#thyme!reader

[phantomamour]

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐨𝐰

coriolanus snow x test subject!reader (written in third person)

~•*⁀➷ part one

cw// heavier in themes with human experimentation and major character death - mention of drugs and injury - dedicated to my favorite @milliesfishes who was a major part of why this lil au even exists <3

Subject 004717 - Experimental use of antiarrhythmics - Undated

Ingested 3000mg of antiarrhythmic at 14:37. VG Brachycardic at 14:53. VG. Cardiac arrest at 15:12. VG. 

Coriolanus read the time on the wall when he entered the lab. 16:58. He was late and painfully so. Nearly three hours had passed since he was supposed to arrive in the lab, and now he found it empty, Gaul having left for the day and not bothered to clean up entirely. She knew he’d show up eventually. For that reason, she hadn’t put her notes away yet; it was his job to catch up on what he’d missed. 

Shrugging off his jacket, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Things seemed well enough in order, and few things lay out of place along Gaul’s desk. Yet every creak of the pipes in the walls sent chills down his spine that he couldn’t place the reason for. Even as he set everything back where it belonged, there was a whisper in the wind of the ventilation system that felt too high-pitched, like a warning siren trying to tell him to run. 

17:12, the clock read as he sat down to finally catch up on what he had failed to be present for. There were days he wanted to long for the cruel torture of Highbottom’s revenge during the academy rather than be stuck in terribly long exams and annoyingly tedious papers. He would have much rather been present for the experiments Gaul had planned that day on some new use for the jabberjays he knew well. But as he reached the end of the report, he noticed two more pages attached to it. The first one was addressed to him. 

Coriolanus felt a pain in his chest as his eyes scanned the words, searching for the meaning in her rhymes to decipher her reason for leaving him something personally addressed. The longer he couldn’t make out the meaning, the harder it became to breathe until he looked at the final attached page—experiment notes. There hadn’t been a second experiment scheduled for the afternoon, but his eyes scanned the subject number, his heart stopping at the immediate recognition. 

His girl. 

She wasn’t scheduled to come in that day. He would have gone to her that night with his plan to get her out safely. He had figured out a temporary way to stop her heart, as he remembered reading about in some old sick love story. He would be able to fake her death long enough to get her far away from Gaul and never be harmed again. But it seemed Gaul had beaten him to the experiment. Antiarrhythmics. The same drug he had used to formulate his escape plan. But this wasn’t a unique formula he had concocted. It was the largest dose he’d ever seen in any of Gaul’s notes he had read. She wasn’t in the lab. She couldn’t be. He hadn’t seen any evidence of her when he walked in. 

  15:12. Almost exactly two hours before his arrival, Gaul had written that her heart had stopped. It had to be some cruel joke, a lesson for him to take away and learn from. He’d never try to cross her again if he could just know his girl was safe and alive. He didn’t want to believe it. If her heart had stopped… if she were dead, there would be a body. But the lab was surprisingly clean. He tried calling the phone he had set up for her in her small, decrepit apartment on the edge of the Capital. No answer. He tried again. 

“Pick up. C’mon, sweetheart. Pick up. Tell me you’re home.” His eyes darted over to the clock on the wall. 17:34. He kept mumbling to himself, nearly tossing the transmitter across the hall when he got no answer again. He resorted to searching the lab for any sign of her. It wasn’t until he had passed one of the rooms reserved for Gaul’s mutations that he caught a glimpse he’d never be able to forget from the corner of his eye. 

He opened the door slowly, hesitant that he might wake her, as though it wasn’t the only thing he desperately wanted to do. Her body lay on the floor in a heap, like she had been simply tossed in and forgotten about. Her hair lay spread out on the cold tile, not too dissimilar to the way it had lain on his pillow the few nights he had convinced her to come back home with him instead. Fingers trembling, he made his way across the room to her. She looked so peaceful, admittedly too peaceful. Even in his arms, he had never been able to fully soothe the furrow of her brows after everything she had been through. 

Coriolanus moved to kneel next to her, noting how her chest didn’t rise at all, and her deathly pale skin sent shivers down his spine. If he had just been on time… She was limp as he lifted her into his arms, not making a single sound. What he wouldn’t give for one more of her secret laughs. The ones he managed to slip out of her after the long days under Gaul’s microscope; the ones he knew only he got to hear. He had let himself do the one thing he swore never to do again with her, and Gaul had used it against him. 

Her head lulled against his chest as he moved to sit them down against the wall, a sensation he could almost convince himself was a conscious choice of her own. But she hadn’t moved; it had been a cruel trick of gravity. His hands were still shaking as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, unsure if his voice would stay steady if he dared speak. 

She had died alone. He knew Gaul was no comfort in her last moments, that she likely taunted her until her dying breath, and every ‘what if’ his brain could conjure ran through his thoughts. What if he had spoken out against Gaul sooner? What if he had come up with his plan faster? What if he had just been on time to the lab? He would have been an hour early. He would have had an hour to figure out how to stop Gaul–how to save her. 

Time passed slowly as he held her, counting every eyelash, every freckle, until he was certain the numbers would remain in his mind forever. She still had the scars of Gaul’s old experiments and the bruises and cuts of one from mere days ago. Cuts that he had cleaned and bandaged for her himself… when she was still alive. He had already memorized the placement of each scar before, but he went over her again like clockwork. The cut on her collarbone, the bite on her side, the long scar down the center of her chest. The antiarrhythmics hadn’t been injected; there was no sign of what had killed her, and maybe that had killed him a bit inside as well. She died as quietly as she had tried to live. Trying to sneak through the capital as quietly as a mouse, make enough of a living to support herself, and live peacefully. He hadn’t been able to give her that. 

He pressed his lips to her hairline, feeling the soft edge of a scar even there. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to make it better this time. There were many nights that the right words had come to him, comforting her when she thought she was better off dead. But now that she was the latter, every word in every language escaped him. He had hurt her with his own hands and his silence. Worst of all, he had abandoned her when she needed him most. There was no argument there. He had killed his songbird, and now he had killed his very own mouse. 

Perhaps the poison had been within him, a slow release infecting those he kept close, taking all the good from his life and leaving him in the desolate aftermath. He’d burn her apartment down. He’d bury her amongst the ashes. She would be nothing more than a memory to him, a reminder of what he could never allow himself: a weakness… a vulnerability. His story wasn’t built to support love; it was meant to destroy it. 

[witchywithwhiskey]

bucky + “cut it out” - “what do you mean? i’m not doing anything”

getting what you want on a rainy spring afternoon

pairing: best friend!bucky barnes x female reader

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, dry humping/dry sex, fingering (f receiving), consent issues (but not really? idk), dirty talk, light degradation, kissing, teasing, banter, friends to lovers

word count: 2,500ish

a/n: thank you so much for sending in this prompt!! i had far too much fun writing these two, which is why it ended up being so long 😅 (compared to my other springtime fun ficlets anyway)!! hope y'all enjoy!! ♡♡

“Stop it.” The words were barely discernible with the way they were growled, the annoyed rumbling coming from your best friend, Bucky Barnes. Your best friend who had come over on that rainy spring afternoon to hang out and had promptly fallen asleep instead.

Though you would’ve expected yourself to be a little sleepy, given the long week you’d had, you found yourself feeling more restless than anything else. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t seem to settle down and cuddle up against Bucky’s arm like you’d done so many times before. 

So you were left to your own devices with your best friend, who’d fallen asleep sitting up, his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted back against your couch. He looked completely at ease on your couch while you were bored. You wanted Bucky’s attention and, for some reason you couldn’t fathom, you’d decided the best way to get it was to annoy him until he woke up. 

You’d been trailing your fingers over his bare arms and face, tickling him until his expression twisted and he grumbled in his sleep. It was immature, but you were having too much fun to stop, suppressing your giggles every time he made an unhappy sound.

Finally, you got some actual words out of him and you had to cover your mouth to stifle your laughter. Bucky sounded so cute when he was tired and grumpy. Maybe it should’ve made you stop, but instead you waited for him to fall back asleep, his soft snores joining the gentle rhythm of the rain and the hum of the movie still playing on your TV. 

Reaching up, you trailed your fingertips ever so lightly down the bridge of Bucky’s nose, skipping them off the edge before they fell to his mouth. You were surprised by how soft Bucky’s lips felt beneath your fingers, so different to the scruffy roughness of his cheeks and jaw, which seemed to be permanently covered in stubble.

Bucky’s lips parted as you were tracing them, and you yanked your hand away, turning to face the TV so you could pretend you’d only been watching the movie if he woke up. But you watched Bucky out of the corner of your eye, and he seemed to be sleeping still. Then his tongue darted out to wet his lips and your face heated inexplicably. 

Suddenly, your thoughts were filled with ideas about what it would feel like to have Bucky’s mouth pressed to yours, his stubble dragging against your skin. You couldn’t stop yourself from picturing your best friend kissing along your jaw and down your neck—his lips exploring even more intimate parts of your body…

Squirming in your seat and trying to ignore the heat curling through your belly, you turned fully to Bucky, watching him closely to make sure he was asleep. When you were certain hew as, you reached out, tracing his lips again with your fingertips, feeling their softness and the dampness left behind by his tongue. 

Your body warmed, and you pressed your thighs together against a pulsing ache building in your core. You didn’t want to think about your body’s reaction to touching your best friend, but you also didn’t want to stop or pull your hand away. You wanted to stay in the moment as long as possible.

So enraptured by the sight of Bucky’s mouth, you didn’t notice when his lips parted further, his raspy grumble surprising you so much you had to bite back a gasp.

“Cut it out.”

“What do you mean? I’m not doing anything.” Your reply was quick, as you pulled your hand away and leaned against his side like you were simply cuddling into him. It was normal for you to cuddle with your best friend, though you weren’t normally thinking about kissing him, or about doing other things with him, when you did.  

Unfortunately—or fortunately—your new position of leaning against his arm put your face close to Bucky’s. His mouth was right there, looking oh so enticing, and an impulsive thought popped into your mind. What if you just…brushed your lips against his? Not even fully against his mouth, just the edge of it. Could it really count as a kiss if you just brushed your lips to the corner of his mouth? 

You decided it didn’t. 

Leaning forward, your eyes fluttered closed as your lips ghosted over the stubble next to Bucky’s mouth, then connected with the softness of his lips. Your breath caught in your throat. It felt so good—his warm breath caressing your cheek and his velvety lips against the edge of yours. You could even taste the coffee he had that morning, the flavor rich and mixing with something that was entirely Bucky.

It occurred to you far too late that you were dangerously close to kissing your best friend, and you shouldn’t be doing anything of the sort—especially while he was sleeping on your couch. You knew you should pull away and go back to watching the movie, pretend nothing ever happened. But what you really wanted was to press closer, to sink into Bucky’s chest and slip your tongue past his lips. 

Instead, you just hung suspended in the moment, too wrapped up in your thoughts about kissing your best friend to notice the way his breathing shifted, his body tensing like a predator’s would right before it pounced. 

Then, all at once, Bucky moved, flipping you down onto your back on the soft couch cushions and covered your body with his own, his narrow waist fitting perfectly between your thighs. His hard bulge pressed to your core, making you gasp as pleasure surged through your body, your legs wrapping around him instinctively to keep him close.

“Not doing anything, huh, doll?” Bucky rasped in a teasing voice, a wide grin on his face. “Certainly not kissing your best friend while he’s asleep, right?” Bucky’s blue eyes sparkled in the dim daylight of your living room. You squirmed guiltily beneath him, but that only succeeded in grinding your heated core against his dick, making it twitch in his sweatpants.

“Bucky,” you whined, gripping his t-shirt in your fists and shaking them, neither pushing him away nor pulling him closer. Now that he was awake, you were painfully aware that your friendship was hanging by a precarious thread, but the heat flooding your body urged you to throw all caution to the wind. Still, you knew you needed to apologize for what you’d done, and you whispered, “I’m sorry,” in a small, pitiful voice.

But Bucky only grinned, ducking down and pressing a smacking kiss to your cheek. “Don’t apologize, doll,” he said in a warm, happy tone. “I’ve been awake since you started touching my face,” he pressed a kiss to your other cheek, trailing his lips down and blowing a raspberry against your jaw, which made you shriek with laughter. 

You tried to squirm away from his teasing mouth, but Bucky grabbed your hands, pulling them from his shirt and pinning them above your head. His face hovered above yours, his eyes taking you in like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I was wondering how far you’d go,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. Then, a sly smirk curved his lips and his eyes darkened, your body lighting up at the expression. “Didn’t think you’d kiss me though.” His eyes dropped to your mouth and his voice went a little distant as he murmured, “Didn’t think our first kiss would be when you thought I was asleep.”

Your lips parted and it was on the tip of your tongue to apologize when his words sank in. Had Bucky just implied that he’d thought your first kiss together was inevitable? And did his words mean he’d thought about kissing you before? How long had he been thinking about kissing you?

You didn’t have time to fully form a question in response to Bucky’s words because your best friend slanted his lips to yours, capturing them in a kiss. Immediately, the entire world fell away and your mind went blissfully blank—your guilt and trepidation melting into simple pleasure as you reveled in your first proper kiss with Bucky. 

Kissing your best friend felt like coming home and sinking into the safety and comfort and bliss of knowing where you belonged. The way your lips slid against Bucky’s, you knew you belonged with him—in his arms—always. It was overwhelming and delicious at the same time, and you never wanted to stop.  

“Taste so good, doll,” he rumbled, pulling away for only a second before he was diving back into your mouth, his tongue slipping between your lips and twining with yours. 

You moaned into him, your hips working against the bulge in his sweatpants as you writhed beneath him. Bucky groaned, trailing his hands down your arms to your sides, freeing your hands to dive into his soft brown hair. You yanked on it lightly while his hands groped your breasts in your shirt, then smoothed down your waist to grip your hips and grind himself into you.

“Bucky!” you cried, wrenching your lips from his as you clung to your best friend and writhed with him. You could feel his hard cock perfectly through the soft cotton of his sweatpants and the thin fabric of your lounge shorts. He was grinding against your clit, his lips kissing and sucking on your neck and all you felt was bliss. “Don’t stop, Bucky, please don’t stop,” you begged in a breathy voice. 

Bucky chuckled into the crook of your neck, suckling on your pulse point and groaning when you humped harder against him. “As if I could ever deprive you, doll,” he murmured, his voice warm and sweet and filling your mind with all the dirty things you could beg Bucky to do to you.

Dragging his face back to yours, you made out with Bucky, your kisses turning messy as you both got closer to the edge of your releases. Your bodies writhed together on your couch, your legs hitching around the backs of Bucky’s thighs to keep your clothed core grinding against his thick bulge. 

“Oh god, Bucky, I’m gonna—” Your words cut off on a sharp cry as Bucky rolled his hips, fucking you into couch like he was pounding into your cunt. The friction against your needy clit was perfect, and you felt the pleasure in your body surge, coiling tighter and tighter. 

“Come on, doll,” Bucky growled, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “Come all over your best friend’s bulge like the needy little thing you are.” He rocked his hips into yours, grinding his cock against your clit through your clothes, hitting the aching nub in just the way you needed.

The pleasure in your core snapped suddenly, and you let out a shrill cry as you came, your body going tight and taut as you clung to your best friend. Your legs held him close, your hands fisted in his hair while you moaned in his ear, your body shuddering beneath his bigger form while you rode out your release by grinding languorously against his bulge.

Then you heard Bucky groan into your neck, his hips stuttering in their rhythm as he kept humping against you. You felt a warmth between your thighs and shivered, knowing what it was and it only turning you on more that you’d made Bucky come without either of you taking off your clothes. 

A smile curled your mouth as you humped against your best friend’s twitching cock while as he came in his pants. He was groaning into your neck and you were clinging to him, feeling every trembling shudder that wracked his broad body.

“Fuck, fuck,” he muttered, riding out his pleasure by rubbing against your soaked core and milking every drop of come from his cock. “Fuck,” he groaned, drawing out the word and finally settling to lay on top of you as he collapsed. You lay entwined together for a long moment, simply enjoying each other. 

Then, Bucky pushed up on his hands and glanced down your bodies, where he’d made a mess of both his sweatpants and your shorts.

You couldn’t help but giggle, only laughing harder when Bucky shot you an accusatory look. “This is entirely your fault, y’know?” he grumbled, beginning to move off you carefully so he didn’t make an even bigger mess. “If you hadn’t felt so good coming under me…” 

You’d been about to make some flippant comment about how it’d feel much better if was inside you, but then Bucky shoved his sweatpants down and stepped out of them, walking bare-assed over to the laundry in the hallway. He turned to you expectantly, but your eyes were too busy taking in the sight of your best friend’s cock, still half-hard and swinging between his thick thighs. 

“Are you going to help me clean up, or are you gonna make me strip you out of those filthy clothes?” Bucky asked gruffly, playfulness in his tone. 

That snapped you out of your thoughts and you pushed yourself up off the couch, sauntering over to Bucky, enjoying the way his eyes drifted down to watch the sway of your hips. Once you were standing right in front of him, you tugged your shirt off over your head and pulled your shorts off, leaving you naked in front of your best friend.

Bucky’s jaw went slack, his eyes darkening as they took you in. “Christ, doll,” he muttered distractedly, his gaze taking in every inch of your bare skin with a greedy glint in his eyes. “You’re constantly surprising me.” 

“Well someone’s gotta keep you on your toes,” you teased, pushing up onto your tiptoes and pressing a kiss to Bucky’s lips before you darted around him and ran into the bathroom. You shut the door behind you and turned on the hot water, intent on taking a shower to clean up.

Before you could step beneath the warming spray, Bucky’s arms wrapped around your waist and he hauled you against his body. His thickening cock wedged between your ass cheeks and his breath ghosting over your cheek as he murmured into your ear.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” Bucky rumbled, his hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers dipping into your soaking wet slit. “You’re mine now—and I’m going to have so much fun making my girlfriend come all over my cock.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, thrusting his fingers into your needy cunt, making your knees shake as you struggled to stay upright. 

All you could do was whimper and moan, clinging to Bucky’s arms and melting back against his chest. A smile played on your lips, though, as you realized you’d gotten exactly what you wanted—your best friend’s attention. And you knew you were going to enjoy every minute of that rainy spring afternoon with your boyfriend because Bucky, and his attention, was finally all yours.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

i am a strawberry witch! my magic is centered around strawberries, plants and all things sweet! i use my magic to make lovely treats in hopes of making people smile!

ー welcome to the strawberry witch's bakery!

welcome to my first event, just in time to celebrate the month of love! whether it's cold or warm in your hemisphere, hopefully you're able to snuggle up with your beloved. submit a character with a treat of your choice in my ask box and a sweet drabble will be sent your way! -> fandoms: one piece, jujutsu kaisen, wind breaker, our life 🍰 -> closes: february 8, 2025🍓

SWEETS

🍓strawberry shortcake -> starry nights

🍓strawberry tart -> making up after a fight

🍓strawberry galette -> long distance call

🍓strawberry cobbler -> anniversary

BEVERAGES

🍓strawberry-infused water -> fox's wedding

🍓strawberry milk -> "i love you"

🍓strawberry lemonade -> secret relationship

🍓strawberry green tea -> love notes

PAST ORDERS

one piece

strawberry milk。ft. monkey d. luffy

strawberry shortcake。ft. portgas d. ace

strawberry galette。ft. marshall d. teach

strawberry tart。ft. trafalgar d. water law

strawberry shortcake + strawberry milk。ft. trafalgar d. water law

strawberry lemonade。ft. vinsmoke sanji

strawberry lemonade。ft. buggy the genius jester

strawberry cobbler。ft. sir crocodile

strawberry milk。ft. portgas d. ace

strawberry green tea。ft. trafalgar d. water law

strawberry tart。ft. vinsmoke sanji

strawberry milk。ft. flame emperor sabo

jujutsu kaisen

strawberry lemonade。ft. gojou satoru

strawberry-infused water。ft. gojou satoru

wind breaker

strawberry cobbler + strawberry lemonade。ft. suo hayato

strawberry galette。ft. sakura haruka

[knightthyme]

“answer me! if we really are characters in a fictional novel, why did you die for us over and over?”

[fawnsflowerbed]

Commission guidelines!

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[numberoneanika]

Honestly the roleplay blogs are stronger than I am because if I saw a post where people were saying my blog was annoying and calling me corny I would jump in a large pit and rot away

[writeforfandoms]

Wild Mountain Thyme 2

Find the series masterlist

You and Ezra continue your hunt for a wild dragon nest.

Warnings: swearing, Ezra is an ass, talk of nest raiding.

Word count: 1.2k

Eventual Ezra x f!reader

Ezra wasn't sure he had ever had a partner so green. Oh, sure, she came wearing a pack. But she was so… bright. She had smiled, easy as anything, before she had even met him. She had such energy about her.

Or. Well. She had, until he'd gone and opened his mouth and let his own anger dampen her light.

Oh, he was sure she had asked to go along on an expedition, but that hadn't meant his. It wasn't her fault, exactly, that his employer decided to saddle him with a useless tourist of a partner. And after sleeping on the matter, Ezra felt… almost bad. Almost. Not quite actually bad, but close enough to it that he resolved to talk to her today.

Hopefully she wouldn't get herself killed, at least.

He sighed to himself and stretched out, pushing the sleeping bag down with his feet. At least the weather was supposed to cooperate - neither blistering hot nor bitterly cold, with lots of sunshine on the horizon. And the hike would be pretty, if remote.

Resolved to be a bit nicer and keep his ire aimed at his employer, Ezra crawled out of his tent and stood, shaking out his limbs. He looked over to her tent to gauge if she was awake yet.

And found her gone instead.

"Hells and damnation!"

–

You had woken early, a combination of nerves and being determined to not be late and hold back the hiking. You had slept off some of your mood, but not all of it.

And then you checked, and your partner for the next few days was still dead asleep. You could see his outline in his tent, could faintly hear him snoring. Your temper flared again, and you walked it off. You took care of your morning routine and then took a quick walk around. It’s not like you were going far, and you weren’t going to interact with people. Honestly, you weren’t entirely clueless, or dumb.

How had Ezra referred to you yesterday? Green? Yeah, something like that.

Heaving an aggravated sigh, you kicked a rock off the trail into the woods, pouting. Just a little. It wasn’t fair, you hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet Ezra hated you, clearly.

All you’d wanted was to come on this trip. You’d wanted this for years, had practiced and gone on hikes and done as much research as you could…

Well. If you had to prove to that ass that you could do it, you would. You didn’t need his approval. You didn’t need his help. Hell, maybe you’d end up helping him. That would shut his mouth.

You meandered back to camp and blinked when you found Ezra up and glowering at you.

"Where exactly did you wander off to?"

You snorted. "Had to do my morning stuff. We're still in a public campground, I didn't do anything crazy."

"We are trying not to draw attention to ourselves, Channel Rat, I do hope you realize."

You smiled, though you knew it didn't reach your eyes. "We are drawing more attention from you standing here scolding me than from my quick walk." Not waiting for his response, you walked past him and went to break down your tent and finish packing for the day.

Uncomfortable silence fell between the two of you again, all the way through you shouldering your pack.

"Are we leaving the car here?"

"Yes, we're on foot for the rest of the way." Ezra cleared his throat, fingers fiddling with the straps of his pack for a few moments. "We're headed this way today." He looked like he wanted to say more, then he shook his head and started walking. You fell in behind him.

He didn't set a harsh pace, content apparently to walk easily and steadily. You started off on an actual trail, but didn't stay on it for long. Within a few hours, Ezra was breaking off from the trail, heading through the woods.

And you followed him. You didn't like the guy, but you watched where he stepped.

There were more dangers out here than just dragons, after all.

Around lunch time, Ezra finally broke the silence.

"Why did you ask to come along on this little venture?" He glanced at you as he uncapped his water bottle.

You paused for a moment, grateful you were chewing. That gave you a few moments to consider your reply. "Research," is what you said. "I've done what research I can but so little is known on wild nests."

Ezra stopped and lowered his water bottle, gaze shrewd. "You are aware of what we are doing out here, yes? Because I am not here for research."

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, yes, we're nest raiding," you agreed, flapping a hand negligently. "I'm well aware of what's going to happen here. Like I said. I knew what I was getting into out here."

Ezra nodded. "Well, then, long as we've got that cleared up," he agreed, a little more cheerful. "Still, this is an unusual line of work, or research, for… someone of means."

You laughed. You couldn't help it. "Oh, don't worry about that," you said, still grinning. "That's my business."

"Fair enough." He shrugged and capped his water bottle again before he started off. You set off after him, shaking your head.

He was an odd one. But then, so were you. It was rather fitting.

The scenery was beautiful, at least. Wild and with no people in sight, not since you'd left the trail behind. You tried to map as you went, taking note of interesting rocks or trees, but you knew that you'd get helplessly lost before long.

There was no lack of wildlife, either. Rabbits darted away from the pair of you. Squirrels chittered as you passed below their trees. Birds chirped and sang to each other, flitting around finding food.

Honestly, it was perhaps the most peaceful thing you had ever seen in your life, marred only by the unfriendly brown-haired menace ahead of you.

"Channel rat," he called back to you after a while. "Come join me up here."

Curious, you quickened your steps to pull up even with him. He nodded to some bushes ahead of you.

"What do you make of that?"

You frowned, not moving closer but tipping your head to try to get a better idea of what you were looking at. "It's a bush. Looks torn up." You shrugged. "What's special about it?"

Ezra huffed, sounding annoyed. "That is not just a torn up bush," he groused. "That is a sign of dragon hunting. Look at the bush more closely - see where it got caught? Those cracked branches? And the roots, see how they're comin' up out of the ground?"

You nodded slowly, looking at it with more caution. You could see what he had seen, now. "How long ago, do you think?"

Ezra shrugged, reaching up to scratch the scruff along his jaw. "Hard to say. Recent enough that we're in the right area." He stalked ahead of you again, muttering under his breath. You just caught the words "untrained" and "useless".

A potent mixture of humiliation and rage pricked at your eyes, clogging up your throat. You breathed through it, closing your eyes tightly. You needed this. You needed this. You couldn't just march off now, no matter how much you wanted to.

So you waited until the rage had calmed a little. And then trudged after him.

[teathyme4thedevil]

~ Thyme to Introduce Myself ~

*This blog's contents may have mentions of NSFW content, but I myself will never write any full-on smut. Reblogs may be sensual though.*

Hello. You can refer to the mod of this page as Mod. I use they/them pronouns and am an adult. I write Obey Me! fanfiction, headcanons, imagines and more. If you like my work and want to stick around to see what's next in store, welcome~!

Who's Thyme Anyways?

Whenever I write about Obey Me!'s MC, I use my MC Thyme. They are an AMAB Agender Aromantic Asexual and are in a poly queer platonic relationship with the brothers. Thyme allows the brothers to love on them, as long as they don't take it too far when doing so. The brothers are okay with Thyme only viewing them platonically as long as Thyme is okay with them having feelings for them, which they are.

It's basically the fluffiest, snuggliest one-sided relationship ever.

*Thyme will never feel sexual feelings for the brothers or anyone else. They are a non-sexual entity.

What have you written so far?

Obey Me! Headcanons:

Demonic Behavior Headcanons #1 Demonic Behavior Headcanons #2 Demonic Romance Headcanons

Demon/Human Pact Mark Headcanons

MC's Dynamic With Each of the Brothers

Brother’s Reaction to an Aromantic Asexual MC

Obey Me! One-Shots:

Bedtime Routine - Mammon x MC

[sebdoesthings]

I can't take posting on ao3 anymore, it makes me feel so uncomfortable. In an ideal scenario I would stop posting fic altogether, but I've made a promise to my readers that I would never abandon a fic partway through. This is something that is intrinsic to my process, something that sets me apart from other writers. My multi-chapter fics are finished before they ever get posted.

So I want to keep that promise. I think what I'll do is finish Thyme on ao3 because there's only one chapter left, and then post the rest of All of His Colours on ko-fi for free without a paywall. I've already posted the first chapter there just now, and I was able to format it in a way I like. I'll share the posts on tumblr whenever I post them just like I used to, and I'll make a masterpost with links to all chapters.

It's not a perfect solution by any means, but it's one I might be able to live with.

[phantomamour]

𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐝

coriolanus snow x test subject!reader

~•*⁀➷ part two

cw// little heavier in themes than usual with human experimentation - mention of blood, drugs, slight mention of Stockholm syndrome, and injury - dedicated to my favorite @milliesfishes who has listened to me talk about this concept incessantly in her inbox and inspired so many amazing thoughts for an au like this and HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO TBOSBAS <3

Subject 004717 - November 17 7:41pm

Injected ten milliliters of test drug into the left arm. CS.  Irritability noted after ten minutes. VG.  Sensitive to touch after an additional five minutes. VG. Hallucinations and emotional instability began twenty minutes after injection. VG.  Physical touch causes bruising. CS.  Blood drawn to confirm bruising due to lack of iron. VG.  Test reversal drug administered one hour post-injection. CS. 

Coriolanus had rarely felt truly disturbed by Gaul’s experiments. Her mind was dark and twisted; he knew his own mind wasn’t too far from that. However, he had learned far too quickly that you were becoming a limit to what he could handle in her mad scientist lab. You had volunteered to be poked and prodded and injected and tested. You had volunteered to be Dr. Volumnia Gaul’s personal project, and Coriolanus was far too attached to it. He knew the university’s tuition wasn’t inexpensive even while his education was funded by the scientist herself, but to see his classmate, someone intelligent and capable, have to stoop to the levels of letting Gaul use you was something entirely different.

He wanted to save you. He wanted to take you so far from Gaul that she couldn’t even think about touching you again. The sound of your screams kept him up at night, and the sight of your blood distracted him in the middle of the day. He didn’t know how to survive your torture any longer. Standing idly by and watching your suffer didn’t feel right. But he owed Gaul his life, didn’t he? He needed to thank her for what he’d done for her, and yet he cursed her name for slowly killing you every day. The effects of her experiments started to show. The bags under your eyes darkened, and you were slower in answering questions in class. He could see how you tried to hide your wince when raising your arm or stretching out your legs. He wasn’t sure how much more you could take. 

The two of you had developed a routine of sorts. He’d always spend a moment with you before an experiment, trying to keep your mind off whatever horrors Gaul had prepared for you, and afterward, he would clean you up and make sure you ate and drank some water before taking you home. If your insistence on volunteering your body to Gaul’s science hadn’t made your financial trouble clear to Coriolanus, the state of the apartment he dropped you off at made it more than evident. 

You lived on the outskirts of the city, neighborhoods overrun by those who were on their way to being kicked to the districts. Every time Coriolanus brought you there, he couldn’t help but think you didn’t belong. He wanted to adorn you in every luxury possible, have you experience what it felt like not to suffer. But in a way, it made him understand you more. He felt a kinship to you, an understanding beyond what others would have in passing. He knew what it felt like to be in your situation. So when you first let him take you home after an experiment, he knew it was a sign of your trust in him. The same trust you bestowed on him every night since.

Whatever Gaul had injected you with tonight left you shaking even hours after the reversal. You couldn’t forget the feeling of losing control. The hallucinations clouded your brain before Coriolanus was forced to lay his hands on you. Gaul had made him hurt you, and even in your drugged state, you knew it caused him just as much pain as it did you. Neither of you spoke as he cleaned you up and applied a salve over the bruises. You two did not speak a word when Gaul excused herself for the night, reminding Coriolanus to initial his parts of the experiment log. You flinched when the door shut behind her before tears muddled your vision, and you bit down on your bottom lip to try and prevent their descent down your face. 

“Come home with me tonight,” his voice startled you, an interruption in the racing thoughts of your head, “Come home with me, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” This hadn’t been the first time he mentioned it to you. The last few times he dropped you off at your apartment, he tried to convince you to stay in the car, to follow him back to his penthouse, and to spend the night. However, you were always halfway out the door, thanking Coriolanus for his help before stumbling up the stairs to your apartment when he didn’t need to help you walk. Tonight, he hadn’t bothered to wait before asking, moving a hand up to cup your cheek and wipe the tear that fell against your will.

“Today was… We could both use the company tonight,” he explained quietly. You could feel the slightest tremor in his hands and could only imagine that he remembered tonight’s experiment just as sourly as you now did. Your feelings for Coriolanus were something you quickly discarded out of fear of Stockholm syndrome, unsure if they were real or not. But as his thumb rubbed over your cheekbone, you weren’t sure if you entirely cared about that fear for the night. 

“Just tonight,” your voice was shakier than you thought it would have been, but he made no comment on it, leaning forward to ghost his lips over your forehead before helping you stand. Your knees buckled, but he was quick enough to predict that and keep you upright.

“I’ll call for the car after we get you dressed.” His voice wasn’t much smoother than yours, but the kindness behind it made you wonder if it was reserved just for you, a distinct change in him that only you had the pleasure of seeing. You cringed when he helped you over to a new chair, one whose cushions weren’t soaked in spots with your own blood. Everything hurt. It usually did after experiments. But whatever Gaul had concocted this time was making you tired in the most uncomfortable way. Coriolanus’ hands were always gentle with you when he had the chance to be, as if alone with you, he could be something he never allowed himself to be otherwise. 

Those same gentle hands were the ones lifting your blood-soaked hospital gown off as his eyes trailed over your skin. Every scar became a reminder of past experiments, and he could recall most of them just by the placement and length of the scar alone. One along your collarbone had been the test of a new poison Gaul had created and soaked a blade in. The raised tissue on your side was a bite from one of Gaul’s newest mutants with the hope of saliva that would drive the tributes to the brink of insanity. Perhaps the scar that haunted him the most lay down the center of your chest, long and still red. She had performed surgery on you while you had to lie there awake, giving you a sedative that turned your body numb but kept your brain racing. Coriolanus held you for hours that night, fingers tracing along your arms to remind you that you could feel again. 

He washed your skin so lightly with a wet cloth that you weren’t sure if you were imagining it. Each scrub took away the remnants of the experiments that were left, the dried blood, the tears that left salty streaks. The only thing he couldn’t wash away were the bruises, the bruises he’d inflicted on you. When you caught sight of him staring at one on your shoulder, you grabbed his hand to stop him from wiping at it anymore.

“You didn’t want to. I know that. I knew it even when it was happening,” you whispered, voice tender and comforting as he took a deeper breath.

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No. But it makes you better than her.” Those few words sent a warmth to his chest he hadn’t known he needed. When he didn’t respond, you leaned forward to rest your head on his chest with a small sigh, unsure if it was with pain or relief. He tensed at the touch at first, like you found he almost always did before he brought a hand to the back of your shoulders and carded his other hand through your hair. He didn’t need to say anything, and neither did you. You both knew that being close was the only thing that would fix the anguish in your chest tonight. 

You two stayed like that for a few minutes, letting your chests move in sync with each breath until you took. Everything between you and Coriolanus felt foreign but in the most comforting way. He wasn’t the same as the rest of your life, and you weren’t the same as his. You became each other’s comfort even in the most uncommon of circumstances. Scientist and test subject were no longer an apt fit to describe the connection you carried. It had become something more profound than you knew how to define, which needed protection. 

He took his time dressing you, fingers trailing gently along your skin like he could heal you and everything Gaul did to you just by a soft touch. When his lips lingered by your forehead, he pressed them flush into a kiss this time. It felt like your insides had turned to pure liquid, a feeling stronger than anything Gaul’s drugs had given you before. You watched as he called for a car to be brought around before he helped you into your pants that had been discarded earlier for a gown. Your hand moved on its own accord to push his hair back from his eyes as the gel he usually kept in it loosened; the late hours and his incessant need to run his hands through his hair anxiously showed the slight curls you wished you could see more often. 

“Car’s here,” he spoke as he looked up at you, doing up the last button of your pants like a routine he knew all too well. Your lips tugged up in a soft smile as you nodded and let him help you back up, ignoring his offer to carry you. Your legs were weak, but you could still walk with his arm around your waist. His driver knew better than to ask questions about your state, but you felt their eyes on you as you slid into the back seat before Coriolanus moved in next to you. He stated that the only stop would be his penthouse tonight, and another small smile graced your features. 

It couldn’t have been more than a minute before his fingers interlaced with yours. Another minute before you moved closer to him. Two minutes before your head rested on his shoulder, the weight of everything dissipating with every second further from the lab. You were halfway to the penthouse when your eyes finally closed, and he felt your breaths deepen against his side as you fell asleep. He was slow in moving you to rest your head in his lap, positioning your legs up into the seat and covering you with his jacket. He would find a way to get you out of this, out of Gaul’s hold. But until then, he’d let you rest and give you peace. Until he could find the words you so desperately needed him to defend you with. 

[menaasstuff]

The Misfortunate Incident

Chapter One

“I'll love you till I take my last breath, Emilia!”

“No matter what gets thrown our way I'm prepared to fight for you.”

“I just need to know we're on the same page, what do you say Em?”

“Em?”

“Emilia”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 --- " EMILIA! Wake up, you’re going to be Late! "

Light flooding into the once dark room as the screech of the curtains being shoved open accompanies her mom’s voice, jolts Emilia from her sleep. Turning over to look at the time flashing on the alarm clock, she’s struck with the realization that she has less than 20 minutes to get ready or risk missing the bus for her first class. After throwing the blanket off her body, she welcomes the cold air while heading to her closet in search of something to wear.

Still being in the post sleep daze of consciousness led to many mishapes to occur in her morning routine, such as knocking her shoulder into the door frame on her way to the bathroom to and stubbing her toe while walking to her dresser. After grabbing her bag and an apple from her kitchen, she kissed her mom goodbye and rushed out of her apartment to the bus stop.

(Outfit and Hair)

“Of all the days to oversleep, it just had to be today” she muttered, while rushing down the never-ending flights of stairs she’s had to take in place of the elevator since it’s been broken for the past month.

Emilia smiled at the Abby, a grey-haired woman, that worked at the apartment front office as she reached the lobby of her building. Bursting out the front double doors she hurried down the front stairs and onto the busy Seattle sidewalks in search of the bus stop. She arrived just as it was about to take off and knocked on the door while looking pleadingly at the driver who took sympathy on the frazzled girl and reopened the door so she could climb on.

“Overslept again Em, that the second time this month”

Emilia smiled at the bus driver, an older man named Harold who she was used to seeing every day, while she swiped her bus pass and responded to his playful jab with her own.

“I stayed up late working on a presentation for school, I wish I was old like you and didn’t have to worry about things like this anymore”

Harold laughed and shooed the girl to find a seat so he could take off and makeup for the couple minutes he lost waiting for the scatter-brained girl. Settling into her seat and plugging in her headphones, Emilia settled in for her commute to school and prayed that the rest of the day would run much smoother than her morning proved to be. The music flowing through her ears and the scenery zooming by allowing the girl some peace before her hectic day was her favorite part of her morning routine

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arriving to school she searched for her friend Jessi in hopes of getting breakfast before they had to separate and begin their classes for the day. Luckily Emilia only had three classes on her schedule for Fridays, today she wished for a full schedule to avoid going to her last class of the day where she had a presentation due. Though she stayed up well into the night to practice, it didn’t do much to diminish her nerves. This wasn’t entirely surprising considering that anyone who knew the girl would know that she was terrified of public speaking and has been known on more than one occasion to freeze up entirely when in front of a crowed.

Lost in her thoughts she jumped when she was poked in the side and whirled around to face the girl shed been searching for, Jessi Solace. Emilia and Jessi have been friends since they were in middle school and Jessi stood up for Emilia when she was getting picked on by a group of girls, they’d been inseparable since.

“Woah Em! Did you pull another all-nighter, your eyebags are so dark” Jessi gasped.

“Don’t even get me started, I was so nervous for today I don’t even know how I managed to get any sleep at all” Emilia replied while walking in the direction of the canteen with Jessi at her side.

“Em, I swear you’re going to be fine. You always get yourself so worked up about these things and you do just fine once you do it” Jess nudged her best friend with a laugh while they got their food.

The girls found a table and sat down before Jessi called for Emilia’s attention to talk about the latest show, she’d been invested in.

“I can’t believe its almost over and you still haven’t started watching it, I honestly think it’s the best adaptation so far, no lie F4 Thailand is way too good for to not even have started episode” she chided her brunette friend.

“It’s not that I haven’t wanted to watch it Jess, I’ve just been busy with classes I haven’t had much time to do anything really, besides I doubt that this version can be any better than Meteor Garden, which if I recall correctly, you also dubbed the best version” Emilia laughed while raising her eyebrow at her less that amused friend who simply responded by sticking her tongue out.

“I swear I really mean it this time promise me you’ll watch it today, besides its Friday and we have a three-day weekend any, it’ll be the perfect relaxer after these last couple weeks you spent on this project” she begged with a pout.

“Ugh fine I promise, now I got to get to my first class I’ll see you later, love you”

“Love you too”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

            After she separated from Jessi, the rest of Emilia’s day seemed to speed by until it was finally time to head to her last lecture and give her presentation. While on the way to class Emilia felt her nerves began to reignite, her thoughts spiraled on all the things that could possibly go wrong, she was snaped out of it when she collied with a girl and felt the front of her shirt become soaked with a cold substance. Looking down her shirt had a big stain and through the girl began to apologize, Emilia brushed her off with a strained smile and rushed to the nearest bathroom.

            Dabbing at her shirt with a paper towel did very little to help the stain and she quickly realized she’d need to go to class with a stained shirt or risk failing the presentation. Releasing a deep breath Emilia grabbed her bag and left the bathroom to continue to get to her class while trying to calm her racing heart and hold back the tears of frustration that threatened to break past her water line.

            Stepping into class she rushed to the back of the classroom and slumped into her seat while resting her head on her arms in an attempted to ground herself. After a few peaceful minutes the clack of heels filled the auditorium like classroom and drew the attention of the students who were previously either chatting or scrambling to finish last minute details they didn’t have the energy to do the night before.

“Good afternoon, Class, I hope everyone was able to successfully complete their presentation projects, today we’ll be doing the first set of presentations and will finish the rest next Tuesday after the four-day weekend. I’ve also decided that to add an element of surprise I’ll be choosing popsicle sticks to determine order.” Her professor announced with a smile while the students let out a collective groan at the news.

“Since I can see how enthusiastic you all are, let’s begin”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the time ticked on and one presentation after the other went by, Emilia began to grow hopeful that she wouldn’t get called to present and would be able to hold off till the following week when she wasn’t covered in someone’s iced coffee. Her heartrate began to slow when she checked the time and there was 10 minutes left of the class, she was sure that the professor would end it there and she’d get off scott free. She felt on top of the world, the room felt brighter, the air felt fresher, everything felt gre—

“Emilia Raven, you’ll be our last presentation for today”

She’d never felt her heart drop as fast as it did in that moment, taking a deep breath Emilia shakily stood up and began walking down the steps towards the front of the auditorium. Once she reached the bottom step she looked towards her professor and could feel the surprise in his eye at what she was sure was her less than tidy state of being, with her dark under eyes and coffee-stained shirt on full display seeing as she had to leave the house bares faced in her rush that morning and her little misshape that took place minutes before class.

Taking a deep breath, she mustered up a smile and turned to face the waiting students.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stepping into the apartment, Emilia slammed the door behind her and called out a greeting to her mother while walking to the kitchen in search of a snack. Once she entered, she noticed a note sitting on the counter and upon closer inspection saw it was from her mom informing her that she got called in to work the night shift at the hospital. She also warned her to not go back out, since there was supposed to be a storm rolling into the area and she didn’t want her out in it.

Setting the note back down on the counter, she let put a sigh and thought about how she should spend her night, her mom working the night shift meant she’d have the apartment to herself for the night and she fully intended to take advantage. She was going to wash the stench of coffee off her, make herself dinner and maybe finally get around to watching the new show her best friend had been trying to get her to watch.

[binkybonkybucky]

this whole series is SO GOOD! bucky with the arm AND tattoos is to die for omg. i don't want to spoil anything but gosh imagining being alone with bucky for two weeks is making me INSANE. this series was such a good read, i wish i could keep re-reading it as if it were the first time

the night trilogy

a/n: oops, i decided to make a oneshot i wrote a few months back into a miniseries because my brain wouldn't stop braining.... enjoy!

warnings: bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader, ex!peter parker x reader, reader’s mom is the british ambassador to france, age gap (10-15 years), forbidden romance, explicit sexual content, total word count is 10.7k

polls for the story: 1 | 2

masterlist | join my taglist 

PART ONE: JUST FOR TONIGHT

PART TWO: NIGHT OUT

PART THREE: STAY FOR A FORTNIGHT

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🌸Describing Scents For Writers 🌸| List of Scents

Describing aromas can add a whole new layer to your storytelling, immersing your readers in the atmosphere of your scenes. Here's a categorized list of different words to help you describe scents in your writing.

🌿 Fresh & Clean Scents

Crisp

Clean

Pure

Refreshing

Invigorating

Bright

Zesty

Airy

Dewy

Herbal

Minty

Oceanic

Morning breeze

Green grass

Rain-kissed

🌼 Floral Scents

Fragrant

Sweet

Floral

Delicate

Perfumed

Lush

Blooming

Petaled

Jasmine

Rose-scented

Lavender

Hibiscus

Gardenia

Lilac

Wildflower

🍏 Fruity Scents

Juicy

Tangy

Sweet

Citrusy

Tropical

Ripe

Pungent

Tart

Berry-like

Melon-scented

Apple-blossom

Peachy

Grape-like

Banana-esque

Citrus burst

🍂 Earthy & Woody Scents

Musky

Earthy

Woody

Grounded

Rich

Smoky

Resinous

Pine-scented

Oak-like

Cedarwood

Amber

Mossy

Soil-rich

Sandalwood

Forest floor

☕ Spicy & Warm Scents

Spiced

Warm

Cozy

Inviting

Cinnamon-like

Clove-scented

Nutmeg

Ginger

Cardamom

Coffee-infused

Chocolatey

Vanilla-sweet

Toasted

Roasted

Hearth-like

🏭 Industrial & Chemical Scents

Metallic

Oily

Chemical

Synthetic

Acrid

Pungent

Foul

Musty

Smoky

Rubber-like

Diesel-scented

Gasoline

Paint-thinner

Industrial

Sharp

🍃 Natural & Herbal Scents

Herbal

Aromatic

Earthy

Leafy

Grass-like

Sage-scented

Basil-like

Thyme-infused

Rosemary

Chamomile

Green tea

Wild mint

Eucalyptus

Cinnamon-bark

Clary sage

🎉 Unique & Uncommon Scents

Antique

Nostalgic

Ethereal

Enigmatic

Exotic

Haunted

Mysterious

Eerie

Poignant

Dreamlike

Surreal

Enveloping

Mesmerizing

Captivating

Transcendent

I hope this list can help you with your writing. 🌷✨

Feel free to share your favorite scent descriptions in the replies below! What scents do you love to incorporate into your stories?

Happy Writing! - Rin T.

[knightthyme]

you who are reading this will survive

[hatethysinner]

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʜᴇʀʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've found comfort in your solitary life. No one comes to visit the humble herbalist living on the town's edge who talks to her own plants. That all changed in the early morning hours of today, when your kindness betrayed you to help a suffering man on your doorstep. You let the wrong one in.

ᴡᴄ: 8.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: Haven't felt like dipping my toes into writing fanfics again since my Avatar era, which was TWO YEARS AGO!!! There are not enough fluffy Remmick fics, so I will be the first to change that. This is my official admittance into the mental hospital we call the Sinners fandom. White girls I promise you can still have your fun with this too, enjoy!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, fluff with a side of smut, a little angst i guess, dark!remmick is on vacation, you're getting overly grateful remmick instead, excessive use of the word perfect, reader is a little special, a little domesticity never hurts, yearning, vampirism, blood, biting, begging, absolutely pathetic man overload at the start, praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, offscreen parental death, detailed wound care, nursing back to health, religious undertones if you squint, general affection and eroticism, amateur knowledge of herbalism pls don't kill me, excessive divider usage, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: “Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[iniquitousyearning]

omg i’ve missed you!🥹🤣🤣🩷🩷

thank you for the amazing reblog, as always. these are always such a fucking treat to read 🤭

tom riddle. | everyone has their vices

summary: tom riddle tells you he jerks off (and more) to relieve stress. just….in typical tom fashion.

word count: 2k

tags: 18+, suggestive content, so much tension you’ll choke on it, frustrating subliminal tom riddle (though reader is just as stubborn), flirting, masturbation insinuation, make out sesh.

"But how?”

Tom inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he prepared to reexplain for what felt like the hundredth time. "Because, the slightest distraction or doubt can result in consequence—as I said previous. A momentary lapse in any of the areas we covered will result in splinching."

You blinked, staring at him like he'd spoken an alternate language. The late night and the relentless focus on Tom's face for the past four hours had blurred everything into a haze and dulled his voice into a monotonous hum, blending with the soft rustle of parchment and the distant lapping of the lake against the window. He could see it—your disconnection, the way his words slipped past you like water through fingers.

He exhaled, slumping back in his chair, a hand raking through his dark hair in frustration. "Should we call it a night?"

"Probably," you muttered, your gaze drifting to the window behind him, the surface of the Black Lake rippling under the moonlight. "You've overloaded my brain. I stopped comprehending two hours ago."

You felt Tom's eyes narrow slightly as he studied you—you must have looked a mess. Strands of hair had fallen out of your ponytail, your uniform shirt was half undone, and there was a dullness in your eyes that spoke of more than just exhaustion. A week bedridden with the flu had set you back, and now, despite Tom's best efforts, you felt like you were drowning.

He knew you were stressed beyond measure—you were normally not like this.

"You need to relax," he said, the words landing with the flatness of an undisputed fact. "You won't retain anything in the state you're in."

"How can I relax when I'm two weeks behind? And exams are next week?" Your voice cracked with the weight of your frustration as you leaned your elbows on his desk, burying your face in your hands. "I'm helpless, Tom. I know you know it."

"Would I be sitting here wasting my time if I thought you were helpless?" He watched you, almost clinical in his intensity as he spoke—tone matter-of-factly, devoid of any false comfort. It cut through your despair with ease. Tom Riddle never did anything without purpose; if he was here, it meant he believed you were worth the effort. "My suggestion is that you reset your brain," he continued, his voice steady like his fingers as he shut the textbook between you. "Take a walk. Have a cold shower. Jump in the lake. Whatever you need to do to decompress."

The simplicity of his suggestions almost made you laugh, but it was the kind of laughter that would easily turn into tears if you let it. Tom had a way of stripping everything down to its most basic form—of cutting through your stress and chaos and presenting you with a simple, unvarnished answer.

You were a mess, and he was telling you to fix it—no coddling, no pity, just a clear-eyed assessment of the situation. And somehow, that was exactly what you needed to hear. You appreciated him for it.

"Decompress, huh. I don't believe I've ever done such a thing." You leaned back in your chair with a lopsided grin, arms crossed. "Is that what you do? Jump in the lake?"

Tom let out a huff, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in what was almost—almost—a smile.

"Something like that."

Interesting—Tom Riddle, always so composed, every inch of him meticulously put together, as if the mere idea of stress was a foreign concept. You couldn't imagine him spiralling, not the way you did—frankly, you couldn't imagine him ever feeling overwhelmed at all.

The curiosity gnawed at you, wondering what he did to unwind—what rituals or habits did the untouchable Tom Riddle indulge in when no one was watching?

"Something else, then?" You pushed it further, gently, your eyebrow arching just slightly.

For a moment, his gaze flickered, something dark and inscrutable passing behind his eyes. You knew he was considering your words, debating whether to indulge your curiosity or keep you at arm's length. Such a fascinating creature he was—all brick walls and boarded windows—you had a feeling he was going to shut this down.

Until, he leaned forward.

"If you're asking if I have habits—I suppose I do," he said, your eyes drawn to the way his lips moved, the way his voice curled around each syllable. "Habitual things I do to—relax, let's say."

You hummed and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you considered him—fighting to hide your amusement. That was the biggest personal moment you've had out of Tom Riddle since the day you met him in first year where he told you his name.

"Well, isn't that a revelation," you teased, toying with the edge of your skirt. "Just the mere insinuation that Tom Riddle has to do something to relax—as though he's not always cool, calm, and collected like he lets on."

His lips curled slightly at your words, his gaze dipping briefly from your eyes to your mouth, trailing lower in a slow, deliberate sweep that brushed over your chest before landing back on the desk.

Your brain buffered, tingles in the wake of his wrath. He picked up his quill, spinning it idly between his fingers. 

"Everyone has their vices—if they don't, they end up like you," he said, his tone laced with an ambiguity that made you wonder just how deep his ran. "Perhaps it's time you found some."

You scoffed, leaning further back in your chair, the fabric of your shirt pulling tighter across your chest. You forced yourself to ignore the visceral reaction your body had as you caught the brief flicker in Tom’s gaze—the way his eyes darted up to the movement before he quickly masked his expression.

For a moment, you thought you might be imagining things, but the tensing of your thighs betrayed a reaction you couldn't quite shake.

"And what are yours?" You asked after a moment, your voice softer now. Tom Riddle was many things, but he was not a conversationalist—and yet here he was, indulging your curiosity instead of shutting it down. He was humouring you, and you intended to make the most of it. "Decompressing with bland tea and ancient tomes? Sneaking into the Restricted Section when no one's looking?"

“Mm, no.” Tom let out a snort, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips— "I’d say my vices are less...pedestrian, than all that."

The quill in his fingers stilled—the change in his demeanour was subtle, though you felt it in the air—electric, making your pulse quicken. He traced the edge of the feather with the tip of his thumb, the motion slow and deliberate, and you found yourself inexplicably distracted, fighting the urge to shift in your seat.

Why in Merlin's name was that so damn captivating?

"Less pedestrian?" You echoed, curiosity at an all-time-high. "What do you do, then, Tom? Dance naked by the light of the full moon?"

"I should hope not," he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that resonated in the pit of your stomach as you giggled alongside him. The quill twirled again in his fingers, the motion languid, almost hypnotic. "No, I'd say my vices are more...private. Less suited to polite company. Perhaps I should let you guess since the mystery of it seems to fascinate you so."

The look he gave you made you stiffen, a challenge—no, a dare—clear in his deep, dark eyes. Your thighs involuntarily reacted again—less suited to polite company?

"I believe I've already made several guesses," you tried to compose yourself with a shallow inhale. "I'm quite at a loss."

He shook his head, stifling his grin. "Clearly, you lack imagination."

"Clearly, you enjoy being cryptic." You shot back, unable to stifle yours.

At that, he hummed—it was obvious your stubbornness was as entertaining to him as it was aggravating. Perhaps you could say the same. He set the quill down, his eyes on yours as the fingers of his free hand began to tap idly on the desk—and then his gaze dipped again, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting lower, a slow, deliberate path that made you tense.

For a moment, you wondered if the tension in the air was all in your head. Was he always this adventurous with his eyes?

"When the mind is under strain," he began, his voice smooth, clinical, "it's a result of an excessive influx of neural signals. Synapses misfire, disrupting cognitive function. A basic physiological response." He watched your reaction closely, as though gauging the impact of his words. "To address such a state, one must reestablish control over these neural pathways. To be direct, I find the most efficacious methods involve tasks that stimulate the senses without being emotionally or physically taxing. A simple, repetitive action can suffice—something arbitrary enough to encourage the subconscious to lose focus."

You fought the urge to scowl at his change in speech—Tom knew damn-well just how overwhelmed your brain was—and then continued to recite scientific jargon as if it were his full-time occupation.

You’d almost be mad if it weren’t for the fucking words that stuck to the inside of your ears—stimulate, repetitive, lose focus—

"You're a walking textbook, aren't you?" You continued to play it off—you didn't want to make assumptions—you hated the way he danced around the edges of things, never quite saying what he meant. "Be specific."

Tom's grin grew as he leaned in slightly, his fingers stilling on the desk between you. "I find tasks that involve the hands particularly useful. Something that can be repeated in a smooth, steady rhythm, with little conscious thought required. The ability to lose oneself in the pattern is key."

Merlin help you—the atmosphere in his dorm had changed with those words; the air turned viscous, cloying, each breath sticking in your throat like syrup—hands, steady rhythm, lose oneself—the words pulsed with implication, even if it was buried under layers of his typical, infuriating ambiguity.

He was absolutely referring to—no—no assumptions—

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "So...knitting?"

The words tumbled out, a weak attempt at humour to cut through the tension, but they hung lifeless in the air—as hollow as the chuckle that rumbled from Tom's chest.

His eyes traced over you, lingering in a way that made your skin prickle. "Not exactly."

"Hm. A different kind of needlecraft, perhaps." You shifted in your seat, trying to inject a semblance of nonchalance into your posture.

But you weren't fooling him—you never had—

"How much longer are you going to play coy?" He murmured, the amusement clear from light-years away.

Heat surged up your neck, the flush burning across your cheeks, betraying you—"how much longer are you going to continue holding your tongue?"

Your voice came out sharper than intended, laced with a challenge you barely felt capable of meeting. You and Tom had always been cordial, the slight suggestive comment here and there, mostly from your end. But this—oh, this was different—this was uncharted territory.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Would you prefer I do something else with it?"

Oh, fuck yes you would—

"You're being obtuse," you practically choked out, though the words lacked the bite you intended. "Entirely vague."

"I'm being clear," he countered, his gaze never wavering. "But you're being obstinate—willfully ignorant to my meaning because you refuse to acknowledge it without me saying it outright."

The air between you dissipated—you tried to grasp for a coherent thought, something to regain your footing, but your mind faltered, stumbling over the implications of what he was saying. His eyes never left yours—and you watched them deepen in colour, black pupils eating away the rich brown of his irises, darkening with something that made the room feel unbearably small.

You could feel the heat rising in your body, pooling low in your belly. How did he do this to you? How did he turn you inside out with nothing more than words and that infuriating, knowing smile?

"Tell me," you breathed, hating how desperate the words sounded, "what do you do with your hands, Tom?...how do you use them to relieve...stress?"

The second those words left your lips you realized what was truly happening here—Tom Riddle never did anything without intent—every word, every pause, every smirk, was a thread in a web he was weaving, intricate and inescapable. He'd led you here, gently, subtly, with the barest hint of force, and now that you were caught, you realized that you wanted this.

Needed it.

And it was clear he did too. Otherwise you'd never have gotten to this point—he wanted you to push, to dig deeper—your stomach twisting as you watched Tom wet his lips, but there was no smirk on them this time.

Only something intense—jaw set, eyes focused—

"I think we both know what I do with my hands," he whispered, the double entendre clear in every syllable— "you knew exactly what I was insinuating the moment this started."

Your breath snagged in your throat, a tremor running through your entire body as the warmth pooling in your belly began to spread, sinking lower, threading through every nerve. Your vision narrowed, centering entirely on him—his eyes, the curve of his lips, the way his presence seemed to devour the room, leaving no space for anything else.

And then, you nodded, the movement barely there—a subtle acknowledgment of your understanding.

"Do you touch yourself, Tom?..." the words escaped you, a soft, breathy whisper that you could hardly believe were your own. "Or do you touch someone else?"

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze, suspended in the intensity of those questions.

The world narrowed to the point of his gaze, the sharp line of his jaw—the reality of where you were, what you were doing, almost seemed to blur—trapping you both in a moment that felt surreal, like a scene caught in the still frame of a film. Never—never—had you imagined a conversation like this with Tom Riddle, hardly your acquaintance, the untouchable genius of the school.

And yet here you were, heart pounding, every nerve on fire, and Merlin help you, you were going to wring every drop of this out for as long as you could.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement, entranced. "Depends on my level of stress."

Tom's expression was unreadable—except for the subtle tension in his shoulders as he leaned back, spreading his legs a fraction wider, the fabric of his dress shirt straining against the flex of his biceps—

"...and how stressed are you right now?" You whispered, reckless, without a trace of restraint.

Tom's throat bobbed with another swallow, a gesture so simple yet so charged that it sent your pulse roaring in your ears.

"Quite," he murmured, his voice taut, stretched thin. "The past four hours have been rather taxing—wouldn't you agree?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up, escaping before you could stop it. You tried to steady yourself, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. You had never felt so intensely aroused and frustrated in your life, and you knew, without a bloody doubt, that he was perfectly aware of it.

"Are you trying to imply l'm the cause of your stress?"

"On the contrary," he said, his gaze raking over you, his eyes dark and hungry, as if you were something to be consumed, devoured whole. "I'm saying you've exacerbated it. Though I'll concede a fair share of the responsibility—as it is mine, after all."

"How kind of you," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "To admit your own fault in the matter."

"I'm a kind man." His voice was a low purr, the kind that seeped into your bones, making your blood thrum with anticipation. "I like to take responsibility for my shortcomings."

Yes, yes—so very kind—

"Then take it."

The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them, a challenge thrown into the thick, suffocating air between you. The tension was a living thing now, colled tight, ready to snap, turning your insides into a churning mess of want and need.

Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Take it?" He echoed. "And what exactly do you want me to take, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

The pet name rolled off his tongue with a casual ease that sent a flush of heat straight to your core— the simple word wielded like a weapon, striking you down with its intimacy. There was no denying the power that name held over you, especially when coming from his lips.

"The responsibility..." you whispered, the words trembling as they left you, barely more than a breath. "…for your..." you hesitated, your eyes locked onto his as you finally said, "…shortcomings."

For a moment, everything hung in the balance—until, oxygen extinct, Tom leaned forward, closing the space between you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with your own.

Curse this fucking desk between you.

"My shortcomings," he repeated, his eyes flicking to your lips. "Is that all I should take responsibility for?"

"Are you suggesting..." you leaned in as well, the distance between you shrinking to a breath—your gaze drawn to his own mouth—the plush of it, how bad you wanted to feel it against yours, "...there's something else you wish to take responsibility for?"

Said mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smile and witnessing the shift this close felt dangerously religious—as though you'd experienced something sacred not many have before—part of you knew you did.

"Many things," he whispered, the sound soft as velvet, dangerous as a blade. "The list is long and varied..."

The heat in your body was painful—you had never been this close to him, never felt the full weight of his presence bearing down on you like this. His cologne—faint, rich, and so distinctly Tom—overwhelmed you, the same scent he'd worn since you first met him.

It was infuriating, how everything he did was so subtle, simple—yet so fucking intoxicating, so irresistible.

"...I'm not quite sure where to start." His eyes flicked back to yours.

Every word that fell from his lips was a new form of torture, his dark eyes pinning you in place, searing into you. The heat radiating from his body made you want to retreat, to find air, to find space—but the thought of putting any distance between you was unbearable, the need to be near him overriding everything else.

You'd rather lose consciousness than pull back.

"Why don't you start..." you whispered, tilting your head, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. "By fixing the insatiable ache in my curiosity...the one you created when you mentioned how you use your hands...to relieve stress..."

He exhaled, the sound rumbling from his chest like a growl and you could almost imagine that if he parted his lips, you'd glimpse fangs behind them right now—you'd never seen him like this—his gaze predatory, fucking ravenous, and it was as though he could devour you whole if he so chose to.

But you knew better. Tom Riddle would never be so crude. His methods of torment were deliberate—Methodical. A slow depletion of your senses until you're gasping for something only he can give you.

Then, in a voice that was all gravel and silk, he whispered, "is that all that's aching...your...curiosity?"

"Gods no—"

But you never finished that thought—because in an instant, his hand was tangled in your hair, pulling you forward with a force that sent you careening over the desk and into him—Tom Riddles lips crashed against yours, and it was like drowning, his tongue invading your mouth, stealing your breath and dragging all ounces of your cognitive ability along with it.

You were half out of your chair, caught in the gravity of him, unsure if your legs were even working, or if it was his grip alone that held you upright. His free hand found your wrist, pinning it to the desk as his mouth worked you with a fervour that made your head spin. The kiss was incendiary, a wildfire scorching its way through every nerve in your body, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake—the intensity of it, the sheer, unrelenting pressure of his lips on yours, made you wonder how you survived this long without it.

All the heat in your blood pooled low, deep between your thighs, an ache so profound it threatened to consume you. Tom Riddle was about to show you precisely how he used his hands to relieve stress, and Gods, if that wasn’t the only thing you’d ever needed right now.