#riddle fluff

Crewel blinked rapidly. "You—my Pup?!"

Riddle’s whole face went scarlet. "Y-Yes! I realize it is unexpected, but I truly love them with all my heart, and I’ve given this great thought! I can provide them with a balanced life, and I—"

"You’re serious?" Crewel interrupted, voice dangerously low.

"I wouldn’t joke about this, sir."

"Rosehearts," Crewel said slowly, "the only ring you’re getting anytime soon is a collar for speaking nonsense in my office."

Riddle sputtered, red from ear to ear. "W-What?! I—! I’m being sincere!"

Crewel stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "You can’t just barge in here, spouting proposals like some lovesick pup!"

Riddle’s voice cracked. "I was only trying to be proper!"

"Proper?!" Crewel threw his hands up.

"WHY WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU—!!"

CROWLEY hummed to himself as he signed off on some essential paperwork (that may or may not have been a 'Headmaster’s Special Fund'). The door creaked open.

"Ah—Rosehearts! What brings you here, dear boy? Another rule suggestion? More collar quotas?"

Riddle smoothed his uniform, expression painfully polite. "No, Headmaster. I’ve come to ask for the Prefect’s hand in marriage."

Crowley spat tea across his ledger. "I—YOU—MARRIAGE?!"

"Yes," Riddle nodded crisply. "Once I graduate, I wish to take the prefect's hand in marriage, have them registered here as a citizen, cause you clearly didn't—I’ve made a full schedule of the engagement period, ceremony arrangements, and post-graduation relocation plan. Everything is perfectly in order."

Crowley slammed his desk. "ORDER—?! THERE WILL BE NO MARRIAGE ORDER! YOU’RE NOT MARRYING THE PREFECT!!"

Riddle blinked, offended. "Why not? Surely you see my qualifications—responsibility, punctuality, a respectable GPA—" He crossed his arms.

"THERE WILL BE NO WEDDING!!" Crowley screamed.

Riddle's jaw tightened, turning his heel to leave "This will not be our last meeting, I swear upon it. I will marry the prefect!"

"ROSEHEARTS GET OUT OF MY OFFICE THIS INSTANT—!!"

students at heartslabyul have noticed the pattern. whenever riddle’s temper starts to rise, they yell, “where’s the king?!” because you’re the only thing that keeps him from flying into a full lecture. riddle pretends he’s above this but he secretly enjoys that everyone sees how important you are to him.

riddle clings to your hand more than he’ll ever admit. especially when he’s stressed. if someone breaks a rule during a tea party, wrong posture, wrong vocabulary, wrong dessert order, he squeezes your fingers three times. that’s his silent signal of “please ground me. please don’t let me explode.”

you once kissed his cheek right before he unleashed a tirade on ace. he froze. eyes wide. face red. ace, noticing this, immediately yelled, “oh thank sevens, they patched the bug!” riddle chased him across the courtyard, but notably, without yelling.

he absolutely quotes the queen of hearts’ rules at you, but only softly, privately, in a way that’s more affectionate than authoritarian. like, “rule 153… affection must be given freely to maintain a happy court.” translation: hug me please, my dear.

when his mother comes up in conversation, his shoulders tense automatically. you’re the only one who can ease it. he’ll sit beside you on the heartslabyul garden bench, resting his head on your shoulder, and whisper, “you make the rules feel… kinder.” it’s the closest he’ll get to admitting how much you’ve changed his worldview.

when he overblots? you’re the anchor he sees through the madness. your voice is the law he can’t disobey. the one thing stronger than centuries-old dictations is the simple sound of you telling him, “come back to me, riddle.”

he’s fiercely, almost comically protective of you. if a student accidentally speaks to you without proper etiquette, riddle snaps like, “mind your manners in front of the king!” you roll your eyes and pat his head gently, which immediately shrinks him back down to a tomato-faced kitten of a man.

at night, he curls beside you, resting his head on your chest, winding your fingers with his. he whispers every rule he’s rewritten in his heart: rule 1: love can be gentle. rule 2: patience is not weakness. rule 3: you taught me both. and when he sleeps, his breathing is soft and steady, the calm he never found until he met you.

But right when you leaned forward to take a bite, he immediately looked away and cleared his throat, a bit loudly.

"Um, you got a stain, i'll just, clean it." motioning vaguely your chin before awkwardly swiping the napkin to your chin delicately, cheeks burning.

It was cute to look at him struggle to his first date with his stiffness and it was also tempting to tease him about it but it was almost certain he'd turn into a tomato. Riddle could sense your gaze on him yet he refused to meet it, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the napkin.

"What are you smiling at? Honestly, this is unnecessarily difficult...!" he muttered, finally daring to glance your way, only to immediately avert his eyes again when he saw your smiling face.

It was in his territory, the botanical garden that you sat beside Leona who was dozing off arms crossed and in a sitting position, sunlight not being a bother. And despite not giving any remarks, you knew he noticed you by his tail swished just a little closer to you, brushing against your leg.

Then, without warning, he leaned his face against the top of your head with gentleness.

"Is something wrong?"

"…always smelling nice...i like it. Your company. 'n that's it." he muttered, did these words slipped out without thinking? You blinked, stunned, not expecting these honest compliments coming from Leona.

Who, immediately avoided to look at you by busying himself with a stubborn curl of his hair, twisting it around one finger like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, ears twitching when you chuckled at his attitude.

"Forget it. No, don't tell anyone about it. It's bit embarrassin'...but i did meant it." groaning, he ironically rolled his eyes when you leaned against him a little more, him in return not moving away.

Siting in front of Azul, facing a ready table set for two in the Monstro Lounge, with him looking uneasy dismissed your doubts of suspicions.

"Like i said...tonight is a test, for our new menu! Very romantic and not a date!" clarified too quickly with a pitching voice, he took a deep breath with his mouth close, cravat adjusted with trembling finger when your brow slightly raised.

And the table didn't helped his excuse: candlelight in the middle of petals arranged in a near-perfect heart. The evening continued with awkward yet sweet gentleman gestures:

Him pouring your glass without demand, nervously laughing at the compliment of the ambiance, and at one point he even tried to quote a line from a book he read only to choke halfway through, muttering a flustered apology into his sleeve.

"Can't believe it...i rehearsed this in the mirror so many times, you know? Yet i'm losing it in front of you..." utterly defeated and even ready to slid under the table to hide, he confessed with a blushed face that made you smile as you rested your hand over his.

"Maybe because you didn't needed to do all of this for me." he froze for short seconds at your touch before his lips tugged into a softest smile.

"That’s very dangerous for my heart..."

Riddle sits up even straighter when he sees you approaching him with a heart shaped box and an envelope, his cheeks flushing pink. He clears his throat when you arrive, expression all twisted up as if you’re unhappy about something. Riddle turns to look at you, holding his chin high as he addresses you by name.

“Do you have something to tell me?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“This is a pathetic gift for the Queen of Hearts.” you reply dryly, throwing the gifts on the ground and stomping on them, “Someone thought that would be enough for you, but I won’t stand for it.”

Riddle stares open mouthed at the torn envelope and crushed box of chocolates, but a giant bundle of roses blocks his line of sight.

“This.” you say, a bouquet of roses in one hand and an entire strawberry tart in the other, with the truffles from the box placed in a circle around it in your hands, “Is a far more fitting gift for courting the queen.”

Deuce freezes after he reads the note you gave him with a sour face, cheeks turning pink. He wonders why you look so upset when you just confessed how much you like him—even though the words seem a bit off...

“See, Deuce? I told you you were popular.” you scoff, wrinkling your nose in disgust.

You glare so intensely at the envelope that Deuce feels your anger and jealousy.

“Is this...not from you?” he asks softly, his heart plummeting out of his body. And here he was, getting all delighted and cheesy about it—

“Nah. It’s not.” you say flippantly, “I’m confessing my feelings in a much better way.”

Deuce gasps when you pull out a bouquet of dark blue roses, kneeling at his feet as you take his hand. He swears you see hearts in his eyes as he stares at the flowers and your face, which look up at him with determination he knows all too well.

“Deuce Spade, I want you to be mine.” you declare, and his legs turn to jelly as he babbles out an enthusiastic yes.

“I can’t believe someone who isn't me likes your dumbass.” you smack Ace’s arm as he snickers over the note, an immature gesture if there ever was one.

“Well, if you like this dumbass what does that make you, huh? A stupidass?” he quips, knocking his whole body against you.

You squeal and shove him back, sticking your tongue out at his shocked face as he falls off the bed.

“Really!? This is how you’re confessing your love to me?” Ace huffs, playful as always, “I want a divorce.”

“You idiot, I’m just speaking your language!” you snap back, throwing a pillow at his head, “All you do is tease and yap and jab so I’m giving you a taste of your own medicine!”

“Oh you’re on!” Ace jumps to his feet, pillow in hand.

It’s obvious he likes you back. It always has been. And even if that person hadn’t sent that note, you two still would have known just how much you care for each other, even if it remains (mostly) unsaid.

(You still trampled that note at least ten times during your pillow fight though.)

“Is this some kind of joke?” Azul says blandly, placing the letter down on his desk of his VIP Room, “This obviously isn’t your handwriting, nor is it your style of writing.”

“That’s because it’s not mine.” you say just as blandly, raising an eyebrow as Azul looks over his spectacles at you, “Were you hoping it was?”

“What is the purpose of this visit then? You bring me some random letter with a confession of love...don’t tell me you’re hoping to butter me up.” Azul chuckles, standing up as gracefully as ever, “You should know better than anyone that those tricks do not work on me.”

You stand up as well, arms crossed over your chest as you meet his stare with your own.

“Because, Azul, someone left that note in my desk. It was addressed to you, as you can see, so I bought it for you. What you just read is what encouraged me to take action.” you take a deep breath and summon all of your courage, there truly is no turning back now, “Azul, I am interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with you. I can assure you I’ve thought this over many times before coming to you with this proposal. If you’re willing, I would love to sit down and have a talk about the terms and conditions of this deal.”

You hold out your hand for a handshake.

Azul’s mouth forms an o shape, and for a second you’d say he looks shocked, but he composes himself quickly as is all too inclined to place his hand in yours.

“Well, well, well!” he beams, voice light and airy with what you can only assume is joy, “Let’s get negotiations underway, shall we?”

“Aww, you shouldn’t have.” Lilia coos, bringing a hand up to his mouth, “Why do you look so sour, sweets?”

“Because it’s not from me. It was stuffed in my desk and addressed to you.” you wrinkle your nose, the envelope clenched in your fist, “I don’t like the idea of someone confessing to you before I could.”

Lilia giggles, still hiding his mouth behind his hand. You stare blankly at him, tapping your foot so hard your ankle starts to cramp up.

“Oh, no need to look so anxious, dear. I’m sure you’re well aware of where my affections lie, yes?” Lilia approaches you, his fingers intertwining with yours as the envelope flutters to the floor, unnoticed and uncared for.

He doesn’t have much time left. He’s loved and he’s lost, he may as well go for what he wants while it’s still here, in front of him.

“That is such an indirect way of confessing.” you groan, squeezing his hand, “I even got you a whole bag of mystery flavored red lollipops...”

“They should hesitate,” Riddle retorted. “It means they’re thinking. It means they respect the danger. Besides, isn’t it more dangerous to let them operate on half-guesses?”

You gave a hum, one that vibrated low in your throat. And it occurred to Riddle—not for the first time—that it wasn’t fair for someone to sound thoughtful and like they were barely holding back a laugh at the same time. It was like being fondly teased and philosophically challenged simultaneously.

He could feel the stretch in his neck becoming sharper. A warning twinge. Still, he didn’t drop his gaze. It would be undignified.

And then you knelt.

Right there, in the sun-warmed grass of the greenhouse lawn, you bent down on one knee, then both, until you were kneeling comfortably on your knees in front of him. Still tall even then, damn you.

Riddle blinked. “What on earth are you doing?”

You smiled, slow and easy. “Making it easier for you.”

He bristled. “I don’t need you to—”

“You were practically glaring up at me like I was a gargoyle,” you said, gently interrupting. “I figured I’d spare your poor neck before it filed a complaint with the rest of your bones.”

“I was not—!” Riddle began, voice going up half a register.

“You were.” Your eyes sparkled, almost teasing. “You always look so determined when we talk. It’s admirable. But it also makes me feel like a lamppost.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he huffed. “This is about principle. Proper posture. Maintaining decorum.”

You just watched him. No rebuttal. No smirk, no smug remark. Just that look—eyes slightly narrowed, a touch too soft, too earnest for Riddle’s comfort.

He folded his arms across his chest, looking down at you now. It should have felt like a reversal. A small victory. But somehow, standing over you while you gazed up at him like that—still somehow eye-level with his standing straight self… it made his stomach do that annoying fluttering thing again.

“What?” he said, tone sharp enough to cut parchment.

“Nothing,” you replied, which was a lie, because you kept looking at him with that ridiculous expression. One he only saw when careless students accidentally dropped love potions haphazardly.

“Just—this is nice. Seeing you like this.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Like this,” you said, quieter now. “Eye to eye. Or close enough.”

“That’s not—” Riddle stopped, faltering. He felt his cheeks warm. He cleared his throat. “You’re being ridiculous.”

You didn’t argue. Riddle made a note that you rarely wanted to argue with him to the point where he could feel his anger bubbling over. It’s thoughtful of you, he thinks.

You tilted your head slightly, facial features catching the light—like some protagonist of a romance novel—and then you smiled. Not the playful one. Not the amused curve of lips you used when teasing. This one was warm. Honest. A little awestruck.

Even a little... loving, if Riddle dared think.

“You’re very easy to admire like this,” you said softly.

Riddle blinked.

The words struck harder than they should have. A rush of heat bloomed under his collar, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looked away, down toward the grass, then back again—unwilling to let you have the last word, unwilling to admit the effect you had on him.

“…You could’ve just sat on a bench,” he muttered, almost sulking.

“I could’ve,” you agreed. “But I’d rather be here. Like this.”

“Infuriating,” Riddle whispered under his breath.

But he didn’t tell you to stand back up.

Didn’t step away either.

Instead, he held your gaze. His neck, for once, not protesting. And you… you looked at him like he was something rare and brilliant. Like this moment mattered. Like he mattered.

And for once, Riddle let himself feel seen. Fully, gently, completely seen. Not as a dorm leader. Not as the boy who upheld rules with iron conviction. Just as himself.

“…Fine,” he said at last, voice a fraction softer than before. “But you’ll have to move if someone walks by. I won’t have rumors about us loitering in the grass like—like truant students.”

Your eyes gleamed with laughter. “Understood. So about the next herb they’ll be using...”

You didn’t move. Neither did he. And for a few long, heart-steadying moments, you managed to talk to Riddle like this—comfortable and close, like the space between two people no longer trying to measure distance.

You sighed. “Riddle is so smart.”

Trey glanced over at you, bewildered. “Where did this come from?”

Shrugging, you went back to the tart you were making. “Just an observation, that’s all.”

“Right…”

“Well, he is smart.”

“He is.” Trey furrowed his brows. “This has nothing to do with you failing Professor Trein’s history of magic class, right?”

You glared at him. “I’m not failing his class! I’m just not doing as well as I like.”

“Alright, alright. So are you going to ask him to tutor you?”

Shrugging again, you answered, “I don’t know. I don’t think the cooking club can handle not having their president around.”

He laughed. “Schedule your tutoring sessions around your meetings.”

Playfully hip-checking him as you put your tart ub the oven, you shot back, “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Besides, it’s just easier if I tell myself that’s the reason why I haven’t talked to him  instead of facing his crushing rejection.”

“Oh please. He’s not going to reject you. He could never reject you.” Trey shook his head with a knowing smile.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ve said too much, But let me give you some advice. When that tart is done, offer it to him and ask him to tutor you. His answer might just surprise you.”

Rolling your eyes, you flicked some flour at him. “Yeah. He’ll apologize and tell me just how busy he is and that he can’t help me.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

And that’s how you ended up in front of Riddle’s door, a strawberry-kiwi tart in your hand. If Trey hadn’t been so insistent on you giving it to Riddle, you would have left it for Ace and Deuce to enjoy. But there was no turning back now, not if you didn’t want to be relentlessly teased by Trey.

You knocked once and he opened the door. “Oh! Y/n! To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I made a new tart I thought you’d like.” You showed him.

“Oh, thank you.” He hesitated for a second before asking, “Would you like to come in?”

You were surprised by his sudden hospitality and nodded. He gestured for you to take a seat. He sat  across from you and watched as you cut him a slice of the tart. When you handed it to him, he took a bite.

“My, this is exceptional!” He looked at you with a bright, sincere smile. “I expected nothing less from the ever extraordinary cooking club president! You are truly astonishing!”

An awkward giggle escaped you. “Ah, thanks.”

“You’re so pretty.”

Your jaw dropped. “Pardon?”

He smiled dreamily at you, one hand keeping his chin propped up. “Then again, you’ve always been so pretty. When are you not?”

“Uh, I’m not sure-”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like if I held your hand.” His eyes seemed to sparkle at the thought. “Can I?”

“Riddle, are you-”

“So it’s working!” Trey’s voice came from Riddle’s doorway. Catching your confused look, he let out a nervous chuckle. “I may or may not have slipped a truth potion in your tart to give to Riddle.”

“TREY!”

“Hey, neither of you were ever going to make a move. Someone had to intervene.” He then added under his breath, “And Cater’s scissors beat paper.”

“You weren’t sure if you should be offended or embarrassed. However your train of thought was interrupted by Riddle twisting a lock of your hair around his finger. Your face practically burst into flames at his seemingly innocent action.

“Wow, Y/n. You have no idea how much I love you.”

“Well, it sounds like you two have a lot to talk about.” Trey winked at you. “I’ll leave you to it.”

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.”