It’s a quiet evening in the library, the kind of hush only broken by the scratch of quills and the soft rustle of pages. You're seated a few tables over, unaware of just how dangerous your voice has become.

You’re laughing softly at a note you’ve found from one of your friends–and Tom hears it.

And that’s all it takes. His quill stills mid-sentence. His jaw tightens. His mind, sharp and disciplined, immediately begins to fracture beneath the heat of a thought he can’t push away:

He wants to hear that voice in his ear. But not laughing. Begging. Whimpering. Saying his name like a secret and a sin.

You look over, and he doesn’t look away.

“Staring again, RiddIe?”

“Only because I’m hoping you’ll keep talking,” he replies in a dangerously smooth voice.

You smirk. “That desperate to hear me read aloud from Magical Law and Ethical Theory?”

“No,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

Your smile falters as you watch his eyes burn into you.

He stands slowly, each movement deliberate. He walks to your table and leans down.

“Say anything. Anything at all.”

Your breath hitches as he closes the space between you.

“I want to hear what that mouth sounds like when you’re not pretending to behave.”

Your heart skips a beat as you watch a satisfied smirk settle on Tom’s lips.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Talk dirty to me.”