#health and diet of horse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

merakiui · 9 months ago

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fairy-tale felicity.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy relationship/behaviors, obsession, horse hybrid!reader, age gap (reader is 20/21 and riddle is 31), brief mentions of past abuse and neglect, codependency, kidnapping note - the lab has rescued a horse hybrid, and riddle is tasked with rehabilitating her. he bites off more than he can chew when, as his relationship with you progresses and the program boasts promising results, he finds himself getting attached.

As soon as Riddle clocks into the facility, right on time as usual, an assistant researcher barrages him like a freight train. Her entire demeanor kindles concern, a cloying, clawing sort that gives way to uncertainty and, subsequently, confusion.

Before he can ask, she interrupts in a clipped tone: “Dr. Crewel’s called you to the exam chamber.” She hurries along so quickly that he struggles to keep up, soles squeaking against too-clean linoleum.

“What’s happened?” He matches her pace and fixes her with a sharp stare. “Is everything all right?”

“There’s this horse…thing he found and—well, it’s hard to explain. I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Riddle doesn’t push the matter further, sensing he’ll know soon enough. Crewel’s assistant wastes no time in leading him even though he has the lab’s layout memorized. It must be severe, whatever this horse-thing is. If it requires his specific presence, surely there’s a sensible explanation. After all, science prides itself on explaining the unexplainable.

He’ll take his chances and prepare for the worst.

The door is shut and the glass is frosted, indicative of privacy, but Riddle doesn’t hesitate to knock. At his superior’s command, the door slides open on smooth hinges. Riddle swallows hard and steps through with steeled nerves.

He was expecting this horse-thing to be distinctly centaurian or monstrously grotesque, so he’s surprised to see a woman lying on her back on a metal examination table, arms and legs outstretched and tied down. Her eyes are shut, and she’s dressed in a thin hospital gown. Riddle is about to ask what’s so odd, but then he sees your ears and legs.

So not a centaur. Perhaps something akin to the fabled faun he’s read so much about?

But that’s not what’s so surprising. What is, actually, is the rough state you’re in. There are bandages wound tight around your arms, legs, and throat, and Riddle theorizes scratches, bruises, and lacerations are hidden beneath those clean fabrics.

“A timely arrival,” Crewel comments, looking at him from a handful of documents.

Medical reports, Riddle assumes, watching veterinarians flit about to take vitals and run tests to gather heart rate, blood type, and even the status of your fertility. Invasive, yes, but the lab is thorough—a facet Riddle is most proud of. He shuffles closer, hazarding a glance at your bandaged legs. Ghastly chips and cracks run up and along your hooves. He notes you’re without horseshoes and grimaces.

“Dr. Rosehearts.”

“Yes? You called for me, Dr. Crewel?”

Taking one final look over what appears to be data on your current health, Crewel finally addresses Riddle properly. “I have a task for you.”

“Involving this hybrid?”

“Correct. If I recall, you mentioned you’ve dealt with horses before.”

“That’s true, yes…” He knows the path Crewel is treading and he’s dreading it. “In my youth, I participated in competitive horseback riding. One of our responsibilities in the Equestrian Club was to care for and look after our horses.”

“How many years was that for?”

“Eight or so. Admittedly, it’s been some time since I’ve kept up with it.”

“I see. Then I assume you’re aptly aware of their biology?”

“To an extent, yes. I know their diet and habits. How to handle one. How to calm one. How to ride one. Etcetera. I’d say I have my fair share of experience.”

Toeing the line of piqued curiosity, Riddle keeps his eyes pinned firmly on Crewel even though the doctors’ hushed chatterings reach his ears. He tamps down the urge to turn and watch the hybrid.

“Internal structures are intact. Minor fracture in the left wrist,” one observes. “We’ll insert the microchip between her shoulder blades soon. Be prepared to move the specimen.”

“What’s the plan after rehabilitation? Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show?” another adds, detached but inquisitive.

“Not just that. Is it possible to breed her? If she’s more human than equine, does that not qualify her as a beastfolk? Although most of them are centaurs, right?”

“Yeah, but Dr. Crewel’s calling her a hybrid.”

“There’s a difference?”

Riddle wonders that, too.

Crewel clips the pages together before handing them to Riddle for his perusal. “We responded to a call regarding her.”

Her meaning you, the hybrid. Riddle leafs through the documents, scanning each with his discerning greys. Calls weren’t uncommon; most of them were usually false, the result of people who didn’t understand that the meaning of a rehabilitation lab is found in its title and that they can’t just call to report their friend for being a fool in need of treatment (which was almost always untrue). But sometimes there were genuine calls—the ones in which hybrids needed help or rescuing or intervention of some sort. This seems to be the latter case.

“And does that explain the state she’s in?”

“Mostly. What we know so far is noted in the report.”

He finds it then—the official reasoning behind your condition. “Physical abuse and neglect,” he reads, running down the list as it grows longer and sadder with every word.

“I suspect she’s become averse to humans as a result of this severe maltreatment. She was given a sedative via tranquilizer dart. It was the only way we could cut her free from the cuff without harming her.”

“The cuff?”

“The shed she was locked in. Cuffed to a post—nearly frostbitten, poor thing—and fed scraps.” Crewel’s eyes narrow with disdain. “Rotten mutts, the lot of them.”

Riddle hums, speechless. What a tragic situation.

“Were the ones responsible caught?”

“Most of them.” Crewel brushes past Riddle to observe the hybrid up close. “She’s the result of unethical breeding, which isn’t as uncommon as we wish it was. But the case is in the hands of the authorities now. I’m not going to trouble myself with the misdeeds of a few bad dogs.”

“What will become of her? I imagine rehabilitation is our top priority?”

“Precisely. This is where you come in.” Crewel gestures to the slumbering hybrid. “You’re one of our best good boys, Dr. Rosehearts. As such, I’m entrusting you to look after her.”

“Look…after,” he parrots, tongue heavy in his mouth. “I’m sorry, what? You can’t possibly mean—”

“The lab is no place for her. Not in her current disposition. You’re in charge of rehabilitating her from home. Prove to her that humans aren’t all naughty pups in need of proper discipline. You’ll report your progress and findings directly to me.”

“I… I can do it. Naturally.” Confidence swells within him; he’s satisfied to have been chosen for such an important duty. But rehabilitation from home, in which he won’t have all of the helpful tools the lab carries, is daunting in its own right. “I can’t guarantee I’ll have willed her fear away. She might always fear humans.” He gazes sidelong at the hybrid and straightens his posture. “With all due respect, I’m a scientist, not a therapist.”

“I don’t expect you to be one.” Crewel turns away, tailored lab coat swishing with the motion. “You aren’t required to work miracles. That’s not within your job description. Besides, an ambitious pup will never succeed if he adopts Icarus’s mindset.”

Riddle scoffs around a laugh. “I have no intention of flying too close to the sun. I’ll do it in accordance with the rules.”

That earns him an approving nod, which is really all the validation he currently needs, before Crewel steps back to watch the vets prepare you for the microchip. Riddle stands beside him, hungering for more information.

“Aside from her past with humans, is there anything I absolutely must know? How old is she?”

“We’re thinking somewhere between twenty and twenty-one in human years. A fully mature adult by equine standards.”

He cringes at the gap. “I’ve no idea what the youth are like nowadays, especially not one who’s yet to be integrated into society.”

Crewel chuckles, folding his arms across his chest. “Will that be the foundation for your method of approach?”

“Ideally, I’d like to establish some form of connection—whether that’s by appealing to her human traits or simply appearing non-threatening. I can’t treat her like an animal. She’s human, too. But then… Well…” He shakes his head, sighing. This is a difficult equation with an unclear solution. Normally, Riddle adores these problems—the ones that get his brain turning. But this is troubling, and he can’t be clinical about it as if it’s something mathematical. He peers at the file once more. “She’s a thoroughbred? Huh. Vorpal was the same.”

“So you’ve experience with thoroughbreds.”

“I have experience with thoroughbred horses, not thoroughbred horse hybrids. But perhaps her thoroughbred nature matches that of Vorpal’s.”

Riddle worries his lip between his teeth. Thoroughbreds are notoriously hot-blooded. This may prove to be more challenging than I thought.

It’s not the first trial he’s been handed, and it won’t be the last. His entire life has been one big trial, lived out rigidly and righteously, and he’s learned to weather the difficulties by conforming to the long and often unspoken list of rules prescribed by his mother. There are rules for everything. Rules for when one should sleep if they wish to get a full eight hours. Rules for when one should speak if they wish to follow the guidelines for group etiquette. Rules for when one should have a certain flavor of tea or tart depending on the occasion. For thirty-one years of his life, he has followed all of them near-perfectly.

This circumstance is no different. The task has been assigned and, as he has dozens of times prior, he’ll follow the rules to see it through to the end.

But what exactly are the rules in dealing with a damaged hybrid? It’s the only word he can think of when he looks at you, however offensive it may be. It’s an objective observation: You’re damaged and alone, certainly afraid. He doesn’t want to picture the horrors you’ve endured—the dehumanizing experiences you’ve been subjected to at the hands of humans.

Riddle is human, and so this is very conflicting. How can he, a human, help a hybrid, who fears them like they’re nightmarish monsters? And they definitely are to you. If anything, he’s less of a human and more of a cruel beast in your eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep her here?” he ventures. The vets sedate you once more when it becomes clear the drugs are wearing off. Your tail swishes, fingers twitching, and then you fall still once more. His eyes track the IV tube to the needle pricking the top of your hand. “Safer, too. There are too many variables in my home. It wouldn’t be a suitable environment.”

“It’s separate from the lab, though—a fresh, stress-free space. Less chances of running into us, and we’re the last people she wants to see.”

“She won’t want to see me either.”

“One is better than a roomful.”

Riddle can’t refute that.

“I’ll do it,” he says, “but on the condition that you refrain from interfering directly. If I’m to rehabilitate her, then it is only me she’ll see. For now, at least. Before she can interact with other humans, she must first learn to trust one and that will be me.”

“Very well. Those are acceptable terms.”

“And I’ll need a week to prepare.”

Crewel considers the request before nodding. “A week gives me time to study her further, so I’ll agree to it.”

I’ll need to hybrid-proof the house, gather textbooks and information on horses and horse hybrids, look into dietary needs, write up daily and weekly schedules, research phobias and ways to treat them, draw up a plan of action… A backup plan, too. Just in case.

Surfacing from his inner ruminations, Riddle fixes Crewel with a stern look. “You’re going to study her in a way that isn’t hurtful, yes?”

“Of course. This requires patience and tact.” He leans over the examination table to peer at your ears as they twitch. Still sound asleep. “Rest assured, Dr. Rosehearts. No harm will befall your hybrid.”

“S-She is not my hybrid.”

“She is for the time being. I’ll give you one year.”

“A year is a long time to provide room and board for a hybrid. Besides…” He hesitates to think the logistics over before adding, “You’re asking me to shape my life around her needs. Not that I’m unwilling, mind you. It just feels…long. We can’t even be certain of the results.”

“If you’d prefer I send her to Dr. Hunt—”

At the mention of the morbidly eccentric researcher, Riddle shakes his head, a flicker of possessive fidelity sparking in him.

“There’s no need. I’ve already agreed.”

“Good boy! Then I’ll take this week to collect more data, and by Friday morning we’ll deliver her to your doorstep.”

“I’ll be ready,” he says, but he doesn’t believe it.

Just how ready can one possibly be for an assignment as sensitive as this? He supposes he’ll find out in a week’s time.

In classic Riddle Rosehearts fashion, he drives himself mad with preparation.

If his meticulous schedules and plans are worth anything, he’s about as ready as he’s ever been. He feels as if he’s about to welcome a glass sculpture rather than a hybrid into his humble home, what with its many precautions. Corners have been covered with rubber guards, dishware and utensils have been locked away and swapped with paper and plastic, and he’s blocked off the second story with a safety gate. The type used for pets and children. It was the only thing he could think of while he debated whether he should lock the medicine cabinet or just move everything upstairs.

For one year—that’s exactly 365 days—he’ll live out his life on the ground floor of his home. And he’s ready.

Is he, though?

He pored over the files day and night, reflected on new data from Crewel, and drafted dozens of plans in preparation for your arrival. Most of these plans ended up crumpled and tossed in the rubbish bin, accompanied with a groan and a muttered complaint, but last night he reached an epiphany after finishing his third read of a psychology textbook on phobias.

Anthropophobia is the fear of people, he’d jotted in a new notebook just as the clock struck midnight. For many phobias, exposure therapy is a useful and valid method of treatment. Seeing as I’m not a licensed therapist, CBT is not a possibility and I can’t bring her to a therapist myself. That would involve its own setbacks and hurdles. Therefore, I’ll keep track of her progress as I attempt exposure therapy.

The textbook recommended he try approaching it with harmless hypotheticals: Imagine you’re interacting with a few people. At first he thought it might work, but in order for you to even listen to him you’d have to trust him. And you can’t trust someone if you’re fearing for your life. For a moment, he considered purchasing a horse costume and masquerading as one himself, if only to ease your anxiety, but that would constitute a dishonest practice.

Now, sleep-deprived and uncertain, Riddle attempts to bolster his confidence. He stands at his front door like a prisoner awaiting punishment, tapping his foot against the floor out of nervous habit. A grandfather clock ticks behind him, calling out seconds and minutes in low, slow, foreboding tocks. He flips through his notes to refresh himself even though there’s no need for that; he’s already reviewed five times since he woke up.

You’re overdoing it, he tells himself. But is he? It’s better to be overly prepared.

The sudden rap at the door startles him. He hurries to open it, almost tripping on the hardwood. Inhaling a steadying breath, he holds it for a moment and then releases it. He’ll be okay. He’s a scientist. A scientist in hedgehog slippers, but a scientist nonetheless. He can do this.

“Good morning, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting when he peers out at his snow-dusted lawn, but it definitely wasn’t this. You’re bundled in a thick coat, boots yanked up to your calves, and a woolen hat is pulled down over your eyes. To hide your equine features, he realizes. Hybrids are something of a taboo subject, especially those who can’t be classified as standard beastfolk. The divide that separates both is a slippery slope.

“She’s sleeping now, but I suspect she’ll wake in an hour or so. Her left wrist is still healing, so do be mindful.”

Riddle frowns. It’s not very kind to drug her every time you need to transport her somewhere…

The week and its events were rough on you. He knows this because he was there for the briefing. Riddle’s seen needles and pills forced into you more times than he’d like to admit, and he’s heard Crewel’s trademark, “This is the only way to keep a pup docile,” so often it’s become a haunting mantra. The first rule, he decides right then, is that there will be no sedation unless absolutely necessary.

How else is he to rehabilitate you if you’re unconscious for most of it?

Crewel steps through the threshold and lowers you onto the sofa. Riddle stands rooted to his spot, observing him as he ducks out momentarily and then returns with a suitcase.

“Clothing,” he explains, setting it down in front of Riddle. “As well as a few sedatives and sleep aids. Prescribed medications and supplements. Nothing you’re not already familiar with.”

Thank the heavens, he thinks with great relief. I didn’t even think about purchasing clothes for her.

“I won’t need them.”

At least not the sedatives and sleep aids.

“Whether you use them or not is entirely up to you. It never hurts to resort to old tricks when training a dog.”

For once Riddle’s glad he’s the one in charge. Crewel views everything through the lens of a behaviorist and Rook Hunt is…Rook Hunt. Obviously, by process of elimination, he’s the most qualified for this job. Who else is going to advocate to get you fitted for new horseshoes?

“Would you like me to come into the lab at any point during this?”

“If you deem it necessary. If not, you know how to reach me. I expect an email detailing her progress every two weeks.”

“Right…” His gaze pans over to you. “What will happen after the year’s over?”

“The higher-ups will decide.”

As they have for every other case we’ve dealt with, his brain fills in the blank. Riddle doesn’t like that. Crowley does his research most of the time, but it doesn’t seem fair to send you off to Queen-knows-where if you’ve just started opening up to humans. Riddle recalls the furtive mumblings of the vets—Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show? Is it possible to breed her?—and feels himself growing ill.

“All right. Sure. Yes,” he babbles dumbly, shaking those thoughts out of his head. “I won’t let you down, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure that’s possible anymore. Not when the stakes are so high. This is an expectation, not an experiment he can toy with as he pleases.

The last of Riddle’s withering courage goes out the door with Crewel, swept up in a flurry of snowflakes. He heaves a sigh and then deflates, exhausted even though the day has just begun.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he mumbles, wringing his hands to calm himself.

He considers removing your boots and coat but thinks better of it. For a minute, he simply lingers. When it becomes clear that you aren’t going to wake anytime soon, he resolves to get started on breakfast to pass the hour. He may not be a five-star chef, but he’s had enough practice to know how to cook passable, edible meals. Although passable is not perfect, and even though he knows he should devote more time to cooking he’s never had that chance. He’s up before the sun’s risen, lukewarm coffee poured in a travel cup, and then he’s off to the lab. An unhealthy habit he ought to snuff.

Now that he’s homebound, he should make an effort to try a little harder. After all, he has a guest now. Riddle wants to impress, if only so he can finally hear someone other than Trey tell him his cooking is good. Genuinely good. He knows Trey only says so because good is a safe word with many interpretations, which is almost always succeeded with a line about how he’s willing to share a few pointers for improvement.

For now he settles on something easy, keeping all of your dietary needs in mind: oatmeal, diced fruits, an assortment of nuts, toast, and scrambled eggs. It’s less cooking and more arranging, but it’s the best he has to offer right now.

He’s in the process of setting the table for two when he realizes it’s highly unlikely you’ll be joining him. Gathering your plate and cup, he brings both into the next room over and sets them down on the table alongside a napkin and plastic utensils. With his hands on his hips, Riddle surveys his handiwork and beams.

It’s better than nothing.

His eyes find the suitcase then. It looks fit to burst, bulging with clothes. Crewel must have overpacked, but then that makes sense. Fashion is his passion, and he’d sooner shrivel than send you out into the world, which is currently limited to Riddle’s house, with plain attire. He wonders if any of the contents were designed by him or simply selected from the racks with taste and style in mind.

Riddle supposes it’s not important right now, so he drags the suitcase down the hall and into his room. Technically, it’s his study. But it will serve as his bedroom for the duration of this program. Your room—the eternally empty guest room—is right across the hall. The bed is small, but it’s cozy enough. He thinks you’ll like it, if only because it’s better than the dull lab with its hard tables and blinding lights.

He’s about to begin unpacking when a jarring crash pierces the air. Startled out of his skin, he stagger-runs out of the room just in time to see you splayed on the floor, plate overturned and food spattered. He opens his mouth to snap at you and then stops short. You notice him then, your eyes blown impossibly wide, nostrils flaring, and you scurry back as if burned.

“Wait!” he exclaims without foresight. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

He surges forward, intending to come to your aid. You make a noise that sounds like a gasp and a squeal, your breaths coming in panicked huffs and puffs. He watches you curl into a cower and his heart aches at the sight. Gathering his composure, Riddle peers at the mess and then back at you.

Distance, he reminds himself. And patience. Take it slow.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” He issues you an apologetic smile that sits awkwardly on his face. His tone is soft, an even approximation of tenderness. “I’m not going to hurt you. You may not believe that, but it’s the genuine truth. My name is Dr. Rosehearts and I’m here to look after you. You remember Dr. Crewel, don’t you? The researcher with the black-and-white hair.”

Paralyzed, you blink back at him.

“W-Well… Ah—um. Ahem. Starting today, this will be your home.” Riddle risks another step towards you and promptly stops when your arms fly up to shield your face.

What did the book say? Proceed with caution, use an indoor voice, let the subject approach you… I don’t expect her to warm up to me right this very second. Still, there has to be some way to show her I mean well… If it was Vorpal, I’d adopt a calm demeanor and make myself appear harmless. Standing too tall would make me seem like I’m a predator. But that might not work. She’s human, too.

“I know you’re scared. I’d be the same if I was in your place. That’s perfectly understandable. You don’t know much of this place or who I am—and you might think it’s scary right now—but I promise this will be good for you. This place is nothing like the ones you’ve been at before, okay? It’s safe. Nothing will hurt you here. I’m not going to get any closer. You can stay there if that’s what makes you feel comfortable.”

Minding your skittish temperament, he retreats to the kitchen. When he returns, he notices you’ve pulled your hat over your eyes and shaped yourself into a ball in the corner of the room.

Gingerly, he sets his plate on the table.

“Breakfast,” he says. You don’t say anything. “It’s good for you. The most important meal of the day, actually. Studies show that eating a healthy breakfast improves—” He swallows the rest of the statistic, flustered. Now is not the time, Riddle. “T-That aside, eat only if you’re hungry. I won’t force you, but it’s here in case you want it. I’ll be in the room just down the hall if you need me.”

Riddle departs for his study-turned-bedroom. He sits at his desk, opens his notebook, and takes a pause.

Was that the right method of approach? I introduced myself in an amicable manner, I was patient, and I didn’t show any signs of hostility. Despite everything, she probably finds my mere presence hostile… I shouldn’t have shouted like that.

With a regretful groan, he pens a reminder: Keep voice and tone in check. Always.

On some level, he understands. Or he’s trying to, at least. Every time he puts himself in your shoes, he winds up back in his childhood home, sitting at a desk piled high with thick texts on every core subject. And the one responsible for his entrapment in youth? A woman who is more warden than mother. His life has been a predetermined fairy tale since he was conceived. Even now, sitting successful in a relatively cushy position at the lab, he still feels like someone else is writing his story.

They’re holding the quill, scrawling his existence onto mystical pages, and he’s stuck following the script, bound by rules both known and unknown.

By the time he’s finished jotting notes, an air of dissatisfaction falls over the room. He should take a walk, clear his head, do something thoughtless. Anything to distract him from the encroaching bitterness of a bad mood. Riddle catches the time on the analog clock. An hour has passed. It’s been eerily silent. He doesn’t worry because he knows there’s nowhere for you to go.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to check.

Unsurprisingly, you’re still plastered to the corner like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Grey eyes sweep over the room, finding the breakfast he left you untouched and congealed. He’s about to frown when he notices something peculiar. The floor, which had once been a mess, has been cleaned. Riddle’s thoughts stall out into confused static.

Did she eat the contents off the floor?

Perhaps it’s not so farfetched. If that’s how you’ve been conditioned to eat, it’s only natural you’d follow that habit. He knows about routines well enough, for his entire existence has been lived out in strict, demanding routine, but this habit is one that fills him with an immeasurable pity.

You shouldn’t have to do that here. In fact, you shouldn’t have had to do that at all. No one should.

“I hope it was delicious,” he says, allowing a smile to bleed into his inflection. “I’m not much of a chef, but I’ll do my best to make sure you’re fed delicious, healthy meals. You won’t have to eat anything off the ground anymore.”

No response. He wasn’t expecting one. He knows you’re capable of speaking, for he heard your voice in the lab during the moments where you were kept awake for important procedures. Truthfully, he’d prefer to hear your voice when it isn’t filled with sorrow, fear, or a mixture of the two. But this is just the beginning. He doesn’t expect results within a day. A start is a start, and patience is a virtue.

“Dr. Crewel tells me you’re afraid of humans.” At that, your ears flatten on your head. “I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve been through for that fear to have developed.”

Riddle hesitates, unsure of the point he’s attempting to make.

“I understand—sort of, I think… Well, not exactly. But, to a relative extent, I understand how it feels to be alone and misunderstood with no one to turn to. Sooo.”

Not even a day in and I’m ruining it. At this rate, I’ll just look foolish and she’ll never want to trust me, let alone other humans.

“I’ll always be here if you need me. My study is right down the hall, and across the way is your bedroom. Dr. Crewel’s left me with plenty of clothes for you, so you can take that coat off if it gets too warm. Your boots and hat as well. Oh, and I’ve also got your vitamins and supplements. Those are important to take. I’ve yet to arrange them, but once I know when and how often you’re intended to take them we can start there.”

He needs this rigidity. It’s comforting. It’s familiar.

“The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Um… You can use it at your leisure. The same goes for everything else here. You’re free to explore this floor or grab something from the cupboard if you’re hungry. I won’t mind.”

It occurs to him then, standing there and watching you huddle, that familiarity is one of the best medicines when taken in healthy amounts.

Inspired, Riddle rushes back to his study, plops down in his chair, and opens to a blank page. He’s got it—the perfect schedule. And it’s all formatted around familiarity! He writes like he’s coming up on a deadline, pen soaring across lined paper in a blind rush. His handwriting may be illegible, but the messy scribble is his and his alone. He understands the intent in the chicken scratch.

Adjusting my approach slightly. Going forwards, I’ll build our routine around familiarity, reads the concluding statement of his newly improved three-page plan. He tucks the journal away in a drawer, feeling more ready than he’s ever been.

At first, time felt slow and sluggish—an agonizing crawl into a far-off future. But before Riddle realizes it it’s already been one month, and he’s spent that time dutifully following his schedule. He wakes at seven, showers at eight, and begins breakfast at nine. You sleep on the floor and eat your meals in the sitting room, wordless and anxious. He learned you won’t eat if he’s watching you, so he’s taken to having his meals in the kitchen. It was awkward at first trying to gauge just how quickly you’d eat so that he could clean up—and one time he walked in on you scarfing down your lunch in a rush, which had given you such a fright that you almost choked—so now you have a little handbell you ring whenever you’ve finished.

Since you first started living with him, you’ve taken to eating from plates and bowls rather quickly. Riddle surmises he’d be the same if he just learned there are cleaner surfaces to eat food from. But he’s happy with this development. He wasn’t expecting you’d take to plates and utensils so rapidly.

In the beginning you regarded most of your meals with suspicion, so Riddle would take tentative bites out of his portions to prove the validity and safety of each. He’d say the same thing every time—“It’s very delicious. I think you’ll like it.”—and you would submit with flattened ears, feasting with your hands. He attempted to teach you how to use the plastic cutlery, but you’d been too fearful to let him get any closer and so he put that plan on pause.

Now, after plenty of dedication and determination, familiarity has been established. You’ve since shed your coat, boots, and hat—though they’re kept close in the corner; you won’t let him touch them—and now you dress in the clothes Crewel provided. He moved the suitcase into the room when it became clear you only ever get up to use the bathroom, allowing you to pick and choose outfits as you please.

Riddle wasn’t expecting it, but you’re surprisingly self-sufficient. You bathe without complaint and you clean up after yourself, stacking your paper dishes to make collection easier. You even take your vitamins and supplements without pitching a fit! He’s honestly impressed; his expectations were, admittedly, rather low when he watched you kick and scream in the lab. But this space is different. It’s nothing like the lab. Maybe you recognize there’s some sort of comfort in that.

You’ve yet to venture into the guest bedroom, but he won’t push it. This is already good progress and it’s only been a month. You may be nervous around him, hiding at every sudden, loud sound and trembling when he strays too close, but at least you’re somewhat receptive to him and the things he provides.

So it’s a surprise when, on a mostly unremarkable Tuesday evening, you call out to him.

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

He forces himself to act normal, replying from the other room in the calmest tone he can muster, “Is something the matter?”

“Are… Are you really not going to hurt me?” The question is uttered so softly he almost misses it.

“I would never.” He rises from his chair, monitoring his noise level, and creeps closer. “May I look at you?”

“Um… S-Sure. That’s fine.”

He peeks around the corner and waves. “Hello.”

You flinch. “H-Hi…”

“Do you have a name? I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.”

“I don’t, sir.”

Riddle blinks, taken aback by the formality. “There’s no need for ‘sir.’ Just call me Dr. Rosehearts.”

You avert your eyes and drag your knees into your chest. Taking a few deep breaths, you mutter a cursory apology.

“It’s all right. If you’re not opposed to it, may I give you a name?”

“Okay.”

He pauses, reflecting on the ones he’d written in his notes based on his observations. “How does (Name) sound?”

You nod your approval. “T-Thank you…for the name.”

“Don’t push yourself if you’re scared or uncomfortable.”

“But I… I want to talk! Ah. S-Sorry for being loud…”

“It’s all right. What would you like to talk about?”

“I… Um, sorry. I don’t… Um.” You bury your face in your knees. “I… I can’t look at you… I’m sorry.”

Riddle can’t believe it. You’re willingly engaging in conversation. It’s only been a month—not even, actually—but you’re talking! He wonders what’s working because something must be if you’re already trying to overcome your discomfort to speak. Is it the schedule? Is it the routine and all of the little things in between that help make it easier for you—the handbell and the distance and the patience? Or is it positive social contact you crave, so much so you’re shrugging off the fear in order to make a connection?

You don’t have much of a choice regarding socialization, considering he’s the only other living creature here, so maybe this was inevitable. Still, it’s amazing progress. He’s already itching to notify Crewel of this development.

“I think I can talk if I’m like this. Looking at someone’s eyes is too much for me.”

“Are you certain? I don’t want you to push yourself.”

“I’m sure. It’s not so scary if I’m looking at the floor.”

“All right.” Riddle gazes at your empty plate. “Dinner was good?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“Really?” He can’t stop himself. The question falls free. “Do you really mean that? You’re not just saying that?”

“I mean it. It’s delicious.”

Riddle smirks, feeling very accomplished. You can’t compare his cooking to anyone else’s, aside from whatever they fed you at the farm, and so that makes his the best. It’s an honor, even if said honor is awarded by default.

“I’m…not known for my cooking prowess, so I’m glad you find it enjoyable.”

“I do. I’ve never had anything like it before.”

He quirks a brow. “What have you had?”

“Round and red thing. Um… Orange thing with a green stem. Bland foods. Dry stuff.”

“Red… Apples?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a fruit. They’re sweet. Very nutritional.”

“Oh, that’s what it’s called? I never knew that. I like them a lot.”

“I’ll have to buy some then.”

“Will you really?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t do you any good if you were forcing yourself to eat something you hate.”

I should know. My mother’s cooking isn’t the most delightful cuisine.

Unseasoned some would call it. Ridiculously healthy, down to exact portions and perfect calorie counts. Riddle’s since learned to be more lenient with his meals, eating until he’s full rather than following the strict parameters he was once held to. Instead, he eats what he enjoys and keeps his health in check. He hopes to impart the same wisdom to you. You’ve already lived a nightmare. Now he’d like you to start living a wondrous dream.

“Oh. Um… T-Thank you.”

“There’s no need. I’m just doing my job.” He smiles even though you’re not looking. “I’m aware you’re not very partial to human interaction, but if you’re willing I’d like to help you get comfortable with it.”

“I can’t.”

An immediate rejection. No surprises there.

“Would it be okay if we start small with just me? You don’t have to agree. I can leave you alone if you’ve had enough.”

“I…can try. You’re not very scary and you’re not mean. You’ve never forced me to do anything either…”

“I’m here to help you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’re not lying? You… You won’t trick me later?” You lift your head to look at him, warily eyeing his face to search for a fib that isn’t there. “You won’t send me back to the farm or that cold place with the humans?”

I can’t promise that last one. Anything but that, he thinks. Once the year expires, you’ll be handed over to Crewel, where he’ll determine what to do from there under the jurisdiction of the higher-ups. But Riddle can’t share confidential information with you, especially since it’s something you won’t want to hear.

“I won’t do any of that. You have my word.”

The entire point of this program is to treat your fears and get you accustomed to humans. By the end of the year, you’ll probably be begging him to let you see and meet others. At least, that’s what he hopes will happen.

“And you won’t make me take any sleep medicine?”

“No needles or pills. I only ask that you continue taking the other medicines as prescribed.”

Nodding your acquiescence, you rise to your feet and take a reluctant step towards him. Silence stretches between the both of you. He watches, anticipating. But then you shake your head and take three steps back, pressing yourself against the wall.

“S-Sorry. I thought I could… Never mind.”

“You’ve only been here a short while, but you’re already making an attempt to communicate with me despite your apprehension. You’re very brave, (Name).”

“W-Well, you haven’t given me any reason to be scared. So… So I think I can trust you. Maybe…”

Trust is a powerful thing. A responsibility and a privilege all in one. Therefore, he won’t squander it.

That night, while in the process of drafting an email to Crewel, Riddle listens to your hooves on the hardwood as you move down the hall. He glances past his monitor to the small sliver of space between the door and wall, wondering if he imagined it due to his lack of sleep, but then he hears the guest room door creak open and shut softly.

Unbelievable, he thinks, stunned into silent amazement. She’s sleeping in the bedroom.

It feels too fast and too slow. Major progress on a minimal timeline. Again, he thinks he’s dreaming and so he steps out of his study to check the sitting room. It’s empty. You’ve even taken the suitcase with you. His mouth hangs open in muted shock.

Is she starting to feel comfortable here?

What felt like an impossibility at first is gradually becoming a reality.

The schedule worked.

Good things only ever come to those who wait. Perhaps this is a plausible proverb worth its salt. As the weeks pass and you continue to interact with him, Riddle begins to take note of your personality. You’re not nearly as fiery as Vorpal was, but you are very lively—so much so that it’s almost hard to keep up with sometimes. Riddle wonders if this is a side effect of the circumstances you came from. Forced to live a life of solitude, in which you were condemned to exist in silence and act as if invisible, you’ve taken to the idea of companionship rather swimmingly.

As the old saying goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Riddle has done everything in adherence with his own set of regulations, strict in his dedication to personal forbearance. And you’ve made miraculous progress, a testament to his persistence. Crewel seems to approve of the results, voicing his opinions in emails worded with pleasant praise. Riddle couldn’t have predicted where he’d be by this point, but with this steady stream of improvement he theorizes you’ll be more than ready by the end of the arrangement.

He told himself he’d keep a healthy distance, if only to avoid feeling even more sympathy and thereby compromising this study, but he can’t help it. You’re growing on him.

In the wake of everything, he’s managed to amend his own schedule. Riddle thought he could sleep at his desk and all would be well, but you didn’t seem to like that he was neglecting his health in order to look after yours. To his surprise, you nagged him: “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? It’s your job to know someone’s health, so don’t forget about yours.”

Aiming to placate you, he made the sofa in the sitting room his bed. He does that a lot—placate you. It’s not his intention to be a doormat—and he’s not—but he doesn’t like seeing you in pain or upset. Once, when he tried to slip out of the house to go grocery shopping, you interrogated him as if he was guilty of some serious crime, fearful that he’d leave and never return. No matter how much he assured you, you didn’t believe him and so, wanting to keep your eyes free of tears and your heart unburdened, he decided to order groceries online and have them sent to his doorstep. It was simpler and it chased away any thoughts you might have had regarding an abandonment that would never come to pass.

Riddle doesn’t take issue with it. You’re learning as you go, and he’s realizing that hybrids are much more complex than he once imagined. Of course they’d be, though. They’re half-human, too, possessing much of the same emotional intelligence as complete humans. And sometimes you prove to be more insightful than he is—he, the researcher who spent the majority of his early twenties shackled to his schoolwork.

He wonders if you have any goals for your life. Any important items on a bucket list you might want to cross off. Or maybe you’ve never had the pleasure of indulging in these kinds of musings, for you’ve never been allowed that happiness.

Riddle stares at his reflection in the milk, stirring what’s left of soggy cereal with his spoon. It’s New Year’s Eve, but this will likely be the first year she’s ever felt truly free. Twenty-something years of nothingness… I can’t imagine what that’s like.

But he can. Partially. He lived it, grew up with the hollow in his heart—a void that needed to be filled with validation (and sometimes still does today). He was only ever whole when his mother recognized his efforts and told him what was right from wrong.

He’s not like that anymore, but some days it really does feel like he’s falling back into inherited habits, a caricature of the imperfect.

A paper plate drops down onto the table. Riddle flinches out of his spiral to find you lowering into the seat across from him.

“I hope it’s okay to sit here. It’s just that… Well, you looked sad and lonely eating by yourself. I thought I’d keep you company. It gets boring sitting in the next room over.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” He coughs, coltish. “I’ve finished here, so you don’t need to force yourself.”

“Who said I was forcing myself? I want to sit here. If it’s okay, that is.”

“Oh. All right then.”

You beam at him, eating as if nothing’s amiss. He sits in silence. This is the first time you’re eating with him. Crewel will enjoy hearing about that in the next email.

“We’ve an hour until the new year,” he says, still awkward despite having known you for a little over three months now. It’s occurred to him that what he lacks in socializing he makes up for in logic. Although sometimes he envies those who can have stupid, mindless fun and not have to fret over reputations and repercussions. “Do you have any resolutions?”

“Resolutions for the next year… What’re those?”

“They’re like goals. Things you hope to accomplish throughout the year. There are all kinds of goals—personal and social and financial.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“New Year’s resolutions are notorious for being forgotten or discarded. Most people usually follow them within the first week before giving up.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s appeal in wanting to fix something you’ve been putting off. Sometimes we need excuses to do the things we don’t want to.”

“Do you have anything like that?”

Riddle hesitates around his answer. I should call my mother. It’s been some time. I should also reorganize my study. It’s starting to look a little cluttered. I should get better at cooking. I should learn new recipes…

“Not exactly,” he says instead. “My only resolution is to help you.”

Your ears perk up at that, and your tail swings freely from side to side. He cracks a small smile at this visible sign of merriment.

“I want to help you, too! I’ll talk more and I’ll help you in the kitchen. That way you’ll never be sad or lonely again.”

“Did I truly look so distressed?”

“It doesn’t fit on your face. I like seeing Dr. Rosehearts when he’s in a good mood, so please feel better.” You hold your hand out. “You’re the first human to be nice to me. I want to return the favor.”

Riddle peers at your outstretched arm. You’re standing up and leaning over the table in order to reach him. It’s an endearing sight. “I’m just doing my job. It’s nothing special,” he admits, modest.

“But it is to me. So… So thank you. I hope all of your resolutions come true, even if you don’t know them yet.”

He nods, finally closing his hand around yours. It’s warm in his grasp, a rightful fit that fills him with felicity. This is what life is all about, he soon realizes. It’s not just endless studying or mundane days spent cooped up in the lab. It’s about simple, slow pleasures—about little joys savored in peaceful solitude. It’s getting swept up in the sweetness of housebound happiness.

Riddle thought this was the stuff of legend, an impossible, idealistic fairy tale. Now he knows that’s not true because he’s living it, and it’s the most flavorful dream he’s ever encountered.

“Oh, that reminds me! They’re playing the New Year’s program on TV. Shall we watch the last few minutes together?”

You gasp, your eyes bright with wonder. “Can we?”

“Absolutely. I think you’ll like it. Do be warned, though. There may be fireworks. I know loud sounds aren’t exactly comforting for you.”

Riddle recalls the first time you heard the grandfather clock announce itself with its booming chime. You hid in the corner, trembling all throughout the night. At the time he could only try to talk you through the fear, unable to offer physical comfort. But now you’ve grown accustomed to the clock and its sounds.

“I think I’ll be okay. You’ll be with me, right? And you can just turn the volume down if it’s too loud.”

Humming his agreement, he stands from the table. He aims to be suave and falls short, the feeling bleeding into surprise when you release his hand and dash into the sitting room. He clicks his tongue and follows after you, amused.

The room seems much brighter when you’re in it.

“Hurry! Hurry! You said there’s not much time left. I wanna see the countdown.” You pat the sofa insistently.

Riddle claims the space beside you, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. He flips through the channels before landing on the right one. Just in time, too. It’s two minutes to midnight. With your stare pinned on the screen, Riddle’s free to admire you in secret. You’re practically vibrating with excitement, shifting and bouncing in one place. It’s impossible to imagine anyone wanting to hurt you when you’re too good for this world and its humans.

Perhaps that’s what makes it unfair.

The host holds a champagne flute in one hand and a microphone in the other, lifting it towards her co-host as they practice a playful toast. One minute left and then this tumultuous year will be behind him. He could spend it reflecting on every notable event from every month, on past years lived and lost to loneliness, but that would be futile. Nothing can compare to the time he’s lived with you, for those months are priceless and precious.

A timer displaying ten seconds flashes on the TV, descending through the numbers one by one. You stare, transfixed by the lights and sounds. Riddle watches you, drinking in your wide-eyed expressions like a man parched. The New Year is welcomed silently under his roof. No boisterous celebration needed. Distantly, just beyond his house or within the scene on TV, fireworks resound in joyous, explosive bangs. He intends to wish you a happy New Year, but you lean over and rest your head against his shoulder. He flinches, almost moving away out of instinct, but he remains seated. The contact is new but not terrible.

Opting to bask in the quiet alongside you, he clicks the volume down and watches what’s left of the program until you’re dozing. He’s never known peace quite like this before.

And while he guides you, sleepy and disoriented, to your bedroom, he wonders why he was ever trying so hard to stay impartial.

Three weeks into the New Year, Riddle’s woken at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. He blinks through the groggy haze of sleep, blindly feeling around for the switch on the coffee table. Lamplight casts the space in a pale yellow glow. You’re standing in the hall, fidgeting from hoof to hoof. He blinks, certain he’s dreaming, but you remain.

“(Name)? It’s late. What’s going on?”

“H-Hot,” comes your reply, thick and raspy.

Alarmed, he throws the covers off and sits up on the sofa. You flinch back, the reflex engraved into your being no matter how long it’s been.

“Sorry… Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just—ah. Um…” He swipes his tousled fringe out of his eyes, clumsy and half-asleep. “Come to me instead. It’ll be okay.”

You hesitate for a beat before staggering towards him, knees wobbling all the way. He listens to the shaky clip-clop of your hooves on the hardwood. “Feels weird,” you elaborate. “My head is all foggy…”

Upon closer inspection, Riddle realizes you’re sweating as if you’ve just run a grueling race. Now he’s wide-awake and worried. A potent combination.

“Let me check.”

He makes sure you see his hand first before he reaches to touch your neck, assessing your pulse. It’s pounding beneath his fingertips, a wild thrum of barely restrained ardor. He moves to touch your forehead next, but you seize his wrist. He stares at you, bewildered.

Shuddering like a leaf in autumn, you guide his hand to the space between your legs. Riddle’s breath hitches when he feels the wet patch soaking through your shorts. He stumbles away in his shock, tearing his arm out of your hold. You shrink back, looking hurt and betrayed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dazed while he watches you rub your thighs together.

Not good.

He knew this was coming, or he thought he knew. Admittedly, it was one of the last things he considered when making plans to house you. A major oversight that’s come back to bite him.

“W-What’s wrong? Is it bad?” You peer at him through lust-lidded eyes, your speech on the verge of slurring. “Am I gonna overheat and die?”

“What? No. No, of course not. It’s—you’re in estrus. I… I should’ve known better, but I didn’t and now—”

“Estrus? This isn’t sickness?”

“Have…” He swallows hard, palms unnaturally clammy. “H-Have you not experienced this before?”

“Mm, not that I remember… No, I usually—round things. A…pill. I was given pills,” you ramble in between high, reedy breaths, lashes fluttering. “Dr. Rosehearts, I can’t take it… S’hot all over. Make it stop. Please.”

Suppressants, he thinks and drags a hand over his face. It’s been put off for so long and now that you’re no longer on them it’s crashed into you all at once.

“I see. All right then. Well…” Riddle peeks at you through the cracks in his fingers. “I’m sorry. Had I known… If I was more adequately prepared, I’d have made sure to get you something… S-Something to help with…it…”

“You… You know how to make it go away, r-right?”

Riddle inhales sharply. “I…”

Riddle Rosehearts, don’t you dare, he reprimands himself. You know better.

Does he, though?

His mouth moves faster than his brain, sparing him the consequent morality crisis. Before he can slip into that debate, he instructs you to sit down and spread your legs.

“A-Are you sure that’ll help?”

“I promise,” he whispers, stressing the syllables. You take another moment to watch his face before nodding and obediently following his commands. He lowers to his knees like a sinner on trial, holding yours apart before they can close. “I’m here for you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, body tensing.

“Relax. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

“When?”

“It’ll be a few days. The estrous cycle for a mare usually lasts around twenty-one days. There are two phases—you’re in the first. You’ll feel like this for about a week, but I’ll do my best to help where I can.”

If I can.

You whine when his fingers drag against your skin. They hook around the waistband of your shorts and he slides them down.

Sensitive, he notes, lips curving up into a tiny smile. Cute.

He knows he shouldn’t go any further than this. His thoughts are enough to scandalize even the most open-minded researcher, and he can’t possibly include this in his biweekly report. Just what would Crewel think of him? What would any of his colleagues think? You’re a specimen, the focal point of his research, and he’s kneeling before you with a head full of obscene imagery. Riddle really should stop before he crosses the line between right and wrong and surpasses the point of no return.

There’s no coming back from this—no chance of returning to the dynamic of scientist and subject.

But what else can he do? Leave you in this state, where you’d feel sticky and miserable throughout the week? At the very least, if he’s going to throw morals aside and embrace depravity, he might as well relieve you of this biological burden. He can deal with his own later.

If he wanted to be clinical about it, he could dress in his uniform, don a pair of rubber gloves, and put on a surgical mask. Perhaps that would ease his guilty conscience. But he’s already come so far; it’s too late for any of that.

“Just breathe. You’re all right.”

You do so, inhaling and exhaling in shaky intervals. His dick, half-hard and yearning, throbs against his pajama pants. Pressing two fingers to the damp outline of your pussy, he feels your slick soaking through the fabric and knows it’s pointless to try to will his erection away with bland, boring thoughts. He couldn’t even if he wanted to—not when your voice is in his ears, your every gasp more alluring than the last.

“Please…” You grab at the blanket, throwing your head back against the sofa. “Please.”

You don’t even know what it is you’re begging for, but you’re begging nonetheless. Riddle finds the sight adorably addictive. He pokes and prods, tracing your folds through your underwear to estimate the exact shape and size. He’s proven correct when he peels the sodden garment away, tossing it over his shoulder.

“You’re very pretty here,” he observes, the ribald remark coming out more refined and flattering than he intended. “Like a rose in bloom.”

You shiver and whine impatiently. “Hurry… Make it go away—please, Dr. Rosehearts.”

He wants to take his time exploring, the researcher side of his brain infinitely intrigued. But that’s not feasible when you look just about ready to melt into a puddle of sweat. So he does away with any ideas of foreplay, abandoning the thought of building tension when it’s already at its peak, and slides two fingers along your puffy slit. You gasp and shiver when those digits circle your clit, massaging the area generously. He’s not sure what he’s doing at first, the motions foreign to his clumsy fingers, but he’s studied so many anatomy diagrams in his time and it boosts some of his confidence. That’s really all that guides him along. There’s also the lust, but he’s ignoring it. Sort of.

Not really.

Riddle slides his fingers deeper, amazed at how easily they’re sucked in. You cry out and buck your hips up to meet his hand.

“M-More—oh!”

“Greedy thing,” he mumbles, but there isn’t any bite to the non-insult. “I’ve only just put them in and you’re already feening for more.”

“Sorry. Sorry… I—haa—I can’t help it.”

“It’s all right. Only fair, after all.” He glances up at you and smiles angelically. “This is to be expected. It’s your first heat.”

“First heat… You mean there’s more?”

Riddle’s breath catches in his throat. How should he explain it—that this will happen every breeding season and there’s nothing to stave the inevitable? Unless, of course, medicine is used to tamper with hormones and cycles. Riddle wonders if Crewel would send some over if he asked, but that would require telling him about this and he doesn’t want to risk being too grossly candid.

“It’s…complicated. You don’t need to concern yourself with the specifics right now. Let’s just focus on getting through this one, okay?”

“Okay.”

His other hand rubs appreciatively along your inner thigh. “Good girl.”

You smile and sink back against the sofa. Riddle sets to work driving his fingers in and out, curling them every now and then to stretch you and admire the way your pussy weeps. It’ll be a pain to clean the couch, but it’s not like he’s particularly attached to it. He’s due for a new one anyway. Your gasps fill the room with pretty pitches of pleasure. He gazes at your face as it flickers through desperation and desire, both blending together to make you look perfectly blissed-out. If you had any thoughts in that head, they’re all but pomace now. Surely, otherwise you’d be more coherent in between shameless moans.

There’s a side of Riddle that knows, and it takes all of his willpower not to address it. It’s just part of any animal’s biological clock. Of course you’d be thinking about it, whether consciously or not, during your heat. At the very least, if not your brain, your body recognizes the imperative to sink down on his three fingers all at once as if they’re a cock.

But he can’t lose in his internal war with ethicality. Because if he loses it’ll end with you pumped full of as much cum as he can possibly give, and then he’ll be known as the man who knocked up his hybrid specimen. It’s tempting like the worst drug, a sure-fire way to distort his linear logic. It’s bad; he knows. But it would be so much better to replace his fingers with the real thing and fulfill mutual urges in unison.

I wish.

He can’t, so he won’t fall prey to the charm of concupiscence.

It takes a few more determined thrusts and a pinch to your clit, and you’re squirting on his fingers with a pornographic squeal. He stares at the mess dampening the blanket in muted astonishment.

Riddle didn’t know a reaction like this was possible.

He’s humiliated at his inexperience. His lessons in anatomy have always been strictly scientific, and he’s never explored anything outside of that box. He’s never been horny enough to masturbate to porn either. To think the human body is capable of such a feat when caught in the throes of ecstasy… Just what else can you do?

You’re panting when you come down from your orgasm, eyes pinned on the ceiling. He knows you’re nowhere near satiated and so, after determining you’re okay, he continues his ministrations. He’s just being greedy now. Can you blame him?

“Dr. Rosehearts, I want—” your fingers wrap around his wrist, testing his restraint, but he resists the temptation— “I want more… Deeper. Bigger. Please…”

“I… I can’t,” he manages, the words strained with regret.

He wants nothing more than to plaster you to the sofa and rut into you with reckless abandon, hard and fast and then soft and slow. Enough times to ensure you’d be staggering on unsteady hooves come morning. He’d do so in a heartbeat if not for the repercussions and the rules, an entire novel’s worth of them reminding him of the facts. He can’t win in a match against nature. It’s impossible.

“I’ll be good. I won’t ask for anything ever again. So please—”

Riddle heaves a mournful sigh. “I want to help, but this is as much as I can do—as far as we can go. I’m sorry.”

The risks are greater than the reward. I can’t.

But he wants to.

I could lose my job. I’d be outcasted. They’d never look at me the same.

You fix your lips into a despairing moue and pat the space beside him. “Then… C-Can you come up here? Sit next to me.”

With his fingers still thrust up inside you, he rises from the floor and moves in to kneel on the cushions beside you. His arm wraps around you to keep you steady while the other remains between your legs. This newfound proximity allows you to cling to him, and you fall back onto the sofa with him on top. Riddle adjusts the position to straddle you, trapped between your legs as they close around his waist. He props himself up with his other hand, placed right beside your head. You loop your arms around his neck and drag him down, endeavoring to pin your bodies like priceless art on a wall. He doesn’t object, allowing himself to be pulled.

Riddle peers into your glossy eyes. Fairy-tale tears cling to your lashes, trickling down your cheeks in delicate droplets.

“How do you feel? Any better?”

“Still the same,” you grieve, chest heaving. Your eyes trail down to the very obvious tightness in his pants, and you quickly blink overstimulated tears away. “You… You’re in estrus, too?”

He almost cums right then when you press your palm against his crotch. Momentarily stunned, he bows his head and tamps down a gratuitous groan.

How, pray tell, is he supposed to win the war when he’s the weakest soldier of all, tethered to his restraint by a flimsy set of morals?

“No, not estrus. No, this is—” He hisses through his teeth, his brows furrowing. “H-Hold on. If you touch there…”

As he says it, he rocks against your hand. You squeeze him through his pants, and the hand that had been diligently caressing your cunt stops for a brief second. He can’t get carried away, but he’s already on the verge of cumming and you’ve only touched him twice. Not even skin to skin but through fabric! That must be a new form of pathetic.

“I wanna help you, too.”

“Yes—right, I understand. But it’s not—”

Riddle swallows the rest of that sentence, breathing hot and heavy. His attempt to feign composure is weak. He knows there’s no point to it, but he tries anyway. A wasted effort. Before he can think any further, he reaches down to grab your hand. He lifts it to his lips, hesitates, and then presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. You watch him through hazy eyes, warming beneath him like cinders in a hearth.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

You grip his hand with renewed affection. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

Riddle can feel the blush setting his face aflame. “Perfectly fine. This is normal.”

His fingers delve deeper, searching for that special spot within, and the discussion ends there. Your protests taper off into lewd incoherency. He decides then that he’ll buy you a few toys to make up for tonight.

Better bloodless silicone than something with real risk, he concludes, watching you twitch and writhe.

He’s made up his mind.

Or so he thinks.

You reach for his cheek, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. He smiles and leans into your touch. It’s fleeting, a mere few seconds of sweetness, and then that same hand is at the back of his head. You yank him down with surprising force and smash your lips against his. He freezes like he’s just fallen into arctic waters, his fingers halting inside of you.

It’s Riddle’s first kiss at thirty-one.

He doesn’t outwardly panic, but his mind is a muddle. He should kiss back, shouldn’t he? But he’s never kissed before! How does one even go about kissing? Is there a technique he should practice to perfection? Does that even exist? He’s drowning in so much distracting doubt that he almost misses the way your tongue slides across his lower lip.

If there exists a method to his madness, this is surely it.

Riddle kisses you like he’s dying. There’s no rhythm to the exchange. It’s a mere meeting of mouths and minds, brought together for the singular purpose of hedonistic indulgence. His thoughts are all but dumb mush by the third kiss. Not that he really needs to think about anything at all. You’re teetering on the edge once more; he can see it on your face. Your ears twitch at every new sound he makes, curious and content. You’re not afraid.

He’s so relieved. You trust him, and he trusts you.

Gasping into your mouth, he pulls his hand from between your legs and grabs hold of your hips, dragging you closer. He doesn’t need to look to know he’s already soiled his underwear, cum dampening the fabric. All at once he feels like less of a level-headed adult and more of an insatiable adolescent who’s just learned of sex for the first time. Which, technically, this is his first time. Yours, too.

And he’s ashamed. Not because he came from kissing alone, but because he didn’t get to do it inside—and it’s a dangerous thought like this one that stokes the shame in his belly until it’s near-volcanic. Despite this, he can’t stop himself from rutting against you, still fully-clothed and achingly stiff.

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

“What is it?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead.

A sob shakes through your body like a seismic tremor. “Please… Please just put it in. I can’t take it anymore. Hurts.”

“Next time. For now…” He swallows the lump in his throat. It’s not wise to make promises like that, but he’s come so far already. “This will have to suffice. I’m sorry.”

You nod even though you look like you want to argue. To make up for it, he peppers your face with quick kisses until a dreamy grin sprawls on your face.

“There we are. A pretty smile for a pretty lady. No sadness, okay?” He brushes your clit again and you’re gone, tipped over the edge into a mind-numbing climax. “Just relax for tonight. You’re in capable hands, my dear.”

The hours stretch on into a vicious cycle of hot and cold. You emerge from the haze long enough to snack on apple slices and toast before you’re inevitably pawing at his arm for assistance. He suspects the days that follow will be the same, exhausting not only his body and its physical and mental capacities but his patience as well. It’s nothing he can’t handle. He didn’t survive years of higher education just to lose to his dick. What sort of researcher would he be if he allowed that to happen?

Embarrassingly, the first item on Riddle’s list for next month’s necessities is a box of condoms. I won’t need it, but it’s important to be prepared, he reasons. Just in case. But even he knows that’s a bald-faced lie.

So he decides he’ll get two boxes.

Partway through the program, Riddle receives a benumbing email. Notwithstanding the upbeat, jazzy notes spilling from the record player, the melody doesn’t put his frazzled nerves to rest. If anything, it serves as background music for his worries.

I’ve been in contact with the higher-ups. They’re quite impressed with your results. If all continues to go well, we might just be able to find a home for her. A few buyers have already expressed interest. Keep up the fine work, Dr. Rosehearts.

- Divus Crewel

Riddle must have read those five lines a dozen times before he decides to confront the truth. The lab is making plans to sell you after rehabilitation.

“There’s no feasible way… What is he thinking?” Riddle mumbles, scrolling through old emails to distract himself. “This is a process. He can’t just—he can’t shove her into society and expect all to be well! She’s not some pet to be sold off either.”

He lowers his head onto his desk, fighting the urge to yawn and simultaneously filter through the stages of grief. It’s late. He should get to bed. But how can he sleep with this weighing heavy on his mind?

“Ridiculous,” he snaps with a scoff, returning to the email once more. “Risible, even. I won’t allow it.”

His fingers tap the keys one by one, hesitant at first. Eventually, he types a harsh, angry message that reads more like a rant than a respectful email. Riddle simmers in that tension while he deletes every word. It helps a little—grounds him enough to start drafting a real email. He types in time with the energetic sax and drums, each blending together to form a seamless flow. Relaxing in his office chair, he taps his foot to the rhythm.

Just then, his door opens. He sees your ears over the top of his computer and pushes away from his desk to take you in from head to toe. You look comfortable in your satin nightgown, tail frizzy and tangled from rolling around in bed. He’s reminded of the times he’d brush Vorpal, smoothing down his coat with even strokes.

“Dr. Rosehearts?” you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Did I wake you? Sorry… I’m a little busy with work right now and I lost track of the time.” He glances at the record player. “I’ll stop this so you can go back to—”

“Oh, no! No, please don’t. I like it.”

“Ah, is that so? In that case, come closer. Let’s listen together.”

He lifts the tonearm to play the song from the beginning. Music soon filters out of the turning vinyl. You hurry to his side, placing your hands on his desk and leaning in close to peer at the record player. He watches your tail swish languidly.

“Amazing… How does it do that?”

“Play music?” You nod eagerly, and he smiles. “The needle runs across every groove on the record, and from there it takes the vibrations from the moving record to make sound.”

“Wow. That’s so fancy.”

Riddle chuckles. “Actually, it’s a bit dated. I’ve had it for quite some time. Nowadays, everyone’s streaming music from their phones because it’s easier.”

That’s what the youth do, right? he thinks desperately, as if you might correct him.

“But this is so wonderful! I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s like…magic.”

“Is it really?” Riddle doesn’t realize he’s propped his elbow against his desk, his cheek resting casually in his palm. He snaps out of the daze moments later and clicks the email away even though he knows you can’t understand it. “Here—pull up that chair. You can move the books.”

You do as you’re told, dragging it over and plopping down without hesitation. “So what’s this song called?”

“It’s a classic. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ to be more specific.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a metaphor of sorts. He’s singing about how much his loved one makes him feel—that he feels very happy whenever he’s with them. Up in the clouds. On the moon. Of course this is an impossible feat for just anyone to accomplish—flying to the moon, I mean—so that alone is supposed to describe just how elated he is with his lover.”

“Lover? Is that like you and me?”

He knows you don’t mean it in that context, but he still flusters. Awkwardly, he coughs into his hand. “N-Not exactly… This is a love song. A romantic love song.”

“Ohhh.” You gaze at the record as it spins, head cocked to the side. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s like—” Riddle pauses, unsure of how to properly explain the concept of romance when he himself has never understood it. His mother and father are not a romantic standard by any means. Still, he has to make an effort. “There are different kinds of love. Romantic love is…love in which you can share intimacy and affection with another person. Like kissing or holding hands. Dating and marriage. At least, I think it’s something like that…”

“Then what about that time you helped me during my heat? Is that also romantic love?”

Riddle shakes his head, recalling that night with ferocious clarity. “That’s a little different.”

“How so? We kissed, didn’t we?”

“Y-Yes… But that was just a physical way of expressing desire.”

“Desire?”

“You don’t have to be in love to kiss someone. Sometimes it’s a matter of physical attraction. Besides, you weren’t thinking clearly that night.”

Neither was I, but that’s besides the point.

“Oh. But, Dr. Rosehearts, I like you because you’re nice. I think you’re very smart, too. And you’re always here to help! Physical or not, you’re amazing.”

Riddle blinks back at you. Your bold, plain-spoken nature never fails to surprise. He exhales a long breath, as if he’s losing air and slowly deflating, and places his hand on your head. You allow him to pet you, your eyes falling shut. He scratches behind your ears, carding his hand through your scalp. A wave of intense sorrow washes over him. In just two months, you’ll be on your way out the door and he’ll never see you again. He can’t allow that. But what else is he supposed to do to prevent that? He has a job to do and rules to follow. What he really needs is more time. More months to stall the inevitable.

A year passes much too quickly when it’s lived out in serenity. He’s gotten too used to living like this—to the beauty and bliss of friendly coexistence.

“Thank you for saying so,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to your face. You lean into his palm, eyes flicking open to watch him. He runs his thumb over your cheek.

In just two months, he’ll lose the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The song swells once more before trickling into a joyful conclusion. His arm falls to his side.

“Let’s listen to another one, yes?”

“Can we really?”

“We can listen to as many as you’d like.”

“You’re the best!”

With a chuckle, Riddle rifles through the many records on his shelves, each organized by decade and genre. He skims through them until he lands on one in particular, pulling it free from its confinement. He admires the design on the sleeve for a short moment before taking the record out and exchanging it with the former. It’s packed away in its original casing, placed back on the shelf in its rightful spot.

“This one’s good, too. I think you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?”

He sets the tonearm down. “‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’ Another classic.”

You sit and listen to the music alongside him, absorbing every honeyed lyric. And then, after the instrumental has reached its excitable peak, you grin knowingly. “You sure like your love songs.”

Riddle laughs sheepishly. “It does seem like that, doesn’t it?”

Some of his first records were albums and single songs purchased from his time abroad. He can’t remember what compelled him to poke his head inside the little record store set into some obscure, hole-in-the-wall location in a quiet corner of the city. Maybe it was curiosity or a longing for a new learning experience. He’ll never forget the wise words of the shop owner, though: “Music is special in that it’s like food. There’s something for everyone. And if nothing else, music brings us together and allows us to forget our troubles for a moment to soak in the song itself.”

Since then, Riddle’s developed an affinity for collecting records. New and old, they’ve filled the shelves in his study over the years. The shop owner’s words are abundantly clear now. Sharing music is a lovely thing. Sitting with you, delighting in the stories and messages woven into beautiful instrumentals, Riddle realizes he’s never known this feeling before. This gentle connection. Maybe he’s happy someone else can appreciate these songs alongside him, or maybe there’s more to it than simple enjoyment.

“Love songs are so beautiful…”

He hums his agreement, basking in the singer’s whimsical voice as he admits, “‘And let me love you, baby. Let me love you…’”

You fall silent then, and he assumes you’re listening and imagining all sorts of fluffy scenarios to pair with the tune. But when he turns to check if you’re still sitting there, he finds you staring at him.

“Is this one no good? I can change it. Would you like to hear something from another decade or in another language? We don’t have to stay in the fifties and sixties.”

“No, this is fine. I’m just looking at you.”

“May I ask why?”

“You looked so peaceful. The Dr. Rosehearts I know usually looks stressed or sleepy.”

Now acutely aware of the dark circles under his eyes, Riddle winces. He does have that look about him, doesn’t he? The gloomy, sleep-deprived sort that puts into question whether he’s the sociable type.

“I’ll make an effort to fix my schedule.”

“Please do so as soon as possible. You have to promise.”

He snorts, amused. “I promise, Dr. (Name).”

Your once-serious expression softens, and you giggle. “You’re the doctor here, not me!”

I’m not a very good one, he thinks. Good doctors don’t feel these things for their patients.

Frankie Valli fills the quiet with his heartfelt declarations: “I love you, baby. And if it’s quite alright I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night.”

He’s not sure what he’s doing when he leans forward. The tug is magnetizing, tension budding and blossoming in time with the rhythm of the song. You meet him halfway to close the gap. It’s an innocent peck. Nothing as libidinous as last time. You drift away slightly, still staring into his soul. If he felt like it, he could move in for another kiss.

“C-Can we—”

And he does. Unlike last time, his lips mold to yours naturally. He’s still not very confident in his technique, or lack thereof, but this time he’s led on by a desire more potent than bodily cravings. Riddle places his hands on the chair to cage you in. You reciprocate in this manner, grabbing his shoulders to drag him closer. The both of you kiss each other breathless, unable to keep away. You dig your fingers in his hair and melt into the messiness. Riddle knows he’s not dreaming. That assumption withers into nothing after the fifth kiss.

It’s when the song has ended that he pulls back, his heart in his throat and his eyes blown wide. A single strand of saliva connects your mouths, snapping when you move further back. The feeling that courses through his body, electrifying his nerves with pinpricks of anxious excitement, is exhilarating.

“Yes,” he manages, hoping you’ll understand. His fingers interlace with yours. “Yes, we can.”

The tonearm is lifted from the record, but that’s as far as he gets before you’re seizing his wrist and yanking him towards your bedroom. He just manages to snatch a handful of condoms from his desk drawer on his way out.

Rather impatiently, you shove him down on your bed. He stares, stunned by your intrepid temperament, so much so that he’s almost boneless when you make quick work of his clothes. They’re thrown aside in your haste. You strip yourself of your nightgown next. The frilly fabric pools at your hooves. He’s not sure why his first instinct is to give you privacy, shielding his view. But then you’re crawling onto the bed and pulling his arms aside. You peer down at him, smiling hopefully.

Lying flat on his back, Riddle thinks he just went to Heaven and met an angel.

You palm him through his underwear, and he’s ashamed that he’s already hard and leaking pre-cum. You don’t seem to mind. In fact, he watches your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. The one thing he deprived you of in the midst of your heat when you needed it most, and now you get to have it. He’d be a fool to try to deny the fact that he’s also just as eager to sink himself inside you and make good on a promise he uttered long ago.

He squeaks when you seat yourself on his lap and wiggle your hips like a slut. Despite the fabric preventing raw skin to skin contact, he can still feel the outline of your pussy pressing against his erection. He’s dizzy and overwhelmed, still in disbelief that this is even happening.

“I think about you a lot,” you admit suddenly, and his eyes flick from your waist to your face.

“What?” he mutters oh-so-smartly.

“When I’m in the bath, I think about that night you helped me and I—” You bite your lip, coy and shy and so cute. As if you couldn’t get even more appealing. Oh, you’re driving him wild. “I touch myself and pretend it’s you. I use the toys you got me, but it’s not the same. It’s not you.”

Riddle’s eyes widen to a comical size. “Does…” His mouth dries up. “Does it have to be me?”

“Yes, it has to be you. Who else?”

His fingers dance along your bare stomach, tracing a path towards your breasts. Indeed, who else? Who else if not him, the only human qualified to care for and protect you?

“You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve helped.”

“Why didn’t you before?”

“It was reckless. I couldn’t…”

You rock your hips. He hisses through his teeth. “I don’t care about risks and consequences.”

But I do.

Does he, though? Does he, Riddle Rosehearts, really, truly, honestly care about those things? He thinks he does—knows he ought to—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He’s still going to use a condom. So maybe he cares a little. He’s not that impetuous.

It takes some persuading, but he manages to convince you to get off of him long enough so he can pull your panties off. His underwear goes next. He intends to switch to missionary, hoping to be romantically memorable, if not predictably traditional. But you push him back down. He doesn’t object to this. Witnessing you take charge is more fascinating than anything he had in mind. Most of his ideas for tonight are plainly vanilla. He’d probably cum if you traced the palm lines on his hand.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks, fumbling to unwrap a condom. He’s impressed when he rolls it on one-handed. He practiced that same trick weeks ago, determined to master it then and impress you later. It’s not a useful skill by any means, but it looks attractive. “If you’d rather we take things slowly—”

“I can’t wait any longer. Please,” you beg, querulous. “I need you right now or I’ll die!”

He laughs at your dramatics. “Well, in that case, we best not delay.”

Riddle drinks all of you in as you wrap your hand around him. He sucks in a shuddering breath, tensing on instinct when you line yourself up. The head of his cock prods at your folds. Suddenly, he has no idea what to do or where to put his hands.

“Relax. It’s okay,” you murmur, squeezing him for good measure. He throbs in your hand. How is he going to restrain himself when he’s already on the precipice? You’ll be the death of him.

Your face contorts with concentration, brows knitted and lips pursed, and you bore down slowly. He doesn’t want to miss a moment of this, so he forces his eyes open. Awkwardly, he searches for your hands and, finding them, holds on tight. You offer him a wobbly smile, your fingers curling sweetly around his. It’s a slow process. You don’t seem to be in any rush and neither is he. Inches are swallowed gradually. He’s certain it’d feel better without the protection, but that’s something to consider for the future. Right now he’s focused on you, on the way you gasp and dig your nails into his hands, on the way your walls clench around his cock in a slick, sinful embrace.

“You’re doing so well.” One of his hands slides from your grasp to rub your hip. “Take your time.”

“Dr. Rosehearts—” you place your hand over his, flustered— “Dr. Rosehearts—”

“Riddle,” he blurts. “My first name.”

“Riddle… It’s lovely just like you.”

He flushes scarlet up to his ears. “Is it?”

“Mhm. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess—” he groans when you shift on his lap— “guess it never occurred to me.”

I was trying to distance myself. If I’m Dr. Rosehearts to you, it’s easier to avoid the obvious. He sighs, but it comes out pleasured instead of wistful. What even is the obvious?

He can’t admit it outright because then it would be real—more so than a passing thought. He can’t even be sure if you feel the same! Why ruin a good thing? Riddle wonders if that question matters as much as it used to. After all, none of this will mean anything in two months.

“I’m gonna start moving.”

Your voice brings him back to the present. Why is he even looking ahead in the first place? Two months is plenty of time. Even though he soothes himself with this fact, he knows it’s not enough. He’s acting greedy and spoiled, coveting more than just temporary tranquility.

He’d grouse that it’s not fair, but it’s never been fair. He has no room to voice his complaints, and even if he does he’s certain he won’t be heard. This is a reality he must accept.

You lift yourself off of him and slam down in one quick motion. Throwing your head back, you gasp in unison with him. It’s snug and warm, but it’s perfect. You squirm and search for the right pace while he encourages you with a patient smile. Within no time, you settle into the rhythm, fucking yourself on him like a natural, and he can only admire your figure from below, his hands permanently laced with yours. You look and feel soft. It’s the only adjective flitting about in his head while he follows your bouncing tits, entranced like they’re the most fascinating thing on the planet. And to him, a virgin at thirty-one, they most certainly are.

The hand that had been petting your waist glides over to the space between your legs. He marvels at the way you’re stretched around him, inches sliding in and out with your gyrations. Loud, bawdy moans spill from your parted lips. Finding his confidence, he grinds his thumb into your clit to watch you come further undone. It prompts more whines from the depths of your throat.

“Yes! Oh, thank you, Dr. Rosehearts. Please keep touching me there!”

“Unless you tell me, I don’t intend to stop.” He didn’t even know his voice could reach a pitch as deep as it does, tinged thick with a ravenous lust. “You’re such a pretty girl… So sweet for me.”

“It’s—ooh!—just like the song.” You tilt your head at him, eyes glittering in the dimming dark. “I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

Riddle thinks he’s losing his mind because, though it’s so far from funny, he giggles like an infatuated schoolgirl. “‘You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,’” he quotes, beside himself with euphoria. He meets your plush ass halfway, bucking his hips up into you. Your grip on his hand tightens. “Do you remember the rest? ‘Pardon the way that I stare…’”

“‘There’s nothin’ else to compare.’”

“‘The sight of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak.’”

“That’s it!” A bright smile blesses the beautiful face that’s left him besotted. It’s taken time, but you’ve blossomed under his care. He’s proud of you. “I’ve got good memory, don’t I? I only listened to it once, but I remembered the line.”

“You have excellent memory,” he praises, rewarding you with another gentle massage to your clit.

“Will you—mmh, haa… Will you play more love songs for me?”

Riddle hesitates. It’s just music. There doesn’t have to be any deeper meaning involved, and he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. He thinks he should distance himself, dig a cavern before he falls any further, but that’s impossible when your bodies are so closely connected. And he likes sharing slices of his life with you. It’s like marriage but without the legalities or ceremony. You’ve never had a surname of your own. You could take his and the unofficial could become official within the confines of this little paradise.

“O-Of course,” he answers around a groan, his composure cracking.

The conversation falls apart when you set to work fucking yourself on him. It’s salaciously slapdash, the way the squelch of skin on skin reverberates in the room. He’s nearing the edge of ecstasy, as are you, and he feels free. Unbound by the rules, if only for tonight.

He allows himself to wade through passionate waters, his body ablaze with unquelled vehemence. Time trickles onwards. He rubs you to your peak, witnesses you squirt with a noisy cry. You call out for him and something in him snaps. His fingers dig into your hips and he drags you down on top of him. Riddle fucks you through your orgasm, fueled by your tearful gaze. You babble senselessly—how good it is, how you never want him to stop, how it’s too much and too little and just enough all at once. It’s not long until he’s reaching his apogee. Eyes shut, lips pressed in a thin line, he holds you still when he spills over.

Riddle comes back to himself seconds later, blinking through the fog. You pet his hair fondly, flopping beside him. Instinctively, he brings his hand up to your head to return the gesture. The two of you are a tacky, breathless mess, reeking of sex and sin. It’s an invigorating smell, waking him right up.

“Again,” you plead.

You shimmy enough for his cock to slide out. Riddle doesn’t know his limits yet, but he expects to be mostly flaccid. So it’s a pleasant surprise to find he’s still somewhat hard. Vibrating with a woozy sort of giddiness, his stomach a butterfly garden, he removes and ties the condom filled with his spend. He almost doesn’t believe it. His first time with you. More than just fingers and kisses. Sex.

He pulls you closer, flipping the position so that you’re caged beneath him and he’s on top. “Give me a minute and then we’ll go again.”

You open your mouth to demand more, so he grants that unspoken wish with a kiss. Your fingers wrap carefully around his cock while you lick languidly into each other’s mouths. It’s dangerous, the hold you have on him; he ought to have a new condom within reach. Just in case.

“You’re not tired?”

Riddle grins, smug. “I should be if I want to fix my schedule.”

You pout. “Do that tomorrow.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

The night is long and sleepless, but, tangled in your arms, it’s the most bliss he’s ever known.

Like a dreadful harbinger of calamity, destined to descend at the expiration of two months, Crewel arrives a day earlier than what Riddle was expecting.

“Shit,” he mutters, carding his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You peer at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t what we agreed upon,” he’s rambling to himself, pacing before the door. “I specifically said I would bring her in tomorrow. We still have one more day. This isn’t—this is completely unfair!”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You tap his shoulder and he startles.

“Oh, (Name)! Hello. Did I worry you? I’m a little…troubled. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He smooths his hair down. “Can you wait in the bedroom? I’ll be back. I just need to talk to someone. I won’t be more than a few minutes.”

Riddle flashes you a soothing smile that’s mostly forced, but it does the trick. You linger for a moment before turning and retreating down the hall. Inhaling a steadying breath, he grips the handle and steps outside. The door shuts softly behind him. He feels brittle, like he’ll break at the slightest tap.

“Dr. Crewel, this isn’t what we discussed.”

“I thought I’d come a day in advance. That shouldn’t be a detriment to the results.”

“It is, actually. I haven’t had time to tell her about…” He shakes his head. “You can’t take her. Not today. She isn’t ready.”

“If your emails are any proof, I’d say she’s plenty ready.” Crewel folds his arms and eyes Riddle dubiously. “Furthermore, I don’t believe this is the proper place to hold a private conversation.”

“I urge you to reconsider. She’s—Dr. Crewel, it’s only been a year. She’s not ready for other humans.”

“But she’s at peace with you.”

“And she won’t be with you—or anyone else, for that matter.” He steps in front of Crewel when he strides forward to grab the door knob. Riddle bristles, threatened. “I refuse to throw her back into an unsafe environment. We can’t even be sure the buyers will treat her well.”

“Of course we can. Background checks exist for a reason. She’ll go to a good home.”

“She doesn’t need a ‘good home.’ This is wrong, Dr. Crewel. I agreed to rehabilitate her. That was all.”

“And you’ve done just that. Nothing more and nothing less.” Crewel sighs. “Dr. Rosehearts, I understand your attachment is coming from a place of sympathy, but a good trainer knows to separate himself from the pup he’s looking after.”

You’re wrong.

Riddle opens his mouth to object, but Crewel’s eyes narrow. “Before you speak, I advise you to take your surroundings into account.”

With a stiff nod, he submits and opens the door. Crewel steps inside and peers around the interior in search of you. It’s then when Riddle notices the pack slung over his shoulder. It reminds him of a medical kit. His heart drops into his stomach.

“Who are these buyers? Are they safe? Trustworthy? Do they have any criminal offenses noted on their records?”

“The Felmiers are a reliable lot. They run a family-owned apple orchard in Harveston. They have a son around her age. I’m certain she’ll get along with him. Arrangements have already been made to deliver her by next week or so. Should all go well, I intend to follow that schedule.”

Riddle stares at him, gutted like a goldfish.

“You…” He barks out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Did you think I wasn’t?” Shrugging the pack off, Crewel sets it on the table. He slides on a pair of latex gloves before procuring a syringe from inside. He flicks the needle before turning towards Riddle. “Now then, is the hybrid around?”

“Are you mad?” he hisses, intercepting Crewel on his way down the hall. “No needles. No sedatives. She’ll go peacefully if you give me time to talk to her. With all due respect, Dr. Crewel, your sudden arrival will stress her out. She’s not expecting you. She’s only comfortable with me.”

“That’s why I plan to put her to sleep. We can avoid most of that.” Crewel gestures to the syringe. “Would you prefer to do it instead?”

“I’d prefer to do it another way.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.” Crewel brushes past him. “I’d like to be back at the lab before noon.”

Riddle grits his teeth, frantically scraping his brain for a solution. There has to be something he can do—anything! He’s a researcher; it’s in his blood to be innovative and intelligent. But what else can he do? He has to protect you. He has to comfort you. He’s supposed to do all of these important tasks, and Crewel’s ruining it. Putting hard work and progress aside, he doesn’t want to destroy the trust you’ve placed in him.

Before he can get swept up in a panic, your frightened whinny pierces the air. His heart crumbles in his chest.

“Dr. Crewel, wait!” He hurries into the room just in time to find the lead researcher gripping your arm. You lock stares with him from where you’re cowering in the corner, tears running down your cheeks in salty rivulets. The uncertainty flashing in your eyes is almost tangible, spotted with flecks of fear. “Don’t panic. It’s okay! He’s just—we’re bringing you back to the lab for…tests. You’ll be okay. He won’t hurt you.”

But that’s a lie. All of it is.

You attempt to yank your arm back, but Crewel holds firm. “Be a good pup and listen to Dr. Rosehearts.”

“No! Let go of me!” You thrash, kicking out with your hooves and narrowly missing Crewel’s ankle. You glance fiercely at him, your expression broken and betrayed. “Dr. Rosehearts, you promised! You said you wouldn’t—you promised!”

He did, didn’t he?

With a clenched jaw, Riddle turns his back on you. There’s nothing he can say or do to make it better. You fight Crewel with everything you’ve got, crying out when the needle pierces your skin, and you continue to struggle up until the sedative takes effect. Eventually, your sniffles and sobs grow silent and your body falls still, breathing evening out into something peaceful. Riddle frowns at you when he turns around.

“You care. That much is apparent,” Crewel comments as he gathers you in his arms, passing Riddle the empty syringe. He stares at it, frigid and unfeeling. “But I expect you to exhibit just a little more professionalism next time.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again,” he grinds out, stepping aside to allow Crewel passage. “I’ll pack the suitcase and then we can be off.”

The drive to the lab is made in stifling silence. Riddle follows behind Crewel, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanche. By the time he’s made it to the facility, he’s a numb husk.

I should’ve done something.

But what can he do? This was unavoidable.

Like an empty puppet, he walks woodenly beside Crewel. He’s back where he began: the examination room where he first encountered you. Only this time it’s not for a meeting but, rather, a departure. Crewel lays you down on the metal table, delegating orders to the few lingering assistant researchers. They spring into action and strap you down. It’s the same rigmarole as before. Nothing new.

“The Felmiers… Have you met them in person?” he asks, absentmindedly skimming the file on the family in question. He reads what he can stomach and, though he hates to admit it, they really do seem like a safe match for you.

“We’ve talked over the phone a few times.” Crewel studies your hooves, checking each in case you’re in need of new horseshoes. Unlikely. Riddle made sure to reshod you two weeks ago. “You’re welcome to accompany me to their farm. I’m sure the hybrid would appreciate a familiar face.”

“I’ll consider it.” He sets the file down on the counter before reaching into an open drawer to procure cotton swabs, gauze, and antiseptic wipes—among a few other useful items. “I would like a moment alone with her once she’s awake.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to clear the air. Is that enough?”

Riddle considers the speed at which his deft hands work. “Twenty would be better. She’ll be disoriented and frightened when she wakes. She’ll need time to settle down so that I can properly explain her situation.” He glances over his shoulder at Crewel. “I’ll need a sedative in case she lashes out.”

Crewel nods towards an assistant researcher. “Get that for him, will you?”

She nods and speeds out the door. By the time she’s returned, the rest of the researchers have finished their assessment of you. Crewel smiles approvingly.

“She’s much healthier than she was a year ago.”

“Aside from correcting her eating habits, I made sure she took her vitamins and supplements.” Riddle rifles through another drawer for a scalpel and forceps. “We exercised regularly. Walked laps in the house. Stretches in the morning and at night.”

“Good.” Crewel runs a gloved hand through your tail. “I assume you used the special shampoo I recommended?”

“Of course. (Name) enjoyed it. Said it was very gentle on her hair.”

“You named her?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let her live nameless under my roof,” he snaps, feeling around for the bottle of enzymatic detergent in the very back of the cabinet. He places it beside the growing pile on the countertop, pauses to reflect on what else he’ll need, and then crosses the room to grab a few cups from another shelf. As he pours the substance, he adds, “Did you expect me to call her ‘hybrid’ for the duration of her stay?”

This should be enough, he thinks, dropping the surgical tools in to soak.

“No. Although it did surprise me. There’s no mention of that name in your reports.”

“I wrote them in accordance with our protocol, hence why she’s referred to as the hybrid specimen.”

“I see. In any case, good work, Dr. Rosehearts. You’ve done well.”

“I always do.” Riddle smiles thinly. He doesn’t feel proud. He feels filthy—a liar who’s broken his promise.

You don’t deserve this. He gazes forlornly at you. You shift in your sleep, your ears perking as if listening.

Crewel notices you jerk in and out of slumber and snaps his fingers. The assistant researchers file out at once. “Twenty minutes,” he reminds Riddle as he departs. “Keep her calm.”

Riddle nods, watching the door slide shut behind Crewel. And then, after he’s disappeared around the corridor, he bounds over to lock it. The glass frosts over. Privacy at long last.

He yanks another drawer open in search of latex gloves and a surgical mask. Finding them, he heaves a relieved sigh and dons both.

“You… I trusted you,” you croak, struggling weakly on the metal table.

Riddle pivots on his heel. “I’m sorry. I—” He surges forward and stops when you squeeze your eyes shut in fearful anticipation. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You already did.”

“And that’s inexcusable. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I should’ve told you sooner. But I—” He hesitates, frowning behind his mask. “I’m going to fix things, okay? You have to trust me on this.”

You shake your head slowly. “I can’t. Because of you, the other human… You let him… The needle and the sleep medicine—”

“I know. I know and I’m sorry.”

“You promised, Dr. Rosehearts.” Feeble like a foal, you tug against your restraints. “Please don’t send me back… I’m begging you…”

“I won’t! (Name), I’d never. I’m here to help you.” He taps the needle twice. “We’ll talk later. I don’t have much time. Please cooperate.”

Your eyes slide from the ceiling above to the syringe. That’s when the real struggle begins. Animalistic, driven by instinctual dread, you thrash on the table. Your shrieks are shot through with stress, each whinny a reminder of unpleasant pain.

“Stay away from me! Get away! Don’t come any closer! Dr. Rosehearts—Riddle, please don’t…”

He hardens his resolve, wipes the area on your arm with a prep pad, and holds tight. “I’m sorry, but I must do this. You’ll understand soon enough.”

The needle pricks your skin. You hiccup around a blubbery sob.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing the area to soothe you. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to be here every step of the way.”

“No… No, please don’t. Riddle, I wanna go home. Take me home.”

“And you will. Soon. I promise.” He stands dutifully at your side, watching the sedative run its course. Time drags on. Your eyelids flutter shut and snap back open. You’re desperately trying to stay awake. “Rest well, (Name). You won’t feel a thing.”

Your fight seeps away just as your body grows sluggish and still. “Don’t hurt me, Dr. Rosehearts…”

He smiles even though you can’t see it. “That’s a good girl. Just relax. I’m here for you.”

And with that, you fall.

He works swiftly, undoing the shackles and flipping you over onto your back. You slump like a limp, boneless fish, arms hanging loosely. If the circumstances were different, he’d be a bit more careful in handling you. But he’s working on a tight time constraint and there’s no room for error or struggle.

Calm down. You can do this. Steady hand. Steady mind.

He exhales softly and then reaches to undo the tie at the back of your gown. The clothes you originally arrived in are packed away in a bag. He hopes you aren’t particularly attached to them because they’ll likely be left behind after he’s finished.

I think I could work at a coffee shop, he muses while wiping you down with another pad. Or I could do freelance work. Something low-profile.

His fingers waltz across your back, pressing down in search of a bump. He finds it right where he expects it to be: between your shoulder blades. He’s about to do something bad. Something against the rules. But, as he retrieves the tools from the cup and dries them off, he knows this is for the best. You can’t survive on your own in some quiet corner of the world. It doesn’t matter if Harveston is safe and peaceful. It doesn’t matter if the Felmiers will take care of you.

You belong with Riddle. He’s meant to look after you. It’s part of his job as a researcher. It’s because he’s the first human to have ever treated you with compassion that he’s allowed to do this. What may look like a bad thing to everyone else is just a step in the right direction. This is good.

He needs you just as much as you need him.

Riddle cuts into soft skin with precision, slicing along the area in which the microchip is contained. His heart is thudding in his chest, but he doesn’t let the idea of getting caught and punished deter him. He knows it’s wrong. He knows there will be severe repercussions. He knows he’ll never be able to show his face around the lab ever again. But if that’s the price he must pay in order to protect you from dirty, deceitful humans, he’ll gladly forsake his lofty station.

Anything to be able to spend the rest of his life with you.

He unearths the chip and plucks it out with the forceps. It comes free with minimal resistance. After setting it aside, Riddle pats the bleeding wound with cotton gauze. Crimson seeps into pristine white as soon as it makes contact. With a resigned sigh, he leaves it to soak up as much as possible before crossing the room to retrieve the sutures and remaining tools. It’s not a clumsy operation, even if he currently feels that way. Regardless, he would never do anything sloppy—no matter how important or inessential it may be. Although, if he were to admit to the truth, he works faster than he normally does, stitching you up with expert, unfaltering fingers.

Riddle’s not sure how much time he has left when he dries and bandages the area. He isn’t looking to find out.

“Let’s get you up,” he mumbles after tying your gown. It’s awkward, more struggle than success, but he manages to drag your unconscious body off of the table. Steadying you in his arms, he glances around the room to ensure he isn’t forgetting anything. It’s surreal—the last time he’ll ever find himself in this environment—but he’s ready. He has to do this.

If he doesn’t, he’ll never see you again. And who can say you’ll enjoy your life in Harveston? Who can say you won’t immediately call out for him when you wake in an unfamiliar home, greeted by unfamiliar people? He’d never forgive himself for abandoning you.

Riddle only hopes your grudge can be soothed. He’s not like the other humans you’ve feared your entire life. He’s shown you he’s different, and you believed in that—in him.

It’s not wrong. It’s a rescue mission, he assures himself, but the delusion doesn’t stick.

Instead of wallowing in his crime-in-progress, Riddle drapes your arm over his shoulder and, tucking the scalpel away, helps you over to the door. He staggers more than he walks, having to account for the dead weight, but he doesn’t let this hinder him. Worst of all, it’s not even the fear of getting caught that bothers Riddle.

It’s the fact he left the examination room a mess! The guidelines are there for a reason, but he completely ignored them and neglected to clean up after himself. That’s tantamount to stealing the specimen!

Not really. It does feel like it, though.

Riddle pokes his head out the door, glancing down the empty hall stretching on either side. He’s actually doing this. He’s breaking the rules—the law!

It’s worth it, he realizes. Every moment spent with you is a dream come true; he’s never been happier in this idyll.

Down the hall he goes, his lanyard swaying with every step. His keys jingle noisily, but he presses onwards. There’s no way around the cameras or the guard at the front of the building. He can bypass the latter with a smooth lie—so long as nothing stands in his way—but he can’t do anything about the mechanical eyes peering down at him. Riddle reckons it’ll only be a few minutes before the facility’s put on lockdown and Crewel gives the command to apprehend him and secure the hybrid subject.

To no one’s surprise, that’s exactly what happens minutes later. The intercom crackles to life and with it comes Crewel’s threat-tinged inflection: “I do hope this isn’t a blatant display of insubordination, Dr. Rosehearts. I’m willing to overlook this slight if you return the hybrid at once.”

So much for cryptic getaways… He’s almost certain Crewel suspected this from the beginning. Perceptive even in the midst of surgical chaos.

Riddle stops halfway down the hall, stares into the red eye of the CCTV, and raises his middle finger. The surgical mask conceals the nasty glower scrunching on his face.

And then the lights flick from blindingly white to deep, dangerous vermillion. The sirens come next, angry blares that nearly burst his eardrums. Riddle’s relieved you’re unconscious. The sounds and sights would have definitely startled you.

He sets off half-running, half-stumbling the rest of the way, narrowly ducking around the corner just as three guards rush past. For all of his adrenaline-laced courage, the thought of surrendering never crosses his mind.

Holding you close, Riddle takes a tentative step into the hall and yelps just as something zips past his face, nearly grazing his cheek. His arms wrap around you with a possessive firmness. A tranquilizer dart lies on the tile. Riddle’s certain it would have embedded itself in his neck had he been just a centimeter closer.

That can only mean one thing.

Rook Hunt missed on purpose.

“I must thank you for the glorious chase, Roi des Roses. It was as invigorating as it was enjoyable!” He beams and, rifling through the pockets of his lab coat, produces another dart to load into the barrel. One shot. This one, Riddle knows, will hit its mark. “I’m afraid this is where our paths must finally intersect.”

As a last-ditch effort to have some parody of the upper hand, Riddle draws the scalpel out and points it at Rook. “I’m not going to fight you,” he says, his tone a smidge louder than necessary. “I just want to make it to the exit.”

“You’re more than welcome to without the extra baggage. I’m sure you of all researchers should know how important the little trickster is.”

“And I’m sure Dr. Crewel’s told you to use any means necessary to subdue me.”

He smiles an odd, secretive smile, the type of which betrays any and all sentiment. “It truly pains me to turn my arrow on a fellow companion. What indescribable woe!”

Riddle stands unyielding, holding you as far from Rook as possible. He considers his options. Hand you over to Rook and face the severe consequences for equally severe actions, or attempt to escape even though it may be impossible by now. Any other researcher would have proven significantly less difficult, but this is Rook Hunt. He knows how to corner and capture his prey with unapologetic swiftness.

Riddle’s more miffed that he got so far and still failed. Was he doomed the minute he met you? Forever fated to never know another ounce of felicity ever again?

He looks down the hall, his hardened features set in grim determination. Even if failure looms on the horizon, he lives to beat the odds. He’s Riddle Rosehearts! It isn’t in his nature to fail. He always overcomes adversity. This is no different than a perplexing equation he studied to death in grad school.

“I understand it’s wrong,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I know what I’m doing and I’m content with my choice. I can’t let you take her from me.” He turns his fiery stare on the researcher, unaffected at being held at gunpoint. “I’m resigning, and she’s coming with me. I’m not going to compromise, so I’ll have to ask you to stop standing in my way.”

It’s as simple as that.

Rook’s sharp gaze softens into something sympathetic and, much to Riddle’s shock, he lowers the tranquilizer gun. “You love her, don’t you?”

Oh.

That’s the emotion he could never place. One he’s ignored for so long. All this time, Riddle Rosehearts, who thought himself incapable of it, is in love.

“I do,” he confesses, a strain in his voice. He holds your unconscious body close, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. “I love her, Rook. And I—there’s no way I can allow this. You have to let me go.”

“I intend to.” Rook tucks the gun in its holster and holds out a brass key and a folded slip of paper. “I only wanted to see what you’d do when faced with a challenge. As expected, you aren’t so easy to sway once your mind’s made up.”

Riddle peers at both, suspicious, and glances at the security camera mounted high in the corner. Rook follows his line of sight.

“It’s been disabled, courtesy of moi. I can’t say for how long it will remain so, but we’re free to talk at our leisure for now.”

Riddle wonders if he’s telling the truth. There’s no time for deliberating. The emergency lights fulgurate; sirens scream. He has no choice but to trust him.

“Why?”

“Love is a marvelous, mystical thing. To take that from another person—to bury it when it’s only just beginning to blossom—do you not find that unfair?”

“I… Yes, I suppose so. But—”

“I only wish to bear witness to the beauty of love in all its forms. Your love is a spectacle worthy of an audience.”

“But this is…” Riddle lowers his voice even though it’s drowned out in the wailing alarms. He’s not sure why he’s trying to get Rook to debate him on it. “This is illegal. I’m stealing.”

He laughs. “Aren’t we all? Whether stealing hearts or tangible materialism, we’re all thieves.”

That…is not how that works.

“You’re really going to let me go? You’re risking your job, Rook. Everything.”

“So be it. How else can I call myself le chasseur d’amour if I’m not willing to put everything on the line to do so? If I were to falter here just because of a little danger, I wouldn’t be able to observe your romance.”

“I…see. Well, thank you. Sincerely, thank you.” He swipes the key and paper from Rook. “And this is for…”

“An address to an unused residence.”

Riddle’s brow furrows.

“Vacation homes. We use them sometimes. This one hasn’t had company to fill its walls in a while. Perhaps you’d like to stay there with your amour?”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch at all! The house is small but secluded. No one will suspect a thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

“And you’re just…giving this to me?”

“I’m not using it, and you can’t return to your current residence. Where else are you to rendezvous if not the countryside?”

“I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do in return—”

“Oh, Roi des Roses, you’re much too formal! All I ask is that you live happily with her.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I will. That’s a guarantee.”

“Then please don’t let me stop you. Be on your way. I’ll buy you some time.”

He nods and pockets the items, keeping his eyes on Rook while he hobbles past with you at his side. The promising enchantment of a bright future looms distantly ahead.

If there’s one thing Riddle misses most about his old life, it’s the music. Late nights spent holed up in his study, relaxing to slow, soulful notes or tapping his foot to match the tempo of a fast, fluffy falsetto. Sometimes he wonders if the bushes out front are trimmed or if the flowers crawling up the trellis on the side of the house are getting enough sunlight and water. Sometimes, if he flicks through the people in his life like channels on TV, he wonders what they’re saying.

As far as anyone’s aware, Riddle Rosehearts is no more.

He’s since built himself up as a phony, bleached his hair a pale, cool-toned white-blond, and changed his identity. Rook helped where he was needed, a self-proclaimed master of disguises. Riddle doesn’t go out much, but when he does it’s in a small corner of the country—an area with sprawling farmlands, where neighbors are nonexistent for stretches. The town is tiny and quaint. It’s quiet here. The ideal getaway.

And it’s all his. A comfortable life filled with nonstop joy.

He really wishes he had his music, though. It’s just not the same turning the dial on the radio in hopes that one of the stations will reach and have a good queue.

It was difficult adjusting to the change, the scenery, the environment of a new house. You slapped him across the face when you woke up, called him a liar and hid from him. He deserved it. Mostly. It was with great patience that he explained the situation, insisting he never had any plans to hand you over to Crewel or the Felmiers. You came around after the third day, plodding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around him from behind. You made him promise a real promise, one sealed through hot, heady kisses. One that couldn’t be broken so easily.

For the hour the pasta bake sat in the oven, he vowed to never lie again. Over and over, a record on repeat, Riddle spoke those words with sincerity. They punctuated each thrust, pressed into your mouth like a delicate tongue tattoo.

It’s been a year since then and Riddle, for whatever reason, has yet to confess to a very important truth. By this point, he assumes it’s evident. An unspoken understanding. But then you haven’t said it either. He wonders if you know how.

Does he know how?

“I was thinking,” you mumble, sitting pretty in your floral-print sundress. The window’s cracked slightly to let in a spring breeze. It brings with it thoughts of damp earth, fresh produce, and budding flowers. Backdropped by reflective glass, where a plot of empty garden waits just beyond, you’re a reverie taken and transplanted in reality. “We should plant something in there.”

Riddle sets his cup on its accompanying saucer, following your gaze to the soil outside. “What would you like to grow?”

“Strawberries. Definitely strawberries.”

Briefly, he imagines picking a basket’s worth of strawberries with you. Standing side by side in the kitchen, mashing them into paste to make marmalade or syrup. Baking dozens of tarts with them. Dipping them in chocolate. Eating them as they are. Truly, strawberries are one of the best fruits.

“We can do that.”

“Wouldn’t that be so cool? We could have an entire backyard of strawberries! You’d never have to worry about going to the market again. Not for strawberries, at least.”

He chuckles. “I like the sound of that.”

Humming your agreement, you lift an apple slice to your mouth. Riddle watches you nibble with a smile. Whenever he looks at you he feels weak and wordless, dumbly entranced. An infatuated fool.

You lick your fingers clean next, seeming quite pleased with yourself. Riddle moves thoughtlessly, leaning over the tea table and taking your hand in his. You blink up at him once and then his shadow is eclipsing you. The gap closes; mouths press together. A wind chime sighs, caught up in a breeze. Riddle moves around the table to get closer to you, resting his hand on your thigh. You grab at every part of him—his shoulders, his arms, his back. Fingers creep along your leg, brushing your dress up higher and higher. You hum against him, your body warm even though the house is relatively cool.

In the crisp, sunny afternoon, you taste like apples and green tea. He savors it with every kiss, chasing after it like it’s to be his final meal.

As if unwrapping a gift, he slides your dress from your shoulders. Bare skin winks back at him, a soft, unmarked landscape begging to be tilled and filled with love. He’ll never get over the sight. It always leaves him breathless. You respond in kind, tugging at his clothes and whining impatiently.

He nudges at your clit, rubbing you through your panties. You slacken against him, gasping around the tongue tangled with yours. He’s not sure how much time the both of you spend kissing and fondling, but you’re perfectly dazed when he tugs your underwear down. It’s soaked through with your slick. He marvels at you—beautiful, blissful you. Sweat sticks to your body, but with the sun pooling in through the parted curtains it looks more like a delicious glaze.

He’s hurrying to pull himself from his pants when he stops. “I shouldn’t. Your heat’s scheduled to start any day now. I really shouldn’t…” Foolishly, he attempts an escape, but you grab his face and hold him still. Looking at you now, Riddle realizes he doesn’t want to leave your embrace.

“It’s okay. Don’t hold back for my sake.”

“Are you sure? What if you—”

“That’s the whole point of why I go into heat, right?” you murmur against his mouth. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were in heat now with how you burn holes into his eyes. “Why wait until then when we could do it now?”

“But do you—” He frowns, suddenly self-conscious. Life has been too comfortable lately. Surely he’s in for something terrible… “Do you want this?”

You give him a strange look. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Your thumbs brush along his cheeks. An affectionate giggle falls from your lips. “I love you.”

“Yes, I’m aware, but even so I worry. Without proper planning… Not that it’s risky or anything… I just want to be prepared for when—” The rest of that sentence cuts off abruptly. He stares at you, dumbfounded.

Your laughter is musical. “I love you, Riddle.”

A wide, toothy smile claws at his face, lifting it with a boyish jubilation. He feels silly, but he’s happy. So overwhelmingly happy.

Riddle wraps you up in a hug. “So do I! I love you—so, so much.”

You match his enthusiasm with celebratory laughter, drunk on abundant emotion. He said it and it came easy. He said it and he means it.

He said it and you reciprocated.

Oh, what a magical thing love is! To be wrapped up in it as if it’s a blanket fresh from the dryer—it’s refreshing and joyful. Warming his soul, melting the ice in his heart. He’s smiling so much it hurts, but he can’t help it. He’s in love and it’s so freeing. So weightless and wonderful. Like floating down the sweetest stream, living the love from his dreams. It’s everything he’s never known, and it feels good.

What comes next is a rush of wandering hands and never-ending kisses all over, stamped into each other’s skin. He doesn’t bother to strip you completely, and you’re much too desperate to pull him out of his clothes. Everything’s messy, a theatre for the half-dressed.

It’s to a relieved sigh when he finally enters you from behind. Relief trickles into tears, and the both of you are crying through your moans. He plasters you to the windowpane, unbothered by the noisy debauchery of it all. Soft breezes filter in and mingle with the scent of salt and sex.

“I love you,” Riddle confesses again, leaning over you to grab your chin and turn you towards him. You kiss him desperately, clawing at the windowpane for support. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

It’s an addictive, spirituous phrase.

“M-Me too—ooh! So much! I—mmh!—love you so much!” you babble, ears pricked forward. A delirious smile curls on your lips.

He peers at your reflection in the window, admiring the bunched ruffles in your sundress and the way your palms press against the glass. He wonders what he’d be doing if he hadn’t met you. Perhaps he’d still be the same Riddle Rosehearts, enduring lonely, cyclical days. Working for a purpose he thought he’d lost. Bent over a metal table, dissecting all kinds of stuff for his research. Feeling the empty void grow larger and larger with every passing year.

There’s no need to entertain those dismal recollections any longer, though. He has a purpose now. He’s fulfilled.

Riddle doesn’t need to look too far into the future to know he’ll be content. Whether it’s tomorrow, next week, or years from now, he will always know happiness when he’s with the one he treasures most.

Pinned to the window, you’re falling first. Riddle runs his fingers through the soft strands of your tail, cooing at you like one might a pet: “That’s it. Go ahead and cum for me, my dear.”

Obedient thing that you are, you heed his command.

He rubs your hip encouragingly. You’re on the verge of collapsing, so he grabs your wrists and yanks you back up against him. He ruts into you with more force, knocking you against the window like you’re nothing more than a boneless doll. And then he’s driving home in a final thrust to flood your gummy walls with his spend.

Blinking through your tears and panting heavily, you float back to reality. He steadies you when you stagger on wobbling hooves, feeling only slightly bad that he’s to blame for that. But the prideful part of him relishes in having fucked you so good that you can hardly stand.

He kisses your cheek. “You did so well.”

“I wanna go again…”

He slides out, much to your displeasure, and helps you sit down. “Let’s take a break. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Another cup of tea?”

Stubborn to a fault, you pout at him. Sitting grumpy in that chair with your ears flat on your head, looking a right mess, you’re the cutest, most darling sweetheart he’s ever seen. It almost convinces him.

“Come now. We have all afternoon to waste away.” Riddle cups your cheek. You turn from him with a huff. He watches you scowl at nothing in particular. “Don’t look so glum. I never said we couldn’t go again.”

“But I can go again now! I don’t need a break.”

“You almost fell over. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You cross your arms over your chest, refusing to dignify that with a retort. He takes your chin in a gentle grasp and guides your head towards him. You hold his stare with unwavering resolve.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, leaning down to close the space. “That dress suits you.”

“It’ll look better on the floor.”

“Will it?” he asks, playing along with a raised brow.

“It will and you know it.” You throw your arms around his neck, your voice tickling his ear. “So take it off properly this time, okay?”

Riddle intends to do just that.

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