wait I just thought of a better idea (you don’t have to write both I’m just giving options LMAO)
reader's dating tim and is a fan of the bats/red robin and doesn't shut up about them and it just drives tim INSANE
bonus if reader keeps talking about red hood or nightwing and tim gets jealous but reader is just doing it to ragebait him because they know he's red robin lol
(feel free to add identity reveal or not)
RAGEBAITING TIMMY
“You have a what now?” Tim asks, lurking behind you as you show him your tiktok fan page.
“A Red Robin fan page! Tim he’s literally so cool, why would I not?” You answer.
“Uh huh. Sure. Okay. Not parasocial at all.” He says, giving you a side eye.
“Tim, have you never had a celebrity crush?”
“You have a CRUSH on red robin? He groans, burying his face in his hands.
You giggle. If only he knew you knew..
“Why would you like him when you have me? He’s not all that!” He protests, frowning.
“Um yes he is? Have you seen his abs? Or his hair?” At this point you have a shit eating grin on your face.
“So you’re saying you hate me and you want me to die.” He whines, and you get up off your chair to face him, pulling his hands off his face.
“Mmm, when did I say that?” You murmur, getting on your tippy toes to kiss him, he can’t stay mad, he just melts into it.
“Baby, you can’t be jealous of a vigilante, you can’t even throw a punch.” You tease, pushing him onto the couch, sitting in his lap, your legs around his waist, both hands holding his face, he’s so agitated it’s hilarious to you.
“I can throw a punch!” You giggle, shutting him up with another kiss. “Sure you can.” He’s pouty and annoyed, his ears red. You take it even further and ruffle his hair.
“I can throw a punch! And I bet I can do it better than him.” He protests, picking you up and carrying you with one arm.
“Can he carry you like that? No!”
He walks around with you in one arm for demonstration and you giggle.
“Can he bench press you? Nope!”
He maneuvers you around to use you like a weight, effortlessly so.
“And my abs look better!” He said in frustration, setting you down on the couch again.
“You have a Red Robin fan page instead of a Tim Drake one? Seriously baby? He named himself after a fast food chain? That’s the guy you prefer over me?” He’s pacing, absolutely rage baited, talking shit about.. well.. himself.
“Well no! I’m not choosing him over you Timmy, I’m just saying I like the guy, harmless crush, I just read fanfics of him, you know.”
“Ohmygod you read fanfics too. Oh I’m so going after him! You like him THAT much? You’re telling your boyfriend of four years this?” He sits on the ground, holds his head and stares at you, you burst out laughing.
“… it’s really not funny.”
“It really is when you’ve been talking shit about yourself for half an hour.”
“Oh.”
———————————
THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE i love rage baited tim sm HAHSHSGS THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!!
You grab Tim by his tie, dragging him behind you as your high heels click against the floor and god help him he’s into it.
“Wait-“
“I said follow me. You didn’t listen.”
And you’re still dragging him. Don’t help that man he’s exactly where he wants you to be. You shove him in an empty meeting room.
“You. You lied.” You back him to the wall.
“You let me handle them alone, you said you’d show up to the meeting, you did not.” You continue, a finger poking his chest accusingly. The tips of his ears go bright red.
“I wanted you to have your moment- it’s your project.” And he also wanted you at his throat but he won’t really say that.
“So you play me?”
“That’s not-“
You shush him with your index on his lips.
“Don’t cut me off, Drake.” He flushes further, letting out a little ‘mm’.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You try not to smile.
“What was that? Didn’t hear you.”
He drops to his knees, arms wrapped around your body, his chin on your stomach.
“I’m sorry. Won’t do it again. I love you, baby..” He murmurs, half lidded blue eyes staring up at you, so freaking desperate it has you biting your lip.
You grab his face, squishing his cheeks in the process, staring down at him before laughing, leaning down and kissing him despite the awkward angle.
He’s on cloud nine.
—————————————————————————
inspired by a clip i saw of a kdrama where the fmc drags a guy by his tie,, i thought it was so tim heh..
Synopsis: When you start dating a coffee-addicted genius detective, you have to learn how to keep him alive...
The apartment was dark and cold, except under the soft blankets where they both warmed themselves with each other's body heat and soft snores.
Your cold feet tangled between the detective's legs, his mouth slightly open, letting out soft snores
Everything was perfect until the alarm went off.
05:00 AM
Tim's blue eyes snapped open, like a soldier accustomed to precise timing, and he began to gently shift from your grasp, silently trying to pull you away from his chest.
"No"
"Huh?" I look at you, confused. "I woke you up. I'm sorry—go back to sleep," I murmur, stroking your hair.
"Don't even think about it, Timothy," you whispered, your eyes still closed.
"I have to go"
"You don't have to go"
"I have work to do," he insisted, trying to push you away.
"What did we say yesterday?"
She rolled her eyes, but the slight curve of her lips betrayed that she was enjoying it.
"I need to sleep at least eight hours, no matter what time I go to bed."
"Exactly," you murmur, forcing one eye open. "And..."
"And..?"
"Last night you went to bed at eleven..." you affectionately scratched her waist, "so you won't get up for another three hours."
"The faster I get up, the faster I'll solve this investigation," he insisted, taking your hand.
"The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can resume your research" you corrected him, giving him a few gentle pats on the ribs.
1. Force him to sleep at least 8 hours
Wednesday 9:35 AM
Hurried footsteps echo in the apartment.
You wake up to the sound of a dull thud followed by a groan and a curse.
"Tim- "you complain, brushing your messy hair away from your face to watch him hop around while putting on his pants.
"Ugh, I'm late!"
"Do you want me to make you something?" you murmur, pulling back the soft blankets.
"No, it's not necessary—Honey, have you seen my purple tie?"
"I left her with your other ties"
"No, that one is very clear
You sighed: "You have like a thousand purple ties, wear that one."
“I need dark purple; if I wear light purple, my suit won’t have any contrast,” he argued, pacing the room. “And if there’s no contrast, I’ll look strange, everyone will stare at me, and the meeting will go badly. If it goes badly, I’ll have to come up with a plan B, but if you come up with a plan B, my whole strategy will be ruined…”
"Here it is," you handed it to her. "I'll go prepare something."
He did not respond, focusing all his attention on adjusting his tie.
"I'm leaving," I kiss your forehead.
"Tim"
"See you this afternoon, I promise to be there before 6. I'll go to the mansion with Bruce after the meeting."
"ahm~" you say, bringing the fork closer to his mouth
"Honey, I'm going to be late," I tried to persuade you.
You pretended to be offended. "Are you going to abandon the pancakes I made for you?"
"It smells delicious, but I only have 20 minutes to get there." He grabbed his things, ready to leave.
"Mmm, well, goodbye, I won't force you." You turned your back on him, pressing the button on the coffee machine. "I guess I'll have to drink this myself." You gently swirled the cup to release the aroma.
A smell that chilled his blood as his nostrils reveled in it, and the soft sound of his bowels broke the silence.
"It only takes me 10 minutes to get here by car," he said, sitting down and anxiously moving his leg.
You laughed, kissing her cheek and saying "eat"
2. You must eat properly, no quick protein bars.
+ 3. Keep your negative overthinking under control.
Saturday 08:11 AM
"This crazy woman," I muttered, entering the kitchen.
Dick smiles playfully, "I see you're still in one piece. I thought you'd come out with a black eye. I was already calling Alfred after all that shouting."
Stephenie punched his arm, "I thought you were over your toxic relationship tendencies."
The boy glares at her menacingly, but his tired face and dark circles under his eyes only made the blonde laugh.
"Who died?" Jason asked sarcastically, grabbing the cereal. "You look dead, and that's coming from a dead man."
"You look bad, Drake," Damian grumbled, walking past to take the cereal away. "Todd, I'm going to tell Alfred you're eating my cereal again."
"Wow, thanks family! I also think they look good," he said sharply, clearly irritated.
"He's in a bad mood because he hasn't had a cup of coffee for 3 hours."
"3 hours and 45 minutes," he gasped anxiously, "but not for long." He opened the pantry, rummaging through everything.
"Pennyworth will be angry if you mess up the kitchen," Damian muttered, putting his cereal away again.
Duke entered the kitchen, curious. "He's gone completely mad."
The blonde glanced at him sideways. "I never thought this day would come.
"What's he doing?"Most of them were watching the kitchen intently, as if it were an experiment.
"Dear Damian," Jason smiled, taking the stored cereal box. "If you take drugs away from a junkie, what will he do?" He pointed at Tim as if he were a lab rat. "He'll look for more drugs... Oh!"
"He'll probably hide them around here," Tim muttered, looking sleepy.
Meanwhile, Dick whispered, "When do you think he'll realize?"
"Realize what?" Damian asked, staring at him.
"That his 'girlfriend' took all the coffee from the mansion."
Later, everyone was sitting in the dining room except for Tim, who was leaning his head on the table, much to Alfred's dismay.
"I need to stay awake; herbal tea won't keep me awake," he complained, though the dark circles under his eyes were begging for a break.
"Young Master Drake, please have your tea. It's impolite to refuse what's served. Would you like to return to your classes with good manners?" he asked expectantly.
"Love is hard," Jason muttered, feigning sympathy.
4. Control the amount of coffee you drink.
I don't speak English, literally, so this was translated with Google. Maybe from translating so much I'll learn English little by little.
Summary: when your new friend at university discovers how close you live to campus, he spends a lot of nights crashing at your place
Word Count: 2.5k
Content/CW -> university! au, Tim is your bestie, you enjoy pumpkin spice lattes (it's a sacrifice for the fall vibes ok?), minor injury + mentions of blood
— requested by anon <3
froggi yaps -> everyone thank mr froggibus for bullying me into getting this done cause otherwise this fic was nawt going to see the light of day ;-; its been foreverrr since i wrote for tim so hopefully this is still acceptable <3 enjoy!
Tim Drake is in your apartment. The Tim Drake. Wayne Enterprises, billionaire, prodigal son of Bruce Wayne Tim Drake is sitting on your couch, drinking your soda, playing Mario on your Nintendo.
How on Earth did you get here?
The sight of the raven haired boy was enough for you to make a double take when you’d entered your elective class this morning. You recognized him from glimpses of news clippings you caught here and there, full coloured spreads you’d see on social media posts coming to mind.
Sure enough, it was him, sitting alone in the middle of the classroom, a barrier of empty seats on either side of him like a quarantine. You’d frowned when you’d seen that, and despite the nerves chewing away at your stomach lining, forced your feet to move until you were right next to him.
“Is this seat taken?”
His head had perked up, calloused fingers plucking out his earbuds. “What’s that?’
“Oh,” you say, your confidence wavering, “is this seat taken?”
And he'd smiled, something dazzling and performative you’re sure he’s done for hundreds of photographers. You fell for it anyway, and when he patted the seat for you to sit down, you took the bait.
You made small talk after that, talking about your respective majors, your class schedules, your living situations. Tim told you about his dilemma: four 8am classes, and a house on the opposite side of town, and you’d cringed.
The class itself was slow, the professor's words dragging on until your eyelids drooped and you weren’t sure you could take anymore. That is, until Tim Drake tilted his laptop at you, Fireboy and Watergirl paused on his screen.
“Psst, wanna play?”
You looked around, checking for any eyes on you before nodding. As slyly as he can, he pushes his laptop towards you slightly until your hand can comfortably reach the arrow keys. He shuffles closer to you, his own hand hovering over the WASD keys.
The two of you fly through the levels, the drone of your lecture fading into the background until suddenly the people around you are packing up their things. You rub at your eyes, aching from staring at his screen for so long, only to realize how close you’d gotten to Tim over the course of the game.
You move away as casually as you can, packing up your stuff. “Um, do you have any more classes today?”
“Yeah,” he yawns, stretching his arms above his head. “Two more, but not until later in the day. Why?”
“Would you wanna come over for lunch? I live super close.”
To your shock and delight, the man had agreed, slinging his bag over his shoulder and following you to your place.Now, staring at him on your couch, a can of diet soda in his hands, the whole situation feels surreal.
“Y’know, I should’ve gotten a place like this.”
You blink, snapping back to reality. “Yeah?’
“Yeah, would’ve made the 8am blocks easier. Basically just roll out of bed and walk on over.”
You nod in agreement, settling in on the couch next to him and picking up the remote you’d discarded on your bathroom break. “Well, you can always crash here if you have a late night.”
“Sorry if that sounds too forward,” you add, shaking your head. “I just…the company is nice, y'know? And I swear I’m not trying to like, kill you for your inheritance or anything.”
Who the fuck says that? For a minute, you find yourself wishing you were anywhere but here, where the stupidity of your joke hangs in the air like deadweight.
Tim laughs. Not some rehearsed chuckle, not nervous laughter, but a real laugh. He grins, bright and brilliant and beautiful, “well, that’s comforting.”
“Sorry, god. I don’t know why I’m being so awkward.”
“Hey, I like awkward.”
You swallow, taking a sip of your soda to hide the heat rushing to your face.
It’s a week of hanging out with Tim before he stays the night for the first time.
You’re just getting out of the shower when he shows up with a Bat Burger bag in one hand and his overnight bag in the other. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
You smile, ushering him in. “Is studying going that badly?”
He groans, “you have no idea.”
The two of you settle into your kitchen, munching on the food he brought and talking about the big exam Tim is cramming for. It’s almost strange to you how quickly you warmed up to him, how easily conversation comes around Tim.
“I’ve never been one of those people who studies.”
It’s a half-truth, really. Tim hasn’t ever really studied for tests or things, relying on his memory and common sense usually. But he’s studied plenty of other things, spent nights pouring over maps and papers and other important mission whatnots.
“Must be nice.”
“I’m serious, usually I just…remember things. But,” he runs his long fingers through his hair, “I haven’t really been paying attention in my classes.”
You gasp, feigning hurt. “More Fireboy and Watergirl? Are you cheating on me?”
Tim’s quick to shake his head, loose strands falling in his face. “No, no never. You’re actually—” His cheeks flush, face reddening, “you’re like one of the only people in my classes who actually talks to me.”
You feel it then, the kind of loneliness that comes from being Tim Drake. To have all this money and power and influence and still end up entirely alone at the end of the day. Your heart aches.
“Well,” you say quietly, “I guess that means I just have to teach you to study then, too.”
You wake up to find Tim in your kitchen, a pastry bag and a cup of coffee from the cafe down the street on the counter. He grins sleepily when he sees you, the golden sunrays streaming through your window reflecting off his skin.
“G’morning,” he yawns, sipping his own coffee. “Brought you coffee and some breakfast.”
You nod, reaching for the coffee and reciting the label to yourself out loud. Your face scrunches, brows knitting together as you realize he’s gotten your coffee order perfect.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
You point to the coffee cup and his mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, that familiar sharpness coming back to his eyes.
“I uh, did some digging.”
You raise an eyebrow, taking a sip from your coffee as you wait for an explanation.
He smiles sheepishly. “I saw what kind of milk you drink in the fridge yesterday, and I noticed in our lecture this week that you usually drink blond espresso. Flavouring I kinda guessed? But since it’s fall, I figured pumpkin spice was a safe choice.”
You take another big sip, humming in ecstasy. “Y’know, it’s kind of scary when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make…really accurate guesses on things. Makes me feel like you’re a cop, or something.’
“Like 21 Jump Street?”
“Exactly like 21 Jump Street.”
He laughs. “I don’t think GCPD has that in their budget.”
You peel open the pastry bag, wiggling your fingers as you decide what you’re gonna eat. “No, they probably don’t.”
Sleepovers with Tim are a common occurrence after that, more of your nights being spent with him than without. Not that you mind—your nights are comfier with him around, and your mornings seem brighter.
You also don’t mind the company, especially when he insists on walking you to class every morning and carrying your bags for you.
“It’s the least I can do,” he always shrugs, refusing to let you carry anything. “You’ve been a real life saver.”
People in your lectures whisper about the two of you, nudge each other when you walk by on campus. You’re aware of the rumours that have spread, that people think you and Tim are together. You brush them off, he’s just a friend.
You asked him about it one day, if he knew about the rumours and if they bothered him. The man had just shrugged his shoulders, let them talk all they want.
It’s not just the coffee and the late nights and slow mornings, though. It’s the groceries Tim has delivered to your apartment every week, the little treats he buys you whenever he comes over, the way he looks at you changing one day at a time.
You’re not sure when it happened, or how, but something in your dynamic with Tim Drake has changed.
Tim doesn’t show up for your sleepover tonight. No text, no call, nothing but a distinct absence of Tim Drake on your couch.
You try not to be hurt by it. Some alone time is good for you, and he probably just got busy. It’s nothing personal. At least, that’s what you try to convince yourself.
It doesn’t work.
You do your best to keep yourself busy and not think about his absence. You cook dinner, throw yourself into your schoolwork, watch your favorite show, and still, the night drags on, each moment bleeding into the next.
You wake up to loud knocking at the door. Blinking, you rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up on the couch. You must’ve fallen asleep watching your show, the ‘Are you still watching?’ screen staring back at you.
There’s another knock, a little more urgent this time, and you rise to your feet, rushing to the door. Tim Drake greets you with a half-smile, looking pale and clammy.
You frown, ready to ream him out for standing you up when you notice the blood soaking through the ribs of his t-shirt. “Tim? Are you okay?”
“Just—” He cuts himself off with a cough, loud and wet and clearly painful from the way he’s wincing. “Just peachy.”
Your face twists into a frown as you usher him inside, “what the hell happened to you?”
He coughs again, stumbling over his own feet as you close and lock the door behind him. He pitches forwards, trajectory set to the ground, before you hook an arm under his shoulders and catch his weight against your body. It’s awkward, sending you stumbling slightly before you catch your own balance.
The two of you fall into an awkward, half-stumble half-walk to your bathroom, and though it’s not that far from the door, your legs burn from carrying Tim.
“Seriously, Tim, what happened?”
He frowns, the guilt setting in. Maybe he shouldn’t have come.
He’d had Robin things to do tonight, he didn’t mean to stand you up. But one thing led to another and suddenly it was late and he was hurt and yet all he cared about was you. Seeing you, being with you, grovelling for accidentally standing you up.
He sighs, “I lost a fight.”
A half-truth, but technically not a lie. He did lose a fight—granted, it was barely a loss—and as soon as Steph showed up for backup, he’d gotten right back up on his feet and kicked that goon’s ass right back.
You settle Tim down on your toilet seat, rummaging underneath your counter for any first aid supplies. Normally, you’d have nothing but some polysporin, painkillers and a couple bandaids on hand, but Tim had teased you just last week about not having a first aid kit to the point you went out and bought one.
You pull out the kit, ravaging it for bandages, alcohol pads and other random effects you’re not even sure you need.
Tim grits his teeth, tugging his blood soaked t-shirt over his head. “You’re gonna—damn, you’re gonna have to clean it with water first.”
You nod, already wetting a cloth with warm water in order to distract yourself from the shirtless man in front of you. The cut isn’t too bad—shallow, superficial, going across the length of his ribs.
You brace a hand on his shoulder, his skin cold to the touch, and slowly dab away at the blood with your other hand.
Tim talks you through it the whole time, giving you expert instructions on how to care for and bandage his wound. Caring for him comes naturally, like you’ve done it your whole life. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say this must be a pretty common occurrence for the two of you.
You’re discarding the bandage wrappers in the trash can under your sink when Tim goes to tug on his old t-shirt. “Wait.”
He cocks his head to the side.
“I have one of yours here from last week, just—” Your voice is a little shaky, a little breathier than usual. Tim clocks it immediately. “Let me run and grab it.”
He nods, and you’re grateful to get away for a minute. Being that close to Tim, to a very shirtless, shockingly muscular Tim, was killing you. You rummage through your drawers until you find the baggy t-shirt, hidden amongst your own things, before running back to the bathroom.
You toss him the shirt, turning away slightly while he tugs it over his head. “You know,” you swallow, “it was kind of freaky seeing you all injured and bloody tonight.”
“Yeah?” He rises to his feet with a groan, gently stretching his arms above his head, “you were worried about me?”
You roll your eyes. “Maybe a little.”
It’s not as fun teasing you when you’re being so tender with him, Tim realizes. His cheeks flush slightly, a hand reaching for one of yours. You blink, looking at him through your lashes as he strokes the back of your hand with his thumb.
“I’m sorry it freaked you out.” He takes a step closer to you, other hand reaching for your hip, “and I’m sorry I missed out on tonight and–and didn’t say anything.”
You frown. You’d forgotten about that part, and under his burning gaze and the strength of his hands, it’s nearly impossible to stay mad at him.
“Is it still okay if I crash here?”
You nod, flustered and not entirely trusting your words right now.
He breathes your name and it’s only now you realize how close he’s gotten to you. You swallow, too nervous to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the feel of his hand on yours, his other hand on your hip, his chest so close you can sense the heat coming off of him.
He drops your hand, trailing his own to cup your chin and force you to look up at him. It’s then that his head dips down, that his lips brush over yours, the taste of his chapstick and something that tastes eerily similar to metal flooding your mouth.
His hand digs into your hip, pulling you tighter to him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” he mumbles against your mouth.
You smile, fighting the emotion coursing through your body. “Me too,” you say, half-breathed and half-laughed.
“Do you think—” He cuts himself off with a laugh of his own, feeling silly for how incredibly flustered he feels, “do you think I could sleep in your bed tonight?”
“I think I’d like that a lot.”
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
summary: Tim Drake accidentally reveals his identity to you, his roommate, and certainly doesn’t expect your reaction
a/n: Tim Drake needs a good emotional hug so I gave him one. Hope all the Tim lovers seen this because I quite like it and I want you guys to enjoy as well <3
———————————————————————
You and Tim had been roommates for almost a year now. And for people who barely interacted with each other the first month, you were actually quite close now.
When he first moved in with you, he said that he was really just trying to start something new. Tim didn't hate his old like but he seemed ready for something new and you were happy he found it.
Even more happy that he was a good guy that made rent cheaper by living with you.
You never really questioned why Bruce Wayne's son of all people would want to live in a place like this, that was simply his business.
Tim helped with chores no problem, you guys didn't fight, and began getting closer as time went one.
Game nights, movie nights, cooking dinner together, even midnight baking. It was no doubt that he was your bestfriend now. Something he reciprocated.
Tonight, Tim was actually out. Said that he was going to hang with a few friends he hadn't seen in a while.
This obviously happened before. But you couldn't help but notice every once and a while, he came him from one of these little trips looking utterly exhausted and was oddly sore when he woke up the next day.
It wasn't often enough to rouse too much suspicion. You'd play it off as dumb decisions on a night out that were typical for the college age and helped him feel better.
You'd waited a bit later for Tim just in case. A show playing quietly in the living room, you were peacefully curled up on the couch. Eye lids dropping a few times but you pushed on.
Tired eyes looked toward the clock, it was only just past eleven at night. You wouldn't have been so exhausted if you didn't have that stupid early class this morning.
A yawn left you mouth. Within minutes you had fallen asleep in the position without realizing.
Your heavy eyelids opened once more. It was darker now. The soft lamps lit seemed dimmer and the screen on the tv was asking if you were still watching.
Your arms stretched out and you let you gaze fall back to the clock. Almost two in the morning.
Letting out a gentle breath of air, you were about to get up. The sudden noise on the metal balcony catching your attention.
It wasn't a gentle noise either. Not a tree branch or the wind blowing your hanging plants against the rails.
It was a sudden this similar to the way it made your heart drop.
Had Tim gotten home yet? Did he come in while you were asleep? Should you go check before whatever was out there came in.
As quietly as you could with fear tensing up you body you slipped to the side of the couch. Bending down just behind it. Peaking just over the arm while still making sure you could duck down fast enough without being seen.
The balcony door opened. The curtains were still closed for a moment before being pulled open quietly by…Red Robin?
The shock that rushed through you was like no other. Had you still been dreaming?
Red Robin was slumped tiredly as he came in. Stretching out casually as if he owned the place and was just ready to sleep.
It was only when he pulled off the mask and revealed the mess of dark hair and blue eyes.
"Tim?!" You had shot up from behind the couch now. Looking at him incredulously, a little wild in the eyes.
The scream he let out was less than Robin like. Jumping back like he had just been burned. He had the same look of shock you did.
"I- why aren't you in bed?"
"I fell asleep on the couch! Then I wake up and suddenly here banging around on the balcony so I hid!"
He stepped forward with his arms out. Acting like he was about to sooth a wild animal. Which well…wasn't far off.
"Okay okay, let's not freak the neighbours out. Just breathe, I'll explain."
Taking his advice you made the effort to breathe in properly. Allowing him to settle you onto the couch.
"Alright. I'm just gonna put it out there now, I'm Red Robin. Former regular Robin. I'm technically retired right now which is the old life I was talking about when I first moved in. But every once in a while when they really need help, I'll pop in. I didn't think you'd even figure out because I hardly went but, clearly I was wrong."
You were silent for a moment and Tim felt a bit wary now. Earlier he debated his chances on trying to convince you that you were still asleep and just lucid dreaming or something. Unfortunately he knew the odds of convincing you of that were slim.
"Wow. That's…"
He felt like he was holding his breath now.
"That's cool. Impressive actually. I really never knew what kind of person it took to become one of those vigilante people and- it's cool knowing that it took someone like you."
"Someone like me?"
"Someone with personality like you. With interests like you. I've known you as just this awesome roommate who's just a good guy that I'm glad is living with me, you've really become my closest friend and to know that you've been out there helping people like that is just, touching."
Tim was starting to feel a bit conflicted now. Almost bad. Despite those things being true, he had still retired.
He was done being Red Robin, he wanted to experience a normal life. Sure he may still go in those rare times but it's not the same anymore. It doesn't feel the same.
Was he selfish for leaving?
Almost as if you read his mind, or he was really easy for you to read at this point, you pulled him closer into a hug.
"It's okay that you're retired. If you wanted something new then you deserve it Tim. More than anyone I know. You've already done so much for other people, you deserve to do things for you as well."
He couldn't help the hot tears from coming. The conversations he'd had with his family weren't long. He had just wanted the conversations to be over, to fall over his emotions.
But now? Now it felt good to get the reassurance he needed. He wasn't selfish for leaving. He was allowed to do this for himself. He was getting hugged for it.
You didn't care that his tears were wetting your hoodie. Only held him closer and rubbed his back gently. Eventually placing a small kiss on his forehead when he finally looked up.
Summary : You arrive at your new job and instantly run into someone, again.
Word Count : 2.1K
Note : fuck me this took longer than i thought it would. i had to rewrite it several times because the dialogue was pissing me off. im still not 100% happy with how it turned out, but i have a tendency to abandon things if i don’t work consistently on them, and i desperately dont want to abandon this fic!
Tag list : @farahdrawzz @superuddertrash-blog @looha
I’ve started a taglist for the fic, so please ask if you want to be added/removed!
It could only be described as typical for the rain that thundered down from the greying skies of Gotham. You had held out some hope that the weather would be better considering its your first day at your new office job; the very job that Tim—a stupidly attractive stranger—had offered you. The very same job that you had accepted without thinking due to your desperation to not be made homeless.
Even now as you quicken your pace into the building, listening to the way your heeled shoes click loudly against the floor, you haven’t even considered the possibility that this entire gig is fake. Not only did you never go through an official interview/application process, but there was no official confirmation of your trial position starting today. The only reassurance you had for today was Tim.
Tim, the very attractive stranger who you spilled coffee on.
There really shouldn’t have been any reason for him to offer to help. A lot of Gothamites are hostile, skeptical and unfriendly on a good day. So for someone so pretty to extend a hand like this? You honestly should be more suspicious of his true intentions.
You lower the beige coat you had hastily thrown over your head and tuck it into your arms, cringing at the wet feeling of it pressing into your chest. The main entrance area is bustling with people all dressed smartly and like they belong. Not a single person spares you a glance as they move; talking on the phone, skimming through manila coloured files, hastily knocking a steaming coffee down their throats… all of them have a purpose.
And you’re just standing here gawking with a paralysing anxiety that’s screaming “you’ve been set up”.
The sight of the giant analog clock on the wall above the front desk spurs you into action, the looming realisation that you’ll be late for your trial position if you don’t unstick yourself from the middle of the entrance area.
You clear your throat awkwardly at the front desk. A middle aged woman looks up, her eyes sharp behind the square glasses that frame her round face. She doesn’t smile. “How can I help?” She asks, a polite indifference, a dull script that she follows for the purpose of her job.
“Hi—um—I’m starting a trial position in the marketing department today… I was told to ask for Malcom?” You answer, cursing yourself for the way you stammer over your words. Your mother drilled into you that confidence is key, and yet your treacherous nerves make that difficult to fake.
The woman lowers her eyes and begins tapping away at the keyboard. She wiggles the mouse a few times before her sharp eyes flicker up once again. “Your name?”
You answer without missing a beat and she resumes her typing. Then she turns a fraction in her chair and slides open a drawer underneath the counter. A clipping noise interrupts the nervous silence, and then she extends her arm to hand over a plastic lanyard for you to take.
You automatically turn it over in your hands and take in the sight of “Temporary ID” written in bold letters on the shiny plastic. It almost makes you giddy with relief at the fact that Tim clearly hasn’t set you up with the intent to humiliate you in revenge for spilling coffee down his front.
“You want floor fifty-four, corridor C. I’ll phone ahead and let Malcom know you’re on your way up.” Her red stained lips sharpen into a smile, and you hope she’s intending for it to be friendly. “Try not to get lost.”
You stammer out an awkward “thank you” before turning on your heel and making a start for the elevator. It opens just as you arrive, and you automatically step to the side to let the group of smartly dressed individuals swarm out before entering. You press the button for floor fifty-four, just as a handful of workers follow you inside, all of them avoiding eye contact and busy with their own work to truly acknowledge you. But in a building with hundreds—maybe even thousands—of workers, you find it narcissistic to think that any single person would acknowledge you.
The elevator stops at several other floors before reaching the one you want. And you breathe a sigh of relief at finally escaping the intense silence from within the metal box.
Immediately you’re met with a long corridor splitting off down two potential ways, and your eyes dart across the walls and ceilings in search of a sign to indicate which way you need to go. But anxiety gnaws at your chest at the lack of direction. You turn back to the elevator to ask someone for help, but the doors slide shut in your face just as you open your mouth.
And suddenly you’re left alone in the middle of the corridor, cheeks flushing red.
Oh. Okay.
To busy yourself and make it look like you’re put together and not lost—to fake the feeling of unwavering confidence, you fiddle with the hem of your skirt and straighten out your blouse. It doesn’t help at all, but it gives you enough time to assess the corridor and pick a random direction to wander off in.
You head off to the right and turn the corner—
Smack!
Loose papers fly off in random directions, flapping and fluttering. It would have been cinematic if not for the string of embarrassed apologises spluttering from your mouth. You’re positive you accidentally spat some saliva out at some point too, but with your face too hot to focus on functioning like a normal person, you hardly noticed.
“It’s okay, honestly,” someone speaks up in a voice that feels familiar and eerily like dejavu in human form. A chill runs up your spine and you crane your head up to make eye contact with none other than Tim himself.
He looks sheepish and awkward, hands scrambling to swipe up the loose sheets of paper piling on the floor. You bend down to help him, feeling it’s the only thing that you can do to help out in a situation that you most definitely caused.
Your mouth twitches. “I’m sorry, Tim. We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”
Tim finds the humour in your voice and lets out an amused, breathy laugh. His cold blue eyes meet yours fleetingly, and then he’s coughing to clear his throat and darting his gaze back towards the floor. “There’s worse ways to keep meeting someone,” he assures in a joking way, his smile so pretty and natural, “you could have spilled coffee on my shirt again, right?”
You stammer at the reminder. “Did you manage to get the stain out?” You scoop up the remaining paper files on the floor before standing to your full height, and Tim follows in a similar way.
Tim gives a light shrug of his shoulders. “Sort of. I have lots of other shirts like it, so I’ll find out when I get my laundry back.”
“Oh. Dry cleaning?” You ask, hands hastily shuffling at the papers. You cringe as the majority of them crinkle between your fingers. You can only hope that these aren’t important documents that Tim needs to deliver.
“Yeah,” Tim answers. You look over to see that his papers are all neat and uniform again, and when your eyes drift down to the papers in your own hands… you feel utterly humiliated and defeated by your own incompetence. It looks like a total mess, and you’ve most definitely ruined a few pages.
Tim shuffles his stack of papers to one arm and holds out his hand to take the ruined papers from your hands. You do so with shame, an apology tumbling from your mouth before you can second guess it.
“It’s okay. Which way are you heading?” He asks, gesturing with a nod of his head to the junction corridors at the end of the hallway. Your heart sinks at the sight of more corridors with zero signage—because how does the CEO expect anybody to navigate this labyrinth of a building like this? It’s a wonder anyone is capable of getting to their departments or meetings on time.
Your only hope is that Tim knows where he’s going. “I’m heading to Malcom’s department,” you explain, fully facing him with the faith that he’ll lead the way.
Tim’s eyes sparkle. “Let me walk you there. I’m guessing you got lost?” It’s the teasing lilt in his voice that’s the only indication of him not being annoyed at you for needing help. He begins walking, and you follow automatically.
You huff to disguise your genuine embarrassment. “Yes,” you admit, eyes rolling to the point where they might as well spill from your skull. “You’d think a company as huge as this would have signs in the corridors.”
Tim’s eyes flick to the walls then straight back to your face. “Huh. I never noticed there aren’t signs here,” he replies, lost in thought, “you make a good point that directions would be helpful. Especially for newbies like you.”
You stifle a snort. “Has nobody ever complained about the lack of signage before?”
Tim barely conceals a smile as he sheepishly shrugs his shoulders. “Not that I’ve heard. Usually the secretaries and personal assistants escort new starters or guests to the different floors.”
You give him a suspiciously playful stare. “And you never got lost on your first day?”
Tim shakes his head. “I have a really good memory. I’m surprised that nobody at the front desk offered to show you up.”
“No, the front desk lady just told me the floor I’d be working on and gave me this lanyard,” you say while lifting said lanyard up from your neck, showing off the bold letters of Temporary ID. “If I knew a personal tour was an option I would have asked for that.”
You don’t notice the flush on Tim’s pale cheeks due to the way you’re eyeing the various office-styled doors lining the corridor. The decoration is minimal enough that it screams a clean aesthetic, and honestly you’re worried about touching something and leaving finger print marks.
Tim then clears his throat, drawing your focus back to him. The stack of papers in his arms has miraculously been shuffled into a neat pile again, which is incredible considering you crinkled them to Hell. “The personal tour is an option—if you want?”
You blink up at him while registering that he means himself to give the tour. How kind of him. “Are you offering?” You ask with a gentle tilt of your head, only somewhat teasing him after you spot the flush to his cheeks. He looks incredibly bashful, and it takes all your strength not to comment on it and make the situation awkward or weird.
“Yeah—yes! I’ll clear my schedule and show you around all the floors after you’ve settled in at Malcom’s department.” Tim then gestures ahead to the glass-screened office room, where multiple workers are lounging at their computer stations, loitering near photocopiers/printers, or slurping coffee in Wayne Enterprise logo mugs. “Go ahead and meet your team. I just have to drop these files off, then I’ll be back for you. Okay?”
You eye him rather suspiciously, concerned at the idea of him abandoning his work duties for the sake of showing you around. Not to mention it’ll look a tad unprofessional for you to start your first day and abandon your work station for the sake of a show-around.
“Won’t it leave a bad impression if I introduce myself then walk off for a tour?” You ask, raising a brow. You’d rather not get in trouble before you’ve even started the job.
Tim shakes his head, black strands of his hair falling over his eyes. He looks boyish like that, rather docile and… squishable. You instantly avert your gaze to the papers in his hands as the impulsive thought of pinching his cheeks crosses your mind.
“It won’t,” he assures. “Tell them Tim Drake is showing you around.”
Is he someone important here? You suddenly wish you did some research into the various departments before coming here.
“Alright. I’ll see you soon then?”
Tim beams down at you and nods his head. Gosh, his smile is so fucking cute. “I’ll be about an hour or so. Try not to get lost again in the meantime, okay?”
You take a moment to watch as Tim turns on his heel and starts to walk back the way you came, and it’s only once he’s out of sight do you turn to the department doors. Your heart skips a beat at the fact that you’re now facing this alone, and you repeat a small, encouraging mantra to yourself to boost your confidence.
And as you step through the threshold, with a few pairs of impassive stares looking at you, you picture Tim’s reassuring smile to ease your nerves.
Summary : You arrive at your new job and instantly run into someone, again.
Word Count : 2.1K
Note : fuck me this took longer than i thought it would. i had to rewrite it several times because the dialogue was pissing me off. im still not 100% happy with how it turned out, but i have a tendency to abandon things if i don’t work consistently on them, and i desperately dont want to abandon this fic!
Tag list : @farahdrawzz @superuddertrash-blog @looha
I’ve started a taglist for the fic, so please ask if you want to be added/removed!
It could only be described as typical for the rain that thundered down from the greying skies of Gotham. You had held out some hope that the weather would be better considering its your first day at your new office job; the very job that Tim—a stupidly attractive stranger—had offered you. The very same job that you had accepted without thinking due to your desperation to not be made homeless.
Even now as you quicken your pace into the building, listening to the way your heeled shoes click loudly against the floor, you haven’t even considered the possibility that this entire gig is fake. Not only did you never go through an official interview/application process, but there was no official confirmation of your trial position starting today. The only reassurance you had for today was Tim.
Tim, the very attractive stranger who you spilled coffee on.
There really shouldn’t have been any reason for him to offer to help. A lot of Gothamites are hostile, skeptical and unfriendly on a good day. So for someone so pretty to extend a hand like this? You honestly should be more suspicious of his true intentions.
You lower the beige coat you had hastily thrown over your head and tuck it into your arms, cringing at the wet feeling of it pressing into your chest. The main entrance area is bustling with people all dressed smartly and like they belong. Not a single person spares you a glance as they move; talking on the phone, skimming through manila coloured files, hastily knocking a steaming coffee down their throats… all of them have a purpose.
And you’re just standing here gawking with a paralysing anxiety that’s screaming “you’ve been set up”.
The sight of the giant analog clock on the wall above the front desk spurs you into action, the looming realisation that you’ll be late for your trial position if you don’t unstick yourself from the middle of the entrance area.
You clear your throat awkwardly at the front desk. A middle aged woman looks up, her eyes sharp behind the square glasses that frame her round face. She doesn’t smile. “How can I help?” She asks, a polite indifference, a dull script that she follows for the purpose of her job.
“Hi—um—I’m starting a trial position in the marketing department today… I was told to ask for Malcom?” You answer, cursing yourself for the way you stammer over your words. Your mother drilled into you that confidence is key, and yet your treacherous nerves make that difficult to fake.
The woman lowers her eyes and begins tapping away at the keyboard. She wiggles the mouse a few times before her sharp eyes flicker up once again. “Your name?”
You answer without missing a beat and she resumes her typing. Then she turns a fraction in her chair and slides open a drawer underneath the counter. A clipping noise interrupts the nervous silence, and then she extends her arm to hand over a plastic lanyard for you to take.
You automatically turn it over in your hands and take in the sight of “Temporary ID” written in bold letters on the shiny plastic. It almost makes you giddy with relief at the fact that Tim clearly hasn’t set you up with the intent to humiliate you in revenge for spilling coffee down his front.
“You want floor fifty-four, corridor C. I’ll phone ahead and let Malcom know you’re on your way up.” Her red stained lips sharpen into a smile, and you hope she’s intending for it to be friendly. “Try not to get lost.”
You stammer out an awkward “thank you” before turning on your heel and making a start for the elevator. It opens just as you arrive, and you automatically step to the side to let the group of smartly dressed individuals swarm out before entering. You press the button for floor fifty-four, just as a handful of workers follow you inside, all of them avoiding eye contact and busy with their own work to truly acknowledge you. But in a building with hundreds—maybe even thousands—of workers, you find it narcissistic to think that any single person would acknowledge you.
The elevator stops at several other floors before reaching the one you want. And you breathe a sigh of relief at finally escaping the intense silence from within the metal box.
Immediately you’re met with a long corridor splitting off down two potential ways, and your eyes dart across the walls and ceilings in search of a sign to indicate which way you need to go. But anxiety gnaws at your chest at the lack of direction. You turn back to the elevator to ask someone for help, but the doors slide shut in your face just as you open your mouth.
And suddenly you’re left alone in the middle of the corridor, cheeks flushing red.
Oh. Okay.
To busy yourself and make it look like you’re put together and not lost—to fake the feeling of unwavering confidence, you fiddle with the hem of your skirt and straighten out your blouse. It doesn’t help at all, but it gives you enough time to assess the corridor and pick a random direction to wander off in.
You head off to the right and turn the corner—
Smack!
Loose papers fly off in random directions, flapping and fluttering. It would have been cinematic if not for the string of embarrassed apologises spluttering from your mouth. You’re positive you accidentally spat some saliva out at some point too, but with your face too hot to focus on functioning like a normal person, you hardly noticed.
“It’s okay, honestly,” someone speaks up in a voice that feels familiar and eerily like dejavu in human form. A chill runs up your spine and you crane your head up to make eye contact with none other than Tim himself.
He looks sheepish and awkward, hands scrambling to swipe up the loose sheets of paper piling on the floor. You bend down to help him, feeling it’s the only thing that you can do to help out in a situation that you most definitely caused.
Your mouth twitches. “I’m sorry, Tim. We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”
Tim finds the humour in your voice and lets out an amused, breathy laugh. His cold blue eyes meet yours fleetingly, and then he’s coughing to clear his throat and darting his gaze back towards the floor. “There’s worse ways to keep meeting someone,” he assures in a joking way, his smile so pretty and natural, “you could have spilled coffee on my shirt again, right?”
You stammer at the reminder. “Did you manage to get the stain out?” You scoop up the remaining paper files on the floor before standing to your full height, and Tim follows in a similar way.
Tim gives a light shrug of his shoulders. “Sort of. I have lots of other shirts like it, so I’ll find out when I get my laundry back.”
“Oh. Dry cleaning?” You ask, hands hastily shuffling at the papers. You cringe as the majority of them crinkle between your fingers. You can only hope that these aren’t important documents that Tim needs to deliver.
“Yeah,” Tim answers. You look over to see that his papers are all neat and uniform again, and when your eyes drift down to the papers in your own hands… you feel utterly humiliated and defeated by your own incompetence. It looks like a total mess, and you’ve most definitely ruined a few pages.
Tim shuffles his stack of papers to one arm and holds out his hand to take the ruined papers from your hands. You do so with shame, an apology tumbling from your mouth before you can second guess it.
“It’s okay. Which way are you heading?” He asks, gesturing with a nod of his head to the junction corridors at the end of the hallway. Your heart sinks at the sight of more corridors with zero signage—because how does the CEO expect anybody to navigate this labyrinth of a building like this? It’s a wonder anyone is capable of getting to their departments or meetings on time.
Your only hope is that Tim knows where he’s going. “I’m heading to Malcom’s department,” you explain, fully facing him with the faith that he’ll lead the way.
Tim’s eyes sparkle. “Let me walk you there. I’m guessing you got lost?” It’s the teasing lilt in his voice that’s the only indication of him not being annoyed at you for needing help. He begins walking, and you follow automatically.
You huff to disguise your genuine embarrassment. “Yes,” you admit, eyes rolling to the point where they might as well spill from your skull. “You’d think a company as huge as this would have signs in the corridors.”
Tim’s eyes flick to the walls then straight back to your face. “Huh. I never noticed there aren’t signs here,” he replies, lost in thought, “you make a good point that directions would be helpful. Especially for newbies like you.”
You stifle a snort. “Has nobody ever complained about the lack of signage before?”
Tim barely conceals a smile as he sheepishly shrugs his shoulders. “Not that I’ve heard. Usually the secretaries and personal assistants escort new starters or guests to the different floors.”
You give him a suspiciously playful stare. “And you never got lost on your first day?”
Tim shakes his head. “I have a really good memory. I’m surprised that nobody at the front desk offered to show you up.”
“No, the front desk lady just told me the floor I’d be working on and gave me this lanyard,” you say while lifting said lanyard up from your neck, showing off the bold letters of Temporary ID. “If I knew a personal tour was an option I would have asked for that.”
You don’t notice the flush on Tim’s pale cheeks due to the way you’re eyeing the various office-styled doors lining the corridor. The decoration is minimal enough that it screams a clean aesthetic, and honestly you’re worried about touching something and leaving finger print marks.
Tim then clears his throat, drawing your focus back to him. The stack of papers in his arms has miraculously been shuffled into a neat pile again, which is incredible considering you crinkled them to Hell. “The personal tour is an option—if you want?”
You blink up at him while registering that he means himself to give the tour. How kind of him. “Are you offering?” You ask with a gentle tilt of your head, only somewhat teasing him after you spot the flush to his cheeks. He looks incredibly bashful, and it takes all your strength not to comment on it and make the situation awkward or weird.
“Yeah—yes! I’ll clear my schedule and show you around all the floors after you’ve settled in at Malcom’s department.” Tim then gestures ahead to the glass-screened office room, where multiple workers are lounging at their computer stations, loitering near photocopiers/printers, or slurping coffee in Wayne Enterprise logo mugs. “Go ahead and meet your team. I just have to drop these files off, then I’ll be back for you. Okay?”
You eye him rather suspiciously, concerned at the idea of him abandoning his work duties for the sake of showing you around. Not to mention it’ll look a tad unprofessional for you to start your first day and abandon your work station for the sake of a show-around.
“Won’t it leave a bad impression if I introduce myself then walk off for a tour?” You ask, raising a brow. You’d rather not get in trouble before you’ve even started the job.
Tim shakes his head, black strands of his hair falling over his eyes. He looks boyish like that, rather docile and… squishable. You instantly avert your gaze to the papers in his hands as the impulsive thought of pinching his cheeks crosses your mind.
“It won’t,” he assures. “Tell them Tim Drake is showing you around.”
Is he someone important here? You suddenly wish you did some research into the various departments before coming here.
“Alright. I’ll see you soon then?”
Tim beams down at you and nods his head. Gosh, his smile is so fucking cute. “I’ll be about an hour or so. Try not to get lost again in the meantime, okay?”
You take a moment to watch as Tim turns on his heel and starts to walk back the way you came, and it’s only once he’s out of sight do you turn to the department doors. Your heart skips a beat at the fact that you’re now facing this alone, and you repeat a small, encouraging mantra to yourself to boost your confidence.
And as you step through the threshold, with a few pairs of impassive stares looking at you, you picture Tim’s reassuring smile to ease your nerves.
yandere!overblot!riddle x (female) reader
cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death, victorian era, obsession, attempted captivity, arranged marriage, threats of violence, restraints, non-consensual touching and kissing
note - after the death of your husband, you are left to sift through his estate. you'll soon find some ghosts refuse to remain in their graves.
To the esteemed Lady of the Rosehearts Estate: It is with a shrouded heart that I write to inform you of Lord Rosehearts’s untimely passing. It is a most unfortunate occasion, and for such reasons I must implore you to return from your seaside retreat with great haste.
Mrs. Rosehearts’s bare hand comes down so suddenly that you hardly have any chance to brace yourself before it makes contact with your cheek. A harsh smack resounds throughout the hall, echoing within your brain until it’s all you can process. The sting that follows warms your tender skin and, though you wish to soothe it with a gentle caress, you remain stone-faced and stiff before her, a mere statuette who has been frozen in time.
“Such insolence is unforgivable,” she seethes, swiping her glove from her butler, who holds it out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. She fits her hand inside the pristine fabric and flexes her fingers momentarily before turning her fiery gaze back on you. “You were well aware of the ailment that consumed my dear Riddle and yet you abandoned him in his time of need! You are the lady of this house. It is your duty to remain here! Must the implication be branded on your very bosom for you to recognize it?!”
“My deepest apologies, madam.” You lower into a perfect curtsy. “I did not possess enough foresight to know that this might happen. For that, I am truly regretful.”
He was already at death’s door. A sickly body is meant for the hands of higher powers, or so they’ve said. I suppose this is the inevitability of fate.
“I have always been of the opinion that you were inadequate for my son,” she snaps. “If it weren’t for your family’s status, I’d have had you pulled from his life before you could ruin it further like the vapid weed you are.”
With a huff, she strides past you.
You remain in the hall, comforted by the soft tock of the old grandfather clock.
It’s not my fault your son was sickly, you think, scowling at the floor tiles. But you refuse to allow this to darken your mood. Gathering yourself, you straighten your posture and smooth the sting in your cheek with a few consoling pats.
I am (Name) Rosehearts, lady of this fine estate. I shall not waver in the face of a monstrous mother.
Though your union was one of arrangement, it took some time to convince Mrs. Rosehearts. She only conceded after her son had, quite literally, begged her. Your parents’ social status and fortune were quite persuasive as well. It was your late husband who argued with her, day and night, for the right to wed you.
“Mother, I have fancied no other to the extent I do Lady (Name). Should you come between us, I shall take her and we will be wed elsewhere—with or without your approval.”
Not wanting to lose her pride and joy and faced with the boundless prosperity boasted by the arrangement, she submitted to his demands. Thus, you were wed. You shall never forget the disdain scrawled on her wrinkled countenance as she watched you from her place in the pews. She disapproved of your dress, your disposition, your very existence. There was no part of you that could please her, but she had no choice. For Riddle’s sake, she would have to acquiesce.
Now that he’s no longer of this world, you’re feeling the force of her frosty hatred more directly. She has, by her own standards, every reason to dislike you. You could not conceive an heir to carry on the legacy. You could not be there to assist Riddle while he was on his deathbed. You could not measure up to her lofty expectations of what a proper wife and lady should be. You could not be pretty enough. The list is endless.
“My lady, the photographer is waiting,” the butler pipes up, nodding in the direction of the room.
“I understand. Thank you.”
You inhale all of your negativity, allow it to fester within your lungs, and then you expel it in a long exhale.
You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.
This is the busiest you have seen the silent, despair-tinged halls of the Rosehearts Manor. Shadows creep along floral, cream-colored wallpaper, and the curtains do well to keep the sun from poking its rays through the gloom. Your grip tightens on your lace shawl as you’re led through the foyer, and when you view the vaulted ceiling it seems to spiral into never-ending darkness. Photographs are turned over to protect those in the film who are still living. The clocks are all stopped at three in the morning—supposedly the time at which Riddle gave his final breath. Every reflective surface has been enveloped in black cloth, and every funeral attendant you pass offers sympathetic bows and curtsies. Your nose crinkles at them, but you nod your acknowledgement and continue down the hall.
Riddle is poised on the sofa, his arms folded primly in his lap. His face is colored in a sickly pallor, and he’s dressed in his best suit. If it weren’t for how deathly still he is, you’d think he was full of life. Glassy greys stare listlessly ahead. You peer into them. He does not blink or recognize your presence.
It occurs to you that he truly is dead.
Mrs. Rosehearts is quick to shoo you away. “Distance! You’ll pollute the air near my Riddle!”
You offer her a cordial simper. “Wherever shall I sit?”
She wrinkles her nose at you but gestures to the spot beside him. “You are his wife, so you must sit at his side here.”
“Very well.” You lower onto the cushion. Riddle is arranged to lean against you. He is cold and stiff, almost like a doll. His soft hair brushes your cheek. “And what of you, madam?”
“You are to be photographed first, after which I shall replace you. Then, we’ll both be photographed.”
“If it pleases,” you reply, looking towards the camera. Gently, you close your hand over Riddle’s gloved one.
Forgive me, Riddle. I should have returned from the sea sooner, but I was cowardly and could not bear to face you as you withered away. It is with great shame that I wear this mourning dress.
Your photo is taken. For the rest of the ordeal, you remain in your head. The shuffling of bodies is drowned out, for you focus only on your husband as he’s situated on the sofa beside his mother.
Riddle wouldn’t have wanted that, you think, but then you pause. What would he want?
You can scarcely say.
Afterwards, Riddle is placed in his coffin, his eyes shut, and carried feet-first from the house. You accompany the procession, everyone following the solemn hearse in its travels. There is a hollow in the ground, where a group of men lower the death box. They work silently and diligently to shovel soil and fill the hole. You stand off to the side, watching from behind your veil. You don’t shed tears, but neither does Mrs. Rosehearts.
It is a chilly, autumn day devoid of birdsong and sunshine.
A laurel wreath is hung on the door following the funeral, and an ornament fashioned out of his hair alongside his photo are kept enclosed in a locket pin. You hold it in your hands at all times, tucking it beneath your pillow when you sleep, cherishing this piece of him. You visit his grave just as frequently as it is guarded. Every now and then, you expect the bell aboveground to ring, signaling life from below. It never does.
Riddle left his entire estate to you. His mother could fume as she pleased, but the validity of his penmanship could not be denied. He explicitly wrote: To my wife, Lady (Name) Rosehearts: You are granted all mortal possessions within my estate as well as ownership to the property. Do with it as you like.
Your relationship with Riddle, while not free of its strains, was mostly amicable. You played your parts well enough. Even so, it bewilders you that he would leave you so much. You always assumed he’d gift it to his mother, as she seemed to have a hand in every aspect of his existence—his death included. She planned the funeral and the burial well in advance, arranged the photographer, even the outfit he was to wear.
Now, dressed in black crepe, you wander aimlessly through a quiet, covered house and wonder what you should do with so much empty space. There are still rules you must follow, of course, each one aligning with mourning customs. But now that you don’t have your husband to enforce them, you feel…lost.
Illuminated by candlelight, your reflection follows you as you walk past an uncovered mirror, trapped in silent reverie.
And then you stop.
An uncovered mirror?
In a horrified panic, you set the candlestick down to gaze at yourself in the glass.
This can’t be! All of the mirrors must be covered! What happened?!
You scramble to shroud it, your heart pounding restlessly like a war drum. For a while you stand there, waiting for something. You anticipate a shout from the shadows: Don’t you know you are expected to cover each and every reflective surface in the wake of death? Do you want to be pulled into the grave next?! Nothing happens, though. The house remains perfectly still.
You think you hear someone breathing shallowly, but then you realize that’s you. Your chest heaves as you take in big gasps of air.
No one will know, you remind yourself, gradually calming your frazzled nerves. The mirror is covered. That is the end of that.
The grandfather clock’s midnight chime echoes down the hall. Sighing, you lift the candlestick and carry on.
“I shall retire to bed,” you tell the darkness, climbing the stairs. Riddle’s room is kept sealed, a place stuck in permanence. You refuse to disturb his things, lest you dampen his spirit, and so you beeline for your room. It’s directly across from his. When he was alive, he insisted you sleep at his side despite the bed customs between couples. Stubbornly, you refused. You recall the dismal glimmer that darkened his eyes whenever you’d decline. He would always promise the same thing—
“Should you need the warmth of another body, I am here to receive you. Forever and always.”
Pulled from your reminiscing, you turn sharply on your heel and raise the flame to light the end of the hall.
“How strange. I was certain…” You peer over the bannister at the foyer below. “Riddle, have you come home?”
Silence is your only reply.
“Foolish,” you chide, contenting yourself with the facts. “He rests peacefully in his grave.”
Burrowing into your woolen shawl, you depart for your bedroom.
In an empty house, swathed in the quilted duvet, you drift off into dreamless slumber.
It’s not the clock or the cold that jerks you from sleep. Rather, it’s the screeching noise that grates on your ears. You blink through the dark, only to cringe moments later when someone drags their nails over glass. You almost allow yourself to fall back into the sheets when you realize there shouldn’t be any human disturbances here, for you’re the only one in this house.
A mouse, perhaps?
But even you know that’s impossible, no matter how much you want to believe such faulty logic.
Throwing the covers off, you search blindly for the candlestick at your bedside. You fumble with the match, shivering like a frightened fawn, but eventually flame brightens the space. Now equipped with light, you peek outside your room, searching either end of the hall just in case. No one’s there, but the scratching continues. Incessantly, almost maddeningly, as if whoever’s doing it is trying to escape.
Nails on…glass. On glass.
Glass.
It’s coming from Riddle’s room.
The mirror!
You shuffle towards the door, only to stop short just as your foot steps in something sticky.
You lift your leg and shine the light on it. A black substance that appears to be some sort of molten tar or ink drips from your sole. With a gasp, you drag your foot upon the floor in hopes of getting rid of it.
“Ugh! How filthy!”
Resolving to wash it later, you stomp over to the door, yank it open, and poke your head inside. A rush of cold air barrages your face, whistling through the crack and out into the corridor. You stumble away in a daze. The scratching persists, angrily now, in a desperate sort of fashion.
“Riddle?” you call out, your voice subdued and shot through with fear. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’d like to warm myself with you, if you’ll allow it.”
Just like that, the house stills. Shakily, you hold the candle out to light a portion of his room.
“I never should have left you. It must have been terribly lonely here. Lonely and cold… I’ve betrayed you in life, but in death I will be here to look after you. Forever and always. So… So please rest peacefully.”
The tip-tapping of a sharpened nail against the glass almost startles you out of your skin. You realize then that the shroud has fallen away from the mirror.
If I must look upon it… Oh, but I’d rather not… Oh, but I must!
Steeling yourself, you burst into the room and brandish the candlestick. Thankfully, there are no monsters or humans to scare you. No ghosts to be banished. No intruders to chase off. Instead, you see yourself in the mirror.
Or…an approximation of you. Not quite a doppelgänger in appearance. This version of you is wearing soaked rags, tattered and tired, but she has your eyes. They’re unmistakable as they stare back at you.
You set the candlestick on the bedside table and inch closer to the mirror.
“Peculiar,” you whisper, reaching for the glass just as your reflection does. “Surely this isn’t me. I look ghastly!”
Your fingers brush the surface and, in a stroke of shock, just as the grandfather clock below chimes the hour, your hand goes through. Before you can think to pull away, something on the other side tugs at your wrist, frigid fingers coiling tightly. With a shriek, you resist and claw wildly at the air, stretching to grab hold of the bed. You manage to grasp the edge of the blanket, which is pulled free from its neat placement, just as you’re dragged through the mirror.
All that’s left of you is the locket pin, having fallen to the floor in a clatter during the scuffle.
You open your eyes on a room colored black and white. It looks like yours, but something is different. It doesn’t feel like yours. It doesn’t even appear lived in. Almost as if it’s been sealed like a crypt, kept in pristine condition as it awaits an owner who will never return.
Where am I? you wonder, closing your hands around your shawl. It provides you with a modicum of comfort.
A book is lying on the vanity desk, the only thing that looks just slightly out of place in an otherwise tidy room. Curiously, you pick it up and open it to read the cover: Property of Riddle Rosehearts.
“Oh?”
You turn to a random page and skim through the words: I’ve waited ceaselessly for her return, so much so I’m beginning to lose count of the days. I’ve no inkling as to what’s real and what’s false. I see her in the stars, in the mirror, in my dreams… She is lost, I’m certain of this. No one will listen to me. They’ve condemned me to my solitude in this house, but soon I’ll swap places with him and then I’ll have her. It is only a matter of time. She will be mine.
This…cannot be my husband’s diary. Or was it? This is undoubtedly his penmanship.
Surely your husband wasn’t seeing another woman. He has always been honest and sincere. He has never raised his hand to you, nor has he ever threatened you. He is gentle, albeit rough and awkward around the edges, but he means well. Furthermore, you’ve never known him to keep diaries.
If he was embroiled in an adulterous affair, perhaps it was for the best. I could not hope to give him a child. I couldn’t bring him happiness or comfort. I am a failure of a wife, you think, running your thumb over the page.
You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.
Drying your eyes, you set the diary down and resolve to keep your strength for the exploration to come. Crying will not help you here. Not right now.
Never falter.
You push the door open and step out into the hall. The photographs are turned upright; mirrors are uncovered. The staircase is on the opposite end of the hall instead of directly around the corner like yours is back home. Even with the differences, the house reminds you of Riddle’s manor.
Strange… Everything is so similar and yet it’s not.
You creep down the stairs, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging high in the foyer. In fact, now that you’re descending, you’re beginning to notice just how many reflective surfaces surround you. Looking glasses of all shapes and sizes. Crystal decorations that reflect in dozens… It’s overwhelming. At every angle, your face peers back at you.
When you peel the curtain away to glance outside, you find an unsettling white space stretching on endlessly.
Where have I found myself?
You trot down the hall, searching the portraits for any indication of the master of the house. Instead, all you see is yourself. The other faces have been blotted out in dark ink.
This is not my home, you realize with a shiver.
The further you venture, the clearer it becomes that someone lives here. Despite the manic decor, there is not a speck of dust or a hint of disrepair. Someone is here, and they’re looking after this property.
You round the corner, acquainting yourself with a semi-familiar layout, and that’s when you find him. Your husband.
He’s hanging up another portrait with meticulous precision. This is a painting of you. It reminds you of the one your Riddle had commissioned. Only this one depicts you in the same decrepit fashion you saw before you were coaxed through the mirror.
This can’t be… Do my eyes deceive me? Is this truly—
“Riddle?”
His hands fall away from the frame, and he turns to look at you. Ruby-red eyes widen in recognition and then delight. He swoops in like a falcon, covering the distance in quick strides to gather you in his arms.
“My beloved! Oh, what wonderful fortune!” he cries, embracing you tightly. “You’ve come back to me! At long last, you’re here… You’re really here in flesh and blood! Oh, my love, sweetest rose, welcome back.”
If you were to ever meet your husband again, you were certain he’d have an earful for you, a long lecture of societal and personal expectations husband and wife are meant to adhere to. But this Riddle is…happy. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed at all.
Rather woodenly, you wrap your arms around him. “You’re…not cross?”
“Whyever would you think that?” He pulls away from you and runs his hands up your arms, as if to assess the authenticity of your appearance.
You stare at his face. He looks like Riddle. But… Well.
He doesn’t feel like Riddle. Your Riddle—the grey-eyed Riddle—was awkward in his affections. He would never hug you so openly. He would never touch you without your approval first. He was considerate and well-mannered. Furthermore, he never called you by any endearing terms. You were always Lady (Name) to him.
Your hands close around his face to hold him still. “Your eyes—”
He blinks and suddenly the red was never there. “My eyes?”
Am I dreaming?
“Are you certain this is real?”
He smiles. “You must still be clinging to the vestiges of sleep. I assure you this is all very real.”
“So you’re truly Riddle? My Riddle?”
“Your Riddle. Always and forever.”
Tears well up in your eyes. You sink to your knees. “Oh, Riddle… Riddle, I’m so sorry. If I had just come back sooner… If I hadn’t been so scared—I couldn’t face you! I didn’t want to. I…didn’t wish to see you suffering so. It hurts…”
“My dear…” He lowers to your height and brushes your tears away with his thumb. His eyes soften with an intense fondness. “How fervently I’ve missed your voice. How desperately I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”
“I can’t fathom it—how can it be?” you mutter, hesitant to touch him again lest he be turned to dust before your eyes. “You… You’re alive?”
“I’ve always been alive.”
“But you—your condition! You’ve been ill. It…” You inhale a sharp breath. “Your ailment worsened when you married me.”
“Do you blame yourself?” Before you can answer that, he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head. “Don’t. The fault does not lie with you. It never has.”
And then he fits his lips on yours in a kiss so sweet and soulful it momentarily rekindles your hope in romance. Shocked, you stumble back on the floor, but he just surges forward to continue kissing you. It’s passionate and hungry; he nibbles at your lip and licks into your mouth, leaving you panting and scrabbling for purchase. You cling to his suit—the same suit he was buried in.
He breaks away for breath, and you inhale mouthfuls of it. “Wait—”
Another kiss, this one longer than its predecessor. Your fingers curl into his shoulder. He pulls back.
“Riddle—”
He tugs your shawl from your shoulders in lustful impatience. You yelp when you feel his hands on your thighs, slyly sliding beneath your dark nightgown.
“Riddle!” You gasp, scandalized, and push him away. Breathing heavily, you yank the strap of your gown over your shoulder. “Just what’s gotten into you?!”
“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, gathering your hands in his. “I’ve waited for your return for so long—too long! And now you’re finally here… You’ve finally come back to me.”
My Riddle was never this forward.
“You must know I cannot give you what it is you want. I’m dead inside, a tragedy your mother is all too keen to remind me of.”
A frown tugs at his lips. “Unfortunate as that may be, it does not offend me in the slightest and it shouldn’t. I love you, with or without child.” He lifts your hand and places a gentle kiss upon the top of it.
You stare at him, horrified.
“S-Say that again, if you would…”
“I love you?” He raises his brow at you, confused. “With or without child, I love you. Always and forever.”
You drag your hand back, clutching it as if it’s injured. “I think…I might go for a stroll.”
He blinks back at you, one eye at a time. “Oh! Allow me to accompany you. It’s howling a gale out there. You would do well to change into attire fitting for the weather.”
“Of course. I’d love nothing more than to walk through the rose gardens with you. I do hope they haven’t started wilting.”
Riddle helps you up from the ground, drapes your shawl over your shoulders, and sends you on your way. You offer him a smile and turn to walk stiffly down the hall. The minute you’re out of sight, you sprint for the stairs, taking two at a time, and throw open the door to your room.
Your reflection meets you at the mirror. Without wasting another moment, you reach for her. Someone catches your wrist on the other side and tugs you through.
You’re spat out in Riddle’s bedroom in a heap of tangled limbs, your heart in your throat. The mirror shimmers with the real you. When you press your finger to the glass it doesn’t go through, but your finger touches its reflection.
“That was…strange,” you whisper, drawing away. You find the locket pin lying inches from your foot and you scramble for it, hastily prying it open to check its contents. The photo and lock of red hair remain untouched. “It was just a dream. A wild, whimsical terror.”
You rise to your feet and, after fixing the disturbed sheets, bid a final farewell to the room.
“Rest peacefully,” you say, shutting the door behind you.
That was not my Riddle. My Riddle has never said he loves me before.
Following that night, you busy yourself with the curiosities of Riddle’s estate. In the three years you’ve lived here, you were unaware the house had so many secret spaces. Hidden doors that open into narrow passages and stairs. You’ve never had any servants, so you’re not sure why Riddle would need any of this. The house has been in the Rosehearts family for decades. As the legend goes, it was burned beyond repair and rebuilt with a better layout. A safer layout, Riddle would tell you when you questioned the tale.
“Safer for what?” you mutter, peeling wallpaper back to reveal the door to a thin crawl space. There’s never anything sealed within these rooms, but their existence is proof enough. If not for servants, these passages were meant to house secrets. “Did he know about this? He must have.”
Would Mrs. Rosehearts know? Oh, but I dread the thought of wasting ink on that insufferable woman.
You lower to your knees and peer inside the crawl space. “Hello? Is anyone home?” And then you laugh to yourself. “Are you hiding in there, Riddle?”
You receive no reply.
A Riddle with red eyes… I must have been so feverish that night, to dream a vision so crooked.
You stretch your arm inside and feel around for any hidden treasure. You expect to come away with cobwebs and spiders, not a leather-bound book.
“Huh… Perhaps I’ve been away from the manor much too long,” you mutter, sitting with your back to the wall. You open the book, wondering what its contents could be that would merit this treatment.
Books ought to be treated in the same manner we treat each other—with respect. They are filled with boundless knowledge, and they provide insight into fascinating wonders we may yet comprehend, Riddle used to say.
“‘To destroy them would be to destroy the wisdom they offer,’” you say, finishing the rest of his quote. A smile pulls your lips up. “He loved books. Riddle would never seal any away.”
You peel it open to the first page, where you find four unsettling words.
Property of Riddle Rosehearts.
It’s a diary. Riddle’s diary.
Suddenly, the house is colder and unwelcoming, as if the very foundation disapproves of what you’ve just unearthed from its bowels. You’ve never known Riddle to keep a diary. And yet…
Tentatively, you flip through the pages. It’s a log of his condition, you realize. He details his symptoms daily, every event outlined in neat, waltzing script. You weren’t aware of just how morbid his condition was. At some point, though, he begins to catalogue other happenings.
I’ve coughed up quite a monstrous thing, he writes. I cannot fathom what it is, but it has the consistency of ink, almost. It is thick and foul in my mouth. It stains my sheets and colors my teeth. Next time it happens, I shall gather enough to test whether it truly is ink.
Then another page: I cannot employ servants because I fear he will tip poison into their ears. Thus, I’ve deigned to do everything myself. I’ve mustered enough strength and willpower to stand and cover most of the mirrors. So long as Lady (Name) stays away…
And another page: He is looking at me again, knocking at the mirror. Even as I write this, I must remain vigilant. You must wonder why I don’t shatter the mirror and put an end to this madness. Rather than sever the connection, I fear it would only provide an opening into our world. I hear him every night just as the clock tolls out the Witching Hours. He speaks of a malice most concerning. It is tiring and I think fondly of submitting, but I must protect Lady (Name).
And the final page, penned just days before his death: I fear the worst is happening. I cannot continue to research the face in the mirror. It has rendered me too frail. He has been studying me in the meantime, following me through the glass. He is a perfect reflection now, an expert copy. I’ve no inkling what this implies, but I suspect it cannot be anything pleasant. I’m going to seal my findings away with what little strength I have left so that it never falls into his hands. There must be some way to stop it… this infernal ringing in my ears… the blood filling my eyes…
A dried splatter stains the page, obscuring whatever was left of his words. You leaf through a few pages, searching for a proper explanation.
The face in the mirror? A perfect reflection? What is all of this? Just what was Riddle doing while I was gone?
You find it then, a list of what he believes to be fact, all outlined in an organized fashion.
Evidence of Fact
It is confined within reflective surfaces. It cannot step out into the mortal realm (or so I’ve yet to witness), but it can follow through mirrors so long as you look into it. Though the original must remain intact.
It is most active during the hours of midnight through three o’clock in the morning. To be referred to from here on out as the Witching Hours.
It has my voice and my face, but it is not me. You must remind yourself of this when you feel yourself losing control: He is not me, nor is he the shadow I cast.
It sees with red eyes and reaches with nightmarish claws. (A devil, perhaps?)
The substance I have been vomiting ceaselessly is indeed ink, but the reflection in the mirror refers to it as ‘blot.’ It is black and viscous. It reeks of rot.
It is undoubtedly after Lady (Name).
It calls itself Riddle.
You don’t really know your husband. You’ve never known him, in fact.
He was shouldering such a heavy burden all this time… All for my sake.
You hold the diary close to your chest.
If what he writes is true, then what I experienced that night… It wasn’t a dream but, rather, a supernatural occurrence. The reflection in the mirror calling itself Riddle—that must have been the Riddle I met. The one with red eyes. For a moment, I almost thought it was my Riddle. You run your finger over the cover of the diary. If that thing is the reason my Riddle is dead…
You don’t dare think any further.
Riddle noted that Reflection Riddle is most active during the Witching Hours. If you follow that logic then the mirror should open up between midnight and three every night, allowing you to cross into a world that reflects your own. You wonder if it’s the same for the other side. If it was, wouldn’t that mean Reflection Riddle could step out at any point and enter your world? You certainly hope he can’t.
Moros’s Looking Glass, reads the bookmarked tome in Riddle’s study, a (thankfully) mirrorless space that grants you total privacy, is said to be a powerful mirror that connects the mortal realm with that of the spirit realm. It is said that mortals who look upon Moros’s Glass are bound for death and should tread carefully when they hear three consecutive knocks from within their home.
Not if but when. A certainty.
You turn to the chapter on Moros. “‘Gave people the ability to foresee their death…’” you read, frowning deeper as the text goes on. “‘Moros is a word meaning doom or fate. It is said that once you take Moros’s hand you can never turn back, for your death is already weaved into fate.’ No escape… Could that Reflection Riddle be Moros? That might give reason to why my reflection looked so twisted.”
You slump in the chair and sigh. “I’m sorry, Riddle… I never should have left you. I should have stayed. Perhaps then we could have worked together to understand this.”
Gritting your teeth, you wipe furiously at your eyes.
All this time, he was suffering and I ran away. All this time, he was thinking of me and my well-being, and I ran away.
Before you can openly bawl in his study, you remember the notes in Riddle’s diary.
It wants me. To what extent, I’m unsure. But if it truly does love me as it claimed… Surely it wouldn’t hurt me.
You don’t want to return to that strange world with its strange Riddle, but you need answers. If it killed your Riddle… You shut the book and place it back on the shelf.
You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.
Stringing the locket pin on an empty chain, you fasten it around your neck. That way, Riddle will always be close to your heart—a reminder that you are not alone. You rifle through your closet for appropriate attire, casting corsets and crinolines aside in favor of clothing that grants more freedom.
But I mustn’t look suspicious, you think, debating whether you should wear a chemise or a longer gown. You pull a pair of loose-fitting trousers from a drawer next. Perhaps… Oh, this will seem so indecent! If Riddle were here, he’d advise against it. But these will allow for movement should I need to flee fast.
Seeing no other option, you choose the bloomers and a simple blouse, both in the classic color for mourning.
Ideally, I would prefer to never go back again, but I suspect I’ll be visiting more than once. Tonight, I’ll attempt to search for a weakness. There must be something I can exploit. A tension or a spot of blindness, perhaps? There’s that white space surrounding the manor. Perhaps I ought to try stepping outside?
You change in your room in front of a covered mirror and read through Riddle’s diary to refresh yourself on the foe you’ll be facing.
When the grandfather clock’s midnight toll reaches upstairs, you hide the diary under your pillow and cross the hall into Riddle’s room.
I refuse to call that thing my husband, you think hatefully. You are not Riddle. You will never be Riddle.
You kneel before the floor-length mirror and press your palm to the surface. A cold hand pulls you through.
I must remember not to overstay my welcome. You lift your trousers to peer at the pocket watch tied around your thigh. It is fifteen minutes past twelve. The window closes at three.
Throwing the closet doors open, which is packed full of well-tailored dresses and skirts, you grab a long woolen coat and fit your arms through the sleeves. You slide your feet into a pair of low-top heels. When you admire yourself in the mirror, you spy your waterlogged reflection looking back. She vanishes in a blink.
Descending the stairs, you call out for Riddle. “I apologize for the delay. I’m ready if you are.”
He pokes his head out from around the corner, a delicate smile gracing his pale features. Meeting you at the very bottom, he offers his arm.
“I’ve waited years for your return.” He laughs. “I can wait a few measly minutes.”
Minutes? Does time work differently here? Every clock aside from the watch fastened to my thigh is stopped at Riddle’s time of death. Perhaps this world’s sense of time is warped because of that. Or maybe Moros truly has no concept of time…
“Patience is a most admirable virtue, or so they say.”
“They speak the truth.” He leads you to the door. “You’ve come at a wondrous time. The roses are still in bloom. Though, regrettably, most of them have already closed up.”
“What little is left, I will be sure to cherish.” You pat his arm and smile. “Thank you for always taking such diligence to care for them.”
If there exists a reflection of Riddle, why haven’t I seen my reflection? Surely she isn’t just confined to the mirror…
The door opens and you brace yourself for the blinding white space. Instead, you’re greeted to the sight of a flourishing front yard. It looks nothing like your own, which leads you to wonder if Moros can only replicate the scenery within the house due to the limited field of sight provided by the mirrors. The rest of this—the gardens, the stone pathway, the hedges—it’s his imagination filling in the blanks.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” You tug him ahead, your hand easily sliding into his. “They’re quite red!”
“Aren’t they just?”
“Positively beaming with color,” you exaggerate even though you can’t see a speck of red. Everything here is black and white. The only red you’ve seen so far is the red in his eyes.
You gaze at the iron gates at the end of the property. “Riddle, dear, have we always had those gates?”
“We have.” His hand slides over yours. “To keep beauty in and filth out.”
“Filth?” You look at him incredulously. “What sort of filth?”
“Those who think it wise to flout the rules. I will not tolerate such flagrant displays of disobedience.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you understand, my rose. There is no greater peace than that which is attained through order.”
“And what of exiting?”
“You’ve only just come back to me and now you speak of leaving?”
“I wouldn’t go alone. Do you not want to go into town? I quite like the circus.”
“You have everything you need here.” He kisses the top of your hand. “With me.”
So the boundary is the gate. Very well.
“I suppose that’s true. There is no greater bliss than seeing you again after so much time apart. Why would I ever want to leave?”
“Indeed. You shall never leave,” he murmurs, smiling.
Riddle takes you on a tour through monochrome gardens, pointing out all manner of delightful flora. You voice your acknowledgement when it’s necessary, but your mind is elsewhere.
I should find his diary again. I don’t believe I saw it on the desk when I came through the mirror.
You peer at Riddle’s face. He is not a fool. My Riddle was so bright. If Moros can replicate his physical form so seamlessly, then surely he knows of his intelligence.
“Riddle.”
“Yes, my rose?”
“I love you, too.”
His eyes widen. The admission must have genuinely shocked him, for his grey irises explode with red. But then he blinks it away and they’re back to grey. In these quiet gardens, he pulls you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.
“And I love you. Most ardently.”
You smile and then you giggle. “Why did I leave you in the first place? It’s patently absurd.”
“A question I asked myself in cycles.” He drags his knuckle along your cheek. “Can the sea truly cure the morbs? Wouldn’t it have been better here? What can the sea offer that I don’t already have?” He clenches his jaw. “Why would you leave? Why?”
“Riddle… R-Riddle, you’re hurting me!”
He comes to his senses then and gazes at his hand closed tightly around yours. “Ah… Forgive me.” He loosens his hold and tries a relaxed smile. “Your arrival is most important. Anything that came before that is wholly insignificant.”
“Of course it is…”
He must know of my trip from Riddle. Perhaps it was mentioned in passing. I’m certain Moros doesn’t have Riddle’s memories. Despite being reflections, they are still separate entities. Or so I hope.
You return inside on account of being famished. Riddle insists on preparing dinner, claiming he’s practiced tirelessly in your absence and has been awaiting a chance to boast his skills. You allow him to do that and, while he works in the kitchen, you slink upstairs to check the time. It’s half-past two.
Just before you exit through the mirror, you poke around the room in search of the diary. It isn’t there.
Perhaps it’s in Riddle’s room?
You refer to the watch once more.
I have time. Just five minutes and then I shall be on my way.
You creep over towards Riddle’s room and, slowly, so slowly, reach for the door. Riddle’s voice permeates the air just then, calling up to you from the bottom of the staircase.
“(Name)? Dinner is almost ready!”
You press yourself against the wall just in case he can somehow see you. “Yes, thank you! Just one moment.”
Stuffing the coat and shoes inside the closet, you spare one final glance at the door before stepping through the warped surface of the mirror.
You emerge just a few minutes before three.
Much too close for my liking. You shut the pocket watch and run your hands through your hair. But that was enlightening. While not clear in its entirety, I understand the world I’m grappling with just a scintilla better.
In the coming weeks, you travel between worlds to gather as much information as possible. Riddle receives you with immense adoration every time, seemingly none the wiser to your periodic disappearances. The last time you went snooping around the second story, you realized the rooms were mostly empty and Riddle’s bedroom was locked.
You write your findings down in the empty pages in your husband’s diary: If the door is locked, he must know that whatever’s inside is of great importance. Therefore, he’s done well to keep it safe. Additionally, he appears to learn from my actions. When he’s startled, his eyes can’t remain grey. Now it’s as if he’s anticipated the shock and has taught himself to keep the façade. It is a most peculiar act. No weaknesses to detail as of yet.
You return to Riddle’s entries once more. Surely I’m missing something. There must be a weakness.
Briefly, you consider shattering the mirror. Riddle didn’t test his hypothesis regarding this method. Perhaps nothing will come of it and you’ll be rid of this menacing reflection. But then you’ll never know why your reflection looks the way it does. You’ll never know what killed your husband. You’ll never know who Reflection Riddle really is—though you certainly have your suspicions.
I must return.
When the clock announces the arrival of midnight, you step through the mirror. Only this time, when you step out of your room, Riddle is there and he doesn’t look pleased.
“Oh! Riddle—”
“What were you doing?”
“I…” You shut your mouth and fish through your brain in an attempt to recall what you said you’d be doing last time you were here. “I was changing.”
He scrutinizes you with narrowed eyes. “Into your night clothes? Did you not wish to take a stroll?”
“Oh, you must forgive me. I have been so weary… If it pleases you, perhaps we can have our stroll tomorrow?” You glance past him at his bedroom door and then reach for his hands. “Shall we sleep together?”
Riddle watches your face a moment longer. The tension in his figure relaxes, and he eventually smiles. “Nothing would make me happier.”
He guides you to your bed, but you stop him. “Your room. I’m most comfortable in your bed.”
“Is that so?”
“Verily.”
For a moment you think he’ll find some way to slither out of this, but then he’s pulling you through the door towards his room. His hand ghosts over the knob and it unlocks just like that. “I must warn you. It’s not in the…cleanest condition. I admit it was a reflection of my mind in the wake of your absence.”
“I’m certain it isn’t so terrible,” you assure, rubbing his arm consolingly. “Although… Riddle, if I may, what happened to me?”
“To you? Why, you left.”
“Yes, that is an irrefutable fact. But… It couldn’t have been the morbs.”
Riddle smiles thinly. His eyes fog over with an unrecognizable emotion. “I thought I lost you,” he explains, his hand on the knob. “I was certain you would never return.”
“But I’m here now. Whyever would you think that?”
“You died,” he says, his voice cracking. “A-At sea. You threw yourself into the sea.”
I…did that? Truly? But then it makes sense. The water dripping from your reflection. Her tattered dress. The strands of seaweed. But why? Why would I do such a thing?
“That’s why I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you. When you came back to me, perfectly whole and in one piece, warm and alive… I was so relieved. I’ll never let you go again.”
He opens the door and it becomes clear to you when you see a roomful of portraits and letters scattered everywhere. Your letters. Your pictures. Even your belongings. These aren’t mirror reflections. These are genuine artifacts from your world. The breath sticks in your throat. All of the letters you sent Riddle while you were away, never to receive a single reply, they’re all here, tucked away in their respective envelopes. And you know they’re yours because your signature dots each and every one, each stamp pasted on by your careful hands.
Lying on the bedside table is Riddle’s diary, where the passage you first read must be penned. The one in which he notes how long he’s waited. How very soon he’ll swap places with your husband and have you all to himself. How they’ve condemned him to this prison. They. Who is they?
You understand it now. The sticky substance you stepped on the first night. The reflection of the other you. The Riddle who you thought couldn’t stand you and was having his silent rebellion disregarding all of your letters. It was the thieving reflection who crept into your world!
Your other self died so that you could take her place. And you know this is true because she is you, and in the midst of your melancholy back in your world you considered surrendering yourself to the sea.
“Riddle…”
“Sleep! Do pardon the dreadful state of this room.” He smiles and tugs you down onto the bed to tuck you in. “It’s late. You’ll never function properly if you neglect the moon’s call for bedtime.”
“Riddle!” You seize his wrist when he climbs into bed beside you. He blinks at you, one eye at a time. “Who…are you, exactly? You’re not my Riddle.”
He tilts his head at you. “But of course I am.”
“No… No, you’re not. My Riddle is—” you inhale shakily— “dead.”
His eyes rove over your features, flicking down to watch your hand curled around his wrist. He chuckles. “You must be so tired, my rose. Sleep. Come morning, all of this will have been a daydream lived in a daze.”
He pats the pillow and you lower yourself slowly. He follows your lead, wrapping the both of you in the fluffy blanket.
“I have always been your Riddle. Always and forever.”
“Right… Yes. Yes, of course. How…” You swallow thickly. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping he’ll inevitably fall asleep. The pocket watch tied around your thigh continues to count out the minutes. You’ve no idea how much time has passed, but the longer you spend here the slimmer your window of escape gets. And Riddle just won’t fall asleep! His eyes remain open, observing you as you shift in and out of faux sleep. Eventually, you turn your back on him.
I cannot fall asleep here. I’ll be trapped.
“(Name)…”
Why won’t he sleep? Surely he’s tired… Do reflections feel exhaustion? They must!
“(Name)…”
You force yourself to remain calm, contenting yourself with the fact that he has to fall asleep soon.
But then there’s a hand on your arm, climbing up your shoulder like a spider on a web. His fingers drum along your sleeve.
“You’re not truly sleeping, are you?”
His voice is right in your ear, and you can hear the twisted smile in it.
You roll over onto your back. Riddle blinks down at you, still smiling that sticky, self-satisfied smile.
“You were anticipating my slumber, were you not?”
“In the hope that we might rest together, yes. Are you not tired?”
“How could I rest when I know you’re just going to slip away again?” He yanks the covers off and moves to grab the hem of your nightgown. In a panic, not wanting the watch to be revealed, you push him away, falling off the bed in the process. Landing with a thud, you pick yourself up and glimpse the time. Just ten minutes until three. You gasp and stumble towards the door.
“Stop!” he shouts, reaching for you. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”
You yelp as something slimy coils around your ankle. You fall flat on your stomach, pulled back into the room without mercy. You thrash, kicking out blindly in hopes of untangling whatever’s found itself attached to your leg.
“Unhand me!” You grab at the door frame and pull yourself forward, grunting with the effort. “Don’t touch me!”
“You don’t get to leave! Not when I finally have you!”
You turn to look at him and bite back a terrified scream at the sight of him. He’s monstrous! The odious stench of death hangs heavy in the air. There’s that black substance again, oozing from his pores like an overfilled, soggy rag. He’s dressed differently, too, in clothes that bring forth images of decapitated royalty. The inky crown on his head and the spade-tipped Medici collar only cement this imagery. His hands are splayed with razor-thin claws, and suddenly you’re brought back to the night of that ominous tap-tapping against the glass.
The tendril coiled around your leg, you now realize, is an ebony, thorny stem.
“W-What are you?”
He grits his teeth. “Your husband.”
You reach for the stem and, pulling it taut, bite down roughly. Blot spatters your maw and it tastes rancid, but you chew through in spite of the taste. Riddle hisses at you. You manage to sever it just in time. Another vine shoots out after you and you slam the door shut before it can ensnare you.
“(Name)!” he roars from behind the door, his voice deeper and angrier. “You step through that mirror and I’ll tear you to shreds the next time you return! Do you hear me?! I’ll slaughter you!”
“I wish you luck in that endeavor because I won’t ever be back!”
The door is torn off its hinges then. When Riddle lunges for you, he narrowly misses your nightgown, instead grasping the chain around your neck. It snaps and the locket pin smashes to the floor.
“No!” You swoop down to grab it, but Riddle’s already swiped it for himself. Looking between that and the mirror, you scream a colorful word and dive for the mirror just as the clock below chimes out the hour.
You somersault into Riddle’s bedroom, your heart pounding wildly in your ribs, and feel along your body for the pendant. It isn’t there.
“No… No, no, no! Blast! I can’t… I need that locket!”
You whirl towards the mirror and this time it isn’t your reflection peering back. It’s that monstrous fiend!
He holds the chain up for you to see, grinning all the while. The locket twirls idly on the broken link. It’s an obvious taunt: If you want it, come and get it.
Your fingers curl around an iron candlestick, but you stop yourself just before you can bring it down against the glass.
I can’t break it. I need to get in, and he wants to get out. We both want something we can’t have.
You scowl at the mirror just as Riddle vanishes, and then your reflection—your real reflection, broken and despairing—is staring back. Falling to your knees, you hold your head in your hands and sob.
The next few days trickle by like the seemingly never-ending rainfall outside. You pen countless letters to friends, Mrs. Rosehearts, even Riddle himself, but they’re all ripped to shreds before you can sign them. You visit his grave, dressed in all black, crying behind your veil.
“What am I to do, Riddle?” you whisper, clutching your parasol to shield yourself from the winter sun. “It’s an impossible foe. There is no weakness to be found…”
Your choke on your sniffle. No weakness but me. He would do anything for me, would he not? And if he can’t have me… At once, you shake your head. No. I’m not going to resort to such drastic, harmful measures. In the face of adversity, I shall stand tall and proud. I will never falter. I will never waver. That monster killed my husband. I refuse to be cowed into submission by such malevolence!
You bend down and place your gloved hand over the soil. “I never did thank you, Riddle.” A small smile pulls at your tired, sleep-deprived face. “Thank you for all that you have done. You may rest in ataraxy, for I shall put an end to the beast who tormented you in such unspeakable, barbarous ways.”
Smoothing down your skirts, you depart for the Rosehearts Manor.
After eating as much as you can stomach, you spend the rest of the day catching up on lost sleep. With your body and mind now refreshed, you approach the problem from a new angle. A physical altercation is impossible, and you’re certain it will be impossible to truly kill him. If you can’t fight, then you shall talk instead. Riddle was a logical man. Though that monster will never be your Riddle, surely he holds some shred of logic.
And in the event that he can’t be reasoned with…
You touch the pointed tip of a knife and frown. Can I bring myself to wound the creature who wears my husband’s face?
Even though you’re doubtful, you stow it in your satchel with the rest of your tools and trinkets.
This ends tonight, once and for all, even if it kills me.
You sit in front of the mirror and await the tell-tale chime of midnight.
When the mirror’s surface warps and twists, you harden your nerves into that of unbreakable steel.
In the face of adversity…
“Blast it! I’ll kill him,” you snarl and step through the mirror.
It is eerily quiet when you exit on the other side. The house is in shambles, as if a nasty storm has come through and torn up everything in its path. The wallpaper is peeling in thin curls, the portraits are hanging crooked, the mirrors are shattered, and blot paints everything in black. It drips from the ceiling like saliva from a mutt’s mouth.
Swallowing your disgust, you tiptoe out into the hall. Riddle isn’t in his room. In fact, there isn’t much of a room to admire. The door has been thrown against the wall, and everything is tattered. It occurs to you that this Riddle’s love is wrong. It is not love. It is an obsession driven by the greedy desire to possess. You gather what letters you can salvage and stuff them in your satchel, even the ones from Riddle you never received.
What iniquitous meddling. To intercept our communication in such a way… You are nothing more than a parasite that must be snipped away.
Your journey takes you down the stairs. You’re careful to avoid the blot sticking to the steps as you descend, gracefully maneuvering around it. The deeper into the house you venture, the thicker the air becomes. You pinch your nose and squint through the dark haze, pushing aside low-hanging branches and vines. Inky roses sprout from the walls, twisting towards you as you approach. You duck to avoid them.
Moros is waiting for you at the dinner table. It’s set for two. Flowers twine around his seat. It looks more like a grand throne. Yours is much the same.
A Queen needs a King, even when both are destined to fall.
“Riddle.”
“If you would, have a seat. I believe we have an exchange to make.” Your locket drops down in front of your face, dangling from a stem. You reach for it and it shoots back up towards the ceiling. “No, no. That’s not how reasonable conversations are had, (Name). If you think yourself wise, sit down and listen.”
You scowl at him. “What do you want?”
“You’re an intelligent lady. My counterpart fancied that side of you most ardently. He wrote about you often, spoke of your marvelous brain.” He rests his elbows on the table and props his chin on his folded hands. “So you must already know what it is I seek.”
“You… You murdered my husband.”
He slams his hand on the table. The plates clatter from the force. “I didn’t kill him! He withered away of his own accord!”
“What did you do?”
“Sit down.”
“What did you do?”
“Sit. Down.”
“What in blazes did you do to him?!”
“I said, sit down!” Vines shoot out from the darkness. You’re tugged into your seat and held still, posture perfect. A smile twists itself onto his ink-stained lips. “Was that so difficult?”
He waves his hand and more vines come down from the ceiling to grasp the cutlery. You watch as they cut a portion of whatever shapeless filth is on your plate. Refusing to comply, you keep your mouth shut.
“Not hungry? A shame. It’s strawberry. You enjoy strawberries, do you not? Ah, and I suppose that husband of yours fancied them something fierce.”
“Please…” You look at him helplessly, tears shimmering in your glossy gaze. “What did you do to my Riddle? Why did you hurt him?”
“Two cannot exist within the same space. I was never going to be allowed to stay in your world with him around. He was already bound for the grave.” He chuckles to himself. “Rather, it was quite fortuitous that you left for the sea. If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to work so efficiently.”
“So you—you’re the reason he—”
“My (Name) left me stranded here in this hell, but you… You’re perfect. Your love is pure and soft. You are the one.”
“So what are you, truly? You’re not Riddle.”
A flower unfurls before you, its petals drying your tears. He hums.
“You’re mistaken, my rose. Who else am I if not the Riddle you cherish so dearly?”
“You’re Moros, are you not?”
He tilts his head, and you can hear the audible crack of his neck.
“Moros, an entity of doom—of death. Riddle saw you in the mirror when—”
“Not me,” he corrects. “He saw himself—what was to become of him, at least. He also saw you, here with me. This is the very outcome he was hoping to prevent.” Moros barks out a cruel laugh. “And look where it got him! A wooden bed beneath the soil. Oh, but I do understand, though. You’re worth fighting for. Dying for, even. He loved you sincerely, but I shall love you perfectly.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Nooo.” He waggles a vine at you. “I’m your husband. There’s a difference. One is imperfect, a failure. The other… The other is better, an improvement.”
“Oh, forgive me. A parasite.”
“No,” he says, stressing the word. “Try again.”
“A fiend.”
“(Name), my patience is thin as a hair.”
“I will never call you my husband, Moros.”
The vines tighten their grasp just as his face reddens with frustration. His vermillion eyes flash dangerously. You wheeze as the life is squeezed from your lungs.
At once, your flowery restraints retreat. He tries a smile next, but it’s tense. As if he could snap at any moment.
“There you are. (Name), my rose, I must say, it is dreadful manners to call your husband by another man’s name. So dreadful, in fact, that it incites the cold-blooded rage in my very veins. If I wished, I could paint these walls in your red. If I wished, I could tear you apart, limb from precious limb, and string you up among my flowers. But I won’t because I love you, and it would cause me immeasurable grief to lose another (Name).”
“Enough prattling. I want my locket.”
“And I have told you before that is not how you negotiate, my dear. Proper etiquette at the table dictates that you must maintain respectable eye contact, and you must never slouch. Nor should you chew with your mouth open, and if you wish to speak you must not mumble or twiddle your thumbs. You must not whine like a petulant child either. If you wish to have your locket—and I cannot fathom why—you must outline your terms. I do realize you’ve been away from your husband far too long, so perhaps he never taught you any manners. Under my rule, that shall change. Under my rule, you will be perfect just as I am.”
You tamp down a foul-mouthed tirade. “Very well. In exchange for the locket, I will give you myself.”
“In what way?”
“In any way you please, but you must first answer my questions. Truthfully.”
He eyes you dubiously. “What might those be?”
“Can you leave through the mirror?”
“I can, but only when you’re asleep.”
“What’s stopping you from existing in my world now that Riddle is gone?”
Moros smiles and the locket falls onto the table, right in front of you. “Your mourning ornament. So long as a piece of him exists in those walls, I am trapped here. As you can imagine, it’s immensely vexing.”
“And who trapped you here?”
“Why, it’s been so long I’ve no recollection. Perhaps a clever witch or a simple mistake… I do so detest living within this dull looking glass.”
“So even if I’m to keep my locket, you wouldn’t be permitted to cross over.”
“Correct. But why do that when you’re already here? You can keep those measly strands of hair. I don’t want your world if you’re not in it. So long as you’re here with me, I can stomach these colorless, glass confines.”
“Then… You’ll give me the locket and I’ll stay here?”
“Indeed.”
“And you’ll release me? I won’t be imprisoned in this…grotesque garden of yours?”
“Will you flee? Ah, but I surmise you couldn’t manage that. Not after three.”
“One more question.”
He narrows his eyes at you.
“What happens if the mirror breaks?”
“No further questions.”
“Answer me! What happens if the mirror breaks, Moros?”
“That’s not my name!”
“Tell me, or else I’ll—” You stop yourself, lower your voice, and soften the anger in your face. “Riddle, dear, please… I don’t want to argue with you.”
He studies your expression for a moment. “Why do you wish to know?”
“Riddle assumed it would give you the means to free yourself.”
“Well, he’s partially correct. If I’m to truly free myself, there must be part of me in your world, much like the hair in that locket. So that, even when the mirror shatters, I can slip out from the remaining shards and cling to that part of my existence.” His red eyes flick to your stomach. “It is a shame you cannot conceive. Even if you escaped my grasp, I could simply follow you if you were—”
“Even if I could, I would never,” you interrupt, tone clipped. “Never. Not with you.”
“Then it is very clear where we shall live from now on. You must forgive the state of our home. I’ll be sure to tidy it soon enough. If we’re to live in perfect harmony, our home must reflect that, yes? You will learn to keep house so that it never falls into ruin.”
“Yes… Yes, I understand. So… So may I—the locket?”
The vines holding you hostage slither away to the shadows, and your locket drops into your outstretched hands. You breathe a relieved sigh and pry it open to check its contents. Both are still intact.
Oh, thank you. He’s okay. He’s safe!
“Now then…” Moros offers an inky hand. “Shall we?”
Tying the broken chain around your neck, you hesitate. Eventually, you place your hand in his. “We shall.”
He sweeps you into an elegant waltz. Thick, gnarled roots shift to allow the two of you passage. He lifts you into the air just before you nearly trip over one of them. If you allowed starry adoration to shroud your sight, perhaps you would have been content remaining in this world. But this wicked place is far from a comfort. Even if your world is devoid of Riddle, it is still infinitely better than this one.
Moros twirls you effortlessly, a smile widening on his lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man, my rose. I am forever honored to have you here with me. You’ll never know just how long I’ve waited, day after day, night after night… Now we can be together forever.”
You cradle his pale face, swiping the murky ink that leaks from his eyes like tears. “Forever and always.”
The musicless dance comes to an end. His hands rest at your waist, unwilling to truly part.
“Wasn’t that just grand?”
You nod along. “I apologize for my previous behavior. It was most unbecoming. Perhaps we might begin anew? Put this mess behind us, yes?”
“My rose…” Vines slither through the shadowy brush, coiling up your legs to root you in place. His grip tightens, and a manic glint darkens his gaze. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“You are no fool, Moros.” Your hand creeps into your satchel, fingers fishing for the handle of your knife. “But you were foolish to take the face of my Riddle, and for that you have brought misfortune upon yourself. It’s unforgivable!”
You yank him towards you via the belts laced around his torso. He’s caught by surprise when you crash your lips against his, whisked away in a rush of ardor. The vines slacken just so as he melts against you, pinned in place by the blade you thrust into his stomach.
And then you’re stumbling away, pitch-black blood stringing between your lips. You wipe the filth away with the back of your hand and turn from the dining room. With trembling hands, Riddle touches the handle wedged deep in his gut. There’s a flash of innocence on his face, a betrayal that carries a somber sort of pain. He looks pitiful for a second before that fearsome temper contorts his expression into something frightfully abominable. Weeds and roots thicken in retaliation, diving right for you.
“You deceitful, ill-mannered cheat!” he fumes, tearing the knife from his abdomen. Blot spatters the ground in a grisly splat. When he flings the knife across the room, blot-blood follows in an arc. “Do you not understand that this is where you belong? This is your home. I’m your husband and you’re my wife—mine! All mine!”
“I’ll never be yours!”
He grits his teeth. “You’ve scorned me for the last time! Get back here or I shall drag you through these halls—dead or alive, with or without your head attached to your shoulders!”
You shriek when he, accompanied by a following of frightful flora, lunges after you. His claws drag against your arm, almost breaking skin, but you manage to shake yourself free, just barely avoiding the vines that reach for you with thorny fingers. He slams into the wall and the whole house seems to shake from the force of it. You catch him clutching his stomach just as you jump over a rose bush sprouting from the cracked tiles.
“Stop! I implore you!” He reaches desperately, eyes wide and terrified. You almost hesitate, but then you remember this is the monster who killed your Riddle—who is trying to imprison you in this corrupt cage. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”
Shunning him, you bound up the stairs. A stem curls around the bannister and shoots out to seize your ankle, tripping you. Your chin smacks against the steps. Blood fills your mouth shortly after, and you realize you’ve bitten your tongue. It hurts, but you must push through.
“You’re stark raving mad!” You shake your leg free of the vine, but another captures your wrist. “No! Release me!”
“Once you’re in my arms—where you rightfully belong—you shall learn proper discipline so that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station!”
Your eyes dart around the hall, searching for a means to escape. There must be something—anything! You can’t let him drag you down these stairs. The moment your foot touches the floor, you’ll never make it back up.
“You’ve yet to see how perfect we’ll be, but in time it will become clear,” he’s saying, watching you from the bottom of the stairs. “Soon… Soon, you’ll understand. Then we shall be wed and you will be mine for all of eternity. I shall employ any means necessary to ensure you remain here at my side, even if it means I must terrorize you only slightly.”
Scrambling with your free hand, you rifle through your satchel for anything useful. Your fingers brush the edge of a little box and the beginning of an idea sparks in your brain.
“I may not have done everything perfectly. I’ve made countless errors in my life and I will make countless more. I’ll never be what you want me to be—what his mother expected from me. But, if nothing else, I will right this wrong.”
You manage to loosen your other arm just enough to pull the matchbox free. In a wild frenzy, you grab hold of one and strike it against the surface of the box.
Moros lurches up the stairs, but you’re prepared. You kick him back down, your sole colliding with his face, and it brings you overwhelming delight to hear him groan in pain. Quite satisfied with yourself, you watch him tumble down the stairs, caught only by his weeds at the very bottom.
The flowers, vines, and roots retreat, shying away from the flickering flame in your hand. You shimmy out of the last one wrapped around your waist. Shrugging the satchel off, you offer the letters stuffed within an apologetic frown before dropping the match inside. The satchel and the now smoldering envelopes land right before Moros’s feet, smoke curling out from the flaps.
You hurry to procure another match and, just as he scrambles to put the first one out, flick it down the steps. The leaves and petals shudder in the heat. Soon enough, they’ll all be caught in a fierce blaze.
“No…” he laments, looking between you and the withering plants. “No! No! No!” His gaze hardens, odium burning behind those malicious red eyes. “Not another step! Do you hear me?!”
You do. You just choose not to listen.
You scurry the rest of the way, stumbling over your clumsy feet, and burst into the bedroom. Your sopping reflection is beckoning you forward with silent urgency. Seaweed hangs from her arms like a cloak. Her skin is bloated. In spite of everything, you trust her wholeheartedly.
A most haunting cry resounds from the hall. It’s filled with indescribable agony, tinged with rage and…fear.
“Don’t leave me! The world out there offers you nothing but misfortune and melancholy. You’ll never survive! You need me!” His shadow is stark against the wallpaper, illuminated by a gradually growing fire. “I can’t—won’t do it again! I refuse to be alone! I refuse! I’m right… Always right… And yet…”
Clutching the locket secured around your throat, you take hold of the hand offered in the mirror. She pulls you through for a final time just as another anguished scream pierces the air.
You fall out of the mirror on your hands and knees, chest heaving with exhilaration.
“I… I’m free. Free from that monster’s grasp!” You check yourself over just in case and, finding all to be well, breathe a relieved sigh. “It’s over…”
A thump against the mirror startles you. You turn back to see a thin, spidery arm reaching for the glass. His clawed fingertips touch the surface, but they don’t pass through. Instead, they tap a steady rhythm.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Within minutes, he’s pounding a fist against the glass. You jerk away and hold tightly to the locket pin. It occurs to you that you’ll never truly be rid of Moros unless you destroy him. He can still slip out of the mirror when you’re slumbering, even if only for a few hours.
You dread to imagine what wretched feats he may be capable of when you submit to the land of dreams every night.
So you lift the heaviest candlestick you can find and, just as the tolling of three o’clock calls up from below, smash the mirror to pieces. The last you see of Moros is his frightful countenance awash in firelight. He looks more like a demon than a replica of your husband, inhuman features elongated like taffy stretched too far.
You’re not sure how long you spend destroying the mirror frame, but in the aftermath you allow the candlestick to fall from your hand. You deflate against the floor, gazing at the ceiling.
“It’s finally over. No longer shall we be tormented by that fiend…”
You gather the shards and stow them in a box. Come tomorrow, it will be filled with rocks, locked and bound in chains, and tossed into the river.
For now, you climb into Riddle’s bed and, soothing yourself with the warm memories you have of him, slowly succumb to sleep.
Moros’s Looking Glass is no more.
“Oh, if you could only hear his death wail!” you recount to Riddle’s grave over tea and biscuits. There’s a cup and plate set for him, placed just near his headstone. “Shrill as a squall. I was so certain it might fill my ears with blood if it went on any longer. I should hope to never encounter another sound more thunderous.”
You hum around the porcelain rim. “If you were with me today, I suspect we’d have a grand celebration. Only the victors delight in the secret spoils of a battle hard-fought.”
The sun is peeking out through feathery cumulus today. Warmed beneath the rays, boasting the locket pin on your breast, you don’t seem so gloomy in your mourning wear. Rather, you’re hopeful. Riddle can finally rest.
“Oh! I never did have the opportunity to recount my travels. The seaside is marvelous. Simply exquisite, my dear. Full of enchanting mystery. The sailors at port spin all manner of tales! I fear it may have haunted my head for the rest of my stay, for I was certain I saw shimmering tails out by the rocks. Ah, but these grotesque sirens could never hope to impress a jot of fear in me.”
I’ve endured far worse.
“Riddle…” You rest your hand upon the grass, smoothing out verdant blades beneath your palm. “I adore you.”
A gentle breeze whistles through the churchyard. You smile.
If you strain your ears, you can almost hear his voice on the wind, reciprocating the sentiment.
Five Years Later.
At the bottom of the river, stowed away in a box with rocks, shards of glass have been laid to rest.
A single red eye blinks open in the dark, trapped within the reflective surface.
Hands bring the box up onto shore, where three children crowd around it.
“What you’ve dug up this time?” the little girl asks, kneeling on the shore.
“It’s a treasure chest!” one of the boys exclaims.
“Is it truly?”
“Look, see!” The other points.
Together, they drop a particularly heavy stone onto the rusted, water-worn chains. They break apart seamlessly.
“Blast. No key.”
“Surely we can break it in?”
“Let’s give it a go.”
It takes some effort, but soon enough they’ve dented the mechanism. The box pops open, revealing shards of glittering glass. With a disappointed grumble, one of the boys lifts a chunk towards the sky. The sun catches it, reflecting its rays beautifully.
“Nothin’ but mess. Worthless.”
“Ya think? If we patch it up, it’ll sell for a few shillings. I declare thee: Magic Mirror of Mystery.” He turns towards his friends and grins. “What do ya reckon?”
“This isn’t even worth a week’s bread. Throw it back.”
“It could be worth something small.”
“Hmm. No. I reckon I’ll keep it. Let’s make it a gift.”
“Who for?”
“Lady Rosehearts! She’s always givin’ us our share for survival. We gotta pay it back. Mummy always said you pay kindliness with more kindliness and you’ll never go hungerin’.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous! I shall make a necklace out of the smaller pieces! It’ll be so pleasing.” The little girl giggles in delight, admiring the shards sparkling in the box.
“And I’ll put the pieces together into somethin’ sturdy.”
They exchange eager glances and then gather the shards, leaving an empty box in their wake.
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