#twisted wonderlnd fanfic

[olivyh]

omg!??! Your work is so entertaining!! U deserve more attention! u are very good at writing angst, amazing!!!! I dont know how to explain it while reading ur work, i felt very amused and satisfied ! Very pleasing written story!! In my eyes, ur work is unique

Absolute obsessed with ur ruggie x reader and leona x reader, secretly hoping for more stuff like these

Could u please do riddle x reader angst to comfort/fluff if u have free time ?

Thank you so much <<33!!!!!! I also love, LOVE the different colors in this request- it makes my brain vvvv happy because it's bright!!!!!!!!! I also love the fact that people are actually requesting angsty things because it gives me an excuse to do character analysis' and fanfics at the same time <<333 enjoy!

TW: Mentions of abuse, slight panic attacks

Riddle was not always treated with cruelty. He was pampered the first few months of his life, being treated with care by the maids and the servants. 

He remembered being told that, when he was a newborn, even his mother was doting and affectionate. He was told how she would read him stories every night, she would rock him gently when he was getting too fussy and would whisper into his small ears while he whines and whimpered, small, pale face turning red from the hungered wailing. Oftentimes, he would lie awake at night and try to remember those days, try to feel the way her soft hands would feel as they stroked his chubby cheeks. 

Riddle would find his mind wandering during those endless lessons, racing to find any explanation as to why she'd stopped treating him with such care, why she'd decided that she would no longer act as a mother, but as a tyrant.

Even as a child, he would hold his own hands up to his face and caress his soft skin, trying to desperately pretend that they were hers as he rubbed them up and down. His own hands even felt too cold against his face, the chill sending shivers down his spine. 

It was all wrong. His hands were always too small, and his shoulders ached from how long he held the uncomfortable position. His thumbs would never run over his forehead in the way he'd imagined hers to, and his hands were far too calloused to even attempt to compare to her own. He would lower his hands to his sides and bunch them in the soft silk of his blankets, gritting his teeth as he stared at the ceiling with blurred vision and muffled sniffles that sounded all too loud in the vastness of his childhood bedroom. 

He would often comfort himself in the way he'd imagined her to, positioning his pillows to resemble a person's torso and resting his head against it, wrapping his arms around the center of it and trying not to squeeze too hard in fear of ruining the fragile fantasy he'd created. He would imagine her playing with his hair softly, tried to desperately imagine the feeling of her chest rising and falling with breaths that would come out as delicate birdsong, twirling through the air with the goal of putting the boy to rest with a peaceful sleep. She would rub his shoulders and back as he cried, hushing him and pulling the blanket tighter around the both of them. He would pretend that the blood rushing through his ears was her heartbeat as it pounded in her chest, that the loose fabric of the pillowcase was her nightgown as he gripped onto it for dear life and tried to muffle his sobs to hide it from any curious ears walking past his door. 

Some days he would even imagine his father coming home late from one of his many business trips and sitting on his opposite side, fixing the blankets and speaking to his mother in hushed, loving tones as Riddle drifted off into a peaceful sleep. 

Riddle had gotten used to laying down on his sleeve, knowing all too well that the servants would notice the dried tear stains and the stains of his runny nose on the pillow when they would clean his bed sheets. He knew better than that. He would lay on his sleeve and cry until his mind and body were too exhausted to continue through the night, then he would wake in the morning and wash off his sleeve before crawling back into bed silently and pretending to be asleep until his nanny came in and woke him up for the day. 

He'd fallen into this same routine at NRC, with an added layer of sorrow when he would pass by friend groups who grew silent at the sound of his heels clicking against the marble. Their laughter would bounce off the walls and would send a mysterious pang that shook him to the core and made his knees weak and his eyes watery. He felt as though he were an outsider to this strange new world, as though he were a puzzle piece that did not create a whole picture, no matter how much he tried. 

He was lonely, he'd decided. He was lonely and bitter, and so unbearably cold that he wanted to sit beside the fireplace and never leave despite knowing all too well that even the suffocating heat of the flame could not thaw the ice that had settled in his bones. 

Riddle was used to the isolation that came with his house, how it would never truly feel like a home no matter what he did to make himself as comfortable as possible. He was used to spending endless days in his study, barely seeing the sunlight until his skin had paled to the extent where he could crane his neck and see the delicate blue veins that traced patterns beneath his thin skin. The darkness crept around every corner, was buried within the pages of every textbook and had managed to worm itself into every spell and rule that he had committed to heart. 

There was no spell to make him friends, he knew that much. 

But... nobody had taken the time to teach him the proper way to make a friend. Nobody had sat him down and given him a lesson on how to socialize properly, nobody had taught him what to do and what not to do, how to act in different situations, what is alright to say or not. Riddle was... guessing. His whole life, every interaction depended on the flip of a coin or the roll of a dice. 

That's why he truly felt terrible when he had first met the prefect. The lovely, kind prefect who had shown him nothing but generosity that he returned with a scowl and bluntness. Riddle wasn't used to this feeling within his chest, this warmth that only ever arose when he could finally speak with his peers as though they were friends. This warmth, however, was new. It was practically scalding and made his mind absolutely blank. 

It hurt him more than anything he could ever imagine. 

He was blunt and he knew his charm had failed him whenever you two spoke. Riddle knew that his words often came off as condescending or as cruel. He had never intended it to! He wanted nothing more than to sit beside them and explain with teary eyes and a heavy heart that he just didn't know how to properly express himself. 

He had somehow stumbled even closer to the prefect, hoping to, in some part, understand them better. He desperately wanted to find out everything he could about them, curiosity overtaking his senses as he soaked in every crumb of information he could get. He was greedy for the warmth that they offered to him, a warmth like no other than melted that shell around his heart and made him desperate for more, more, more.

Until he blew it. 

One moment the two were baking, and the next they stood next to him, eyes wide and clutching their hand close to their chest. Riddle stood in equal shock, jaw dropped and lower lip quivering as his mind raced to understand what had happened. He was reading off the instructions, and they were laughing at something he'd done. They'd pointed out the batter on his face and reached to brush it off with their thumb. Riddle would have fantasized that his heart was soaring and his head would be full of cotton candy, just as it's described in all the novels he may or may not have been reading. His eyes would meet theirs, and they'd both blush and chuckle as he tried to swallow the butterflies that swarmed in his stomach and crept up his throat and he could finally, finally feel the warmth of your touch against his skin- the same warmth he'd craved since he was a child. 

And then their hand met his cheek, and it all felt wrong. 

Too terribly wrong, in a way that dissolved the butterflies into acid that sunk into his heart and took his breath away as tears sprung to his eyes and his skin was itchy and burnt and his lungs struggled to take in any sort of air which left him gasping as his face pales and his ears rang as blood pounds at the vessels within it and the lights above were too bright and he was too painfully aware of the feeling of everything clinging to his skin and-

It all felt like too much.

He had, in his panic, smacked their hand away. The kitchen was silent aside from Riddle's still racing breaths as his heart sunk and his stomach clenched in a way that would have made him double over if he had not been so mortified. His mouth opened for a moment as his shaky hands scrambled to find purchase on the counter. 

"I-I'm-" He gasped, gulping and taking another few heaving breaths. "I'm so sorry-"

"Riddle, it's-" The prefect begins. He slams his eyes shut and raises his hands from the counter, running off with wobbly legs before they could finish their sentence. He raced until he made it to his room, collapsing against the door and panting until his lungs ached and burned. He grew desperate for air as he used the chill of the hardwood floor to ground himself, mind racing over what had just happened. A pit in his stomach formed and deepened the more he played it over and over, tears welling in his eyes as he hiccupped silently, holding his knees close to his chest and weeping into them. 

Perhaps, he thinks bitterly, the words swimming in his mind, perhaps I'm not meant for love after all. 

Riddle hardly thinks he deserves it after what he'd done, his actions reminiscent of his mother's whenever he would slack or slow down in his studies. He felt sick to his stomach as the world around him spun and he tried to desperately bite back the nausea that crept up his throat.

"Riddle?" A knock on the door sounds, making him jolt. The sound of the prefect and their concern makes his heart deflate just as quickly as it had swelled. He ponders telling them to leave, to never come back, but he can't trust his voice. 

And he can't trust his heart to not betray him in that split second. 

"I'm sorry," He mumbles into his knees, just loud enough for them to hear him through the door. 

"Can I see you?" They ask quietly, and he can hear how their voice sinks closer to the ground. He could practically picture them lowering themselves to talk to him more clearly, putting themselves on equal ground with him. Why? He wonders. Why me?

"Not right now," He whispers, voice breaking as more warm tears stream down his porcelain face. They're silent for a moment on the other end, and he would have assumed that they'd left would it not be for the rustling of fabric as they make themselves comfortable on the other side of the door. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you without your permission..." They're quiet, and their voice sounds remorseful, a realization that makes Riddle's tears stream faster down his face and drip onto the soft cotton of his uniform. He was a monster, a tyrant, so why? Why are they choosing to give him their kindness and share their light with him?

"No," He sighs. "I should be apologizing. I should never hit you. I-I never wanted to-" His voice betrays him once more as he hiccups, breaths catching on the words that tear through his throat. "I really wanted you do to that, really." The confession would normally make his heart race and his face flush a bright red, but his heart was too heavy to soar as it was supposed to. "I wanted it to be perfect."

"Perfect?"

"It hurt, being touched so gently," Finally, he was able to choke out the words that had been lodged in his throat since day one. Admitting it out loud made it seem more real, adding another stab of sorrow into his heart as he chokes back a sob. "I wanted to..." he can't seem to finish his sentence as he swallows thickly and takes a shaky breath. 

"It's okay, Riddle," He can hear the love in their voice from the other side of the door, and the stream of tears lessens ever so slightly. "We can take our time with it."

"You don't deserve that," He decides firmly. "I-I truly like you, but...I can't love."

"Let yourself be loved," They practically demand, making the boy jump as his breath catches. "You think you're this terrible person when you're not that at all. You're hurt, and you're confused," He wants to wail, to scream at them and beg them to stop, but at the same time... 

They understood. They were finally seeing him as he always wanted to be seen, they were telling him the truth of who he was- of who Riddle Rosehearts was and not just Riddle of the Rosehearts family.  

"You're not going to hurt me," They're silent against the door, and the redhead finds himself leaning further back and hoping to feel the warmth of their body press seep through the mahogany door. He swallows once more, wiping at his tears as he stares up at the ceiling, focusing only on the prefect's steady breaths on the other side of the door. "I know you're scared but...I promise that you could never hurt me."

"I just did."

"I overstepped a boundary. I- you were scared, I saw it. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" He sniffles. "You never did anything wrong."

"Then make it up to me!" They argue, taking the boy back for a moment. "Make it up by finally letting yourself be happy, Riddle! It doesn't have to be with me! You don't have to confess your love, or do anything! Shit, even if you tell me to never come back to Heartslabyul I still- I'll care, and I would be absolutely heartbroken because I love you so, so much, but... I'll understand. I just need you to promise me that you'll be happy. I need you to promise that you would allow yourself to love, and to be loved."

"I want..." He stammers before taking a breath. "I want to love you. And... to be loved by you." 

Riddle could hear their sharp intake of breath, and, in a moment of bravery, he spins his hand and slips it under the crack in the door., feeling the rough wood scrape against his hand until he was certain his fingers are visible on the other side. 

"Y-you can..." He can't finish his sentence and he hears an affirmative hum sound from the other side of the door as warm fingertips rest over his own. 

"Is this okay?" They ask. He nods slowly and hums, allowing his eyes to slip closed as he relishes in their touch. It's gentle, as though he were made of glass and any touch harder than what they were doing would break him. There was no malice, not cruelty.

He felt safe. 

"It's..." Riddle smiles softly. "Warm... it's nice."

For the first time in his life, Riddle saw a future in which he could be held in the same tender way he'd dreamt all those years ago.