non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc
I've seen some posts of people saying Kalim wouldn't feel jealous easily because he's just "too nice" I think you guys are forgetting he's a spoiled rich kid, used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.
Yeah he's friendly, and he won't be (openly) mean to someone, but If he feels his partner is giving too much attention to someone else? He'll immediately interrupt their conversation, if his partner is too busy doing something? Just do it later! Jamil will help you, just pay attention to him.
He wants your attention now! He doesn't do well with being denied something or being told no, damn he can probably count on one hand the amount of times his parents have said "no" to him.
The worst part? He doesn't even fully comprehend that he's jealous, he just knows he gets upset when you're not paying attention to him, so he just works hard to get your attention all the time <3
Regarding my last reblog, OMG I KNEW SOMETHING IRKED ME ABOUT THAT CHIBI SEGMENT AT THE END OF THE LAST EPISODE AND COULDNT QUITE PUT MY FINGER ON IT. I was like “this is not the Kalim I remember” but couldnt explain why. NOW I UNDERSTAND.
This week’s chibi theater was based off of Kalim’s labwear vignette, but I can’t help but feel like they just made it so much worse. I even reread the vignette to make sure I had my thoughts in order!
Now, I don’t mind stripping the vignette down to its bare bones for the ending but, it makes sense to cut down the fluff for something like this, but they also ended up changing a lot as well which imo just made it worse. These vignettes are supposed to help us understand the characters more, but I don’t think the chibi theater did that well.
In the vignette Kalim accidentally blows up Scarabia’s kitchen and dining hall while doing a last minute alchemy homework assignment. This already irks Jamil, but once Jamil hears that Kalim was hosting a party that same day that’s when Jamil cancels the party. Kalim feels bad, but prioritizes Jamil’s word and goes off to tell all those he invited about the cancellation, where we also find out that some declined, like Riddle, while some weren’t even aware they were invited and probably would’ve said no anyways, like the octatrio. Who knows about Silver bc he was half asleep and wasn’t able to get a word in, just a nod which could mean anything. It’s when he goes to Savanaclaw to tell Ruggie that Ruggie explains that he was really looking forward to the food, at which Kalim decides to cancel the cancellation.
Unfortunately, Scarabia’s kitchen is still busted and Jamil has already refused so Ruggie takes Kalim to the cafeteria’s kitchen to work it out themselves. They also stop by Sam’s shop, mostly just showing 1) how rich Kalim is and 2) how earnest Kalim is, getting everything Ruggie asked for no hesitation.
Once they get to the kitchen, Ruggie finds out that Kalim has never cooked before and so he offers to just cook everything himself. To the this, Kalim responds with (and I brought receipts. I probably should’ve just made this my own post atp but I’m committed now, sorry)
This!! Is so!!! Important!!! Kalim wants to respect Jamil!! He wants to take responsibility!!!
After this, it shows us even more how much Kalim listens to Jamil with him refusing to touch the kitchen equipment because of Jamil telling him not to (and also if you want to look deeper, it shows that for as much as Jamil hates Kalim relying on him so much, he refuses and shuts down any attempt from Kalim to try to be more independent)
We get a cut, and it important to me to note that they get through it!! They make food!!! No explosions!! Kalim is not Lilia when it comes to cooking!! He just needs to be taught!! Ruggie even, kinda sorta maybe if you squint, complements Kalim on it!
Continuing on, Kalim invites everyone back, Riddle can’t resist the earnestness, Kalim hires the Mostro Lounge to cater to get the octatrio to come, Silver’s there, and a bunch of npcs get lines to show it’s a party. Jamil notices the ruckus and comes over to find Kalim cooking and scolds him and we get this. Kalim telling Jamil that he listened to him — to some extent — and complements Jamil, acknowledging how much work and effort Jamil puts into things!! He even apologizes!!!!
Of course, the vignette does end with Kalim asking Jamil to cook him something anyway, because as the host he can’t eat his own cooking or something, plus Kalim says he promised to never eat anything other than what Jamil makes for him (again, with Kalim’s learned helplessness and Jamil caging them both through this)
I’m not saying that they should’ve kept the whole thing! I get it!! It’s too much content for such a short segment!! What I’m upset about is removing the nuance from the situation and how they portray Kalim as nothing other than a fool without even giving him a chance to learn like he gets in the game!!!
Both this fandom and Twst itself at large seems to have such a problem with portraying the nuances in Kalim’s character and it pisses me tf off tHIS FANDOM/GAME/FRANCHISE/WHATEVER IS A FUCKING PRISON!!!!!!
(Sorry again for this whole rant in your inbox, I was already committed to it being a Twst opinion then it got too big and uh. Yeah. Sorry)
By the low ceiling and musty wooden smell, it is apparent to you that you’ve been magically trapped inside a locker. A couple of well-placed slits shine dim light into it; and on its back wall, in no unclear terms, an incantation is written in midnight black, cursive ink:
“Kiss and the doors shall open.”
Being the only one inside the cramped space, you start thinking that you're not the one the prank is meant for, and that this might be one big mistake. But then you try giving the door’s lattice a little push, and it won’t budge an inch. Suddenly, a dry, boisterous POOF breaks the silence, and a surge of smoke reveals the second prisoner.
(cross-posted to Ao3)
Part 1 : Kalim Al-Asim, Jamil Viper, Vil Schoenheit
Kalim Al-Asim 🦦🌞🦂
“Prefect!” A voice exclaims. “And here I thought I had gotten myself kidnapped again, ahaha!”
Neither that statement nor this situation are appropriate to joke at, but when a recognizable laughter fills the air and the smoke clears, you understand that you are stuck with Kalim Al-Asim.
“Kalim,” you acknowledge, self-aware and shying away from him. The Scarabian headwarden is relatively small in stature, yet the locker ––or is it a coffin? A closet maybe? –– is barely comfortable to fit the both of you, so much so that you are bumping heads. His sparking, wide-eyed smile is all you’re able to take in, and the sleeves of his oversized cardigan are brushing against your arms.
“So, what’s the deal then?” Kalim is surprisingly calm and chipper. “Ransom? Name your price, fiend!” as he knocks softly on the wooden ceiling, he’s talking to the proverbial ‘entrapper’, but nobody seems to be there.
“Uh, so,” you begin to say. “I have no idea, but...”
You point to the sign on the back wall.
“‘Kiss and the doors shall’... huh. Is it that easy? No ransom? At all?”
“Well, I-I don’t know if that’ll even work.”
“One way to find out!”
“Wait! W-wait!” you stop your upperclassman with both hands on his lips, inches close to yours, “What are you doing!?”
“Oh.”
Kalim looks apologetic, he really does. But there’s also a tinge of disillusionment and grief in his huge eyes – were they always this big? Are you just noticing? –– seriously, they’re like shimmering rubies, and his earrings sparkle with every movement – every bit of him is so glossy, you feel suffocated and unworthy to just be breathing the same air.
–– anyways. Ahem.
“Sorry, senpai.”
“No – hey, it’s alright!” Kalim reassures with a grin. Oh, Sevens, he even smells nice. Similar to a combination of a virgin coconut piña colada and cardamom tea, a bit of oud mixed in, a completely intoxicating, incense-like scent that you would have never noticed he had if your knees weren’t touching, and your bodies weren’t so close. “Don’t worry. Jamil should get us out of this soon. At least, I’m sure somebody will notice we’ve gone missing – we just gotta hang in there!”
“Right...” or, you could just kiss.
“While we’re waiting, let me tell you a story. You know we had a Pop Music recital the other day? Lilia went completely nuts, tried to dive into the crowd, and then ––”
Kalim speaks with his whole body and gestures with every single muscle on his face. While the anecdote does seem really fun and he keeps making onomatopoeic noises, he accidentally slaps your nose and arms once or twice. The worst part is, he’s so caught up in whatever he’s blabbing that he just won’t realize. But instead of being able to focus on the Pop Music club’s hijinks, all you can think about is what his lips might feel like. This boy is noisy as a whole belly-dancing show, jumping gold coins clanking all over, and his magical pen dances on his waist, as he is now using your hands as a stage to further describe his story.
“So, imagine you’re here,” he continues, pointing at your left index finger, taking you by surprise. What was he talking about again? “And Lilia is here,” he pokes at your right side, exactly where your thumb meets your wrist, “So he –I swear– just untangles from the shoulder strap and discards his bass––”
You really wish you could, but indeed, you can’t focus. Your crush is so close, and his tunnel vision is singled-out only on you.
“–Prefect! Wait, are you okay? Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic?” Kalim says, and you shake your head. “Don’t you worry!” he repeats, “It’s just a matter of time until we get out, I promise.”
Well, he’s right about that one thing. As an heir, and a very affluent one at that, people are sure to come rescue him. It’s a huge relief that you’re not there alone. Though when stuck with Kalim, the person, and not Kalim, the magnate, his touch seems so warm and even the bruised palms of his hands appear so soft, the intrusive thought barges in again. You could just kiss ––
–– no, no way. What if the spell-caster who put you up for this mess is watching? If it’s all just a plot to get the Scalding Sand’s socialite into a big scandal? Or worse – what if kissing him does absolutely nothing and you’re just getting horribly pranked? Or the most terrible scenario – what if he’s just toying with you?
“––Prefect? Prefect.”
All of your worries are shaken off by the sight of Kalim staring into you once again. You must have been spacing out for a while, since you failed to notice that he’s now cupping your face with his hands, and your cheeks are starting to burn red.
“What. What!?”
“Ah! Don’t yell!” but he is. “It’s just – you looked so sad right now.”
More than sad, you would describe yourself as regretful. He had indeed tried to kiss you a few minutes before, like a kiss meant nothing, and you were so quick to shut him down – why in the Sevens would you do that? Scared, of course, and yet you remember that this is Kalim – he would never play with your feelings, would he? – but then his thumbs trace your cheeks, pensive.
“Prefect.”
It’s the lockers’ fault. You’re already too close and there’s nowhere to run. But as he coyly places his lips on yours, it takes a few pecks for the shyness to disappear and for him to move his hand past your jaw, cupping your nape, with a force that both bends back your head and stills your neck, deepening the kiss. You tug on his oversized sweater, trying to find balance, lost in a whirlwind as your world keeps spinning, yet the space is so small and all you can do is fall back against the wall – is that cashmere? Who cares, at this point –– Kalim’s body exudes an enveloping warmth, like a fever, or maybe the soft rays of the desert sun. When he wraps his hands around you, it’s desperate, like there is no embrace deep enough, and he wants to feel every inch of you pressing into him.
The doors swing open.
“Ah.”
“Oh.”
Completely caught up in each other, the well-known sight of the alchemy classroom greets you. It’s deadly silent, and you are still unsure if somebody has been watching or if it really was just a simple ‘true love’s kiss breaks the spell’-kind of deal.
“Okaaaay, so the scary ink inscription wasn’t lying,” Kalim blurted out, not letting go of you. “Aww. If I had known there was no real danger, I would have wanted to stay in there longer – I mean, a whole afternoon skipping school with your crush, and with an actual excuse? Talk about lucky,” he looks over to you, and as your mouth is agape and mumbling, Kalim quickly regrets his choice of words. “Oops. I said too much.”
“It’s okay. I... I like you too.”
“Heheh,” Kalim laughs as he digs into your shoulder. The squeeze he gives you next takes all the air out of your lungs, and you’re sure you’re tiptoeing and swinging your arms around his neck for stability. He shivers in anticipation as he talks, breath caressing your skin. “Oh, we’re gonna have the biggest party tonight. I just need to show you off!”
Jamil Viper🐍💎🌙
“Looks like someone’s Signature Spell. Prefect, are you injured?”
Jamil Viper’s taciturn gaze is not focused on you, but rather studying the wooden confinement closely. His slate-grey eyes shine in what little remaining light is left, taking in his surroundings.
“N-no. I’m fine.”
“Good to know. Well, if whoever did this wanted to hurt us, they would have already. Seeing as they can teleport two people out of their rooms and into an enchanted locker like it’s nothing,” he muses. “So, what is their motive?”
Unable to make a sound, you point to the inked inscription: Kiss and the doors shall open.
“...do they really just want us to kiss? That’s underwhelming.”
Jamil is visibly annoyed. No, not just annoyed – irritated, grating through his teeth, almost disappointed in himself. And while he looks upon the incantation written on the locker walls with an air of defeat, like a kid holding a second-place trophy, you start noticing things you had never been able to see before. Jamil is a sneaky fellow, always hiding his expression, mostly feigning benevolence. Anyone who knows him well enough would be able to tell his every facial quirk is well-rehearsed. But for you, the Jamil that you look up to is his hard-working, obedient side – the type who would pick up your preferred meal at the cafeteria and bring it to your table without uttering a single word. And he happens to be the very upperclassman you fell in love with, so the fact that he’s so close, with his bulked yet slim arms bare and fingers studying the locker’s ceiling, is driving you crazy inside.
“Prefect,” he calls, and you jump. “Do you remember what you were doing before this? Anything could be a clue.”
A few seconds of consideration makes you draw a blank. You shake your head “no”.
Jamil groans with knitted eyebrows. “There is a chance it won’t budge even if we do what it says. I wonder what the perpetrator could possibly want from this.”
You are unsure whether whoever did his gave you a chance or a curse. It doesn’t seem like Jamil is considering a kiss, as he is more preoccupied with finding the inner workings of the magic involved. But as a whimper escapes your throat, Jamil’s attention finally zooms in on you.
“Prefect. Are you scared? Don’t be,” Jamil speaks in a low, reassuring voice. “I am not worth a ransom. And the fact that Kalim is not here means he is not the target. Which means that this is probably just a prank. We’ll just wait it out.”
...right. Sounds like a plan. Not a particularly exciting one, but hey, this just might excuse you from class.
“—unless,” Jamil continues suddenly and sharply, “Unless the target is Kalim, and they’re keeping me here to get me away from him enough to—”
“Then what would they need me for?” you shoot back quickly, then realize it might have sounded way more impolite than you meant it to, so you hurriedly add: “Senpai.”
The soft, pensive hum that escapes his throat means he somewhat agrees.
Not a word more, and for a few moments, the both of you stand awkwardly in suffocating silence. Jamil keeps scanning the walls, tracing them with his fingers, maybe hoping for a clue to help him undo the spell. This is the guy who can snake-charm his way into people’s minds – it would probably not be long before he comes up with a plan. As his eyes slither side to side, no doubt searching for solutions inside his mind castle, you notice a flick of his tongue moistening his lips. An almost imperceptible tick as he is deep in concentration. It’s almost endearing to think someone with such measured reactions would have a nervous habit like that. The smile that perks up your cheeks goes unnoticed.
Jamil really won’t even make eye contact. You sigh.
“Why do you look so dejected?”
At the unexpected inquiry, you instinctively dive your eyesight low.
“It’s nothing.”
Scarabia’s vicewarden is calm, yet alert. He follows your face gestures and makes internal guesses at your reactions. He’s found, over time, that you are not the type to immediately speak your mind like Kalim would do. But he knows what your melancholy looks like. Jamil has only seen it a couple of times before, but he’s already memorized it – any cues that the face gives away are cues that help him take better, wiser decisions, of course. Most of the times to manipulate, but he is not interested in playing his mind games with you.
Jamil lifts your chin up. “For the record, this is not how I wanted this to happen.”
Here’s a quick backstory on Jamil Viper: this is a kid who would never would have guessed he’d be a protagonist in anything. Always the background shadow, ever knowing; always the capable servant, never the powerful lord. He had always imagined himself living in Kalim’s shade – in fact, he had kind of hoped he would always long for whoever Kalim’s partner turn out to be, too. Always envious, never satisfied. Jamil never once guessed he’d have the right to choose, or even connect with someone he liked. But when he saw you there, pouting, expecting, trying to get something out of him that wasn’t a favor or an order... he knew exactly what to do. So Jamil quickly grasps your nape, and it’s akin to how one would grab a newborn kitten – swift, a bit forceful, yet fearful that they would pounce away. His touch hurts a bit, but only out of desire and eagerness. His hands themselves are soft as silk, no matter how many a task they may carry by themselves, and his lips are a mound of butter melting upon yours. It’s a second of delicious mindlessness before he goes back to his calculating, cool self. An instant he has with you and your mouth, and his hands wander around your waist and tug there for a mere fraction of a second. You can still feel the ghost of his touch around you even when he pulls back.
The doors sway open.
“Sorry, Prefect. Dinner will be late if I dawdle for too long.”
“... Jamil?”
“We’ll talk about this later.”
For a brief moment, his hand lingers on your cheek; then around your ear and neck, almost tugging at it. It would be suffocating if not for the exercised control he exhibits. It’s warm and exhilarating, and his skin feels like fire against yours. But you know that if Jamil says later, then it shall be later, and a smile creeps up your face again. You can’t wait to see this unfold.
Vil Schoenheit👑🪞💀
“What a tasteless joke.”
As if the exasperated, impatient tone is not enough, the sweet floral smell that permeates the air tells you exactly who you’ve been teleported with. But the abstract thought of the icon cannot prepare you for the real person in front of you. Vil Schoenheit looks like a human that has used cheat codes to enhance their appearance. No one alive should be allowed to look that flawless, smell that good – are there even pores on his face? It seems glowing with a light pink sheen, as his lavender eyes turn to look at you.
“Oh? Potato number three. You’re here too,” he states, obviously not as excited to see you as you are to see him. “Don’t go blinding yourself by staring right into me. I know it’s a lot, but do try to keep your wits to yourself somehow.”
“I’m not staring,” you shoot back, with a bit more sass than intended.
“Right. And you’re not drooling, either.”
Vil’s statement makes you inadvertently touch the corners of your mouth to check. He stifles a laugh that quickly changes into quiet analysis. He takes in the surroundings, stopping ever so slightly to read the sign.
Kiss and the doors shall open.
“Hm,” is all Vil says. Gloved fingers inspect the walls, moving delicately, like a gentle caress.
“It – it wasn’t me,” you mumble, and when Vil raises his eyebrows at you, suddenly you are unsure of why you’re even being defensive.
“I know.”
A first, you wince, thinking that Vil might follow that up with poorly-veiled criticism (he sure loves his sermons), something along the lines of ‘The likes of you could never be capable of magic like this, spudling’. But, surprisingly, his gaze is soft, understanding, and... kind of motherly, in a way?
“Come, now. Fix your posture,” Vil warns. “This... box is still taller than you, isn’t it? I seem to be having a bit more trouble with the height restraints, though.”
Vil stands with his head up straight, as much as the environment allows. While he is a proud, boastful individual, he usually seems much more unapproachable; but something about the proximity makes him look different in your eyes. For one, he’s not scared, not nervous, nor scattered in thoughts. Instead, he inspects the inner workings of the spell, carefully, quietly. It seems that if anyone is able to get you out of this unscathed, it should be the head warden of Pomefiore. And yet he frowns and sighs. It seems almost a shame that his face could manage such a disillusioned expression.
“What is it? ... some sort of ancient magic?” you dare ask.
“Are you suggesting the workings of this... cage... are beyond me? Quite a bold thought for such a magicless potato.”
Ah, there it is. The one-liner with both bark and bite. You saw it coming, yet it hurts nonetheless.
“Don’t look so disheartened. Like I said before, you don’t need magic, only diligence. If you give up without a fight, you’ll lose even the battles you could have won.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” you snap back and immediately regret it, because Vil’s mouth twitches, and not in a good way. If anything, there is something entirely exciting about getting berated by such a lovely, poised, perfect super-human. Getting reminded of your own mortality is not all that bad. Well, not like you’re ugly yourself, you know!? If you had the opportunity to zone in on appearance and give it your all like Vil had... but those sorts of virtues were also only reserved for celebrities in your world. You hadn’t had the time, nor the means. More of a practical person, you know? No need to make the packaging this pretty.
“Every day, potato. Every single day,” Vil seethes through his teeth. “I keep waiting for you to waddle out of that self-pity hole of tar you dug yourself into, and live to the fullest, brightest. Yet you stand here like, ‘oh, easy for you to say’ – Sevens, it makes me so angry.”
The gulp you give is audible from outer space. Oof. Embarrassing.
“But, I-I mean, you... —”
“—no. We’ll have none of that. Oh, you think I haven’t heard it before? That I got it easy because my father. Yes, privilege is real, but that does not mean I have slacked off a single day of my life, and neither should you. You!” Vil accuses, bringing a finger to your face. It’s obviously intimidating, but you can’t help but zone in on his beautiful manicured nails. “You have the street smarts, and the heart, and the face. And yet you whine and moan and belittle yourself. Well, an inferiority complex is never attractive, let me tell you.”
... should you read between the lines, had Vil Schoenheit called you intelligent, kind and cute? Maybe. Just maybe.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you never worked hard,” you admit sheepishly. “You’re one of the people I admire the most.”
Lavender eyes twitch slightly. “Oh? Do go on.”
“Well... you’re strict on the Pomefiore students, but only because you want them to do well. And I saw how much you care for them. You lead with example and you always put in the extra effort, even if you already exceed at something. If anything, I’m...”
“—Jealous?” Vil teases with a smile. “Well, dear, you wouldn’t be the first one to —”
“—no. ... maybe. But that’s besides the point,” you sigh. “I think I’m in love with you.”
The air freezes, deadly still. For once, Vil Schoenheit is at a loss for words. And, hey, you didn’t expect him to say anything, but each second passed makes it harder for you to recover. Oh, Prefect, you’ve really done it this time. This was a confession and a death sentence all at the same time.
You expect anything but sympathy, and yet Vil lets another deep breath escape his throat, and...
He pats you on the head.
It’s... weird, and warm, and makes your cheeks burn pink and you’d wish he’d... never stop. He fondles your hair for a bit, and for a second there, it even seems like he’s fixing the loose strands. You can’t see from your point of view, but he smiles as he bends down slightly to place an immaculately calculated kiss on the crown of your head. It’s a big kiss that makes a “mwah!” sound, and instinctively you cover your mouth, but Vil already heard you gasping. His soft, velvety fingers lower down to and linger on your cheek afterwards. The scent is intoxicating — it somehow puts you right in the shoes of a fruit fly about to fall into a carnivorous plant. And yet, it’s not overpowering. It overfills your senses just right. How does he do it? The perfectly tailored uniform, the silky hair strands of violet and blonde that now fall into your line of sight. Maybe if you were a little closer, you’d stand on your tippy toes and reach his height and...
The closet doors hinge, and then sway open.
“What!?” you exclaim, feeling cheated out of a possible kiss on the lips from Vil Schoenheit.
His eyes glance at you half-lidded, almost inviting.
“If it were that easy to get a full-on kiss from me, dear, the world would be a happier place,” he smiles. “But I haven’t ruled you out just yet. If you take me out on a proper date and dazzle me, then I might consider it. Keep at it, hm...?”
If there were no words before, there are certainly none now. You watch as Vil just walks away, but not before giving you a playful, provocative look before leaving the room. Oooh, boy. You’re in over your head this time.
Riddle Rosehearts x Female Reader, 18+. Fluff, sexual intimacy (explicit), consensual.
Worrying about failing a test, botching that one high note at the recital, or stammering throughout the graduation speech are all examples of performance anxiety. The thought of failing and the looming overshadow it casts on the far-off dream of success – to a lot of people, it can be paralyzing. To counter it, you dwell on all the possibilities before that something can even come to pass, methodically going through worst-case scenarios in your head; at the time, they all seem more like prophecies.
Contrary to what his occasionally fiery mood swings might suggest, Riddle Rosehearts was a fairly confident and composed person, and never suffered from nerves before a test, recital or speech. The roots of his self-assurance were practice, diligence and rules. No test would ever be scary if you had revised hard enough, no note unreachable if practiced frequently enough, and no speech impossible if rehearsed enough. Rules provided a frame which allowed little flexibility, which meant more provable, safe results.
This, however, was different. There was no way to prepare for it. Any guides on the subject would generally say, ‘Let it flow’, and honestly that’s what he believed he had done -or at least tried to do- last time, when you were catching your breath, spread on top of his lap. He had purposefully, repeatedly, attempted to forget all about it – but every time his phone buzzed with one of your messages, he was sorely reminded of everything he did, and specially of what he didn’t do.
‘Would it be so bad if it were... planned?’ he pondered. But it’s not like those words would ever leave his mouth, and he truly did care about you, so he was not about to insult your integrity by suggesting something as unrefined as “Hey baby, let’s get it on”.
Sigh. It hardly seemed like the topic you could trust friends with, either. “What should I do?” he wanted to ask, but the fear of getting humiliated in return was too real. Or at least, it was inside Riddle’s head, as however certain he could be in social situations, one of his most recurring nightmares included screwing up an easy spell, getting laughed at, then yelled at by his mother, and, finally, falling through the void (in that order).
“Next time,” he had told Floyd. Why did he do that? Whatever the hell did that mean? Not unlike enlisting New Year resolutions and telling everyone you started working out – in a way, the contract behind your words binds you to turn them into action. Riddle really wish he hadn’t, and to be fair, Floyd hadn’t even asked about it since – but the thought alone was eating away at him.
Alone in his room, he had, at long last, drafted up the end-all, be-all of text-based conversation.
Riddle Rosehearts: “Hello! 🌹 What are you doing for the break? I’ll pass on going home this time, I think. We can expect an exceptionally hot summer this year, and I’m worried about the hedgehogs.”
And then, greatly contingent on your answer, but – hopefully – the next sentence would be:
“If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?”
‘Stay the night’ was a much more suitable euphemism for what he wanted to say. It was short, and sweet, and left the possibility of nothing happening, which was important. The main problem with it is that it broke quite a few rules, but most notoriously: the rules that stated students from other schools were not allowed inside the dorms past curfew, and that non-alumni needed a special permission to enter in the first place. Well, uh, and also the fact that he was trying to bring a girl to sleepover to an all-boys school. After one law had been violated, the rest of transgressions just seemed like silly, collateral damage. This is why he was a stickler for codes and regulations – being unyielding did, in fact, protect the system from falling apart all at once.
The hedgehog excuse also worked well, and even his mother had believed it and granted him permission to stay all summer on campus.
The first text is an easy one to send. If, for any reason, Riddle feels like he needs to call the whole thing off, he can just invite you to a Tea Party, or suggest a date in the park. The break begins next weekend, and it’s a perfect time because the school will be mostly empty and free of prying eyes. And if you are too busy to catch up, spending a quiet summer caring for the hedgehogs doesn’t sound too bad either.
Y/N: “oh hey! 😊 poor darlings🦔 it’s good they have a very kind caretaker💓 yeah, I read somewhere we were reaching record temperatures. thankfully it’s not so bad inside our dorm. i’ll go home, but only from the second week onwards”
Which leaves a week in between to... to...
Riddle opens up his drafts once again. All he has to do is copy, paste and hope for the best. But as he’s proof-reading, it occurs to him that maybe “sleepover” is better than “stay the night” – which one sounds more casual? Ugh, his hands are starting to feel icy cold and unresponsive. The weight on his chest is getting bigger.
Y/N: “we should meet up before I leave! 😊 i can help take care of the hedgehogs if you need a hand?"
Oh my Queen. A second, continuous text from you was not in the original plan. So now what? Well, he could still brave through and –ahem– suggest his suggestion. Hell, if he was so paralyzed at a text, there’s no way he could actually sleep with you, even if you did come over.
Riddle does not want you to help take care of the hedgehogs. Or rather, that is so trivial right now, that he wishes you could forget about it, and words to be undone.
Riddle Rosehearts: “I couldn’t possibly ask that! Hedgehogs are nocturnal, so you’d have to come in pretty late.”
Riddle is quick to type and send, but then gasps when he realizes the meaning. It can be taken two ways: either that he wants you to come in late, ergo, wants to get in your pants and is cowardly suggesting it; or he does not want you anywhere near the dorm at night, which, eh, kind of resets all the progress made in this conversation.
Y/N: “oh, right 😊 the school has rules against that, lol”
It’s getting more and more impossible to recover from this, like a rowing boat trying to maneuver through a river of chocolate fudge.
The draft that is waiting in his copy clipboard now makes no sense. “If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?” is no longer applicable to this flow of the conversation. But he needs to find a way around it, or else it’s back to square one.
Riddle takes a very, very deep breath. Face red, fingers trembling, he manages to write:
Riddle Rosehearts: “Actually, don’t worry about the hedgehogs. It takes time to build trust with them anyways.
But on that note, would you like to stay over sometime? Feel free to say no.”
That last part sounds incredibly weak and lacking in courage. He erases it and types it again a couple of times until deciding in favor of leaving it as-is – the fact that you don’t feel pressured is, after all, of utmost importance to him.
And yeah, “stay over” sounds better than sleeping or staying the night, so let’s stick to that.
When the message pops on your side of the screen, your sight paces back and forth at least twenty times, doubting the verity of your own eyes or reading comprehension. After last time, and how nonchalantly it had ended, you thought for sure that Riddle had been distancing himself from you, and that you had crossed a boundary that was hard to backtrack from. That is exactly why, truth be told, you were relieved when he initiated casual conversation as if nothing had happened. The struggle was mixing all these pure, affectionate, innocent emotions he made you feel with the raw Eros of whatever last study session was, and it had left you more confused than ever.
But hey, you tell yourself. Nothing needs to happen. I can just sleep. We can cuddle, and that’s it.
It seems you are taking all too long to answer, because his chat box pops up again.
Riddle Rosehearts: “I want to see you.”
Riddle was really good in situations reigned by protocol. He was the best social dancer you’d ever seen, and the way he’d guided you while waltzing through an interscholastic dance had been dreamlike. He’d open doors for you and escort you to your school gates; he was always eager to send over a study guide or offer some academic advice. But “I want to see you” and “I miss you” were words rarely uttered.
Filled with a newfound courage, you text back:
Y/N: “i'd love to! is friday ok? 😊”
Getting into Heartslabyul is always a challenge. You’d need to either come over during the daytime and then purposefully miss curfew, or you’d have to find a way to sneak in just before the gates are closed for the night. As a housewarden from a rival school, your face is somewhat known within the Night Raven College students, and while it’s not exactly a secret that you’re dating the Heartslabyul sovereign, you’d rather if people did not know you were planning on staying the night, for the Seven’s sakes!
If this were an eventful holiday, like Halloween celebrations or a friendly Spelldrive tournament, inter-school visits were more easily forgivable. There were plenty of ways to score a guest pass and walk around freely. But an outsider going around the dorm at night, on a normal school day? Now, that is just fishy.
You devised a plan of which the success depended on how fast Riddle could find you and then rush to his room. And you know he hated running in the hallways.
Your Signature Spell, “Drink Me”, as tongue-in-cheek as it sounded, allowed you to change an object or person in size for a very small period of time. Theoretically, if this was used on yourself and your clothes, you could become hedgehog-sized in seconds. And then, all would Riddle need to do is transport you in his shirt pocket. Simple enough, right?
As you head through the motions of the plan, you realize how utterly embarrassing it is. First, you would need to decide on a set of coordinates where Riddle would find your miniaturized self. He needs to pick you up, basically engulfing you with both hands. You are then to fit inside his pocket, and this meant that his heartbeat would sound like thunderstorms in the summer sky (a by-product of you being so small). And because you’d turn back in 5 minutes, he needs to rush to his room and take you out of the pocket, lest you grow back to normal and rip his prized uniform shirt apart.
There could be some repercussions. Usually, your Signature Spell required of a catalyst – you would use homemade soda for the shrinking spell and cookies for the enlarging spell – so as to keep the side effects at bay, and make the desired transformation last longer (a maximum of an hour). Very rarely you’d cast them directly from your pen to the object in question, unless you wanted or needed consequences to be more immediate and short-lived. In this case, staying small for a whole hour was not exactly the most enticing of options, and gorging on enlarging cookies while the effects of the fizzy shrinking drink hadn’t yet subsided always resulted in nausea, an upset stomach and a fever (you know – you’ve tried before). So, the only viable option was cast and run: a plan problematic in and of itself, but the only chance you had to access the property unnoticed. Ah, if only Chen’ya could teach you how to disappear at will.
When you suggested all of this over the phone, Riddle was flabbergasted. It was hard to tell which is more mortifying – carrying you around like a portable magic pen, or having you enter the dorm life-size and risk a student seeing you enter his room at night.
Eventually, after much persuasion, he had agreed to meet you at the outskirts of the Heartslabyul forest, which was exactly five minutes away from his quarters.
It’s the first meeting since the, uh, lap-sitting incident, and you are both quite self-conscious still. You wave and smile at his approaching figure, but he hurriedly hushes, “Quick! Before anyone sees you.”
Pointing a shaky pen to your chest, you take a deep breath. “Here goes. Drink Me!”
If the feeling could be compared to anything, you’d say it kind of reminds you of a balloon deflating – air gushing out, spiraling as it swirls until it reaches the floor. A kaleidoscope in which the senses become filled all at once, as the world around you is so big, and you’re now so small. The only good part is that, because your height and weight also decrease in proportion, having a parasol ready allows you to float tenderly for the last couple of inches, and the fall is never too abrupt.
Riddle is now... huge. I mean, wow there, Y/N, witty observation. But he really is, and even the act of him crouching to get closer to you shakes the whole ground like an earthquake. He stares at you, two fingers pressed on his lips, pondering if he should lift you up by the collar... but no, no, that’s too ungracious.
So, he offers the palm of his hand. You know that even if you talked at this size, your tiny micro lungs are not enough to produce enough sound to reach him properly, so you keep quiet and climb up his thumb.
When Riddle brings you up to the height of his pocket, it’s like that one Twisneyland attraction that you rode together once, the scary one with the elevator which you had hated with every fiber of your heart as you held on to your boyfriend’s arm screaming – and he wasn’t too keen on thrill rides, either, but had tried to put on a brave face for your sake.
“Are you alright?” he beckons, in a normal tone for him, but it’s like a cacophony ripping apart at your miniature eardrums. You put your hands over your ears. “—sorry! So sorry,” he reduces his voice to a whisper.
Plopping yourself into the pocket, you fall all the way in, roughly reaching the middle while standing straight. You are way smaller than hedgehog size at this point, comparable to a miniature doll of only a few centimeters high. “Hang in there,” he says.
By the sudden swaying, like a seism about to tear the face of the Earth, you assume that Riddle has set course for his room. The countdown starts.
As luck would have it, everyone and their mother is out to get the Headwarden today. He gets stopped at least thrice, mostly about silly stuff such as the shipment for flamingo food or the rundown for the next unbirthday party. It’s impressive how many students are still in the dorm, really –don’t these people have anything else better to do?– their voices are so loud you can barely make out the conversations, instead just catching the keywords. You have both hands pressed against your ears, eyes closed, trying to avoid sensory overload. At least this goes to show there is no way you could have gotten into Heartslabyul unnoticed if you were your proper size.
After many unwanted interruptions, time was running out for the both of you. The de-transformation would start coming in little bursts, where you’d feel your body a little bigger each time. The transpired, stuffy white fabric of that pocket was sure starting to feel a little tight, and now you could almost peek over the hem on your tiptoes.
“Riddle!” is your hurried plead, but he’s going as fast as humanly possible, as fast as anyone can go while still avoiding attention.
When he’s at the doorstep, it feels the seams won’t hold any longer. To the best of your ability, you lift yourself using your arms, trying to squeeze up and out. He fumbles with the key, breath visibly agitated, until he remembers he can just use magic, and can finally, triumphantly, open the door and slam it shut.
“Y/N!” he beckons, in a panic, looking for you to jump on his palm again so he can plop you onto the ground.
“No time! Throw me on the bed!” you squeak, unsure of how much of your speech is currently intelligible. Riddle catches the gist of it, and grabs you by the first thing he can pinch, which is the hem of your skirt, as you’re now dangling outside his pocket, barely not small enough to fit back in.
And next thing you know, he is flinging you like a Spelldrive disk towards his bed; with a loud “poof”, you transform mid-air and land headfirst, full size, cartwheeling on his mattress. Your skirt is flung open, you’ve lost both shoes somewhere along the way, you’re all tangled in on yourself, but at least you are finally safe, and neither Riddle’s shirt nor reputation have been ruined.
Adjusting your sitting position, you first make sure all parts have grown back to size. After all, it’s not unheard of for the effect to last longer on some objects or body parts than others. A quick check assures you that you’re back to normal – all over, that is. You turn to Riddle, who is watching you from the edge of the bed, hand over his mouth, his expression between bemusement and bewilderment.
A stifled laugh that you can’t seem to contain breaks the silence, and it’s like springing open a can of worms, because the redhead giggles a little, too, and then the whole situation becomes too funny to hold it in. Soon he’s laughing tears out of his eyes, unable to speak in full sentences.
“You — you really became pocket size. Right here! You were right here!” He gasps for air between chuckles, pointing at his chest pocket. “I can’t believe... really can’t... ahaha!”
“Hehe, that was some adventure,” you agree. And it’s not like you’re not laughing yourself, but your turn to your boyfriend, and the sight of him fills your chest with a strange warmth, so much that it quiets your laughter. You’d rarely ever seen such a playful, childlike expression; he keeps cry-laughing uncontrollably, wiping his eyes and clutching at his stomach; a hint of relaxation in his ever-so-stiff posture.
His giggle fit starts settling down, and then it dawns on you.
“Oh, no, we need to go through this exact same process tomorrow!” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.
Tomorrow. He liked the sound of that. It made the fact that you’re staying over more official.
“We’ll think of something by then,” he states.
The rush to close the door and prop you out of the pocket as fast as possible meant that the room was still dim. Because you had landed on his bed, there you were sitting upright in its dead center; suddenly feeling a rush of pink on your cheeks, as the whole Drink Me situation had acted as a deterrent to the actual elephant in the room: the fact that you were here to sleep over and that you had both been so nervous up until that point.
Riddle’s bleary eyes flicker in the twilight, still a soft smile on his lips.
“That was nice,” you grin. “It’d been a while since I last saw you laugh.”
“Oh, come now. Am I really that serious all the time?”
You struggle to find the words. “It’s like... like you’re always worried about something. Not that I blame you—"
“Huh,” he retorts before you can continue. “Well, even I can find something that tickles my funny bone, every now and then.”
He’s now frowning and pouting and just... standing there, as if still hesitant to join you in bed. After all, Riddle was quick to notice that you had made no effort to stand up, and now is wondering what the next step is. It’s not like he had planned any activities for you to do that night – maybe watching a movie on your phones? ...playing card games? Or just go straight to sleep? In the end, he could decide on none and the Day Of came to happen before he could devise a plan, something he dreaded from the bottom of his heart. His whole life was set in rules, set in stone tablets, and now he had to somehow improvise.
“I’m not worried,” he says, pensive, then adds: “Not when I’m with you, at least.”
“Liar,” you accuse him, to which he looks rather offended, albeit playfully so. “By now, you’re probably thinking, ‘What’s comes next?’ — well, aren’t you?”
His expression gives him away immediately. For such a well-postured, well-mannered person, Riddle tends to be a bit transparent. “H-how did you –”
“—it’s because I’m thinking the same thing, too,” you admit. “This is hard, isn’t it?”
It’s not a question. In no unclear terms, last time you’d met had been the very first instance of feeling each other’s bodies, and along came the realization that you are dating and it’s perfectly okay for you to do so. And now you’re subconsciously running your fingers through his velvety red, quilted duvet; and Riddle is still paralyzed a few steps away from the bed. You are not the boldest person out there; and he seems to be bold for anything except for this.
“Agreed,” he muses. Again, he’s like on the outside looking in – it’s that anxious feeling that never goes away, back to the little boy and the cakes he’d never eat.
“This is so awkward to say out loud,” you muster up some courage. “But I’ll try.”
“—yes?”
“I don’t care what we do today. I get to be with you, and that’s enough.”
...oh. Riddle can feel his heart doing a summersault. Being filled to the brim with love like this is something he is not accustomed to. It’s like he’s back to your warm embrace and the rhythmic breathing of your clothed chest, like digging his fingers in your back again, and feeling you return the squeeze. Every single waking moment, and hell, even while sleeping, he goes back to that evening. But he struggles to return your words, hesitant and meditative, staring at the floor.
“Riddle?”
“—yes?”
“Are you okay?”
He’s not. He’s fed up with himself. Scared of this new situation to which he doesn’t have a manual for. Terrified of underperforming and disheartening you.
“Of course,” he lies through his teeth. You are still fully clothed, so all he can see are your knees and calves, from where the skirt of your uniform ends and the socks begin. It’s not remotely erotic at all, yet he’s burning all over. You notice his eyes traveling up and down, trying to take the sight of you in.
You can’t be sure, but deep inside, you intuited that if you both feel the same, then he wants it as much as you do. But then again, pressuring your boyfriend is something you would never, ever venture to do – like a hedgehog himself, he was always quick to spike up to prevent you from poking at his vulnerability. He’d get angry or annoyed or sulky, only to quickly apologize later. So, you are not brave enough to ask, but the least you can do is initiate the scene – like the character that utters the first lines in a play, setting the mood and the proceeds in motion.
Hands, your own, travel to the elastic on your socks, as you slide them off slowly, one by one. Your feet get adjusted to the soft duvet, now feeling it on your bare skin, and you can’t help but notice how utterly cold your toes are – might be from the air conditioning, might be from the nerves. Riddle gasps audibly and clutches at his chest.
You look up at him, as he’s still standing immobilized in his spot. Fine. You’ll venture one more step past the proverbial line of his defenses, then.
Not unlike his, your school uniform consists of a white shirt with a tie or ribbon, at the student’s free choice of whichever. The ribbon on your neck is striped light blue and white, with a small coat of arms applique that depicts a teacup floating in a bottle full of tears. With a quick tug, you undo it, then the first button of your collar, all while keeping eye contact with your boyfriend – it feels like the sound of your own heartbeat is going to deafen you at this point.
Riddle takes a step in your direction, fully flushed, although you can barely tell through the room submerged in the summer dusk. But he stops just by the edge of the bed, frozen again. His is quite the big mattress, and he will need to crawl to you if he wants to reach you. Close, yet so far.
You press your lips together, at the attempt to regain some moisture: your mouth feels dry and trembling all over. Even so, you use the last bit of courage to undo one more button – completely innocuous, as this barely only reveals your collarbone.
“Stop,” he beckons, scaring you for a second. Seeming so desperate, filled with regret. “Don’t.”
“Oh.” Maybe it had been too much? You dread having pushed the Heartslabyul warden too far. “I’m sorry—”
“—no.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, let me do it.”
Riddle climbs into the bed, knee first. His hand is reaching for your face, slate grey eyes full of adoration, and in turn, you unbalance him by pulling at both his arms, so he stumbles on top of you. Bumping heads at the fall, now faces only an inch away.
“Riddle—”
“—shh. Quit staring.”
But you’re not really, as your eyelids are drooping over, lost in the moment. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s so like him to want to have the last word.
As usual, it’s a peck on the lips, albeit a bit longer and hungrier; he then kisses your cheek, and now the question is what comes next and how the familiar pattern will be broken. To your surprise, you feel two nibbles on your neck, just below your jaw at first and then close to your throat. One leg has snuck in between yours, pressing slightly, the weight of his bony hips digging into your thigh.
He’s always fixing other students’ uniforms, so maybe that’s where it comes from, but he has unexpected skill in unbuttoning your shirt all the way through. But he’s taking it slow and steady, because every single new flash of skin is just killing him on the inside, building up fire within.
Pushing up with one arm, he uses the other to take your hand and give it a kiss, then a tug as he prods you to turn around, softly undressing one sleeve, and reaching for the clasp of your brassiere. Is this too sudden? He’s filled with worry, but push comes to shove, and his instincts urge him to keep going. He needs both hands to do this, causing him to promptly level forward, his mouth caressing your naked shoulder plates. And with one quick snap, you’re out of your bra, though it still lingers lazily on top of your breasts, as you adjust on your back once more.
Riddle realizes – he can almost peek – y-you’re half-naked, writhing beneath him, and –
“—hey,” you call softly, smiling with a tint of self-consciousness as you reach a hand for his cheek. “C-can I...?”
Can I take your clothes off, too? – is what you mean to say, but the words can’t seem to leave your mouth. Curses. Leaving the question unasked, you tug at his striped necktie, and his fingers follow yours, together undoing his shirt buttons all the way to his waist. He’s using a white, paper-thin t-shirt underneath, so you can make the shape of his nipples through it. More lightly clothed than ever, the sudden rush of shame gets the best out of you, and your gut reaction is to pull him into a full embrace, arms clasped around his neck.
Riddle stops for a moment, melting into your hold. You cannot see eye to eye right now, but you can clearly hear each other’s heartbeat. After a moment of hesitation, he kisses you again. It’s sloppy and uncharacteristic of him, but he wants to eat you whole and has no way of hiding it. Uncertain, his hand travels down your neck, feeling your collarbone, and hovering for a few instants where your bra is – unbound, it is no more than a decoration on top of your chest, and he pushes it aside.
“Ah,” he exclaims, almost unwillingly. Your breasts are oscillating up and down with your breathing, your lips are swollen and dyed a madder red, and you just look so beautiful.
“Now you quit staring,” you snap back.
“Hah,” he laughs raspingly. “Who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve got some nerve.”
You smile so wide your cheeks hurt, glad that he’s finally back to his normal self, setting aside all the anxiety and worry. Well, mostly. Of course, some worries are still in the way, but they continue melting as the heat rises – it’s impossible not to give into the moment and fondle your breasts. You let out a little yelp.
“Ah – does it hurt?” he frowns, worried, unable to gauge your reaction. Sure, he made a point to read a few erotic novels in an attempt to prepare for what should be expected for this situation –ugh, perish the thought of anyone finding those hidden at the bottom of his drawer– but truth be told, he still had no idea how rough or how gentle he should be.
“No,” you assured. “It feels good.”
“Show me where.”
At his request, you guide his hand with yours, back to your chest; and strengthen your grip, instructing him to squeeze ever so slightly. His leg, or rather, his knee presses against you, separating your legs further apart, sending a wave of electricity throughout your body. The goddamned skirt is still in the way, but you can’t muster up enough lucidity to concentrate and remove it, moaning and twitching below him.
Riddle must have read your mind, because he shifts his hands to the zipper on your skirt instead, and his mouth starts moving down and away from your neck. Your first reflex –completely involuntary, mind you– is to cross your arms and cover up your breasts, as if it made any difference at this point. His eyes move up to yours, worried again.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No!” –well, now you’re making less sense than the Queen’s Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat poem– “It’s just... ah...”
He understands. Neither of you want it to end, and yet moving forward is just as scary. Before this, when you first started dating, he used to be able to listen to his inside voice when he kissed you. Or rather, he was forced to listen to it, by his own brain – like a switch you can’t turn off, he’d count the number of kisses and always follow the same pattern. His head was constantly yapping at him, keeping track of time so as to not be late for the 5 PM tea, or telling him to compulsively fix your uniform. But since he had climbed on top of you ten minutes earlier, he has not heard his inner voice, not even once. He could not keep count of how many kisses and nibbles he’d placed all over your collarbone, shoulders, inner elbows and wrists; softly motioning you to let go and uncross your arms. And the sheer fact of losing control was terrifying, yet it felt so good.
That being said, when faced with your bare chest, and the zipper on your skirt lowered but still not removed, Riddle feels a flash of clarity and stops dead on his tracks. There she is, the girl he loves, half-dressed, gorgeous, breasts perking up, but there is one thing that doesn’t quite feel right.
“Come here.” He props you up, helping you sit. He moves the hair off your face and pats your head. “I’ll– I’ll take off the rest of my clothes, too.”
It’s not as embarrassing if it’s the two of you, is his reasoning. And it was important for him that this wasn’t one-sided.
“—you wha– you will?” Not at your brightest nor most eloquent, you’re taken aback by his sudden assertiveness, again crossing your arms in front of your chest. He’s halfway through the zipper of his black school pants when he stops to look at you, face fully flushed.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he mumbles guiltily, his delivery harshly contrasting with his words. “You know I hate that.” Feigning authority and playful anger, part of him is trying to be a tease, yet still unsure how.
A giggle escapes your lips. “Shame you’re not wearing the dorm uniform today.”
“—ah.” He notices in that same moment. Had he been so nervous he completely mixed up his clothes today? As the last layers were coming off and he was sitting there in his underwear, he realized it didn’t matter.
“Wait, what is it about the dorm uniform?”
“Heh. Just – the heels,” you blurt out. “They’re kind of... –ah, I’m not gonna say it.”
The idle talk is not important. All you can focus on is how his porcelain skin contrasts with the crimson quilting, and he’s blushing head to toe, like a white rose poorly stained with red paint. Actually, you meant to say the heels turned you on (come on, admit it, just a little?), but halfway through the sentence you noticed you could not be any more aroused, and then he fell on top of you again, and your head emptied completely of thoughts. His hand now presses between your legs, and you wonder where your skirt went – it had been on you just a second before, right?
“Riddle,” you gasp, knowing the fabric of your underwear is betraying you and giving away how wet you are. You have no doubt he can feel it too. And he wishes you wouldn’t call his name, not like that – do you have any idea what you’re doing to him? His fingers are caressing you softly, and it truly feels like you might burst even though you’re just getting started. His face is close to yours, jaw shivering in a cold sweat, even though it feels like there must be a hundred degrees in the darkness of the room. And while he’s helping your orgasm build up, thumb toying with you gently, he can’t help but wonder if your skin feels just as good to the direct touch as it feels through your panties, and how is it that even the parts of you he never knew are all so perfect. It seems slightly unfair, he muses, that you could be this flawless without even trying – but then you wince a little, possibly lost in pleasure, and Riddle starts worrying again.
“Are you okay?” his words feel moist close to your ear.
“Hm-mm.”
“Relax your arms.”
And the second you do, he moves back down again, slobbering kisses all over your neck and chest. While seemingly rawer and more animal than ever, he’s still attentively measuring your reactions, and finds you gasp the loudest when he sucks on your breasts. So, he teases them for a while, circling slowly with his tongue, then softly and toothlessly pinching the stiff center with his lips; he repeats from left breast to right, slowly, deliberately, back and forth, with a sort of rhythmic cadence. Focus, Riddle reminds himself, as his own erection is throbbing painfully. But he’s determined to devote to you first and foremost.
“May I–”
“Yes. Please,” you beg, not even sure what you are agreeing to, but realizing it might as well not matter anymore.
Struggling to open your eyes, you force yourself into keeping alert just so you can take in the view of your raggedly breathing boyfriend, peeking up from the curves between your breasts, hand on the inside of your underwear and soaking his slender fingers inside, applying even pressure. He is amused at the sight of how effortlessly they go in and out, assisted by your moisture, so much so that he forgets about your breasts for a moment. Your voice brings his attention back, however.
“I – I can’t...”
“It’s okay. Don’t hold it in”, he reassures, but maybe he is also talking to himself, as Riddle is always the type to exceed in self-restraint. You are melting, becoming undone with a touch of his hand and he cannot get enough of how it feels – to hear you panting and moaning, to know he will soon be able to press inside you and fill you with his length. It’s an unfamiliar, weird, wonderful thing – not quite like he had imagined, but perfect all the same. Your chest is responsive to his every kiss, and now his fingers have gotten faster and heavier. He can feel you close and is living for it.
“Riddle, I –”
“You’re so beautiful,” he gasps breathily, finally able to be honest with himself. “Don’t hold back. It’s all right.”
“Riddle. Riddle? I’m – I ––”
“––Y/N,” he chuckles, and his touch becomes even more merciless. Your hard nipples cannot possibly take any more kisses. “You’re so adorable.”
It’s not like you need any more stimulation, but as he says this, his mouth is full of one breast and hand cupping the other, and you can clearly see it all, from his heavy-lidded slate grey eyes to his dark red eyelashes, all focused on you as he’s making your sex squeak with wet sounds, pushing down just underneath your navel as his fingers throb and sting inside you.
“Please. Don’t stop.”
He won’t. He’s not the type to tease you like that. Your toes are curling in a frenzy as your legs swing inevitably open, and pretty soon you’re incoherently giving into the thrusting of his hand, and his lips have not left your breasts for one second.
You can’t hold it in. You would have if you could have – the sensation was just too amazing, and you were trying to grasp at straws –literally, if by straws you mean sinking your nails into his shoulders– trying to prolong your orgasm to no avail. You are coming all over, spasming and stirring and gasping his name, and Riddle is a bit scared at first – did he – did he do that? – but it seems you are content, and you settle down huffing beneath him. He takes out his fingers, but his hand stays put, pushing on you softly, as you are still whimpering with the aftershocks that come and go after the peak.
Riddle knows what is supposed to come after that, but the thought alone makes his stomach do cartwheels. Now, how to initiate? He doesn’t have time to think, as you grab him by the wrist, taking his hand out of your underwear and giving it a tug, motioning him to come closer. In your current clouded state, it’s hard of you to completely gain enough strength to pin him down as you originally had wanted to, so you settle to have him sit beside you as you roll over so that your upper body meets his crotch.
“Y/N?” he yelps, suddenly self-aware of how flush his length is against the fabric of his boxers, throbbing to come out, and your face is now caressing it softly with only one layer to separate you.
“Ah. Sorry. Too fast?”
He shakes his head.
“No. Actually,” he pushes his underwear down. “Please. Can you –”
He needn’t ask. The sensation of him in your mouth compelled such novelty – it was weird to get used to, but at the same time felt like the natural next step to take. Tip reddened and throbbing, teased by your lips as your hands would steady his thighs. Funny how something so intense – suckling at him, gasping for jagged breaths, as the bitter taste of his precum numbs your other senses – would come apparent to you so matter-of-factly, unrehearsed yet perfectly calculated. Riddle stifles moans until he can’t anymore, pouring from his lips, buckling into you with hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.
He’s no longer thinking straight, and that’s fine. If he were, he’d still be stuck in the preparation phase, staring mindlessly at the welt of your socks, unable to move. But since he’s no longer counting the kisses he’s given you tonight, he’ll make a point of also not counting how many times he’ll thrust into you, as he topples you over when the wetness of your mouth just won’t quite scratch that itch, and hurriedly reaches over the counter for a condom. It’s not like the guilt is completely done, but this – this is everything right now, and as you are huffing and puffing away below him, eager to receive him, he understands that a bit of chaos is needed every once in a while.
A lot of first times are awkward. This might be no exception. But he enters you with such ease, you wonder how this new feeling can be so recognizable, as the pressure builds between your legs and his hipbones dig into you once again, and he restrains your hands with his, raising your arms, soft eyes filled with lust.
“So tight...” Riddle whispers, but it’s more like sounds are escaping him, uncontrolled, “Y/N... y-you’re...”
His speech is barely intelligible, though you can sometimes make out words – ‘beautiful’, ‘good’, ‘wet’ – and a few poorly-pronounced phrases like “does it hurt?” –– it doesn’t, and as you’re pinned beneath him with a clear view into his quivering rosy lips and half-lidded gaze, you know he’s getting closer as he gets harder. He‘s trying to get his mouth full of your taste as if it were forbidden – like it all boiled down to this one evening, and this chance was all he had. And if it were for him, he would have made it last forever – but his body is not so used to this kind of endurance, so after a few minutes Riddle finally gives in, collapsing into your shoulder, quietly whimpering your name, in a moment of weakness that is greater than he’d like to admit. Riding his orgasm, fingers entwined with yours and digging at your knuckles in a tight grip, his voice is unlike you’ve ever heard it before, and you understand its over once he quiets down.
The silence lasts for a few moments. Or, more appropriately put, a slight wave of sheepish embarrassment, as he’s promptly rolled over to your left and you’re both lying face up and wheezing up a storm as if you’d just ran some kind of marathon. But then Riddle slightly tugs at your hand.
“Everything alright?”
“I think so. You?”
“It’s been... quite the novelty,” he says flatly, but then smiles a little at his choice of words. “Do couples do this all the time? ...it seems exhausting.”
“So that’s it? That was your quota for a whole lifetime? Fine then.”
“––No!” he hastily turns sharp on his side, facing you, only to find that you’re unable to hold your laughter. “–Oh. Not funny, Y/N.”
“Sorry! Sorry.”
“– I would very much like it if we did it again. Uh... tomorrow, or – or some other time.”
You smile. “I would like that, too.”
“Should we settle on a schedule?”
“––what? No!” but a sudden tinge of guilt overcomes you, as you quickly realize he might need it. “U–uh, I mean, if – if that makes it easier for you–––”
“––just kidding,” a soft smirk escapes him, like a stifled giggle that says ‘gotcha’.
“Oh, look at you cracking jokes now,” you accuse him with a pout. “That’s a first.”
“Guess that makes two firsts in one day.”
As you both let out a complicit giggle, reaching out for the sheets and then for each other’s hands, no longer worried about the next one step or million steps to come, you find yourselves drifting off to sleep in a loose embrace.
can u make the continuation of the slight nsfw riddle x fem! reader?? im waiting 😔
HELLO I am so sorry for the delay - I have completed this and just completely forgot to upload to Tumblr!! Here you go: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41219517/chapters/111742243
summary: in which, you're asked who you thought was the prettiest boy and not even a second later you respond with his name. unknowingly leaving him a flustered mess.
a/n: long time no see guys! but here's a little thing I worked on. school literally been beating my ass fr
characters: every housewarden
!tw! insecurities, grammar mistakes im too lazy to fix
Riddle Rosehearts <3
⋆ Riddle's face erupts in a spectrum of red. He’s far too shocked to do anything other than stare agape at the wall.
⋆ Prettiest boy? Him?
⋆ Surely you must be joking. But, you sounded so convinced. You said so fast and bluntly, that surely it's not a joke. That you mean it, right? Right?
⋆ Either way, this boy does not know how to act. He’s going through all stages of denial and acceptance. He’s planning and unplanning how this could turn out for the both of you. He’s anxiously biting at his lip, picking at the loose threads of his blazer. Trying desperately hard to get back on track. Silently cursing(not really) you out for getting him off his game.
⋆ A part of him, a side he keeps hidden, deeply wishes that you meant it with all your heart. Because, he thinks you're very pretty too.
“Prefect, perhaps if you are not busy this coming weekend, you and I could get together.- What will we do? Well I planned a little stroll through the gardens, just you and I of course, and then after, we’ll get dinner- excuse me?…A-a date?! Am I asking you out on a date!?……..Well, if you’d be up to it, then yes. Yes I am.”
Leona Kingscholar <3
⋆ Leona knows he’s good looking. Annoyingly so.
⋆ But to hear you say he was the prettiest boy in all of NCR? Oh boy, his ego is twice its original size. (ha! take that vil!)
⋆ And no, he’s not smiling like a lovesick school girl because of you. Hell to the no. He just saw Malleus fall on his face, actually….SToP LoOKiNG At HiM!
⋆ Does he take your response as truth? Yes. Is he going to bring it up to you and embarrass you just for kicks and giggles? Absolutely, yes. Will he ever confess? ……probably, but first, call him pretty again.
“Pretty? Hmm, I’d prefer attractive, or down right smokin hot. But y’know, I don’t mind pretty if it’s coming from you. Hmmm? Don’t tell me my little herbivore is shy now? C’mon move those hands and let me see your pretty face.”
Azul Ashengrotto <3
⋆ This has to be one of Jade and Floyd’s pranks, right?
⋆ It was in fact not a prank, judging by the two background characters he’s never seen before.
⋆ Okay, it is confirmed that it is indeed not a prank. What now? Well obvi, stage two, embarrassment and quickly approaching stage three, denial!
⋆ Skipping those two stages, because for goodness sake Azul! Get a hang of yourself, man!
⋆ He quickly tries to think of a plan, a contract perhaps. Wait no, last time he tried that, you threatened to hide his cane and glasses. There has to be another way to…to…to….well, he’ll think of that later.
⋆ For right now, Azul is practically glowing in his seat.
“I couldn’t help but overhear, but tonight Monstro Lounge is having an event. Of course, you’re not forced to come, but I’d like to show a better side of me-I mean, my business! If you’ll allow it, that is.”
Kalim Al-Asim <3
⋆ Pretty! You just called him the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen!
⋆ Kalim is over the moon, Jamil has to go and get him down, and practically bursting at the seams. It takes him everything not to glomp you into a bone crushing hug right then and there.
⋆ But he wants to be slow with how he approaches you. Wants to take his time and plan a nice quiet-Yeah like that actually going to happen! Kalim throws a large ass party, nobody knows what it's for besides Jamil, and of course you're the guest-of-honor!
⋆ All of your favorites are there! Everything you could ever hope for lovingly set out and planned for you.
⋆ Kalim hopes this will express his feelings for you and show how happy your comment made him. If not, expect to be dragged in the middle of the party off to a magic carpet ride through the night sky.
⋆ You may be marveling at the pretty sky and stars, but Kalim’s eyes will never leave your pretty face.
“Wasn’t that fun! Let’s do it again! -What? You’re tired? Well that’s no good! Come on, let's have a sleepover. I promise you’ll have the best sleep of your life!- But first, mwah! A pre-good night kiss! Don’t worry there's plenty of more where that came from!”
Vil Schoenheit <3
⋆ Smug, if there was one word to describe Vil, it would be smug.
⋆ Of course, you’d answer with his name! He is the fairest of them all! You were state fact! Nothing but the truth!
⋆ So, why does his knees feel so weak? Why does his face feel warm? And most importantly, why does his heart feel like he just ran a marathon?
⋆ Well never mind that, Vil will not let your little praise get to his head and mess up his whole routine. And yet, as he readies himself for bed, Vil can’t help but linger on your words. Linger on the way your eyes softened and head shyly turned to hide in your shoulder.
⋆ And then those feelings return and Vil can’t do anything to stop them. Like acne it infests his heart and turns it to a bloody red. However, unlike acne, Vil doesn’t want to get rid of it..
"My sweet potato, if you ever feel down, feel free to come to me for assistance. I would love to show you some latest skin and hair products for you to try. And I would be more than happy to demonstrate it for you. Hmm? Ace said that your skin has been looking like Riddle’s face? How rude of that unripe spudling, like he looks any better! Ahem, I mean, perhaps you’d like to take up the offer now then? I’ll be making smoothies.”
Idia Shroud <3
⋆ …pretty….you just called him pretty….system overloading…system crashed…pew…pew…pew…pew…sjdpsjsjlaoap
⋆ There's not a single response from Idia for like five minutes. People think he's a literal statue, birds even start building nests on him for crying out loud! It's that bad.
⋆ But once he gets his system loading properly, oh boy, he let's out the loudest, most high pitched, scream, you think he's getting murder(or seeing someone in the first time in months) He's a whole ass volcano fr.
⋆ He doesn't get it. He really really doesn't and now he thinks you're weird, like really fuckin weird.
⋆ Because he's not pretty. Vils pretty, Mega super dragon boss is pretty, that blue hair normie you hang out with, he's pretty, hell even you, yourself, is pretty! But Idia?
⋆ Yeah, he's scheduling you an eye appointment asap.
⋆ Idia doesn't get you and he never will, at least not yet. He doesn't get what you see in him, why you thought he was the prettiest boy you've ever seen, but for some reason that night, when Ortho was charging and it was just him alone, he could finally look at himself in the mirror and not be repulsed with who looked back at him.
⋆ For once, he finally saw himself as Idia, the prettiest boy in your eyes.
‘A-are you available tonight? Eh? W-w-why?!....oh, ummm, there’s a new game that's coming out and I…I wanted to know if you wanted to be my player 2!’
Malleus Draconia <3
⋆ Hmm, how strange of you. You never cease to surprise him.
⋆ Malleus is used to being called a gallery of different names. He’s heard it all. Pretty being a rare one in the collection. He’s much more used to being called handsome, but pretty? Well, Malleus could get used to that. Especially if it's coming from you.
⋆ Malleus is the one to confront you right after. Thank you for your kind words, ignoring the way his stomach fluttered and cheeks flushed, and promptly disappearing. He’s not sure what exactly to do with this...feeling. It's the first for him, so he finds himself thinking he might have gotten ill. Perhaps, your kindness is truly infectious, like Sebek says.
⋆ However, do not fret! Papi Lilia is on his way to do whatever he does best!
⋆ Malleus is surprised, yet he isn’t in denial or flustered, he’s actually at ease. Relaxed really. Because he can finally put a name to this feeling that infects his heart every time you're around. He knows why his heart felt like it was on fire and why his knees felt weak.
⋆ Because you have infected him, you've been cursed with a disease called love. A disease Malleus doesn’t mind living with as long as he stays the prettiest boy in your eyes.
"You’re quite lovely yourself, my dear Child of Man. Stunning really. You put the stars to shame, the wonders of the Universe to shame, the most stunning jewels are nothing compared to the twinkling of your eyes. My dear, you say I’m pretty, however I believe you're down right gorgeous."
includes. gn reader who can be seen as either yuu or another alternative universe.
cw. kissing? mutual pining, crack.
note. my life is legit depressing and I'm still out here posting 🤞
—ㅤleona kingscholar
is immediately awake when he feels the peck on his lips, and the accompanied lingering scent he can't seem to forget. did you think he was asleep?
holds this above your head for the longest time. oh prefect.. how could you kiss someone who couldn't have been aware of what you've done? it would've been messy if he was actually asleep and never witnessed this.
if you try to run away out of embarrassment he's not gonna let you, by the way. you gotta own up to your actions, no point in being a coward..
huffs silently at the audacity but his ears are obviously twitching in delight. as if to further non-verbally tell you that he's secretly happy you're not sure that even he is aware of the tail tangling around your limb.
does not let go, ever.
"remember when you kissed me when I was 'asleep'?'" "stop."
—ㅤruggie bucchi
torn between being mortified and confused.
mortified because his best friend kissed him, and confused because his best friend kissed him. honestly his feelings are 100% understandable because I'd be a ruggie too if this happened to be.
looks way too cheeky for someone who considers himself to be 'torn between mortified'. plus.. he laughed so you can't label him in that kind of spectrum.
to be honest only his close family actually had kissed him but it was only on the cheek so you bet he's a little.. curious? it was practically only a half second thing but he can't tell why he's feeling hungry again.. didn't be just eat a while ago?
"ahh... can you do that again? gotta make sure to rub it in leona's face."
"ruggie what."
"what? it's only a few times I get to have something he doesn't."
—ㅤjack howl
never skipped leg day.
wait that doesn't have any relation to the post.. anyways jack in comparison, is actually the most flustered and bewildered out of everyone here. kinda ironic since he's definitely the.. buffiest?
you'd expect him to be a little indifferent which only is shown in his expression. struggling to keep his face straight and slowly turning pink despite the flabbergasted look on his face.
for reference: (ㆆ_ㆆ)
"you do know we're best friends.. right?"
"I thought we were dating." you joke.
"... we are?"
you forever scarred him.. were you guys actually dating this whole time?
THANK YOU SO MUCH LOVELY ANON! This means a lot to me 😍
No character limits per request so this is great as-is 💓
The setting you requested is so amazingly detailed and creative - I want to really really capitalize on this opportunity and take my time with this 💕 Just wanted to let you know: request accepted and under production!
Disney crack AU headcanon~ And of course the king who made the party and invitation is... Malleus Draconia
...."Consécration!" Of course my so wild "fangirl" fantasy....was wild in this crack AU. Very wild my little one...
But the Cinderella's king throwing a party for his son ...It's just... Malleus be like "hn...Let's do that too!" Everyone will receive their invitation of course!
"Well, well, well! Are you the one everyone is looking for?"
"Hn fufu, me affraid? I'm not... but if I come out then you'll be affraid!"
"*hand thinking pose* I see ... Human care that much about shoes... Very well! I'll create you a new one fufufu!"
_ Credits:_
Asset game extract from @alchemivich and twst game
“Twisted Wonderland” concept belongs to Yana Toboso
Malleus Draconia "Cinderella king lost at his own party outfit" concept done by me
