Hello! Kindly call me Laurie ^^
I'm an x reader writer that tends to lean to fluff and slice-of-life content. However, please keep in mind I interact and reblog with NSFW stuff so for minors DNI. I'm currently a college student, so my time is quite limited. Hence, I don't post a lot of fics that frequently and I don't have a regular posting schedule.
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summary: Riddle is delighted when you finally join Night Raven College, and even more so when the Dark Mirror assigns you to Heartslabyul. To him, it feels like everything has fallen perfectly into place. Yet as the days pass, he can't ignore the growing distance and your closed off behaviour. Riddle struggles to understand what changed, convinced he has treated you no differently than he always has.
It isn't until his overblot and after reading a little note, that he finally begins to realise where and how horribly he went wrong.
pairing: riddle rosehearts x gn!reader (siblings)
warnings: controlling behaviour, unstable sibling relationship, talk of attempted murder, talk about death. tell me if i missed any warning.
word count: 6.8k
thought i could write this in about 3k words, but that didn't happen. this is mostly a self indulgent fic. i need more sibling fics with the twst characters, so i made one myself.
a big thank you to @celesteelysia for proofreading this!
"OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!"
Riddle Rosehearts did not believe himself to be a cruel person unlike one of the many rumours about him that said otherwise—and those who participated in these falsehoods, intent on the malicious vilification of his character, were swiftly collared.
Strict? Yes, he would never deny that. Determined? Strong-willed? Absolutely! But cruelty implied an amusement in suffering, a pleasure taken in another's fear, and he found no such satisfaction when he used his magic. His magic was not wielded in malice; it was exercised in service. Order demanded sacrifice, and discipline was not something that could be requested or forgiven when ignored. It had to be absolute. The Queen of Hearts' laws were not guidelines meant to bend beneath whim or convenience—they were the bones upon which Heartslabyul stood, and Riddle, as its Housewarden, would sooner break himself than allow those bones to fracture.
The echo of his voice lingered long after the words themselves had dissipated, clinging to the corridor. Silence followed, enveloping and louder than ever. Before him stood one of his card soldiers, a first-year with shoulders drawn inward beneath the weight of the freshly conjured collar now resting against their neck.
The student's head hung low.
Riddle regarded them coolly, his expression composed now that his hot, irritating anger passed. The rule violation was rule 186 which stated that hamburgers were not to be consumed on Tuesdays.
"Let this be a lesson," he said at last, his tone not as harsh as the glare that was burning a hole into the card soldier. "The Queen's rules are not to be treated as suggestions nor as quaint traditions to be selectively participated in. They are law. To disregard them is not merely to break a rule, but to betray the spirit of Heartslabyul itself. Do you understand what that means?"
There was a pause, before a voice answered, thin but sincere. "Yes, Housewarden Rosehearts."
Satisfied, Riddle lifted a hand and dismissed them. The student scurried away at once, careful not to run in the halls—at least they had learned that rule. Riddle watched until they disappeared down the hall, then allowed himself a quiet exhale.
Freshmen were exhausting. They were careless and loud. They treated rules as inconveniences and structure as a personal affront, as though discipline were an imposition rather than a gift. How any of them managed to function at all without constant supervision was beyond him. And yet the Queen of Hearts had ruled an entire Queendom alone, enforcing her laws without hesitation or collapse, and quite possibly dealing with fools along with it too. She was exemplary. And if she could run a queendom with these very rules, he could run a dormitory too. This thought always motivated him.
He straightened, preparing to continue on his way only to slow as a familiar voice drifted out from a nearby study room.
Riddle came to a stop.
He would have recognized that voice anywhere, even in a room full of loud people. Distance, time, distraction—none of it mattered. What sort of brother would he be if he failed to not recognise your voice?
Drawn by instinct, he approached the open doorway. From the threshold, he saw you standing beside Trey, both of your backs turned toward the hallway. Even after a week, he still found himself adjusting to the sight of you in Heartslabyul attire and not the casual ones at home. The uniform sat naturally on your shoulders, as though it had always belonged to you. It was fitting. You were a Rosehearts, after all. Excellence, discipline, and strictness were second nature to you, a perfect fit for Heartslabyul.
He remembered the orientation ceremony vividly: the chaos, the irreverent magicless person from another world, and the fire-breathing direbeast demanding to be enrolled. Yet even amidst that disgraceful spectacle, his eyes had found you. You stood straight and composed among the throng, reacting accordingly and helping others to not give in, or get consumed, to the chaos. That was the only proper reaction he had noted that day.
You carried yourself impeccably. You obeyed the rules faithfully and without complaint, spoke politely, studied with diligence and performed your duty assiduously. Your routine was meticulous, your habits shaped by mother's expectations as surely as his own had been. You already had the Queen's rules memorized and could recite them if prompted. By every measurable standard, you were the ideal first-year.
"…do you think I did it correctly?"
Your tone was earnest as your gaze flicked between Trey and the notebook in his hand.
"Not a single mistake," Trey replied easily, handing it back with a low hum of approval. "Honestly, this is one of the best essays I've seen from a first-year. Your grasp of the material is solid."
"Really?" Your face lit up at once, relief softening your features. "Thank you. I was worried I might have overexplained or rambled a bit."
Trey chuckled. "Your explanation was clear. Just double-check the word count. And, if anything, you could teach a few of your classmates."
Riddle felt something twist as a bright and unguarded smile bloomed on your face. He was pleased. He had every reason to be—you were excelling, just as expected. And yet, seeing you turn to Trey instead of him stirred an unwelcome thought. Had he made himself so inaccessible? Was he no longer dependable? You always came to him for help.
"Oh— Housewarden," Trey greeted, noticing him at last and snapping Riddle away from his thoughts.
Riddle inclined his head in acknowledgment. You immediately went quiet.
"Did you require assistance with your coursework?" Riddle asked, directing the question to you.
"Not entirely," you replied. "I just wanted to confirm whether my homework was acceptable."
"I see." His tone remained neutral, not to let even a wisp of disappointment slip through. "If you have concerns, you may come to me directly. I am fully capable of assisting. There is no need to trouble Trey—"
"Oh, it isn't like that!" You interrupted hastily, and Riddle frowned. Interruptions were rude, though he let it pass in favour of hearing what you had to say. "Trey was nearby, and you're busy running the dorm, so I didn't want to be a bother…"
Your voice trailed off, retreating inward and growing softer.
Mumbling. Another display of bad manners.
"It would not be a bother," he said at once, ignoring the infractions. "I make time for my dorm members. And you are—" my sibling hovered dangerously close to his tongue, but he didn't let it slip past the threshold of his lips. He corrected himself, "—a member of Heartslabyul."
"Of course," you answered.
Trey stepped in smoothly, sensing the tension. "It really wasn't an inconvenience, Housewarden. It only took a moment. They learn quickly."
"I'm sure they do," Riddle replied, letting the matter rest for now.
He half-expected you to linger or have something else to say, but instead you gathered your things.
"I'll take my leave now," you said. "Thank you, Trey. Good evening, Housewarden."
And then you were gone.
A faint uneasiness lingered in his thoughts, but he crushed it at once. Indulgence in needless speculation served no purpose. You were likely hurrying off to study, nothing more.
"Was there something you wanted to discuss?" Trey asked gently.
"Yes." Riddle inhaled, refocusing. "Inform the new card soldiers of the flamingo feeding schedule. And remind them of the importance of memorizing the Queen's rules. I will not tolerate further delays."
"Understood."
Once alone, Riddle forced his thoughts away from you and onto his responsibilities. There was an unbirthday party to prepare for. There were rules to enforce. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing else was permitted to matter.
And for the most part, nothing else did.
He was busy; very, very busy collaring repeat offenders like Ace Trappola and Deuce Spade, whose talent for chaos seemed limitless. His days were consumed by the same routine. No room for anything pointless, of course.
It was comforting to believe that this was all there was to his days. Unfortunately, what he believed was not always what happened and there were instances where he was not being productive and found himself standing still without a reason, as he was right now.
When he saw you laughing with Cater Diamond, the sensation like a croquet mallet hitting his face struck him.
It was not that you were only smiling, but you were openly laughing. Which, he did not have any issues with. It was just that… from the handful of interactions he had shared with you since the orientation ceremony, he could not recall a single instance in which you had laughed in his presence or even allowed yourself the ease of a relaxed smile.
At home, it had been different.
There, your laughter had come easily, especially in those rare moments when Mother was not present. You had spoken freely then, teased him without fear, and smiled as though happiness was all you felt around him. That version of you seemed impossibly far away now, replaced by the quiet, rule-abiding student.
He could not understand what was happening with him, if indeed anything was happening at all.
His heartbeat was steady, he did not feel angry, he was not slouching, he was not tired, he did not feel scared. And yet there was a peculiar chill behind his sternum, an unfamiliar draft wandering through the locked doors of his mind. Laughter and companionship passed just at the edges of his presence, and in doing so, only sharpened the sense of something absent—something that ought to have been standing beside him.
You should have stood–
No.
Leave it, he reminded himself, forcing the thought away before it could take shape. He shouldn't be wasting time. He had important matters that required his full attention, such as–
…such as…
His brain stalled.
Forgetfulness was not a shortcoming of his, and yet he could not think nor could he move his feet.
He did not leave and just watched.
You sat beside Cater at a study table, a few notebooks stacked at your side. One notebook, however, lay apart from the rest. It was smaller, and the colour of it different from the rest.
"—and that's why you gotta be careful," Cater was saying. "NRC is fun, but not everyone here respects privacy. Like, seriously, people will be all smiley to your face and then totally pry later. If they find something juicy? Boom, everyone knows!"
"So, anyone would take something that isn't theirs given the chance? For their own enjoyment? Such mannerless conduct!" Your tone was disapproving. You were offended by the very idea, and rightfully so.
"Oh, totally," Cater laughed, tapping his phone against your notebook. "Like, everyone's not malicious, but some people have literally zero boundaries. So, lock that baby away, kay? No leaving it behind in the open, especially if anyone knows it's a diary."
A diary.
So, this was what you were doing. Dawdling and wasting your study time away with Cater as he encouraged you to waste your time away in a diary! And you were allowing Cater to pull you away from academics too!
Irritation flared up instantly. He needed to put a stop to this.
"Cater," Riddle said sharply, stepping forward. "Put your phone away."
Both of you jolted in your seats, your posture immediately pulling straight. Some part of him savored the discipline displayed in the reflex.
"And you," Riddle continued, eyes on you now, "should be studying. Not loitering."
Your gaze fell.
"Yes, bro—" You caught yourself, your voice just above a whisper. "Housewarden."
His mind seized upon the word you had nearly spoken, clinging to it. He reined his expressions, not letting a single display of his state of mind slip through.
You had almost said it.
You used to say it so easily. Big brother. Sometimes simply Riddle just to bother him. You would call him 'brother' as you would trail after him through the house with a book clutched to your chest, pestering him to read it to you despite his protests. You would tug at his sleeve and beg until he gave in, sitting beside you while you comfortably listened to him.
You had said it when you dragged him into games he knew better than to agree to. Catch, played with a pencil sharpener of all things, laughter stifled between hurried throws and half terrified of being discovered because discovery would mean punishment for you both. You had said it after your mother scolded you, when you clung to him, face buried against his shoulder as you wiped away tears that were never allowed to fall where Mother could see. He did not know how to comfort but he never told you to let go.
But that had been before.
A year before he had left for Night Raven College.
The title had vanished from his life as though it had never existed at all.
He had grown accustomed to that absence: a year without your presence at his side.
And now you were here. Standing in the same dorm.
He did not acknowledge the hesitation or correction in your voice. He allowed the moment to pass as though it had never existed at all. Afterall, Housewarden was the correct title to refer to him as, not brother. He shouldn't be bothered in the first place.
So, he focused on the actual issue he had.
His gaze settled upon the slender notebook resting near your hands. Your fingers were curled around it, almost hiding it from his gaze.
"That notebook," he said at length, his voice controlled yet bearing an unmistakable edge, "is not a standard coursework notebook."
Your fingers, which had been resting lightly upon its cover, stiffened beneath his scrutiny.
"It is not," you answered carefully. "It is a diary."
"A diary," Riddle repeated, slowly. "You intend to keep a diary?"
"Yes, Housewarden."
"No."
Your shoulders drew back at his response.
"No?" you echoed.
"No," he said again, firmer now, his tone acquiring that familiar cadence of rule recitation. "A diary serves no academic purpose. Furthermore, it invites the mind to wander into territories that are neither productive nor conducive to your duties. It will distract you. Thoughts committed to paper may be discovered, misinterpreted, or misused. I see no benefit that outweighs the risk."
After he was done speaking, you spoke up.
"May I respond?"
Riddle inclined his head. "Proceed."
"With respect, Housewarden," you said, hastily speaking everything as if you would get cut off. "a diary need not be an instrument of disorder. It is meant to support discipline. Writing helps me organize my thoughts the same way schedules and rules do. If something is troubling me, I will write it down instead of letting it distract me during lessons. If I make a mistake, I will record it, so I won't repeat it."
He didn't interrupt and you continued.
"Cater told me the rules of it too," you added. "I've set my own rules, very strict ones. I only write at designated times. I never bring it to class. I don't record anything about other students. And no rumours. Nothing that could harm anyone if it were seen. And… Cater explained the importance of privacy. He told me how careless people can be. I will take precautions. I keep it with me at all times, and when I don't, it will be locked away."
Oh. Rules. And restrictions. Something he could understand. Perhaps your convictions were not lousy as he had just feared if rules were still in the forefront of your mind.
There was a pause, mostly you staring at him, searching for something on his face though he did not know what you were so intently looking for.
"If you're still worried about it being discovered, I can devise a cipher," you added hesitantly now, "Nobody would understand it even if they were to read it. Is that agreeable with you?"
A cipher. It seemed like a good idea in hindsight, but you would be wasting time developing a cipher in the first place.
"Okay, I'm just gonna say it—this is officially the most intense conversation ever had about a notebook."
Cater leaned forward, resting his face on his hand.
"Housewarden," he continued, tone light but not careless, "with all due respect, it's not like they're careless. It's literally journaling. People have been doing that since, I don't know, forever?"
"Cater," he said evenly, feeling his irritation rise, "this does not concern you."
"Oh, it absolutely concerns me," Cater replied at once. "Because I'm the one who suggested the diary in the first place."
"And before you say it's a distraction, hear me out." He held up a hand. "Diaries can get messy if people use them to vent and then stew in it. But that's not what your sibling is doing. They literally made rules for it. If anything, it's the most Heartslabyul diary to ever exist."
Riddle considered it and turned his gaze towards you.
"You believe this will aid your discipline," he said at last.
"Yes, Housewarden."
"And you are prepared to follow the rules."
"Yes."
"And if it ceases to serve its stated purpose?"
"I will discontinue it."
"Very well… I will permit it," Riddle said. "On conditions. The rules you have outlined will be followed without exception. Should this diary become a distraction, or should it lead to any breach of conduct, it will be confiscated immediately."
"Yes, Housewarden."
Riddle turned away then, the matter settled.
"I have noticed that you have taken to the company of Ace Trappola and Deuce Spade."
Riddle did not have to raise his voice to have your attention in the empty corridor.
As of late, he had begun to notice your frequent companions being those two rule-breakers.
Ace Trappola, currently collared, and Deuce Spade, whose sincerity seemed constantly at war with his own impulsiveness. Though, Riddle did not need to ask why you were spending time with them. Everyone on Heartslabyul knew enough of their characters to understand how easily chaos followed their wake. He was merely here to remind you that your choice of company was lamentable.
"Yes, Housewarden," you replied, hands clasped in front of you. "I have taken to their company."
"Ace Trappola has demonstrated, on multiple occasions, a disregard for rules so flagrant that it is an intentional provocation. Deuce Spade, while earnest, is highly susceptible to poor influence. Their conduct has necessitated disciplinary action more times than I care to count." He paused, eyes fixed on you. "And yet you seek them out."
"I do not seek to break any rules," you said carefully. "If my conduct has been inappropriate, I will correct it."
That was not the answer he sought.
"I did not say that you had broken a rule," Riddle replied, though his tone suggested the distinction was thin. "But the people with whom you associate yourself reflect upon you."
You nodded immediately. "I understand."
Did you? Or were you agreeing because agreement was safer? He was aware that you were capable of judging characters, which was why it was so peculiar as to why you took to the trouble duo. You, of all people, should understand what transpires when one falls under the influence of others' poor behaviour.
He felt neither satisfaction nor relief at your compliance.
Rather, it was a peculiar sensation—an uneasy familiarity in the sight of your acquiescence, the subdued compliance that followed his words with such quick acceptance. He has seen you do that your entire life.
"You were not sent here to squander your efforts in the company of those who will lead you astray," his words left a bitterness in his mouth, and he knew why. "You do—"
"Respectfully, Housewarden," you interrupted him, folding your arms. "Many spend time with Ace and Deuce, yet you are picking me out of everyone to criticise for my company. I thought Housewardens didn't pick favourites to discipline."
…Were you trying to go against him?! Pick an argument!? Why, you—
"I am not trying to be rude or argue, Housewarden. I am merely curious why I am the only one being reprimanded when this resembles favouritism," you spoke softly now, hands falling to your side.
Favouritism? He was looking after you—ensuring his most exemplary dorm member did not slide into indiscipline. Moreover, what would Mother think if she discovered the company you kept? He had no desire to see you subjected to the same scolding he had endured years ago for his own choice of companions.
"You presume much," he said at last, the words escaping with an irritated huff. "I do not reprimand you because you are uniquely guilty. And if I wished to discipline you, you would know it. I speak to you because I expect better. You are well aware of the consequences of bad company. I am here to remind you of that."
He watched you grow tense at his words. It went quiet for a moment, the only sound being the sounds of a ticking clock signifying the passage of time; the every passing second as he watched you finally realise why he was confronting you, and…
…watching your realisation turn into a blank expression.
"I see what you mean, Housewarden. I understand that you are guiding me and—" your eyes dropped, fingers curling into fists, your expression carefully empty "—thank you for your guidance."
The ticking sound of the clock continued.
"Yes," he said. "Do follow what I said."
Riddle's gaze drifted to one of the clocks lining the corridor.
Forty minutes. Forty minutes until the Unbirthday Party. He ought to be inspecting preparations now; any further delay would disrupt his schedule. If everything proved satisfactory, he might even have a few minutes to spare before the party commenced.
"I will see you at the Unbirthday Party, Housewarden," you murmured, already moving toward the twisting corridors.
He nodded absently at your departure, his mind already cataloguing tasks: should he visit the kitchen first or inspect the painted roses?
A folded sheet of paper skittered beneath his foot as he took a step. His gaze dropped to the unexpected object. He bent to retrieve it but did not open it. The paper had not been there moments ago; you must have dropped it in your haste.
With a soft sigh, he tucked it into his pocket and continued on his way. He would need to address your absent-mindedness later. For now, he had more pressing matters demanding his attention.
The infirmary ceiling had cracks. Though those cracks were not a cause of concern, only a sign of age.
Riddle had counted them all. Forty-three, branching from the corner nearest the window, then a cluster in the middle which almost looked like the branching of rivers on a map or like the veins of blot that had enveloped him when he had overblotted. It was the sort of detail his mother would have noticed immediately—a sign of neglect, of lack of discipline, or of standards slipping. But his mother was not here, and Riddle was beginning to understand that.
It had been two days since the incident. He remembered the aftermath clearly: how he cried and cried, begged for forgiveness, confessed everything, and made a promise to be better.
He felt better now. The doctor had said so this morning. He no longer coughed up the black substance that had pooled in his lungs, and the blot that had clung to his skin had receded enough that he could pass a hand over his arm without feeling its viscous residue. Visitors were permitted, they told him. He could receive visitors now.
No one had come.
No. That was not quite fair. Trey had visited, sitting in the chair beside his bed and talked with him. Cater had popped in briefly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, his phone conspicuously absent from his hand. Deuce had appeared at the doorway once, hovering awkwardly until a nurse shooed him away. But the one person Riddle found himself waiting for had not come.
Perhaps that was deserved.
He remembered the overblot now. Not all of it—the memories came in flashes, all disjointed and quite unsettling—but enough. Enough to recall the feeling of it: the rush of power that had flooded through him like water breaking through a dam, the intoxicating certainty that he was right, that every rule he had ever enforced was justified, that anyone who stood against him simply did not understand. For one terrible yet glorious moment, he had been more in control than he had ever been in his life. For that singular moment, he felt he was correct and everyone would be proven wrong.
And then he had not been in control at all.
The rush had become a flood, and the flood had become a drowning, and somewhere in the midst of it he had looked out at the few of the onlookers and seen a horrified and teary–
No. He would not think about your face.
Riddle shifted against the pillows, pushing himself up to sit on the bed and his gaze went upon the beside table. Aside from the medicine, his personal items were there, presumably arranged by whoever had went through his dorm uniform's pockets after he undressed. His handkerchief, folded neatly. A spare pen. His magic pen, no longer black with blot. A safety pin—why did he carry a safety pin? Was it in case his attire malfunctioned? He could not remember the reason properly. And, lastly, a folded piece of paper.
He frowned. He did not carry loose papers. Everything he carried with him served him some purpose, but a loose sheet was useless when he had a sharp memory. This must have been left by a visitor—though who would visit him and leave a note rather than speak, he could not imagine.
He reached for the sheet, unfolded the note, and read the first few sentences.
I don't know how to write this down without it sounding awful, but I need to put it somewhere. I need to make it real so I can understand it.
I don't know how to feel around him anymore. He says he's looking out for me, but every time he speaks, I hear Mother instead. That same tone, the same disappointment. And the same way of making me feel small for wanting something different than what he wants for me.
I love him. He's my brother. But sometimes I'm scared of him. And I hate myself for that.
Riddle stopped reading.
Ten lines. That was all he read before his heart dropped through the floor.
Sometimes I'm scared of him. The words echoed in his head. I hear Mother instead.
Mother.
I can't breathe.
His chest constricted. The air in the infirmary felt thin and insufficient. He opened his mouth to draw a deeper breath and felt something catch in his throat.
He coughed.
The sound was small, muffled against the back of his hand, but it carried everything he could not speak: a choked, broken thing that tasted of sorrow and regret and the sharp, bitter disappointment of knowing exactly what he had become. He had spent years trying to be the opposite of his mother and be a good brother, someone you could confide in about anything. He had absorbed her lessons so you might be spared the worst of them. He had only ever wanted to keep you safe. He didn't realise that he was the mirror of the same woman you feared.
How awful it must be to love and fear the same person. Even worse since you felt that way for two people which were family to you.
"Are you feeling unwell? Should I call the nurse?"
Your voice. The concern threaded through each word made him realise he had not actually registered your entrance until this moment.
He turned to look at you.
You stood a few feet from the bed, hands clasped in front of you, your face drawn tight with worry. How long had you been standing there?
"I am fine," he said. The words came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "It was merely a cough. The nurse says the blot has receded."
You nodded, then moved toward the chair beside his bed. You sat, hands moving to your lap, back straight—Mother would approve of that posture, he thought, and immediately wished he hadn't.
Silence settled between you both. The uncomfortable sort of silence.
He quietly watched you nod, noting the blatant discomfort showing in your face. You had always seemed so contained usually. He had thought it meant you were like him.
"Are you feeling well?" you asked again, softer this time.
"I am recovering," he said, because it was the truth. "The physicians say I will make a full recovery. The blot has nearly cleared. In a few days, I should be able to resume my duties."
You nodded again. "That's good. That's– I'm glad."
The silence returned.
Riddle looked down at the paper still in his hand. Then, before he could stop himself, he said, "I found this."
Your gaze followed his movement. Confusion, first, then followed recognition. Then your expression go very, very still.
"Oh." The word was small. "I– I thought I'd lost that. I tore it out from my diary. I was going to burn it, I—" You stopped and swallowed. "I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to see that."
"I see." He did not know what else to say.
You shifted in your chair and went still again, and in that small movement, he noticed something else. When you were uncomfortable, you did not fidget. You went still. Completely, unnaturally still, like an animal hoping the predator would pass by.
Unlike me, he thought. When Mother–
He stopped that thought before it could finish.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
You looked at him with surprise. "Pardon?"
"I owe you an apology." The words felt foreign in his mouth. He had apologised before, but this was different. "For—" He stopped, and started again. "I read your words. I was not meant to. But I read them, and I understand now that I have been…" He searched for the right term. "I have been blind."
"I thought I was protecting you." He confessed. "When I spoke to you about Ace and Deuce. When I reminded you of the rules. When I—" He inhaled. "When I corrected you. I thought I was keeping you safe… from Mother's disappointment. That you never face any consequences." He paused. "I did not realise I had become the person you were scared of most."
You were quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly, you said, "I meant to burn that page up."
"I wrote it a few days ago. After you—" You stopped. "After you collared many students. And I came back to my room and I wrote everything down because I couldn't say it to your face. And then I read it the next morning and I thought—" You exhaled. "I thought, this is unfair. This is my fear, not his fault. He doesn't know. He doesn't see it, but he doesn't know."
He doesn't see it. You were correct, he didn't see it.
"I was going to burn it," you said. "I took the page out to burn it. And then I must have—" You pressed a hand to your forehead. "I must have dropped it. And now you've read it, and—"
"It's okay. It was for the better that I knew how you felt. I needed to know who you actually are. Not who I thought you should be."
You looked at him. Your eyes were bright… too bright, actually. He realised with a start that you were holding back tears.
"Why?" you asked, your voice cracked at that word. "Why did you do that, Riddle? Do you know what I saw? Do you know what you did?"
Riddle remained silent.
"You tried to kill people." Your voice dropped. "You would have killed Deuce, if Cater's clone hadn't—" You stopped. Started again. "You went after Ace. After anyone who tried to stop you. Your magic was everywhere, and you were destroying everything. And I kept thinking, he's my brother, he's my brother, he wouldn't— but you would. You already were, in front of my eyes. And there was nothing I could do."
He watched you as you spoke, and for the first time, he truly saw you as a person. Someone separate from him.
He had always assumed you were like him. Not identical, of course—you were gentler and quieter—but fundamentally cut from the same cloth. Someone who understood, as he did, that structure was safety, that obedience was living, that the alternative to Mother's way was something far worse.
But you were not him.
"I thought you were going to die," you continued, "I thought– if the blot didn't kill you, if your magic didn't tear you apart from the inside… someone would have to stop you. And I didn't know if you would survive at all." You clasped your hands tighter. "I thought you would die and the last memory of you would be you losing control."
You were crying now. Silent tears, tracking down your cheeks without sound. You wiped them away immediately.
You cry like I do, he noticed.
But you put words to your fear, to the things that hurt you. You write your emotions in a diary, have a courage to make friends who were different from you; they broke rules and faced the consequences and lived anyway. You had come to his bedside after watching him try to destroy everything, and you had asked if he was well. And that was nothing like him at all.
You were quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly you reached out and took the paper from his hand. You looked at it, at your own words and then you folded it and set it on the bedside table.
"I should have told you," you said. "Instead of writing it down and hiding it. I should have just… told you."
You couldn't, he thought. I never let you.
"I should have listened," he said. "Instead of… everything I did. I should have just listened."
The clock ticked by.
"You were trying to kill them because they broke rules. Because they annoyed you. Because—" You paused, pressed your lips together. "I kept thinking, what if I stood right in front of you? What if I had broken a rule without meaning to? Would you have—" You didn't finish.
The unspoken question hung in the air.
Would you have tried to kill me too?
Riddle felt the words curl around him and suffocate him. Because the answer, he realised with horror, was not an immediate and certain no. The overblot had not been rational. It had not discriminated. It had been fury and control and the desperate, terrible need to make everything right by making everyone obey—and if you had stood in his path, if you had defied him, if you had been counted among the rule-breakers he sought to punish.
"I do not know," he whispered. "I want to say no. I want to believe—" He stopped, closed his eyes. "But I was not myself. And that is not an excuse. It is simply the truth."
When he opened his eyes, you were watching him, just watching him.
"That's the scariest part," you said softly. "That it was you. Even if it wasn't you. But, I know you won't harm anyone now. It was relieving to hear that you didn't like all the rules."
You were not pretending. You were telling him the truth, and in doing so, you were treating him like someone capable of hearing it.
And he knew for certain that you were not him. Never would be. You had the heart to talk to him despite being scared. That you believed he wouldn't harm anyone again, even if he had done nothing to deserve that trust, even if he believed you were being a little too kind.
"You are too kind," he said quietly. "I have done nothing to earn that belief."
You shrugged, a small movement. "We're siblings. I want to believe it."
Want. Not do.
He looked down at his hands. They were still his hands; the same hands that had held his magic pen, that had adjusted his collar each morning. The same hands that had reached for his magic during the overblot, hungry for power, hungry for control.
"I need to apologise properly," he said. "Not the way I begged and cried and promised to be better. I need to apologise for what I have done to you specifically."
You leaned back against the chair and nodded.
"When Mother would criticise me," he started, "when she would correct my behaviour or my friendships or my choices, I told myself that I would spare you that. I would be the buffer between you and her expectations. I would ensure you never felt her disappointment the way I did. That was my goal."
"But I did not spare you. I became her." he sighed. "In the same manner she forbade me from ever interacting with Trey and Che'nya, I was preparing to forbid you from Ace and Deuce. I told myself it was different, that my reasons were protection, not control. That my concern was your wellbeing."
His hands curled against the sheets.
"But it was the same. It is the same. I was going to isolate you from people who make you happy because I decided they were wrong for you. Because I decided I knew better. Because I looked at your friendships and saw only what could go wrong, never what could go right."
He turned to look at you again, watching you remain quiet.
"I am sorry." The words were simple, though still didn't feel like they were enough. "I am sorry for every time you agreed with me because disagreement felt worse. For every time you looked at me and saw her instead."
You still remained quiet for a long moment, gazing at him intently, perhaps looking for any lies.
"I cannot hate you," you muttered. "I am just... sad. And confused. Because I remembered when we were younger, and you would let me solve your handmade crossword puzzles, fixed my little mistakes before mother saw them. We were together—" You stopped and shrugged. "And then you just… changed. And the year you were away, here, at Night Raven College, it seemed to have changed you into… a tyrant, as Ace had said."
"He is not wrong," Riddle admitted. "I enforced rules without question, without remembering why they existed in the first place. I forgot that rules are meant to serve people, not the other way around."
You nodded at his words, your fingers toyed absently with the edge of the sleeve of your uniform.
"Ace asked you for an apology tart," you said, shifting the topic.
"Yes, he did."
"I am assuming you will apologise to everyone in the dorm. Everyone seems to be pestering me about you."
"I will address the dorm properly," he said. "Once I am released, I will speak with each member properly."
You hummed in acknowledgement. "Then I would like something as well." you said.
"Name it." He did not hesitate.
"I do not want a dessert," you said. "Or any object for that matter. I want your time."
"My time?" he repeated.
"Yes." Your shoulders squared, though your voice remained quiet. "Not as Housewarden. I simply want you to spend time with me as you used to. Without rules being the subject, or anything."
"Just once a week," you added, almost hastily, as if remembering he had a busy schedule. "An hour, perhaps. To play chess, or do crosswords, or walk the gardens, or play croquet. Something nice."
Riddle did not speak. The request was not elaborate. It required him simply spending time with you.
"You believe that would suffice?" he asked quietly.
"No," you answered with disarming honesty. "But it would be nice."
"Then, I will give you my time," he said at last, each word deliberate. "And I promise it will be once every week and I will not cancel on you."
You studied him again, as though looking for any insincerity.
"That will do," you said, finally.
You stood up from your seat, noting the time.
"I think I should leave now," you said. "I hope you get well soon, Riddle."
"I will," he smiled at you. "Thank you for visiting."
You lingered for only a moment longer after that, as though uncertain whether there was something else that ought to be said, but you seemed to be satisfied with the conversation and left him with an awkward wave that meant 'bye'.
Riddle loosened up against the pillow, sighing as he went back to staring at the ceiling.
Just noticed today that we are mutuals
ε(´｡•᎑•`)っ♡
I really like your writing! I like the way you write Riddle, you capture his character well!
Hullo uhaina!! (つ≧▽≦)つ
Sry for the late response, I've been busy during the weekdays since I'm taking a midyear
And omg!!! Thank you sm ><. It means so much to me. Riddle is such a favorite character of mine and I really want to do him justice when I write him ^^. I read somewhere (i don't remember if its canon or an hc by someone) that Riddle is someone who is genuinely well-intentioned. And, that honestly stuck with me and every vignette or story that I read in the game that involves him I just can't help but see that hc shine thru his interactions. And, I just think tbh that Riddle wouldn't be Riddle if there isn't a certain structure to how he does or approach things (if that makes sense HAHAHHAHA). And, Riddle upholds himself quite strictly and to a higher standard so that very much reflects in his actions and words.
Usually with those in mind, I guess it was an easy conclusion that oh! he would be quite an attentive lover to his partner. Someone who would be down to the whims of his partner expecially on the mundane aspects (provided it's not breaking a rule or smth dangerous). And, I just get so excited placing him in sweet and slow moments bcs oh my god, he needs a break. He needs to be in a soft moment where he loves and he is loved.
LIKE AHHHHH ಥ_ಥ. Riddle...
The sleepwear card really fueled me bcs he genuinely looks so soft in it. Genuinely believe that after the day, once the sun is set and the dorm is settled, behind the closed doors of his room is where he is at his most vulnerable. And, the possibilities for soft moments in that is just endless
Ngl! When I initially saw ur profile, I was so amazed by how beautiful it was! And when I saw ur desc as a Riddle lover, i was like, ok, that's a follow HAHHAHAHAHHAHAHA. I read one of ur works (the one with Reader as Riddle's sibling) and you! have! me! hooked!
And, you basically introduced me another source of angst for Riddle. Which is siblings. Bcs wow, living in the Rosehearts household I think would leave no one unscathed. I want to like, give a semi-rant abt that fic But! I wanna send that to u in ur asks! Because honestly, the sibling dynamic resonated deeply to me I fear
one day grace tries on one of their eridian shirts and is like hehe it has way too many holes for my few limbs :-) and to rocky and adrian its like the equivalent of putting your dog in a pair of pants
catastrophically.˚ ⋆ 𖤓☽˚.⋆ | “you make everything stop.”
ryland grace x alien!fem!reader (ft. rocky) | [previous episode]
—more than friends to lovers.
RYLAND grace is not normal about you. unfortunately, “normal” stops being an option approximately four days after you join him on the hail mary.
it starts innocently enough.
at least, that’s what he tells himself.
you’re the first intelligent lifeform he’s encountered besides himself in an impossibly long time. of course he’s emotionally invested. of course he likes talking to you. of course he keeps finding excuses to linger in rooms after conversations should reasonably end.
that’s just psychology. not love. definitely not love.
then one morning he wakes up before you and immediately feels disappointed about it. and that’s… concerning. because ryland has spent most of his adult life alone very comfortably. he likes solitude. likes quiet. likes not having to emotionally perform around people constantly.
but now the hail mary feels strange when you’re not in the room. too still. too empty. and it doesn’t help that you’re so painfully easy to adore.
you emerge from your sleeping pod every morning with your hair floating wildly around your face in, feet slightly dangling as you fly around the ship, glowing softly with sleepiness while mumbling cheerful greetings in increasingly better english.
“good morning, ryland grace,” you say brightly one day. “i have missed you for seven hours.”
ryland nearly choked on his coffee pouch. you don’t notice. you never seem to notice what you’re doing to him. or maybe you do. he honestly can’t tell anymore.
at first, he thinks your warmth is simply cultural. your species is tactile and emotionally expressive in ways humans aren’t. you touch his arm while talking. lean against him while reading data projections. smile at him constantly with this open radiant affection that makes his chest hurt.
none of it means anything romantic necessarily.
probably.
except then you start seeking him out.
not just for work. not just for translation practice or scientific collaboration. for him. if he disappears into another section of the ship too long, you come looking. always with some transparent excuse. “i have another human question.” “the plants appear emotionally unstable again.” “i became bored without conversation.”
and every single time, ryland feels himself soften instantly at the sight of you. it becomes ridiculous very quickly. he starts talking more around you. rambling honestly. endless tangents about earth and science and terrible films and obscure marine biology facts that absolutely do not matter. and you listen to all of it like he’s fascinating.
that’s the real problem. nobody has ever looked at ryland grace the way you do. not impatiently. not tolerantly. not waiting for him to finish. you look at him like hearing his thoughts is genuinely the best part of your day.
one time he’s explaining the concept of theme parks while repairing a filtration system, mostly because you asked why humans would voluntarily pay money to experience fear recreationally.
“it’s the illusion of danger,” he says, crouched halfway beneath an open panel. “your brain knows you’re safe, so it turns fear into excitement.”
you’re sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor listening intently. “humans are very strange.”
“correct.”
“you enjoy this?”
“rollercoasters? absolutely not.”
you think about it seriously, “i would likely vomit.” ryland laughs so suddenly he bangs his head against the panel above him.
“ow— fudge.”
you gasp and immediately lean towards him in alarm. “ryland!”“i’m okay,” he wheezes, rubbing his forehead. but you’re already kneeling beside him, glowing faintly with concern while gently moving his hand away to inspect the injury yourself.
and ryland stops functioning entirely because you’re so close. your face inches from his. your hands warm against his skin. your expression openly worried in a way that feels terrifyingly sincere. “there is redness,” you murmur.
“yep.”
“you are injured.”
“it’s barely—”
you touch his forehead lightly. ryland forgets every language he has ever spoken. you blink at him. “your heart rate accelerated significantly.”
“yeah, well,” he says weakly, “that happens sometimes.” you continue staring. then very earnestly: “humans are emotionally unstable organisms.” and somehow that makes him laugh.
that night he lies awake in bed staring at the ceiling of the hail mary and realises, with absolute certainty, that he is catastrophically in love with you. not a little bit. not rationally. catastrophically. the kind of love that rewires your nervous system. the kind where your entire day reorganises itself around another person without permission.
he starts noticing insane details after that.
the exact shade your glow turns when you’re amused. how your voice softens when you’re tired. the way you fly closer unconsciously whenever he sounds upset. he notices because he’s watching you constantly now. not intentionally. okay, maybe intentionally. a little.
the worst part is that he cannot hide it to save his life.
one evening you’re both cataloguing samples in the lab while soft music plays through the ship speakers. ryland is supposed to be entering data. instead he’s watching you smile at a petri dish because apparently some microbial reaction looks “friendly.”
“you know,” he says before thinking better of it, “you’re really cute when you do that.” you glance up immediately. “do what?”
“uh.”
abort mission. abort mission immediately.
“you make that face,” he says helplessly. “that little— the smile thing.” you beam at him. actually beam. “oh! you find me visually pleasing.”
ryland physically covers his face with both hands. “ryland grace,” you say with growing delight, “you are turning red.”
“i know.”
“this is extraordinary!”
“i’m having a horrible time.”
you laugh so brightly the sound echoes through the ship, and ryland thinks helplessly that he would probably survive being set on fire if it made you laugh like that again.
by the time rocky arrives, the situation has already become completely unmanageable. rocky notices immediately. because of course he does.
the first time the three of you share a proper meal together, rocky pauses midway through discussing astrophage trajectories. “observation,” he says calmly. “grace stare at y/n constantly.” ryland chokes on his cup noodles. you look delighted. “you have observed this also!”
“oh my god,” ryland groans.
rocky tilts his body curiously. “why grace pretend this not obvious, question?”
“it is not obvious.”
rocky and you stare at him in silence. then you say gently, “ryland grace, earlier today you walked into a wall while looking at me.”
“in my defence, that wall came out of nowhere.”
“you say this often,” rocky observes.
it only gets worse after that. because now rocky actively enjoys pointing it out. ryland offers you his blanket during a cold cycle?
“observation: mating behaviour.”
ryland brings you human fruit portions because you liked them once?
“grace perform courtship ritual.”
ryland spends forty straight minutes fixing the environmental settings because you mentioned the temperature felt slightly uncomfortable?
“grace aware he already pair-bonded, question?”
“rocky,” ryland says through a full body blush, “i need you to know, you’re not helping.”
meanwhile you seem endlessly fascinated by all of this. not mocking. never mocking. just curious.
“you care for me greatly,” you say one evening while the two of you float near the observation deck watching distant stars drift past. ryland glances at you nervously. “yeah. i do.” you smile softly at that. “so does rocky.”
“okay, yes, but differently.” you tilt your head. “explain.”
and there it is. the problem. because ryland grace can explain astrophage reproduction and relativistic mechanics and molecular biology under pressure. but trying to explain how deeply he loves you apparently turns his brain into soup.
“i just…” he exhales shakily. “i think about you all the time.” you blink slowly. “i worry if you’re tired. or cold. or sad. i like making you laugh more than literally anything else. the ship feels wrong when you’re not around and—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “jesus christ.”
your glow brightens softly in the dim observation deck. “you experience significant affection.” you state, “that is a horrifying understatement.” for a moment neither of you speak.
the stars drift endlessly outside. then you move closer. just inevitable. your hand rises carefully to his face, fingertips brushing his cheek with unbearable gentleness while you study him with those big glowing eyes.
“you are very dear to me also, ryland grace.”
he actually stops breathing for a second, because you sound so sincere and so certain.
“you know,” he says faintly, “for a scientist, i’m handling this situation with very little professionalism.” you smile. “i enjoy when you become emotionally compromised.”
“oh good. excellent. glad my suffering entertains you.”
“it does.”
ryland laughs helplessly, and then, because apparently the universe has decided he deserves happiness after all, you lean forward and kiss him. so very softly, and very carefully. like something precious. ryland makes a tiny startled noise against your mouth that will haunt him forever. your species doesn’t kiss naturally. you learned it from human media and anthropological discussions with him, which means this kiss is entirely intentional.
entirely for him.
when you pull back slightly, ryland is staring at you like you reached into his chest and restarted his heart. “oh,” he says weakly. you look worried instantly. “was this unpleasant?”
“what? no! no, i just— wow. okay.” you brighten immediately at his reaction. then kiss him again. ryland is so unbelievably gone it’s honestly embarrassing.
after that, it becomes common knowledge aboard the hail mary that ryland grace is hopelessly obsessed with you. even armando and mary know it. not subtle obsession either. disgustingly obvious obsession.
he follows you around unconsciously now. smiles whenever you enter rooms. looks physically happier every time you touch him.
rocky watches this unfold with endless fascination.“observation,” rocky says one day while you’re curled beside ryland during calculations. “grace now approximately seventy-three percent softer emotionally.” ryland points accusingly. “i was always soft.”
“no,” rocky says immediately.
you laugh into ryland’s shoulder and he instinctively wraps an arm around your waist tighter without even thinking about it. rocky notices that too. “further observation: grace would do anything for y/n instantly.”
ryland looks down at you curled comfortably against his side. at your soft glow. your warm smile. the way you still look at him like finding him out there among the stars was the best thing that ever happened to you. because it was.
