#the riddle of ages

[the-algebra-thing]

another of my favorite things from riddle of ages was the sticky is hot now gag it is so funny to me not least because like. that joke can get so tired it is normally such a tired thing to pull. but not only did they pull it with the exact right character—it would've been strange and not honestly no good with any of the rest of them tbh—the way it was executed was so simple and sweet like. it was only mentioned a few times, and it was done in the same way as all their little gags—the most important point was the camaraderie, and for everyone to be a little silly. the point wasn't that sticky was actually hot it was that he was a little embarrassed about his very handsome new glasses, and the other kids were a little surprised that he's hot now, and they thought it was so funny that people in his life kept talking about this that they picked it up and decided to be silly about it. it read the exact same tone-wise as the crossing their eyes thing, which I also adored, not least because it happens so unconscionably often to me and my siblings. anyways I just thought that was so fun

[acollectionofcuriousreblogs]

Beware: Riddle Of Ages Spoilers

I’m a little sad we’ll (probably) never get a Riddle of Ages adaption simply because I would die to see the build up scene prior to the Ten Men fight at the street fair. In the book that scene was so suspenseful, and I can see it so perfectly being adapted to film. Imagine…

We open to a fast, moving shot Kate driving Mrs. Plugg’s motorcycle. She reaches the crowd leaving the fair; people pass in front of the camera, we get some shots of the cycle’s wheels as Kate slowly navigates through them. It’s all very chaotic and claustrophobic, but Kate catches a man’s arm and asks what’s going and he tells her about the gas leak. Finally, she makes it through and begins driving again, but much slower. It is much quieter with the crowd gone and the hum of the motor had even died down. She passes abandoned stalls, the wind blows discarded fliers past her. She comes to a stop at the end of the of the fair, and we get a shot of her dropping the kickstand. The motor turns off and everything is quiet except for the wind. She looks around, there is a dark alleyway, and then we see it. There is something there, sitting in the alley. We get the feeling that something is very, very wrong. Kate calls out, first quietly, then finding the strength in her voice to be loud. She takes slow, measured steps into the darkness as she continues to speak at the stranger, never getting a response. We zoom in on the strangers trembling fingers, suddenly the sound of them hitting the table is magnified, it’s all we can hear. Kate noticed it to, she tentatively addresses the stranger a final, quiet time but she is focused on the sound. She knows something is going on and trying to figure out what. The tapping hammers in her skull in time with heartbeat, which we can now hear. We focus again in the stranger’s hands, and suddenly, in short flashes, they become Reynie or Sticky’s hands from so many years ago. They are tapping out Morse code in the front yard outside of Mr. Benedict’s house. Back to the strangers hands. They tap .-. and the symbols appear on the screen. Then ..- comes. Finally, -. Letters of the alphabet cycle underneath the Morse code as she decodes before finally landing on R U N. The audience and Kate come to the same conclusion in that moment. Everything goes quiet as we see fearful realization cross her face. We zoom in on her mouth as she whispers to herself “Run.” But it’s too late.

[mvshortcut]

Everyone give it up for our favorite cringe fail loser!

[merakiui]

the birds and the bees.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, slight dub-con, implied stalking, age gap (riddle is 19 and reader is 29) note - you're hired to teach riddle about the birds and the bees. you need the money. he needs to get laid.

The Rosehearts’s Residence looks about how you expected it to after driving past houses of similar size and grandeur. Unlike you, they’re definitely not strapped for cash. It’s an impressive structure with its elegant wrought iron gates and expertly trimmed hedges. You’re immediately overcome with bitter jealousy when you step through the entrance, passing rose bushes in full bloom. If only your apartment could look and feel as nice as this place. You almost wonder if you should keep Mrs. Rosehearts’s contact in case she ever needs a gardener or a window washer…

But then that risks your cover, and the last thing you want is to get tangled up in trouble with the upper middle class.

Gathering your courage, you smooth invisible wrinkles in your pencil skirt, steady your balance in your Mary Janes—both at socially acceptable lengths and heights—and bring your fist down against the door. Seconds after the third knock, it opens to reveal a woman who looks as prim and proper as the landscape of her home. She takes a long moment, drinking in your formal features, and then smiles approvingly.

“Ah, (Name), you’re early.”

You soften your face into something polite and demure. “Better early than late.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

She steps aside, gesturing for you to come in. You meander into the foyer and are instantly reminded of those exquisite house tours on MagiTube. There’s a fine layer of modest Victorian wealth to the decor. Flowery wallpaper, a lofty ceiling, an aureate chandelier, a vase filled with fresh tulips of all colors… Oh, how you wish you could live here!

“Your home is beautiful,” you comment as you straighten your bow headband.

“Why, thank you.” Her eyes light up once more. “I’ve always admired this neighborhood. Everything is so well-kept. Speaking of which, where did you say you’re from?”

“Oh, I’m actually getting ready to move back to school at the end of the summer,” you explain, narrowly dodging her question. No way I’m telling her I live in a not-so-affluent neighborhood�� She’ll totally kick me out. “I’m staying with my parents in the meantime and working a few jobs to support myself.”

“And what was it you’re studying again?”

You paste a hollow smile on, sensing her distrust. I already told you this when we met at the clinic. Do I really seem so suspicious?

“I’m studying to be an ob-gyn.”

“A wonderful profession,” she praises, nodding to herself. “Very wonderful indeed. And how old are you? I merely ask to confirm. There are so many miscreants nowadays. You can never be too sure.”

“I understand completely, Mrs. Rosehearts. I’m—” you almost falter, your real age on the tip of your tongue— “twenty-two. What about your son? You told me he’s also looking to get into the medical field?”

“Not looking. He will pursue medicine,” she corrects sternly. “Just like his mother.”

You swallow your disgust and try not to let it show so openly. Yikes… Talk about controlling.

Mrs. Rosehearts waves you onwards down the hall. “My Riddle will be leaving for his first year of college at the end of August. Though I’m certain he’s more than prepared, it never hurts to review.”

“Absolutely. So you’d like me to give him the talk?”

“Not just that. I’d like you to teach him well enough so that copulation and any other libidinous ideas are the last things on his mind. Stamp them out if you must. He’s to focus on his studies and make good decisions just as I raised him.”

Shouldn’t he already be familiar with this? Besides, he’s not a kid. Of course he’s going to think about sex. Most of us do when we’re horny.

But you can’t say that outright, so you settle for something vastly different.

“It’s important to stay on the right path and be responsible.”

Mrs. Rosehearts nods her agreement. Your stomach twists in discomfort.

On second thought, I don’t want to be upper middle class if these are the people I have to deal with. Is this guy going to have any chance to be social? To live his life? To make and learn from stupid mistakes? I bet he can’t wait to get out of here and go off to school.

“I apologize if this is rude in any way, but I just want to ensure I’ll be paid accordingly.”

“Of course. Good work must always be recognized and rewarded.” She stops at a door. “I cannot thank you enough for lending my Riddle your time. Teach him well.”

“I’ll do just that. You can count on it.”

Pleased with the level of maturity you’ve displayed, she raps her knuckles against the door and calls out, “Riddle, the tutor’s here.”

“Very well, Mother. I’ve just finished today’s readings, so you can send them in,” comes a muffled reply.

Today’s readings? you think, perplexed. Your gaze slides from the door to Mrs. Rosehearts. Does she have this guy doing summer school? That must suck! What a shitty way to spend your summer, cooped up inside filling out workbooks and stuff.

“I’ll be out running errands in the meantime. I trust you’ll be all right by yourself?”

“Perfectly all right,” you assure her, to which she hums and strides past you. You catch her perfume as she departs, and it reminds you of the types of scents worn by saggy, old ladies who have nothing better to do than sit around and complain about the state of the world and the way their children turned out.

In other words, a scent you associate with misery.

You wait until she’s out of sight before opening the door and stepping inside the study. There’s a mahogany desk in the center, and thick textbooks are piled high on either side. Beyond that, beside a big bay window with cream-colored curtains drawn to let in the sun, two large bookcases are packed with an array of tomes. At the front of the room, a blackboard has been built into a wooden frame. Chalk lines the ledge, situated within reach of an eraser. And sitting at the desk, his eyes glued to an open book, is a young man. A pair of round frames sit on the bridge of his nose, slipping ever so slightly down the slope of it when he peers at the page. He pushes them up when he finally lifts his head to greet you.

“Hey.” You wave awkwardly, easing the door shut.

He seems taken aback by your appearance. “Oh, yes. Right. Hello…”

Silence soon fills the space. You wonder if you should just save yourself this nonsensical waste of time and retreat.

“Sooo.” You fold your arms behind your back, rocking on your heels. “Your mother’s probably told you why I’m here.”

“I’m aware.” He shuts his book and stands from his seat. “My name is Riddle Rosehearts. A pleasure to meet you.”

You blink at his outstretched arm. “(Name). Likewise.” You grab his hand and shake firmly. 

So stiff…

“So where’re we starting? The basics? You want the whole ‘when a man and a woman love each other very much’ version or—”

Riddle scoffs and yanks his arm back. “I’m not a fool. I’ll have you know I’m well aware of sexual reproduction and what it entails.”

“You can call it sex. No one’s forcing you to be all biological,” you tease. His body goes rigid, and his face reddens in what you assume is flustered annoyance. “Anyways, since you’re not as brainless as Mother Dearest wants me to assume, I’ll just get into it.”

Riddle stares at you, his arms folding over his chest. He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he huffs and lowers into his chair.

Wordlessly, you undo the buttons on your blazer and shrug out of it. Your blouse goes next, untucked from your skirt and shucked. Riddle’s eyes are so wide they nearly pop out of his skull when he spies the white, lacy false collar that just barely covers your breasts. You’re about to step out of your pencil skirt next when Riddle clears his throat.

“W-What’re you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No?”

“I’m teaching you the birds and the bees.”

“N-Not in that outfit! S-Surely not…” He averts his eyes, crimson crawling up to his ears. “You’re practically nude!”

“That’s the point of lingerie, silly.” Your skirt pools around your ankles to reveal the rest of your frilly ensemble. A black-and-white cupless bra and crotchless panties set, both with plenty of ruffles, held together with a pair of garters. Still wearing matching stockings and your precious Mary Janes, you bend down to gather your discarded clothes. They’re set aside on a nearby chair. “You can look.”

“A-Absolutely not!” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut. “Y-You… You’re not decent. It’s rude to stare.”

“Come on. You got past anatomy diagrams just fine.”

Riddle opens and closes his mouth, speechless like a beached fish. Eventually, he manages to gather his coherency. “You’re a tutor, aren’t you? Where’s your dignity?”

“Nonexistent. I lied.” His head snaps over to view you, and he seems so scandalized by your admission that it’s almost comedic. “No way I’m studying to be an ob-gyn. I’m not even in school.”

“What?! But you—”

“It’s fine. I looked the part, didn’t I?” you joke, waving your hand about dismissively. “C’mon, mama’s boy. You’re going off to college. It’s nothing like those stuffy anatomy courses.”

Riddle tries and fails to look at anywhere that isn’t you, his eyes lingering on your chest to the space between your legs to the thigh garter and then to the ceiling. He’s so red you think he might explode.

“You’ve been with a girl before, yeah?”

With lips pursed in a tight line, he shakes his head.

“Sounds about right.”

“And you’re so experienced?”

You flash him a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry about it, mama’s boy.”

“I’m not a mama’s boy!”

“No? So you just let your mother treat you like a little baby at your grown age? You let her pick out sex tutors for you?”

“I—” He stops himself from speaking to mull over your questions. “If it’s what she deems necessary…”

“Because our biggest fear is sexually awkward you knocking up some girl at school, right?”

“I… I would never! Safe sex is—”

“Very important when you’re not trying to conceive. Good boy. See? You know your stuff.”

Riddle’s eyes narrow into vicious slits. You brush his scorching vitriol off and turn towards the board. Procuring a piece of chalk, you scrawl words on it: Birds and Bees 101. Wholly unamused, Riddle folds his arms across his chest.

“Your mother told me you’re gonna study medicine, so you’re probably familiar with everything already. And I’m sure you know all about the baby-making process on a biological level.” You whirl to face him, your tits bouncing with the peppy motion. Riddle swallows thickly. “But just to make sure… Let’s review.”

“R-Review? You don’t mean—”

“What’s this?” Your hands close around your tits. Riddle’s enchanted with the way you squeeze them—the way they depress under your fingers.

“Um… Ahem. Well… T-The breasts. They’re a type of glandular organ located on a woman’s chest, and they’re made up of lots of tissue and fat. There’s the mammary gland—that’s what produces milk. Oh, and then there are the areolas right around the nipples. Those are—”

“You can call them what they are.”

Riddle blinks, shaken from his studious spiel. “W-What?”

“You know the word, mama’s boy.”

He flusters. “Yes, I’m aware. But…”

“No harm in saying it.” You run your fingers over your nipples and giggle sweetly like a schoolgirl. “Go on…”

He inhales a deep breath. “They’re tits,” he mumbles, desultory. “Y-Your tits.”

You clap, beaming brightly. “Well done! Moving swiftly on…” You run your hands down the expanse of your stomach, stopping just beneath your navel. “What’s here?”

“Your womb. O-Otherwise known as the uterus. It’s where a baby grows over the course of nine months.”

“Mhm. Good job.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose, clearing his throat. “There’s more to your reproductive system than the uterus. Lots of parts. Important parts.”

“Right. But I don’t need to quiz you on it. You obviously know your stuff.”

Again, your fingers inch lower until they’re prodding at your folds. Riddle’s breath audibly hitches.

“And this?”

“Your vagina. It’s where—”

“What’s the other word?”

Riddle avoids your stare. “It sounds so vulgar…”

“So what?”

“S-So there ought to be a term that’s more…flattering.”

“Like what?” You approach him and, with the grace of a swan, lift your leg onto the desk to give him a better view of yourself. Shamelessly, you dip your fingers inside to spread yourself. “A guy called it the honeypot once. That pretty enough for you?”

Riddle squeaks and flinches back in his chair, his face now even redder than it was before. “T-That’s fine…”

“Really? I’d have thought the implication in that one is much dirtier than calling it a pussy.”

It takes him a moment to connect the dots, but once he does he gasps. “Ah. Then…”

You press inwards with your fingers, exaggerating a pornographic sigh. “Yeah?”

“Can I… M-May I call it your flower?”

“Sure.” His shoulders slacken with a flicker of relief. Your next words shatter that and his pride in one fell swoop. “That one’s not as special as you think, mama’s boy. I’ve heard it all—every type of flower you can think of.”

“Even a rose?”

“Especially a rose.” His lips twist into a disappointed moue. You chuckle and add, “You can call it a rose if you want. I don’t mind.”

Riddle meets your eyes then, searching them for the joke. When one doesn’t present itself, he relaxes. “All right. It’s a very pretty rose. Soft…”

“Aww. Thanks for saying so. It’s softer inside, y’know. See?” Spreading yourself wider, you angle your hips to bless him with the full view. “My fingers slide right in. Wanna guess why?”

“B-Because the vagina naturally—” He stops himself, his brows knitting together in contemplation. When he speaks next, it’s with a determined sort of conviction. “When you’re aroused, your rose produces a natural lubricant during sexual excitement.”

“Mhm. We call that ‘feeling good and getting wet,’ Dr. Rosehearts.”

“Yes. Y-Yes, I know that.” He eyes your pussy, a ravenous glimmer in his intelligent blue-greys. “And the wetness—it’s supposed to make it feel better. To make insertion easier, I mean.”

“Right again.” You ease your fingers out but not before thrusting them deeper just so he can hear the sinful sounds. They shimmer with your essence, enticing in a forbidden way. “What about the other parts? How about this spot here?” You brush against the hood of your clit, circling it slowly.

Riddle watches, hopelessly spellbound. “The clitoris.”

“I’m impressed. Most guys don’t know about it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But it’s your most sensitive erogenous zone! Just how uninformed does one have to be to neglect such a crucial part to your sexual anatomy?”

“Woefully uninformed, I’m afraid,” you mutter with a pout. Your fingertips drag your hood up to reveal that pretty, perky nub. “I think it’s dumb your mother wants me to talk you out of sex. You’re going to college. You’re an adult. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

“I…” Riddle frowns at that last line. “I have no interest in it. Besides, it’ll only hinder my studies. If I really need it, I’ll just masturbate. That’s healthy every now and then, and it doesn’t break any rules.”

“Really? No interest at all?” You shoot him a knowing look and run your tongue along your bottom lip. “Because your dick’s telling a different story.”

Riddle sputters, embarrassed, and squeezes his thighs together. His hands fly to cover his lap. “That’s because you’re—” He gazes at the floor. “Because you’re so pretty…”

Temporarily thrown off course, you gape at him. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Gathering the remnants of your mask, you piece it together and laugh. “Not the first time I’ve heard someone describe it like that.”

“Not just your pussy.” Your gaze snaps to his. He smiles, impish. “I’m sure you know what I mean, Teacher.”

You exhale a short laugh. “Someone’s suddenly confident.”

Riddle rises from his seat. His fingers close around your wrist, gently pulling it away from your clit. He moves around the desk to stand in front of you and then, before you can comprehend his intentions, he’s pushing you down onto the desk. You yelp at the sudden change in position, your eyes blown wide when he presses his clothed hard-on against your bare pussy.

“You’re doing a poor job at dissuading me from wanting sex.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Not in that outfit.” He grabs at the meat of your thighs and parts them. “If Mother knew you lied to her…”

You shake your head at him. “Please don’t tell her. I… I’m being serious. I need this money.”

“Desperately?”

Your lip curls into the beginning of a sneer. You hate feeling powerless more than anything, but the fiery glaze in his eyes is just as troubling. “I’m not going to beg.”

“I haven’t asked for that yet.”

You roll your eyes. “Not funny. I agreed to teach you about sex. We’re not actually doing it.”

“A shame.”

“You’ll find a nice girl at school. Don’t lose hope, mama’s boy. Lots of girls like the smart types who’ll give ’em a lecture on biology and stuff.”

“I think you misunderstand. I don’t want other girls.”

“Okay?”

“My mother’s paying for a tutor and I desire you, so unless you want to leave here as a lying cheat…” He hums, seeming awfully haughty to hold the only thing that tethers you to him above your head. “You need the money, right?”

“Yes. Sure, of course I do. But—” You shift on the desk, silently horrified when he rocks against you. “We can’t. Your mother—”

“Weren’t you the one saying I should live my life? That I have the freedom to do as I please?”

“That doesn’t mean—come on; listen to yourself. You can’t honestly think I’d fuck you.”

“No? And yet you came wearing this outfit, parading around the study with your pussy and tits out.” He glances past you at the window. “And you didn’t even bother to close the curtains… How brazen.”

Your attempt to jerk away from him is made in vain. He pins you down onto the desk, one hand squeezing your breast, while the other works to fish himself from his trousers. Now hard and leaking, his cock rests against your stomach. It’s not a terrible size. If anything, it’s perfect. Just right for your tastes.

“W-Wait! It’s not safe. You can’t—” You inhale sharply, bucking up towards his hand when he presses his thumb against your clit. Biting your lip, you fix him with a glower. “If you pay me… If you promise not to tell your mother—”

Riddle leans in close. “No one needs to know. No one but us.”

Your eyes flit about the room. With a withering sigh, you submit to his touch. “You’d better pull out in time.”

Riddle rolls his hips once and his cock drags along your folds. You hiss through your teeth at this new friction, a sinful delight more dizzying than any type of alcohol consumed in excess. “Do you want to be a mother?”

“What I want has nothing to do with you. I’m just—ooh—t-trying to survive. You wouldn’t know what that’s like, so don’t poke fun.”

Riddle hums, kneading your breast and rubbing you to the edge all at once. It’s so very obviously his first time, his zealous nature trumping any sort of experienced technique. It still does the trick, though, sending little bolts of pleasure up your spine.

“My mother wouldn’t just choose anyone. Her standards are very high.” His eyes flick to your face, drinking in your expression as it shifts with restrained bliss. “Somehow you’ve earned her approval.”

“Lying’ll do that.”

“Maybe.” His fingers replicate the motions you did earlier, though with a singular objective in mind. He’s so focused on succeeding in this endeavor that it makes him look so stiff. Under any other circumstances, you’d find it cute. “Mother always knows what’s best for me. Obviously you’ve met her criteria if she’s hired you.”

“Spoken like a true mama’s boy.” Seeing as this is now your unavoidable fate, you reach up to touch his shoulders. He jolts, his initial glare softening. You tamp down another giggle and massage up and along his arms. “Relax a little. Don’t rush so much.”

Or do. Let’s get this over with before your mother catches us.

Riddle traces two fingers along your labia. He’s quiet as he takes all of you in, and when he sinks three fingers into your gooey heat his breath catches in his throat. “Are you… D-Do you feel good?”

You reach for his unoccupied hand and guide it to your clit. Riddle understands the suggestion well enough, for he massages you slowly. Sucking in another breath, you nod at him.

“Not bad. You’re getting there.”

His neglected cock throbs at the praise, and so you wrap your fingers around it to give it the same amount of attention he’s currently giving you. Riddle grits his teeth at the contact.

“You can move your fingers. Don’t just focus on my clit.”

“Ah. Right. Of course,” he babbles dumbly, so swept up in everything that you are, so very eager to please.

You’re like a work of art pinned to his desk, a delicacy more forbidden than anything from the bakery. Sugary-sweet, adorned in skimpy ruche, you’re a temptation laid bare. Delicately, as if you might shatter, he curls his fingers to press up against your insides. Riddle watches you arch up towards him, your hand working his cock maddeningly slow and steady. It feels good—better than anything he could have ever imagined.

His eyes trail from your lips to your tits to your pussy stretched around his fingers. “Do you have any plans for this summer?”

The sudden question catches you off guard. You were expecting something related to sex, not whatever this new shred of curiosity is. Still, that doesn’t stop you from dragging him closer to the edge of ecstasy with every tug of your fist.

“Why?”

“I… I’d like to get to know you.”

“Me?”

“Of course. You’re more than a body to me.”

“How charming. I just—” You frown, unable to follow where he’s going with this. “Why?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Even though he says it like it’s a fact, he looks shy. “I want to know you.”

“Uh… Yeah… Okay.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not that… It’s just hard to imagine you having any girl friends.”

Riddle rolls his eyes and grinds his thumb into your clit. You bite back a whine as his fingers pump in and out of you. “Is that space open or closed?”

“You know which one.”

“You could be the one to close it.”

You meet his eyes then. For a short minute, the two of you hold each other’s stare. And then, breaking free from his hypnotic hold, you squeeze his length gently. He shudders, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“And what about you? You excited for your first year?”

“Mm, yeah,” he murmurs, rutting into your hand. His fingers spread you open, scissoring gently.

“Just make sure to take time for yourself. Have fun. Live.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were at school—how’d you manage?”

“I never went.” He opens his mouth to interject, but you beat him to it. “Couldn’t afford it.”

“Oh…”

“It’s fine! I’ve got plenty of experience in other things. I don’t need school for that.”

Riddle doesn’t believe your feigned optimism for a second. “If you could’ve gone, what would you have studied?”

You release his cock from your hold and reach up to pull his glasses from his face. Gingerly, minding the fragile frames, you set them aside. You lift your index to your lips, effortlessly coy. “It’s a secret.”

Before he can protest, you tap the hand at your cunt next. Riddle’s fingers, wet and shiny, slide out with a slick squelch. “I think you can do it.”

“What?”

“Go to school and study what you want. I believe in you.”

A wooden laugh tumbles from your lips. “Thanks for the encouragement, mama’s boy.”

“I have a name, you know.”

You smile easily. “You want me to call you something else? How does ‘good boy’ sound?”

Even though he tries not to let it show, his cock betrays his reticence with a small twitch. He’s an open book. Not wanting to give you the satisfaction, he lines himself up instead. Your fingers slip down to spread yourself for him.

“S-Slowly…” you whisper, stumbling over your breath as the head of his cock presses inside. Shallow at first before more inches fill you.

Riddle heaves a shaky gasp, his eyes wide with amazement. “I… I’m inside you…”

“How’s it feel?” “Warm. Soft. Snug. R-Really good.” He bows his head and digs his fingers into your hips. You think he has a dozen more adjectives on the tip of his tongue, each one just as fluffy as the last. “D-Do you feel good? It doesn’t hurt?”

“I’m fine.” You wind your legs around his waist to pull him closer. Your hands come to rest upon his shoulders once more. “Move your hips.”

Riddle does just that. His pace is awkward and inexperienced, every motion unsteady and jerky, as he searches for the right rhythm. He falls into it surprisingly fast, and it isn’t long until he’s smoothly rutting into you. You grab at his shirt, your breath coming in reedy huffs.

“Good. You—haa—good. You’re doing good.” Praise pours from your lips like a waterfall, plentiful and refreshing. It invigorates him, fills him with a confidence that wasn’t there before.

The soft slap of skin on skin fills the room. You keep your voice in check, lest you lose yourself and alert Mrs. Rosehearts. Riddle seems to be doing the same, even though it’s obvious he’s struggling much more than you are. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth to suppress his groans.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, petting his cheek. He blinks at you, his face aflame with a bright blush.

Nervously, he reaches for you and then pauses. Contemplation passes over his features. “What feels better? I want you to—no. I will make sure you cum. I’ve studied it, actually. I know how long it takes.”

“Look at you, doing your research like a diligent student. You want extra credit?”

Riddle chuckles and pinches your clit between two fingers. The rest of your teasing tapers off into a lewd squeal. “What was that about extra credit?”

“You’re awfully bold for your first time.”

“I’m not clueless.” His hips press inwards, plastering you to the desk, and his cock brushes that special spot within—the spot that has you seeing stars, your every nerve tingling with pleasure. You choke around a delighted gasp. Riddle, feeling victorious,  places his hand against your stomach, as if searching to feel his cock thrust up inside you. “Will I see you again after this?”

“If your mother wants me to come back and give you another pointless lecture on celibacy and safe sex, sure.”

“No, not that. Outside of this.”

“Don’t you have friends you’d rather hang out with?”

“I…do.”

“So spend time with them.”

Riddle doesn’t dignify that with a retort. With the way his eyes gloss over, you wonder just how many of these friends are within physical distance. The conversation stalls out into silence.

“You’ll make lots of friends at school. So many you’ll probably forget all about me.”

Riddle yanks your hips to meet his, driving himself deeper into your pussy.

“A-And you’ll find a nice girl to love if you’re looking for that kinda thing.”

“I am,” he confesses, breathless. “I want to get married and—mmh—start a family one day… I want to study law—become a lawyer… Mother thinks medicine suits me, but I can’t agree. Law is fascinating. It’s a perfect fit for me. Far better than medicine.”

You drag your thumb over your mouth, wetting it with your lipgloss, and then press it to his lips. The indirect kiss sends a tidal wave of arousal over him, darkening the tips of his ears in striking vermillion. You offer him a gentle smile while he recovers from that devastating flirt.

“I’ll make sure to hire you as my lawyer if I ever get into legal trouble.”

“You’d better not!” He laughs and shakes his head in amused disbelief. “But if you do, I’ll be there for you. Always.”

“Thanks, Riddle.”

Maybe I judged him too harshly. He’s not so bad.

In that stuffy study, just as the late afternoon gives way to red-orange streaked across a purple-pink sky, Riddle fucks you against that desk in all manner of rhythms. It’s when he finally picks up speed that you realize he’s nearing his end. You mirror his enjoyment, strung along by titillating touches and whispered words drenched in sweetness. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve reached rapture alongside him, your pussy now brimming with cum. There’s so much it leaks out of your slick hole when he draws away, only to burrow his cock deeper to stuff it back inside.

The room reeks of sweat and sex. You think, if not your disheveled appearance, the smell will definitely tell Mrs. Rosehearts all she needs to know.

“I love you,” Riddle murmurs, and you’re about to ask him what he means—maybe he’s caught up in the moment and doesn’t realize what he’s saying—but then he lifts your legs up to fold you into a mating press. Coherent thoughts are knocked out of your head when he spills over, filling you up for the nth time that day. You shiver beneath him, eyes rolled back into your skull and tongue lolling out. You feel so stupid, fucked submissive by some inexperienced, upper middle class mama’s boy. Which isn’t even an insult with real heat to it, but in your hazy mind it’s all you can think of to describe him.

He grinds against you in the aftermath, panting from the exhilaration and adrenaline. 

“We need to…open the window,” you mutter, your heart thumping wildly in your chest.

Riddle admires your fucked-out expression in his sex-drunk daze. He slides out just as he feels himself going flaccid. Cum drips onto the desk below. Briefly, you struggle to recall whether or not you took your birth control today.

Something to consider later. Definitely not right now when you’re still clinging to the vestiges of your orgasm.

— — —

Mrs. Rosehearts knocks on the door, opening it to find Riddle sitting at his desk, jotting notes and occasionally pushing his glasses up. You’re standing at the blackboard, writing a list of the consequences of unplanned pregnancies. The room smells pleasantly of roses.

“Pardon my intrusion.”

You gaze at her and smile, wearing the clothes you arrived in. Nothing’s amiss. It’s perfect—thankfully. “Welcome back, Mrs. Rosehearts. We’re just about finished here.”

“Is that right? I assume all went well?”

“Very well. Your son’s a fast learner. Extremely talented.”

“I would expect nothing less.” She withdraws an envelope and hands it to you. “Thank you again for explaining it in realistic terms. Of course I doubt that my Riddle will act senselessly while he’s away, but as his mother I’m prone to worrying. Boys his age are so easily influenced.”

“O-Of course! That’s a very valid concern.” You force a chuckle.

If only she knew.

“Your pay is in that envelope. Should I ever require your assistance again, I’ll be sure to call.”

“Right… Thank you.” You hold it close to your chest. “I’m happy to help.”

You follow her out the door. She pauses to address Riddle. “Do continue reviewing your notes. We’ll convene for dinner in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs. Rosehearts walks you to the gate. “I wish you luck in your studies. If I don’t see you again at the clinic, have a pleasant summer.”

“Thank you. You as well.” You smile, fidgeting slightly. A bead of sweat tracks a path down your leg from between cum-spattered thighs.

Finally! With this I can pay my rent and still have enough for a treat from the bakery.

It’s worth it, or so you continue to tell yourself.

— — —

From the window, Riddle watches you make the walk to your car. He lifts his phone to fit you in the camera and snaps a secret photo. He continues to watch you until you’ve driven off and turned the corner, disappearing from his sight.

A tiny smile tugs at his lips.

Within his phone, put under a password lock, a special photo album exists. It’s filled with pictures taken from your social media—all of them. Every. Single. One. He’s resourceful when he wants to be. He can play the parody of a tech genius when he sets his sights on something.

And you’re just perfect.

[insertsomthinawesome]

[requests are closed] Anon i'm sorry this is so late I finished these months ago. I meant to draw more but never got around to it UUUH. SORRY SLDKJSLDGKJSD I love them so much. I need to draw them more. ;;v;;

-NO ROMANCE INCLUDED-

[khimeaarts]

It's been awhile since I've really done good progress for any personal art 😭 I've been too busy with work aaaa anyhow, I wanted a wallpaper for my laptop so my first thought is ofc my otp and I couldn't find one that's HD so... well I hope I finish rendering this 🫠

Harry: *asleep* *oblivious*

Tom: *internal conflict* *confusion* *feelings are a sign of weakness* *what are you* *you are the bane of my existence* *but someone I can't live without* *my equal* *my soul*

Me: sips drama ☕️

[twinypwupy]

Dare doll say, royawl tea partwy with these four?! :3

(ratio dni banner by: @biccyssafespace)

[bythepen98]

Tomarry 👉👈😌

I could not let go of my pen until I finished this.

Not kidding. Pulled an all nighter bc inspiration stuck on me like a leech and I didn't want it to run out while I was procrastinating. Had to keep that momentum going.

It usually takes me ages to finish bc I feel compelled to render my art but I stuck with a normal sketch for this one.

Also had help from a 3D pose app bc I realized yet again how hopeless I am without reference. My wrist ached when I finished fr. I am genuinely proud of this one though and can't stop looking at it 🙈 The look Harry has when staring at Tom and just the overall picture of Tom leaning over Harry makes me want to giggle into my pillow.

[bluehairperson]

I'm not immune to propaganda 😔

[myokk]

Hi! I'm still feral for these two, would you mind giving us some art of them in their later years together!?

Hello angel!!!!

Sorry it’s taken so long to respond🫶🫶 but I wanted to draw some new art for this ask💓

We have: Sebastian and Eloise trying out their new fancy camera with a selfie, pictures of them with their daughter, and finally…idk I just always felt like this drawing is when they’re a bit older💓

I want to take this ask as an opportunity as well to talk a little about how I imagine their future (I have no chill & you can ignore this and just enjoy the art if you want😇).

I am a COMPLETE pantser - I never know how a chapter’s going to end when I start writing it (I always just have a few scenes I know I need to include to keep the plot moving forward). Although I have different *big* scenes I’m always writing towards, and themes/plot elements I’m always foreshadowing (shout out to @elliecutte for catching *almost* all of my hints and appreciating my general no chill😆), IM STILL NOT 100% SURE HOW I WILL END THINGS !!! 😳 I have a lot of endings I see as possible, and I think soon it will become more clear to me what will work the best💓

HAPPY ENDING:

Eloise and Sebastian become Unspeakables. I have a LOT of thoughts on this profession that could be its OWN post, and I feel like Unspeakables are generally specialized in one or two departments, but as their interests/research change they also change.

Eloise becomes an Unspeakable in the Mind and Death departments, with the occasional foray into Time. Her ancient magic is connected with all of these things (my version of AM is NOT like the game) & the Department of Mysteries is one of the only places that gives her any useful information about these things. Plus she thinks too much (it IS her hobby after all😆💓) and is very introverted so a hermit job like this is a perfect fit.

Sebastian becomes an Unspeakable as well, but I feel like it takes him a long time to specialize in anything, if he ever does. I just feel like becoming an Unspeakable is the adult equivalent of sneaking into the Restricted Section🥹🫶

They grow old together (I won’t explain TOO much) & have a lovely little family🥹 at least one daughter that they both dote on. Sebastian had an amazing childhood (idyllic until it wasn’t), and wants to give his daughter the same, and Eloise works hard to make sure their daughter feels the love that she never had growing up🥺

When Sirius is burned off the family tree, Eloise and Sebastian take him in🥹🫶 (they’re like 100 years old but WIZARDS LIVE LONGER…) The same happened to her all those years ago, and she wants him to know that his whole family hasn’t abandoned him.

Eloise LOVED her nieces - Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa - when they were younger, but as Voldemort becomes more powerful & people realize WHAT he’s doing, she has to separate herself from them. Her heart breaks seeing Bellatrix go mad, and seeing Narcissa engaged to a Malfoy out of obligation😔 (iykyk)

I haven’t thought any more about happy ending but I think it’s fun to think about how their future story might weave in with the actual canon events, ESPECIALLY since Eloise is a Black🥹💓

SAD ENDING:

After Sebastian gets his hands on Slytherin’s relic, it really starts to consume him and makes him even MORE obsessive than his natural tendencies - I imagine it similarly “talking” to him like Slytherin’s locket/horcrux did in Deathly Hallows (😳)

Eloise is deathly afraid of the changes she’s seeing in Sebastian and steals it from him (he would never willingly give it to her ESPECIALLY if it starts to feel like a precious item to him)

BUT the relic triggers the latent Black Family Madness in her - the madness that afflicts almost every woman in her family since…🤭 - and she herself starts to lose touch with reality. Her body and soul are already destroying themselves between the curse and the ancient magic inside of her, and the relic is what triggers it in her.

Sebastian becomes an Unspeakable, focusing on the Mind, in a desperate attempt to find a cure for his Eloise🥺

He never gives up his research, and sometimes when he comes home she is lucid and they talk about his research - otherwise, he just loves and takes care of her.

(He’s never successful in finding a way to reverse what he feels he caused in the first place - his ambition and single-mindedness is, to him, the reason why all of this happened)

Honestly who knows if I end their story either of these ways😌 I just love thinking of AUs and different endings and I have a few others I’ve considered as well!!! And whatever endings I don’t write will be immortalized on this blog and in my art as well🙏

[opbackgrounds]

Does Luffy not know that fish poop?

[the-algebra-thing]

I think my most favorite thing about the riddle of ages was that it was unabashedly More focused on the interpersonal relationships formed by the society, especially within the four of them. tesla hates time skips which is not my feeling but fair I guess and I was reminded of this several times while I was reading. not only because I want them to read this series and I think they'll love it but because the time skip was SOOOO conscious. it was like it occurred for the sole reason of them backtracking and saying I'm sorry. I am sorry we skipped fiveish years. I love you. they love each other. look at what has happened. it is not okay. it's okay.

change is an overarching theme of this book and like. it's not as if that hasn't been done before. that's what strikes me so much about it is that among dozens, hundreds of final installments that address change and how it feels, this book still feels uniquely emotionally intelligent about it. I haven't quantified it yet but the approach feels fundamentally different. this is enhanced by the way the main plot is, so much more so than the original trilogy, a vehicle for these themes about love and family and strength and change and growing up. the consequences, you find out at the end, were not nearly as dire as you were lead to believe, and the entire plot was in fact the result of a play by reynie kate and sticky that directly feeds into and really ties up some of those emotional themes.

there is no way I could've expected a series that is so stalwartly About being a child to tackle growing up so so so effectively. the time skip was integral to it in a way I haven't quantified, like I said. but otherwise stewart kept the exact tone and style he'd used for the original trilogy and applied it to a wholly more emotional central idea, just leaning it gently in that new direction, and it worked so phenomenally that it passed right through my mind without me even crying about the end of it. I was worried when I finished the riddle of ages and didn't feel like I'd been hit by a truck, because in my mind that's how I'm supposed to feel when something rooted deep in my childhood like this ends for good, but really I think it is just that the story worked on me that completely, which is honestly insane to me. I'll have more thoughts later as I continue working through my ideas but this is the main one I've got to put out there right now

[armyvulcan]

ok, ok, w knowledge that emmrich was the LEAST romanced companion it has me churning my noggin for EMPHASIS of how rook and emmrich function as a couple

1) when emmrich heads to the kitchen after his routine studies, he anticipates his favorite blend of tea, but smiles when the teapot is already steaming, and his particular blend of herbs and spices are already awaiting in his preferred fainted lilac teacup he brought from the necropolis

2) after unsheathing her filthy, mud-ridden and bloody armor, rook’s body whines for an hour long soak to her (un)surprise of a bath, hot and humid of elfroot, and bergamot, bubbling over onto the tile, her silk robe — deep, blue/red purple — draped on the side table

3) in their few evenings free, away from their companions and other gods-fucked-the-world disasters, they read; rook enticed w missives from inquistor lavellan, unaware at the few moans leaving her lips as emmrich massages her foot, his thumb working the ball of it — he wonders if she knows she’s a toe-tipper

4) emmrich arrived at his wash basin, his face caked with soot and debris, making his crinkles more prominent, doesn’t question the newly wrapped package of his preferred lotion, and face oil, but instead applies it more liberally in his cleansing — it’s rook’s turn to sleep over

5) at the conclusion of their group council, where tensions are high and words were strewn across without remorse, and everyone left unsteady, unconvinced, rook doesn’t move from her chair, but instead burrows her head in emmrich’s navel, and huffs small, agonizing cries, emmrich’s hold on her hair tightens as they grow louder

6) when faced between his life-long determination, or the reanimation of his first, his once only, companion, panic barely sheds light to emmrich’s body besides the white knuckling of his grip on the anatomy table, and rook to the left of him, her arms draped over him, secure and steady, ready to catch him should he fall

Tldr; don’t you DARE tell me they don’t have such an understanding for each other, their love is sooooo fucking pure besides the crazy sex they have

[mvshortcut]

Rereading Riddle of Ages and

But all I could think about when I read this part was this:

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Harry and Tom had been pushed together by circumstance ever since they’d both sorted Slytherin.

The students from other houses watched them distrustfully due to their house and having no one to really vouch for them. (Harry’s name didn’t hold much weight if he wasn’t in Gryffindor, it seemed. The professors who’d known his parents certainly brought it up often enough for him to draw that conclusion.) 

And, since all of the other Slytherin first-year boys were purebloods who’d known each other since birth, they all paired off with each other, leaving the two odd ones out as roommates.

They’d both been wary of the other at first, but after a few weeks of keeping to themselves and not trying to start anything, they fell into a quiet coexistence. When their housemates were bigoted arses, Harry would stand up for Tom; when they picked on Harry for refusing to go with the flow, Tom gave them several reasons to stop. 

It wasn’t a friendship, necessarily, but they had each other’s back. Neither had to be on guard in their shared room.

Even when Tom’s status began to rise, both in Slytherin and the school more broadly, he didn’t change how he interacted with Harry. 

Until halfway through sixth year, that is.

—

Tom turns seventeen over the winter holidays and Slughorn is suddenly much more liberal in sharing his liquor collection with his favourite student at the parties he hosts. Now, more often than not, Tom returns from these parties with a bit of a stumble in his step. 

And some confusion over which bed is his.

The first time it happens, Harry snaps awake in the night, tense and alert, to a weight landing beside him on the bed. He has his wand pointed at the lump before he realises it’s his dorm mate, passed out on his stomach and snoring lightly into Harry’s duvet. He shoves the sleeping boy, who mumbles something dire at him without waking. 

“Tom,” he hisses, poking the boy in the face. Nothing. No response whatsoever.

…Eh, whatever. Harry is tired and Tom isn’t in a state to do anything, and it’s just one night.

A few hours later, Harry wakes up alone. Tom corners him after breakfast and threatens him to keep silent. Like he’d go around sharing that he and Tom had slept together.

When he says as much, Tom’s cheeks take on a pink tinge as he looks at Harry with mild incredulity. But he ultimately accepts this and they ignore each other for a couple days before falling into their former manner of living together without really interacting.

And that’s how it remains until the second time Tom returns to their dorm intoxicated and slips into Harry’s bed. Harry, already occupying the bed and half-awake from the disruption, rolls over to see who’s trying to spoon him. Seeing Tom and not caring enough to make a fuss about it, he curls back up and drifts off immediately.

He wakes up first and has the unique joy of witnessing a hung-over, grouchy Tom Riddle curse the light, this morning, Slughorn, alcohol, and mornings in general, before opening his eyes to see Harry staring at him in amusement. 

Tom groans and buries his head under a pillow. “This doesn’t leave this room,” comes the muffled command.

“Obviously.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

“I will spell all of your clothing to the appropriate size and make you wildly uncomfortable if you breathe one word.”

“Jesus, Riddle, I said I wouldn’t say anything,” Harry mutters. “Save the thumbscrews for your ‘social club.’”

“I simply want you to understand the seriousness of the situation.”

And that’s the end of that.

(Harry wonders if there should be more weirdness. Surely two teenage boys repeatedly sleeping together in the same bed would be weird to most people. Harry just finds it funny.

…And maybe he enjoys Tom’s warmth. But that’s it!)

By the third time, Harry’s ready. He knows Tom is attending one of Slughorn’s get-togethers tonight, and will likely imbibe and return tipsy. He’s prepared.

When Tom swans into their dorm room a little after midnight, Harry’s finishing up a twenty-four inch essay on the principles of re-materialisation due next week. (Hey, if he's staying up and can’t wander the castle, he has to do something.)

Tom stops short. “Why are you not in bed?” he asks, brow furrowed. “You should be in bed.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “I should be, shouldn’t I?” He stretches his hands above his head and turns in his chair to face Tom. “How was your night?”

“It was dull,” Tom says with a roll of his eyes. Drunk Tom is so much more expressive, Harry thinks gleefully. “No one new to meet, and Professor Slughorn kept trying to parade me around, like I’m some kind of show pony. Dreadful.”

And then he flops back onto Harry’s bed, staring with unfocused eyes at the ceiling. “...Horses should have fangs.”

...What?

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not a pony – I’m at least a stallion, if I have to be a horse,” Tom explains like this should be obvious. “But horses aren’t menacing enough; they don’t have sharp teeth or claws, either. I would only be a horse if I could have fangs.”

And, well, when he puts it like that, Harry finds himself agreeing. Madness is communicable, it seems.

“Oookay, let’s get you to bed,” he says, putting out the light on his desk.

“I am in bed.”

“Not quite.” He grabs the drinking glass he’d set aside earlier.

“Harry, come here,” Tom demands petulantly, swaying as he sits up on the edge of the bed.

Harry shakes his head and holds out a glass filled with water. “Nope, you have to drink this first.” 

He can hardly believe his eyes. Tom Riddle – perfect, untouchable, inscrutable Tom – is pouting at him like a child denied a sweet. He wishes he had a camera.

“C’mon, you’ll thank me in the morning,” he cajoles.

“If I drink the water, you’ll come to bed?” Tom asks, somehow achieving wary puppy dog eyes.

Harry bites his cheek to keep from smiling. This is adorable. “I will – it’s my bed, after all.”

“Very well,” Tom says with gravitas and a slight slur to his words. He accepts the glass and drains it in four gulps, then meets Harry’s eyes and raises his eyebrows.

“Congratulations, you did it,” Harry deadpans. Riddle scowls at him and pats the bed meaningfully, so he laughs and gets in on the other side.

(He left a couple paracetamol and another glass of water on the nightstand closest to Tom earlier, anyway. He is prepared.)

By the time he’s put out the lights and gotten situated under the covers, Tom has shucked most of his clothes, down to his undershirt and boxer shorts. When he reaches for the hem of his shirt, Harry scrambles to grab his hands and says, “Whoa, let’s just keep that on.”

Tom frowns at him but doesn’t argue. He does lay down and tug Harry closer, cuddling him like a stuffed animal.

“Tom…?” Harry says faintly.

Tom hums into the juncture between Harry’s neck and shoulder. “Good night, Harry.”

Harry stares ahead into the darkness. “...G’night.”

He expects it will take him a while to fall asleep like this, but the warmth of another body and the susurration of Tom’s breathing so close to his ear lulls him to sleep before he knows it.

—

When he wakes up the next morning, cosy and well-rested, Harry comes to a decision.

This is silly.

He feels Tom slowly returning to the waking world, laying half on top of Harry and looking much less green about the gills than he had last time. One of Tom’s eyes cracks open and he grumbles into Harry’s chest, curling closer and dropping more dead weight onto Harry.

(He knew Tom wasn’t a morning person, but he’d never before understood just how much.)

Harry says, “Before you start with the hostilities, I feel you should know that, for one, I wouldn’t tell anyone about your sleeping habits anyway. It’s none of their business.”

Tom grunts; Harry takes it as a request to continue.

“And secondly: You can sleep in my bed even if you aren’t drunk, you know. I don’t mind.”

Tom tenses.

“We don’t even have to talk about it, if it’s just sleeping.”

Tom doesn’t relax.

“If this is something more than that, then...”

Tom rolls so his face is completely hidden in Harry’s shoulder. “...Later,” he says, muffled and low.

Harry blinks. 

Huh.

“Yeah, later,” he says.

At this, Tom lets out a breath he’d been holding, slowly draping an arm over Harry’s waist. Harry pats at it with his hand and relaxes deeper into the mattress.

“Later’s just fine.”

[daisystwistedgarden]

the prophecy of the noisy upstairs neighbor always rings true, even unintentionally-- and you are riddle rosehearts' most obnoxious peer in the building.

somehow, he has grown fond of it.

the stairwell to the university apartments is, for as much as tuition is at such a prestigious academy, poorly sound-proofed. noise spills in through unsealed door gaps and thin walls. riddle's mother insisted on him avoiding the housing in central campus where trey and cater live-- something about distractions and other such frivolities-- and thus, here he is, in a less-than-luxurious accommodation far from any of his classes or friends. as expected. after switching his major going into his junior year from pre-med to pre-law, his mother's decisions regarding his education were just as icy as the glares she sent his way over silent dinners on holiday breaks. hearing his neighbors have weekend parties or intimate encounters was his punishment for straying from his mother's grasp in his early twenties.

familiar stomps echo up the stairwell. riddle sighs and peels off his glasses, discarding them beside his textbook. the gold rims glint under warm light from his desk lamp. those footsteps are yours, meaning he's been studying for almost four hours and has not retained a single word.

the minutes trickle by. riddle resolves to at least begin preparing for bed while his mind wanders aimlessly-- the lack of discipline is unusual for him, but, in all fairness, his friends have complained about him going overboard in studying for finals this term. but it feels less lonely to know in some way you have, too. your footsteps have woken him from a restless sleep more than once this past week.

it's a dance, almost. he hears your footsteps above him as he too wanders his apartment to settle in for the night. thumps echo above his living room-- you're in your own, assuming the layout of your apartments is the same-- as he's brushing his teeth before bed. your voice is muffled through the walls. you're always talking to something or someone when you get home. a friend on the phone, maybe? a pet? yourself? riddle wouldn't dream of knocking on your door to ask such a pointless question, no matter how his curiosity eats at him when your laugh spills from your open window on warm mornings. you are simply a footnote in his university experience. riddle cannot spare the time to make new friends-- would you even consider the notion?-- as he works overtime to catch up on classes in an attempt to graduate on time. his pride couldn't handle anything less.

and it's a lousy idea, to settle at his desk once more as your footsteps retreat to your bedroom above his. heavy eyes try in vain to focus on the notes he's scrawled in uniform lines across notebook pages. but then a pleasant tune begins to play from above, melodic and sweet...

it's you. inconsiderate of the time, too, as you abandon common courtesy to practice so late at night. that same violin he hears night after night, the one he's seen slung over your shoulder in a decorated case as you scurry off to morning classes, the siren song luring him into an ill-advised nap, just resting his eyes...

in the morning, when he wakes with a start and a crick in his neck, he'll be far less forgiving of your antics. riddle might even finally stomp up to your apartment and chew you out for breaking the curfew for quiet hours. but tonight, to the tune of the piece you've been rehearsing all week, riddle finally finds a restful sleep.