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witchywithwhiskey · 1 month ago

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when in hell, do as the demons do

pairing: demon posing as a tattoo artist!steve rogers x tattooed!female reader (number and type of tattoos aren't specified but it's more than two)

summary: new york city tattoo parlors have a tradition of offering special deals on friday the 13th, but when you decide to try out a new shop in brooklyn, you get much more than you paid for—and end up selling your soul to a charming demon.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, monsterfucking, dubcon because magic, sex pollen elements, nonconsensual bonding, soul bonds, demon tricks, bdsm (no safe word but with check-ins), choking, sadism/masochism, pain play, very brief blood play, nipple torture, pussy spanking, face slapping, rough body play, finger sucking, dacryphilia, fingering (f receiving), degradation kink, master kink, praise kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, plaything), begging, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, biting, marking, cockwarming, aftercare, happy ending

word count: 14.5k

a/n: here's my first halloween fic for 2024! i came up with the idea on friday the 13th last month and liked it for a halloween idea so here we are! this is the fic i was talking about in my poll here, which helped me decide to make steve a demon, but i'm not great at world-building/magic-building so if the magic doesn't make sense, i'm sorry! i just wanted to write some sex pollen-y tattoo artist smut and it turned into a whole thing. this fic really got away from me 😬 whoops. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡♡

halloween fics masterlist

The first time you heard the story—the urban legend whispered around New York City tattoo parlors—you were getting your second tattoo. You were young, but not so naive, and yet, when the woman named Wanda Maximoff told you the tale in her vaguely Eastern European accent, a chill raced down your spine.

It went like this: There was a young person who wanted to get a tattoo, and they were lured into an unfamiliar shop on Friday the 13th by the special deals they were offering. (Where the shop was located in the city varied based on who was telling the story, but Wanda had said it was a small parlor tucked into an alley in the Bowery.)

The person in the story didn’t know the shop or the artist, but they were so enthralled by the artist’s beauty and work that they made the hasty decision to get a tattoo of a symbol they didn’t understand. It was the last decision they’d ever make, because by the time the tattoo was done, they’d been unknowingly enslaved to a dark force—having sold their soul to a demon.

When Wanda had finished the story, her piercing green eyes stared at you long and hard, her mouth twisted to the side as if she was stopping herself from saying more than she should. There was a warning in her expression you didn’t understand, and you hadn’t been able to stop the fear that burrowed into your heart. For a second—just a second—you’d believed the strange, witchy woman.

Then you’d scoffed, laughing away your fear, and insisted the story must’ve been started by a grumpy old tattoo artist who was tired of the influx of customers on Friday the 13th. It was well known that most New York City tattoo shops had special deals every Friday the 13th, and you asserted the story was just supposed to frighten away naive tattoo novices who’d get something impulsively and regret it later.

Wanda had pressed her lips together, an inscrutable look on her face, but only nodded once before returning her focus to your tattoo. In the silence that had followed, you’d been left alone with your thoughts, and you mulled over the story, repeating your rationalizations to yourself until you believed them.

But a sliver of fear and intrigue remained for the rest of your session and when you were done, you were relieved to leave Wanda and her creepy story behind. Something like that—accidentally selling your soul to a demon when getting a tattoo—didn’t happen in real life, and it certainly wouldn’t happen to you.

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until, of course, it did happen to you.

Over the years, you heard the story repeated time and time again in countless tattoo shops across the city, and the fear you’d felt listening to Wanda recount her version of the tall tale transformed into curiosity, then a dark kind of delight. It wasn’t something you wanted to push away, but to hold close to your heart, to cherish.

As you got older, you found yourself telling the story to younger folks when you crossed paths with someone who hadn’t heard it. And every time you told the story, you found yourself unconsciously replicating Wanda’s Eastern European accent, making the story as scary as you could.

Each time you saw apprehension in the eyes of those you told the tale to, something inside you unfurled and grew stronger. You’d smirk when the tattoo novices scurried away, some leaving whatever shop you were in entirely, and a shiver would race down your spine, so much like the fear you’d felt when you first heard the story, but it was no longer that. It was a quiver of devilish mirth.

You told yourself it was normal, how much fun you had scaring off the younger folks in the tattoo shops you frequented, laughing along with the artists you knew so well. You told yourself you were just taking part in tradition by repeating the story. You told yourself there wasn’t a darkness in your heart that was wakened by the story, and craved something you didn’t quite understand.

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until you walked into Hell and your entire life changed.

Hell was the new tattoo shop that had opened in Brooklyn at the start of October, though you’d been hearing talk of it for months before then. You’d been curious about it, and the fact that none of your friends or any of the artists you frequented knew much about it made it all the more intriguing. They didn’t know who owned the shop or who was working there, and you were desperate to find out.

It wasn’t a conscious decision you remembered making, but late in the afternoon on Friday the 13th, you took the subway to Brooklyn, getting off at the stop closest to Hell.

The day was brisk, the chill of autumn clinging to the air even as the sun shone brightly above the city. You wore a thick sweater, a skirt and some tights with your most comfortable boots to make the trek deep into Brooklyn, and you were glad for it. It was a longer walk than you’d been expecting, but pleasant enough while the sun was high.

By the time you made it to the shop, though, the sun was dipping low behind the brownstones of the nearby neighborhood and your cheeks were chilled from the crisp autumn breeze. It was a relief to see the red neon sign for Hell, and you skipped quickly down the last block to push through the door of the nondescript exterior.

You were met by a rush of artificial heat that made you smile, pleased by the respite from the frigid autumn air, which swirled around your ankles as the door closed behind you. The warmth of the parlor kissed your cheeks and thawed through your icy fingertips while you looked around.

You were surprised to find that Hell was unexpectedly inviting.

Inside, the tattoo shop was decorated in dark colors that fit the theme: inky blacks, vivid reds, luminous yellows and burnt oranges. But, though it could’ve been dreary, Hell looked alive and lived-in, with cozy black leather sofas in the waiting area, and artwork decorating much of the wall space. When you looked closer, you saw that many of the pieces depicted creatures of the dark.

As you studied the artwork, you noticed a theme: Demons cavorting with human women, specifically fucking human women. You felt a tingle of something bloom between your thighs. The art was salacious and wicked, and yet, you didn’t feel disturbed by any of the imagery, only intrigued. Even a little bit aroused.

A clearing throat pulled your attention away from the art and to the redheaded woman standing behind the counter. She asked if you needed help.

As you approached, you noticed she was beautiful, and had a cold smile on her face, her green eyes watching you in a way that unsettled you. It took you a long moment to realize her gaze reminded you of Wanda, even though the women looked nothing alike. But you felt uneasy as you walked up to the counter.

Your smile was tentative as you inquired if the shop had any Friday the 13th deals, adding that it was tradition, just in case the woman was new to the city.

Her green eyes raked over your face in an obviously assessing look, and you felt like your heart and soul were being judged. You nearly huffed a laugh at the thought, because it was so ludicrous, but managed to keep still and remain expressionless while the woman stared at you.

After a moment, she smiled again and the expression was friendlier, like she was greeting an old friend. She introduced herself as Natasha Romanoff and apologized because all but one of the artists had gone home for the day since their appointments were done and they didn’t get too many walk-ins, being a new shop and all.

Just then, a man stepped behind the counter as if appearing out of nowhere—though, at the time, you rationalized that you’d simply been staring so intently at Natasha, you hadn’t noticed his approach. Without missing a beat, Natasha introduced the man as Steve Rogers, the owner of Hell and the only artist still around on that Friday the 13th.

“What willing sacrifice do we have here, Nat?” Steve asked, sidling up to the counter and pressing his hands on top to lean toward you.

The first thing you noticed where his eyes—such a pure, beautiful blue that they looked like the perfect, endless sky. But as your gaze wandered over his face, you realized his eyes weren’t his only gorgeous feature. He had a strong brow that gave way to silky blond hair; a straight, sloping nose that led down to a pair of plump, pink lips with just enough of a cupid’s bow, that you wanted to lick it.

A rush of warmth filled your cheeks at the thought and you dropped your eyes to Steve’s broad shoulders, pausing to admire the way they filled out his simple black t-shirt. His thick biceps were covered in stunningly intricate tattoos, all done in dark ink that contrasted with his pale skin. They extended down to his hands, still planted flat on the counter.

As far as you could see, there was only a small space of bare, unadorned skin at the base of Steve’s throat—all the rest of him seemed to be covered in tattoos that snaked beneath his t-shirt. You wondered idly if his tattoos covered his whole body, eyes trailing down to the black jeans he wore, and quickly shoved the thought aside.

Raising your gaze back to Steve’s face, you hoped your expression wasn’t giving away your thoughts, but the charming grin that spread across the hot tattoo artist’s face made you think he had an idea you were checking him out. And he liked it.

“Or should I say,” Steve went on in a slightly lower, more rumbly voice, leaning further across the counter with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He was close enough that you got a hint of his cologne—leather and firewood—and you couldn’t help the way your body reacted, warming and tingling and yearning for him. “What sweet thing do we have coming to barter their soul for some new ink?” He winked at you, all charm, and you nearly swooned.

“I-I was just asking if you had any Friday the 13th deals,” you stammered, unsure how to act under the blinding light of Steve’s charm. You’d known and talked to your fair share of attractive tattoo artists in your life, but Steve was on another level. He was hot and alluring in a way you couldn’t put into words, which was how you found yourself blurting, “It’s tradition.”

Steve’s grin hitched higher, and he stared at you a second longer before ducking down behind the counter to rifle through the shelves.

“Well, I’m not one to turn my back on the old ways,” he said, lifting his head to catch your eye. He gave you a look that made your knees weak, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on you, before returning to his task.

Finally, he seemed to find what he’d been looking for and stood up, brandishing a piece of paper on which some simple tattoo designs were sketched. It looked like any other sheet of designs you’d see in any other tattoo shop, and you didn’t think anything of it, turning your attention back to Steve’s handsome face.

“We didn’t have anything planned,” he explained, crossing his arms and leaning down on the counter.

The position made him slightly shorter than you, while emphasizing the expanse of his shoulders and the thick mucles of his biceps and the veins of his forearms. It was only because his hand pointed to the paper, pulling your attention away from his big body, that you remembered he was telling you something.

“But if you pick from these, I’ll charge you $113—how’s that sound?” He raised his eyes to yours, and you noticed how long his eyelashes were.

For a long moment, you just stared at Steve, your mouth slightly parted while you admired his beautiful face. You had the urge again to lick his cupid’s bow, and your body warmed pleasantly as you imagined doing exactly that. Sitting in Steve’s lap and licking him all over…

With effort, you managed to pull yourself from the tattoo artist’s spell, shaking your head to clear it while you processed what he’d said. The price he’d named was a typical deal for New York City, even with the Friday the 13th discount, so you nodded absently.

“That sounds good,” you muttered, bending over the counter to look at the sheet of paper he was still pointing to. Even his hands were attractive, with skulls tattooed on the backs and other symbols you didn’t recognize decorating his knuckles. You couldn’t help but think his hands would make a pretty necklace if they were wrapped around your throat…

Shaking your head again, you furrowed your brow and forced yourself to focus on the paper with all the designs. There was some cute Halloween-themed stuff, like black cats, witch hats, ghosts and the like. There were also some stylized numbers, like 666, and a couple pentagram designs along with other symbols you recognized.

But the one that caught your attention was something you’d never seen before. It was made up of exquisitely delicate curving lines that formed what loosely looked like an infinity symbol. There were some twists to the design that made it look harsher, more archaic.

“What’s this?” you asked, pointing to the design that called to you and looking up at Steve. Your breath caught in your throat when you met his gaze, and your voice sounded awed as you went on. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A secretive, conspiratorial smirk tugged at the corners of Steve’s lips and he leaned in a little closer, his scent invading your senses and his breath ghosting over your cheek.

“It’s a design of my own making,” he said, his voice pitched low and intimate as he looked at you in a way that made warmth curl around your heart and trickle down to settle low in your belly. “It’s special—why, do you like it?”

It took a tremendous amount of effort to pull your gaze away from Steve’s, but you forced yourself to look back down at the paper, your finger tracing the sweeping curves and the sharp points of the design.

“I do,” you said slowly, thinking about where on your body it might look nice. There was a spot on your ankle where you felt it would look good, like an anklet. But before you could get too attached to the design, you lifted your gaze, giving Steve a serious look. “It’s not a tribal symbol, or any kind of cultural appropriation, right?”

Steve placed a hand over his heart, like he was making a vow, and said, “I promise it’s not from any culture of man.”

His strange answer piqued your curiosity, but you brushed your questions aside. Later, you’d understand his odd turn of phrase, but in the moment, you chalked it up to Steve playing into the theme of his shop. You figured anyone who named their tattoo parlor Hell would be a little peculiar, and you didn’t think it was a bad thing. Especially when he was so hot.

Looking back down at the paper, you let your eyes trail over the looping design a few times, feeling yourself sinking into…something. A thrilling shiver raced down your spine, a mix of delight and terror that you found intoxicating and you had to shake yourself to remember where you were and what you were doing.

Raising your eyes to Steve, you told him you wanted the design, and once the words were past your lips, you felt a sense of rightness. You weren’t the type of person to get tattoos impulsively, but this one was calling to you, and you didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to get a tattoo from the hot shop owner.

Besides, when in Hell…

Steve slid the paper off the counter and stood up straight, his eyes going sharp as he looked between you and the design. You got the same sense you had with Natasha, that Steve was judging your heart and soul and determining whether you were deserving of the design you’d chosen. You found yourself hoping desperately that he decided you were.

After a moment, an impish smirk pulled at Steve’s mouth before his expression shifted fluidly into one of theatrical uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, drawing out the tension of the moment and stroking his jaw like he was thinking. “I was hoping to save this design for someone special.” His blue eyes pinned you with a searching look, a charming smirk on his lips. “Are you special, sweetheart?”

Steve’s charm was turned all the way up, and you felt flustered under the weight of it. Not to mention that the way the pet name rolled off his tongue made you want to do anything he asked. Twisting your fingers self-consciously, you ducked your head a little.

“Well, I—I don’t know,” you admitted, but for some reason, your thoughts strayed to the dark pleasure you sometimes felt when you frightened others with scary stories. Did that make you special, or just a little bit depraved? You didn’t know, but you hoped it was both, and that both were equally appealing to Steve.

The tattoo artist leaned back down on the counter, the veins of his forearms bulging from his skin as he crossed his arms. Since he’d ducked down, he could easily catch your lowered gaze.

“Tell me, pretty girl,” he purred softly, his tone inviting you to lean in. So you did.

A soft smile curled your lips when you smelled his cologne, and you relaxed a little while he kept talking in that alluringly deep voice of his.

“Where would you like my design on your body?”

A shiver of desire thrummed beneath your skin at the implication of Steve’s words. There was something so enticing about the way he’d phrased his question—his design on your body. It called to the darkness buried deep in your heart, and you began to suspect he somehow knew you were a little depraved. Like him.

Steve held your gaze for a long moment, and you thought you saw something shift in the depths of his blue eyes, like a shadow passing in front of the sun. But it was gone just as quickly, and you questioned whether your eyes were playing tricks on you.

Shaking yourself free of your strange thoughts, you finally managed an answer. “My ankle.” But it seemed your mouth had a mind of its own, because you found yourself flirting with the hot tattoo shop owner, a smirk curving your lips as you went on. “Do you think my ankle would be worthy of your design, sir?” you asked with feigned innocence.

As you watched for Steve’s reaction, you were rewarded with the sight of his eyes darkening, his pupils blowing wide like he greatly enjoyed the fact that you were flirting with him. His mouth spread into a hungry grin and he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully while he considered you, finally coming to a decision.

“Mm, I think your ankle is the perfect place for my design, sweet girl,” he rumbled, smiling to himself like he’d made a joke only he understood. Then his fingers were trailing lightly along the line of your jaw, distracting you with the tingling warmth they left in their wake as he stood up. “I’m going to enjoy this very much,” he murmured enigmatically before pulling away.

Your mind was too frazzled by his touch and how bereft you felt without it to wonder over his words. Besides, he was already calling for Natasha, who emerged from the back of the shop to help you through the rest of the intake process. It was only then that you realized she’d left you and Steve alone at the counter a while ago.

She slid smoothly in front of you with that friendly smile of hers while Steve retreated into the back to begin setting up. Natasha walked you through all the paperwork, none of which was new to you. That was why you felt comfortable not fully reading the fine print.

You should’ve read the fine print.

Once everything was signed, Natasha led you into the back and showed you where to stow your purse. She pointed to the privacy screen where you could take off your tights and boots, then helped you into the tattoo chair at Steve’s station.

When you were settled, Natasha bid you and Steve a good night and grabbed her own things before leaving out the back door. It was a little abrupt and you were left feeling confused.

You asked Steve if the shop was closing for the night—it seemed a little early, especially for a Friday. And he explained that he’d decided to close the shop early since they had no more appointments and were unlikely to get any other walk-ins.

For a moment, you fretted over keeping him late, but he waved away your concerns.

“There’s no where I’d rather be than tattooing my design on you, pretty thing,” Steve murmured charmingly while he pulled on some black latex gloves.

The earnestness in his voice soothed your anxiety and you relaxed back into the black leather chair, your legs propped on the footrest while Steve created a stencil of his design. Soon, the two of you were so engaged in a discussion about where exactly on your ankle to place the tattoo that you forgot you were alone with the handsome owner of Hell.

After trying a few things, you decided to have the beautiful design lay across the front of your ankle, the sides wrapping around to the back so it’d look like a permanent adornment. You smiled when Steve complimented the placement you’d chosen and felt heat suffuse your cheeks at his praise.

It all felt mostly familiar to you, someone who’d gotten a fair amount of tattoos in your life. But what you hadn’t been prepared for was the way Steve’s hands would feel on your body, the smoothness of the latex belying the warmth of his skin as he curled his fingers around the back of your leg to pull your foot onto his lap.

Warmth cascaded from the top of your head down through the rest of your body in a gentle, tingling shower, settling heavily between your legs. You pressed your thighs tight together, both to stave off the ache that was building there and to make sure you didn’t accidentally flash the hot tattoo artist.

You weren’t looking at Steve’s face, your gaze tracing the dark black ink decorating his skin and curling beneath the cotton of his shirt, but you thought you saw something flicker over his expression as he took in your reaction to his touch. You almost thought you saw dark shadows creeping into his gaze, blotting out his blue irises and making him look…demonic.

But when you flicked your gaze up to his, his eyes were a normal, glittering blue. You gave him a small smile and internally shook yourself, chalking up the moment to a trick of the light.

It was dim in the back room, with only a few warm lights positioned in Steve’s corner of the space. Natasha had closed up the rest of the shop, leaving you and Steve alone in the space, which was separated from the front by a wall and a doorway covered in a thick, maroon curtain.

The walls of the shop were painted black and covered in more of the same artwork you’d seen in the waiting area. The main difference was all the tattoo equipment and the floor that was a bare dark wood, instead of the burnt orange carpet that covered much of the front room.

Hell was dark, eerie and intimate, and you suspected the atmosphere must be getting to you, that was the only thing that explained what you’d seen in Steve’s eyes. Yes, that must be it, you told yourself, settling into the chair and letting Steve get to work.

The buzzing of his tattoo needle filled the silence and you prepared yourself for the pain that you knew was coming. Little did you know just how much pleasure you’d feel that night as well.

Nothing about the tattoo process seemed amiss until more than halfway through, when you began to feel a strange kind of tingling in your ankle where Steve worked, the sensation slowly creeping up your leg. It settled heavily between your thighs, making your core ache with a yearning emptiness as your slit leaked wetness into your panties.

It wasn’t painful, the tingling feeling, but it was unnerving, like it didn’t belong to you, and you couldn’t understand where it was coming from.

“Uh-uhm, Steve?” you started, a hint of a whine in your voice, though it was mostly drowned out by the concern you felt. You sat up straight, forcing yourself to ignore the urge to rock your hips and grind yourself against the leather seat of the chair. “Can we take a break? I feel…weird.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Steve purred, instantly pulling the needle away from your skin and wiping away blood and excess ink with a small towel. After he’d deposited the tattoo gun and cloth on his station, he turned back to you, blue eyes filled with concern as he removed his gloves. “You ok?” he asked, his warm hands massaging the back of your leg that was still draped in his lap.

The urge to moan at the feel of his bare hands on your skin was almost undeniable. It felt so good to have his strong fingers kneading your muscle and you flopped back into the chair, pressing your lips together to stifle the sound of pleasure that wanted to slip free. But you couldn’t stop the way your hips squirmed, your body aching for something…

“I think so,” you said, finally answering Steve’s question with a tremulous smile. You still felt the odd sensation pulsing up your leg and slipping between your thighs, prompting a delicious throbbing in your core, but forced yourself to ask, “There’s nothing strange in the ink, right? Something I could be allergic to?”

An allergy was the only explanation you could come up with, even though it didn’t really make sense. You’d gotten plenty of tattoos, surely you would’ve had an allergic reaction years ago if that had been a possibility. And the way you felt wasn’t like any allergic reaction you’d ever heard of.

You looked at Steve with wide, imploring eyes, hoping he could make sense of what you were feeling.

He shook his head, his fingers working higher to knead the muscle of your calf, nearly pulling a moan from your lips that would’ve drowned out his answer.

“I promise the ingredients are all-natural,” he said, his tone earnest and reassuring. “There’s nothing that would cause an allergic reaction.”

Your head fell back against the leather chair, missing the way Steve’s mouth curved into a devious smirk, and tried to gather your thoughts. The strange tingling sensation had calmed, you thought, having been replaced by the feeling of warmth that Steve’s touch inspired.

Shaking yourself lightly, you told yourself it must’ve just been the tattoo needle hitting a nerve or something. You’d never had that feeling before with any of your other tattoos, but it must’ve been something to do with Steve’s method. It hadn’t been painful, so it didn’t mean something was wrong. It was fine. You told yourself you would be fine.

“Ok,” you said softly on a sigh, letting yourself sink into the comforting massage of Steve’s fingers. Your body felt a little heavy, a throbbing desire pulsing in your core, but suspected it had more to do with the hot tattoo artist’s fingers than anything else.

Blinking your eyes open, you met Steve’s steady, patient gaze.

“We can keep going,” you said, giving him a smile that you hoped looked brave.

You must’ve succeeded, because Steve’s mouth curved into a pleased grin and his hand slid higher up your leg and settled on your thigh just above your knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze. His big palm on your bare skin sent a riot of sensation through your body, and when he squeezed you, you felt a mirroring clench of your inner muscles, your body aching to be filled.

“That’s my girl,” Steve murmured affectionately, his blue eyes glimmering with so much proud satisfaction that you felt your face heat and you ducked your head to hide a giddy grin.

Steve gave your thigh one last squeeze before pulling away to put on a new pair of gloves and refill his tattoo needle. While he worked, you couldn’t help but close your eyes and sigh silently, your skin feeling much too cold without him touching you.

For the rest of the tattoo, you tried to sit still while the tingling warmth rolled through your body, settling deliciously between your thighs and teasing your throbbing core until you were dripping into your panties. You had the absurd urge to spread your legs, to beg Steve to fill you—with his fingers, his cock, anything, so long as it put an end to the ache pulsing insistently in your body.

You tried to be good, to be still and quiet so Steve could finish your tattoo. But apparently you weren’t doing as good of a job as you hoped.

“If you keep squirming, ‘m gonna have to tie you down, pretty girl,” Steve rumbled, his head bent low over your ankle while he worked diligently.

His voice was so low and deep, you swore you could feel it in your belly, the delicious rumbling tenor teasing your clit, and your hips shifted again, your thighs clenching tight against your needy slit.

“Sweetheart,” he growled in warning, his hand gripping your foot firmly and tugging on it hard enough that you slid a few inches down in the chair.

It took every ounce of your self-control not to whimper with desire at the evidence of Steve’s strength. Your imagination flooded with visions of him tossing you around in his tattoo chair, bending you over while he pressed his bulge into your ass or flipping you onto your back and folding you in half so he could pound into your pussy.

A whine clawed up your throat, desperation flooding your body and making you want to writhe and beg and plead, but you bit it all back. Forcing yourself to be still, you asked, “Are you almost done?” in a tight, tense voice.

“Almost done,” he confirmed, his voice soothing. He looked up briefly, giving you a rakish grin. “You can be good for me, can’t you, sweet girl?”

Your heart lurched in your chest. It was all you wanted, to be good for Steve. So you nodded eagerly and tried to relax back into the chair. Your fingers were digging into the padded leather of the armrests and you pushed yourself deeper into the reclined seat, doing your best to ignore the heat and desperate, aching, insistent need pounding through your body.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you said on a small huff, your eyes shut tight so you couldn’t see Steve’s reaction. Your voice was little more than a whine as you went on, “I’ve never felt like this.”

You heard Steve chuckle, the sound rolling over you like a deep, delicious wave. Then, just barely over the buzzing of the tattoo needled pressed to your skin, you thought you heard him say, “Just wait, sweet thing,” in a dark, ominous voice you hardly recognized.

But you didn’t have a chance to try to parse out what he meant, because suddenly, you felt the sensation of a cold, hard shackle closing around your ankle.

It felt so real, and so at odds with the sensation of Steve pulling the needle away from your skin, that your whole body jerked. Quickly, you sat up and stared down at your leg, but there was no metal cuff. Only the tattoo. Finished.

Fresh black ink shimmered from your skin, and you had a brief moment to appreciate the artistry of Steve’s work, the beautiful, intricate design of the symbol. The phantom feeling of a manacle wrapped around your ankle remained, and you looked up at Steve, finding him wearing a smug, devious smirk.

You couldn’t make sense of his expression, and in the next breath, it didn’t matter, because the fire that had been simmering in your blood suddenly blazed into an inferno. You couldn’t help the pained cry that fled your lips as you fell back into the chair, desire burning a demanding path through your body and tearing through your mind.

Your legs fell open on the leather seat, a pornographic moan slipping from your lips when the cool air of the tattoo shop brushed against your inner thighs. Your fingers tugged fussily at your sweater, trying to claw off the once-cozy garment that suddenly felt too heavy and constricting against your scorching skin.

Your eyes swiveled in your head, seeking and finding Steve, who was standing beside the chair and staring down at you. His gaze was lit with a depraved fire and his mouth was curled into a delighted grin.

“Aw, poor little plaything, are you feeling hot and bothered?” he cooed at you in a mean, patronizing tone that was so at odds with the charming affability you’d come to expect from the tattoo artist that you felt like you’d been slapped.

A pathetic whimper slipped from your lips, and Steve’s eyes seemed to glow brighter, his smile hitching wider, growing more hungry and more eager at the same time. Leaning over your squirming body, Steve stroked the tips of his fingers down your cheek.

Your body’s reaction to his touch was instantaneous. The burning, blistering pain of need calmed enough that it no longer hurt, and you chased Steve’s fingertips instinctively, associating his contact with relief. He let you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, chuckling darkly when you sighed happily, your mind moving too slow to process what was happening.

“Should we get this cumbersome sweater off you, sweet thing?” Steve murmured, his hands curving around your shoulders before stroking down your sides. His thumbs brushed over the tips of your breasts and your spine arched off the chair, pushing into his touch, needing more.

You were so hot, so achy, so needy, and you somehow knew Steve was the only one who could help you feel better. Distantly, you knew it was highly inappropriate to let your tattoo artist undress you, even one as hot as Steve, but in that moment, you didn’t care. His touch through your sweater wasn’t enough—you needed him to touch your bare skin.

So you nodded frantically, whimpering, “Yes, please, Steve, help.”

The man laughed, a dark, evil chuckle rumbling from his chest.

You didn’t understand what was funny, but you didn’t protest because his big hands slipped under the hem of your sweater and he touched you properly. His palms were warm, his fingers calloused and rough against your belly.

You sucked in a surprised breath when his touch sent sizzling tingles of pleasure through your body, gathering in your throbbing slit and making more wetness gush into your panties.

If you’d been in your right mind, you might’ve felt embarrassed over how wet you were from Steve sliding his hands up your stomach, but all you could do was revel in the pleasure his touch brought you. Your mouth curved into a delirious smile as you stared dazedly up at the supernaturally handsome man like he was the center of your universe.

Slowly, almost torturously, Steve slid your sweater up until it bunched above your breasts and he paused. His hands wrapped around your ribs, thumbs stroking over your skin beneath the band of your bra. He stared down at you, his blue eyes nearly glowing with hungry desire as his gaze raked over the lace containing your breasts.

Your chest heaved with your gasping breaths, and you took the moment to try to settle. The fire in your blood didn’t burn painfully with Steve touching you, but you still wanted—no, needed—more. Your hips squirmed in the leather seat and a whine clawed up your throat until it spilled free.

“Steeeve, please,” you begged, staring up at the tattoo artist with wide, imploring eyes. At the same time, you lifted your arms above your head and sat up a little in an effort to get him to pull your sweater the rest of the way off. Instead of spurring him to move, though, it had the opposite effect.

Steve went still, closing his eyes like he was savoring the sound of your whining voice and begging words. When he opened them a moment later, they appeared darker—the soft, sky blue of his irises darkened to an almost midnight black, with inky swirls of darkness creeping in from the edges.

Then he blinked, and his eyes went back to normal.

You were too distracted by your body’s need to think much about the fact that his eyes had gone nearly pitch black—that he’d looked, for a moment, like one of the monstrous demons from the art adorning the walls of Hell.

Your delirious, desirous mind let the moment slip by unquestioned, instead focusing on your lust—and on Steve.

“Lift up for me, pretty thing,” he cooed, his tone almost gentle despite the grit and gravel in his voice.

You did as he said, lifting your back away from the chair so he could pull your sweater off, leaving you in just your bra, skirt and panties on his tattoo chair.

In the short moment when Steve’s hands deserted your body, the blazing inferno of need returned. You groaned in pain, reaching for Steve and latching on to his wrist. The burning sensation abated the second you touched him, but you didn’t stop there, dragging his hand back to your body and sighing in further relief when you pressed his palm to your breast.

You didn’t know if Steve pushed you back into the chair or if you fell back and he followed, but he leaned over you, his big hands kneading your tits through your bra. A moan tumbled from you as you sank into the feeling, melting beneath his touch. It just felt so good—and the rougher he got, the harder he groped your tits, pulling and pinching on your nipples through the lace of your bra, the better it felt.

“That’s it, plaything, moan for me—let me hear how much you love it when I abuse your tits,” Steve growled, leaning so far over you that his head blocked out the light above the chair. His face was contorted into a greedy expression, his eyes sharp and hungry as he watched pleasure dance across your features. “You’re such a dumb little doll, you have no idea what’s heppening to you, do you?”

His tone was mean and mocking, but your body responded to the deep tenor of it all the same, wetness gushing between your thighs while your hips writhed on the leather seat, seeking something to grind against.

Your mind was hazy with lust and pleasure and confusion. It took you a long few moments to understand what he’d asked and when you did, it sparked a bit of fear. But even that dissolved into pleasure and you moaned, your hands clinging to Steve’s wrists—not trying to pull him away, just anchoring yourself to him.

“Wha-what’s happening to me?” you whined breathlessly, blinking your eyes up at Steve with an equal amount of uncertainty and trust. You still didn’t realize he was the reason for what was happening, but you’d come to learn that soon enough. Not that it would matter.

“Oh, baby, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that,” Steve cooed, his tone changing so quickly back to gentle and reassuring, it nearly gave you whiplash.

Still, pleasure swirled in your chest at the sweet praise in his words, even if they were more than a little condescending. A smile curled the corners of your lips, but you forced yourself to focus. There was something you wanted to know—something Steve knew, and you were determined to get the answer from him. You knew it was important, even if you couldn’t remember why.

“Steve, pleeease,” you whimpered, your words dissolving into a moan when he shoved the lace cups of your bra down and pinched your nipples harder, pulling and twisting them until your spine was arching up off the leather seat. It took you a long moment to remember your train of thought and continue on. “Tell me, Steve, please, I can handle it—what’s happening to me?”

A wide smirk spread across Steve’s face and his eyes flickered with shadows that seemed to want to consume his gaze the same way he looked like he wanted to consume you. Bending over your squirming, twitching body, Steve’s face hovered just above yours, an evil kind of mischief in his expression.

“If I tell you, do you promise you’ll take it like a good girl?”

Images assailed your imagination—Steve shoving his cock deep in your cunt, growling at you to take it like a good girl while he fucked you like a bat out of hell. Steve pounding into your mouth, grunting his pleasure as he spilled down your throat and ordered you to take it like a good girl. Steve stretching your ass around his cock, smoothing a hand down your spine as he cooed at you in that meanly patronizing tone to take it like a good girl.

A loud, debauched moan slipped from your lips as bliss pulsed through your body. It took you a long moment to push the images from your mind and gather your scattered thoughts enough to blink your eyes open and nod up at Steve.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you said fiercely, knowing somewhere deep down that if you were a good girl for him, the visions you’d had would become a reality. And you wanted so badly for them to become a reality—at any cost.

A devious, delighted grin spread across Steve’s face at your answer, satisfaction shimmering in his eyes. Then one of his hands let go of your breast and skimmed down your body, over your hip and down your leg until his fingers circled your ankle, just above the tattoo he’d given you.

“This design you chose, it’s not just something I designed—it’s my mark,” he purred, putting emphasis on the last two words as if you’d know what that meant. But you still didn’t understand what your tattoo had to do with what was happening to you. His explanation just made you more confused.

“What does that mean?” you whimpered, your voice desperate and pleading. You wanted to understand, you wanted to be good for Steve and grasp whatever it was he was trying to tell you, but the meaning of his words was still out of reach.

“Think hard, sweetheart,” Steve cooed, his voice turning sweet in a way that had your belly swooping deliciously.

When you still didn’t seem to understand, Steve’s hand slid down, his palm covering your fresh tattoo and you gasped. His touch against the mark felt like he was yanking on a thread that had been tied behind your belly button. It felt like you were tethered to something…to him, you realized.

You were tethered to Steve by some sort of magic. The mark he’d tattooed on your skin had bound you to him…

All the air fled your lungs as comprehension sank into your mind. Your face twisted in shock and understanding, though the expression didn’t last long.

“There it is, that’s my girl,” Steve praised, squeezing your ankle and pressing his palm more firmly down on the mark.

The touch dragged a reluctant moan from you as pleasure swirled through your body, and you weren’t certain if it was your own or the result of the bond between the two of you. When you got control of yourself, you glared up at the devious tattoo artist, letting him see the betrayal written plainly across your face.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, baby,” Steve rumbled, his other hand wrapping around the front of your throat and tipping your chin up while he bent down until there were mere inches between you. “You heard the story, and you ignored its warning.” He tsked at you, shaking his head when you only narrowed your eyes in anger. “You weren’t careful about getting tattooed on Friday the 13th and now you’re enslaved to a dark force—you’re enslaved to me.”

He didn’t give you a chance to react to that declaration, only closed the distance between your lips, covering your mouth with his own to steal a kiss. And, god help you, what a kiss it was.

Steve’s mouth slanted perfectly to yours, his lips soft and seeking as they brushed against yours. His tongue flicked out, licking along the seam of your lips as if asking for entry, and you were helpless to the pleasure he offered.

Your lips parted with a soft gasp, an invitation if ever there was one, and he wasted no time slipping in. Steve took possession of your mouth, plundering your body while his hands held you firmly pinned beneath him.

It wasn’t long before you were moaning into his mouth and kissing him back, your fingers plunging into his soft, blond hair and nails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck until he was growling into your mouth.

His hand around your neck squeezed harder, choking you lightly in retaliation for the bite of your nails and you pulsed with so much heat, you cried out sharply, the sound transforming into a whine of need.

Steve nipped your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste mixed with the heat of his tongue as he licked it from your mouth. When he pulled away a moment later, you could see the traces of red staining his lips—though that wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the sight of his eyes.

Writhing shadows had blotted out the blue irises of his gaze, leaving only two fathomless pools of darkness shimmering in the warm lights of Hell. A shiver raced down your spine, unease and curiosity filling your chest as you stared at the suddenly inhuman visage of the handsome tattoo artist.

Steve Rogers was still attractive, even with the unnatural eyes of a demon, but the shadows in his gaze changed the terrain of his face. His teeth looked sharper in his mouth, and the curve of his smirk looked more cruel. His jaw looked more angular and his body seemed bigger, broader, more intimidating as he loomed above you.

And yet…

You liked how Steve looked when he’d shed the pretense of humanity. He was somehow, impossibly, hotter. More dangerous, sure, but also freer in a way that you found enticing.

It took you a moment, your mind swimming with pleasure and the tingling remnants of his kiss, to pinpoint exactly what you liked about seeing Steve without the guise he must’ve been wearing. He was more himself. And this version of him, this demonic visage, called to the darkness inside of you in a way that made you feel like he belonged to you just as much as you belonged to him.

Pressing a palm to your forehead like you could push that thought straight out of your head, you forced yourself to focus on the present. “Nooo,” you moaned in a small voice, mostly to yourself because you were already thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to belong to Steve, especially if he belonged to you, too.

But, for all you could feel the bond between you and the demon strengthening and solidifying as your tattoo healed supernaturally fast, his desire and lust mixing with your own, he still couldn’t read your mind. And he must’ve thought you were protesting the newfound connection between the two of you.

“Ohh yes, sweetheart,” Steve growled, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat and tipping your face up so he could see your eyes.

The two shimmering pools of darkness were writhing with agitation, and you stared at them in wonder, your mouth falling open with awe. They were just as beautiful as his human eyes, looking like the surface of the deep ocean at night.

“You’re mine, pretty little plaything,” Steve rasped, his voice low and dark and vehement, like he was determined to make you understand your new reality. “Your heart, your body, your soul—it’s all mine,” he went on, pausing only to capture your lips in a brief, but searing kiss, like he was marking you all over again. “You’re bound to me for eternity, baby, enslaved to all my whims, and I bet you know what I want rigt now.”

You did know. You could feel Steve’s lust slinking through the bond, flooding your body and creating the burning need that was so painful when he wasn’t touching you. But beneath it, you could feel your own desire, too. The yearning you’d felt for the tattoo artist that had only grown since you’d discovered his true nature as the demon from the Friday the 13th legend.

Watching your face keenly, Steve let go of your ankle, grabbing one of your wrists and bringing your hand to the bulge in his pants. It was so big and hot and hard, even through the stiff denim of his jeans, that you whimpered. But you didn’t pull away, letting Steve use his grip to make you stroke his cock. And when he groaned his pleasure, your fingers tightened, giving his thick length a curious squeeze.

“This is what you do to me, pretty girl, this is why you’re the one I chose,” he growled, his voice so deep, it sounded animalistic. “I knew from the moment you walked into my shop with your sweet little skirt and your dark little heart that you were going to be mine—and now I’ve got you.”

It occurred to you to ask what he meant about your heart, but you suspected you knew. He’d looked deep into your heart and soul saw the darkness there—and it was exactly what he wanted.

The knowledge that you were what he wanted filled you with a sense of pride, and you took over from Steve. You stroked his cock through his jeans without his guidance, squeezing him while you stared up at him, devotion written across your face while you pressed your throat into his hand, knowing the tattoos on his fingers were making a pretty necklace.

“You’re my precious little plaything, aren’t you, baby?” Steve cooed at you, sweeping his thumb over your jaw and swiping it across your lower lip. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy being mine.”

You ducked your head, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking on him, your eyes going heavy lidded as you nodded your agreement. Steve grunted a pleased sound.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” he purred, pressing his thumb onto your tongue and pushing deeper into your mouth. “You’re gonna be such a good fucktoy for your demon master, aren’t you?”

You could feel Steve’s cock twitch beneath your fingertips and you squeezed him harder, moaning when you felt an answering pulse deep in your cunt. The burning desire that had been held at bay by the realization of what exactly he was and what he’d done to you returned with a fury that would not be ignored.

“Yes, master,” you murmured obligingly after tipping your head back to slide him from your mouth. You pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb and smiled up at Steve, your eyes hungry and eager.

The demon’s gaze darkened further somehow, filling with greed and lust and just about every sin you could imagine—all promising to do dirty, filthy things to your body in the name of slaking the desire that burned brightly in both of you.

“I knew you were perfect,” he growled, grabbing your throat and pulling you in for another kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, his kiss inciting the fire in your body to burn hotter, making the throbbing between your legs impossible to ignore.

While he kissed you breathless, your fingers kept stroking his cock through his jeans, your other hand sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt to rake your nails through the thin trail of hair dusting his abs. Both of you groaned at the contact, Steve’s tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips thrust against your palm.

Just as quickly as he’d dragged you into the kiss, Steve pulled away, shoving you roughly back into the chair. Your back hit the padded leather, a light, “oomph,” of surprise tumbling from your lips. One of his hands gripped your thigh possessively, fingers digging into your soft flesh while he leaned down and pulled a lever somewhere on the chair.

The footrest dropped away, allowing Steve to step between your legs, his hands groping roughly at your thighs, your hips, your tits. A low rumbling growl sounded in his chest every time his hand touched a piece of your clothing, as if they offended him personally. You squirmed in your seat, trying to find the words to beg him to take off the rest of your clothes, but all you could manage was a desperate whine.

“Are you still feeling hot, baby?” Steve asked, his tone playfully condescending as he skimmed his hands up your bare legs and tugged on the hem of your skirt—which, at that point, was barely covering anything with the way your legs were splayed open around his hips. “Should we get rid of the rest of these tiresome clothes?”

You were nodding your head before he even finished his question, his hands making quick work of unzipping your skirt and tugging on it until you lifted your hips so he could drag it down along with your panties. He stepped back so he could pull them off your legs, raking his gaze up your body and pointedly looking at your bra.

“Take it off, fucktoy,” he growled, his tone going mean again.

The quick change of his mood had you gasping with surprise, even as his rough voice made you gush more wetness between your thighs. You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the demon’s mercurial moods, but you liked the unpredictability—it meant you’d never grow bored.

Scrambling to do as Steve said, you pushed forward from the chair to unclip your bra and ripped it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. When that was done, the demon shoved your legs open and stepped back between them, pushing your legs up to drape over the armrests of the chair.

“Good girl,” Steve rumbled, stroking his hands down your thighs, digging his fingers in suddenly, hard enough to make you squeal and squirm. He chuckled, looking like he enjoyed your reaction, and pushed your legs wider, spreading you so fully, you felt a twinge of discomfort in your hip. But the pain was soothed away a moment later by the pleasure throbbing through your body.

A sharp exhale gusted from Steve the moment he laid his eyes on your bare pussy. He was staring down at you like you were everything to him, like you were the center of his universe. He looked like he was a mere second away from getting down on his knees and worshipping at the altar of your body.

More surprising than the way he was looking at you was what you could feel through the bond tethering you to the demon. You could feel his devotion in your soul, the sensation curling round your heart and filling you with a sense of adoration that was both yours and Steve’s.

As much as you were his, you knew, with absolutely certainty, that he was yours, too. For better or for worse.

But the longer Steve stared down at your body, his hands unable to stop touching you—exploring every inch of your skin, his palms cupping your breasts, thumbs stroking over you nipples before he curved his fingers around your ribs and skimmed down to your hips, feeling you, learning you—the more you began to believe it wasn’t so bad being bonded to a demon.

You hadn’t noticed your gaze had drifted away from the demon, staring unseeingly over his shoulder while you reveled in the feel of him touching you, until his hand came down sharply on your slit, slapping your pussy so sharply, you cried out in surprise, tears springing to your eyes. Pleasure and pain burned through you, writhing and fighting for dominance, and you were helpless to the sensation.

“Eyes on me, fucktoy,” Steve growled, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him. His fingers dug into your cheeks, his face looming over yours while his hand came down again, spanking your cunt and making your whole body jerk in the leather chair from the sharp, stinging pleasure. “You’re my dumb little cock slave, and you’ll look at me like a good girl when I’m playing with you like you’re my own personal fuck doll—got it?”

The demon punctuated his seething question with another spank to your pussy, and it was the hardest of all, but though you expected pain, you felt only pleasure. A loud, pornographic moan, spilled from your lips while your mind swirled, your whole body throbbing like you were one big nerve ending.

Forcing your eyes open, you found Steve watching you expectantly. You gasped for air and scrambled for words “Yes, master,” you cried, surprising even yourself when you shouted, “I’m your good little fucktoy!”

Steve seemed appeased, a satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth while his fingers rubbed through your drenched folds. “You are, baby,” he assured you. “You’re such a good little plaything for your master.”

His words were an alluring purr, soothing you. Then, he surprised you by shoving three of his fingers into your cunt, making your whole body shudder from the unrelenting and sudden fullness.

“Oh god,” you moaned, pleasure ricocheting violently through your body. You squirmed in the chair, feeling your pussy spasm with delight, your wetness gushing out of you and dripping down between your ass cheeks, making a mess on the chair.

“God’s not going to help you now, sweet thing,” Steve rumbled with a smirk, pulling his fingers out of you before pushing them deep into your sopping wet hole again. “You sold your soul to me, He has no dominion over you anymore—you’re mine for eternity.”

His thumb rubbed your clit and you cried out helplessly, barely hearing his words as your body focused on the pleasure he was giving you. He pushed deeper, his fingers stroking a spot inside you that had your spine arching and your hips bearing down on his delicious intrusion. You were so wet, he fucked you easily with his three fingers, spreading them wide to stretch you open.

“Oh fuck,” you whined, your whole body shaking with need while the demon fucked you slowly with his fingers. You watched them slide into you, your folds swollen and puffy from his rough spanking. He was moving with a torturous laziness and you squirmed, mewling for more, “Faster, Steve, please.”

Suddenly, Steve’s fingers pulled free from your obscenely wet pussy, and a second later they were being shoved into your mouth. Your sweet, musky taste exploded on your tongue as the demon pushed them deep, making you gag on his slick fingers while he loomed above you.

“What did you call me?” he seethed through gritted teeth, the dark shadows of his eyes roiling like a churning sea.

“M’m sowwy,” you mumbled around his fingers, drool dripping down your chin and tears spilling onto your cheeks.

Steve’s mood immediately calmed at the sight of your tears and he made a soft shushing sound as he pulled his fingers from your mouth. “There, there, my sweet little plaything,” he cooed, leaning down to kiss and lick the salty tears from your skin. “I like it better when you call me master—can you be a good girl and call me master?”

The way Steve was bent over you, the bulge in his jeans pressed into your leaking cunt and you rubbed against him like a cat in heat, your hole aching to be filled, but you knew you had to answer his question first.

“Yes, master,” you whimpered, “I’mma be a good girl, I swear.”

“That’s my girl,” Steve purred, swiping the drool from your chin and pressing a kiss to your mouth. It was sweet and slow, his mouth praising you without words and making your head spin with the feeling of affection slipping through the bond.

When he pulled away, Steve gave you a stern look, his brow lowered over his black eyes and his mouth pressed into a firm line.

“Now, I can feel you rubbing your cute little cunt on my cock, baby,” he rumbled, his hands groping your thighs, but not pinning you down to make you stop. So you kept humping against him, your body shameless in its need for him. “But I want you to use your words—what do you want from your master?”

“Fuck me, master—please, oh g-fuck, I need your cock, master, please, please, please give it to me,” you babbled, blinking away the last of your tears to stare up into the handsome face of your demon.

You could still feel his lust and desire and fondness thrumming through the bond he’d created, but beneath that, deep in your own heart, you felt your own affection swell. You’d had a crush on Steve before he’d sealed the bond, and—god help you—those feelings didn’t waver in light of his trickery. If anything, every touch, no matter how rough or soft, only strengthened them.

Steve’s fingers dug into the plush flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive as he stared down at you with a satisfied smirk.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you beg for me, baby—not for a millennia, at least,” he murmured, ducking down to capture your swollen lips in a kiss.

At the same time, he rubbed his bulge against your sensitive pussy, making you cry out so that he could swallow the sound down.

Kissing him back, you whimpered into his lips, need burning through your body and making you impatient. Your fingernails raked down the front of Steve’s chest, reveling in the way his firm muscles contracted, and the sharp little breaths he took.

You hooked your fingers under the lower hem and tugged the shirt up with a desperate whine until Steve yanked it off over his head, breaking your kiss for only a second.

Your fingers explored the smooth planes of Steve’s chest, brushing over his beautiful tattoos as you traced his hard muscles. All the while, he kissed you, devoured you, his own hands kneading your thighs and your tits and plucking at your nipples until you were writhing mindlessly beneath him.

“Please, master,” you keened, arching your spine and pushing your tits into his palms. “Fuck me, pleeease!” You tugged demandingly on the waist of his jeans, your fingers fumbling to undo the buckle of his belt.

Steve only chuckled maddeningly, rubbing his clothed cock into your sopping wet pussy while he pressed kisses to your jaw.

“C’mon, baby, you can beg better than that, can’t you?” he rumbled, his tone playful and warm, but it quickly turned dark and demanding. “Beg me to split you open on my dick, to fucking ruin your pretty little pussy with my fat demon cock—use your filthy mouth, sweetheart, tell me all the dirty things you want your evil master to do to you.”

“Oh fuck, yes,” you groaned, squirming beneath him and humping shamelessly against his bulge. “Please, master—please ruin me, hurt me, abuse me,” you cried, not knowing where the words were coming from, but you suspected they were being ripped right from that dark place deep in your heart, your soul. “Fill my holes with your demon cock and pump me full of cum, wanna be bulging with your seed, master—wanna be your dumb little fucktoy for all eternity. Make me yours, please!”

You cut off on a broken, desperate sob, and Steve’s mouth covered yours with an animalistic roar, kissing you hard—like he was branding you all over again. It made you moan louder, kissing him back just as fervently.

Your head spun from Steve’s kiss, but you could feel his hands fumbling between your legs. Then, the hot, hard length of him smacked against your swollen, smarting pussy, making you cry out into his mouth.

Steve drank down your sounds greedily, like they were the nectar of the gods. His tongue pushed into your mouth, licking into you as if trying to lap up your pleasured noises straight from their source.

“You’re fucking perfect, baby,” Steve praised when he pulled away, his voice silky and earnest in a way that made your heart warm in your chest.

His mood had switched again, and you didn’t think you’d ever get tired of the way it could shift like the wind. It was exciting and thrilling—like riding your own personal roller coaster. But no matter how his mood seemed to shift, you always felt his affection through the bond. Your demon was just fickle about how he liked to show that affection.

“Such a good fucking girl for me, ‘m gonna give you exactly what you want, sweet thing,” Steve went on, rubbing his hot, hard length through your drenched folds, coating himself in your wetness. “Gonna bury my cock in your holes for an aeon, keep you dumb and drunk on my cock, gonna make you my precious little plaything.”

“Yes, master, please,” you whimpered, your hands finding Steve’s waist and pulling your bodies closer, your ass sliding to the edge of the chair. “Fuck my tight little hole, please—please!”

Something in Steve seemed to snap, and with a snarl, he folded you in half in his leather tattoo chair, pushing your knees to your chest and lining up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance. In the next breath, he shoved his cock deep into your cunt, splitting you open with such a delicious mixture of pain and pleasure that your screams filled the whole of Hell.

Steve gave you only a moment to adjust to the sheer girth of his thick, massive cock before he pulled back and snapped his hips forward, the sound of his thighs hitting your ass making a loud clapping sound.

Your mouth fell open, the most obscene, pornographic moans coming from your lips. Against your will, your eyes slid closed.

Grabbing the back of your head to hold it still, Steve slapped your cheek—hard—making your eyes fly back open. The stinging pain blurred into a deep, aching pleasure, and your cry of surprise devolved into a lewd moan.

“What did I tell you, fucktoy?” Steve growled, slapping you again, harder. The pools of his eyes churned dangerously, his mouth twisted with determination as he reminded you of his earlier command. “Keep your fucking eyes on me.”

Though you knew his strikes were meant to be punishing, he was keeping a tight leash on his strength. His hand smarted but he never truly hurt you.

It was more degrading, feeling Steve slap your face, and you enjoyed it much more than you would’ve expected. The sounds of your desperate, depraved pleasure spilling freely from your lips.

When you managed to focus your gaze on your demon, you found Steve watching you with a smug smirk on his face.

“Do you like it when I slap you, sweet thing?” he cooed, his hips driving into yours, fucking you deep and hard with his thick cock while he held the back of your head. He didn’t wait for an answer, slapping you again, letting your face twist to the side before forcing you back to look at him. “Do you want me to hurt you more, pretty girl?”

“Yes, master!” you cried, surprising even yourself. But you were greedy for the mixture of pain and pleasure Steve offered, finding you were quickly growing addicted to the wicked way he made you feel. “Play rough with your fucktoy—please, master, I want it!”

“Good girl,” Steve purred, grinning wider and using his free hand to slap your tits, your thighs, anywhere he could reach. The sharp smacking sounds joined with the clapping of his hips against your ass and the obscene wet noises of your pussy being fucked. “You’re such a perfect little plaything, baby, taking it like such a good girl for your master.”

Steve leaned more heavily on top of you, his hips pressing his cock so deep, you sobbed with pleasure, feeling like he was pushing into your cervix. Pain and pleasure made your mind spin, and your hands clung to Steve’s thick biceps, your nails digging sharply into his skin.

Your demon hissed out a breath at the bite of your nails, his hips stuttering and fucking more powerfully into you. He slammed against a spot deep inside your cunt that had you thrashing beneath him in the leather chair, clawing at him even more.

“Fuck yeah, sweetheart, hurt me back,” he growled, his tone taunting you meanly as he went on. “Show me what ya got, I can take it.”

Darkness rose inside of you, and though it was tempting to believe it was solely the effect of the demon’s mark on your body, you knew it wasn’t. This was the darkness that had grown within you over the years, the one that had called out to the demon and had been so pleased when he answered your call by binding you to him for an eternity of sinful servitude.

Skimming your hands up to Steve’s shoulders, you didn’t miss the way he looked a little disappointed at your light touch. You curled your lips in an impish grin—the only warning you gave him before you dug your nails deep into his skin, dragging them down over his inked shoulders and biceps as hard as you could.

Though you didn’t break skin, dark red lines appeared on his pale skin where it shone through and Steve groaned loudly, his hips twitching before he picked up his pace. He fucked you faster, with punishingly violent strokes that had you babbling an endless stream of pleasured noises.

“That’s it, plaything, let it out—take it out on me,” he growled encouragingly.

You didn’t know what exactly he was prompting you to let out, but you suspected it had something to do with the darkness churning in your chest. And his reaction, his pleasure in response to the pain you’d given him, lit something inside you. The darkness unfurled further as you finally let it free, and you felt Steve’s encouragement through the bond you shared.

Tilting your hips up so that Steve could pound harder and deeper into your pussy, you reached around to his lower back, raking your nails up the long length of his muscles. You pressed so deep, you would’ve gouged into a human’s skin. But your demon was made of sturdier stuff, and he simply grunted in pleasure, fucking you harder—so hard, it nearly hurt.

Steve was glorious above you, his demented coal-black eyes staring down at you with a fathomless greed you could feel thrumming in your own heart. It made you want to hurt him. It made you want to love him.

Frightened by both impulses, you grabbed Steve by the back of his neck, digging your nails into his skin as you pulled him down. Instead of kissing him, though, your face buried into the crook of his neck and you sank your teeth into the spot at the base of his throat, the one free of ink, biting him hard enough you thought you might actually pierce the demon’s skin.

He tasted like fire and smoke and salt.

Steve’s growling groan rumbled in his throat and you felt it against your cheek, moaning in answer while you licked his warm, golden skin. You sucked on him hard, wanting to leave your own mark on your demon, sinking your teeth in further while his cock pressed deep inside you.

Your demon allowed it for a moment, then his hand wrapped around the front of your throat and he pushed you away, pinning you hard against the back of the tattoo chair while he climbed on top of you. The back gave way until you were laying flat and Steve’s big body was covering yours.

The chair rocked dangerously, but stayed upright and Steve caged you in beneath him, fucking you in slow, lazy strokes.

“You bite me like that again, sweetheart, and ‘m gonna blow my load way too soon,” he grumbled, glaring at you, though there wasn’t any heat to it. Especially since you could feel his pleasure through the bond.

“Oops,” you said, unable to hold back your giggle. Steve didn’t look nearly as amused as you felt, so you forced yourself to look a little contrite as you pouted and simpered, “Sorry, master.”

Shaking his head and huffing a laugh, you felt his humor slip through the bond and saw his mouth flicker in a smile.

“Baby, baby, baby, what am I gonna do with you, huh?” he purred. Tilting his head to the side, he considered you with smirk. “You’ve only been bound to me for an hour and I’ve already corrupted you, sweetheart.”

He ducked down, dragging his nose from the base of your throat up to your jaw, nipping at the spot just below your ear that had you moaning softly. Your legs clung to his sides, holding him close in the cradle of your body while he kissed your neck.

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement, even though you both knew it was the darkness in your heart that had drawn him to you in the first place, not that he’d corrupted you. “I guess you’ll just have to keep me, master,” you said sweetly, lifting your hips to meet Steve’s languid strokes, gasping when the tip of his cock hit that spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars.

At your words, Steve huffed a laugh, burying his face in your neck and mumbling against your skin, “As if I’d ever be able to let you go.” He rocked into your body, wringing another moan from you as he grunted his own pleasure. “Fuck, your cunt feels so good, ‘m not gonna last much longer.”

“Master, please, ‘m so close,” you whimpered into his ear. You wrapped one of your arms around his broad shoulders while your other hand dove into his soft, blond hair. You clung to your demon while he dug his arms beneath your back, holding you pinned beneath his body so he could rut ferociously into you.

“Bite me, baby,” Steve growled, pounding into you with short, hard thrusts, grinding the base of his cock against your clit with each one. “Mark me—show me I’m yours.” His voice was a desperate, greedy rasp, his need thrumming through your body through the bond, and you couldn’t think of doing anything but indulging him.

Your teeth sank deep into Steve’s neck, in the one spot that wasn’t covered in ink, and sucked hard on his skin, licking his throbbing pulse point at the same time. He growled wildly, his thrusts turning harder and meaner, his fingers slipping between your bodies to find your clit and rub ruthlessly.

You didn’t know which of you came first because it seemed like you both pushed each other over the edge in the same instant.

The coil of pleasure deep in your belly snapped suddenly, and pleasure exploded through your body, leaving devastation in its wake as you screamed your release. At the same time, Steve groaned, long and loud, his cock throbbing deep inside your cunt while he spilled his seed into your fluttering channel.

Your demon kept fucking you as you both rode out the waves of pleasure, your body clinging to his and milking his cock while he held you crushed to his chest.

Your gasps for air turned to deeper breaths as you slowly came down from your peak, and you were distantly aware of Steve hauling you up from the chair and spinning around to sit while you sprawled in his lap.

As you recovered together, Steve’s fingertips danced up and down your spine while your head lay on his inked shoulder and you watched the red indents of your teeth slowly fade from his neck. A frown pulled at the edges of your mouth, and you wondered how on earth he’d managed to get tattooed if it was so difficult to leave a mark on his skin.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked in a deep, gruff voice, like he’d been on the brink of sleep.

It took you a moment of being confused about how he could’ve possibly seen your frown before you remembered the bond. You still felt the tether to him, like a string tied behind your belly button, but you didn’t feel a tug on it until his palm skimmed down to your ankle and his hand closed over the tattoo he’d given you, which was healed somehow.

“How did that heal so fast?” you asked, sitting up twisting around to look at your ankle. The sweeping, delicate curves peaked out from behind Steve’s hand, and you brushed your fingertips over the inked lines with wonder.

“There was a drop of my blood in the ink,” Steve answered, and when you looked at him, he wore a mischievous smirk. “I told you the ingredients were all-natural, didn’t I?” he asked charmingly and shot you a wink, making you laugh and shake your head.

But then your eyes fell on the spot on his neck where you’d bitten him. He’d healed so fast, you couldn’t see any trace of your teeth anymore, and you brushed your fingers over it sadly. Steve caught your hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of your fingertips.

“There’s a special method to tattooing a demon,” Steve answered your unasked question, skimming his free hand down his chest and over all the other ink on his skin. “I can teach you how,” he offered.

Your eyes had drifted down to his chest, tracing the lines of the tattoos that had been hidden by his shirt, but at his words, you glanced up—and were surprised to see the darkness had receded from his eyes, leaving them a bright, sky blue. The look he was giving you was earnest, and you felt it reflected in the bond that hummed in your body.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, ducking your head into the crook of his neck and licking the spot you wanted to mark.

He still tasted like fire and salt and smoke and you wanted to savor him for an eon. With a sigh, you gave into the urge, licking and kissing him idly while you cuddled into his chest. Steve held you securely, your body still impaled on his half-hard cock while his cum dripped out of you, and you thought you could stay like that forever.

Instead, after a few moments, you asked, “So what happens now? Do you take me back to hell or the underworld or whatever?”

A chuckle rumbled in Steve’s chest. The sound reverberated through your sternum where you were pressed together and you smiled into his neck.

“I figured we’d stick around Brooklyn for a couple decades, then we can head down below,” he murmured, tracing patterns on your lower back with one hand while the other gripped your ass possessively. “I think you’ll like it there—I’ve got all kinds of fun toys to play with.”

You could hear the depraved excitement in his tone and snorted a laugh. But then something occurred to you and you pushed up from his chest to sit back so you could see Steve’s face. He looked confused by your suddenly serious expression.

“When you say toys, you don’t mean other people you’ve bound to you, do you?” you asked him with your eyes narrowed. Your focus was almost entirely on the bond, waiting for his reaction. You knew you’d be able to tell if he was lying, or hiding something.

But you felt only amusement from him, and watched as a grin spread across his face. “Nah,” he said, his hand wrapping loosely around the front of your throat to pull you in for a kiss. “I’m not actually the demon from the urban legend,” he confessed. “It’s just one of the ways we trick pretty little humans like you to sell your souls to us—you really should’ve read the fine print of that contract you signed.”

You huffed an exasperated laugh, because what else could you do, and kissed your demon again. He chuckled into your kiss before deepening it, his mouth sliding possessively against yours. When he pulled away, he nipped your lower lip, soothing the sting away with his tongue as he growled into your mouth.

“You’re the only soul for me, sweet girl.”

Your heart beat harder in your chest, and you felt his deep affection swirling with your own in your belly, twining together around your heart to create something real and deep. It was something that would grow and strengthen over the millennia you spent together.

You knew in that moment that there would be no running from the demon you’d unknowingly bound yourself to, and that you wouldn’t want to escape him anyway. Steve may have tricked you—and you’d make him grovel for your forgiveness for at least a century for that—but he was yours now, just as surely as you were his.

“You’re the only demon for me, Steve Rogers.”

You moaned for your demon when his hands grabbed your hips and began bouncing you on his hardened cock. His cum was still leaking out of your cunt, making a mess of both of you, but neither of you cared. Your kisses turned messy with your grunts and groans of pleasure, your bodies pushing each other toward the edge of another release as you gave in to the insatiable need you both felt for the other.

It would be a long time before that need was finally sated—so long that it was no longer Friday the 13th by the time you stumbled out of Hell, Steve’s heavy arm draped around your waist. His strong body kept you upright on unsteady knees while he walked you to his brownstone around the corner.

For years after that fateful Friday the 13th, you helped Steve keep up appearances as a tattoo artist, playing his devoted girlfriend during the day. Then at night, he took you home and made you his personal plaything, bending you over and fucking your ass with his fat demon cock or unloading his cum down your throat.

In the rare moments when you weren’t fucking, Steve taught you how to tattoo, and the method of how to tattoo a demon specifically, all so you could leave your mark on his skin. You tattooed an outline of your teeth marks on his neck, in the spot he’d left open for you since the night you’d met.

You’d even included a drop of your blood in the ink, even though Steve said it wouldn’t strengthen the bond. But afterward, you did feel like you were close to him, and he admitted he felt it, too.

Years later, Steve surprised you by asking you to marry him, and though you thought it was a little unnecessary, you said yes. It just seemed a bit like overkill to have a whole wedding ceremony when your souls were already bonded for eternity, but you had to admit it was a good time. Plus, all your friends and family cried happy tears—even the demons.

Finally, when it began to get suspicious that you and Steve weren’t aging while the humans around you were, Steve passed on ownership of Hell to one of the other artists and he took you down below to the real thing. He carried you across the threshold of his house and welcomed you home, where you’d live happily together until you decided to go topside again.

There in hell, Steve spent centuries shattering you apart with his cock before rebuilding you, only to break you down into his dumb little fucktoy all over again. Together, you used every toy Steve owned. You were your master’s good little plaything while he delivered pain and pleasure that sent you to new planes of existence.

Then, of course, Steve taught you how to use them all on him, too, because your demon master liked a little bit of pain, too.

You’d loved your time in Brooklyn with Steve Rogers, the tattoo artist and owner of Hell, but you loved your time in hell with your demon master even more. Together, you allowed yourselves to be truly free and give in to your darkness together. You allowed yourself to love him, and let him love you in return.

It was everything you could have dreamed of, living a happy life for the rest of eternity with your demon in hell.

And all you had to do was follow one rule: When in hell, do as the demons do.

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #demon steve rogers #steve rogers au #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers imagine #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans characters #chris evans smut #halloween fic #witchywithwhiskeywork

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wafflefries13 · 2 months ago

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Rose With(out) Thorns (Riddle x Reader)

Summary: Riddle needs help putting off his mother's plans to set him up for an engagement, so what better way than to fake date NRC's favorite magicless prefect? Things can only go well. (No, they can't.)

AN: Fake dating, yay! Had the idea for this a long while back, finally got around to writing it. And, like most of my fics I'm finding out, it kind of got away from me. I hope at some point, probably some time in book 7 here, we finally get a confrontation with Riddle's mom. I hate Riddle's mom, all the cool bitches I know hate Riddle's mom.

Warnings: Depictions of a toxic family environment, AFAB reader with she/her pronouns.

When Riddle had pulled (Y/N) aside after classes, she didn’t expect to be sitting in one of Heartstabuyl’s tea rooms, a cooling cup of herbal tea placed in front of her. (Y/N) sipped the tea, observing Riddle. His mouth was pulled into a small frown, eyebrows furrowed in determined concentration. His hands were clasped behind him and he was pacing so much (Y/N) was worried about him wearing a hole in the rug. It had almost seemed like he had forgotten she was there.

“Riddle?” She prompted gently.

Riddle jumped, startled. (Y/N) really did think he had forgotten about her. His face turned pink, blushing up to his ears. He cleared his throat, promptly sitting down in the chair across from her.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” He said, swirling a spoonful of honey into his tea. She tried to not take it personally that he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Something going on with Ace and Deuce?” She asked, jumping to the most logical conclusion. “I don’t mind meditating.”

“No, thankfully, both of them have actually been rather pleasant as of late. This is of a more… personal nature.”

“Oh? Are you doing okay?” She set her cup down, leaning forward.

His blush went from gentle pink to strawberry red. “I - ahem, yes, no, I’m fine, it’s not that I don’t - what I mean to say is, ah, well…” Deciding there was no elegant way to put it, Riddle’s shoulders slumped as he stared dejectedly into his tea. “It’s my mother.”

(Y/N) immediately tensed. “Oh.”

The last time (Y/N) had thought about Riddle’s mother was when he was about to leave for winter break. She remembered how quiet he had been, not even bothering to reprimand the excited first years running around the mirror chamber like excited kids. (Y/N) had taken advantage of his momentary distraction to snatch his phone from his dazed hands and entered her number.

“In case you need anything,” She had said. “Or, you know, you just miss me too much and want to say hi.”

He really did blush way too easily.

Of course, any plans for talking on the phone were quickly eliminated by the events at Scarabia. When (Y/N) finally did get her phone back, she found a couple of missed calls and overly formal texts from Riddle’s number, buried in between the frantic messages from Ace and Deuce responding to her SOS.

Back in the tea room, (Y/N) set her cup down, leaning forward to meet Riddle’s eyes. “Hey,” She said gently. “You know if I can do anything for you I will.”

“It’s not that easy,” He said. “My mother asked me to come home for the long weekend coming up. And I highly suspect she wants me there to… try and arrange a match.”

“A match? Wait, like getting engaged? Aren’t you kind of young for that?”

Riddle shrugged. “It would definitely be a long engagement, but it’s not uncommon to have a match set up years in advance, especially between prominent families like mine.”

“How very Jane Austen.”

“Sorry?”

“An author from my world, she wrote romances. Anyway, sorry, keep going.”

“Well, I agree that it seems soon. To be fair, Mother was trying to set something up before I came to Night Raven College as well. Being accepted to such a prestigious magic school only elevated my prospects, as she put it. She wants to establish a solid match with another high ranking family, setting my future in stone. Especially after everything that happened at the beginning of the year.” They were both quiet for a moment, fighting off memories of Riddle’s Overblot. “I…” Riddle continued. “I don’t think anyone back home knows.”

“Oh. Well, it’s like personal medical information, right? Even if it’s magical or whatever it’s still your mental health. You don’t owe anyone that.”

“I don’t think that’s why she hasn’t told anyone. I know it might be hard for you to believe after everything that’s happened this year, but Overblots are still considered rare. Not many survive the process. And those that do, well, they aren’t looked upon as kindly as you’ve looked upon us.”

(Y/N) set her cup down hard. “That’s not fair! It’s not some moral failing. You and everyone else were - are - dealing with really tough emotions! It’s not right to just ignore trauma and your feelings, that’s what led to everything happening in the first place!”

“I’m glad you see it that way. And, if I’m being honest, public perception of the emotional stress that can lead to an Overblot and those who make it through the process are gradually being seen with more sympathy. Like you said, it’s a mental health issue at the core. But older communities like the one I grew up in are slower to accept new social views.”

(Y/N) sat back. “I’m sorry, Riddle. That sounds really hard.”

“Thank you,” Riddle breathed. He cleared his throat. “Well, that sort of awkwardly leads to what I was wanting to ask you in the first place.” He cleared his throat again, nervously looking around the room. Finally, steadying himself, he forced himself to meet (Y/N) eyes. “I would like you to come with me and act as my partner.”

(Y/N) felt her head go light and heart jump. “You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”

Riddle’s confidence cracked as he looked away again. “In so many words, yes.”

“Wow. Forget Jane Austen, this is more Meg Ryan territory.” Riddle blinked. “Never mind, forget it. I mean, not what you’re talking about, just, it’s not what I was expecting you to say.”

“It’s not the most conventional request, to be fair. But I’ve turned this over in my head for days and I can’t see any way out of it. My plan is to show I’m taken, dissuade the marriage market. It will be one less thing for Mother to hold over my head. I’ll probably have to deal with it eventually when I graduate but I don’t even want to consider getting engaged right now, for economic, political, or whatever other reason. I’ve never been overly fond of the prospects my mother has introduced anyway. Not that I want to pressure you or anything! I completely understand if you wouldn’t feel comfortable for any reason and I completely respect your decision-”

“Well, hey, don’t answer for me, now.” (Y/N) reached forward and touched the back of Riddle’s hand, jolting him out of the spiral he was throwing himself in. He jumped at the contact. “It’s unorthodox, but since when has anything here been orthodox? Of course I’ll help, Riddle. I can’t guarantee I’ll be very good at it, but I’ll do my best.”

Riddle blinked at her for a moment, registering her words, then the tension practically floated off his shoulders. “That’s - that’s great, thank you.”

“Hey, what are friends for? Besides, this will make a great story to tell the guys later.”

Riddle scowled, blushing again. “Don’t.”

~~~

A few days later, (Y/N) and Riddle stood in the mirror chamber. They had come up with a cover to tell everyone while they were gone. Since (Y/N) technically didn’t exist in Twisted Wonderland, not having any government papers or even a birth certificate, Riddle suggested they visit Dinah, the capital city of the Queendom of Roses and his home city, to petition at an official government building for temporary citizenship. It was really only a half truth. If they had time between the deception, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to try.

Grim was staying at Heartstabuyl with Ace and Deuce, although it would be more accurate to say with Trey, since he was clearly the one in charge while the House Warden was away.

“And make sure to do that reading for History of Magic,” (Y/N) was saying, fiddling with Grim’s bow and magestone. “I marked the pages and put highlight tabs on the parts you need to take notes on. And don’t eat too many sweets, you’ll give yourself a stomach ache again. And don’t stay up too late or else you won’t have the energy to do anything during the day and you’ll throw off your whole sleep schedule. And-”

“Mrow!” Grim cried, batting her hands away. “I get it, I get it! I’m not a little kid, you know!”

(Y/N) smiled softly, scratching behind his ears. “Of course I know. You’re a big full grown dire beast who doesn't need anyone to take care of you. Why, I bet when I come back you won’t need me to cook for you anymore or make sure you wake up on time. You probably don’t even want a souvenir!”

“No, no! I like your cooking! And you better bring me something back, henchhuman!”

“Of course, Grim.”

Like a parent sending their child to school for the first time, (Y/N) and Grim detangled themselves from each other. Grim floated back with Ace and Deuce, who also required promises of souvenirs, and gave a final wave. (Y/N) waved back before stepping through the mirror portal after Riddle, luggage in hand.

There was always a strange feeling when going through the mirror, far spaces being squished together in a more convenient and transversable state. If (Y/N) hadn’t already been dragged underwater to swim through the depths unbothered, she would have compared it to being surrounded by water. Instead, she would more closely compare it the moments after a fall or jump, when totally suspended in the air with no tether. A slight jolt of the stomach at first, a feeling of weightlessness, a rush of cold along the spine, and then they were there.

(Y/N) still wasn’t completely sure how the mirror portal worked, or how it chose where to deposit someone, considering there wasn’t always a mirror on the other end. She knew it had something to do with the magestones NRC students wore on their armband, and that it helped to leave and come back from the same place, but other than that it was just another magic mystery she didn’t want to think too hard about.

(Y/N) shook her head as she stepped from the portal back on solid ground. Bright sunlight warmed her skin as she blinked and looked around. (Y/N)’s first impression of Dinah was a memory of a picturesque depiction of Victorian London. The street in front of them was wide, paved in even brick. There were store fronts painted in bright warm colors with big display windows, buildings stacked high with higher chimneys on top. Men and women strolled along the street, seemingly dressed to the nines for a perfectly ordinary outing, with top hats and long coats, bustled dresses in fanciful colors and feather hats.

A pair of horses pulled a dark blue omnibus carriage down the street, hooves making a pleasant ‘clip-clop’ sound as they meandered. It made (Y/N) wonder about the technological advancements of Twisted Wonderland, not for the first time. She had remembered how surprised she had been to see that cars existed in Sunrise City, when previously the only methods of transportation she had seen had been brooms, ghostly carriages, boats, and mirror portals. She frowned at the memory of Leona teasing her about her surprise.

“We have our own carriage,” Riddle told her, mistaking her expression as she watched the omnibus. “Mother sent it to collect us. It should be here - ah, there.” Riddle lifted his hand in greeting to the approaching carriage.

A white horse pulled a ruby carriage with a stenciled rose against a six-pointed starburst emblazoned on the doors. There were two men in stately red velvet livery on the carriage, one at the front, flicking the reins and lazily holding a horse whip, and the other holding on the back above the wheels. As they pulled along the sidewalk, the driver nodded and the footman jumped down to formally bow. He lugged their luggage atop the carriage, a barely noticeable judgmental sneer pulling at his mouth as he handled (Y/N)’s. While Riddle’s bag was neat and new, as beautiful as it was practical, (Y/N) had foraged hers from somewhere deep in the depths of Ramshackle dorm, among the abandoned rooms and chests and closets with all manner of ragged treasures. The carriage rocked as they climbed in, sitting on soft overstuffed bench seats facing each other. Riddle knocked against the roof when they were settled and the carriage rumbled forward.

(Y/N) stared out the window, marveling at everything they passed. “Hey, how far is Trey’s family bakery from here?” She asked.

“Hmm? Oh, not far, but I’m not sure we’ll have time to go by. I’m not sure Mother would approve of it.”

(Y/N) turned back to Riddle, noticing how he gazed out the window without really seeing anything. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, knee jittering with nerves.

She reached a hand forward and touched his jumping knee, causing him to startle. “Hey,” She said softly. “It’s going to be okay. You got me here with you, right? And-” She rummaged through the pocket on her NRC uniform, the most formal attire she had for making a good impression. She pulled out a small Moleskine notebook, proudly displaying it. “I’ve been taking notes! I have a bunch of the Queen of Heart’s rules here. I don’t have nearly as many memorized as you do but I figured a cheat sheet wouldn’t hurt.”

Riddle looked at the notebook for a second before smiling in relief. “Thank you, (Y/N). I’m sorry, I haven’t been a very good host so far, have I? Especially considering what you’re doing for me.”

(Y/N) switched sides, landing heavily next to Riddle as the carriage went over a bump. She lightly knocked his arm with the back of her fist. “I told you it’s fine. I’m happy to help out. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you so uptight before, and that’s saying something.”

Riddle frowned. “I’m not uptight.”

“Sure you’re not, teapot tyrant.” Riddle huffed and turned away. “Hey, I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Seriously, though, are you doing okay?”

Riddle fiddled with his fingers, choosing his words carefully. “The last time I came home, over winter break, my mother and I… well, it wasn’t a fight, exactly. An argument. That just so happened to lead to raised voices. And some harsh words. And maybe some things that are hard to take back.”

(Y/N) wasn’t really sure what to say to that. She sat back, focusing on the rumbling of the carriage beneath her. She noticed Riddle fiddling with his fingers again, picking at the skin around his nails. She slid her hand into his, holding it tight between them. She stared straight ahead, ignoring Riddle’s look of shock, no matter how cute his rising blush made him look. She squeezed his hand once, looking out her window. Riddle watched her face in profile, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, their shoulders occasionally bumping each other with the rocking of the carriage. He turned back to his own window, squeezing back.

A short while later, the carriage pulled in front of an elaborate townhouse. It had a beautiful red brick facade with white trimming around the windows and door. Ivy climbed elegantly up one side of the building There was a waist high black wrought iron fence around the perimeter, and the small yard in front was studded with blooming red rose bushes with butterflies elegantly flitting from flower to flower. And, while it was undoubtedly beautiful and picture perfect, (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel a little put off by the whole image. It seemed too perfect, not a blade of grass out of place or a bruised petal. Even the butterflies felt like they were on a preapproved flight path. Despite the fresh air outside, it was stifling.

As the footman on the carriage unloaded their bags, (Y/N) made a move to pick hers up, only for a valet to swoop in and effortlessly scoop up both bags. He turned and marched back through a door that seemed to shimmer out of nowhere, disappearing behind the ivy when he went through it.

“A servant’s entrance,” Riddle told her. “There are several through the house. It helps keep everyone separated.”

“I could have gotten my stuff,” She said. “It’s heavy.”

“You’re a guest. It would be impolite to expect you to carry your own things.”

A man in a crisp black suit with a gold pocket watch dangling from the front breast pocket opened the door, bowing low with a hand on his chest. “Welcome back, Master Riddle.” He said. The man looked up, sweeping a quick but appraising look over (Y/N). “And this is Miss (Y/N)?”

“Yes, hello!” (Y/N) greeted, smiling brightly. She walked forward, taking hold of the man’s hand and with both of hers and shaking it. She missed the choking gasp Riddle let out behind her. “Just (Y/N) is fine. It’s so nice to meet you! This is a lovely home. I’ve never been to Dinah before, everything is so beautiful! I’ve only been to the Queendom of Roses once before, in this place called Clocktown for a festival, but it’s so much different here.”

The butler nearly reared back at her greeting, going stiff as a board, but too polite to all together flinch and snatch his hand back. He merely retracted his hand, looked once at Riddle, then gazed straight ahead impassively. “Yes, well, welcome to the Rosehearts townhome. I hope you… enjoy your stay, Miss (Y/N).”

(Y/N), determined to push through the awkwardness she could sense building, replied chipperly, “Thanks!” And strode inside without looking back.

“Thank you, Edgar,” Riddle said as the butter closed the door behind them. “Do you know when Mother and Father will be home?”

“Dr. Rosehearts was called in for a last minute surgery and I believe Mr. Rosehearts is at his club. They both planned to be home for dinner to meet you and your… guest.”

The only way (Y/N) could think to describe the townhouse was grand. A grand sweeping staircase to the second floor, marble flooring of black and white checkered tile, two rooms on either side of the entrance hall stuffed with comfortable furniture with lace, one room farther to the back half-hidden behind the staircase, and decorative oil paintings.

“Wow,” She said. “This is where you grew up?”

“Partially, yes,” Riddle said. “We have a country estate as well, but the hospital is in town and Mother always wanted to be present for the social season.”

“Ooh, a country estate and the social season. Look at you, sounding all fancy.”

“Well, excuse me for being raised in polite society, unlike some people.”

“Hey!” (Y/N) laughed, playfully shoving him as he grinned back.

Riddle’s eyes cut back to Edgar the butler, watching the two of them with a critical eye and raised eyebrow. Riddle cleared his throat and schooled his face back to a serious expression. “I’ll show you your room, (Y/N). It’s upstairs.”

“Was it too much?” (Y/N) asked as they ascended the staircase, out of ear shot from Edgar. “I was trying to make a good impression.”

“People don’t tend to be as friendly with strangers here,” He said. “When you meet my parents it would be better to wait for them to act first.”

“So no big hug?” She laughed at Riddle’s glare. “Don’t worry, I’ll be picture perfect polite tonight. I know it’s important to you.”

“Thank you. To be honest I still feel awkward about all of this.” “I could say ‘what are friends for’ but I think we’re a little past that. It’s not like I’m getting nothing out of this. This place is like a fancy hotel!” She pushed open the door to her room, bright with the sunlight streaming in across a bed with a large fluffy white duvet across it. (Y/N) spun around, falling against the bed with a ‘poof’ of the down feather pillows. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so soft,” She sighed. Suddenly she sat straight up. “Oh, oh! Show me your room!”

“What?”

She jumped up, taking his hand and pulling him back down the hall. “Come on, let me see your room! I want to see what you’re like when you're not at school.”

“Much the same, I promise.”

His eyes cut to a door down the hall and (Y/N) grinned wickedly. Ignoring Riddle’s sound of protest, she threw open his door.

She faltered a bit as she looked inside, stomach squeezing with that same unease she felt from outside. Spartan wouldn’t be the right way to describe Riddle’s childhood bedroom. Sure, there was plenty of stuff in it, a neatly made bed, an expensive looking desk with a glass hooded reading lamp, plenty of books filling shelves, and a polished wardrobe. But it felt so bare. It felt more like a catalog picture than someone’s own bedroom they had grown up in. (Y/N) looked back to Riddle, who was looking down as if ashamed, like his room was full of trash rather than uninspiringly neat.

(Y/N) forced a smile to her face, closing the door. “Well, show me around. Back in my world, houses like these would have a bunch of secret passages, maybe a couple of ghosts. But I guess ghosts aren’t all that unusual here.”

“I think your home has more ghosts than mine,” Riddle said. “As for secret passages…”

(Y/N) clapped her hands together. “Yeah?”

Riddle smiled slyly. “Sorry, none of those either. Unless you’re thinking of servant’s doors, but I don’t think they would appreciate us meddling.”

“Aw, boo.”

“No pun intended, I’m sure.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“How about the garden? It’s out back. I’ll have someone bring us tea. It’ll give us a chance to strategize.”

The garden was nestled in the backyard of the townhome, bordered by high fences separating it from the other townhomes. There were, unsurprisingly, rose bushes in raised wooden boxes. White gravel pathways cut through each of the boxes, strolling under a trellis wound with flowers. To the back of the garden was a small glass greenhouse, filled with different medical herbs and plants along with scientific equipment for study. There was a small table on the back porch underneath a pergola wrapped with ivy. After Riddle gave (Y/N) a tour of the gardens they sat down and a maid brought out a white China teapot, pouring tea into delicate blue and white tea cups. (Y/N) inhaled the steam, letting the warmth and sweet notes of the tea fill her lungs before taking a sip.

“Thanks!” (Y/N) said to the maid who blinked before bobbing a nod and rushing off. (Y/N) made a note to herself that the servants here had a habit of avoiding eye contact. “Okay,” She said, taking a blueberry scone from a plate the maid brought with the tea. “What’s our game plan?”

“Well, my mother is obviously the one to impress. I don’t believe Father will have much to say, he usually defers to her. That’s usually a good plan with anything, deferring to her, I mean. Safe topics of conversation include the weather, recent medical innovations, and the health and travel of neighbors. It’s best to avoid personal topics like parliament, gossip, or personal questions. It’s also best to avoid discussing novels, Mother says they fill one’s head with fanciful ideas and nonsense.”

“Okay, so when would be the best time to brag about you?”

Riddle’s teacup clattered against the saucer. “What?”

“Well, you’re my fake boyfriend and I’m trying to look good in front of your mom, so it makes sense if I talk you up, right? Like how you’re a great dorm leader, that dressage stuff you’ve been doing in the equestrian club, how you’ve been helping other students study. Cater told me about how you set up a Magicam account just to help him study, that was super cute.”

“I’m, ah, not actually supposed to have a Magicam account, educational or otherwise, so it’s probably best not to bring that up. Mother says social media rots your brain.”

“I mean, sometimes, yeah, but it can be fun too. And I know you still post sometimes. I follow you.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do! Those study tips didn’t just help Cater. Plus I like to see what’s going on with you. Not that you post stuff very often or anything, but I did like that picture from the last Unbirthday Party with those cupcakes you made.”

Riddle waved her praise off. “They weren’t anything special. Most of the frosting was smudged all together anyway.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself so short. You don’t have to be perfect at everything, especially the first time around. And I thought they were cute.” She fished her phone out of her pocket, quickly swiping to the picture they were talking about on Magicam. It was a close up of Riddle, smiling, face smeared with red frosting. Trey was caught mid-laugh, handing him a napkin. Ace’s hand was blurred with movement in the lower right edge, having snagged a cupcake from the tray Riddle was holding, covered with cartoon rose dotting liners. It was obvious that the red and white frosting on top was meant to replicate delicate rose petals, and while some of them looked presentable, most had been piped with a shaky hand, leaving too much or too little frosting for the petals. “See? Cute.”

Riddle’s hand darted forward to push the phone down. “Yes, sure, fine, you made your point! I knew I should have taken that down.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Riddle sighed, accepting defeat. “Fine, yes, just don’t bring it up at dinner.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, it doesn't seem like there’s a lot of wiggle room for conversation here. What do you usually talk about when you come home?”

Riddle took another sip of tea. “My studies, mostly. Class rankings, the local social season, applying for medical colleges, that sort of thing.”

“What about your friends at NRC? Or all the weird and exciting stuff that happens? Like when we all went to the ghost realm at Halloween, or Fluer City at Halloween? Wow, a lot of crazy stuff happens around Halloween, huh?”

“That’s all superfluous. My grades and plans for the internship fourth year are more important.”

“Riddle.” (Y/N) reached across the table, taking Riddle’s hand. “That stuff is still important, you know. We’ve gone through a lot of crazy stuff, a lot of it dangerous and scary. It’s okay to talk about that. There’s life outside of classrooms.”

Riddle looked away but squeezed her hand. “I know. And I’m getting there, with priorities and understanding others. But this sort of thing is important to her. And I still want to impress her, to have her be proud of me. Despite everything.”

(Y/N) pressed her lips together. She wanted to say something supportive, something wise, something to make everything better. But nothing seemed right, nothing to encapsulate the pity and support (Y/N) felt all at once. In the movies or on TV, there was always some sort of all encompassing resolution, a final speech to make everything better. But she couldn’t find the words, couldn’t seem to express exactly how she felt. That Riddle didn’t need to constantly try so hard, to always make himself a perfect image for others to view. That he was allowed to like the things he liked, no matter how trivial or silly they seemed. Make bad frosted cupcakes, learn dressage, play games, be a teenager like everyone else for once. That she had such strong feelings for him, faults included. But nothing seems right. So she just squeezed his hand back.

“Master Riddle,” A voice said, startling them both. Edgar stood at the door, casting a permanently judging look at the two of them. “Doctor and Mr. Rosehearts have returned. They have requested your presence in the dining room.”

Riddle jumped up, smoothing his outfit even though it was spotless. “Right, well, (Y/N), I suppose it’s time you meet my parents.”

Now that the time was actually here, (Y/N) didn’t expect to feel so nervous. Well, maybe nervous wasn’t the right word. Sure, she was anxious, hoping to make a good impression and help Riddle with their plot, but there was something else mixed with it. A kind of dread at coming face to face with a woman she had only ever heard bad things about. This woman, whether intentional or not, set the ground for Riddle’s Overblot. She was not an insignificant part of his emotional distress, his stress, the walls he put up around himself. How were you supposed to feel about a person like that? Especially when the object of that stress still so strongly wanted her approval?

Edgar escorted them to the dining room where the table was already set and a maid and footman were starting to set out the first course. (Y/N) felt her heart jump unpleasantly in her chest as she came face to face with Dr. Rosehearts. The older woman’s steely gray eyes locked on to (Y/N)’s directly as she stepped in the room. She felt like her skin had been peeled back and every dark and unpleasant thought she had ever had had been thrown on the table for everyone to inspect. Dr. Rosehearts’ otherwise perfect cupid’s bow mouth was pulled into a tight frown. Her red hair, matching perfectly to her son’s, was pulled back in a tight bun clasped at her neck, a deadly looking sharp hairpin keeping it together. She looked elegant and flawless, more like an expensive bone China doll than an actual living breathing person in front of her. (Y/N) almost jumped in surprise when she finally noticed Riddle’s father. He was reading a newspaper, sharp cheekbones and tired, watery eyes under wavy mousy brown hair. Other than a brief flit of his eyes as the two of them entered, it was almost like he didn’t notice them at all.

“Riddle,” His mother said, standing and turning to her son. (Y/N) felt like a stone had been removed from her chest as Dr. Rosehearts’ eyes finally left hers. “Welcome home. Take a seat.”

Riddle marched over to his seat opposite his father, sitting with a ramrod straight back, looking straight ahead. (Y/N) faltered for a moment, wondering if she should sit next to Riddle or Mr. Rosehearts. The second of hesitation was noticed by Dr. Rosehearts, whose mouth ticked in annoyance. Riddle subtly nodded his head to the chair across from him, next to his father. (Y/N) scuttled over, pulling the chair out with an undignified squeak against the floor. Mr. Rosehearts looked up at her as she sat down, blinking like she had materialized out of thin air.

“Mother, Father,” Riddle said, voice stiff. “Allow me to introduce my partner, (Y/N) (L/N), Ramshackle Dorm Prefect at Night Raven College. (Y/N), this is my mother, Dr. Victoria Rosehearts, and my father, Mr. Albert Rosehearts.”

“Please to meet you,” (Y/N) said, giving what she hoped was a bright and welcoming smile. “Thank you for having me.”

“Yes, well,” Dr. Rosehearts said. “I must admit it was a surprise when Riddle told me he was bringing a guest home for the holiday.”

“Well, Riddle always talks so fondly about Dinah and I haven’t traveled too much, so I couldn’t help but impose. You have a lovely home, by the way.”

“I do wonder,” Dr. Rosehearts said, ignoring (Y/N)’s attempted start at conversation. “How a young girl such as yourself comes to attend an all boys school?”

“To be totally honest I’m not really sure myself,” (Y/N) said, laughing through the awkwardness of Dr. Rosehearts intense direct gaze. “We’ve been trying to figure that out since I first got here. It’s been kind of a struggle getting a hang of everything, considering I can’t even use magic, but I-”

(Y/N) was interrupted by the clatter of Dr. Rosehearts’ spoon clattering against her soup bowl. Even Mr. Rosehearts looked up, suddenly intrigued. “Did you say you can’t use magic?” Mr. Rosehearts said.

(Y/N) gulped, looking quickly at Riddle who was going pale. “Well, no, I can’t. I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I’m not even from this world. Dimension? Anyway, magic doesn't exist in my world. Somehow one of the black carriages swept me up and brought me here. No one can figure out how or why yet, not even our Magic Mirror. Our headmage has been trying to research it but I guess there’s not a lot of studies on interdimensional travel.” She tried to laugh off the heavy atmosphere. “But no, no magic. Can’t even ride a broom, which is a shame because that’s the one thing I would really love to do.”

Dr. Rosehearts cleared her throat, dabbing her mouth delicately with a napkin. A maid hastily rushed in to clear her soup. “Well, I suppose Night Raven College’s admission requirements have become quite lacks as of late, having common folk mingling with upper crust society and nobles, not to mention allowing fae folk. I suppose anything is possible at this rate.”

(Y/N) scowled, finding herself blurting out her next statement despite Riddle’s miniscule shake of the head. “Hey, everyone works really hard at NRC. Where they’re from or their family doesn't matter, they’re all great mages. Besies, it’s the Magic Mirror that chooses people. It’s able to see everyone’s potential. And with everything that’s been going on this year everyone’s only gotten better. It’s amazing some of the stuff I’ve seen them do.”

“Oh?” Mr. Rosehearts said, folding his paper closed and leaning forward. “Has it been an interesting year?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I don’t know what a typical year at a magic school is like, but to me it’s been insane! There was one time where one of our dorm heads got kidnapped by a ghost bride to marry him, and everyone got together to try to woo her away. She ended up slapping half of them and freezing them in place. Oh, Riddle was here, he had this amazing red velvet suit. Or one of our magestones got stolen by a fairy queen and we had to stage a whole heist to get it back. Our coach, Coach Vargas, had these camps to test people’s abilities and survival instinct when they couldn’t use magic. But then he dressed up as a monster and ‘kidnapped’ a bunch of students so everyone else had to come rescue them. The next camping trip he got one of our other professors in on it too. And every once and a while we’ll have this Culinary Crucible that they had to change the judging for because everyone kept cheating, but-”

“My!” Dr. Rosehearts suddenly exclaimed. “I don’t believe I remember the last time we had so much chatter at a mealtime.”

(Y/N) felt her face heat up, but she wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or anger.

Mr. Rosehearts, who had been nodding along to (Y/N) recollection of events with rapt attention, cleared his throat with a cough, leaning back in his chair and taking up his newspaper again. “Yes, well, youth these days,” He said, noncommittal.

Despite the fact that a maid had just brought out the next course, Dr. Rosehearts stood. “I find I’ve lost my appetite,” She announced. “I will be retiring early tonight. Riddle, we have an appointment at the Lorina Hotel tomorrow for high tea. Make sure you and your guest wear something presentable.” With that, she swept from the room without another word. The silence that followed was brittle, like ice on a lake right before someone plummets through it.

“Well,” (Y/N) said, breaking the quiet. She stood, walking over to Dr. Rosehearts abandoned plate and picking it up, dumping the roasted chicken and vegetable onto her own plate. “More for me then.”

~~~

Later that night, (Y/N) had apologized to Riddle no less than twelve times. She tried to defend herself, that she was taken by surprise that his parents didn’t know about her unique circumstances, that she was annoyed how dismissive Dr. Rosehearts had been, that she just started talking and couldn’t figure out how to stop. Not that any of it really excused her behavior, she knew. She felt like she had let Riddle down, ruining whatever chance, no matter how slim, of this being a peaceful visit home. And, while Riddle had repeated every time that it was fine, that she was okay, that he should have prepared her better, she still felt bad.

(Y/N) had never been to a high tea before. She wasn’t 100% sure what to wear, especially with Dr. Rosehearts’ comment from the night before. And it wasn’t like she had an extensive wardrobe to choose from in the first place. Thankfully, their alchemy teacher with a penchant for fashion design had somehow grown fond of her during the school year, providing her with a few outfits to help her fit in better outside of school. The next morning, she pulled a dusty blue sundress with little white buttons out of her luggage. She had a pair of sandals more suited to the beach than a hotel, but they fit the theme better than her school loafers. She slipped them on and hoped no one would look down.

Tea was scheduled for 11 so (Y/N) decided to find Riddle and try to get a better lay of the land before they headed out. He didn’t answer her knock, which she thought was strange as Riddle wasn’t the type to sleep in, even if he was home on break. She felt strange wandering through the house. Every once and a while she would see a maid or footman dart out of one of the hidden servant’s doors, but before she could start a conversation or ask where her hosts were they would duck their heads and disappear.

She eventually found Mr. Rosehearts in the breakfast room, which was the same as the dinning room but with a changed name for some reason. The thick curtains had been thrown open letting light pour in across the spread on the table. Despite the fact that there was enough food to feed at least ten people, Mr. Rosehearts was the only one present, absentmindedly nibbling on some jam slathered toast.

(Y/N) forced a smile to her face. She might have ruined her first impression with Dr. Rosehearts last night, but Mr. Rosehearts had at least seemed intrigued by what she had to say. “Good morning!”

Mr. Rosehearts jumped, dropping his toast jam side down on the spotless table cloth. “Oh! Good morning.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The last thing she needed right now was to turn both of Riddle’s parents against her.

Mr. Rosehearts waved her off, gingerly picking up the toast and plopping it on his plate. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just not used to company in the morning, is all. Not that I mind it. Please, sit.”

“Is everyone else still asleep?” (Y/N) asked, scooping up some chive studded scrambled eggs on her plate.

“Oh, no, Victoria doesn't believe in sleeping in. It disrupts the normal circadian rhythms, you know, especially for teenagers like you and Riddle. No, she and Riddle were speaking in her office.”

“Oh.” (Y/N) suddenly didn’t feel very hungry anymore. “I think I need to apologize.” Mr. Rosehearts looked up, blinking owlishly. “I was rambling last night, at dinner. I shouldn’t have been so argumentative, especially since I’m a guest in your home. I’ll be putting a better foot forward from now on, promise.”

“Oh. Oh! Oh, no, please, think nothing of it. Actually,” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was hoping you could expand on some of those stories you started last night. Just between you and me, I happen to have a penchant for gossip.” He patted the newspaper beside him. Now that (Y/N) got a closer look, she realized it was a society gossip column. She smiled, getting Bridgerton flashbacks.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of stories. Do you want to start with Fleur City almost burning down or Magicam Monsters taking over NRC?”

Meanwhile, Riddle sat in an uncomfortable straight backed chair in his mother’s office. Various papers floated around the room, magically organizing themselves in various case files. A free-standing pen signed Dr. Rosehearts’ signature across multiple forms. Despite the warm morning light filling the room, Riddle felt chilled.

“I wonder,” Dr. Rosehearts said, sitting behind her large mahogany desk, hands clasped in front of her. “About the company you have chosen to keep while away at school.”

“(Y/N) is a respectable person,” Riddle said. “She was just thrown off last night. She’s still not used to many of our customs. She’s a fast learner, however, she’s acclimated remarkably quickly to life here. Given that she has no base of knowledge for many of the classes at Night Raven College she has good grades and-”

Dr. Rosehearts held up a hand, stopping Riddle with the words of praise in his throat. “The way the ones you associate with act reflects on you, Riddle. It also reflects upon me and the whole Rosehearts household. You should know better by now.”

Riddle felt his face flush, looking down. “Yes, Mother.”

“Really, Riddle, I didn’t think you’d be the type to fall for any pretty face. And how much do you actually know about her background, anyway? You said yourself she’s not from here. Who knows what kind of manipulation she might be playing at, using our good name against us?” Riddle bit his tongue, your defense springing into his mouth. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“Yes, Mother, I know.”

“Wonderful.” Dr. Rosehearts stood, Riddle following. “We’ll continue to house Miss (Y/N) here during the break, it would be bad form to throw her out at this point, but as soon as you return to school I expect you to end this frivolous excursion.”

Riddle felt his heart drop into his stomach. “But, Mother, I-”

“No buts, Riddle,” She said sternly. Riddle immediately looked down, avoiding her cold iron gaze. “I know best for you. You’ll do as I say. We have a plan for you, remember? There’s no use upending your future over some fleeting fancy. And besides, there are many wonderful eligible ladies here in town. We’ll be meeting a few of my top choices for you at the hotel. And we’ll be attending a ball tomorrow night. Your friend is not invited, by the way.”

Riddle drew in a sharp breath, a million things he wanted to say racing through his mind. His mother had arranged a meeting with bachelorettes when he had told her he already had a girlfriend? He realized with a sinking sensation that no plan he and (Y/N) would have come up with would have been good enough for his mother. She had her plan and nothing would be able to change it. He suddenly had the sensation of floating, no, falling, with no anchor or safety net. His stomach flipped and a rush of cold descended over his body.

“Yes, Mother,” He only said.

Dr. Rosehearts nodded definitively. She swept from the office, Riddle following close behind with downcast eyes. They both paused on the stairway, startled by the sound of laughter floating out from the breakfast room. Riddle pushed past his mother into the room. (Y/N) and his father sat at the table across from each other. His father’s head was thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open in a raucous laugh. Riddle couldn’t remember the last time he heard his father laugh like that, or even laugh at all. (Y/N) was in the middle of a story, hands animated.

“So of course the referee asked who he is, because their team didn’t have anyone signed up for an alternate, and Leona goes and uses my name! Like no one would recognize the second prince of the Sunset Savannah. And you know what, no one did!”

Mr. Rosehearts put his hand against his chest, trying to regain his composure. “And then? Did you at least win?”

“Oh, of course, yeah! And then we all had to run away in this jeep Leona was driving right when it started to rain. I’ve heard Checka still calls him ‘Unca (Y/N)’ sometimes.”

Mr. Rosehearts looked up, noticing Riddle and Dr. Rosehearts standing in the doorway. “Oh, Victoria! (Y/N) was just telling me the most wonderful story. Did you know she’s friends with Prince Leona of the Sunset Savannah? And the Asim heir, they donated at the last charity gala you attended, didn’t they? It’s amazing the adventures children can get up to now a days-”

“You’re very chatty this morning, Albert,” Dr. Rosehearts cut him off. “This much noise in the morning is quite unusual, don’t you agree?”

Mr. Rosehearts’ face dropped and he squirmed in his chair. He picked up his newspaper, flipping it so a person couldn’t see what he was reading.

(Y/N) frowned at the sudden change of mood, but gave Riddle a warm smile when she saw him. It was amazing how he almost immediately felt lighter. He really hoped he wasn’t blushing again. “Hi!” She chirped, standing. Riddle felt a rush of mixed emotions. Part fluff at (Y/N) smiling at him, beautiful in her sundress, part embarrassment knowing it was exactly the wrong thing to wear, and no doubt his mother had clocked that immediately.

Riddle reached for a cheese danish. His mother’s hand snapped out, swatting his hand away. “You’ll have sweets at the hotel,” She said, sniffing. “You don’t need the extra sugar, especially this early in the morning.”

‘Then why have it on the table?’ (Y/N) thought uncharitably. She went over to Riddle, linking her arm through his, pulling him away from Dr. Rosehearts. “You’re sweet enough already, Riddle. When do we head out?”

Later, as they were waiting for the carriages to head to the hotel, Riddle pulled out and quickly ate the danish (Y/N) had slipped in his pocket.

~~~

The Lorina Hotel stretched high above their heads. (Y/N) leaned back to take in the full scope of it. The facade was clean white bricks with dozens of windows glinting in the sunlight. Each story was capped by marble carvings of lions with wings, jumping fish, and flowers.

“No time for gawking,” Dr. Rosehearts said, straightening her gloves. “We have people waiting for us.”

“We do?” (Y/N) asked, purposefully ignoring Dr. Rosehearts thorny glare. “Are they your friends, Riddle?”

“Not in so many words,” He replied.

A finely dressed doorman opened the door to a lavish lobby. Before (Y/N) had a chance to ‘gawk’ again, Dr. Rosehearts swept them off to a side room. She gave their name to a waiter at a podium. The man skimmed the list of reservations in front of him, looking down his nose at (Y/N) and her uncovered shoulders. While (Y/N) was too enamored observing her surroundings, Riddle noticed. He quickly shrugged off his jacket and brought it around her shoulders. The man sniffed. He led them through the tea room to two tables situated against a large window. They sat by a large window opening onto a courtyard in the middle of the hotel. Guests strolled across the green lawn, admiring flowers. Dr. and Mr. Rosehearts sat at their own small table while Riddle and (Y/N) were directed to one that had three other residents already.

“Riddle!” One of them called, smiling up at him. “How lovely to see you again.”

(Y/N) felt Riddle stiffen beside her. “Hello, Lily, Rose, Violet. It’s nice to see you all as well.”

(Y/N) slipped her hand into Riddle’s, who jumped in surprise, before inserting herself in the girls’ line of sight. “Hi! I’m (Y/N), Riddle’s girlfriend. It’s nice to meet some of his friends from home!”

All three girls, in Victorian inspired puffed up dresses with more lace and tulle than (Y/N) had ever seen before and large elaborate sun hats to match, startled, blinking at her as if she had appeared out of thin air.

Almost in sync, the three of them whipped out decorated fans. “Oh, hello,” Violet said. “We weren’t aware Riddle was bringing a guest.”

“You’ll just have to put up with me then, I guess.” Riddle pulled out her chair and, with a surge of confidence and a sideways glance at the three girls, (Y/N) quickly kissed his cheek. (Y/N) smiled at the shocked gasp they let out as Riddle’s face turned red. She couldn’t help but reveal in Dr. Rosehearts’ glower as Mr. Rosehearts discreetly smiled into his tea. “So, how close is this to the unbirthday parties at school?”

“An unbirthday party?” Lily said with a chuckle. “Isn’t that a bit juvenile?”

“If by juvenile you mean really fun and a great excuse to dress up then yes, I suppose it is.” Under the table, Riddle squeezed (Y/N)’s hand, in warning or thankfulness she wasn’t sure. The three girls looked at eachother, flicking and fluttering their fans with precise motions.

A waiter brought a pot of tea to the table which he dutifully poured in everyone’s delicate tea cups. Another waiter brought a high stacked tower with tiny cakes and sandwiches. (Y/N) tried to cut down on her abrasiveness for the rest of the tea, not wanting to make Riddle uncomfortable. Although, to her it seemed the three other girls were doing a great job of that on their own. When they weren’t speaking to each other about him without his input, they chatted about things that had been happening in Dinah during the social season, then acted surprised when neither (Y/N) or Riddle could contribute to the conversation.

After a while, and two pots of tea, Riddle excused himself. A tense silence dropped over the table like a heavy curtain. The three girls continued casting knowing glances at each other, snapping and waving their fans.

(Y/N) spread her hands on the table. “Look, I know just enough about fan language to know you’re talking about me, but not enough to know what you’re saying. So if you have something you want to say you might as well come out and say it.”

“You’re rather blunt, aren’t you?” Rose said with a sniff.

“Among many other things.”

“We were just wondering,” Violet said smoothly. “About your pedigree. It’s unusual enough to have a girl attending an all boys school, so we surmised you must have a particular magical talent.”

“We all attend Lady Dormouse’s Finishing School, you see,” Lily said with a saccharine smile. “It’s a far more… elegant education.”

“Well, I don’t know about elegant,” (Y/N) said, pointedly ignoring Rose’s smirk when she said under her breath, “Clearly.” “But Night Raven College is a great place. Sure, it’s a minefield half the time and considering I can’t do any magic so half of the assignments are almost impossible, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I’ve made amazing friends there, and, of course, I got to meet Riddle. That’s the best part.” (Y/N) smiled wistfully.

The girls across from her all dropped their jaws at once. “You can’t use magic?” Violet gasped.

“Surely you know a simple zephyr spell? Or can light a candle?” Lily asked.

“Nope, not a thing. Don’t have one drop of magic in my whole body.” At this point it almost felt like a mark of pride. And she was beginning to relish the shocked expressions people made.

Violet reached forward and gently touched the back of (Y/N)’s hand. “You poor thing,” She said, voice breaking. Rose had pushed herself as far back in her chair as she could, as if magiclessness was contagious. (Y/N) could practically see the gears turning in Lily’s head as she considered such a thing being possible.

(Y/N) looked out the window to the courtyard, trying to avoid Violet’s overly sympathetic gaze. She perked up when she saw a few uniformed staff members setting up small white arches in the grass. A flock of pink flamingos waddled on tall, thin legs around the fountain. One of the staff members gently cradled a small wooden box where a hedgehog poked its nose out.

“Hey, Riddle!” She called as Riddle walked back to their table. “Check it out, they’re setting up croquet! We should see if we can play.”

Riddle’s face lit up. “Really?” He asked, craning his neck to look out the window as the first round of players took their marks. He quickly looked back at his mother and schooled his face to a more serious expression. “That is, I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Oh, I’d love a good game of croquet!” Rose said, clapping her hands. She stood, going over to Riddle and touching his shoulder in a way that made (Y/N) grit her teeth in annoyance. “I was the undisputed champion at Dormouse. You will play with us, won’t you, Riddle?”

The group exited to the courtyard, Mr. Rosehearts quickly arranging for a game with the attendants. The girls had huddled around the green, watching the previous game. Riddle was looking down at his feet, fiddling with his fingers, pulling at the skin around his nails.

“Hey!” (Y/N) said, slinging her arm around Riddle’s shoulders. “I am here to make sure you have fun, fake relationship or not. So come on, let’s have fun! Plus, I have no idea how to play this game.”

“Well,” Riddle said. “The first thing is to choose your flamingo mallet.” He effortlessly snatched a flamingo by the neck, turning it so he held the legs. The flamingo immediately went ramrod straight.

“That doesn't bother them or anything, right?” (Y/N) asked, looking dubiously at the remaining flamingos.

“Not at all. They’re specifically trained for this. Go on, try one.”

“Okay…” (Y/N) tried to replicate the quick movements Riddle had made when grabbing his flamingo. The bird she was aiming for dodged her hand. She grabbed again. Another miss. She heard the girls tittering with laughter. (Y/N) huffed, trying to snatch at the flamingo with both hands this time. The large bird squealed, flapping its large wings as (Y/N) wrestled it. The flamingo squawked and (Y/N) squawked back in defiance. Riddle quickly came to her rescue, grabbing the flamingo and performing the same practiced motion. The flamingo immediately went rigged, but (Y/N) couldn’t help but notice the defiant glint in its eye.

“Thanks,” (Y/N) mumbled, plucking stray feathers out of her hair.

Riddle stifled a laugh behind his fist. “Not a problem. The rest of the game is pretty simple. You want to hit the hedgehog through the white pickets to the end of the lawn, then again on the way back. The fewest hits win.”

“Right, sure. Sounds easy enough.” When Riddle went to take his first hit, (Y/N) whispered harshly to her flamingo mallet, “Don’t mess this up for me.”

After the others had taken their turn, (Y/N) stepped up to the first hoop, her hedgehog rolled into a ball in front of her. She carefully angled her flamingo down, tapping the head against the small animal. ‘Just like mini-golf,’ She thought to herself and swung gently. She heard giggling from the spectators. She looked down, seeing her hedgehog in the exact same place. Only, no, it was about an inch to the left, away from where she had hit. She tapped her foot, swinging again, this time keeping her eye on the spiky ball. Yup, there, again, it rolled ever so slightly the other way.

“My ball is cheating,” (Y/N) said, pointing at the innocent-looking hedgehog.

“It’s a poor craftsman who blames their tools,” Dr. Rosehearts replied from the sidelines.

“I don’t think that applies here, but sure,” (Y/N) mumbled.

She squared her feet, tightening her grip on the flamingo’s legs. She tried a harder swing this time. It connected, sending the tiny hedgehog tumbling. Before (Y/N) could celebrate her victory, the animal swung out in a large arc away from the pickets, slowing to a stop right by Dr. Rosehearts’ feet. (Y/N) scowled, going over to stand by Riddle’s parents while the rest of the group took their turns for the second round.

“You know,” Dr. Rosehearts said softly to (Y/N) when Mr. Rosehearts walked off to get some tea. “Lily’s father is a minister in parliament. She’s an especially accomplished pianist and frequently has requests from the royal theater company to play.”

“MmHmm,” (Y/N) hummed.

“Violet recently won first place in a national equestrian show jumping competition. Her father is a colleague of mine, an orthopedic surgeon, and her mother is a most accomplished florist.”

“Neat.”

“Rose is an absolute gem, of course. Extremely high marks with practical magic, and her embroidery has been displayed as far as the Sunshine Lands. She’s also wonderfully organized and an exemplary hostess. I can see her managing a fine house one day.”

“Maybe, but Rose Rosehearts is kind of clunky, don’t you think? Or redundant? One of those.”

Dr. Roshearts sniffed. “She also has a firm grasp on language and elegance.”

(Y/N) opened her mouth to say something she knew she would probably regret when the referee called for her turn. Dr. Rosehearts inclined her head and took a step back, giving (Y/N) room to swing.

“Alright,” (Y/N) said softly to the ball and mallet. “The arch this time.”

She aimed, taking in a deep breath as she swung. She looked around the green, not seeing her hedgehog rolling towards or away. It also wasn’t stuck in its place at her feet. Suddenly, the flamingo began to writhe in her hands, flapping its large wings to bat fiercely at her face. She coughed on feathers, trying to hold the distressed animal as far away as possible. Peaking out from one eye, she saw the hedgehog clinging to the flamingo’s neck, climbing up and down while the bird desperately tried to escape its tiny claws. (Y/N) shook the bird, reaching out to try and dislodge the hedgehog. That only seemed to make it worse as both animals began to panic. The flamingo kicked out causing (Y/N) to drop it. With an unholy squawk, it leapt out of her hands, flapping and dancing, colliding right into the gawking Dr. Rosehearts. The red-haired woman shrieked, several hotel attendants coming to her rescue, trying to grab the flamingo. (Y/N) couldn't help but notice Mr. Rosehearts watching the whole spectacle with fascination from the tea cart.

As the attendants apologized profusely to a fuming Dr. Rosehearts, (Y/N) made her way over to Riddle and the three gasping girls. “Well,” She said. “I don’t think I’m very good at this game.”

~~~

When they got back to the townhouse, (Y/N) had another round of apologizing to Riddle.

“I really didn’t mean for that to happen,” She said. She didn’t say she felt somewhat satisfied to see Dr. Rosehearts in distress, plucking stray feathers out of her hair and clothes the whole ride home. “I don’t know what I was doing wrong. I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much.”

“I know it’s not your fault,” Riddle said, pulling off his tie. (Y/N) was sitting on the bed in his room as he watched her in the mirror on his bureau. “The hotel should have vetted their animals better.”

(Y/N) bit her lip. She gave a mirthless laugh. “Our plan isn't going very well, is it?” Riddle faltered, dropping his tie. He turned around to look at (Y/N). Her mouth was screwed up in a tight frown, her eyes misty, and she clutched the duvet tightly. “Sorry. I really wanted to make you look good. I wanted to try and seem like the perfect girlfriend, but I just kind of made everything worse. I wanted to show you that I-” She suddenly cut herself off, looking up and meeting Riddle’s eyes. Her face grew hot and she looked away. “Sorry, don’t listen to me, I’m rambling.”

More than anything, Riddle wanted to ask her what she was going to say. More than anything, he wanted to say something back, something that had been stuck in his mind well before he asked for her help in their plot. Something that made his heart speed up with her every kind word and action, that made him feel pleasantly light-headed whenever they were close, that caused his chest to fill with pride as she worked tirelessly to defend him during the trip. But his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. He could still feel the iron-hot glare from his mother on the carriage ride back from the hotel. And, beneath it all, a simmering fear that their ploy was really just a ploy, that (Y/N) was just an exceptionally good actor, that there was no way she could feel the same way about him that he was realizing he felt about her.

He tapped his foot, coming over to sit next to (Y/N) on his bed. “There’s a ball tomorrow night,” He said, not looking at her. “Mother, Father, and I are invited. Mother… asked if you would be alright remaining at home.”

“Oh,” She said, and Riddle tried not to flinch back at her tone of voice. “No, yeah, I get it. Hey, I don’t even have anything to wear. So, yeah, it’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Riddle said, his harshness even startling himself. He cleared his throat, starting again. “It’s unfair to you. I shouldn’t have dragged you all the way out here. This whole thing was a bad idea to begin with.”

“Oh,” (Y/N) said again, another fractured syllable. She stood. “Well, yeah, fine. I guess the idea of us being together is a bad idea.”

Riddle felt a jolt in his chest. “No, wait, (Y/N), that’s not what I-”

“No, I get it. Why would someone like you want to be with someone like me in the first place? You’ve got a plan all figured out, right? NRC then internships then becoming a world famous doctor. And what do I have to offer you? I can’t do magic, I don’t have any family, I definitely don’t have any money, I have no idea what I’m even going to do over the summer break. And it’s not like I fit in with your world, anyway. Not just Twisted Wonderland, but the whole life you want for yourself. It’s fine, I get it.” She stood, pacing, hot and angry tears pricking her eyes. She took a deep, rattling breath to steady herself before turning to Riddle face to face. “I won’t get in your way anymore. But I do want to say that you deserve better than how you’ve been treated. You’re not your mother. You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are by yourself, not some mold other people try to put you in. You’ve worked so hard these past few months to be a better person and I- I just hope you find someone who recognizes that.” Without another word, (Y/N) rushed out of the room. She nearly collided with Dr. Rosehearts in the hall before muttering an “excuse me” before throwing herself in her room, locking the door.

Dr. Rosehearts lifted her chin, walking the few steps forward to Riddle’s room. She didn’t bother knocking and just stepped inside. Riddle was sitting on the edge of his bed, face buried in his hands.

“I’m glad you’ve come to see reason, Riddle,” She vaguely praised. Riddle looked up at her with red rimmed eyes, checks flushed. “We’ll leave for your suit fitting in the morning. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, Mother,” Riddle mumbled. The sound of his door clicking shut ricocheted around his ears.

~~~

“I messed up,” (Y/N) said. “I really messed this whole thing up.”

It was the next day. She’d barely slept the night before, not bothering to go down to dinner last night or breakfast this morning. Eventually, she heard the front door open and close, watching Riddle and Dr. Rosehearts board a carriage to go out. She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, and called Cater.

“I mean,” He said. “It’s not the best, that’s for sure.”

(Y/N) had called Cater after a moment of desperation, eager for someone to talk to and express her frustrations. She trusted Cater enough to know he wouldn’t immediately run off and tell everyone about the plan and would be patient enough to listen to her vent. He had also lent a sympathetic ear in the past when she had gotten overwhelmed by the strangeness of her new world and missing her old one. She could practically see him twist a lock of hair around his finger as he talked to her. “But it’s not all your fault. Riddle could have stepped in to help, you know.”

“He’s just… under a lot of pressure here,” She said. “I guess I had this idea in my head of what it would be like. But, man, do I hate his mom.”

“We all do, sweetheart.”

“I feel like I kind of abandoned him, though. But he basically disinvited me from my last night here so how am I supposed to feel?”

“Hmm. Do you know where the party is supposed to be tonight?”

“At Rose’s place, bleh.”

“Well, you could always crash it.”

(Y/N) sat up. “Crash? I can’t do that, I’ve embarrassed him enough already.”

Cater huffed in frustration. “Honestly, you’re both so blind I don’t know how you stand it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you said the reason you went there in the first place was to help Riddle.”

“I did - I am - but-”

“And what? You’re just going to let one bad game of croquet take that from you?”

“It wasn’t just that game, I-”

“And we both know Riddle’s blind spots. Sure, he’s been better about all that rule stuff and chilling out here at school, but being back in the middle of all his trauma is different, you know?”

“I - You know what? You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, I usually am.”

“Riddle acts like he’s in charge all the time, I forget that we’re practically the same age. And everyone needs help, even when they’re too stubborn to admit it.”

“Yes, exactly! Stubborn is practically Riddle’s middle name!”

“Which means,” (Y/N) stood. “I’ve got to be stubborn back! If Riddle can’t ask for help then I need to be a good girlfriend and recognize he needs it and do my part!”

(Y/N) could feel Cater’s smirk in his next words. “Ooh, his girlfriend, huh? I thought you were just pretending?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Thanks, Cater. I’ve got to go get ready. I have a party to crash!”

“I’m going to need every detail when you get back!”

(Y/N) quickly hung up, dialing another number. “Hi, Vil? It’s (Y/N). I have a really big favor to ask.”

~~~

Riddle stared into his flute of sparkling wine, watching the few remaining bubbles rise and pop. It was flat by now and he hadn’t taken a single sip. The last rays of sunlight glowed gently against the surrounding townhouses that Riddle could see out the large bay windows of the ballroom. Couples twirled together along the floor to the elegant music from a string band. A long table was precisely set with way too much food, even given the substantial size of the party. His father mingled across the room with several other gentlemen from his club, doing his best to blend into the curtains. Riddle stood dutifully next to his mother who was speaking to Rose’s mother. Rose herself hovered next to him. He floated in and out of their conversation, only picking up about every fourth word. He wore a dark red velvet coat with a tight white starched collar that he kept tugging at to keep from strangling him.

“And then,” Rose was saying. “Betty walks in with a yellow checkered parasol! Can you imagine? For an autumn leaf viewing picnic? Honestly, I’m surprised she had the nerve to stay around for as long as she did with that sort of faux pa.”

“MmHm,” Riddle replied, swirling his glass causing a few errant bubbles to meander to the surface.

“Really, the only thing that might have been more embarrassing is if she brought a chestnut tart! Oh, are you alright, Riddle?”

Riddle coughed, clearing his throat as his face turned red. “Yes, fine, just remembering something unpleasant.”

“Well, I’m not sure how you could think of anything unpleasant with me around,” She said, clutching his arm to pull him closer to her, batting her eyes. Her eyelashes were so long Riddle had a single terrifying impression of spider legs.

Riddle cleared his throat again, more uncomfortable this time. “Yes, I can’t imagine.”

Rose pouted and opened her mouth to say something else only to be interrupted by the round of gasps and murmurs that swelled from around the room. At the top of the grand staircase leading down to the ballroom, a footman was taking a dark traveling cloak from a newcomer. The cloak fell away to reveal the elaborate dress underneath it. The bodice was a rich crimson red with puffed sleeves at the shoulders, leading down to illusion sheer sleeves with tiny intricate beading twinkling down to the tight clasps at the wrists. The skirt bloomed out from the waist, layers upon layers of fabric resembling a large upside down rose. The red from the top continued down the skirt in an almost dripping effect, the rose petals turning white at the bottom as if they were being painted. The rose parted just at the knees to allow the wearer more freedom of movement, revealing sheer stockings with the same bead work.

Riddle shoved his glass into Rose’s hands, ignoring her shocked look. He strode forward, cutting through the crowd. As the new figure descended the stairs, he met her, extending his hand to take hers.

“Hi,” (Y/N) said, smiling gently at him. “I’m not too late, am I?”

“No,” Riddle breathed. “You’re here just in time.”

“Excuse me!” They both turned to see Rose and her mother coming over, frustration on Rose’s face and confusion on her mother’s.

“I’m sorry,” Rose’s mother said, eyes darting to (Y/N)’s and Riddle’s held hand. “This is a closed party.”

“She’s with me,” Riddle quickly said. He saw his mother furrow her brow and press her lips together. He continued, meeting her gaze. “This is (Y/N), my girlfriend. She’s my guest.”

There was another small round of exclamations around the room. Rose crossed her arms while her mother blinked in confusion. “Oh, well, then please, by all means, welcome.”

(Y/N) bobbed a curtsy, “Thank you.”

“Would you like to dance?” Riddle asked.

(Y/N) smiled and Riddle felt like his heart would explode. “I’d love to.” He led her to the dance floor. The band, which had paused at her entrance, started up again with a waltz.“I should warn you,” (Y/N) whispered to him as they took their place. “I have no idea how to do any of this.”

“That’s alright. Just follow my lead.”

“Riddle, I’d follow you through the Land of Ghosts and back if you asked me to.” Riddle tripped over his own feet, (Y/N) catching him in a spin and laughing.

“I like your dress,” Riddle said, trying to regain his composure. “I didn’t see it before.”

“Thanks, it’s a loner. I have friends in high places. Vil, I mean Vil.”

Spectators watched the couple in a not at all elegant dance across the floor. “Oh, Victoria,” Another socialite's mother said, coming up to her. “You must be so proud. She seems like such a lovely girl. And Riddle looks so happy!”

“Indeed,” Dr. Rosehearts replied with a steely stare at the couple. She noticed the flush on Riddle’s cheeks, his eyes closed as he laughed at something (Y/N) had said. (Y/N) took a wrong step back, bumping into another couple dancing behind them. She watched them apologize, (Y/N) saying something to the other couple that made them laugh and wave a pleasant goodbye. Dr. Rosehearts ground her teeth, nose screwing up in frustration.

The song ended and Riddle and (Y/N) exited the dance floor. They’re faces were both flushed, glowing underneath the chandelier lights. (Y/N) felt her heart flutter pleasantly as she watched Riddle, a rare genuine smile across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. She could always tell when it was a sincere smile whenever a tiny crease appeared between his eyebrows leaning to his left eye. She wondered what it meant that she had studied his face so intently to notice that.

Dr. Rosehearts interrupted the conversations happening around her by walking away, striding with her head held high to Riddle and (Y/N). (Y/N) noticed her first, taking a side step closer to Riddle and meeting the older woman’s stare with unabashed defiance. Dr. Rosehearts ground her teeth again.

“Riddle,” Dr. Rosehearts said. Riddle jumped, just now noticing his mother’s presence. His body immediately stiffened, shoulders going back to make a conscious effort to stand straighter. “Lewis and Carol were looking for you.” She waved her hand over to the other side of the ballroom. “I thought I might have a chat with (Y/N).”

Riddle started to stutter a response before (Y/N) laid a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” She said. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you later.” Riddle looked between the two women, eyes locked in a silent battle of wills, before nodding hesitantly and going over to see his old middle school classmates.

(Y/N) plucked a glass of cider from a passing waiter. She wondered briefly what the drinking laws were here.

“Well,” Dr. Rosehearts said, clasping her hands in front of her. “You certainly know how to make an entrance to an event you weren’t invited to.”

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” (Y/N) said, swirling her glass. “I’m Riddle’s plus one. He wanted me here.”

“Yes, I suppose it is very kind of him to humor you.”

“Well, someone in your family needs to have a sense of humor, right?”

“Hmph. Riddle has a plan, you know. He can’t be distracted by frivolities.”

“You have a plan, you mean. Riddle can do whatever he wants. He’s exceedingly capable, smart, and an amazing mage.”

“Thanks to my careful tutelage.”

“Despite your ‘careful tutelage’ I’d say.”

Dr. Rosehearts eyes flared. “You know nothing about my relationship with my son. My son.”

“Oh, I know plenty.”

“And I know my son. Believe me, your relationship, or whatever you want to call this, is just some passing fancy. He’ll get over it soon and come back to me with his senses intact.”

“At least my relationship with him didn’t lead to his Overblot.”

There was a snapping sound, a shatter of glass, and a gasp from across the ballroom. Riddle whirled around. His mother stood over (Y/N), her hand raised. (Y/N) clutched her cheek, already turning red from Dr. Rosehearts’ slap.

“How dare you?” She shouted, now drawing every eye around the room. “My Riddle was perfectly fine until the moment you showed up at that school. He was obedient until you started influencing him!”

“And that’s all that matters, right? That he is obedient to you. That he does whatever you say. He’s not your doll for you to play with, he’s a living breathing amazing person you just refuse to recognize has his own thoughts and life outside of you!”

“I won’t take criticism from some magicless interloper who cavorts with fae and meddles with every aspect of a world she doesn't understand!”

“Well, that’s just the beginning of your issues, isn’t it? You’re so stuck in your own head you refuse to recognize when you’re in the wrong and actively hurting the people around you!”

Dr. Rosehearts took in a sharp inhale, raising her hand again.

“Mother!” Both women turned to see Riddle rushing over to them.

(Y/N) immediately blanched. “Riddle, I’m sorry, I-”

“Riddle!” Dr. Rosehearts cut her off, jabbing a finger at (Y/N). “Control this wretched girl!”

“I will do no such thing,” Riddle said defiantly, putting himself between his mother and (Y/N). He turned to her, lowering his voice. “Are you alright?”

(Y/N) blinked at him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?”

He gave a decisive nod and turned back to Dr. Rosehearts. “Mother, you need to apologize.”

Dr. Rosehearts gaped at him. “Me? Apologize to her?”

“You’ve been nothing but hateful since (Y/N)’s arrived. She’s our guest and someone extremely important to me. You could at least have the common courtesy to be polite.”

Dr. Rosehearts’ face was cherry red. “How dare you speak to me like this! I’m your mother!”

“And nothing she said was untrue!” Dr. Rosehearts flinched back. “All my life, all I’ve wanted was to please you, to make you proud of me. I worked so, so hard. It crushed me, it destroyed me, that I couldn’t meet your impossible expectations! And I just thought that was how the world was, set in rigid rules, and anyone who couldn’t follow every last one was a bad person. I ruined friendships, I ruined myself, I almost ruined everything when I Overblot!” Another round of gasps rang from around the room. (Y/N) slipped her hand into his, squeezing in reassurance. He squeezed back, soldiering on. “I’m not a son to you, I’m a project! I’m some doll you parade around and pose however you want without any actual care for the damage you might do! (Y/N) has shown me I can be a better person, that I can be who I actually want to be! Except I have no idea who that person is because you’ve broken me into your specific mold for so long. She’s stayed by me, my friends have stayed by me, no matter what. For the first time in my life I feel content with myself, like I can actually breathe. And you act like that’s a bad thing.” Riddle was breathing hard, hot tears starting to spill from eyes. “Well, I’m done. I’m done trying to please you. I’ll never be good enough for you. And that’s fine. I don’t want to be. Now I just want to be good enough for myself. Let’s go, (Y/N).” Still holding hands, the two swept from the ballroom, the party goers parting for them like the Red Sea.

Dr. Rosehearts’ face was red with rage, eyes darting around the room from each pitying, concerned, and judging face of the attendants to her son’s retreating back. She was breathing hard, head fuzzy, vision going blurry around the edges. Stepping forward, she slid her hairpin from her perfectly maintained bun, a magestone embedded at one end. She took a solid step forward, pointing it at Riddle. “Riddle-!”

“Victoria!” She froze at the sudden exclamation. She turned, seeing Mr. Rosehearts staring steadfastly at her. “That’s enough.”

She stopped, looking down at her hand, at her wand, at what she was about to do. She gasped, dropping the wand so it clattered against the marble flooring. The sound echoed in her ears.

~~~

It was starting to rain outside. Riddle shrugged off his jacket, holding it above the two of them to huddle beneath it.

“I don’t think we would be able to take the carriage back,” He said. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I want to go back to the townhouse anyway.”

“No problem,” (Y/N) said, pulling her phone out of an invisible pocket. “Give me a second. Hi, Hornton? It’s (Y/N).” Minutes later, a private carriage from the Lorina Hotel was pulled alongside the cafe’s outside seating where Riddle and (Y/N) had taken up temporary shelter. “Friends in high places,” She said as they climbed inside.

The two were quiet as the carriage rumbled on. They sat next to each other on the bench seats. Riddle leaned his head on (Y/N)’s shoulder as she rubbed circles in the back of his hand. They exited soon after at the hotel, a doorman holding an umbrella over their heads as they rushed inside.

At the front desk, the concierge and manager were talking in animated whispers, jolting up to paste on bright smiles as the two approached the desk. “Hello!” The manager said, a little too enthusiastically. “Checking in under Draconia?”

“Yup, that’s us,” (Y/N) said, holding Riddle close. “Two rooms, please.”

“Ah, well, of course, you see,” The manager stuttered. (Y/N) suspected they didn’t often get calls from foreign royalty as it was throwing the poor man off this game. “Unfortunately, as I mentioned to his majesty on the phone, we only have one room left available.”

“Oh. Well, if it’s a double that will work fine, too.”

The manager cringed. “It’s a single bed, Miss.”

“Ah.” (Y/N) said, head starting to spin. She tried to quickly problem solve in her head. Could she call Horton back and ask him to make reservations somewhere else? Or would that be rude? Just the thought of going back to the Rosehearts townhome made her skin crawl.

“It’s fine,” Riddle said. “We’ll take it.” The manager looked relieved as he handed over the keys. “I’ll need to make a phone call as well, to have our things brought here in the morning. Do you have anything we could use for the night?”

“Of course, sir! Please, take it with our compliments.”

They handed over two sets of monogrammed gray pajamas. A bellhop led them to the elevator, pushing the button to their floor.

“I guess you’re right,” Riddle said. “It does pay to have friends in high places.”

For some reason, that comment, along with the building stress of the night, broke the tight bundle of nerves (Y/N) had lodged in her chest. She started giggling, not being able to stop or catch her breath. Riddle soon followed, both of them almost doubled over with impractical laughter. They continued to their room, a patron from next door sticking his head out at the noise. Their laughter died down when they came into the room, both setting eyes on the single bed at the center.

“I’m going to take a shower,” (Y/N) said, pointing to the adjoining bathroom. Riddle just nodded, tearing is eyes from the bed and trying very hard to look anywhere else.

In the bathroom, (Y/N) peeled off her dress, feeling kind of bad about haphazardly throwing it over the towel rack to hang. She turned the water on to almost scalding, letting it rush over her in an attempt to beat the chill that had settled in her bones, only partially from the rain. After her shower, she changed into the provided pajamas. They were warm and soft against her skin. She hesitated before exiting the bathroom.

Riddle jumped when she came out, and she wondered if she should have knocked first. She saw he had pulled the duvet and one of the massive pillows off the bed, laying them out on the floor. “You can take the bed tonight,” He said. “I’ll sleep here.” Without waiting for her protest, Riddle went into the bathroom locking it behind him. She soon heard the sound of rushing water from the shower.

‘Well, that’s not very fair,’ She thought. She drug off the remaining blanket from the bed and the other pillow, creating her own spot on the opposite side on the floor. Riddle was the one who just had his whole world tossed around. It was only fair if he got the bed for the night. A few minutes later, Riddle left the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He was rubbing his hair with a towel. He looked confused at (Y/N) on the floor on her side of the bed.

“I’d say you can take the bed,” (Y/N) said. “But I know you’re too stubborn and chivalrous for that. So I’ll stay down here too. That way we’re even.”

“You don’t need to do that for me,” Riddle said.

“I want to.”

Riddle stared at her. (Y/N) could almost see the thoughts turning in his head. He nodded once, going over to his side of the bed and laying down on the improv sleeping mat. (Y/N) reached up and switched off the light. A soft glow from the street lamps came in through the window, the rain softly padding against the glass. (Y/N) could see Riddle through the space under the bed. He was staring straight up, hands clasped tightly against his stomach.

“Riddle-,” She started.

“I’m glad I said it. I think I’ve been wanting to say all of that for a long time now. And I don’t think I would have been able to if you weren’t there, if I didn’t know I had your support. So thank you.”

(Y/N) thought hard, turning his words over in her head. ‘Screw it,’ She thought. She got up, dragging her blanket and pillow with her. She went over to Riddle’s side of the floor/bed, dropping her stuff next to him and laying back down. She turned on her side to look at him, meeting his wide confused eyes.

“Riddle, I think I’m in love with you.” Riddle sputtered, choking on air, but now that she had started, (Y/N) knew she had to power through. “I mean, I’ve never really been in love with someone before, but I’m pretty sure that’s what this is. My feelings for you, I mean. It started off with just really admiring you. I know the beginning of the year was really tough and I can’t imagine what it was like to go through all of that. But ever since you’ve been working so hard, and I can see that, everyone can see that. You’re smart and brave and stubborn as hell, which I got to admit I kind of like. I love how I can tell when you get genuinely excited about something or that smug grin you get when you’re right about something. You’re a great house warden and a good friend. Not to mention you’re really cute. So, yeah. I just needed to say that. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I understand. Or you don’t want to give me an answer right now. I don’t mind waiting, if it’s for you.” She laid on her back, staring at the ceiling, heart thundering in her chest. The silence of the room was only broken by the soft pitter patter of the rain.

“(Y/N)?” Riddle said softly. (Y/N) turned on her side so the two of them were facing each other again. “You know I’m not good with talking about my feelings. I still have a hard time deciphering them myself, to be honest. But one thing I’m absolutely certain about is how I feel about you. I love you. I have to admit, I had ulterior motives when I asked you to come with me for this. I thought maybe it would be some sort of test run for an actual relationship, which now, saying it out loud, I realize how awful that sounds, and I’m sorry. I love how I feel around you, like I can be the greatest person in the world. I love how kind you are, how ready to jump into action, how ready you are to help no matter what. I love how steadfast and brave you are in what must be a terrifying situation, not knowing anything about your surroundings or having the same tools as all of us to combat it. And you’ve basically taken on raising Grim by yourself which I know can’t be easy with having that extra responsibility all of a sudden on top of everything else. I know I might not be the easiest person to be around. I’m stubborn, like you said, and I can get angry easily. Obviously my family is a complete mess. But, I hope, despite everything, you can still accept me for who I am and for who I want to be.”

“Riddle, I already said I love you. Of course I accept you. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Despite how flustered it made him, Riddle wouldn’t want to be pried out of each other’s arms as they fell asleep for anything in the world.

~~~

It was sunny the next morning, the rain from the night before lending a pleasant coolness to the air. Staff from the Rosehearts’ townhouse had dropped off Riddle and (Y/N)’s packed bags that morning and the newly formed couple was getting ready to head back to their starting point for the Magic Mirror to bring them back to school. (Y/N) tried to buy some fancy chocolates from the hotel for the boys back at NRC, but the manager and staff had shoved the boxes into her hands at no charge.

“Compliments to friends of the Draconia family!” He had said.

As they got ready to head out, they heard someone call from behind them, “Riddle!”

They turned around, seeing the Rosehearts’ carriage come down the street, Mr. Rosehearts leaning out of the window, waving. He jumped out as the carriage rolled to a stop, jogging over.

(Y/N) took a step in front of Riddle. “Do you want me to deal with it?” She asked.

“No, it’s fine,” He said. “I’ll only be a minute.” Riddle left his bags with (Y/N), who watched Mr. Rosehearts’ approach with a critical eye, and walked over to meet his father. “Father. I’ll be heading back to school soon. I don’t want to be late.”

“Right, of course, I won’t take up too much of your time.” He seemed nervous, not meeting his son’s eyes. Finally, he took a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize, Riddle.”

Riddle blinked. “Apologize?”

“Yes, and it’s a long time coming. I’m afraid I haven’t been a good father to you. I saw the kind of stress your mother put you under, how controlling it could be. And I ignored it. I should have been better for you, stood up for you more. You’re my son, Riddle, and I love you. But I haven’t acted like it for a long time. I hope, one day, we can start again and you can forgive me.”

“I-” Riddle was at a loss for words. “I can’t say it will be soon, but I appreciate you saying that. I hope you can understand.”

Mr. Rosehearts smiled wide and nodded. “Yes, of course. We’ll go on your time.”

Riddle looked back at the carriage. “Is Mother here?”

Mr. Rosehearts’ face dropped, looking away and rubbing the back of his head. “No, she’s still at home. We’re actually going to… spend some time apart for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s for the best. I’ll be out at the country estate if you need anything.” He winked and whispered conspiratorially. “To be honest, I’ve always wanted to get into ornithology. I hear there’s a rare variant of the jubjub bird in the area I’ve been dying to get a look at.”

The two separated, Mr. Rosehearts to his carriage and Riddle to (Y/N). “You okay?” She asked.

“Fine. I think things might be looking up, actually.”

She bumped him with her hip. “Well, you’ve got a super cool new girlfriend now, so I sure hope so.”

Riddle chuckled, linking their arms together. They stepped back through the portal to school, confident that no matter what trials and tribulations would come next, they would face them together.

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