#implied tho

From six until twelve (maybe thirteen?) he was your whole world, your partner in scraped knees and secret dares, the almost-boyfriend who walked you home until the day you had to leave. You remember that day clearly— you were both young and curious and that was the only time you ever kissed someone so passionately.

And though years have folded and unfolded since, and other boys and girls have passed through your life, the memory of him and the house atop the hill lingered like the last line of a bedtime story you never got to finish. Now, at eighteen, with your suitcases unpacked and the town you wander both changed and unchanged since, you find yourself wondering; 

What became of the little boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair within the elusive house atop the hill? And more importantly… Had he waited for you as he promised he would? As you’d waited for him?

Oh, but the town, if anything, had waited for you. The same sloping lanes curled around themselves like the pretty ribbons every little girl has in her hair, the same shopfronts blinked their painted eyes beneath eaves of chipped wood, and the same cobblestones carried the same weary cracks as though not a day had passed since you last tripped across them. 

…Yet look closer; the illusion thins. The bakery that once smelled of sugared dough now carried the sterile tang of coffee beans. The playground, once rusted and loud with shrieks, had been repainted into silence. Faces that might have belonged to childhood friends now belonged to strangers instead. It was everything and nothing like you expected. 

You chastised yourself for the disappointment that rose in your chest. What did you think would happen? That the town would remain suspended in amber, unchanging, preserved exactly as it was on the day you left? That if you rounded the corner at just the right hour, you might find your younger self skipping along, hand in hand with a boy whose laughter always rang louder than the church bells? Perhaps you did expect it, though you would never confess it aloud. Perhaps a part of you did think the whole town had been frozen, a snow globe shaken only when you returned to stir its pieces back into place at your liking. 

But above it all— silhouetted against the sky that was as bright as you remembered— loomed the elusive house atop the hill. The house that did not blink when years passed, that did not repaint or refashion itself to meet the times. Its windows glimmered darkly, shuttered but watchful, and its slanted roof cut into the horizon like a blade. You told yourself it was only a house, only wood and brick and rose bushes, but you felt its presence all the same; patient, everlasting, a shadow stretched across your childhood, a shadow that had never quite receded from the corners of your mind. Did the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson hair still live there?

What was completely new to the town, though, was the music. 

Loud and brazen, the sort that rattled windowpanes and startled sparrows into flight. It did not belong to the town you remembered, yet you found yourself drawn, drawn toward it— pulled, pulled as surely as a tide toward the moon. Each step carried you further down the lane, until instinct led you to the very corner you used to round as a child.

And to your surprise, there the boy with rosy cheeks and crimson stood… with a microphone in hand?

His rosy cheeks were painted now, half-concealed beneath a mask of dark cosmetics. Nor did he wear a full crown of crimson hair, for black had been streaked through it, deep and dark as ink spilled across parchment. He was clothed in splendour you’d hardly seen anyone wear in person— an oversized coat of luscious red fur spilling from his shoulders, shoes so tall they lifted him out of reach— and there was no mistaking the passion that set his whole frame alight as he sang.

So you stood there at the edge of the forming crowd, mesmerised by the sight of him. Riddle. The name trembled in your chest like a secret only you could bear. He was beautiful in a way that startled you, sharp and dazzling all at once, his face carved in light and shadow, every line of him made for a stage rather than a playground. You scarcely dared to breathe, lest the vision collapse. 

And because you were so transfixed, you did not notice at first— did not see how his gaze broke from the crowd to find you, how his eyes locked as though they had been searching for you all along. It was only when the music faltered and the cheering dimmed that you realised; he was moving. 

He was moving toward you. 

Every stride devoured the distance, until suddenly he was there, close enough for the smell of perfume and faint cigarette smoke to cling to his coat, close enough for his arms to sweep you into him with a ferocity that stole your breath.

“Oh—!” 

The sound barely escaped you before he crushed you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder. His grip was iron, desperate, achingly familiar, and the years of silence seemed to mean nothing to him. If anything, they spurred him on more— he clung as if he meant to reclaim every missed moment in one embrace, as if you had never been estranged at all.

“(Y/N)! You’re back!” Riddle exclaimed, his cheeks puffing up in a smile like you remembered it to. “I missed you so much! Oh, you look so cute…!”

“Wh—” You sputtered. You’d been so caught up in what was different that you hadn’t anticipated being thrust into such affections so soon— nor did you expect him to hang off of you like this. Why, he clung to you like he used to on the monkey bars all those years back…!

“Mm, and you still smell the same!” He murmured, his words muffled by the fabric of your clothes. “I could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded.”

“Riddle! You don’t even seem surprised…?” You found yourself looking at the floor. You were scared of whatever emotions might come forward if you looked at him directly— for you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself back from kissing him.

“Oh?” Riddle’s lips pursed in thought as he pulled back. You knew he was examining you, but frankly… you were much too shy to look at him in return. “Why would I be surprised? You told me you’d come back, didn’t you?” 

“…I did say that, didn’t I?” You muttered, surprise softening your features. You had always meant it, of course, yet seeing him know it too, feel it as surely as you had, made your heart jump up out of your chest and into your eyes. 

Suddenly, the world around seemed to be tinted a shade of rose and devotion. And when you mustered the courage to look at him… through his eyes, you saw it—

His soul. 

In his soul, he knew you would come back, because you told him you would. So in that tender pause, the years of locked-away feelings slinked out of the depths, up to the surface.

For the first time in years, you let your own soul come out, and your hands found his, and it was as if you’d never left on that hot summer day; as if no time had ever come between you at all.

“…I’m not going anywhere this time, Riddle. So tell me, how have you been?”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 was elusive and that was all it ever was. It was intangible, something to watch and be watched by, but never touched. Never approached, or lived in, or any of the other things that houses were made for. So you never truly imagined what the inside might look like; somehow, you had never considered that there was an inside at all. And yet here you sat upon the living room couch, your shoes tucked neatly beneath you. 

Now, what struck you most were the photographs. If there was anything that you were expecting as Riddle dragged you up the hill— it certainly wasn’t this. 

Framed portraits littered the walls, frame after frame, almost cluttered in its quantity. Smiling children— you and Riddle together on the playground swings, faces pressed cheek-to-cheek. Candid portraits of you laughing, caught mid-motion. Family photos— Riddle between the mother you had always heard about but never actually seen until now, and a tall man you had never known existed. 

You did not recall these pictures being taken. You did not recall Riddle even having a father.

A warm breath brushed your neck, followed by the scrape of teeth against your skin. “What are you looking at?” Riddle hummed, his voice low and petulant, lips skating over the curve beneath your ear. “Kiss me back, won’t you?”

“Riddle…” You tried for composure, but the sound was already shaky. His hands were splayed over your waist, tugging you closer, closer still, and you could barely manage to push words through the heat curling in your chest. “These… photos. When did we take so many together?”

He hummed against your throat, but he did pull back— if only to resettle himself. His weight settled into your lap, his arms winding back round your neck. Your hands, hesitant, slipped from his shoulders to the edges of his coat, peeling it from him. The intimacy of the gesture struck you— it was everything you’d ever dreamt of— and yet your gaze returned inevitably to the wall.

He followed it, but not before pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw. “We always did. You’ve just forgotten, you silly thing.”

“…I think I would remember this many pictures.” You murmured. “I mean… I didn’t even know you had a father.” Your eyes stayed on the tall man, that easy smile, the hand on Riddle’s shoulder. There was a slight abashed feeling, having to admit it. Not knowing something so obvious about your friend was… embarrassing.

“My papa…” Riddle supplied smoothly, his lips grazing your cheekbone as though punctuation. “Of course you met him. He liked you.” He said it almost fondly, followed by another kiss, softer, more insistent. His nose brushed yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But your memory was always bad. That’s why I remember for both of us.”

His words weren’t particularly untrue. You never did have the best memory— you were always forgetful. That was fact, you weren’t going to deny it. But still, your brows pinched together in confusion. “I… I guess?” Your hand raised to brace your companion’s hip. “But I wouldn’t forget something important like that. I mean— I knew you had a mother even though I never met her… I can’t believe I’d forget you had a father, let alone meeting hi—mmh?!”

Your protest was cut short by the sudden press of his lips against yours. It was playful in its abruptness, yet deep enough to make your pulse skip. His mouth moved insistently over yours, stealing the rest of your thought before it could form. He tasted of sugared strawberries and the faintest trace of smoke, and when he finally pulled away you were left breathless, your words scattered.

“Don’t pout so much.” He teased, eyes glinting as he slid off your lap with eagerness. “I’ll prove it to you!” He straightened his coat, then tossed it carelessly over the arm of the sofa, already turning toward the stairs. “I’ll fetch the pictures from my room— the ones with Papa!”

You blinked, still gathering your bearings. “Your… your room?”

“Oh, and speaking of Mama…” He glanced back at you with a mischievous smile, as though he’d just remembered to mention something small and inconsequential. “Why don’t you go say hi?”

You froze sharply. “She— she’s home…? While we were—?”

“Of course!” He laughed, bright and carefree, the sound so at odds with your racing thoughts. “You’ve gotten so uptight over the years, you know. What’s a little kiss on the sofa between us?” He reached over to pat your head, almost condescending in its fondness, before pivoting toward the staircase in the hall.

“I’ll be right back!” He called, already bounding up the steps, leaving you alone with the walls of smiling photographs and the sudden, pressing knowledge that you were not quite alone in the house. 

At once, you made motions to neaten yourself— and rub the lipstick stains from your face. You rose, because the motions were better than sitting and staring, and because ‘one could not be frightened while busy with tasks’— as was what your own mother taught you.

So you began in the parlour, touching the picture frames to confirm their authenticity. Then the hallway opened up into a kitchen that smelled faintly of lemon polish and something sweet, as if a tray of scones had been set down and then, deliberately, removed. Drawers were closed. Chairs were pushed in. The kettle sat innocently on the hob. You opened the door to the back room on a whim and found nothing but a slant of sunlight and a chair with a forgotten scarf draped over it. Each room you moved through gave the same answer; empty.

The house, which had watched you from the hill for so many years as if it were merely an ornament on the horizon, felt suddenly hollowed and personal in a way that made your skin prick. All at once you were aware of how alone you were— not alone in the comfortable, peaceful sense, but alone the way one is when a room holds its breath and refuses to exhale. You thought of Riddle upstairs; he was only a flight away, and that ought to have comforted you. He had promised to fetch the photographs; he would be back in a moment. It was absurd to be afraid.

Still, when you reached the foot of the stairs you hesitated, the wooden banister sticky beneath your palm from some remembered summer, sweat gathering, small and hot, at the nape of your neck. You told yourself you were being ridiculous. Riddle was there. His mum was, too, probably bustling somewhere with the sort of domestic efficiency mothers showed only to those they loved. You took the first step.

That was when the voice came.

“My dear, what are you doing all alone? A house like this can swallow a girl whole if she is not mindful.”

The words did not arrive from one place but from many— blooming and settling over you, soft and impossibly near. From the parlour, the kitchen, from the walls, from every room you went in and from every room she wasn't present in— the voice had already unfurled itself into the house and claimed each corner. You turned, trying to place her— Mrs. Rosehearts— but there was no one to face.

“Ah, don’t look so startled…” Mrs. Rosehearts continued, each syllable sugared and coaxing. “There’s nothing to worry over, not here. You’re very welcome in this house. Very welcome indeed.”

The warmth of the words pushed in on you, invading the space where reason would sit. You listened to them as though to music you already knew the melody of, yet with a growing, illogical tension at its edges— a note just a fraction out of tune, the sort that sets teeth on edge only after the song has finished. Your throat tightened. Your mouth, which had been rehearsing a thousand sensible replies, went suddenly blank.

“My, my!” She chimed, an obvious smile audible in every line. “What a timid little thing you are. Won’t you sit down properly? I’ll fetch us some tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer cake? You do like cake, don’t you? Oh, I’m quite certain you must.”

You felt very small then, and very exposed. Where was she? Where was she calling you from? There was a basin in the mind, one full of thoughts that would never be answered. Why couldn’t you see her? Why hasn’t she shown herself? And in your confusion, there was only one sensible reply.

“Oh, Mrs Rosehearts…! I— I’d really like to see you, please. Could you… show yourself?”

For a moment there was silence— so complete it felt as though the whole house had leaned in to listen. The ticking of the grandfather clock stopped mattering, the creak of the rafters vanished. Then above it all was a laugh, elegant and affectionate.

“If that’s what you wish, little dearest. Of course I’ll oblige…”

A beautiful woman with cheeks of rose and hair of crimson. 

A hot flush came down the back of your neck, and suddenly every sense of unease you’d had went away. How stupid of you… Honestly, how ridiculous! Working yourself up over nothing, prowling around the house like some silly child afraid of the dark. You’d gotten way too in over your head— jumping at shadows, inventing ghosts where there weren’t any. This was only Riddle’s mother. His mother. Just what were you thinking?

Her thumbs brushed over the apples of your cheeks before you even realised she was approaching you. The touch was soothing, her smile impossibly fond as her eyes roved over your face. “There now…” She whispered, and now her voice felt normal. “So timid… no wonder my darling boy kept you all to himself.”

“Oh…” You breathed out. Was there still lipstick on your face? Sevens, you hope not. How could you explain your way out of that—? Or find another boy with black lipstick in a ten kilometre radius to pin the blame—? “It’s lovely to finally meet you, aunty.” Finally, you remembered your manners, straightening your spine and lifting your chin just the way your parents taught you.

The woman before you laughed. It was the kind of laugh that felt both indulgent and knowing, as though she were in on a secret you weren’t yet privy to. She leaned closer, her perfume sweet and heady— she smelled like smoke, too— and you felt her breath stir your hair as she murmured, “Go to him, won’t you?”

The words remained in your ear long after she’d withdrawn, and for a strange, uncertain beat you couldn’t remember if she had actually touched you or if it had only been imagined. Either way, by the time you blinked, she was gone. The house seemed oddly empty again. So you found yourself drifting up the stairs, each step taken half by will, half by instinct to not be alone, until you reached his doorframe. 

There, Riddle was kneeling on the floor, hunched over a small wooden box. His shoulders jumped when you knocked gently against the doorframe, but the startlement quickly dissolved into a bright smile and he sprung up to his feet.

“Look, look!” He beckoned, tugging you to his side with boyish excitement.

You lowered yourself to kneel beside him, smoothing your skirt with careful hands before folding them neatly in your lap. And then you did look—

Photographs. Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked and scattered, all of you, all real. You, and Riddle, and a man whose features echoed his son’s. The man downstairs, who you swore you’d never met. His father. And in the background of one, unmistakable as day— your own parents.

It made perfect sense by all accounts— a family outing. Yet still you were shocked. You had… no memory of this. 

Riddle giggled, tilting his head towards you with a grin that was both triumphant and fond. “I told you so, silly girl.”

The words made you flush with a sudden, sheepish heat. …Perhaps he was right. Perhaps you really were being ridiculous. A laugh slipped from you, small and uncertain, but you forced it into something lighter, more natural. Your memory had always been poor— everyone knew that. It wasn’t impossible that you had simply… forgotten. Yes. That had to be it.

“…You’re right. Yes, silly me…!”

So you allowed yourself to relax, let the questions fall away like loose threads unpicked (even though you were always taught to flounder until everything was perfect). What did it matter, when everything here made such perfect sense? Riddle was beside you, his delight radiating like sunlight, and suddenly you became aware of something else thrumming beneath the surface; the low, insistent pulse of your own arousal. You’d been so caught up in what did and did not make sense that you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to enjoy what was finally yours.

Riddle seemed to notice your change of heart at once. His hand slipped over your shoulder, his fingers grazing the slope of your collarbone in a gesture so casual it made your breath hitch. You answered without thinking, leaning into him, closing the small distance— as your body had been waiting for, all along.

“Do you remember? You promised we’d do so much more when we saw each other again.” He whispered against your jaw, leaving new traces of black lipstick along your skin— and after you’d worked so hard to rub the last set off, too…

This promise, you did remember. It was all those years ago, that day, after you’d separated from him with nothing but a string of saliva connecting you; You’d swore that you’d come back, then you could do all the things that adults in love did with each other. You were so young, then— but you were filled with affection, and passion, and all the other things that growing teenagers felt when they kissed each other. Much like how you felt now— hot, bothered, desperate to arch and cling to the boy beside you and never let go.

You tilted your head, allowing his mouth to trail down the hollow of your throat, a sharp gasp torn from you as you leaned back on both hands. Riddle wasted no time in mounting himself atop of you, letting his kisses trail down to your chest. Thank God you wore a low neckline today— A contented, lazy smile crossed your face as you took a deep breath in, relishing in the way his fingers moved to cup your breast. 

“I do remember…” You hummed, moving to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt. When his pretty, supple collarbone was exposed to you, you trailed your hand across them, before cupping the back of his neck. Pulling him close, you whispered against his lips; 

“So, take me in any way you want.”

𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓. After the way his body had pressed into yours, after the way your throat still ached from moans you hadn’t known you were capable of, after the way you had given yourself up entirely— there should have been nothing left but exhaustion and contentment. Your skin was still warm from the heat, your core still weak from the aftershocks, your lips bitten and sore from the force of his kiss. You should have been lulled into the deepest, sweetest sleep, drunk on pleasure and closeness.

But sleep had other plans for you. When you pushed yourself from the plush duvet, it was not in the sluggish, half-conscious manner of one roused from slumber, but rather with the sharp and unthinking urgency of terror. There was nothing deliberate in it; it was instinct, the body leaping to preserve itself from some danger already forgotten— for the memory of the nightmare had fled the instant your eyes opened. Its claws had been deep in you, of that you were certain, and yet by the time you sought to grasp at its particulars, it had already dissolved into nothing. All that remained was the undeniable certainty that something had been there, and that you had to escape it.

The first thing you noticed, when you steadied yourself, was the absence of all things comforting. The bed was empty. Riddle was gone. The room around you was steeped in a kind of darkness that did not belong to ordinary night. So you turned toward the window, hoping for the pale reassurance of moonlight, or the faintest suggestion of a starry sky— but instead, you were met with nothing. 

The view opened only onto a smooth, endless black, as though the house were suspended in a void. How? How was this possible? You pressed your hand against the pane, half-believing that some obstruction had been drawn across it— but the glass seemed bare on both sides. You tried the latch; it refused to yield. You pushed harder; the frame rattled, but the window would not give.

And then— you could not help but feel it— the blankness outside seemed to shift, as if it were not absence at all, but a presence. A presence that had been watching long before you thought to look.

You shivered, though the air was not exactly cold, and your arms folded around yourself in a poor attempt at comfort. The room, so plush and indulgent only hours ago, now seemed stripped bare of safety. A thought struck you— maybe he had gone to the bathroom? You crossed to it at once, each step uncertain, and threw the door open with more urgency than you intended. Empty. Utterly empty.

So maybe you were still dreaming. Yes, that had to be it. That this was merely some cruel continuation, a lucid dream from which you had not yet parted from. The notion made a fragile sort of sense, enough that you pinched the soft skin of your forearm until the flesh protested. Pain flared sharp and real. But you did not wake up. Shouldn’t pain wake you?

Heart quickening, you returned to the room and slipped out into the corridor. 

What met you there was worse. Every picture that had once lined the walls— faces, new and old, of family… forgotten memories preserved— was black. Every window that ought to have revealed the night instead opened only onto the void. They were pools of nothingness, eyes of nothingness, gazing down upon you in silent judgment. Their regard was so heavy, so oppressive, that you yourself began to feel like nothingness, as though your body, your mind, your very name might dissolve beneath their stare. In that moment, as you clutched yourself closer, you found yourself deeply missing Riddle. What is going on? 

“(Y/N)?”

It should have been a comfort. You had been yearning for him with such aching desperation that the sound of his voice ought to have undone you. Yet the instant it reached you, your heart recoiled. It sounded like him, yes, but it did not feel like him. The warmth was gone. The intimacy was gone. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, irreparably wrong.

You ran.

You did not wait to see from where it came; you only fled. The corridor stretched before you, longer than you remembered, the familiar turns and doors rearranging themselves into a maddening geometry that led nowhere. You ran blindly, driven by the certainty that what followed you was not him and must not catch you.

And as you ran, the house changed. The pools of nothingness— those blank, oppressive eyes in the pictures and the windows— began to bleed red. First one pair, then another, until they multiplied, until the whole corridor swam with them. Blood-red, glaring, dripping. The black backdrops glowed as though veins had burst within them, and each new eye threw its own cast of crimson light. The glow spun across the walls like sirens, one moment lancing straight at you, the next wheeling away, only to return from another angle. 

The house atop the hill watched you all your life— now, so did the eyes. 

Some tracked you directly, following every frantic step; others swivelled without pattern, disorienting in their ceaseless movement. The corridor pulsed red and black, black and red, until you no longer knew which way you were running, only that you had to keep moving— because what was behind you was not the Riddle you loved. But your body betrayed you. Breath tore at your throat, your legs faltered, and at last you stopped. The silence that followed your ragged breathing was almost worse than the chase.

In the black and the red and the red and the black, and in the silence and the deafening sound of your breathing and heartbeat— you heard her; you did not see her.

“Dearest, where are you going?”

“Oh, Mrs. Rosehearts…! My parents will be wondering where I am.” The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. The eyes knew you were lying. “I was going to tell them I’ll be spending the night—”

“Why don’t you go back to bed? My darling boy will be missing you.” When it spoke again, its voice had drifted closer, though no figure stood before you. 

“…Mrs. Rosehearts,” you called into the darkness, forcing the words through a throat gone tight, “could you show yourself again?”

“You look so beautiful, dearest.”

“Please,” you tried again, your voice trembling on the edge of a plea, “I really want to see you…”

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Its suggestion came sweetly. “Or, would you rather sleep beside me?”

No. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. The walls breathed red, and the eyes turned, one by one, until you were their singular focus.

“I’d rather like to see you, Mrs. Rosehearts.” You pleaded to it. “Please show yourself?”

For a long moment there was no sound but your own breathing. And then, very softly, the voice returned;

“…Go back to bed, dearest. He will be missing you.”

This wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t it answer you? Just one request. You only wanted to see its face. You knew it wasn’t Mrs. Rosehearts, but still, you wanted to see. It sounded like her, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. Was it ever? And yet, even knowing that, some small, frantic part of you still wanted to see.

Then there was the sound of heels on the floor, approaching your direction from the right. You turned toward the sound and saw, not a body, but a shadow stretching far and thin across the red-washed walls. It was his shape— Riddle’s— the body you knew intimately, yet every familiar movement was made strange. The distortion of the light enlarged it until the silhouette blotted out half the corridor, crawling closer with every click of those unseen platforms.

Your heart lurched painfully against your ribs. Something was very wrong. You staggered back, despite the voice of Mrs. Rosehearts coaxing you to stay put. The shadow grew longer, wider, swallowing the corridor with every step. You didn’t wait for it to reach you. You turned and ran.

“Don’t let the walls cave in on you!”

The voice chased you down the hall, bright and ringing with laughter. A sweet giggle, laced with the happiness of childhood. It was the sound of afternoons in the park, the sound of hide-and-seek when you were young and innocent and unafraid. But here, in this corridor of red light and nothingness, it was wrong. Horribly wrong. The memory itself had turned against you.

Run, rabbit, run. The beloved childhood song pounded in your skull, faster, faster, a cruel song keeping pace with your desperate feet. Run, rabbit, run—

But your legs betrayed you. The floor clung to them, thick and sticky. You looked down— Black, searing tar had bubbled up under you, gripping your skin, dragging you down into its suffocating heat. Each step was slower than the last, every movement an agony of resistance. But when had it appeared? Where had it come from? 

The answer was nowhere and everywhere. The walls themselves were bleeding now. Every picture frame that had once held some cherished memory was spilling over rushing tar. Childhood portraits, family photographs— the father you never remembered hearing about, the photographs you never remembered being taken— all of them slick and running with molten black. The void was pouring out of them, flooding the hallway, surging around your ankles, your calves, latching and dragging and choking.

You tried to lift your legs. The liquid pulled tighter. The red light spun madly across the corridor, eyes upon you from every angle, watching as the black tide swallowed your steps. Now you were stumbling, hardly able to see. It invaded your eyes, and you were weeping salt and tar. So you shut them hard, and frantically felt around for something, someone to hold onto. Hands clawed at the floor, arms pushing through the sticky drag, every movement a battle against the tide. Your knees buckled, slipping, dragging you backward. 

With a final, desperate heave, you surged forward, feeling the resistance thin beneath you— and then gravity took you. You pitched forward, tumbling onto something soft and warm, the world lurching before settling.

When you lifted your head, the burning tar was gone, stripped from your skin as though it had never been. No suffocating heat. No tide dragging you under. Only the parlour, neat and whole, dressed in the red glow. The walls still writhed with shapes you could not name, eyes dripped wetly from the cluttered picture frames, but the flood had vanished.

And there, seated upon the couch as if he had been waiting all along, was Riddle. Your Riddle. At your gaze, a smile curled his lips.

This was right. This was right. You wanted to cling to him. To crawl on your hands and knees and cling to his legs— to hug his body which sprawled in casual elegance. …But— wasn’t he the one chasing you? You turned, wild with confusion, to the hallway. Red walls, glowing eyes— but no tar. Nothing but silence. …So it couldn’t have been him.

When you looked back, he was crouching before you and you had no time to question anything. His hands clamped your face, cold and firm, and he dragged you into a kiss. 

…You love his kisses— but this time it felt different. You could’ve sworn this was your Riddle— not what was chasing you in the hall. So why did this feel wrong? It didn’t feel like you were kissing him— you knew what it was like to kiss him; Erotic, tender, passionate. That’s what kissing him felt like. Empty, fierce, unyielding. That was what you felt now. 

So, who are you kissing? Who is kissing you?

Panic bloomed in your chest. You shoved him away, desperate for space. Now, everything judged you. Now, everything watched you. The house atop the hill, the eyes of nothingness, the eyes of red, the eyes of the boy in front of you— all honed in on you, you, you.

“Why did you push me away?” His voice was low, then cracked, higher, a whisper of someone else threaded through it. “Why did you try to leave? Surely you’re not trying to leave?”

You’d never seen him like this. Never so angry, so livid, so certain in unforgiving.

“Don’t leave us again.” 

The words split and weaved together until you couldn’t tell which voice was his and which wasn’t. Where he ended and his mother began no longer seemed clear.

“Won’t you come back to bed?”

chat did I cook with my phone & school computer?