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ma1dita · 2 months

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im begging on my knees for you to see my vision of riding Luke in the driver’s seat of a car after a stressful and dangerous quest 😩😭 THE TENSION!? THE ROUGHNESS??

🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥

mdni

luke castellan x reader

a/n: it's 7am... i... don't know either. smut. unprotected sex. semi public. slight exhibitionism

wc: 835

riding luke in the driver's seat of a car he stole while accompanying you on your first official quest.... having a car was a quicker way to get the job done he said, and chris also reasoned the old lady they carjacked won't know what she's missing. with two sons of hermes against you, even if you disagreed with them they still wouldn't hear a single complaint from your lips once you could sit in the ac instead of trod through the summer midwestern heat.

a week later you're sitting in the parking lot of a motel in rural illinois. one second you're grinning over the success of your quest and waiting for chris to come back with the room key and the next second luke's pulling you over the console into a bruising kiss that makes his cracked lips bleed. days ago you remember watching luke pick the locks of this car just as easy as he flicks your belt open just now, your knees digging into the hot metal of the seatbelt mechanism next to his thighs as you rise up from your haunches and he can see the sweat glistening on your tummy, back arching over the steering wheel. your shirt flies over his shoulders and lands somewhere in the backseat. shorts following as quick as he can pull them off you, slick rubbing against the meat of your thighs so much that when you sit back down on his lap he can feel it through his jeans---the heat isn't just coming from the red glow of the motel sign almost vibrating with the words 'open 24/7'.

he presses your back across the wheel, one hand snaking up to your throat and the other dragging your panties to the side for him to peek and prod at in the dim light. with his seat leaned all the way back, he watches you like you're something out of the porn magazine chris jokingly nicked from the gas station earlier, shiny with sweat and something he can smell, desire reeking from every pore of your tired body. demigod aside, you're a fucking fever dream, a nasty thought that keeps luke hard at night until he can jack off when everyone finally goes to sleep in cabin 11. the only thing he'll be thanking the gods for is the fact that his brother left you two long enough for a quick fuck.

"luke, we're still dirty," you mumble, but he knows you couldn't care less, both of you covered in blood and grime and unable to know where he ends and you begin once his fly goes down and you sink onto him like a perfect mold. this is filthier---the feeling of your pussy clenching down on him tight with every thrust of your hips downwards like he'd ever want to leave this small slice of heaven.

"f-fuck, just like that...you're so tight f'me..."

you grab onto his curls to make him look at you in the dim lighting, dipping your fingers into his mouth as you rock your hips hard and he sucks on them like they're covered in nectar---sharp tongue and plump lips dancing around your digits despite the dirt under your nails but he's entranced by the way your eyes roll back once he starts fighting against your rhythm. it's not a competition but with every noise that spills from your lips as he pistons into your sopping warmth, he thinks he might be winning.

"so dirty baby... you're right... feels too good to stop though huh?" he grins at the sound of sticky skin slapping once he bucks his hips up faster. through the steamy windshield, he can see curtains rustling in the windows near where he parked the car. maybe it's the way the whole vehicle is shaking with the force of your hips, the headlights he accidentally turned back on when taking your clothes off, or maybe its the way you're screaming his name like you want someone to hear.

"oh, luke, i can't! slow down, people are gonna...see!"

you're holding onto his shoulders and peeking at his face through teary lashes and this motherfucker has his tongue between his lips smiling---mortals be damned. they can watch if they want, regardless he fucks into you like he means it. until you fall apart on his cock and there are red handprints on your hips from where he pulls you off of him, the both of you pulling at his cock with his hands over yours until hot streaks of cum paint your tummy to your tits.

there's a knock at the window. rolling the window down at eye level, luke makes eye contact with chris who looks at his brother with a knowing grin. you've thrown your head onto his shoulder in embarassment, sandwiching the multiple stains and fluids between your shaking bodies.

"shower's open. you guys were... occupied so i went ahead. you both need it," chris smirks, before sliding luke the extra key card.

and he's right. the both of you need a shower. good thing the next step after getting dirty is scrubbing each other clean, right?

#jo's 23rd birthday bash ⋆｡°✩#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x reader smut #pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians

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minaturefics · 2 years

Text

Breathless

Request: hi hello i am desperate for more faramir content 😩😩 i dont have much of a prompt other than maybe the reader is skilled in combat and most think thats improper but faramir is supportive and that makes the reader fall for him ? i love the idea of a very capable but perhaps jaded reader going soft for faramir 🥺 hope u have a great day!!

A/N: I am desperate for more Faramir content too 😢 He's my favourite but he's not as popular as the other men in lotr. I loved writing this piece, probs cause I too, am jaded and tired lol. It's not super fluffy but I do think it is quite romantic. I hope you like it!!!

Faramir x Reader

Gender-neutral reader

No content warnings

3.7k words

---

You swiped at the bead of sweat rolling down your temple and let out a long breath. The straw dummy slumped against the wooden pole, its head bent at an awkward angle. The sun was warm on the back of your neck and the breeze cool on your cheeks. The training courtyard was filled with the shouts and grunts of exertion and, above that, the clash and clatter of steel and wood.

You felt someone’s eyes on you and you turned, eyes hard and mouth set in a tight line. The small group of guards watching you looked away, their voices falling to an even quieter murmur. Something coiled in your stomach, hot and angry, and your grip tightened on the hilt of your sword. You turned back to your inanimate opponent and lifted your arm. You swung at it again and again, feet shifting on the dirt, steel cutting through the air.

Their tongues could wag all they wanted. It did not matter.

You sliced the dummy, the thin muslin splitting to spill straw on the ground, and gave it another vicious stab. You wished you had another person to spar with, a partner, but none of the guards were willing. Half of them were too afraid to bruise a high-born noble, and the other half did not believe you were capable of an equal fight.

Your kin were not known for being skilled with a blade or bow. A family of scholars. They were all too willing to keep to their cool libraries and delicate poetry, to their sprawling maps and cosy studies. If you had not cajoled one of the older guards stationed at your family’s home to teach you, there was no doubt you would have been unable to handle even a little dagger. Your days had been filled with reams of paper and dusty tomes, and the nights spent in a quiet courtyard mimicking his movements.

Your family kept their sharp words to themselves, but could not hide the disdain and disapproval in their stares. It was too common, too rough, to wield something as crude as a weapon. They had barred you from joining the march to Mordor, had near barricaded you in your room until the army was too far away to catch up with.

You took another swing at the dummy and it’s head ripped off, tumbling away to somewhere behind you. The guards chuckled and one of the bolder ones spoke up.

“Perhaps enough of that. Wouldn’t want to damage your pretty hands, eh?”

You whirled around, scathing words ready to leap off your tongue, when another voice came from behind the group of guards.

“I do not employ you to stand around gossiping like errant school children.”

They bowed their heads, muttering apologies, and parted for the man.

Faramir.

You had seen him at dinners and banquets before, but the only words you had exchanged with him were rehearsed pleasantries. He stood tall, his broad shoulders pulled back and his grey eyes stern and cold. He jerked his head and the guards scuttled off. Faramir offered you a small smile and you stiffened. Did he expect some sort of thanks? Some sort of gratitude for standing up for you? These great titled men always expected something, and he was the steward, a prince.

“That was not necessary, my Lord,” you said, sliding your sword into its sheath. “I am more than capable of fending for myself.”

He blinked at you, jaw slack, before a rueful smile spread across his face. “I do not doubt that. I have seen you train, you are a most skilled fighter.”

You arched your eyebrow at him. There was no mockery in his eyes, no snide twisting of his lips. “Perhaps, but I lack practice with a moving partner. Many of your guards are unwilling to spar with me. And I doubt even you will be able to compel them to.”

You turned away, ready to leave.

“I can spar with you.”

You stared at him from over your shoulder. That soft smile was back on his face again and there was a mirth in his eyes. Was he being serious? You swallowed. There might not be another chance to spar with a real person. It would be foolish to let it slip away. “When?”

He glanced at the sun. “Perhaps in a few hours. I have some duties to finish and I’m certain you would like to rest before another practice session.”

You rolled your sore shoulder and nodded. “Where?”

“If you do not feel too ill at ease, the Steward’s House has its own training courtyard. We shall not be disturbed there.”

Your eyes flickered to the guards lingering by the arches and pillars, eyes trailed on you and Faramir. “I shall come by just before the sixth bell.”

His smile grew wider and he bid you good day before you left for your rooms.

What did he mean by inviting you to spar? You did not know Faramir well, but he and his brother have never been known to be cruel. It was probably not some prank or joke. So why then? Was it truly possible that was genuinely interested in sparring with you? You shook your head. There was little point speculating; you would simply have to see what awaited you.

You stood in the middle of the courtyard, stretching your arms. Faramir had left to change into more casual clothes, apologising for his tardiness, stating that some meeting had run over. The sky was streaked orange and pink, the setting sun’s rays gilding the grey roof of the Steward’s House orange. The clamour of the Citadel was muffled by the high walls and the flutter and cry of roosting birds was the only thing you could hear.

The training courtyard was well kept. The grass was soft and shorn, the dummies stuffed and upright. You wandered over to them, circling the straw figures. One of the wooden poles was chipped and splintered, and much older than its counterparts. You ran your fingers over the aged wood. Did they forget to replace this pole? The pads of your fingers ghosted over something, close to the back of the dummy, and you bent to inspect it.

Boromir, carved into the wood, and under it in neater writing, Faramir.

Your chest tightened. You remembered seeing them together at a banquet, Boromir’s arm slung around Faramir’s neck, laughing about something. Denethor had been particularly scathing to Faramir that night, choosing to introduce only Boromir to the eligible members of the court. Faramir had stood at the edges of the crowd, a strained smile on his face, until Boromir had pulled him along and sang praises about his younger brother to whoever would listen.

You had not been one of them, but your eyes had lingered on Faramir the whole evening. On the way his hair fell in soft waves, on the gentleness of his smile. There was something about him. Something disarming, something tender.

“I see you’ve found our little secret.”

You whirled around, jerking your hand back. Faramir was leaning against a pillar with an amused smile tugging at his lips. He was in a loose tunic and plain linen trousers. How long had he been watching you? You straightened and cleared your throat. What could you say to him after being so intrusive?

You turned away and strode to the middle of the courtyard. “Shall we start?”

“You didn’t bring your weapon. Should I get —”

You turned around to face him, arms crossed over your chest. “You are better with a bow, and I am better with a sword. It would be an unequal fight. We can spar with our hands.”

His brows were raised in mild surprise and your words echoed in your mind. You swallowed and glared at a pillar. It was no secret within the court that Faramir was skilled with a bow; he would always win the archery tournaments they held every year.

He joined you in the middle of the courtyard and you raised your fists. “Do not go easy on me, my lord.”

He chuckled and you swung at him. He jerked back, your fist just grazing his nose, and ducked as you took another swing. He dodged easily and kicked at you. His foot brushed your trousers, but it didn’t connect with your shin. Faramir was a good fighter, better than you even. His arms were steady, his footwork clean. All it took was a misstep on your part, a foot placed just off balance, and you stumbled into him.

His arms came around you, large and strong. His skin was hot through the thin pieces of fabric separating your bodies. He smelled like clean linen and musk, and the lingering earthy scent of patchouli. Your fingers curled on his firm chest before you tore yourself away from him.

Your heart thumped against your ribs and your breaths came out ragged. You turned away and brushed some imaginary dirt off your arms. “Apologies,” you muttered, face flushed. “It seems I still have to practice.”

You looked over your shoulder at him. The high points of his cheeks were pink, and his lips were parted. He nodded, a smile growing on his face. “You are better than some of my captains.”

You eyed him. “You truly believe that?”

“I would not have said it otherwise.”

He believed that you could fight. That you were more skilled than the guards that heckled you and the nobles who turned their noses up at you. That you were better than their snide stares and insults.

Your chest tightened and your stomach swooped.

What was that feeling? How could his simple words affect you so?

You had to leave, leave before anymore… feelings rose in you. You muttered a quiet thanks and made excuses to leave.

“Shall I see you out?”

“No, you do not have to trouble yourself.”

“It is no trouble, I—”

“Good evening, my lord,” you muttered and strode away from the courtyard, your heart beating faster than it did when you were training.

Faramir stared at you from across the room, wondering if he should go speak to you. The small hall was drenched in a mellow orange light from the lanterns and torches. The modest quartet played a merry tune, the flute running trills alongside the strumming harp, and couples were gathering in the centre. The doors to the large balcony were thrown open and the heady scent of jasmine floated in on the summer breeze.

You lingered by the wall with a feebly disguised scowl on your face. You were out of your training clothes, and instead were dressed in fine silk. Your eyes were bright beneath your frown, alight with the same fire he saw that day in his courtyard.

You had moved with a grace that he rarely saw in other soldiers. There had been a fluidity, an ease in your movements, a lightness in your step. He supposed it was because of your noble upbringing, that somehow the posture and etiquette lessons had bled into the way you fought as well.

He would rarely describe fighting or battle as beautiful, but there was no other word he could use to describe you when he first saw you attacking the dummy. He had watched you from the upper balconies of the training grounds for a week before he steeled himself to speak to you. And when you had tripped and stumbled into his arms…

Heat rose to his face and he glanced away.

The last couple of weeks had been a torment. He could not stop himself from sending you invitations to spar, and to his surprise, you had accepted every one of them. Each time he touched you to correct your stance, his hand on your elbow, his foot against your calf, he could feel the echo of your presence for hours afterwards. And the smiles you flashed him, tentative and unsure, made his heart stutter.

He blinked the memories away. There was little chance you would return what feelings he had for you.

He remembered the time when he saw you at one of the banquets, the one where Boromir had introduced him to all the eligible nobles. He had been stealing glances at you the whole night, eyes tracing the line of your figure, lingering on the soft pink of your lips. He had watched you turn down anyone who asked you to dance, and when Boromir made his way towards you he stilled his brother’s feet. You clearly did not wish to be disturbed, so why should they be intrusive?

He sighed and wished that he had let his brother drag him to you. The crowd between you and him seemed like an ocean now, and it seemed with each passing moment his resolve faltered. You had rejected every suitor who had approached you, why should he be different?

His eyes wandered to you again, and he found you looking at him. A smile pulled at his lips and you offered one back. Your gaze drifted to the balcony and your feet shifted, body angled towards the beckoning night. After a moment, you pushed yourself off the wall and started weaving your way through the crowd towards the doors.

He silently asked Boromir for strength and followed you out.

The night was clear and balmy, and the stars twinkled overhead. You were leaning against the bannister, staring out at the circles and the plains beyond. The moon cast you in a soft light, diffused and glowing, and all at once it felt as though he had wandered into a dream.

He cleared his throat and you turned. “My lord, are you not enjoying the party?”

“It can be a bit much sometimes. May I join you?”

You nodded and he rested his arms next to yours. He could feel the warmth coming off you, could smell the faint rosemary oil from your hair. He opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it close. Did you even wish to converse?

You sighed and tilted your head up to the stars. Your eyes were distant and wistful, longing, almost. A look he saw sometimes when you thought no one was watching you.

You reminded him of some verse he had read in some forgotten book in the library, and the words tumbled from his tongue before he could stop them.

“Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars

Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.”

You turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise. A shy smile formed on your lips, and you continued.

“Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,

And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.”

Poetry? You could recite poetry? Something blossomed in his heart and a smile spread across his face. Was there nothing that you couldn’t do? He cleared his throat and said, louder.

“The painful warrior famoused for fight,

After a thousand victories once foiled,

Is from the book of honour razed quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.”

Your lips parted, ready to form the final couplet, but then you shook your head and turned away, chuckling.

Were the words too tender for you to speak? Too heavy with the promise of something that would undoubtedly shake whatever tenuous friendship between the both of you?

“Did I stun you into silence, my lord?” You laughed. “Did you think me uncultured? That I only knew the ways of combat?”

“I thought no such thing. But I will admit to some surprise; there are few who know that verse.”

“My family are scholars, and my tutors had a penchant for poetry. It has been some time since I had spoken those words aloud.”

“You have a wonderful voice.”

“You would be the first to think so, my lord. My tutors have always said I do not recite with enough flair.”

“Flair is for those who have weak articulation and an unsteady cadence. Those whose voice and tone are strong enough can make even the most simple of verses beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you muttered before straightening and clearing your throat. “Please excuse me, I am in need of a drink.”

He nodded, holding his tongue from asking you to stay. You did not seem the type who responded well to such things.

He watched your retreating form and wondered when he would see you again.

You paused in the middle of the corridor to Faramir’s office, fingers curling around the envelope in your hand. Faramir’s name was written in your best hand on the front of the prettiest paper you could source.

Ever since that night on the balcony, you had known no peace in your thoughts. His voice, low and gentle, echoed in your ears. His grey eyes, shimmering in the starlight, flashed into your mind. So many times you had caught yourself halfway to his office, feet wandering to where your heart tried so hard to avoid.

How was it that Faramir, of all people, had wormed his way into your heart? Perhaps it was no great surprise in the end. Was it not him, who your eyes always wandered to across halls and dinner tables? Was it not him, who treated you as an equal, who saw you as you were?

Indeed, the great surprise would be if he felt the same.

But how were you to compare to the other nobles? To those with smooth hands and unblemished skin, to those who walked with grace and conversed with ease?

Your hands tightened around the letter, creasing the edges and corners. You took a few steps forward and paused again. Perhaps it would be best to simply turn around and walk away. To save yourself from more embarrassment.

You shifted on your feet, but his door swung open and he stepped out. You whipped your hands behind your back, letter crumpled in your fist.

“I thought I heard someone out here,” he said, an easy smile slipping onto his face. “So it has been you who has been haunting my corridor.”

You stiffened. “I do not know what you mean.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and your heart sped up. “The last few days I would hear footsteps approaching, but no knock ever came.”

“Perhaps they were simply making their way to the other end of the corridor.”

He glanced at the oak door in question and arched his eyebrow at you. “To raid my personal stores of parchment and ink?”

“… Perhaps not.”

“I was half convinced it might have been some spectre, though you are certainly a much better surprise.” Heat crept up your neck and you looked away. “Please, come in. I have something for you. A gift.”

You followed him into his office, eyes drifting around the room. His desk, set by one of the windows, was littered with papers. Bookshelves lined one of the walls, and the other, with the fireplace, had two plush chairs placed in front of it. He strode to his desk and pulled a thin book out from under the papers.

“Here,” he said, voice low and hesitant. “I chanced upon it the other day and thought perhaps you might find some enjoyment in it.”

You took the volume from him and ran your fingers over the gilded title. The leather was soft and buttery, the lettering fading and flaking. It was certainly well-loved, and not something you suspected he had found by sheer chance. You flipped it open and you froze at the words.

Poems.

Love poems.

Faramir cleared his throat and you slammed the book shut. His smile had morphed into a shy one and his eyes were filled with tenderness. Was it possible that he felt the same? Could you dare to hope for such a thing?

“Thank you, I… I will treasure it.” You offered him a smile. “Unfortunately, I do not have anything to give in return.”

His smile grew wider and a playfulness sprang in his eyes. “Hmm. Perhaps that letter you have clutched so tightly in your hands?”

“It is not for you.”

“Is it not? For I have spied my name on it. If you were looking for a pageboy I can spare you the effort.” He reached out, palm up.

There was no insistence in his gaze, no impatience in his stance.

You swallowed. Could you afford to give him the letter? To risk your heart with the words you had so carefully penned? You looked down at the book in your hands. He had been brave, had he not? There is no one in Middle-Earth who could mistake the implication of such a gift.

You brought the letter out from under the book and ran your fingers over the creased envelope. “The paper I… It is damaged.”

He placed a tentative hand over yours. His skin was warm and rough, his fingers inkstained and callused. “The words within are not affected.”

You glanced up at him, heart racing, and paused at the look in his eyes. Faramir was never one to hide how he felt, and his eyes shone with an affection that even you could not deny. You nodded and he slid the envelope out from under your hand. He opened it with care, and his smile grew when he saw your words.

“Then happy I,” he read, stepping closer to you, voice no more than a whisper, “That love and am beloved.”

“Where I may not remove nor be removed,” you finished.

He let out a shaky laugh and searched for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours and you sighed, bowing your head. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and soft. You inhaled his scent of leather and paper, patchouli and soap. He nestled his nose between your hair and exhaled, muttering half-formed words. You leaned into him, eyes fluttering shut.

Never to remove, you thought, and never to be removed.

---

The poem is Shakespeare's Sonnet 25 Lowkey feel like this might need a part 2 lol lmk if you guys want one

#faramir x reader #faramir x you #faramir x y/n #faramir #lotr #lotr fic #lotr fanfic #request

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xanuchi · 2 years

Note

Heartslabyul with a crush from the Queen of Hearts Era, and has reincarnated into present time? You can make it angst, or hurt comfort!

This is probably one of my most favourite requests ever jajdkakssksk <33 thank you again Alex 😎😎💖🌹

I'll do the rest of Heartslabyul soon <3 Check for updates, because tbh I will do each character separately for the fact it gets too long and nobody wants to read long shit unless it's good and enjoyable 😩😩🔫🔫

🌹

Blood covered the edge of your fingertips, Her Majesty exasperated with utter rage and fury. Cheeks reddened so ripe and red, The Queen Of Hearts screeched from the top of her lungs; And there— you felt your heart drop.

"OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!" She screamed, Cards gathering across the courtroom in defense and your eyes darted all across the room; flight or fight mode activated.

Your injured body scrambled to run, as tears threatened to prick at the side of your eyes. You could feel all eyes watch you gasp from sudden fear as you cry out with your hands swaying side to side; keeping a solid pace for you to outrun the guards yet it wasn't enough . . . — There were so many of them all at once, seizing the exits and loading every door with charcoal and thick doses of some sticky substance to cancel every way out. You could hear her Majesty herself roaring with anger;

"Keep running, little Alice.." The Cheshire chuckled with glee at his nickname given. "Time's running out.. tick, tock, tick—"

The clock chimed.. all movement froze in time; a chill breeze flew past your hair as you felt a warm tear drop spill at the side of your cheek.. You stopped in your tracks, feeling the sharp blade whip around you. Steps padded against the marble floor, chess tiles reflecting your horrid expression as you felt the blade pierce across your throat, blood spilling almost across the entire floor; Head sliced and throat cut perfectly. Cruelty and injustice had never left your head since, and you could never have had a final word..

Riddle ; 🌹

Riddle couldn't believe it at first. He has no clue nor no idea of why you are so hesitant to visit Heartslabyul when you have no problem with visiting other dorms.

To Riddle, this was utter embarrassment, rubbish and beyond anything, disgraceful behaviour to exhibit.

For Riddle Rosehearts takes the utmost pride in being a student who replicates Her Majesty's behaviour and is known to idolise her and her actions. For he did not know what your trauma was, he merely saw it as you being generally scared of him, rather than the Queen. Which was normal, considering the fact his dorm students naturally feared his temper and his power that he possesses within the flick of his staff.

During his meetings, Riddle couldn't concentrate on any speech, and it was really odd behaviour coming from him; simply out of character. And it was merely because he had been building up some sort of anger towards your behaviour.

Not only was you disliking the Queen insulting to the dorm, it was insulting to him. Ever since he had been a child, he had worshipped the Queen Of Hearts since from the very beginning and strives to become a worthy person, ruling his dorm under the neck of his thumb.

But he's not aware of the trauma you possess, the fear you see, ripples of your memory reflecting the Queens anger that had torn you apart ever since. You couldn't recover.. and who would believe you? You were reincarnated into Twisted Wonderland, moments just after your death..

But you weren't just scared of Riddle. You were terrified. Beyond scarred from the depths of your soul, you could see his rage from Floyd teasing him as his face turns red.

Much amusement to other students fills the room at how ridiculous he looked with such a tomato filled face; to you.. it was merely a reflection, a replica, of the Queen who had cut your throat out alive. Who had sliced your head off and commanded your death to be treated cruelly.

What made it fucking worse? The fact people not only idolise her, but they make up her to be some sort of hero! She had given you an injustice that can never be dealt with. You will suffer for it.. perhaps for the rest of your life.

He one day had mustered the courage, after months spent avoiding your eye contact and avoiding you in general in fear of him lashing out on your poor soul. Put simply, he did not want to regret his actions later on, but you knew. You weren't stupid, you knew how he felt and had respected that.

But you never knew if he felt the same way about you.

Afterwards, the young male sighed and folded his arms while looking at you before approaching with a stern face.

You felt your heart thump out of worry.. Why was he approaching you? Did you do something? Oh.. god- no, please no..

" [Name]. Let's have a little talk, shall we? Let's start over."

He held out his hand. You didn't want to accept it.. but you did, to avoid the awkwardness filling the room. His hand was warm.. but his expression was empty. Riddle was the exact counterpart of her Majesty.

"Why do you act strange around me, hm? I had wondered for a while, though I had gained the suspicion that you were just scared of me, though quite a few people are."

He kept poking at you with questions, yet a five second silence after each one as if he had waited for your reply, yet you said nothing. You owe him no explanation, why can't he understand that you were heavily discomforted by the fact the fucking monarch they idolise; is the woman who had you executed and had forced you to see your own body dismembered from your neck.

" Yet, you're beyond terrified of me. You aren't like the rest.. you differ from them, quite clearly. Why must you do this? Speak to me, communication is important."

" I don't want to, Riddle.."

You said softly. You didn't want to start crying.. but you had to tell him something right?

After a pregnant silence filling the room, he sighed and shook his head. "That won't do, [Name]. You have no idea how this impacts me, and I want you to be honest and truthful so both of us may talk this out and get this over and done with."

It's now or never, honestly.. So you spoke.

You explained all of it.. every bloody detail, every horrific experience you felt.

This was all unbelievable to him. And yet, was it though? You came through a portal, a magicless human thrown into an unknown world yet with some resemblance to your Wonderland. You had trouble with Grim, the Headmaster announced you'd be a student here.. and now you're here.

He.. didn't really know what to make of it. Riddle wanted to pat your back but— he assumed you weren't really in the mood to have physical comfort. Riddle isn't the best at comforting.. he was more on the side of punishing, but you had unlocked a softer side of him.. one that Trey, though he may find Riddle soft to him often, could never had seen. His eyebrows were lifted and he had this saddened look on his face.. sympathetic and sorrowful.

He sighed, and whispered an apology in your ear before leaving.

And since then, neither of you had talked. To you, it was weird. He had left after you spilled your heart out.. and suddenly he no longer wants to interact with you!? Nor even give you a glance in the hallway like he usually would?

Suddenly, you find yourself back at your dorm, outside your bedroom laid a soft basket. Typical British sweets, wrapped up peacefully. And a few cookies laid embedded inside. Ones written in soft icing, "Eat Me!" And a colourful drink to wash it down. It was labelled "Drink Me!"

Who.. on earth could have given you this? Grim suggested he'd eat it if you didn't want it, but you frustratedly took it and ate the entire thing playfully in front of him. But the question never left your mind..

.. Weeks had passed by, and every time, you found more baskets laying on your doorstep every day.

"I take it you enjoyed Trey's sweets?" You heard footsteps approaching you, Riddle, who smiled weakly.

You questioned him at first.. but Riddle was always known for not being good with his words but rather his actions. And this was his way of saying that he was utterly regretful of the way he had treated you. You deserved better, had he known sooner; he would've been less judgemental and more considerate to how you had felt..

— Months had passed by? Perhaps..? Riddle had gotten closer to you. And you were more comfortable around him soon after. Riddle had gotten softer, you were more hopeful to the future..

But nevertheless, things were better and your relationship was more healthier.. though you still carried traces of your trauma, you had gotten closer with Ace and Deuce. And your friendship had been better ever since,, though some things may trigger you then and there, the Heartslabyul boys are careful around you and sympathise with you; for you're their favourite little human <3

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfiction #twisted wonderland x reader #x reader #headcanons #fiction #riddle rosehearts #riddle x y/n #twisted wonderland riddle

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heartofspells · 2 years

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I have been racking my brain for what Peter fic I would like to ask for and I’m thinking about maybe an outtake of when he finds out that Sirius found out that Remus is moony? Or something like that? Or something just with Peter? I don’t know😩too much choice - Peter can be a real hit or miss depending on the writer and I LOVED your Peter

Aww, Peter. At least this Peter. Canon version can go to hell.

I'm happy you love this version of him. I do too. He's a good friend, loyal, cares deeply, and watches everything. So thanks for this!

Another outtake from At the Healing Edge of Broken, taking place immediately after the ending of chapter 14.

When Rosmerta finds him, Peter knows instantly something is wrong. She looks distraught, the shine gone from her eyes, her cheeks, normally tinged with a radiant, glowing pink, are pale under her made-up face. Peter feels as though glass hits his stomach, sharp shards slicing.

"I'm not sure what happened," she attempts to explain timidly, her hands wringing nervously. "Sirius came flying in here and his face was…I've never seen him that angry. Then there was shouting. I couldn't hear what they said, and I wasn't really trying, but it was so loud, Peter. It travelled through the walls. And then…then Sirius just left. And he looked just terrible. I checked in on Remus, but he won't say a word. He looks…as bad as Sirius. Worse."

Peter nods slowly, his eyes drifting down the long hall to Remus' office before settling back on Rosmerta. The woman is clearly upset and overwhelmingly concerned, and Peter can't hope to explain to her what's happened, though he thinks he has a fairly good idea. He reaches out and wraps his hands around both of her upper arms, squeezing gently, trying to be reassuring.

"I'm sure everything is fine, 'Merta," he soothes. "This isn't the first time they've fought, you know that. Sirius is hot-headed, and we both know Remus isn't always the best as controlling his temper either. I'll go have a chat with him, see if I can't sort it out. All right?" Rosmerta nods her head along with his, and Peter gently steers her back towards the front. "Go make yourself some tea, take a break. There shouldn't be anyone else coming in today."

Rosmerta slowly trails away, and Peter waits until she's gone before he continues down the remainder of the hallway, not stopping until he reaches Remus' door. He pauses, pulls in a deep, settling breath, preparing himself, and then Peter pushes forward, not knocking as he usually does.

Remus is standing beside his desk, blank eyes staring at nothing on its surface. Peter studies him for a silent time before stepping into the room, closing the door behind him. He quietly walks over to join his friend, and then just stands there, not sure what he can possibly say.

"He knows?" asks Peter finally, voice soft but sounding loud, echoing back in the stillness that's filled the room, like standing in the eye of storm, waiting for everything to rip apart again, for the sky to crash down around helpless feet.

Remus moves his head, a nearly non-existent thing, the smallest of motions, but it's enough. Peter breathes in again, trying to choose his words carefully, but it doesn't work all that well.

"I don't want to say I told you so, Remus," he begins, feeling his friend's devastation ripple off him in waves of torment, chasing chills down his spine, "but I warned you this would happen. From the very beginning, I tried, Moony." Remus winces at the name, and Peter retreats from it as a kindness. "And once you two started up…you knew this was going to happen eventually. Sirius blind. He's clever. He was always going to catch on to who you really are."

Remus shakes his head a little, exhaling a shaking breath. "Not now, Pete. Please," he begs faintly. "Just…not now. Not today. You know why I never told him, but I can't – cannot do this today."

And Remus squeezes his eyes closed tightly, his pain tangible. Peter aches for him, but there's nothing he can do. He'd tried; for months, he'd tried, but he'd also protected Remus' secret, which in his own eyes, made him no better. He'd lied as well. Sirius would likely never forgive either of them.

Peter sighs quietly and reaches up, hand gripping over Remus' shoulder, the only form of comfort he can give right now.

#at the healing edge of broken #peter pettigrew #remus lupin #madam rosmerta #sirius black #outtake #ask #answer #send me your burning desires #my writing #holli writes

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