riddlessins

[riddlessins]

promise? 😌

chat with:

──.✦ EX BOYFRIEND!TOM…

…who doesn’t quite approve of your idea to go partying alone. Especially not in that short and tight little dress of yours, barely covering the curve of your ass…

You lock your front door as you step outside, glancing left and right, heels clicking against the marble tiles in front of the entrance to your home.

It’s the first time since you’ve broken up with him that you feel like going out. Meet new people. Stop the pounding headache you get whenever you merely think about him.

The club isn’t too far, a few blocks down the street. A ten to fifteen minute walk, probably. But it’s quite chilly, and a few hundred meters later you regret not having taken a coat. Or, a longer dress, perhaps.

Your steps quicken, purse clutched tightly. You have never liked walking in the dark—especially not all alone.

Alone.

Or so you thought.

Until your phone beeps. 

Short. Probably insignificant. 

Yet—you look.

A mistake.

You scoff when you see the message on your lock screen. Your head snaps around, but you don’t spot anything out of place. No cars. No footsteps. Empty benches. Silent houses, street lamps casting long, unmoving shadows on the pavement.

You don’t reply.

Minutes later, your phone vibrates again. It gets harder to ignore—and you really shouldn’t open his messages. God, you should have fucking blocked him.

Though you know he would have found another way.

Your skin crawls when you read it—his voice drumming in your head. Slightly dragged out, low. Tone firm. The one he used whenever—as he told you so often—you needed a ��little reminder” as to who you belonged to.

You don’t want to reply—not really. But on the other hand—

Another short vibration in your pocket. You’re so busy thinking about where he might be watching you from, you almost don’t notice it. Almost.

And for a minute, you do contemplate opening his chat again—to tell him to kindly fuck off. Sixty seconds, which more feel like sixty minutes, standing in the freezing cold weather of this mid-December night you’d picked to go partying. In the shortest dress you could find in your wardrobe, mind you.

Maybe to feel free. Maybe to forget him. Just for one night. Or maybe—to show him what he’s lost. Pose for the pictures the club takes for their Instagram—which you know he follows. Blow a kiss, maybe. A goodbye kiss.

With a sigh, you pull out your phone, display freezing cold as you tap on the notification.

Your nose scrunches up in disgust. He doesn’t need to know where you are heading—but for the sake of the game, you type a quick reply, stuffing your phone back into your pocket. Head held high and straight as you continue walking, your bare thighs tingling in the cold. Yet, you are determined to make it there.

One beep, and not even five seconds later a second. Yeah, you figured he wouldn’t be quite happy.

It is just like you expected—he doesn’t want you to go out. Obviously not. But he doesn’t own you. Doesn’t get to dictate your life. Not anymore. Not tonight.

Or so you think.

He’s quick with his reply. Already in chat, typing just a second after you sent yours. There’s a vivid image of him in front of your eyes. Jaw clenched tightly, eyes dark with possessiveness. Long and slender fingers—that weren’t just good for typing fast replies—hitting the screen in quick succession. Broody, obsessive, cocky. Air around him thick with anger. The kind of anger that has his cock straining against his trousers.

Anger born from jealousy—and if you were still together, he’d take it out on you in the bedroom.

Perhaps that is one of the things you really miss about him.

You want to scream. Cry. Slap him across his unfairly handsome face. Why, why, just why does he have to be like this? 

Before tears can spill over your waterline, a car slows to stop beside you.

A black Porsche. His black Porsche. 

The window rolls down. 

“Get in. I am taking you home.” he says—calm and commanding. So sure of himself. His dark curls styled just the way he knows you love them, rings adorning his fingers. Oh, he did it on purpose too. Four buttons of his black satin shirt undone, revealing a sliver of his toned chest—and a necklace. The one you got him for his birthday.

Your blood boils. And the way his veins strain under his skin from how tightly he grips the steering wheel—sends all the heat straight to your core.

The drive is silent. As soon as he comes to a stop in front of your apartment, you get out, slamming the door shut.

“Have a good night, princess.” he calls after you.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

Tears start spilling uncontrollably as you hit send, and you turn off your phone for the night—mindlessly tossing it on the couch in the living room.

Looking at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wipe the mascara from your tear-streaked cheeks, cleaning off the last bits of your makeup. You don’t even bother taking off your dress, sinking into the softness of your bed. Covering your head with your duvet—the only warmth welcoming you that night. 

Crying over the same man you swore you’d never let break you again.

Fuck.

[riddlessins]

chat with:

──.✦ EX BOYFRIEND!TOM…

…who doesn’t quite approve of your idea to go partying alone. Especially not in that short and tight little dress of yours, barely covering the curve of your ass…

You lock your front door as you step outside, glancing left and right, heels clicking against the marble tiles in front of the entrance to your home.

It’s the first time since you’ve broken up with him that you feel like going out. Meet new people. Stop the pounding headache you get whenever you merely think about him.

The club isn’t too far, a few blocks down the street. A ten to fifteen minute walk, probably. But it’s quite chilly, and a few hundred meters later you regret not having taken a coat. Or, a longer dress, perhaps.

Your steps quicken, purse clutched tightly. You have never liked walking in the dark—especially not all alone.

Alone.

Or so you thought.

Until your phone beeps. 

Short. Probably insignificant. 

Yet—you look.

A mistake.

You scoff when you see the message on your lock screen. Your head snaps around, but you don’t spot anything out of place. No cars. No footsteps. Empty benches. Silent houses, street lamps casting long, unmoving shadows on the pavement.

You don’t reply.

Minutes later, your phone vibrates again. It gets harder to ignore—and you really shouldn’t open his messages. God, you should have fucking blocked him.

Though you know he would have found another way.

Your skin crawls when you read it—his voice drumming in your head. Slightly dragged out, low. Tone firm. The one he used whenever—as he told you so often—you needed a “little reminder” as to who you belonged to.

You don’t want to reply—not really. But on the other hand—

Another short vibration in your pocket. You’re so busy thinking about where he might be watching you from, you almost don’t notice it. Almost.

And for a minute, you do contemplate opening his chat again—to tell him to kindly fuck off. Sixty seconds, which more feel like sixty minutes, standing in the freezing cold weather of this mid-December night you’d picked to go partying. In the shortest dress you could find in your wardrobe, mind you.

Maybe to feel free. Maybe to forget him. Just for one night. Or maybe—to show him what he’s lost. Pose for the pictures the club takes for their Instagram—which you know he follows. Blow a kiss, maybe. A goodbye kiss.

With a sigh, you pull out your phone, display freezing cold as you tap on the notification.

Your nose scrunches up in disgust. He doesn’t need to know where you are heading—but for the sake of the game, you type a quick reply, stuffing your phone back into your pocket. Head held high and straight as you continue walking, your bare thighs tingling in the cold. Yet, you are determined to make it there.

One beep, and not even five seconds later a second. Yeah, you figured he wouldn’t be quite happy.

It is just like you expected—he doesn’t want you to go out. Obviously not. But he doesn’t own you. Doesn’t get to dictate your life. Not anymore. Not tonight.

Or so you think.

He’s quick with his reply. Already in chat, typing just a second after you sent yours. There’s a vivid image of him in front of your eyes. Jaw clenched tightly, eyes dark with possessiveness. Long and slender fingers—that weren’t just good for typing fast replies—hitting the screen in quick succession. Broody, obsessive, cocky. Air around him thick with anger. The kind of anger that has his cock straining against his trousers.

Anger born from jealousy—and if you were still together, he’d take it out on you in the bedroom.

Perhaps that is one of the things you really miss about him.

You want to scream. Cry. Slap him across his unfairly handsome face. Why, why, just why does he have to be like this? 

Before tears can spill over your waterline, a car slows to stop beside you.

A black Porsche. His black Porsche. 

The window rolls down. 

“Get in. I am taking you home.” he says—calm and commanding. So sure of himself. His dark curls styled just the way he knows you love them, rings adorning his fingers. Oh, he did it on purpose too. Four buttons of his black satin shirt undone, revealing a sliver of his toned chest—and a necklace. The one you got him for his birthday.

Your blood boils. And the way his veins strain under his skin from how tightly he grips the steering wheel—sends all the heat straight to your core.

The drive is silent. As soon as he comes to a stop in front of your apartment, you get out, slamming the door shut.

“Have a good night, princess.” he calls after you.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

Tears start spilling uncontrollably as you hit send, and you turn off your phone for the night—mindlessly tossing it on the couch in the living room.

Looking at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wipe the mascara from your tear-streaked cheeks, cleaning off the last bits of your makeup. You don’t even bother taking off your dress, sinking into the softness of your bed. Covering your head with your duvet—the only warmth welcoming you that night. 

Crying over the same man you swore you’d never let break you again.

Fuck.

[riddlessins]

I feel like yall deserve some content before I announce those two AUs on my main 👀👀

[riddlessins]

Congratulations, you have solved the Riddle.

[riddlessins]

But at what cost?

[riddlessins]

[riddlessins]

London, December 11th, 1949.

A Sunday.

[riddlessins]

It’s late.

Too late for you to be outside.

[riddlessins]

You turn — there is nobody.

[riddlessins]

And yet…

[riddlessins]

Shadows that move when you aren’t looking.

Chilly breezes that wrap around you tightly — too tightly.

[riddlessins]

You have made it. Found him.

[riddlessins]

Now I suggest — take care.

[riddlessins]

Introducing:

[riddlessins]

── .✦ 𐔌 SERIAL KILLER!TOM 𐦯

𓂃𑁤 ⌞ SERIAL KILLER!TOM ⌝

who’s ruthless when he kills. once the best student at Hogwarts, the mistake of ending another student’s life got him expelled. however, reduced to living in the muggle world without his wand—amongst the very people he despised—has not stopped him. the exact opposite has happened. extensive understanding of magic allows him to murder without leaving a trace—and Tom is ready to exploit this knowledge without remorse.

it’s late at night when you walk into him for the first time. a coincidence, really. it’s a Sunday, and you should have been home a while ago—but you missed your bus. during your wait in the dark London alleyway, a young man approaches—his striking brown eyes and neatly styled hair immediately draw your attention, and you offer a polite smile when his gaze meets yours.

unaware that the hand in his coat pocket grips his knife just a little tighter as he stop to stand right beside you.

[riddlessins]

If that isn’t entirely your thing — that’s alright.

[riddlessins]

Tom has something else in store.