didn't pull away.
Riddle’s face was a burning crimson. He couldn't meet your eyes. He stared at his own hand on your wrist, a stark, pale brand against your skin. "I… I enjoyed this. With you.” He mumbled out.
He let out a shaky breath, forcing the words out, each one a shard of glass in his throat. "I didn't... I don't want you to go. Just... yet."
There. He had said it. A violation of every rule, every instinct. A confession of want.
Your gaze softened. You didn't mock him. You didn't gloat. You simply shifted, laying back down beside him, but closer this time. You didn't touch him, not at first. You just existed in the space next to him, a warm, solid presence.
"Okay," you said, the single word a gentle absolution.
He let go of your wrist, but the feeling of your skin lingered. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, the intricate rose pattern suddenly dizzying. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was... companionable. He could hear your breathing, soft and even. He could feel the warmth radiating from your body.
This was intimacy. This was the dangerous part. Not the messy, glorious mechanics of sex, but this. The quiet aftermath. The being together.
After a long moment, you shifted again. You rolled onto your side, facing him. Your thumb stroked his cheek, a slow, gentle sweep that made him shiver.
"You know," you said, your voice a low murmur, "you blush a really pretty red."
He flinched, a fresh wave of heat washing over him. He tried to turn away, to hide, but your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, holding him in place. It wasn't a forceful grip, just a gentle, steady pressure.
"Don't," you whispered. "Don't hide from me."
He stilled, his eyes locked with yours. In the dim light of his room, your eyes were dark pools, and he felt like he could drown in them. He saw no judgment there, no pity. Just a steady, unwavering attention that was both terrifying and deeply comforting.
"I've never..." he started, then stopped, the words catching. He took another breath, trying again. "No one has ever... seen me. Like this."
"I see you, Riddle," you said, your thumb still stroking his cheek. "I see you."
The words were a key turning in a lock. The last of the walls crumbled. He felt a pricking behind his eyes, a dangerous, unfamiliar wetness. He squeezed them shut, fighting it. He would not cry. Crying was a weakness. A violation.
But then you leaned in and kissed him. It wasn't a kiss of passion or desire. It was slow, soft, achingly tender. A kiss of comfort. Of acceptance. And it was the undoing of him.
A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down his temple. He felt it with a sense of horror. He was broken. He was ruined.
You broke the kiss, your lips hovering over his. You didn't comment on the tear. You didn't wipe it away. You simply kissed it away, a soft, salty press of your lips against his skin. A benediction.
“I don’t think I can follow rule two anymore,” he confessed in a tiny, almost silent voice.
“I don’t think there are any rules anymore,” you replied, your words a warm puff of air against his face.
Riddle smiled. He didn't know he could still do that. His face felt strange, unused to the motion. He turned into your touch, pressing his cheek against your palm. He was like a starved animal, finally offered a scrap of kindness, and he couldn't get enough.
You shifted again, closer, and he went willingly, easily. You wrapped an arm around him, pulling him against your chest. His head fit perfectly into the hollow of your shoulder. He could hear your heartbeat, a steady, reassuring drum against his ear. He tucked an arm around your waist, clinging to you. He felt small and fragile and utterly safe.
This was a violation. This was chaos. This was the most right he had ever felt.
For the first time in his entire life, Riddle Rosehearts felt at peace. The rules, the expectations, the cold, disapproving glare of his mother—they all seemed very far away. There was only the warm weight of your arm around him, the soft rhythm of your breathing, the clean scent of your skin.
⊹˚.⋆ notes ,, : part two of my riddle mini series :) working on a Malleus version! would u guys want an entire seven minutes in heaven series with TWST characters?? anyways love u guys :>
everyday I think about writing a fic where the premise basically is:
Dick Grayson gets a rlly hot alien girlfriend (Starfire), breaking poor readers heart, so they move to Metropolis and end up with a rlly hot alien boyfriend (Clark)… Dick gets jealous when he finds out and finally realizes he likes the reader back because him and Clark have a lot of the same features (black hair, blue eyes, etc) but how can he compete with SUPERMAN of all people when he just wants his baby back 💔💔 the angst would be so good but idk if I could choose between Clark and Dick tbh
— gamer boyfriend and chronically online, he’s addicted to technology, it’s basically part of him atp
— omg imagine meeting him through the internet yummmmm
— before dating his crush on you wasn’t subtle at all, he was never ashamed about it and wanted his attraction for you to be painfully obvious
— knew a lot about you even before you were dating, not in a creepy way, he just genuinely paid a lot of attention to you
— you asked him out first, you both clearly liked each other but he was too nervous to say anything, despite ogling you almost everyday lol
— but when you two get in a relationship, he’d get comfortable really quickly which means a lot of dirty talking
— a good boyfriend in all the categories, he’s pretty, funny when he wants to, relaxed and patient, a very chill guy
— i don’t think he’s the kind of guy to verbally express his love, he shows his affection through his actions, quality time together, taking care of you, etc
— has a soft spot for you and only you, yeah the other know ‘chill and funny ben’ but they don’t see the silly and sweet side, that’s all for you
— doesn’t go overboard with PDA, just the basic hand holding, an arm around you, but on private he’d be all over you
— notices everything about you, if you changed your shampoo, if you’re wearing a new perfume, if you’ve done something with your hair
— will use your expensive shampoo and conditioner, when you ask about it he’ll simply shrug and say that the others don’t work on his hair anymore
— he’s basically your number one fan and will always hype you up
— loves when you play with his hair and lets you experiment with it, wearing whatever hairstyle or accessory you give him, no matter how bad or good he thinks it is
— he’ll joke about it if he think its bad tho
— takes pride in himself when he makes you laugh
— intentionally leaves his things in your room, pockets, etc, so you're always reminded of him
— constantly teases you and makes sarcastic comments every time because that's part of his love language
— basically your new shadow, he loves spending time with you when he’s not busy and it doesn’t even need to be a date, you could just be doing your things and he’ll be there, standing behind you and looming over your shoulder with a sappy smile
— would hug you from behind, press his face into your neck and just breathe in your scent with a low hum against your skin
— has really cold hands, like, all the time, and he’ll laugh if you complain about how chilly his touch is
— a cuddler, 100%
— has a concerning sleep schedule, goes through all-nighters playing videogames almost the whole week so don’t be surprised if he looks like a zombie sometimes
— but would listen if you scolded him for it, he’d roll his eyes and complain about it but he’d fix his sleep schedule if that makes you happy
— wants to sleep with you tho, face buried in your chest, clinging to you like a koala
— wants to wear matching pj’s with you
— has a strange addiction to your collarbones and your hands, always kissing them and getting all riled up pretty easily
— he gets jealous, but not in an angry way, if he sees someone flirting with you and you allowing it, he won’t get mad, but he will throw some snarky remarks about it after
— when away he’s always on his phone, constantly texting you
— would want you to play videogames with him, even if you’d never played before, he’d be patient to teach you the basics
— he’s pretty competitive guy when it comes to it tho so if you win against him, he’d lowkey be bratty about it
— tries to look like a nonchalant bf on public but he’s a completely devoted to you
all rights reserved to sorrowpoetry, do not plagiarize, reproduce or translate my work.
so many people forget that ticci-toby was 17-19 in the 2010’s. if you write like casual fic that takes place in his time period PLEASE don’t forget he uses the 2010 slang 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 that boy annoying asfc 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
