#It was a punishment just to have him for one chapter

[heirloomgem]

Euphonious Series

Summary: (AU) In a world of ABO, you've always thought you were an alpha, high above others.

However, encountering your fated pair, proves you otherwise.

Add to that, your fated pair, whose grey eyes that always seem to see through you and black hair that always tries to entice your hand to run through it. You found out you were an omega through the heat he caused.

You couldn't help but curse the gods in every possible way as you tried your hardest not to kneel and beg your junior in school to claim and ravage you, whose name was Sung Jinwoo.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything except for my characters and plot.

Warning/Genre: OOC, Romance, fluff, high school life, gender neutral (Sorry for the miss grammar)

Chapter 1 - Meeting

In your current society, you have your first gender.

A female and a male.

However, once you reach a certain age, you are tested to differentiate for your second gender.

A Beta, which the majority are categorized.

Next is the minority that experiences heat, an Omega.

And then where success is guaranteed, the Alpha.

You have always thought your life is set.

Born into an affluent family, number one in studies and sports, a good enough appearance and a dominant but nonchalant personality.

You and everyone have obviously thought you were an alpha.

Or so you thought as you met those grey eyes of a boy, named Sung Jinwoo.

It had been an average day for you.

Waking up and getting ready for school, listening to your teacher as they teach their subject.

Doing your duties as a student council president and catching your schoolmates who were slacking and skipping school.

Punishing them or dragging their asses back if they defy you.

It was a normal routine for you however what made that day different from others was meeting him.

Your fated pair.

You had just finished all the necessary paperwork and meetings as the student council president and were on your way home when you saw a group of students harassing some middle schoolers.

Stopping in your tracks, you saw that some of them were from your school while the others were from schools that were close to your area.

Observing the group of high school students, you couldn't help but notice that they seemed to be part of the same friend group, as there were no conflicts between them. Instead, they were bullying some middle school students.

You sigh as you shake your head.

Such a bunch of brats.

Seeing that they have already beaten a few middle school students and are about to harass them again, you step in without hesitation and call out to them.

The students who wore similar uniforms as yours stiffened once they heard and saw you.

They have been the same junior students you have always dragged back to school from skipping classes.

They were either in some arcade or in some brawls with other delinquents from another school, in which case resulted in you facing both parties.

Neither did you take sides as you beat them.

In the end, you would contact the other school's student council president, who happened to be one of your childhood friends, to inform them about your schoolmates and what happened.

Afterwards, you would finally escort your own schoolmates' beat-up assess back to your school infirmary.

That was how it usually plays.

And since they have crossed paths with you a few times already, they have seen what you're capable of and have unconsciously ingrained your presence in their minds.

They knew they were in trouble.

However, the other students from a different school were unaware of their dilemma, nor did they know you.

And so, seeing you leisurely walking up to them, they immediately put their attention on you and abandoned their previous targets at once.

Oblivious to the danger they're putting themselves into.

Arrogant in their stance, clearly the one leading them was an alpha.

You sigh once again, deciding to finish this quickly. Since you were eager to go home and were quite looking forward to the dessert that your mother had bought from abroad.

The thought almost makes you salivate.

"What this? Trying to be a hero now aren't you?" The alpha taunted as he strode over to you, smirking as his lackeys trailed behind him and slowly circled you.

Eyeing you up, it was clear he was sizing you as he instinctive knew you were an alpha.

You two were almost the same height however you clearly towered him by a few inches.

Showing an indifferent attitude and not answering his taunt, he faltered as you gave him a cold stare.

Embarrassed by showing weakness and intimidated by another alpha, he hid it by sneering at you and barking again at your classmates.

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing?! Get your asses here!" He shouted, his voice showing traces of agitation. This affected his lackeys as their earlier confidence faltered as well.

Looking at their other friends, they were confused as they remained rooted in their place.

Their faces paled, body trembling and sweat dripping down from their forehead. Hesitant, they gave a small shake of their head, their eyes showing undeniable fear.

Annoyed, the alpha was once again about to shout when suddenly a presence loomed over him and a cold voice interrupted.

"I'll advise you to leave if you don't want yourself embarrassed and beaten up by the end of the day, kid."

It was your voice.

Calm and deep, sending shivers down their spines as they felt authority dripping off it.

The alpha and his group paled instantly. Something inside them, especially the leader in their group instinctively told them this student was dangerous and someone not to be messed with.

However, an alpha is an alpha. They weren't one to be bent over nor ordered around so easily.

And because of this and due to his arrogant pride, the alpha kid faced you with a sneer and defiantly challenged you.

"Fuck you."

"..."

The surroundings fell silent, and the atmosphere immediately grew colder than it used to. A heavy feeling washed over everyone watching the two and they felt a foreboding sense creep up their spine.

You, however, just gave a small cold laugh before dropping your bag. Your eyes narrowed darkly.

Not long after, sounds of screams and agonizing cries echoed in the park while your schoolmates and the group of middle school students watched in horror as you beat them with ease but not without mercy.

Instructing your schoolmates to drag their friends' asses to their school infirmary, you told them that their student presidents, whom you have informed already, were waiting for them at the school entrance.

They knew that if they didn't show up, this president of theirs would hound them no matter where they were. Because of this, you didn't worry if they ran away.

As for your schoolmates, they already know to show up the next day if they want to keep their balls alive.

Watching them limp away, you finally let out a breath and pick up your school bag, satisfied that everything was almost over.

However, glancing over to the side and seeing the group of young students all bruised and battered, you sigh inwardly.

You made a mental note to have those bastards write up a thousand-word apology and assign them chores around campus as punishment.

Walking over to the group of middle schoolers, you asked them if they were alright.

"Yes, senior. Thank you so much for your help!" One of the kids replied while the others nodded with a bit of enthusiasm.

Looking over their battered faces while a smile was on their lips and their eyes shining as they looked at you, you couldn't help but worry and apologize to them on behalf of your schoolmates as their school president.

Throughout the exchange, one particular student was silent and kept his distance from you however you didn't blame him. If you were him, you would also be wary, especially after what they have been through before you came.

You may have saved them, but there's no guarantee you won't do the same as what those previous people did.

Though you felt his eyes lock onto you, you didn't know whether it was hostility or something else. Just that you couldn't ignore how intense his gaze was as he watched you.

Deciding to let it go, you took out a card from your pocket and gave it to them, advising them to visit the clinic if they ever experienced any signs of discomfort.

It was one of the clinics your cousin works at.

Given the number of students you frequently handled in such cases, your cousin already suspected it was you who sent them whenever students arrived at their clinic with bruises on their bodies.

Your cousin scolds you because of it.

You simply shrugged and responded that it at least contributed to the business. No matter how you deal with these troublemakers—whether through a gentle approach or not—if they still refuse to listen, they need to learn the hard way.

It was that or nothing.

You explained and your cousin could only accept defeat as deep down he knew that kids your age are hard to disciple.

As the students bowed in gratitude, you noticed the admiration in their eyes as they stared at you.

Not used to such gazes, you cough and avoid their eyes. Instead, you immediately urged them to go home as the sky slowly turned dark.

Inwardly, you hope they won't turn out like you, as you know you are barely crossing the line when it comes to disciplining such unruly schoolmates of yours.

Bowing their heads once more, they said goodbye and walked away, eager to head home while chatting happily.

You sigh again and lift your hand to brush your hair, glad that everything's finally over.

As they turned the corner, you were about to leave when suddenly there were hurried footsteps behind you. You felt a hand grab your shirt tightly, stopping you in your tracks.

That's when you heard them, stammering with a soft and warm voice, calling out to you pleadingly as you turned your head.

Your eyes locked with grey-coloured ones.

It was the boy from earlier who was watching you so intensely.

He has soft black hair with bangs that brush against his lashes. He also reaches your shoulders in height and has a lean build.

Clearly, the boy was growing and showing a distinct trait of an alpha.

However, it wasn't those physical traits that shocked you, it was his scent. A scent so endearing your body reacted in ways you never experienced before.

You felt your body heat up, your hands trembling and your breath laboured as you continued to lock eyes with the boy.

His scent enveloped you, intoxicating and enticing, making you crave something you knew was wrong.

Slowly, dread fills you as realizations hit you all at once.

You cursed.

"Fuck."

A/n: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Their age will be explained as the story goes and don't worry there won't be inappropriate ages or such.

Please leave a comment on what you think! Thank you!

{All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author}

[sir-sunawani]

Starling

Omegaverse

Alpha!Crocodile/Omega!Reader

Inspired by @hannahbarberra162's Emperor's Prize

CW: A/B/O, yandere vibes (unsure if full blown yan yet), dub con (possible non-con I am so by the seat of my pants with this), rough sex, rough everything kind of, mdni

Chapter 4: Punishment

The older gentleman that measures you has such an air of professionalism, you don’t even care you’re almost completely naked. Save for a pair of ill-fitting underwear, you have on nothing else. He lets you stand near the fireplace and works quickly, stating numbers to a younger assistant who has kept his back turned since you were requested to disrobe.

Crocodile watches the whole thing, he may be working at his desk no one doubts he is paying due attention to the process.

“All done. You may redress, young Miss, thank you.” He instructs with a small bow before gathering his things. “I’ll have a catalogue brought in and you can choose what you like.”

You freeze, the large shirt you’d been wearing falling into place only because of how large it is.

“Choose?” You question, looking from a seemingly disinterested Crocodile to the tailor. “I will have options?”

The sound of Crocodile’s pen stops, the tailor going pale at the sudden silence. Something about it unnerves you too, but you aren’t sure why.

“Yes.” Crocodile answers for him, taking a deep drag of his cigar before letting out a long trail of smoke. “You may choose whatever you want.”

Logically you understood what that meant, but you were struggling with the practice of it. You’d never decided something for yourself. Your attendants dressed you, and your clothes were decided by someone beyond even them. Your meals, your breaks, when you slept - you existed within the borders someone else set.

The only thing you ever had the right to enforce was that no one was allowed to touch you. Even the tailor had taken care to barely even graze your skin with his gloves despite the closeness with which he worked.

You decided not to overthink it, and sat down near the fire when the tailor returned with a catalog.

“If you have any questions, I am at your service, Miss.” he says, stepping back and letting you have some space.

You sit and flip through the catalog. There are all sorts of items listed, from uniforms to evening wear. When you reach the accessories, gloves and the like, you go back to the start.

“Do you have things that are easy to put on?” You question as flatly as you can. Asking a question at all feels demeaning, but you don’t want to pick something with complicated clasps on accident.

“Yes Miss. There are a couple sundresses available, which are generally just pulled on over one’s head. Button-up shirts have easily accessible buttons down the front of the garment, you may like those as well.” He turns the pages of the catalog slowly, pointing out various items.

He speaks evenly and carefully, nothing given away in his tone if your questions are absurd or not. It puts you at ease, and you realize after some time that you must have demanded this man’s attention for at least an hour, and he never faltered. With clothes decided he steps over to Crocodile’s desk, and the two finalize things.

You’d chosen two sundresses, two pants and two shirts. The tailor told you that undergarments would be provided and you decided not to point out that while you knew what under clothes were, it’d been so long since you’d been permitted to wear any you weren’t sure you wanted to.

The whole affair started after lunch, and was done by dinner.

For you the day had been long, aside from eating and dealing with the tailor you did nothing else but lounge on the small couch and watch the fire. You didn’t want to walk the grounds in nothing but his shirt, and you didn’t even really want to leave the room in the first place. It was comfortable now that you’d gotten used to it.

Since he took his meals at his desk, you took yours in the room as well. People came in and out in a near steady stream - the only break for him had been while you were being measured.

“After dinner, you’ll have your lesson.” He says when no one else is left in the room with you.

“My lesson?” You question and feel yourself stiffen as you remember before he says it.

“Proper and efficient hygiene.” He answers flatly.

“Right, I… I mean, I didn’t do anything today, I’m hardly in need of a shower.” It’s a weak argument, but you don’t want the eight foot tall alpha to be in the shower with you again. His scent has been enough from this distance.

“You’ll still do it.” He asserts. You should let it drop there, you know, but something coils between your legs at the idea of him being naked again, and it makes you nervous.

“You’ll be standing outside and in-instructing me?” You know the answer before you ask, but you can’t help it.

“No. Tonight I will be cleaning you. Tomorrow you will repeat what I’ve done.” You can hear a tinge of irritation in his voice, or maybe you imagine it. He sounds irritated randomly throughout the day as it is.

“It wouldn’t be very efficient.” You barely say the words, and Crocodile doesn’t even acknowledge what you know he heard. You hear him get up, but you don’t want this. It felt far less humiliating to have the attendants clean you, than it feels to have someone teach you something you should know.

And you do know it. You know what is done and how, you just haven’t had to do it yourself.

“I’m not even dirty it-!” You suck in a breath as your wine glass is lifted and splashed into your face. There’s silence between you and Crocodile, who is carefully and with graceful practice, rolling up the sleeve of his right arm.

“Wuh-why?” You manage to ask, red wine dripping down your skin.

“You needed a reason.” He says curtly. “Now you’ve ruined my shirt, stained my sofa, and wasted my time. You will be punished, and then you will be cleaned.”

“Punished?! You’re the one who threw the wine around!” You shout, pointing at him and watching in slow horror as the wet sleeve of your shirt whips around and flicks wine onto his vest.

“I’m… sorry, I’m sorry, I did not mean to do that, I -.” Panic rises up in your voice, but he cuts you and your panic off.

“You are my guest, and have been treated as such.” His voice has an edge that sits at your throat. “And to repay that, you act like a spoiled brat.”

“I’m sorry, I am, I’m sorry, I-.”

“Silence.” He snarls and you press your lips together. You weren’t ever punished, you didn’t know what to expect. You were sure he wasn’t going to kill you, and it was unlikely he was mar you in some way. You were too valuable, but you didn’t know what a pirate and an alpha would do to you.

“If you do as you’re told, it will go better for you. Take off that ruined shirt and stand by my desk.” He commands and you do as you’re told.

Crocodile walks over and opens his door just a little, saying something to someone outside it before closing it and locking it.

“Put your hands flat on the desk and bend over.” He orders, and you do as you’re told, or you think you have. He presses you down until your chest is flush against the desk and waits until you put your palms flat against the desk.

“If you remove your hands from my desk, I will carry you out of this room and take you into one of the big tents.” He explains, hand still in the middle of your back. “Hundreds of pirates will watch me continue your punishment. Do you understand?”

“No,” you cry, fear starting to overtake you. “No I don’t know what a punishment is, I don’t understand!” Sobbing you keep your hands on the desk. “My hands, my hands stay on the desk!” You almost whimper the words, smacking your hands on the desk. “I understand that.”

You hear a metallic sound, thin metal against thin metal and realize he’s removing his belt. “Spread your legs and lift your ass. I’ll show you what a punishment can be.” He commands.

You do as he asks, stomach in knots, body shivering. You’re afraid you’re going to throw up onto his desk and if you do that it’ll just be worse. You’re already staining pages with tears and the wine that was in your hair.

“Please, I’m sorry,” you can barely form the words against tears and fear, but it doesn’t matter. The leather of his doubled over belt cuts through the air and bites into the curve of your ass, licking a painful strip against your skin. You shriek, more from surprise and fear than the actual pain, and he pushes you harshly back against the desk.

“HANDS.” He growls, and you put them on the desk, shivering and sobbing. “It’s alright. You didn’t know, and it took you by surprise.” He admits, his own hand almost soothing against your back until you calm down a little.

“But now you know. Keep your hands in place.” He warns.

 Crocodile’s POV

Fuck, you smelled delicious once you became afraid. Your scent was good all the time as far as he was concerned, but right now you were divine. He wanted to shove his tongue into your cunt and taste the scent that was driving him half mad right now.

He brings the belt down a second time, eyes focused on the impact of leather against your skin. He wanted to make your ass red and puffy, but he didn’t want to risk any cuts or other more permanent marks. Your flawless skin was going to stay like that until he sank his teeth into your neck.

You were going to be his. You already were, you just didn’t know it yet. You were his the second Buggy had the intelligence to bring you to him. He would have to reward the idiot clown.

He pauses after the third strike, setting the belt down and putting his hand on your ass.

“Tell me why you’re being punished.” He says, his voice almost tender compared to earlier.

You sob and hiccup, this new experience for you is more fear than pain. He’s sure you know what punishment is as a concept, but it’s very possible this was your first direct experience of it.

“I… I got wine on your vuh-vest.” The scent rolling off you has his pants uncomfortably tight. He wants to split you in half with his cock, burying his knot into your cunt until his own spend bubbles out past the tight fit.

He smacks your ass with his bare hand, delighting in the feel of your skin, hot against his palm. You yelp, keeping your hands on the desk. He appreciated your fear of the tent - he didn’t want to share you with anyone.

“And?”

“And… and I was a buh-bad guest. I’m sorry.” You cry.

“Good girl.” He says. “You learned, and this is so you don’t forget. Be sure to say thank you after each one.” He warns.

Your POV

His hand lands, sharp and heavy against your ass cheek, the impact stings.

“Four!” You cry.

“One.” He corrects. “Don’t worry about before now.”

Sniffling you nod. His voice had been so gentle once you admitted your mistakes that you didn’t want him to talk to you the other way again. That was scary, this was reassuring.

Another heavy smack on the opposite side.

“Two,” you gasp as he grabs your stinging cheek in his massive hand, squeezing it. The pleasure from the massage chases behind the harsh sting and addles your mind.

“You won’t be a bad guest again, right?” He questions, punctuating it with another slap. Shaking your head you count out, the sound turning into a soft mewl as he grabs your cheek again.

He repeats the action, but after you count you can’t stop the breathy, “No,” that slips between your lips.

“No?” He inquires, a dangerous tone in his voice. “Are you telling me to stop?”

“No! No, I - I mean… I …” you almost start crying again. “I… It feels weird.”

He slaps your ass cheeks in quick succession, raining down blows so fast it is impossible for you to count. Just as it starts to really hurt he stops, grabbing one red and stinging ass cheek and forcing a sound out of you, that you hadn’t expected to make.

The lascivious sound is unmistakable.

“I’m sorry!” Panic rises in your throat, but Crocodile just turns you over, laying you on your back, your legs dangling off his desk.

The look on his face has you frozen in place. He looks like he’s going to eat you. The golden amber eyes are slit tight, burning as they look down at you.

“You’re turned on?”

“I’m sorry!” You cry, tears running down the side of your face. “I’m sorry I didn’t - I couldn’t - I learned, I swear I learned! I didn’t know, I -!”

Crocodile’s POV

His hand over your mouth quiets you. You shiver beneath him, the look on his face sending an odd heat through your body and once you calm down a little he moves his hand away from your mouth.

“You’re going to get your wish,” he says, his voice dripping with restraint. “But only because it may be after midnight before I’m sated.”

He pushes your leg up onto the desk, pining it in place with his hook. You scream, covering your mouth as you realize he hasn’t impaled you, just restrained your leg with his hook. Terror is making your scent stronger and he can’t take it anymore.

He grabs your other leg by the ankle and pulls you open, exposing your dripping cunt to the air. The smell puts visions in his head of him truly devouring you like a small shivering rabbit.

“No, no please!” Panic claws at your voice and you put your hands over your mound. “Don’t-don’t! You’ll-you’ll lose money if you take it! I won’t-.”

“Silence.” He forces it upon you and you fall silent, hands still covering yourself. “Move. Your. Hands.”

Your face flushes down to your shoulders, but you do as he commands.

“What value you have to the gods doesn’t matter to me.” He says, kneeling down between your legs. “They’re beneath me, so it only matters what worth you have to me.”

The tip of his nose grazes the hair of your pussy, and he breathes in deep, letting the sweet scent soak his lungs before his tongue parts your labia and the tip flicks against your clit. You tense and squeak, unable to close your legs, body shivering for all manner of reasons.

The taste of you is a delight he couldn’t dare name, but the single lick isn’t nearly enough. You’re going to enjoy what he’s going to do to you, even if you haven’t been good enough to truly earn it yet.

Your POV

The first gentle lick sends a jolt through you, but you don’t have time to say anything before his mouth begins to devour you again. His lips press in deep, parting yours and letting his thick tongue press against the slick between your folds. The hot wet muscle sends a strange sensation through you, and you squirm uselessly against his hold on you.

“What - wait, I - whaaaaaat’s this?” You whine, as he licks heavy against your clit.

“Consider it part of your punishment.” He grumbles into your skin. His voice is soothing to your ears, but his actions have you on edge.

Another heavy lick and you can’t stop yourself as your body rolls from the pleasure that ripples through you. Crocodile growls when you move, but doesn’t stop licking your cunt. You reach out, putting your hands into his hair and the growl shifts into a purr.

The new sound relaxes you from head to toe, and with less energy spent on holding you down Crocodile focuses on eating you out. Hungry lips and a heavy tongue urge more and more slick from you, and drag thick, heady panting moans from you.

The airy moans falling from your lips turn into whines as the pleasure builds. You’re squirming beneath him, but since you’re holding onto his hair you’re not squirming away from him.

“Please, please,” you huff, feeling a delicious pleasure coil between your thighs. You’d never orgasmed before. You’d come close, but you weren’t permitted that kind of pleasure outside of your heats, and during them you couldn’t attain it by yourself.

What you knew well was the climb to that elusive precipice.

“I’m close, I’m close, please, please, I’m sorry, please let me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t - won’t argue again, please, please!” You cry, your body shivering as he brings you closer and closer.

Just before you tip over the edge, Crocodile shifts, plunging his thick tongue into your vagina. He releases your ankle and rolls his thumb against your clit as his tongue curls inside you.

An unintelligible sound is ripped from your lips as pleasure pulls taut every muscle in your body. You can feel yourself throbbing against his thick tongue, each twitch of your own body sending another merciless jolt of pleasure through you.

Crocodile doesn’t stop. Some addled part of your brain thinks that’s fitting, but it does you no good as your overstimulated body jerks and curls.

“Please,” the word shivers from your lips as Crocodile withdraws his tongue from your twitching cunt.

“One more.” He husks, eyes soft and out of focus. “You taste even better than you smell, little starling, and I will drink once more at least.”

He pushes your leg back again, engulfing your breast with his hand and holding you in place as he licks heavy into your slit. All you can do is hold onto his arm as he drinks his fill bringing you to the edge a second time.

This orgasm soaks into your body, making your heart rush even as your muscles seem to relax against it. The pleasure rolls your eyes back and loosens your grip on his arm, letting him press your body into an immovable hold even more than before. Sweat begins to slick your skin and his tongue moves away from your cunt, licking the salt and thin sheen from the crease of your hips.

“Cr-Crocodile… please,” you paw at his arm as he licks up the backside of your thigh.

“Mercy then, perhaps.” He purrs, and his teeth look so sharp, and his eyes look so reptilian, and the scent of sand and honey that surrounds him is thick and sticky, and you can almost feel it pulling your cunt open for him.

“Now there is plenty of reason to wash you.”

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Reckoning | Sebastian Sallow x OC #54

Quite a satisfying chapter if I do say so myself…

Summary: Sebastian's simmering resentment toward Alaric Thornton boils over during a heated confrontation, leading to a violent outburst. Evangeline intervenes just in time, cleaning up the mess and confronting Sebastian about his reckless behavior while grappling with the emotional distance she’s created between them.

Words: ~10,500

Tags: Mild Violence/Blood, Protective Sebastian, Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation, Not-Quite-Dating, Will They Won't They, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Longing, Unspoken Feelings, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Drama, Idiots in Love

Timeline: Mid August

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline

Read on AO3

The Ministry of Magic’s Auror Division was a whirlwind of activity, a symphony of rushing footsteps, shuffling papers, and urgent conversations. Trainees and seasoned Aurors moved purposefully through the corridors, their robes billowing behind them. Sebastian stood at his assigned station, the steady rhythm of his foot tapping against the stone floor doing little to mask the simmering frustration building inside him. His hands tightened around the parchment his supervisor had handed him, the words blurring as his irritation mounted.

The mission brief should have been a moment of excitement. He’d been waiting days for this assignment, eager for a chance to prove himself in the field. It was a straightforward mission: investigate a smuggling ring suspected of trafficking cursed artifacts through Knockturn Alley. Capture any suspects, secure the evidence, and report back. Simple, efficient—exactly the kind of task he wanted. But then he saw the name listed next to his: Alaric Thornton.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling around the parchment as if sheer force could erase the name. Thornton. The very thought of him sent a sharp, bitter surge of anger coursing through him.

Sebastian hadn’t forgotten Alaric’s past—or, more specifically, Alaric’s involvement with Evangeline. The memory of their brief courtship was a wound that never fully healed, a source of simmering resentment that flared to life the moment he saw the man’s name. It wasn’t just that Alaric had been with her—it was that he’d had everything Sebastian had ever wanted and thrown it away. Worse, he’d nearly ruined Evangeline in the process.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, scanning the briefing again as though a second read would offer some reprieve. But it wasn’t just Alaric that had him on edge. The last week had been hell in more ways than one.

The brief levity between him and Evangeline during the Quidditch game had been a welcome relief. For a few moments, it had felt like old times—like she hadn't spent weeks avoiding him, like they were still Evie and Sebastian, teasing and bickering as naturally as breathing. He’d saved her when that Bludger hit, and for a fleeting moment, nothing else mattered. Not the Prophet, not the whispers, not the weight of everything left unsaid.

But, of course, the Prophet had punished them for it. The next morning, a headline screamed from every street corner: Auror Saves Sterling, But Was the Danger His Fault to Begin With? The article had twisted every detail, painting him as reckless, impulsive, and somehow complicit in the chaos. Worse, it had dragged Evangeline into the spotlight again, insinuating that she was foolish for trusting him.

He hated it. He hated that no matter what he did, the Prophet always managed to make him the villain. But more than that, he hated how it pushed Evangeline further away, retreating into the same polite distance that had plagued them for weeks. It didn’t matter that he’d saved her. It didn’t matter that she’d looked at him afterward like he was the only person in the world who could make her feel safe. The whispers, the scrutiny—it had won again.

The silence in her absence was deafening. At night, Sebastian lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, his hand instinctively drifting to the empty side of the bed. He missed her warmth, the subtle weight of her presence beside him. He missed the way she’d murmur nonsense as she drifted off to sleep, her voice soft and half-lost to dreams.

He worried that in their time apart, she wasn’t sleeping at all. That the nightmares were back. And with their work on the repository enchantments stalled, he couldn’t help but think that her dreams might be haunted by that darkness again. The thought made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

And if that wasn’t enough, Ominis had casually relayed details of another party Evangeline had attended. Another room filled with men like Theodore Fawley and Elias Carrow, men who spoke of her as if she were a prize to be won. Men who knew nothing of her quirks, her strength, her vulnerability. Men who had no right to be in the same room as her, let alone vying for her attention.

The thought of it made his blood boil, but the worst part was knowing she’d endured it all with the same graceful smile she always wore when society demanded it. She didn’t let on how much it weighed on her, but Sebastian knew.

And now, as if fate had decided to test his limits further, he was assigned to work with the one man he hated more than anyone else: Alaric Thornton. Alaric, who’d had Evangeline’s heart and thrown it away. Alaric, who’d dragged her name through the mud to save his own skin, all for the sake of a handful of galleons. A man who had threatened her—who had nearly destroyed her—and yet still managed to weasel his way into Sebastian’s present.

Across the room, the man in question stood by a bulletin board, casually scanning the notes pinned beneath a softly glowing charm. Alaric looked exactly as Sebastian remembered: tall, composed, and exuding an infuriating air of effortless confidence. His robes were impeccably tailored, his dark hair neatly combed, and his posture radiated a self-assuredness that made Sebastian’s wand hand twitch. It wasn’t just the polish and poise—there was something about the way Alaric carried himself, as though the world bent just slightly to accommodate him, that set Sebastian’s teeth on edge.

Alaric turned, and their eyes met. His brows furrowed ever so slightly, a brief crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. For a fleeting moment, Sebastian saw a glimmer of apprehension in his expression, as if Alaric was weighing the implications of this unwanted reunion. But then, with a precision that spoke of practiced professionalism, he smoothed over the reaction, his features settling into a neutral, almost indifferent mask as he approached with measured, deliberate steps.

“Sebastian Sallow,” Alaric said, his tone cool but polite. "It seems we’re working together on this one.”

Sebastian gave a terse nod. “Looks that way.”

Alaric studied him for a moment longer before glancing at the parchment in Sebastian’s hand. “A smuggling ring in Knockturn Alley—cursed artifacts, mostly. It’s a delicate operation, so we’ll need to tread carefully. I’ll lead the planning since this is your first field assignment.”

Sebastian forced himself to breathe, to maintain the professionalism expected of him, but his voice came out colder than intended. “I’m aware of how these operations work.”

Alaric’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Of course. Then I trust you’ll follow my lead.” He turned on his heel without waiting for a response, his posture impeccably straight as he moved toward the equipment lockers.

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white with the effort of holding himself together. The assignment was already a disaster, and they hadn’t even left the Auror office. Every interaction with Alaric felt like a fresh provocation, and Sebastian was beginning to wonder how he’d manage to get through the day without saying—or doing—something that would land him in hot water with their supervisors.

By the time they arrived in Knockturn Alley, the tension between them was palpable, thicker than the heavy, damp shadows that clung to the crooked buildings and twisted alleyways. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint stench of mildew and something unidentifiable but unpleasant. Their footsteps echoed unevenly against the cobblestones, the sound amplified in the narrow confines of the alley.

The strained silence between them was broken only by the occasional murmur of a passerby or the distant clink of glass from a nearby shop. Sebastian’s jaw tightened as he caught Alaric scanning their surroundings, his gaze sharp and calculating. The man was every bit the professional, and that only fueled Sebastian’s frustration.

He wanted to throttle him. Right here, right now, in the middle of the street. Sebastian wanted to grab him by the collar, shove him against the nearest wall, and demand to know how he could do it. How he could look at Evangeline—kind, fierce, brilliant Evangeline—and decide she was worth so little. How he could throw away what Sebastian had dreamed of, what he still longed for, like it was nothing.

But Sebastian couldn’t. Not with their superiors waiting for a successful mission report and his career as an Auror depending on his performance.

Alaric stopped at the corner of a derelict warehouse, gesturing for Sebastian to follow. “This should be the place,” he said quietly, his voice level and professional. “The reports indicate they’ve been using the upper floors for storage. We’ll sweep the perimeter first, make sure there aren’t any lookouts, then move in.”

Sebastian nodded stiffly, unwilling to give more than the bare minimum of acknowledgment.

Alaric glanced at him, his expression carefully neutral, but there was no mistaking the sharpness in his eyes. “Keep your head in the game,” he said, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable edge of warning. “We can’t afford mistakes.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his teeth clenching as he forced himself not to snap back. The comment seemed innocuous enough on the surface—standard Auror advice, even—but Sebastian wasn’t stupid.

He was referring to Evangeline.

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened, the polished wood digging into his palm as he fought to keep his composure. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “Good,” he said simply, turning back to scan the alleyway ahead. “Then let’s move.”

Sebastian followed. The darkness of the alley seemed to press in around them, the flickering light from a broken lamppost casting jagged shadows on the crumbling walls.

Alaric paused at a corner, motioning for Sebastian to stop. His hand moved with precise efficiency, pointing toward a narrow side entrance partially obscured by a stack of rotting crates. “That’s likely our best entry point,” he murmured.

Sebastian gave a curt nod then stepped forward, his movements sharp and deliberate, as they approached the side entrance. Alaric waved his wand, murmuring a quiet detection spell. The faint shimmer of a protective charm glimmered for a moment before fading.

“Low-level enchantment,” Alaric said. “Amateurs.”

Sebastian’s snorted. “Guess you’ll feel right at home.”

Alaric shot him a brief glance, his expression hardening, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he flicked his wand again, carefully dismantling the charm. The door creaked open, and they slipped inside, the musty air of the warehouse thick with dust and neglect.

Inside, the darkness was punctuated by faint shafts of light filtering through broken windows. The hum of magic grew stronger as they moved deeper, its source hidden somewhere within. Crates lined the walls, their lids pried open to reveal objects wrapped in frayed burlap—glimpses of cursed jewelry, cracked potion vials, and jagged shards of enchanted mirrors.

Sebastian’s wand hand twitched as his anger flared anew, though for an entirely new reason. This wasn’t just a smuggling operation—it was a collection of destruction, the kind of artifacts that could ruin lives.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, faint but distinct. Alaric gestured silently, motioning for Sebastian to move left while he circled right. For a brief moment, Sebastian considered ignoring him, storming ahead and taking matters into his own hands. But he relented, slipping into the shadows and moving toward the sound.

The confrontation came fast and brutal. Two smugglers appeared, wands raised, their spells slicing through the air. Sebastian reacted instantly, his fury spilling into his magic. He didn’t hold back, his spells crackling with raw power as he disarmed and subdued one smuggler with ruthless efficiency.

Behind him, he heard the clash of Alaric’s duel. Glancing back, he saw Alaric moving with precision, each spell calculated and deliberate, his expression calm even under fire.

When the last smuggler fell, immobilized by a binding spell, Alaric turned toward Sebastian, his breathing steady, his expression unreadable. “That was effective,” he said, his tone neutral. “A bit… impetuous, but effective.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his wand still gripped tightly in his hand. Without seeking permission, he moved toward the crates lining the walls. “Let’s just secure the evidence and get out of here.”

Alaric followed suit, his movements calm and methodical as he began inspecting the cursed artifacts. “We should alert the containment team,” he said, gesturing toward a particularly volatile-looking shard of enchanted glass. “Some of these are too unstable for transport without reinforcement.”

Sebastian barely heard him, his attention already elsewhere. His wand moved with precise motions as he began securing the perimeter, muttering counter-charms under his breath to dispel lingering traces of dark magic.

The tension between them hung heavy in the air as they worked in strained silence, broken only by the occasional creak of shifting crates or muffled murmurs from the subdued smugglers. Alaric sent word to the containment specialists with calm efficiency, methodically cataloging the cursed artifacts with an infuriating composure that grated on Sebastian’s nerves. Meanwhile, Sebastian directed his frustration into his task, reinforcing the protective wards around the captured contraband with a precision that bordered on aggression. Each flick of his wand was sharp, his focus unrelenting.

The minutes dragged into what felt like an eternity, the oppressive atmosphere of the warehouse pressing down on them. Finally, the sound of boots echoing against the stone floor heralded the arrival of reinforcements. A squad of Ministry specialists swept into the room, their brisk movements and clipped orders cutting through the tension like a blade.

Sebastian stepped back, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of the last hour. His grip tightened around his wand, its familiar weight grounding him as he watched the specialists expertly handle the cursed artifacts. Their practiced efficiency was a welcome reprieve from the strained dynamic he’d endured with Alaric. For the first time since they had entered the musty, dimly lit space, he felt a flicker of relief.

The return to the Ministry was uneventful, the bustling halls of the Auror Division a stark contrast to the shadowy tension of Knockturn Alley. Sebastian and Alaric handed in their report to their supervising Auror, detailing the mission with a detached professionalism that belied the simmering animosity between them.

Their superior scanned the parchment, his stern expression softening slightly. “Efficient work,” he said gruffly, his eyes flicking between the two of them. “The artifacts are secured, the smugglers are in custody, and there’s no collateral damage. You’ll both receive commendations for this. Dismissed.”

Sebastian nodded stiffly, exchanging a brief, tense glance with Alaric before they turned and left the office. The moment the door closed behind them, the thin veneer of civility Sebastian had maintained cracked, shattering entirely as they stepped into the quiet corridor.

His footsteps slowed, and he stopped abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet hallway. “We’re not done, Thornton.”

Alaric paused mid-step, his shoulders stiffening. He turned slowly, his expression weary but guarded. “The mission’s over. We did our job.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his wand hand twitching at his side. “The mission might be over,” he said, his voice low and sharp, “but you and I have unfinished business.”

Alaric let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know this is about Evangeline—”

Before Alaric could finish his sentence, Sebastian grabbed him by the arm and shoved him toward the nearest meeting room. The door slammed shut behind them, and with a flick of Sebastian’s wand, the lock clicked into place, and the blinds snapped closed. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a lamp in the corner.

Alaric turned to face Sebastian, his jaw tightening. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sebastian didn’t answer immediately. His wand moved in a blur, disarming Alaric with sharp precision. The wand flew into Sebastian’s outstretched hand, and he tucked it into his pocket with a deliberate motion, his eyes blazing with fury.

“What I should have done a long time ago,” Sebastian said, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped closer.

Alaric squared his shoulders, his expression hardening. “You’re out of line,” he said coldly, his tone clipped but controlled. “I suggest you think carefully before making any rash decisions. You’re still only in training, Sallow. You sure you want to end your career before it even starts?"

Sebastian let out a cold, humorless laugh, the sound sharp in the small room. “Rash? Believe me, I’ve thought about this plenty. Months, in fact. Months to stew over how you could betray her like that. How you could take everything she trusted you with and twist it into something vile because the Clearwaters waved a few Galleons in your face.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “That’s in the past,” he said firmly. “I made a mistake—a terrible one. Do you think I haven’t paid for it?”

Sebastian’s lip curled into a sneer. “Paid for it?” he spat, his tone venomous. “You think a tarnished reputation and a few snide whispers make up for what you almost did to her? Do you even realize the damage you could’ve caused?” Sebastian let out a bitter laugh, "You were lucky. Lucky that we stopped you before the damage could stick. But you want to talk about paying for your mistakes? You haven’t even scratched the surface.”

Alaric’s fists tightened at his sides, his voice trembling with anger. “I know what I did, alright?! I don’t need you to remind me! I regret it every day.”

Sebastian stepped closer, his voice rising. “Regret doesn’t cut it, Thornton. Regret doesn’t undo the fact that you tried to destroy someone who trusted you. So tell me, why pretend to care if you were planning to betray her from the start?”

“Because I did care,” Alaric shot back, his voice strained. “I didn’t start courting her with the intention of doing what I did! If you had your facts straight, you'd know the Clearwaters didn’t just bribe me—they blackmailed me.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Blackmail?” he scoffed. “And you call yourself an Auror? Some protector of justice you are if you can’t even handle a little pressure from a bunch of vindictive aristocrats."

Alaric stiffened, his fists curling tighter. “You think it’s that simple?” he said, his voice rising. “You think I didn’t try to fight back? The Clearwaters had leverage! It wasn’t just me they were threatening!"

Sebastian’s lip curled further, his sneer practically dripping with contempt. “So you folded,” he spat. “You chose to throw her to the wolves. You chose to humiliate her, to ruin her future. You don’t belong in this department if that’s all it takes to break you.”

Alaric took another step forward, his frustration spilling over. “I already told you, I regret what I did! What else do you want from me? Blood?”

Sebastian’s rage bubbled over. “Maybe I do,” he snarled, grabbing Alaric by the front of his robes and slamming him against the wall. “Because it sure as hell seems like you haven’t suffered nearly enough.”

Alaric’s head snapped back, his jaw tightening as he glared at Sebastian. “This isn’t going to solve anything,” he growled, shoving at Sebastian’s chest. “You think roughing me up is going to change the past?”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “No, it won’t,” he admitted, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “But it’ll sure as hell make me feel better.”

The taller man scoffed, his composure cracking. “You’re pathetic, Sallow,” he spat, his voice venomous. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for? To play the white knight for Evangeline? Because you’re in love with her? Even when I was courting her, I could see it—the way you looked at her, the way you hovered like a dog waiting for scraps.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, the words landing like physical blows. He twisted Alaric's robes in his grip, his knuckles white. “Shut your damn mouth,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

But Alaric wasn’t done. If anything, his smirk widened, his taunts sharpening. “Oh. Hit a nerve, did I? What’s the matter, Sallow? Afraid I’ll say what everyone else already knows? That you’ll never be good enough for her? The Prophet spelled it out for you, didn’t it?”

Sebastian’s vision blurred with fury. Without thinking, he reached for his wand, a silencing charm snapping into place over the room like a heavy curtain. The ambient hum of the Ministry hallway outside vanished, leaving them in a tense, oppressive silence.

“You should’ve stopped while you were ahead,” Sebastian snarled, his voice a whisper but no less lethal.

Alaric’s smirk faltered for a split second before he regained his composure. “What are you going to do, Sallow? Fight me like a common thug?” His smirk twisted into something cruel. “She deserves someone steady, someone who won’t bring her down with their baggage. Someone like Carling, perhaps. Have you seen the way he looks at her?"

The last thread of Sebastian’s restraint snapped. His wand forgotten, he shoved Alaric harder against the wall, his fist slamming into the older man’s jaw. The satisfying crunch of impact reverberated through the room, followed by Alaric’s sharp intake of breath. He staggered for a split second before recovering, his smirk replaced with a sharp, predatory glare. Without hesitation, he shoved Sebastian hard, the force sending the slightly shorter man stumbling back a few steps.

Alaric sneered, rubbing his jaw where Sebastian’s punch had landed. “You’re a bloody idiot, Sallow,” he snarled, his tone dripping with contempt. “But if this is what you want…”

Alaric lunged forward and his hand caught Sebastian’s collar, yanking him forward, but Sebastian braced himself, planting his feet firmly on the ground. With a surge of strength, he grabbed Alaric’s arm and twisted, forcing the taller man off balance.

The two crashed against the nearest wall, the sound reverberating in the silenced room. Alaric grunted as his shoulder hit the stone, but he retaliated quickly, his free hand coming up to shove Sebastian’s chest. “You’re dangerous” he growled, his voice low and furious. “This is exactly why she’ll never pick you.”

Sebastian saw red. His weight worked to his advantage as he barreled into Alaric, using his momentum to drive the man backward. They collided with the corner of a table, the sharp edge digging into Alaric’s side. The taller man let out a pained grunt but didn’t falter. Instead, he brought his knee up, catching Sebastian in the ribs and forcing him to stumble back.

“You’ve got a lot of bark,” Alaric hissed, circling Sebastian with predatory precision. “But that’s all you are, isn’t it? Bark. No bite. Just a desperate fool chasing after something he can’t have.”

Sebastian’s lip curled into a snarl, his fury giving him focus. “You think I’m desperate?” he shot back, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m not the one grovelling after selling out someone I supposedly cared about."

The words struck a nerve. Alaric’s composure cracked as he swung, aiming a sharp punch at Sebastian’s jaw. The hit connected, sending a jolt of pain through Sebastian’s skull, but it wasn’t enough to bring him down. He staggered, then lunged forward, tackling Alaric to the ground with a force that rattled the floor beneath them.

Alaric’s agility gave him an edge, allowing him to land sharp, calculated blows, and after some grappling, he managed to twist free, using his longer reach to shove Sebastian off him. They both scrambled to their feet, their chests heaving as they squared off once again. Blood trickled from the corner of Alaric's his mouth, and his jaw was already beginning to swell.

"You think you’re some noble protector, but you’re no different from your uncle." Alaric let out a bitter laugh, wiping the blood with the back of his hand. "Reckless, impulsive, and completely incapable of seeing the bigger picture. No wonder she doesn’t want you."

Sebastian’s vision blurred at the edges, his fists tightening. “You don’t know a damn thing about my family.”

“Don’t I?” Alaric shot back, his tone mocking. “Everyone in the department knows the story. Solomon Sallow—the hotheaded Auror who couldn’t follow orders. It’s no secret how he ended up. And now here you are, following in his footsteps."

Sebastian’s mind went blank.

The world around him narrowed to a singular, suffocating point—Alaric Thornton, standing there with blood trickling from his split lip, spitting venom with a smugness that made Sebastian’s stomach churn.

It wasn’t just the insult. It wasn’t just Alaric’s face or his voice, dripping with superiority. It was everything.

His past, looming over him like a dark cloud—every mistake, every misstep, every failure. The constant whisper of self-loathing, telling him he’d never be enough for her. The painful distance she’d put between them because of the Muldoons’ ever-growing shadow, her careful steps to protect them both only serving to carve a deeper wound in his chest. His endless regrets about Evangeline—about waiting too long, saying too little, doing too little. The thought of Alaric, standing here now, after everything he had done to her, still breathing and pretending he had any right to say her name. And the thought of all the others—Carling, Fawley, every polished, perfect bastard vying for her attention because of that stupid list, their smug smiles haunting him like specters.

It all erupted at once, like a dam breaking under the weight of years of pressure.

Sebastian lunged. He barely registered the shocked flicker in Alaric’s eyes before his fist connected with the man’s face. The impact sent a sharp jolt up his arm, but he didn’t care. The crack of bone meeting flesh was drowned out by the roaring in his ears, the visceral satisfaction of releasing the storm he’d kept bottled inside.

Alaric staggered back, hitting the edge of a table, but Sebastian didn’t stop. He followed, grabbing the front of Alaric’s robes and slamming him against the wall. His fist came down again, this time catching Alaric across the cheekbone, splitting the skin with a sharp, sickening crack. Blood erupted from flesh, dotting the floor like crimson raindrops. Alaric tried to shove him off, his hands scrambling to regain control, but Sebastian’s grip was ironclad. He swung again, this time landing a brutal blow to Alaric’s ribs, and the taller man let out a sharp gasp, his knees buckling slightly under the force.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” Sebastian growled, his voice raw with fury. He didn’t wait for a response. His fist collided with Alaric’s face again, the crack reverberating through the room. “You don’t get to talk about me, and you sure as hell don’t get to talk about what she deserves.”

Alaric crumpled against the wall, his hands weakly attempting to shield his face as Sebastian grabbed him again, hauling him upright. The older man’s breath came in ragged gasps, his sharp tongue momentarily silenced under the onslaught.

Sebastian scarcely noticed the blood staining his knuckles, warm and sticky. He didn’t see the way Alaric’s face was already swelling, or the cuts splitting open under his fists. All he could feel was the overwhelming need to end this, to make Alaric pay for every ounce of pain he’d caused Evangeline—for every failure and regret that haunted Sebastian himself.

“You don’t know fuck all about me,” Sebastian hissed, his voice cracking as he threw Alaric against the corner of the table. The sharp edge jabbed into Alaric’s side, drawing another pained grunt. “And you sure as hell don’t know what it’s like to want something—someone—so badly it hurts, and to have it ripped away because of bastards like you.”

His fist flew again, a brutal, instinctive motion that left Alaric sagging in his grip. Sebastian’s chest heaved, his breath ragged and shallow, as he raised his fist for another blow, only to pause as a faint, horrible sound reached his ears.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The blood on his knuckles fell onto the floor, mingling with the splattered mess already pooling at Alaric’s feet. It gleamed in the dim light, stark against the stone. The sight snapped something loose in Sebastian’s chest, the fog of rage dissipating just enough for reality to creep in.

He let go, and Alaric collapsed to the floor, coughing weakly. Sebastian staggered back, his gaze fixed on his bloodied hands. His chest tightened as the full weight of what he’d done sank in.

The silence in the room was suffocating. It was just him, Alaric’s broken form, and the undeniable evidence of his loss of control.

“Fuck,” Sebastian muttered, his voice trembling.

The sound of the door unlocking should have terrified him. It should have sent him scrambling for his wand, grasping at any excuse, any plan to salvage the disaster in front of him. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He stood frozen, his bloodied hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his wand on the floor, his chest heaving as his mind replayed the events in an endless loop of anger and regret.

The door creaked open, and Sebastian braced himself for the worst. His supervisor, the Head Auror, even the Minister—it didn’t matter who walked through that door. Whoever it was, they’d see the evidence plain as day. He’d destroyed everything.

“Sebastian?” Her voice cut through the silence.

His head snapped toward the door, and his heart nearly stopped. Evangeline stood in the doorway, her hazel eyes wide as they took in the scene: Alaric crumpled on the floor, blood staining his robes and pooling beneath him; Sebastian standing over him, his knuckles raw and dripping red.

“Evie…” Sebastian’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t gasp or demand an explanation. Instead, her expression shifted—shock giving way to something colder, sharper, a glint of determination in her eyes that Sebastian knew all too well. Without another word, she stepped inside, her wand slipping into her hand with practiced ease. With a quick flick of her wrist, the door locked behind her followed by the sound of another silencing charm snapping into place.

Sebastian stared at her, his heart pounding as she crossed the room in brisk, purposeful strides. “Evie, I—”

“Not now,” she said sharply, cutting him off as she crouched beside Alaric. Her hands moved deftly, her wand tracing over his injuries with precision. Healing charms poured from her lips in rapid succession, her voice steady despite the tension radiating off her in waves. The swelling on Alaric’s face began to subside, and the blood slowed its relentless flow, but she didn’t stop there.

Once Alaric’s injuries had disappeared, she cast a Stupefy charm, ensuring he wouldn’t wake too soon. Then she moved to the bloodstains, her wand sweeping over the floor in careful, deliberate motions. The crimson streaks faded, leaving the stone pristine once more.

Sebastian staggered back a step, his knees threatening to give out as he watched her. “You’re—what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she muttered, not glancing up from her work.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely, his voice trembling with guilt. “You shouldn’t—”

“Sit,” she ordered, her tone brooking no argument as she pointed to a nearby chair.

Sebastian didn’t move, his legs locked in place as shame clawed at his chest. “Wait, let me—”

“Sit. Down.” Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp and commanding. She didn’t wait for him to respond, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the chair. He sank into it heavily, his muscles feeling like lead.

When the room was finally free of visible evidence, Sebastian watched in stunned silence as Evangeline levitated Alaric’s unconscious body with precision, her wand steady despite the exhaustion that now clearly clung to her like a shadow. She guided his body to a chair near the desk, propping him up in a position that could pass for someone who had simply overexerted themselves. The entire scene looked disturbingly normal, as though nothing violent had taken place in this room mere moments ago.

Satisfied with his positioning, she took a deep breath, steadying herself, before aiming her wand at his temple. “Obliviate.”

The spell cast a faint shimmer over Alaric’s face as his memories shifted, rewritten under Evangeline’s careful direction. When she was done, she sat back on her heels, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “He won’t remember this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Sebastian. “Not like this, at least. He’ll wake up thinking he passed out from exhaustion."

With that, Evangeline turned back to Sebastian, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. Her hazel eyes were a mix of frustration, concern, and something else—something he couldn’t quite name but that made his chest tighten. “Give me his wand. You have it don't you?”

“What?” he asked dumbly.

“His wand,” she repeated, her tone softer now but no less firm. “Give it to me.”

Sebastian moved as if in a trance, his hands acting of their own accord. He reached into his robes and retrieved Alaric's wand, feeling its weight settle heavily in his palm. For a moment, he hesitated, his grip tightening. This whole situation felt surreal, but the look in Evangeline’s eyes, steady and unwavering despite her exhaustion, cut through his doubt. She needed him to do this. So, he handed it over.

Evangeline took the wand, her movements calm and deliberate, though her pallor betrayed the toll this had taken on her. She positioned the wand beneath Alaric's limp hand so it appeared as though he had simply let it slip from his grasp while working.

“There,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “When he wakes, the memory will align."

Sebastian stared at her, his thoughts racing. The speed at which she had handled everything—clearing the room, casting the Memory Charm, fabricating a plausible story—was nothing short of remarkable. But it was also unnerving. He had always known Evangeline was clever, but this level of composure in the face of... this? It left him speechless.

“Come on,” she said quietly, moving toward Sebastian and grabbing his wrist.

“Where—?” he began, but she cut him off.

“Home,” she said simply.

Before he could protest, she turned on the spot, Apparating them both with a sharp crack. The world blurred and spun, and when it righted itself, they were standing in the familiar warmth of her apartment. The soft light from the enchanted fireplace cast a golden glow over the small sitting room, and for the first time that day, Sebastian felt like he could breathe again.

Evangeline released his wrist and Sebastian stood frozen in the middle of the sitting room, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He watched as she moved across the room, her back to him, hanging her cloak with deliberate, methodical movements. Her silence was deafening. It unsettled him more than if she’d shouted at him. He felt like he was waiting for an ax to fall, for the inevitable wave of anger or recrimination to come crashing down on him.

Before he could find the words to speak, Evangeline turned and she reached for his hand. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, firm but not harsh, and she gently tugged him forward.

“Evie…” he began, his voice hoarse.

She shook her head, cutting him off without so much as a glance. “Come with me,” she said quietly.

She led him down the narrow hallway to her bathroom. The small space was warmly lit, the glow of the sconces bouncing off the porcelain sink and neatly arranged shelves. She released his hand and turned on the tap, dampening a soft washcloth under the stream of warm water. Sebastian hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to step inside or retreat.

Evangeline turned back to him, holding the cloth, and for the first time since they’d left the Ministry, she fully met his gaze. Her expression wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t entirely soft either—it was focused, laced with a quiet determination that made his chest ache.

“Come here,” she said, her voice low.

He stepped forward reluctantly, unsure of what to expect. She reached up, the damp cloth brushing against his cheek as she began to wipe away the remnants of blood and grime from his face. Her movements were slow and careful, her touch impossibly gentle.

Sebastian’s breath hitched, his mind spinning. “Wait, why are—”

“Quiet,” she murmured, not pausing in her task.

The cloth moved across his skin, warm and soothing, and he let his eyes drift shut, too overwhelmed to argue. Each stroke felt like a balm, not just for the physical evidence of his outburst but for the storm raging inside him. He didn’t deserve this—her care, her softness—but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

When she lowered the cloth to wipe his hands, the silence between them felt heavier than before. He opened his eyes to find her staring at him, her hazel gaze steady and searching.

“I don’t understand you,” she murmured. “I don’t understand how someone so strong, so smart, can be so reckless.” She reached up, her hand brushing against his temple where a bruise was beginning to form. Her touch lingered for a moment before she pulled away. "What happened?"

Sebastian’s stomach twisted at her question, her voice so quiet yet heavy with meaning. His fists tightened at his sides, the memory of Alaric crumpled on the floor still vivid behind his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. The weight of his own actions pressed against his chest like a physical force. “I just… lost control. He pushed me too far, said things—”

Evangeline hummed, a low, unimpressed sound as she brought the cloth back to his knuckles, gently, wiping away the blood and grime still clinging to his skin. “That’s not an excuse,” she said softly, though her tone lacked its earlier edge. “You can’t let your temper get the better of you. Certainly not at work, not in the bloody Auror Division."

Her words stung, but her touch didn’t falter. Sebastian winced slightly as the cloth brushed over a tender spot, but he stayed still, letting her work.

“You need to be better than this, Sebastian,” she murmured, her tone softened but still laced with disappointment. “You’re not some first-year picking fights in the corridor anymore.”

Sebastian sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her quiet scolding. “I just… he said things, and I—I couldn’t let him go. Especially not after what he did to you last year.”

Evangeline’s lips parted, her brows furrowing for a moment before she shook her head, her expression softening. “You don’t need to fight my battles, Sebastian,” she said gently.

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The memory of Alaric’s smug face, his thinly veiled jabs, flashed in his mind, and Sebastian clenched his fists at the thought of it. “I know you can handle yourself,” he muttered. “But it's... it’s hard not to step in.”

Evangeline sighed, her lips quirking despite herself. “You’re infuriating,” she said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Absolutely reckless and infuriating.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the shift in her tone. “I'm—”

“Don’t apologize," she interrupted, her smile softening.

Sebastian frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

Evangeline stepped back, folding the cloth neatly in her hands. “I mean,” she said slowly, “that while I don’t condone your idiocy, I’m not going to pretend I don’t find a certain… satisfaction in knowing Alaric finally got what was coming to him.”

Her words hung in the air, and Sebastian stared at her, his breath catching in his throat. “You’re not mad?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh, I’m furious,” she said, her smile turning wry. “You could’ve jeopardized everything—your reputation, your job, your future. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t... like seeing you defend me. Even if it was stupid.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened at her admission, the weight of his earlier shame lifting just slightly. “I’d do it again,” he said, his voice steady.

Evangeline shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “That’s precisely the problem,” she said, her tone teasing but affectionate. “You’d fight the entire Ministry if you thought it would make me happy.”

“Would it?” he asked, his lips quirking into a faint grin.

She laughed softly, the sound warm and unexpected. “It might. But you’d still be an idiot.”

Sebastian’s grin widened, the tension in his chest easing. “I’ll take it."

Evangeline rolled her eyes, but her fingers brushed against his hand, her touch light and unassuming. Without a word, she laced her fingers with his and tugged gently, leading him out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

“You look like you’re probably sore,” she said over her shoulder, her tone casual but tinged with a familiar concern.

Sebastian followed her, his steps hesitant. “You could’ve just said I look like hell,” he quipped, though his voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Evangeline glanced back at him, her lips quirking in a faint smirk. “I was trying to be polite.”

When they reached her bedroom, she pushed the door open, revealing the cozy space bathed in the glow of a single lamp. She guided him to her bed, her grip on his hand lingering for just a moment before she stepped away. “Sit.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a wince as his bruised ribs protested the movement. “I’m surprised you’re not pulling out all your fancy charms to patch me up,” he teased, his tone light despite the ache in his muscles. “Thought you’d jump at the chance to show off."

Evangeline snorted, moving around the bed. “Oh, I could. But then how would you learn anything?” She shot him a wry smile before pulling a small jar of salve from her bedside the drawer. "Remember this?"

Sebastian blinked at the familiar tin in her hands, his brows furrowing slightly. “Is that—?”

Evangeline held up the small jar, the faintly worn label bearing the apothecary’s emblem catching the warm light of the lamp. “Your handiwork,” she said with a hint of amusement. “From the apothecary in Upper Hogsfield."

A faint flush crept up Sebastian’s neck as he leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued despite the ache in his ribs. “I can’t believe you kept that.”

Evangeline arched a brow, unscrewing the lid to reveal the faintly green salve inside. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s good stuff, and Merlin knows I’ve needed it more than once thanks to your brilliant ideas.” She chuckled. “You should take pride in your work, Sebastian.”

He gave a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, I am decent at brewing, but I just followed the recipe.”

Evangeline smirked, stepping closer to where he sat on the edge of her bed. “Stop downplaying yourself,” she said, her tone softer now. “You might be trouble but you're still talented. Now, shut up and hold still.”

Sebastian stiffened as Evangeline stepped closer, her movements careful yet unhesitant. She sat beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight, and reached toward the edge of his robes. Her fingers brushed against the fabric, pausing just before pulling it aside.

Their gazes met, and for a moment, the air between them felt heavier than the bruises weighing on his ribs. Evangeline hesitated briefly, her fingers brushing against the hem of his shirt as she prepared to lift it over his head. He gave a small nod, signaling it was fine, though his throat was dry, and his heart thundered in his chest. Of course, she’d seen him shirtless before, but things had been particularly tense between them lately, and they hadn’t been close like this in what felt like forever.

When she finally pulled his shirt over his head, the cool air of the room hit his skin, but it did little to calm the heat simmering beneath the surface. Her hazel eyes flicked over him and her focus was clinical as she assessed the bruises that marred his ribs and the faint scratches along his arms. Yet, for all her detached professionalism, he felt her lingering gaze like a physical touch.

The past couple of months of grueling Auror training had transformed him more than he realized. His frame had filled out—broader shoulders, a stronger chest, and muscles more defined from relentless sparring sessions and endless drills. He thought back to the last time she’d seen him shirtless—Hogwarts, the Prefects’ Bath. He’d been strong then, sure, but there’d still been the softness that came from sneaking Honeydukes chocolates into his dorm between late-night study sessions and Quidditch practices.

Now, he wondered if she’d noticed the difference. If she liked it.

The thought sent heat crawling up his neck. Evangeline had complimented him in the past, but those compliments were usually accompanied by a teasing eye roll, as if pointing out he was handsome was just an obvious truth. She’d never been direct about whether she personally found him attractive—never let on if she’d looked at him the way he always found himself looking at her.

Evangeline's fingers dipped into the jar of salve, smoothing the cool paste over the bruises with a touch so light it made his chest ache. “You’ve... been keeping busy,” she remarked lightly, her tone betraying nothing.

Sebastian let out a faint laugh, though it felt forced. “Auror training isn’t exactly a desk job.”

She smirked faintly, dabbing more salve onto a particularly nasty bruise. “Apparently not. You’ve... filled out a bit since Hogwarts.”

His stomach flipped at her words, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “Noticed, have you?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a glint in them that made his heart stutter. “Hard not to,” she said simply. Then, just as quickly, she dropped her gaze back to her work, leaving him to wrestle with the warmth her comment stirred.

“You’re holding still for once,” she changed the subject, her voice soft but laced with amusement. “I’m impressed.”

Sebastian forced a chuckle, though his mind was far from calm. “I’ve learned not to argue with you."

She smirked, dipping her fingers into the paste and dabbing it gently along his ribs. He watched her closely, his eyes following the subtle movements of her hands as she worked. Her touch was precise, confident—yet there was a tenderness to it that made his chest tighten. For all her sharp wit there was a softness to Evangeline that she seemed to reserve just for him.

"You’re better at this than most Healers.” He said, his voice low.

Evangeline chuckled softly, though the sound was a little strained. “You’re just saying that to make sure I don’t leave you halfway patched up.”

Sebastian gave her a faint smirk, but there was a warmth behind it that softened the edge of his usual teasing. “I’m serious. You're probably better than half the professionals at St. Mungo’s. Maybe you missed your calling.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she smoothed the salve over a particularly deep bruise.

The teasing banter faded into a quieter moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken things. Her fingers worked steadily, but Sebastian couldn’t ignore the way his chest tightened with every careful movement she made, every touch that lingered just a second longer than it needed to.

Finally, he broke the silence. “When you walked in on… that mess with Alaric,” he began, his voice quieter now. “How did you even find me?”

Evangeline’s hand stilled on his shoulder, her fingers freezing mid-motion. For a moment, she didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the faint discoloration of his skin under her touch.

“For anyone else, you would’ve been tough to track down,” she said finally, her voice measured. “But when I checked your office and you weren’t there, and then the receptionist mentioned your assignment with Thornton… well, it didn’t take long for me to piece things together.”

Sebastian frowned, his chest tightening at the mention of Alaric. “Still, it could’ve been anything,” he said. “An interrogation, an official investigation, even a meeting. It’s not like you knew for sure what was happening in that room.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes, the motion subtle but unmistakable. “Oh, please,” she muttered, smoothing the salve over his skin with a little more pressure than necessary, though her touch remained careful. “A locked door, a silencing charm strong enough to block out even a whisper, and the fact that you and Thornton had just worked together? It wasn’t exactly a mystery, Sebastian.”

“You still could’ve been wrong,” he argued, his voice quieter now. “What if it really was something official?”

She snorted softly, shaking her head as she moved to tend to another bruise. "I know you too well. You’ve got a tell."

“A tell?” His brow furrowed. “What tell?”

Evangeline’s smirk widened slightly. “Your magic,” she said simply, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin. “It’s… distinct.”

“How?” Sebastian pressed.

She hesitated, her touch stilling for a moment before continuing. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like… like static in the air—sharp, crackling. Especially when you're agitated.”

Sebastian blinked, caught off guard by her observation. “You can feel that?”

Evangeline shrugged, keeping her focus on the task at hand. “Not always. Just when I’m close enough. Or when you’re particularly worked up.” Her lips quirked into a faint smile. “Which, let’s be honest, is a lot of the time.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize I was so transparent.”

“You’re not,” she replied, her tone softening. “But I’ve been around you long enough to notice.” Her voice dropped slightly, almost hesitant. "So when I came to the door... I knew you were in there.”

Sebastian stared at her as a flood of thoughts clamored for attention, each demanding to be untangled.

She’d known he was in that room. Not just because of logic or deduction, but because she could feel him. His magic. He’d never known she could do that—never even considered it. But it explained so much. How she always seemed to find him back at Hogwarts, or the way she’d appear out of nowhere, knowing he was just around the corner, even when he hadn’t made a sound.

The idea that she could sense him like that, that she knew him so well—it made his chest tighten, his pulse quicken. And then there was the relief. Relief that she had been the one to walk through that door, to find him before things had spiraled even further out of control. If it had been anyone else, his career, his future—it all would’ve been over. He hadn’t been in any state to clean up his own mess, to think clearly enough to salvage what he could. But she’d been there. She’d stepped in, taken control, and pieced everything back together when he couldn’t.

And now she was here, tending to him with calm precision, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn't been avoiding him for weeks, like she didn’t even have to think twice about helping him.

But of everything, one question pushed itself to the forefront, demanding an answer. “Why were you looking for me?” Sebastian asked, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him. “Back at the Ministry, I mean.”

Evangeline’s hand stilled. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the faint patterns of mottled skin beneath her touch. Sebastian could see the conflict flickering in her eyes, the way her lips pressed into a tight line as if she were weighing her words. Then, she exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping just slightly before she set the jar of salve aside.

“I… can’t stand it,” she admitted quietly. “The way things have been between us. The distance. I know I’m the one who created it, but it’s…” She trailed off, her hands retreating to her lap as she stared at them like they might hold the rest of her explanation.

Sebastian’s heart thudded heavily in his chest as her words settled between them. It was happening—the moment Ominis had predicted with maddening certainty. She’d missed him. She’d come back to him, not because he’d chased her or cornered her into admitting it, but because she’d felt it too. The pull. The ache. The impossibility of keeping their lives separate.

Of course, Ominis had been right. He always was. It had taken every ounce of restraint Sebastian had not to storm after her over the past weeks, to respect the distance she’d put between them even though it had been driving him insane. Ominis’s words echoed in his mind now, clear as day: “Give her the space to figure things out. And trust me, Sebastian, she'll come back. Evangeline can’t stay away from you any more than you can stay away from her."

Sebastian’s chest tightened as he fought to steady his voice. “I get it,” he said softly, his words thick with emotion he could barely contain. “I know why you’ve pulled away. I know you think you’re doing the right thing. But…” He hesitated, his eyes searching hers, willing her to understand. “You don’t have to shut me out, Evie. You never had to.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her shoulders hunching slightly as though she were bracing for an argument she wasn’t sure she could win. “I didn’t shut you out,” she said quietly, her voice faltering as she looked away. “Not entirely.”

Sebastian huffed a humorless laugh, leaning back slightly to look at her. “Not entirely?” he echoed. “You haven’t stayed over since the list came out. You hide when I visit your flat. And the last real conversation we had…” He trailed off, his throat tightening as the memory of their exchange in the café resurfaced.

He could still see the way she’d looked at him—tired, frustrated, hurt. The way she’d walked away, leaving him at the table with nothing but his own doubts and regrets for company.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “At the café, I mean. I was frustrated—angry about the list, about the Muldoons, about everything—but I should’ve handled it better. I made it worse.”

Evangeline’s head lifted slightly, her eyes meeting his for the first time since the conversation had started. “It wasn’t just you,” she said softly. “I… wasn’t exactly fair either. I let my frustration with the situation spill over onto you, and you didn’t deserve that.”

Her admission eased some of the weight pressing on his chest, but it didn’t erase the guilt gnawing at him. “Still,” he said, his gaze steady on hers, “I should’ve listened. Really listened, instead of trying to fix everything. You were already dealing with enough without me adding to it. I'm sorry.”

Evangeline’s lips twitched in a faint, bittersweet smile. “You’ve always been like that," she murmured, her voice tinged with warmth. “Always trying to fix things, even when you can’t.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened at her words, the warmth in her tone a bittersweet contrast to the guilt he still carried. “It’s not exactly a strength,” he admitted, his voice low. “Sometimes I think I do more harm than good.”

Evangeline shook her head slightly, her expression softening as she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist. “That’s not true,” she said gently.

For a moment, they sat in the quiet, the words hanging between them like a truce. Evangeline’s touch was featherlight, but it burned into his skin like a brand, anchoring him in place.

He moved slowly, curling his fingers around hers, their hands tangling together as if they’d always been meant to fit this way. She looked up at him, startled, her hazel eyes wide and searching.

“Evie,” he began, his voice low but firm, the words bubbling up before he could second-guess them. “Please… stop trying to protect me.”

Her hazel eyes widened slightly, and she opened her mouth to speak, but he tightened his hold on her hand, shaking his head. “Just—listen. I know why you’re doing it. I get it. I do. But I can’t stand this. The way things have been between us—it’s killing me.”

Her lips parted, a protest hovering on the tip of her tongue, but the look in his eyes seemed to quiet her. She lowered her gaze, and he could feel the tension in her hand, the way her fingers stiffened under his. He didn’t let go.

“I miss you,” he said, his voice raw and unsteady, stripped of all pretense. “I miss you being sprawled on the sofa with one of Ominis’s books in the evening—the ones you swore you’d return ages ago. I miss catching you sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night to make tea, trying to shush me like I’m the one causing a racket when you’re the one clinking cups. I miss hearing you talk in your sleep, the way you mumble about things that don’t make any sense and act like it never happened in the morning. And I just—”

His voice broke, his hand curling into fists against his thigh as he looked at her, every unspoken feeling spilling out in those fractured words. “I just miss you, Evie. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re tearing me apart.”

Her free hand lifted instinctively to wipe at her cheek then, and he realized, with a pang, that tears had begun to form in her eyes. She looked away, her shoulders curling inward slightly, as if trying to shield herself from his words.

“Sebastian,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “You don’t understand. If I don’t—”

“I do understand,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “You think it’s the only way to keep me safe. But I don’t want to be safe if it means losing you.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes locking on his with a mix of disbelief and vulnerability.

“I don’t care what the Muldoons think of me,” Sebastian pressed, his voice steady. “Or what the gossip columns say. Let them talk. Let them sneer. None of it matters to me. You matter to me.”

The silence stretched between them and her lips trembled, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as she tried to process his words.

“I miss you too,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. The words felt like a release, a confession she hadn’t allowed herself to say out loud until now.

Sebastian’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he reached out, his fingers brushing against her chin. Gently, he tilted her face upward, his own expression raw and open, his eyes searching hers.

“Then come back,” he said, his voice soft but insistent, each word laced with unfiltered emotion. His grip on her hand tightened slightly, like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go. “Stay over again. Let me come by for tea, or for no reason at all. Just… let things be how they were before. Please.”

She let out a shuddering breath, her free hand coming up to clutch his wrist. For a long moment, she said nothing, her grip on him the only response he needed.

Finally, she nodded, the motion small but resolute.

Sebastian exhaled a shaky breath, relief crashing over him as he pulled her into his arms. There was no hesitation, no guardedness in the way he held her—just a raw, unreserved need to keep her close, as though letting go might mean losing her all over again.

She melted against him, her frame trembling as her face buried into his shoulder. He felt the faint hitch of her breath, the warm dampness of her tears soaking through his shirt. His hand slid upward with deliberate care, fingers threading gently through her hair as he cradled the back of her head, his touch steady, grounding.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, as the moments blurred together—seconds, minutes, maybe lifetimes. The trembling in her frame gradually eased, her breaths slowing as the storm within her began to calm. Her grip on his shirt loosened, her fingers uncurling slightly, but she didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

“And I promise,” he began softly, a faint, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips now, “I won’t beat the shit out of any more of your ex-boyfriends.”

A breath of laughter escaped her, quiet and shaky, but real. Her lips curved into a small, wry smile as her hands moved to rest lightly against his chest. “Good,” she murmured, her voice still thick with emotion. “Because cleaning up after you is exhausting.”

Sebastian chuckled, the sound low and warm, and he let his thumb brush a stray tear from her cheek. “To be fair,” he said, his tone laced with mock seriousness, “Thornton deserved it.”

Her smile widened just a fraction, and she shook her head, the motion gentle against his. “That doesn’t mean you get to make a habit of it.”

“No promises,” he quipped, his grin softening as his gaze lingered on her. “But I’ll try to behave. For you.”

Her eyes softened, the tension in her features melting away into something gentler, quieter. Then, without a word, she lifted her hand, offering him just her pinky finger.

A faint, almost boyish smile tugged at his lips as he lifted his hand, mirroring her motion. He hooked his pinky around hers, the small connection sealing something infinitely larger between them.

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[yatagarasuhonyaku]

The Raven of the Empty Coffin: Chapter 2 "Akeru" Part 3

Disclaimer: This is a fan-translation japanese-english of the original novel. The events of this novel follow after what's already covered by the anime. For an easier understanding, I recommend first reading the few scenes of previous books I've already translated.

Blog version

For the Index, you can find it HERE

Previously: Akeru (Part 2)

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Chapter 2: Akeru (Part 3)

“Isn’t Akeru kinda tense lately?”

It all happened during Horsemanship lessons. Shigemaru and Yukiya found themselves taking a break at a hilltop after finishing the assigned exercises, waiting for everyone else to catch up with them.

That day they were practicing what was called ‘rider-horse switching’. It was just one part of the training required to become capable of flying long distances without breaks and, as the name implied, it consisted of exchanging the roles between rider and horse in midair. At this point, they were only required to fly around the mountain once and then switch places, but Shigemaru had heard rumors that they would have to go all the way from the Center to Yamauchi’s frontier and back during their Graduation Trials.

Although, in theory, it was better to do such an exercise with someone of as similar a build as possible, Yukiya had proved to manage just fine even with Shigemaru as his partner.

“Still, it feels like you wouldn’t have any problems no matter who you partnered with.”

“Well, everyone becomes significantly bigger in bird form compared to their human form. I don’t think someone’s human build actually matters that much.”

“True, there are people way bigger and stronger than you in human form who are, in fact, struggling quite hard.”

“Oh, yes—like Akeru and his friends, right?”

While Akeru’s followers had never been particularly high achievers, even Akeru himself had started to flounder lately despite his initial brilliance. He had started to struggle to keep up as the difficulty of the practical courses ramped up—which was doubly true for Horsemanship, the one subject he had problems with from the start.

“Maybe that’s the reason,” Shigemaru said, bringing the conversation back to Akeru’s situation.

Yukiya gave him a bitter smile. “One of the reasons, most likely, but I doubt that’s all of it.”

The situation was changing even during theory, where Akeru had never before given up his position as the first of the class. “Well, you barely have a chance to study lately yet your grades are still virtually the same as his, I can’t blame Akeru for getting anxious over that.”

——Ever since the incident with Kimichika, Suikan had kept a constant eye on Yukiya.

It had been a month since then, and summer had finally arrived. Suikan, however, showed no signs whatsoever of forgiving Yukiya. He persistently called him to participate during exercise sessions and would find any reason—no matter how small—to give him all kinds of punishments and take away all his free time. Every so often, Suikan would outright lash out at him—telling Yukiya to his face that he should drop out of the Monastery.

It had gotten bad enough that, whenever they gathered, everyone in their usual group would insist that Yukiya should go ask for help from other instructors like Seiken. Yukiya, however, didn’t show a single sign of suffering through anything.

He would argue back at them—‘It’s on me for angering him’, ‘I don’t like the idea of telling on someone’, ‘If my grades dropped because of it that would be a problem, sure, but that won’t happen’. Yukiya laughed it off every time, never paying any mind to their group’s advice.

However, Yukiya was, in truth, losing sleep to finish his homework and he was forced to take tests without any preparation either. Despite that, and uncannily enough, his grades weren’t going down—they were actually improving. They were comparable to Akeru’s, even. He had risen to be the first of the class, or second at worst.

Akeru, meanwhile, was often rumored to spend all his free time on self-study. Even an outsider like Shigemaru could tell how Akeru’s expression would grow stiffer and stiffer every time he learned of Yukiya’s latest score.

“He made such a big deal of being part of the Wakamiya Faction too. I bet the coronation being postponed must be playing a huge part in it. He must not have any peace of mind—neither at the Monastery, nor at home.”

“You know, I feel kind of sorry for him.”

“No need. His grades are just his talent—or lack thereof—talking, and he only has himself to blame for acting high and mighty and humiliating himself like that. There’s not much for us to do.” While Yukiya had proved to be the type to sometimes spew venom with a smile, it was significantly more common whenever Akeru came up in conversation. 

At the same time that he chatted with Yukiya, Shigemaru entertained himself by watching the other trainees fly around. The many pairs would ascend and, as if performing some sort of somersault, exchange places in a matter of seconds. Although they all lost quite a lot of height at first, the trainee who had just transformed into a bird would immediately place himself underneath and spread his wings, catching the wind. Just like that, they would both rise to their original altitude.

It was entertaining to watch such a stunt-like maneuver from afar, but actually doing it was quite terrifying. The person shifting from horse to human was forced to take a shape incapable of flight, wholly entrusting himself to his partner in midair. It wasn’t any easier for the person transforming into a horse—it felt like having a heavy rock on his back as he struggled to remain in the air instead of falling altogether.

Finishing the course with both members of a pair in bird form—hence incapable of becoming a rider and mount—meant disqualification. It truly wasn’t a maneuver you could succeed at without coordination and mutual trust between human and horse. That was exactly why Shigemaru felt it was easier to complete the exercise with someone close to you, rather than someone with a similar build.

As he thought about that, Shigemaru suddenly noticed a pair among their flying peers moving all too slowly. “Yukiya, look!”

Before Shigemaru had the time to point at it, Yukiya noticed it as well. “That looks actually dangerous. Is the rider perhaps tired? Unless they gain more altitude, at that rate—Huh?”

Yukiya didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. At that precise moment, the rider and mount tried to exchange places and, for a second, it was as if two horses were there at the same time. That was quite the rare sight when the swap went properly.

——He had a bad feeling about this.

The ideal was for both parties to shapeshift simultaneously—that was all too awkward and clunky to fit the criteria. Sure enough, they kept on falling inexorably, even once the initial horse moved upwards and transformed back into a human. The current horse proved incapable of catching the wind with his wings on time and his body plunged against the trees. 

“Someone has fallen!” the hysterical screams of those watching resounded in unison.

“This is bad! With a fall like that, he got hurt for sure!”

“Contact the infirmary!”

In a matter of seconds, a ruckus like bees protecting their hive overtook the place. The instructors flew straight towards the location of the fall. From the looks of it, the rider had managed to transform back at the very last second and so avoided major harm, but the horse hadn’t been as lucky. “But who fell?”

“Shige, that was Akeru.”

“What? Really!?”

“I’m sure. I saw the rider’s hair shine red just before they swapped.”

Shigemaru immediately felt ill at ease. For such a thing to happen right after their conversation. As they spoke, bird-shaped Yatagarasu flocked together above the place of the incident.

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The moment he opened his eyes, he felt a dull pain throbbing through his entire body.

His mind was hazy, possibly because of the pain medicine, and his body felt as if it was burning. The sky, visible through the gaps in the infirmary's window shutters, had gotten completely dark. A doctor had checked up on him the first time he had woken up, so Akeru already knew what had happened to him.

There were scratches all over his body and he had some nasty bruises, but fortunately none of his wounds were of a life-threatening magnitude. However, as he had hit his head during the fall, the doctor had instructed him to remain in the infirmary for the day.

Akeru had a vivid memory of the moment he fell.

Of all people, his partner was Chihaya. After watching everyone during the marching drills, Akeru already knew he was the fastest flier among the Seeds, and yet Chihaya had been flying at an awfully low speed back when it all happened. Akeru had been convinced it was all Chihaya’s attempt at harassment, but Akeru couldn’t afford to waste time like that—he had to become the horse and catch up with the rest. Led by his growing panic, he started to transform before Chihaya was ready to do so, forcing him to go for a switch.

The sound of the wind raged against his ears.

And there, Chihaya. The expression on his face the moment he took human form.

——In the end, Akeru’s own transformation took too long.

A terrible blunder, one that would be a massive problem for his grades going forward. If things kept going like this, maybe Akeru wouldn’t even be able to become Wakamiya’s vassal. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

“Dammit……”

Where the hell did I go wrong? an overwhelmed Akeru wondered to himself.

“We have already informed everyone at the Western House.”

“I see…… Thank you for that.”

The next day, his two roommates came to visit. They had accompanied him to the Monastery and had once gone through great lengths to attend to Akeru’s every need, and yet they appeared unmistakably reluctant to come visit this time around. They both had the face of someone fulfilling the bare minimum of courtesies.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing at all.”

They both remained aloof. Akeru could feel irritation expanding deep within his chest by the second. “...... You have been avoiding me lately. You know, if you have something to tell me, just say so.”

One of them abruptly raised his head. “Then, I’ll take my chance.”

“Hey, stop!”

“I’m not stopping! We are all thinking the same thing. So, I’ve heard about all this recently,” the boy said with a horribly contorted face. “Lord Akeru, you told us that you came here out of your own volition after receiving His Highness Wakamiya’s order to do so. But, apparently, you actually only served His Highness for one single day, am I wrong?”

Akeru was left at a loss. Why was that a problem now, after so long?

“Yeah, what about that?”

“I thought you coming to the Monastery was just in preparation to become His Highness’ vassal. You were truly brilliant at first,” he explained with an embittered look, “so we were almost fooled by that, but then—what did His Highness Wakamiya see in you, when you had barely spent a day with him and hadn’t even held a bamboo sword in your life at the time, to tell you to become a Yamauchi Guard?”

“Haven’t I told you again and again? The Yamauchi Guard is corrupt and I’m here to fix that. The Wakamiya Faction needs their own vanguard, and he chose me for that.”

“But if that’s the case, Yukiya of the Northern House is already there! He’s the most fit to obstruct the Animiya Faction. He’s the Great General’s grandson and the most talented in battle tactics among all our peers.”

To top it all off, Yukiya’s achievements included serving Wakamiya as his close aide for an entire year. If he got to graduate, there was no doubt he would become one of Wakamiya’s close vassals unless something radical happened.

“Command of the country’s warriors is the specialty of the Northern House to begin with. There was no need whatsoever for someone of the West of all houses to come to the Monastery. You were originally supposed to stay close to His Highness, right? As in, assuming His Highness expects Yukiya to fulfill his duty as a vassal by becoming a warrior, shouldn’t the same apply to you but by becoming a Court Official instead? And yet, you don’t even have an inkling of why you merely lasted one day as his attendant?”

“...... What are you trying to say?”

The rank of the Western House’s second son was, fundamentally speaking, one that shone first and foremost at the Court. What was the reason to even bother sending him to the Monastery despite that fact?

——The truth was that most nobles who went to the Unbending Reed Monastery were those whose families had forsaken them. Those too incompetent to get a job at the Court even through the On’i System.

“Wasn’t it simply that His Highness Wakamiya disliked you and used it as an excuse to get rid of you?” 

His roommate’s words left Akeru speechless. “We heard that you had His Highness’ trust, Lord Akeru. That’s why we went through the trouble of coming here with you instead of joining the Court as we had originally intended, but what’s the point if His Highness truly has forsaken you? You wasted our time and effort,” the boy spat out. “We shouldn’t have come to the damn Monastery in the first place.”

The other boy had so far restrained from talking altogether, unlike his fierce friend. Now, he shook his head with a sigh. “I don’t think it’s all your fault. However, the fact is that, as of now, the West-affiliated Court Ravens are increasingly disappointed in you.”

Akeru’s head failed to process it all. There was no way he could believe straight away that these two, those who had been closest to him, actually had such an image of him.

“We’re planning to voluntarily drop out.”

“What!?” Akeru rushed to ask—a hint of pleading snuck into his voice.

“Well, that’s the idea…… So, could you keep your distance from us?”

Akeru couldn’t think of a way to stop them. 

Just as his roommates were about to leave the room, however, Akeru caught sight of someone at the door. To make matters even worse, it turned out to be the last person he wanted to see in the current situation.

“Ah, did I come at a bad moment?”

The boy—Yukiya of the Northern House—tilted his head with a smile on his face.

“Ah, good to know it wasn’t too bad.” After watching Akeru’s roommates leave as if they were running away, Yukiya approached him with a shady-looking smile. 

“Why did you come here?”

“Is that how you greet people? And here I bothered to come deliver a present for the sick. Here, take it.” Yukiya handed him a package covered in wrapping paper. Inside, there were sugar-sprinkled kumquats.

“I don’t want them.”

“Oh, really? Now that’s a waste. Can I have them?” Yukiya didn’t even wait for Akeru’s answer. He immediately sat by the window and started to stuff his mouth with kumquats. For a while, the only sound breaking the silence of the room was his slow chewing.

Akeru had no words for Yukiya. He had this feeling—like he finally understood why Yukiya had given him the cold shoulder when Akeru first offered him his friendship as a fellow member of the Wakamiya Faction. Unlike Akeru, Yukiya had been serving by Wakamiya’s side for an entire year. He didn’t want to think about it, but if Wakamiya had truly sent him to the Monastery out of disgust, Yukiya was sure to know.

While a part of him wanted to know what Wakamiya had intended for him all along, another couldn’t even bear the idea of hearing the truth.

“...... If that’s everything, can’t you leave me alone?” he said in an admittedly dreadful tone—he was too scared of the truth coming out from Yukiya’s mouth. However, as blatant as Akeru’s jealousy turned out to be, Yukiya simply laughed it off.

“I have more to say, obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come here at all,” he confirmed with a wholly impassive expression. “You see, if things keep going like this, you’ll end up leaving this place sooner or later.”

Akeru flew into a rage the moment he heard that. “It’s not that bad! My grades should still be better than yours if you put them all together!”

“Who’s talking about grades here? You truly don’t understand the position you’re in, huh?”

Yukiya’s demeanor got, all of a sudden, a lot colder. Akeru flinched. “What do you mean? The situation I’m in…”

“Think about it for a moment,” Yukiya said as he fiddled with a kumquat, “the trainees currently on the Monastery’s register are 44 Seeds, 21 Saplings and 14 Evergreens, a total of 78 students. Among those, only you and I were born with a social rank higher than fifth in our region. Furthermore, and this is including us, there are only six Court Ravens in the entire Monastery with the right to employ the On’i System. The vast majority of those are either Seeds or Saplings. Do you understand what that means?” Yukiya asked an astonished Akeru—it was as if he was testing him.

“That most trainees from the high nobility fail out before reaching their third year……?”

“Exactly.” While, at the moment, there were still Court Ravens among his peers, virtually everyone would be either from warrior clans or commoners once they became Evergreens. “There are others linked to the Four Houses, of course, but they aren’t necessarily nobility themselves. It’s obvious what will happen to you if you keep ridiculing Hill Ravens and paying your respects only to your fellow Court Ravens, isn’t it? With that attitude, you’ll just end up surrounded by enemies,” Yukiya explained with a bored expression.

“Besides, to form a West-affiliated faction to reform the Unbending Reed Monastery is, no matter how you put it, both impossible and pointless. Any issues with the Monastery’s policies are for people like the director or His Highness Wakamiya—those involved in the place’s administration—to fix. To ask a trainee to do so is just cruel and His Highness hasn’t ever expected anything like that from you.”

Akeru was appalled. “Then… there’s no reason for His Highness Wakamiya to have sent me to the Monastery, is there?”

——Were Wakamiya’s actions truly a mere attempt to get rid of him?

At the mere thought, Akeru felt all strength about to abandon his body. A moment promptly interrupted by something in his mouth—Yukiya had, all of sudden, rammed a kumquat in it.

“W-what are you doing!?”

Akeru almost choked on it, caught in a coughing fit as an unimpressed Yukiya gave him a bored look. “Oh, you see, I was just thinking about how some incredible idiots truly do exist. His Highness Wakamiya has such high hopes for you and yet you’re completely blind to it.”

“What?” Akeru raised his head, as if in search of an explanation. This time, Yukiya gave him a wry smile.

“I mean, he told you to come to the Monastery, didn’t he? So you could become his vassal in the future,” Yukiya explained as he rolled yet another kumquat on the palm of his hand. “It’s easy to tell why, looking at the guys from before. They didn’t say so per se, but the fact they spoke out like that is probably very much related to the delay of His Highness Wakamiya’s ascension to the throne. Those who only approach you seeking out family influence will change their tune over and over whenever it’s politically convenient. If you want to earn trustworthy allies, the last thing you want to rely on is status and influence. Let me tell you this much—you’re the very reason they ended up acting like that.”

Akeru stammered. He remembered how his followers—people he had genuinely thought of as allies—had blamed him and accused him of lying to them just moments ago. “...... I didn’t ever consider that.”

Embarrassed with himself, Akeru hung his head and, in answer to that, a hint of delight appeared in Yukiya’s voice.

“——Do you realize now? Think about it, what if you became His Highness’ vassal and still committed this kind of mistake?” Yukiya kept talking to the silent Akeru, admonishing him. “Remember, those you look down on as Hill Ravens are about 90% of Yamauchi’s population. Wakamiya is, in fact, very well aware of what kind of people are the majority in the country he rules over.”

The Unbending Reed Monastery was, in a sense, a reflection of Yamauchi itself. Slowly but surely, Akeru started to grasp the meaning behind Yukiya’s words. “So that’s why His Highness told me to come to the Monastery……”

To learn how to socialize with commoners ahead of time. All to stop Akeru from having an attitude unbefitting of one of the Golden Raven’s close vassals in the future.

“Wakamiya told you to come to the Monastery, but he didn’t say you had to become a Yamauchi Guard. He was trying to raise you. That’s the ultimate proof that his expectations weren’t placed on the Scion of the Western House, but on you yourself.” Then, Yukiya unexpectedly looked Akeru in the eyes. “But, what about you? What would you do if His Highness Wakamiya loses his status as Crown Prince? Would you remain by His Highness’ side if he isn’t your brother-in-law? If Lady Masuho no Susuki doesn’t ever enter the Harem?”

Akeru gulped in response to Yukiya’s harsh words. At that moment, what came rushing back to him was that first meeting with Wakamiya, before he even knew of his status, and how he had felt that day.

——The start of everything, a shared secret and a gentle smile under the sinking sun.

“I—” Akeru let out in a hoarse, shaky voice. He closed his mouth to try again with more success. His tone was a lot more firm. “I want to serve under His Highness Wakamiya himself. If he values me as me, then I believe I must respond with the same.”

“I see…… That’s a relief for me too to hear.” 

This time, Yukiya had a bright smile on his face. It didn’t feel shady at all, not anymore.

For the first time since they first met, Akeru genuinely saw in Yukiya a companion, a fellow follower of Wakamiya. He felt like he had at last fully grasped why Yukiya had most likely been chosen as a close aide—that great intelligence of his. Not the kind that makes you good at studying, but a different one altogether.

“You aren’t like me, Yukiya. You have gotten this far, all with the conviction to never rely on your house’s influence.”

That must be the very reason why he had gone through such efforts to get along with Shigemaru and the rest, or so Akeru thought. However, Yukiya laughed Akeru’s sentimentalism off.

“No way! It’s true that I felt like that once, but I don’t have the luxury to say so anymore. I plan to use anything and everything that’s at my disposal.”

Akeru blinked. “But, then, what’s the point?”

“Don’t misunderstand, Akeru.” All of a sudden, Yukiya’s eyes narrowed into slits. Akeru, who had tilted his head in question, watched him. “Power and authority are troublesome things, they can easily cause your downfall when not used correctly. On the other hand, they can also be your strongest trump card. So, what I’m trying to say is,” Yukiya said with a cold smile, “you must not mistake when and how to use them.”

——Akeru felt a sudden chill down his back.

Yukiya’s smile had transformed into something entirely different. His eyes were impenetrable, like those of a snake. What emotions hid within, Akeru couldn’t tell but, in a matter of seconds, a deep terror rose within him.

“What are—” Akeru swallowed.

—you scheming? he tried to ask, but before he could finish his question, a tanned face abruptly popped out through the window on Yukiya’s side.

“Are you all done with the difficult talk?”

Akeru almost jumped up from surprise, but his entire body howled in pain at the attempt. “Shigemaru! When did you arrive?”

“We came here together with Yukiya, to be honest, but it didn’t feel right to intrude given the mood so we hid here to wait instead. Here, a present,” Shigemaru bent himself through the window and dropped a basket full of plums on the floor.

“Oh, I actually love plums. Can I have one?” Yukiya asked nonchalantly.

Akeru was left in a state of complete confusion. What had that been a moment ago?

“You had quite the impressive fall, but you seem better than I thought you would be. How are you feeling?” Shigemaru asked him.

Akeru was incapable of answering at first. Ironically enough, he had the feeling that Shigemaru had just become the first person to show proper concern for him. It was both strangely moving and a source of sudden embarrassment at his own behavior so far.

“Your concern is much appreciated. I’m doing fine, but… ‘we’?” 

“Oh, yes! Actually, he has been way, way more worried about you than me.” Outside the window, Shigemaru vanished for a second. He proceeded to pick up the boy apparently sitting there by the scruff of his neck, effortlessly lifting him up to show Akeru.

A sour face appeared—‘I wasn’t that worried’ written all over it.

“Chihaya.” Akeru was so surprised he couldn’t say more.

Meanwhile, Chihaya seemed to be struggling just like him. He looked to be at a loss for quite a while, before finally letting out a mutter, “It wasn’t intentional.”

That’s all it took for Akeru to understand what was going on—to get an idea of what kind of rumors were spreading all over the Monastery at the moment. Everyone probably suspected that Chihaya had hurt Akeru intentionally. He originally served under Kimichika, whose harassment attempts towards Akeru had turned into a frequent occurrence as of late. Had he not been directly involved in the incident, Akeru would have probably believed the same.

“...... I know. It was my own fault I fell.”

He had seen Chihaya’s expression for a second there—he had been clearly frightened. It all, from his initial transformation to his fall, happened in an instant, but he had still felt how Chihaya had done everything in his power as the rider in an attempt to recover.

However, there was one thing he couldn’t understand about the incident, no matter how he thought about it...

“Hey, Chihaya. You should be able to fly a lot faster, right? Why were you going so awfully slow back then?”

Chihaya answered his question in a dispassionate tone, “You were struggling to keep your balance. I thought you would roll down from my back if I flew any faster than that.”

“——I see.” Akeru let out a big sigh. After straightening himself over the futon, he deeply bowed in Chihaya’s direction. “I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble. I’ll explain what happened to everyone else.”

“No…… There’s no need.” As scarce as Chihaya’s words were, they made Akeru’s chest feel so much lighter.

“Oooh! To see you apologize to a Hill Raven. You too have grown, huh?” Shigemaru’s amused admiration, on the other hand, gave Akeru all kinds of mixed feelings—something the former seemed to pick up on immediately.

“Look, Akeru.” Shigemaru’s expression changed ever so swiftly. “Just like you had your own reasons to come to the Monastery, we all also have ours. Nobody has the exact same circumstances, so it’s a given we all think differently.” 

Akeru meekly listened as Shigemaru spoke. “I think this place is amazing, you know. Where else can people from all corners of Yamauchi gather and share their views and opinions with each other? If we weren’t here at the Monastery, neither of us would have had the chance to speak to each other normally like this, right?”

“Yes, absolutely. You’re right……”

“We’ve been given such a rare chance, so think of it this way—it’ll be for your own sake to try to get along with others,” Shigemaru said with a laugh. “Breaks aside, we gather to study together almost every day in an empty room of the second building. Want to come along? Everyone will be happy to see you.”

At that moment, Akeru’s heart was terribly touched by Shigemaru’s carefree words.

By the time Akeru returned to his own room with the doctor’s permission, one of his two followers had already vanished. He hadn’t given it much thought before, back when they had that talk, but his grades had always been much worse than Akeru’s. Most likely, he had genuinely reached his limit, incapable of keeping up with life as a trainee any longer.

Akeru fretted about it for a while but, by the time night came, he had decided to head to the second building. Once actually there, it didn’t take him long at all to find the room where the study group was held—the sliding door wasn’t only open, but the voices coming from the room were exasperatingly loud.

“I can’t do this anymore! I don’t understand it at all.”

“Get your shit together! Now that glasses dude has found out about it, we can’t just go and copy Yukiya’s homework wholesale anymore!”

“Look, I’m telling you. As long as you memorize the warfare records1, it’s just a matter of applying it all afterwards,” Akeru heard a tired Yukiya say. An onslaught of angry yells followed right after.

“Like that’s easy, you freaking bastard!”

“There’s no way we can memorize those things just like that!”

“By the way—how did you even do it to begin with?”

“I just read it normally? That was it, really.”

“See, here it comes!”

“This is why I cannot stand quick learners!”

Warfare records were a register of what movements were executed by which pieces and when during a Board Drill for later examination, and, by the sound of it, they were trying to finish their Strategy homework. Akeru took a deep breath, steeling his resolve before finally standing by the door frame.

“For warfare records, you should first pin down the Officers’ moves. Infantry movement always uses them as the starting point.” The group, who had been about to collectively throw their textbooks out and get a swing at Yukiya, turned to look at Akeru. Their mouths were wide open.

“...... Akeru?”

“What are you doing here?”

Although both Shigemaru and Yukiya smirked at the scene, neither stepped out to support him. Alongside the wall was Chihaya too, quietly taking care of his own homework all by himself, but he didn’t even bother to glance at him.

Akeru lightly licked his lips, dry out of sheer nerves, and surveyed the faces of those inside before speaking, “I was wondering if, maybe, it would be possible for me to join the study group as well. I know it may sound wrong of me to say but, well, if it’s theory I should be able to help a little. Of course, that’s if you’re all fine with it……”

By the end, he was tapering off.

Akeru knew perfectly that his attitude so far had been anything but pleasant for the people gathered there. He cast his eyes downwards in fear of their reaction when, out of the blue, one of the boys lying on the floor jumped towards him and took him by the shoulders.

“Welcome, professor.”

“Eh?”

“We may actually be able to understand what you’re saying. At least, more than with that Yukiya bastard,” he ruthlessly added.

“Mean,” Yukiya murmured. He was the only one to protest.

“We can’t figure out any of it! At this rate, we’ll end up dropping out.”

“No matter how many times we listen to Yukiya’s explanations, none of them make any sense to us. You’re our last hope.”

Akeru’s eyes were left wide open—their reaction wasn’t anything like what he had expected. 

“...... You’ll forgive me?”

“Not like there’s anything to forgive.”

His fellow trainees, all commoners for the most part, traded glances. “It would be a lie to say we don’t have our own feelings about you, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“If you help us so we don’t drop out, we’ll consider all accounts settled.”

“So, less grumbling, more teaching! The due date for these is tomorrow and we haven’t gotten anything done yet.”

Akeru wasn’t quite sure if he should be glad at their reaction or not, but Shigemaru burst into laughter. “In short, no hard feelings!”

After that, Akeru spent the rest of the evening teaching theory to his peers. Yukiya’s explanations proved to be awful and their current situation was beyond subpar, but, thanks to Akeru’s efforts, they ended up being able to solve a lot of the questions with ease. In the end, his overjoyed, frantically crying students were imploring him to come again the next day.

“Tired?” Shigemaru asked him on the way back.

Akeru shook his head. “No, thank you for inviting me. It was fun.”

It had been the first time in his life someone thanked him like that. It was invigorating beyond belief. On top of that, there were many among the study group who were accomplished at Horsemanship and, as a show of gratitude, they had offered to help him practice the horse-rider switch during the next break. Akeru was genuinely glad he had joined them.

——There was, however, a matter much more important than his participation in the study group. One he had left for later.

“Chihaya, do you have a moment?”

Akeru called out to him just as he had left the empty room, heading towards his own. There was clear suspicion on Chihaya’s face, but he nevertheless followed him to a corner of the hallway without ever uttering a word.

“I’ve given you a lot of trouble with the latest incident. Allow me to apologize again,” Akeru bowed.

“I don’t mind,” Chihaya answered just the same way as before.

“But I do mind. You could have also ended up gravely injured if anything else had gone wrong, and now there are weird rumors going around. I’ve been thinking a lot about if there was something I could do to pay you back.”

Chihaya’s expression became slightly troubled, but Akeru kept talking without paying it any mind. “Despite your bad relationship with Kimichika, you came to the Monastery through the Minami-Tachibana’s recommendation, right?”

“..... You investigated me?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. Back when I lost against you during our first match, my followers checked your family register in the census, as well as your general background, and came to inform me. That’s when I heard that you have a little sister and her health is poor, so you couldn’t refuse the Minami-Tachibana’s assistance. When Kimichika intimidated you during your fight that one time, he meant your sister, right?”

In a matter of seconds, Chihaya’s expression went entirely blank.

“I’m fully aware it was presumptuous of me to do so. That said, let me ask you something else. Would you let me assist you with that?” Chihaya didn’t reply to his question. “You must loathe this situation, having your sister essentially be a hostage to Kimichika. This is just as a way of apology, there are no ulterior motives or anything,” Akeru emphasized. “It’s all out of pure goodwill, I mean it.”

Up until then, Akeru had only taken advantage of his own position and the power his birth had given him. He had done nothing but act arrogantly in front of people like Chihaya or Shigemaru. However, he had no plans to commit the same mistakes and misuse his power anymore. He wanted to follow Yukiya’s advice. This would be a good first at using his influence in the correct way, or so he thought.

“The Western House will support you, if you wish so, and we’ll take good proper care of your sister too. It’s not like you want to be under Kimichika either. Right, Chihaya?”

Chihaya opened his mouth after a long silence.

“That’s right,” he murmured in a self-deprecating tone. “That much is true. I’m not receiving the Minami-Tachibana’s aid because I like it that way.”

“Then!” Akeru said enthusiastically.

The look in Chihaya’s eyes, however, was as cold as ice.

“——It’s as I thought. You’re just like Kimichika.” Just like that, Chihaya turned his back on him and quickly left the place behind. Akeru had no time to stop him.

…… Did he just anger him?

Frozen in place, Akeru watched Chihaya as he vanished into the distance.

“But, why?” He couldn’t even imagine the reason behind Chihaya’s anger.

Next: Chihaya (Part 1)

—————————————

1: Warfare Records is my take on Senpu (戦譜), which is in itself a reference to Kifu (棋譜). Kifu is the word for records of abstract strategy games like Shogi or Go, which can be used to fully replicate a game. Each game has their own notation methods.

[tengo-sentimientos-saben]

2 years of “Gabriel Agreste".

[thecmaly]

really? right in front of my karaage?

-

more windbreaker comics

[flying-cat]

People don't want character redemption they want a revenge plot from a story that was never supposed to be about revenge

[dykedvonte]

(abt my last ask) thank you for the answer, your understanding of charas is trully stellar!

I wanted to ask, what's your take on recovery!au (unless you intend to cover it in your fic)? In the universe, where Jimmy happens, but the crew somehow survives. Everyone is traumatised, Anya is pregnant, Curly is disabled (could he even be able to afford disability aids? Pony express in no more, would they even be paid a sufficient compensation?). There is also a question of p*lice investigation (or whatever agency is responsible for space crimes), even more trauma... Man, it's bleak.

-💀

I like them sad but for emotional and physical recovery reason rather than all the actual legal stuff that would ensue.

I like when Swansea relapsing is explored and Daisuke losing a little bit of his light. I am clearly a big supporter of Anya and Curly remaining close friend after but I think exploring the unhealthy dynamics of the trauma bond they’d develop should be played with way more. I think it’s a bit annoying when people are on the nose about Anya telling Curly he should’ve done more, especially when he’s struggling through recovery.

I feel like people really want her to be a character to rub salt into wounds, just to give her something cathartic, but it’s just OOC for me. It’s not a kindness thing but I don’t think she wants that sort of guilt to stay with him like that? He did not do what Jimmy did, he could’ve done more to stop it but she would not intentionally try to direct what she can never take out towards Jimmy at Curly. At least when they all make it out. This is not to say she doesn’t think he shouldn’t have any remorse but she understands that no one else could have foreseen Jimmy crashing the ship or getting that bad.

I like when it gets psychoanalytic in fics with the crew. Talk about Curly finally opening up on details on how he and Jimmy were friends, have the others realize how bad Jimmy was to even Curly, not a lot of people realize that they don’t know how Jimmy was to him. Have Anya be angry and snippy, have her worry she’s becoming like Jimmy even though she could never be like him, it’s that fear though, that she is owed that cathartic release and may take it out on others in some selfish subconscious desire to reclaim control for herself. Have her actualize-herself, is med school the only option? What does she want now? Does Swansea divorce his wife, give up on the life he created because he was just following the path of a good man, one he didn’t believe? Or does he stay and use the time he has left to make it something he believes in. How is Daisuke? Is he more mature or does he lose a little light? What are his new aspirations if any? His relationship with his parents?

Ultimately, I think a recover au should really focus on just them actually getting to know each other and filling themselves. So much of their interactions were likely based on coworker dynamics first. With that out the window they are now people who can’t really move on from each other but need to move on in life.

[fujii-draws]

OKAY! Chatot rant in tags below! Read at your own discretion.

[somegrumpynerd]

Started reading The Bad Wingmen by @topazshadowwolf and @paddie-ut and it utterly possessed me for a few days so I needed to draw some of my favourite bits

[discjude]

whatever afterlife exists in SGE must be the funniest shit ever imagine being some Jaunt Jolie peasant who gets a little too in the way of the Snake and dying only to see The Literal School Master cheering the Snake on. Imagine dying of like cholera or something and taking a little Ghost Vacation to Camelot and seeing the King of Camelot - who's dead, apparently - beating the shit out of some random other boy with weird eyes. imagine how flesh and blood went down. Do you think they all had popcorn for that

[hobermallowed]

not entirely sure how it works but I’ll go ahead and headcanon that Frey and Susurrus are intertwined at the soul now. So what happens to Frey happens to him. So if she dies he goes with her.

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Well we know Sauron does end up killing the captain so he was perfect to use as the reader’s equivalent of a Mirdania. These two are so in love and it’s everyone’s problem😆

Thank you very much for your kind words❤️

Theatrics (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Celebrimbor tries to expose you and your husband to the people of Eregion, but you play the role of the innocent maiden to perfection

Warnings: evil!reader, murder, manipulation, mentions of wounds, smut, light choking, blood licking, fingering, p in v, slight roleplay, slight voyeurism kink

Note: part of the evil!reader collection of fics. okay I finally said fuck it and wrote smut *throws it into the wild and runs away*

Mature content below the cut—minors DNI!!!

Chaos roars around you as you step out into what were once the beautiful streets of Eregion. Walls are crumbling, arrows are flying, Elves are scurrying about every which way.

You suppress a smile. All is going according to plan. But what pleases you even more is that at long, long last, the moment which you had been most eager to savour has finally come to pass.

Celebrimbor has learned the truth.

No more tiptoeing around him, playing the unassuming Elven smith. No more taking orders from him, no more assisting him, no more pretending like you are anywhere close to kind and innocent and sweet.

Well, with him, at least. But he is the one you had most strived to fool, ever since you came to Eregion all those years ago, not knowing how long you would have to endure the life you would craft for yourself there until your husband regained his form. When the moment came that you were finally able to stand at your husband’s side in the crumbled forge as Celebrimbor realized who ‘Annatar’ was and what you were to him, when you took in the horror in his eyes as he pointed accusingly to your beloved’s pitch black blood only to watch you lick it hungrily off his hand instead of running in terror...

It nearly made up for all the times the words ‘my lord’ had tasted foul on your lips, spoken to the smith in false submission. You serve no one but your husband—and even that can hardly be called service, when he serves you in return with equal devotion.

You wonder how much of a fool Celebrimbor will have already made of himself even before you find him, wherever he has run off to in the wake of his terrible realization. You and your husband had ensured that by the time Celebrimbor manages to speak against you, all ears would be shut to his words. The Elves once loyal to him now believe him fatigued to incoherency at best, dangerous in his madness at worst. When you had last emerged from the forge, it had been crying and holding a bloody hand, claiming that Celebrimbor had brought Fëanor’s hammer down upon it in a moment of cruel impatience with your work. An illusion, of course, conjured by the part of your husband’s power which lives within you. You have bandaged that hand now, mindful to keep up the charade.

You make sure to fill your eyes with as much dread as any other Elf’s as you run through the chaos, searching for Celebrimbor. Your husband is out here as well, but not with you—it would serve you better to arrive separately for this little special occasion.

By the time you find Celebrimbor on the rampart, he is already quite the pitiful sight—he and Mirdania stand near a section of the parapet which had been wrecked by an Orc boulder, leaving it horribly easy to fall over the edge through the resulting gap. He is screaming at Mirdania that she has to believe him, over and over. She eyes him warily, drawing ever so slightly away, no doubt unsettled to find herself in the proximity of such a disturbed individual and a dangerous fall, all at once. Of all the Elves he could have run to, it had to be the one most taken with your husband’s charms. Oh, this is too perfect.

“My Lord, there you are!” you exclaim. His eyes widen in horror at the sight of you. Yours are awash with concern as you reach for his arm. “It really is not safe for you to be out here—”

Celebrimbor recoils, so violently he nearly knocks Mirdania off her feet as he stumbles into her. She yelps, rushing to your side instead.

“Don’t you dare come near me, you witch!” Celebrimbor spits out, jaw trembling as he yells at the guards, “Seize her!”

You don’t need to see your own face to know you have made it into the perfect picture of confusion and hurt. You exchange a glance with the guard closest to you, Captain Malendol. You’ve shared some laughs over the years, the occasional friendly conversation, even a dance or two at celebrations and the ever-so-subtle flirtation under the supposed influence of a wine glass or two. He likes you quite well, if you do say so yourself. Which makes the bafflement on his face, unlike yours, genuine.

Celebrimbor swallows painfully as realization dawns on him—his own guards no longer obey him. “She is no friend of yours,” he insists, “she never has been! She—”

The words die in his throat when he catches a glimpse of your husband. He has finally joined you, silently making his appearance on the steps behind Celebrimbor, and now the smith is effectively caught between the two of you, even if the trap is utterly invisible to those around you.

“Seize him,” Celebrimbor scrambles to order, “seize them both.”

Malendol stays put. All eyes around Celebrimbor regard him with nothing but sympathy.

“He is Sauron,” he claims desperately, as truthful an attempt as it is fruitless. “Seize them! They have been lying to you all along.”

“No,” Mirdania shakes her head at your side. “Lord Annatar has been protecting us.”

“While you’ve been in your tower, giving orders that might have been the end of us all,” Malendol adds reproachfully.

You allow yourself the slightest raise of a gloating eyebrow, visible only from the angle of Celebrimbor and your husband. As intended, it fuels the rageful despair in the smith’s eyes.

“No,” he all but pleads to be believed. “No, that was him. He is Sauron! And she...” he points a finger which trembles with anger at you, “His foul lover! His depraved mistress! I saw it! Before my eyes, she tasted his blood as if in some... deranged coupling ritual!”

“By the Valar,” you breathe out, swaying on your feet. Such vulgar words would weaken the knees of a faint-hearted maiden. So, accordingly, you begin to fall in Mirdania’s direction, leaving her to scramble into a hasty attempt at holding you upright. Malendol is at your other side in an instant, helping her to support you with a firm arm around your waist.

“My Lord, please,” Malendol says, appalled. “She has been a loyal friend to us for a long time, one who cares for you greatly. How can you say such degrading words about her?”

“Was it not enough,” you burst out tearfully, holding up your bandaged hand, “that you crushed my fingers with Fëanor’s hammer? I believed it to be an accident, but... To have you question my virtue as well...?”

You dissolve into sobs. Your supposedly wounded hand flies to cover your face. The other one, Malendol takes in his, endlessly sympathetic.

The briefest brush of your husband’s mind through the bond you share tells you that the captain is unlikely to survive the siege.

A chuckle bursts from Celebrimbor’s throat, the sound of one driven to insanity. It is funny. All of it. The trouble for him is that you, your husband and Celebrimbor are the only ones who get the joke. And the poor smith is the butt of it.

“Let not yourselves be fooled by her false tears,” he strives, in vain, to convince them. “She has no shame, no care for any of us! Her heart is black—black as his blood.” He turns to your husband as if in sudden realization. “His blood... Cut him open!” he orders. “Look at his hand, see for yourselves!”

He’s nearly gleeful as he says it, genuinely believing he has found the answer to ending his torment. Some of the pity in your eyes is genuine as you look at him with the same dismayed expression as the others’. Your husband knits his brow, as innocent as ever—and lifts his hand to reveal a cut smeared with what appears to the others as utterly natural, perfectly ordinary red blood.

Any trace of hope is drained from Celebrimbor’s eyes. He stares, wordless, jaw quivering as your husband speaks in that calm and composed tone of his.

“You may speak of me as you wish, Celebrimbor. But I will not have you besmirch a kind Elf maiden’s honor, even out of frailty of mind,” says with great sadness Annatar, the divine messenger who has most certainly never laid one pristine finger upon your most demure self. “Please,” he addresses the guards, “escort him back to the forge.”

But the guards exchange glances, hesitating. It was one thing taking orders from your husband when it came to defending the city, but it appears they do not yet dare lay hands on their supposed true lord. They are very close, though, merely in need of the slightest nudge over the edge. Such as a word from their captain, but Malendol wavers, just as torn. Ensuring that you are indeed steady on your feet, he releases you and lays a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip as if to ready himself, but hesitates to give the order. You exchange a nervous glance with Mirdania, who is still at your side, hands on your arm.

A nudge... over... the edge.

You wouldn’t even need the bond between your minds to know that you and your husband are thinking the exact same brilliantly awful thing.

You release a shuddering breath, leaning on Mirdania only the slightest bit more. At once, her hold on you tightens reassuringly.

“Come,” she says, beginning to tug you away, “let us get you some water.”

You nod, visibly grateful to follow her. You halt after a couple of steps, however, just as you are passing Celebrimbor, and turn to him as if with sudden determination. At your back stand Mirdania, a gap in the wall and the field of raging Orcs below, and before you is the smith glaring daggers filled with more disdain than you even imagined he possessed. You meet that scornful gaze with nothing but a pained smile.

“I forgive you, you know,” you murmur, only just loud enough for the guards to catch your words as well. “Get better soon, my dear friend.”

Whether it’s your words, imbued with such sickly saccharine affection, or the hand you lay upon his shoulder with utmost gentleness, Celebrimbor loses his last shred of restraint.

“Get your hands off me!” he roars.

It happens quickly, much too quick for anyone to notice exactly what occurred (as was, of course, your intention). Celebrimbor shoves you away with all his strength, causing you to crash into Mirdania, and—perhaps she might have been able to catch herself, if not for the flick of your husband’s wrist which makes her trip over her feet and tumble over the edge of the rampart, screaming all the way down into the Orc-riddled mud field below.

You certainly possess the power to keep your own balance, but you still yelp and stagger through the couple of backward steps that have you nearly slipping off the edge as well. Malendol, however, manages to catch you in the nick of time, as you had seen he was already desperately rushing to do. He yanks you toward him, and you collide with his chest only for your legs to play the part of finally giving out. The heroic captain keeps his hold on you as you crumble to the ground, hyperventilating.

Celebrimbor’s “No!” rings out as he stares down at the fallen Mirdania, but she is just as lost as any sympathy the guards still held for him. You scramble on your hands and knees to look over the edge just in time to see an Orc bring a hatchet down upon her, and shriek her name as you burst yet again into sobs. You keep them coming, loud and miserable, as Malendol helps you to your feet and you fall into his arms with enough force to push him a few steps back, burying your face in his neck.

Discreetly glancing over your shoulder, you see your husband speaking with Celebrimbor. But so loud are your cries, and so intent is Malendol on offering you words of comfort over them, that the others cannot hear their trusted Lord Annatar strip Celebrimbor of the last of his fight with a final threat. Finish the Nine, and I will spare your city.

This time, when your husband turns to the guards and repeats, “Escort him to the forge, please!” they comply without question.

It’s only once Celebrimbor is out of sight that you begin to quiet your sobs, pulling away from Malendol.

“It’s all right,” he comforts you, releasing you from his embrace but still resting his hands on your arms. “He shall trouble you no longer.”

“He meant to throw me over that wall,” you whisper, voice laced with terrible guilt. “Poor Mirdania died because of me!”

Your husband is standing a few feet away, gazing sorrowfully down to where Mirdania lies dead. He had, after all, made his preference of her quite apparent to the others. It would seem odd if he did not spare a moment to mourn.

“No, not because of you,” Malendol insists. “It was but the doing of Lord Celebrimbor’s troubled mind. You must not hold yourself responsible for anything he has done or said.”

“What he said... Oh, what he said!” you whisper, mortified, and lean closer to Malendol as if to conceal your words from your husband, “How am I to face Lord Annatar now?”

“Please,” your husband speaks, and you turn as if startled to find him coming to you with a most sympathetic gaze. “You have not the slightest reason to be ashamed. I only regret that you had to endure such vile accusations, and witness such tragedy. You must not blame yourself for it.”

“Such is her nature, my Lord,” Malendol says, his hand now at the small of your back in a gesture of kind support. “Of all the Elves in Eregion, she is least deserving of such scorn, and suffers the most for it.”

Oh. Between embracing you as you cried on his shoulder and the sheer affection in his voice as he sings you praises, he might as well have gone for a little tea with the Orcs, too. Forget the whole siege—now you doubt your husband will let him survive the hour.

Lord Annatar, however, offers the captain a most gracious smile.

“Thank you, captain,” he says, “for being a most loyal friend when your friendship was most needed. I shall see to it that your honourable deeds are well rewarded.”

Malendol bows his head respectfully, blissfully unaware that his ‘reward’ will very much resemble Mirdania’s.

“Performing one’s moral duty is a reward in itself, my lord. Come,” he turns to you, “let us bring you to safety.”

“No,” your husband says—a fraction of a second too quickly. The slip is much too brief to be caught and the recovery utterly seamless. “You are needed in battle, Captain Malendol. I shall see to it that she makes it safely back inside.”

Malendol exchanges a glance with you, and upon your slight nod, he says, “Of course.” As if on a sudden impulse, he turns to face you, taking your hand in his.

“Fear not, my friend. We shall prevail,” he vows. And leaves a gallant kiss on your knuckles before he takes his leave.

It’s all you can do to school your expression as you are left alone with your husband—well, ‘alone’ in the sense that no one’s focus is trained on you at the moment, but you can hardly risk one of the soldiers catching a glimpse of your triumphant smile when you had gone through so much trouble to earn their sympathy. As such, you meet your husband’s composed gaze with a somewhat shy one, quickly lowering your eyes as though you do not dare hold it for long.

He does not speak a word as he walks you back into the tower, never once attempts to place even so much as a guiding hand at the small of your back. There is the sound of destruction around you, the screams of Elves, but loudest in your mind is the tumultuous blend of emotions within your bond. So proud, so satisfied, so hungry for each other the high of victory in your wicked plans has made you, the very air thrums with the vibrancy of it.

And as if that was not potent enough, there is also that sweet possessive ire you love to rouse within each other, even when you are well aware that no being in existence could ever truly come between you. For them, to merely glance in longing at one of you is a death sentence from you both. Mirdania had sought out your husband’s touch, Malendol had dared embrace in comfort one who belongs solely in her husband’s arms. It matters not that they were allowed, even led into it. When you and your husband play such games, collateral damage is a given.

The moment you are inside the tower, you expect some kind of climax to the tension—you are most eager to be ravaged by its force, whether he should devour your lips to celebrate your flawless performance or crowd you against the wall to thoroughly replace the captain’s innocent touches with his ruinous ones.

But he does neither. He remains as impassive as though you are still being watched. Provoking you into lighting the fuse of the impending explosion yourself. Very well, then. You shall do so gladly.

“Pity about Mirdania, though,” you remark nonchalantly as you ascend the steps to the forge. “I would have liked to see her face when she realized the object of her little infatuation was the Dark Lord himself.”

“Fear not, my love,” your husband says, eerily calm and without looking back as he walks ahead of you. “We shall soon have the pleasure of a similar realization on Captain Malendol’s face, right before I run him through with his own sword.”

Unseen by him, you smirk.

“Well, he was rather eager to save my life,” you goad. “Perhaps he has earned the privilege to die in blissful ignorance after all.”

Only your footsteps fill the following silence until you reach the top of the stairs. You’ve barely climbed the last step when he turns around and—you yelp as your husband quite literally sweeps you off your feet, whisking you bridal style towards your bedchamber, instead of the forge. A giggle escapes you as you cling to him, quite pleased with the reaction you have elicited.

“Tell me, my love,” he says, kicking the door shut behind you, “what need have you of a common Elf captain to save you from falling,” you are unceremoniously released onto the bed, with your husband climbing over you not a moment later, “when you are bound to one of the Maiar who would sooner destroy the foundations of the earth than let you slip from his grasp?”

His hand is sliding up your thigh, lifting your dress on its way. He is a Maia possessed, caught between the high of triumph and the thrill of the chase at which you two so like to play, and you can hardly think of a witty answer when his fingers are only a breath away from where your flesh aches for his touch the most.

But a wicked thought prevails, and you shove him away with all your might. Still, it’s the shock of it rather than your force which knocks him to the side, allowing you to scramble off the bed. It’s almost comical, the half-confused, half-enraged look he gives you.

“Lord Annatar!” you gasp, ostentatiously doe-eyed and quite scandalized as you smooth down your dress in haste. “Surely you do not mean to lure me into some... ‘deranged coupling ritual’?” A little smile flashes through your little act while you savour Celebrimbor’s earlier words on your tongue. “And in the midst of a siege as well!”

You back away from him with slow, tantalizing steps, watching in delight as his gaze darkens in a deliciously sensual threat.

“You loved it, didn’t you?” he says, standing from the bed to walk towards you with all the patient grace of a wolf stalking prey. “Acting the innocent little maiden. Prone to fainting at the merest... suggestion of impropriety.”

His strides are larger than yours, and before long he is close enough to surge forward, swiftly closing the distance between you and grabbing hold of your neck with his blood-coated hand. You gasp as your back suddenly hits the wall, closer than you had realized it was, leaving you pinned between the cool stone and your husband’s body. Your hands fly to his wrist and his lips hover close to yours, teasing you with the promise of a kiss. You chase it just to be cruelly deceived as he evades your mouth, a wicked smile upon his as he lightly but decidedly pushes your head back against the wall.

“Be grateful, my innocent little smith, that there is a siege,” he says in a lurid whisper, releasing your throat to bunch up the skirt of your dress with both hands, “for your fellow Elves are far too distracted to hear you fall apart beneath my touch.” Your undergarments are pushed to the side, and you are so wound up that even the maddeningly light press of his fingers between your legs draws a loud whimper from you. Your husband leans into your ear as you shut your eyes, hips helplessly chasing the slow little circles he makes around your aching bud. “I should hate for anyone to ‘question your virtue’.”

His tongue makes a mockery of your own words from earlier, just before you feel its warmth at the hollow of your throat. You arch your neck as he licks upwards, long and slow, towards your jaw, gathering the blackness his wounded hand had smeared onto your skin. That same hand is now splayed over your rampant heart, holding you down as you fist your hands in the fabric of his garments and writhe with the pleasure he languidly stokes between your thighs. He kisses you, and when his tongue plunges past your lips, your mouth fills with the sweetly metallic taste of his blood, more intoxicating than the strongest liquor. You moan, long and wanton, whining for the firmer, faster, deeper touch he is withholding.

Your husband chuckles. It infuriates you.

“Oh, but you loved it too, didn’t you? When he—ah!” You suck in a sharp breath as he slips two long fingers inside you. Your wetness makes it easy, your body welcoming the familiar intrusion with nigh unbearable delight. It takes great willpower not to shut your eyes, to hold his gaze as he curls his fingers expertly, right where he knows it feels the most divine. “Did you not like it when he called me yours?” you insist, breathlessly. “Did you not want to show them yourself?”

If possible, his eyes darken even further, and his fingers pump inside you with more vigour. “Had it not been utterly counterproductive to our purpose,” he says, voice low and gruff, “I would have taken you right there upon the rampart and proved him right.”

The image is so sudden and vivid before your eyes, it pulls a pitiful mewl from your throat.

“I would have let you,” you gasp, and crush your lips to his with desperate abandon. “I want them to know.”

A guttural sound escapes his throat, and all of a sudden he withdraws his fingers, leaving you achingly empty. You think your legs might give out if it weren’t for his firm hold on you as he pulls you to the nearby window, twisting you around so that your back is against him and you plant your hands on the waist-level windowsill for support.

“Look,” he rasps out in your ear. “Do you see our soon-to-be army, my love? The very first of our devoted subjects?”

In the distance, Orcs holler crude names at each other, ready battle devices, send an endless rain of arrows over the walls of Eregion. It isn’t a pretty sight, but the terror it strikes in the hearts of their enemies and their power of destruction shall be wielded by you and your husband in the near future—and that is no small thing.

You nod, letting the thought sink in and add to the onslaught of elation already driving you wild. Your husband coils one arm around your stomach as the other wraps around your throat once more and he pulls you into him. Your bare folds meet his clothed erection, and you push back against him with a wanton moan, desperate for the friction.

“They shall be followed by Men,” he continues, rutting against you with animalistic greed, “and Dwarves, and Elves, until every single soul in Middle-Earth has been brought to their knees to worship at the feet of their King and Queen. Then, we shall at long last stand together before them all.”

“A love greater than ever was or ever will be,” you say, high-pitched and breathless, as if you are repeating words you have told yourself a thousand times. “All shall aspire to be us, yet none shall succeed.”

You are released abruptly. You hear the shuffle of fabrics, and sure enough, the swollen tip of him is soon nudging at your entrance.

“And how beautiful you shall be, my love,” your husband whispers, the sheer reverence in his voice a stark contrast to his lurid words, “with a crown upon your head, and my cock buried deep within you.”

He slides in to the hilt, quick and powerful, and you cry out. You could take him a million times, in a million different ways, and yet the perfect fit would never cease to steal your breath. He withdraws only to thrust back in, then again, setting a punishing rhythm which is nearly enough to obliterate any semblance of coherent thought from your mind. It would be so easy to let him plough into you just like this until you come undone, yet you crave something else. More.

“Wait,” you plead, planting a hand onto his hip to push him away. “Let me... let me...”

He does, letting himself slip from you with a rueful grunt. You turn to face him on unsteady legs, to look upon his face as you had so longed to—the only reason which had given you the will to interrupt your pleasure as you did. Your eyes never leave his as you seat yourself upon the windowsill, lifting your skirts once more. “I want all that,” you confess as he nestles his hips between your spread legs. “But I want you more.” He groans as you stroke his length, then guide the weeping tip back to your entrance. “I want it with you, or not at all.”

Your voice is so thin, it nearly chokes out at the end, your chest constricted with emotion—with the fear of being forced to let go as you have been before, always present in the deepest corner of your hearts. Something flickers in your husband’s gaze, the same anguish which wrenches at your soul.

“My love,” he breathes out the words as though they are the last thread by which his very existence hangs. “My love,” he vows and prays and fiercely claims as he nestles himself in your tight heat once more. You don’t know which sinks deeper into you—his swollen cock or the look in his eyes, which remain devastatingly locked with yours as he joins your flesh. Perhaps there is some innocence left in you to be ruined after all, for so raw and disarmed you are left by this union, tears spring in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. Your husband gathers them with his lips and tongue as he rocks into you anew, far from gentle but less brutal than before, with deep, long thrusts that leave you too weak to sit up if it weren’t for his arms holding you to him.

Outside, the battle rages on. Inside, you fight to prolong this, to wring every last drop of the sweet torment that is your ascent to the peak of your pleasure. You lay a hand over your husband’s heart, feeling it hammer on in tandem with yours as he drives into you with increasing urgency. You are reduced to a string of incoherent mewls as you bury your face in your husband’s neck, mindlessly licking and biting at his skin.

His sounds of pleasure are less loud, but much deeper as they reverberate beneath your lips. You want more—so you fist your hand in his hair, with no mercy for the carefully-crafted bow at the back of his head. Crafted by you, on a playful whim the very morning before the siege began—he’d teased and claimed you were sure to ruin your own work the next time he would bed you. You don’t even think of that now, consumed by pleasure as you tug and pull with abandon, feeling the fair tresses come apart beneath your fingers. It drives your husband even wilder with lust than he already was, and he grabs your face to devour your lips as he spirals closer to his release.

Your own takes over you in an abrupt instant, right as your husband reaches between you to rub your swollen bud above where you are joined. You sob into his mouth, trembling as your hips thrash in a confused attempt to both escape and chase the unbearable height of pleasure thrust upon you.

Your husband fucks you through it, pulling you close and cooing in your ear, calling you his and ‘love’ and all sorts of adoring things in Black Speech through his own heavy breaths. Your name falls from his lips in a ragged moan as he finds his pleasure, and you feel it echo through your bond with nearly as much power as your own. His seed will not take unless he wills it so, and neither of you wish for that, but you still clench around him longingly, greedy to draw every last drop of him as deep within yourself as possible, because it is him. You’d spend each second of your life with him inside of you, if not for the impracticality of it.

Once spent, your husband remains as he is, simply holding you to him. He cradles your head in his hands, pressing sweet kisses to your hair, and you are too weak to do anything but sag against him whilst you regain your breath.

“Why, Lord Annatar,” you whisper, smiling tiredly, “I’m starting to suspect you might have impure intentions towards me after all.”

He gives a soft chuckle, pulling away to look at you. “Whatever gave you that idea, my lady?”

The innocuous words are followed by your husband gently withdrawing himself from you, leaving a great, leaking mess between your legs. The only response you can give is a soft groan as his fingers gather some of his spend from your sensitive folds, and gently press it back inside of you where it belongs. With a small, satisfied hum, he steps away to tuck himself back into his garments. You press your legs together, sighing contently at the delightful ache left in the aftermath of your lovemaking.

“However will you keep up this innocent act of yours,” your husband muses, “now that I shall be dripping down your beautiful thighs with every step you take?”

“Please,” you say coyly, standing up and fixing your dress as though your undergarments are not soaked beyond hope beneath it, and your legs don’t still feel a bit unsteady. “I’ve managed before.”

He smiles knowingly. “Indeed, you have.” He pulls you close by the waist, as if you haven’t just parted from one another. “Always so eager to wear me,” he praises, and there is nothing insincere about your flustered little smile now. It’s true that you delight in wearing what he gives you, whether it be his spend nestled between your legs or a less secretive gift. Which reminds you of the gift you had given him to wear. You lay a hand on his cheek and coax him to turn his head silghtly, pouting when you glimpse the mess of tangled tresses you have made in his hair.

“You were right,” you admit, somewhat regretful, “I did ruin the bow.”

“Like the merciless creature that you are,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. When you pull back, his appearance has already been restored. It isn’t quite as meaningful, now that his power did the work instead of your hands, but you suppose you’ve been gone long enough already. Now that your hunger for each other has been sated, your husband shares that sentiment.

“Come, now,” he says, taking your hand and making for the door. “I believe Celebrimbor is in need of encouragement with his work.”

“What are we, if not encouraging?” you quip, and gladly follow his lead.

Previous fic with same reader -> Reveal

Next fic with same reader -> Old wounds

[chuluoyi]

✎ baby to the rescue

- gojo satoru x reader

in which gojo recruits your baby son to “save” you from a credit card salesman

genre: immense fluff !! baby gojo and dad!gojo shenanigans~

note: based on this and this reel. with this i hereby declare that anything past chapter 235 is null and void HAHA anyway, i truly want to post remarried empress au by this week but since 261 leaks hurt me so much, i need more fluff so have to postpone it to next week :') tagging @karikari19hikariiii <3

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Your husband Gojo Satoru... is handsome as hell, which means your baby son is also undeniably good-looking.

"Why do you pout at me?" Satoru poked his squirming baby's cheek while pursing his lips too. "C'mon, smile! That auntie is smiling at you!"

Everyone who passed by them in Shinjuku shopping district turned heads to admire him and his pumpkin just a little longer, and Satoru visibly enjoyed the attention. He smiled back at them, occasionally winking even.

If only they knew how pretty his wife was too...

Wait, no! On second thought, if they know how hot you are, there will be problems!

You had left him to go to the nearest pharmacy to restock some things, while Satoru decided to entertain his baby in the toy section. He basked in the starry-eyed looks people were giving him... until he heard some strange sounds and turned to his baby boy—

—who was chewing the beak of a duck toy with all his might. Satoru was mortified.

"—! Let that go! Your mama will beat me if she sees you eating this!"

Your baby paid him no mind though, desperately pushing the duck into his mouth. Satoru sat him on one of the empty racks and began the tug of war—

"Let go!" he reprimanded. "You're so naughty, gods—!"

Some people were now openly giggling at both of them. His son tried to resist by rolling, and Satoru clicked his tongue. He then yanked the toy away until his baby finally let it go, sniffling sadly that his papa wouldn't let him have the duck.

"Oh, you..." he picked him up again and consoled the pumpkin. "You can't do that, you hear? First, it's not clean. Second, mama will grow two heads to chew you and me both, understand?"

No, your son totally didn't understand a thing. Satoru sighed, seeing his little blue eyes welling up with tears. He ruffled his head and pulled him close. "There, there... I'll get you ice cream, okay? Now let's go."

Satoru was determined to turn his son back into a smiling, happy baby. But just as he was about to head towards the ice cream parlor, he encountered the most unbelievable sight—

"Miss! I guarantee you'll love this credit card features!"

You. That was clearly you, and a salesman (or a bozo, in Satoru's eyes) was trying to bother you.

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh, no— thank you—"

Yet the bozo was still persistent, like the pesky fly he was. "You can use it to pay for your monthly beauty treatments! Someone as pretty as you..." He eyed you from head to toe, blinking suggestively. "Oh my! Your skin is flawless! You have to maintain it this way! I can also give you recommendations for—"

You were wearing a flare dress that made you look so young and petite, and obviously, Satoru too was lusting after you. And true, your skin was smooth like a soft serve of mochi, but still!

You are meant for him and his eyes only! Oho, this bozo would get heavenly punishment.

He had to get to you somehow, but this was public space and if he cooked up some sort of shenanigan, you would put him in sex ban. I can't have that! so Satoru wracked his brain to think of another way...

Once again, his gaze fell on his now calm baby, who was also looking at his mama over there with utter curiosity. And an idea immediately popped up in his mind.

"Hey, kiddo, look at that, a bad man is trying to take your mama," Satoru nudged him as if trying to egg him on. "We can't let that happen. Will you help me to save her, hmm?"

"Mama..." your baby looked back at him so innocently before smiling. "Mamaaa!"

"Good boy." Gods, his baby was so adorable, he almost felt bad for doing this but...

Swallowing his guilt, thinking he would make it up later, he pinched his son's butt a little too firmly—

"WAAAA!" and suddenly, the little boy burst into tears, and even Satoru was surprised by the sheer volume of his wail.

The sudden inconsolable sound of your baby sent you scrambling in panic, your eyes wildly searching for him, completely disregarding the credit card man. "My baby!"

"Eh?" the credit card man was visibly surprised. "Oh... so, you're married...?"

You immediately made your way towards Satoru and snatched your baby from him, hugging him tightly. "Oh, there, there... What happened to you?" you shot your husband a distaste look as your son kept wailing. "Satoru, why is he crying?"

He nonchalantly shrugged. "Maybe missing his mama? Dunno~"

By now, you had completely forgotten the credit card bozo, but he still looked at the three of you in mild surprise. Satoru took this chance to approach him and whisper in his ear:

"You see, my wife doesn't need your credit card," he whistled. "My cards or lumpsum money will do more than enough."

After seeing how pale the bozo looked, Satoru chuckled darkly... before leading you and your son away from the crowd, with one arm possessively around your waist.

Epilogue

"I'm sorry— I'm sorry, okay!?"

Satoru looked down at his son in utter hopelessness, as the little boy refused to be held by him, looking at him with teary, resentful eyes, and backing away from him in his playpen.

Can babies hold a grudge? Satoru didn't know, but his son definitely was not happy with him, and he couldn't think of any other explanation other than his sin against him back this afternoon.

"I've bought you mochi ice cream!" he opened his palm to reveal the treat. "Don't you want some? Papa will give you some, yeah?"

Baby looked skeptical now, and at that moment, he resembled you so much—accusing eyes, pursed lips, exactly like the expression you would pull when you were unsure of what Satoru might do next. He almost chuckled at the resemblance, feeling giddy.

"C'mon, forgive me, yeah?" he patted his son's little beanie and offered his hand for him to take, eyes crinkling in fondness. "Now, here comes your treat, come closer?"

Your baby crawled closer, seemingly accepting him, and Satoru was all smiles, until—

Whack!

It happened in a flash. He could have avoided it, but he was too taken aback. The pain exploded in his jaw, so intense that he grunted loudly.

"What the—?! You... you—! You kicked me— in the face!"

[joycrispy]

Awhile ago @ouidamforeman made this post:

This shot through my brain like a chain of firecrackers, so, without derailing the original post, I have some THOUGHTS to add about why this concept is not only hilarious (because it is), but also...

It. It kind of fucks. Severely.

And in a delightfully Pratchett-y way, I'd dare to suggest.

I'll explain:

As inferred above, both Crowley AND Aziraphale have canonical Biblical counterparts. Not by name, no, but by function.

Crowley, of course, is the serpent of Eden.

(note on the serpent of Eden: In Genesis 3:1-15, at least, the serpent is not identified as anything other than a serpent, albeit one that can talk. Later, it will be variously interpreted as a traitorous agent of Hell, as a demon, as a guise of Satan himself, etc. In Good Omens --as a slinky ginger who walks funny)

Lesser known, at least so far as I can tell, is the flaming sword. It, too, appears in Genesis 3, in the very last line:

"So he drove out the man; and placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life." --Genesis 3:24, KJV

Thanks to translation ambiguity, there is some debate concerning the nature of the flaming sword --is it a divine weapon given unto one of the Cherubim (if so, why only one)? Or is it an independent entity, which takes the form of a sword (as other angelic beings take the form of wheels and such)? For our purposes, I don't think the distinction matters. The guard at the gate of Eden, whether an angel wielding the sword or an angel who IS the sword, is Aziraphale.

(note on the flaming sword: in some traditions --Eastern Orthodox, for example-- it is held that upon Christ's death and resurrection, the flaming sword gave up it's post and vanished from Eden for good. By these sensibilities, the removal of the sword signifies the redemption and salvation of man.

...Put a pin in that. We're coming back to it.)

So, we have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword, introduced at the beginning and the end (ha) of the very same chapter of Genesis.

But here's the important bit, the bit that's not immediately obvious, the bit that nonetheless encapsulates one of the central themes, if not THE central theme, of Good Omens:

The Sword was never intended to guard Eden while Adam and Eve were still in it.

Do you understand?

The Sword's function was never to protect them. It doesn't even appear until after they've already fallen. No... it was to usher Adam and Eve from the garden, and then keep them out. It was a threat. It was a punishment.

The flaming sword was given to be used against them.

So. Again. We have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword: the inception and the consequence of original sin, personified. They are the one-two punch that launches mankind from paradise, after Hell lures it to destruction and Heaven condemns it for being destroyed. Which is to say that despite being, supposedly, hereditary enemies on two different sides of a celestial cold war, they are actually unified by one purpose, one pivotal role to play in the Divine Plan: completely fucking humanity over.

That's how it's supposed to go. It is written.

...But, in Good Omens, they're not just the Serpent and the Sword.

They're Crowley and Aziraphale.

(author begins to go insane from emotion under the cut)

In Good Omens, humanity is handed it's salvation (pin!) scarcely half an hour after losing it. Instead of looming over God's empty garden, the sword protects a very sad, very scared and very pregnant girl. And no, not because a blameless martyr suffered and died for the privilege, either.

It was just that she'd had such a bad day. And there were vicious animals out there. And Aziraphale worried she would be cold.

...I need to impress upon you how much this is NOT just a matter of being careless with company property. With this one act of kindness, Aziraphale is undermining the whole entire POINT of the expulsion from Eden. God Herself confronts him about it, and he lies. To God.

And the Serpent--

(Crowley, that is, who wonders what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway; who thinks that maybe he did a GOOD thing when he tempted Eve with the apple; who objects that God is over-reacting to a first offense; who knows what it is to fall but not what it is to be comforted after the fact...)

--just goes ahead and falls in love with him about it.

As for Crowley --I barely need to explain him, right? People have been making the 'didn't the serpent actually do us a solid?' argument for centuries. But if I'm going to quote one of them, it may as well be the one Neil Gaiman wrote ficlet about:

"If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization." --Robert G. Ingersoll

The first to ask questions.

Even beyond flattering literary interpretation, we know that Crowley is, so often, discreetly running damage control on the machinations of Heaven and Hell. When he can get away with it. Occasionally, when he can't (1827).

And Aziraphale loves him for it, too. Loves him back.

And so this romance plays out over millennia, where they fall in love with each other but also the world, because of each other and because of the world. But it begins in Eden. Where, instead of acting as the first Earthly example of Divine/Diabolical collusion and callousness--

(other examples --the flood; the bet with Satan; the back channels; the exchange of Holy Water and Hellfire; and on and on...)

--they refuse. Without even necessarily knowing they're doing it, they just refuse. Refuse to trivialize human life, and refuse to hate each other.

To write a story about the Serpent and the Sword falling in love is to write a story about transgression.

Not just in the sense that they are a demon and an angel, and it's ~forbidden. That's part of it, yeah, but the greater part of it is that they are THIS demon and angel, in particular. From The Real Bible's Book of Genesis, in the chapter where man falls.

It's the sort of thing you write and laugh. And then you look at it. And you think. And then you frown, and you sit up a little straighter. And you think.

And then you keep writing.

And what emerges hits you like a goddamn truck.

(...A lot of Pratchett reads that way. I believe Gaiman when he says Pratchett would have been happy with the romance, by the way. I really really do).

It's a story about transgression, about love as transgression. They break the rules by loving each other, by loving creation, and by rejecting the hatred and hypocrisy that would have triangulated them as a unified blow against humanity, before humanity had even really got started. And yeah, hell, it's a queer romance too, just to really drive the point home (oh, that!!! THAT!!!)

...I could spend a long time wildly gesturing at this and never be satisfied. Instead of watching me do that (I'll spare you), please look at this gif:

I love this shot so much.

Look at Eve and Crowley moving, at the same time in the same direction, towards their respective wielders of the flaming sword. Adam reaches out and takes her hand; Aziraphale reaches out and covers him with a wing.

You know what a shot like that establishes? Likeness. Commonality. Kinship.

"Our side" was never just Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley says as much at the end of season 1 ("--all of us against all of them."). From the beginning, "our side" was Crowley, Aziraphale, and every single human being. Lately that's around 8 billion, but once upon a time it was just two other people. Another couple. The primeval mother and father.

But Adam and Eve die, eventually. Humanity grows without them. It's Crowley and Aziraphale who remain, and who protect it. Who...oversee it's upbringing.

Godfathers. Sort of.

[slytherinslut0]

Mattheo Riddle. | We Are Done

Info: Mattheo calls things off during a nasty fight where you were only expressing your concern for his safety, putting an end to your months-long complicated fling. When he inevitably gets hurt and finds himself in the hospital wing as a result of his recklessness, you pay him a little visit, eager to get your revenge.

Word count: 5k

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Toxic Behaviours, Sadism, Masochism, Intense Bloodplay, Restraint, Dom!Reader, Sub!Mattheo, Begging, PIV, Sexual Punishment, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation.

A/N: went all the way to the depths of hell for this one☠️

The journey from the bustling opulence of the Great Hall to the clinical confines of the hospital wing unfolded like a protracted soul-search, nearly forty minutes of introspection that could have singlehandedly redefined the word regret.

A seething turmoil churned within, its intensity drawn solely from the arid kindling of memories involving your ex fling, Mattheo Riddle. Despite the passing week of newfound solitude, the inner maelstrom showed no fucking signs of abating.

The recollection of your fleeting intimate moments swarmed you, a ceaseless loop that played out in the theater of your mind--like an unresolved holodrama with seemingly no fucking end.

His imprint stained every fragment of your life; in the solitude of the shower, mental echoes followed the course of water, little rivers reminding you of the ones tracing intricate paths down his sculpted physique. Within the shared space of the common room, the mental tableau featured his fingers engaging in an intimate ballet, leaving the taste of his lips lingering in your mouth as they ever-so-dominantly stifled your lusty sounds.

And somehow, that wasn't even the worst of it. Oh, not even close. It was during the nocturnal realm that the memories unfolded their cruelest chapters.

In the shroud of night, it transcended beyond the mere visual replay of his figure dominating yours, or the sensory exploration of his hands traversing the curves of your body. It wasn't just the recollection of his teeth sinking into your neck that lingered. No, the intricacies of your mind wove a far, far more nuanced tapestry.

Nighttime summoned forth the vivid recollection of the encompassing warmth emanating from his broad chest, the haven discovered within the embrace of his strong arms, and the fragrant allure of his messy hair, intertwining with the visceral memories of each intimate encounter. His burning gaze that had seared into your consciousness was more than a mere look; it was an indelible mark, haunting the very core of your thoughts with the echoes of shared passion.

These were the nocturnal specters that besieged you behind closed lids, engaging in an unwelcome dance as you wrestled with the elusive embrace of sleep. These very memories, like a relentless blacksmith, stoked the inferno within, leaving behind the most acrid, bitter residue on your tongue--a taste of anguish and betrayal.

The haunting question echoed through the corridors of your thoughts: why had he subjected you to this intimate claiming, an emotional prison woven with shared intensity, only to abruptly extinguish it with the cold finality of three, sad little words.

"We are done."

And thus, even after the amount of passing time, all it took was a single sideways glance exchanged between Pansy and Draco during their spirited debate over impending assignments to inspire the catalyst for your abrupt departure. With a forceful clatter, you slammed down your fork and pushed up from the table, commencing a determined march into the unknown.

Their speculative gazes undoubtedly trailed your abrupt exit, but you paid no heed. The entire school was privy to the fact that you and Mattheo were done, seemingly officially this time--terminated by a colossal spat prior to one of his ludicrous nighttime escapades in the forbidden forest. Mattheo's hospitalization, a testament to the recklessness that marked him and his band of fools, left him nursing scratches, cuts, bruises, and a sizable gash on his lower abdomen.

Pansy's calls faded into the periphery as you strode away, your indifference resonating louder than any response could convey. The world around you blurred into inconsequential background noise, drowned out by the burgeoning tangle of spite that commandeered your thoughts. Initially relegated to the forefront, this resentment had now metastasized, occupying every crevice of your headspace.

The recollection of his outburst haunted you, a violent reaction triggered by your attempt to dissuade him from venturing into the forbidden forest. Advising caution, you found yourself confronted with accusations of control and a stifling of his fucking freedom. Hurtful words cascaded from his lips during that argument, culminating before he recklessly endangered himself in the perilous forest. All the moments of vulnerability you shared with him, surrendering yourself without reservation, only to be met with his callousness when you were simply trying to safeguard him.

And as the embers of revenge blazed within, so did the deafening roar for closure. The need to settle the score and the yearning for resolution thrived in the wake of an emotional maelstrom.

‘We are done’ felt insufficient—it couldn't conclude there. You wouldn't fucking allow it.

Approaching the hospital wing doors, a surprising fortitude replaced any expectation of your confidence wilting under the imposing pressure. Strangely, a heightened anger welled within you, as though Mattheo Riddle were the sun, each step forward intensifying the scorching heat enveloping you. With a decisive gesture, you flung the door open, your breath held in suspense as your eyes canvassed the beds. Yet, he remained conspicuously absent, amplifying the frenetic flutter in your heart into an unrestrained whirlwind.

"Miss? May I help you with something?"

You pivoted sharply, eyes ablaze, as if embers sparked from your gaze. "Mr. Riddle. Mattheo. Where is he?"

The nurse swallowed, brows furrowed in confusion, but she cautiously gestured toward the hall, taking a step forward. "We moved him into a private room yesterday. His father requested it. Third door to the left."

Your eyes rolled involuntarily as you turned away,  a silent commentary on the absurdity before you. Suppressing the impulse to scoff required a fucking Herculean effort--of course, his father would demand a private room for him. The bloody entitlement was as predictable as Mattheo's suffocating arrogance.

As your determined march neared its end, you found yourself standing before the designated door, caught in a tumult of fear and fury. Fingers trembled, folding in waves in a futile attempt to expel the excess energy coursing through your veins. This ritual had proved futile throughout the previous week, and it yielded no different results now. A frustrated exhale escaped through your nose as you charged through the doorway, propelled by a relentless surge of emotion.

Mattheo Riddle's vulnerability exceeded all expectations as he lay in his opulent private chamber. Shirtless, his body displayed a cruel artwork of black and blue hues, stretching beyond the healing gash on his abdomen. A chaotic tapestry of scratches adorned his shoulders, arms, neck, and the once flawless canvas of his face, now disrupted by a thin, blistering line over the bridge of his nose. A swallow lodged in your throat as you beheld him, a striking portrait of agony that rendered him almost unrecognizable.

"Why the hell are you here?" He stared at you, expression vacant. "Can't you comprehend simple instructions?"

With a cool, unwavering gaze, you shot back, "And miss the chance to witness your glorious downfall? Not a fucking chance, Riddle."

Mattheo clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply as he adjusted against the sheets. "You're insufferable."

You sneered, advancing with measured steps. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."

Advancing, you scrutinized his form, taking in the mosaic of fresh scars that adorned his skin. Arriving at the bedside, your gaze drifted downward, noting that beneath his waist, he was clad only in boxers. A scant, white sheet was the sole guardian of whatever remained of his dignity.

Mattheo's snarl reverberated in the room. "If you're here to extend your fucking pity, please, spare me."

A sharp retort escaped your lips, your eyes dancing with a hint of amusement. "Oh, I'm not offering pity...though you do present quite the pitiable fucking sight, I'll give you that."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" Mattheo's voice carried an edge, his eyes narrowing with impatience. “I told you, we are done.”

A pregnant pause filled the room as you let his question linger, a mental reel replaying the relentless week of torment he had unleashed upon you. Your gaze lingered on his tousled chocolate curls and once-enticing plush lips, forcing yourself to traverse the memories of months marked by a tumultuous dance between pain and pleasure. The realization hit like a sledgehammer--all those moments, the highs and lows, seemed to have led to an abyss of pure fucking nothingness.

A furrow etched your brow as you looked down at him. "It's unbelievable that I let myself get ensnared into feeling something for you."

"Your feelings were your own choice," he quipped, his head falling back with an air of indifference, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Don't blame me for your poor judgment."

Your frown etched deeper lines on your face, the surge of anger unmistakable. "Regardless, you still manipulated me like a fucking puppet."

"Amusing how complaints disappeared when you were screaming for more every damn night," he retorted, lids fluttering with evident irritation. "Your anger's just a cover for the fact that you'll have to find a new playmate now...have fun chasing those highs, princess, but I promise you'll only end up disappointed."

Your jaw dropped in disbelief, gaze narrowing into a potent mix of anger and hurt. "You're a real fucking prick, you know that?"

Mattheo regarded you with eyes that seemed to hold nothing but emptiness. His silent response coaxed your hands to curl into tight fists, and your chin to tremble with the pressure of boiling blood. You hadn't come here for him to treat you like a mere specter, to act as if you were invisible, as if you were nothing--something you knew you had never been. And still weren't.

"Answer me," you hissed, your voice shaking with a blend of frustration and desperation.

He remained silent, his gaze an unyielding anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions. The void in his pupils became increasingly maddening, an inscrutable abyss that left you grappling with the uncertainty of what the fuck he was even thinking right now.

"Answer me, Riddle." Your demand sliced through the air, a fervent plea for any sign of acknowledgment.

But he remained stubbornly mute.

Your chest surged with frustration, the world momentarily blurring in your escalating anger. "Say something, damn it!"

It was only when the sting of his skin met the back of your hand, and red streaks of blood marked your knuckles, that you realized you had slapped him, reopening the scab on his cheek. Yet, that wasn't the shocking part--though it certainly played a role--what truly stunned you was the quiet, wanton moan that escaped Mattheo's lips, his lids fluttering while his body tensed against the bed. In awe, you gulped.

And then, a peculiar, wicked force stirred within, a voracious entity feeding on the months of torment he had subjected you to. Something that hungered for more.

So, succumbing to its dark allure, you withdrew your hand and unleashed another sharp, resounding slap across his cheek. Blood painted his face, and Mattheo groaned, fingers clutching at the sheets as his hips thrust into the air, his arousal blatantly revealed beneath the fabric. Spellbound, you observed as he collapsed back onto the mattress, his eyes fluttering open, holding a gaze that teetered between vulnerability and desperation.

Between the conflicted expression in his eyes and the pulsating bulge between his legs, the sinister impulse within you deepened, intertwining with a more primal sensation. One unmistakably identified as pure, unbridled lust.

"You fucking like that, don't you?" You breathed, your lips twisting into a sadistic grin.

"Are you trying to hurt me, princess?" Mattheo's intense gaze focused on you, alternating between his increasing arousal and your exasperated expressions. "You'll have to put in more fucking effort than that..."

"Hm." You hummed, grin widening. "If you insist."

You locked on to Mattheo's gaze, feeling empowered by the way his normally stoic expression was now clouded with a burning need. With a coy smile, you swung your knee onto the hospital bed, letting your skirt ride up around your hips and exposing your panties. His brown eyes lingered between your legs, and you could feel the heat of his gaze against your skin as you climbed over him, straddling his strong thighs. He tensed as his eager cock twitched beneath you, silently begging for more.

The power dynamic between you had shifted so drastically in this moment. Mattheo Riddle, famed for his cunning and ruthlessness, was now completely at your fucking mercy. It was an intoxicating feeling, knowing that you had the power to make him feel truly vulnerable.

"So weak," you spat, a wicked grin spreading across your face as you dipped your hips just enough to skim the head of his cock. The sight of his full-body convulsion was mesmerizing, and the shaky breath that left his lips told you everything you needed to know.

You could tell he was still in pain, but there was something else there too--desperation.

"Poor boy," you murmured, running your fingers down the curves of your own figure, taking pleasure in the sensation of your own heat as you slipped your hand between your thighs, caressing yourself. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

Mattheo's eyes fluttered closed, his mouth falling open in a low groan. It was clear he was entranced by the sight of you touching yourself, and the way your words dripped with sinful seduction only added to his lust.

"Yes," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "This is what I want."

"Look at you...so fucking needy..." you clucked your tongue and chuckled, extending out your free hand and running it along the wounded flesh of his chest, digging in with a little more force than you'd intended, judging by the groan that left his lips and the blood that split through the scab. "You're such a pathetic mess, Matty...it's almost too easy to control you like this..."

"Go to hell." His jaw tightened, a vein throbbing in his temple as he recognized the truth in your words. "You don't control fuck all."

"Oh, is that right?" you snarled, leaning forward and pushing your hands into his stomach, pressing down on his wound with added force, now. His face twisted in pain, and he let out a strained grunt. "How about now?"

Your heart was thundering with adrenaline, and while you had undoubtedly expected him to be furious at you for causing him harm, as he met your gaze, you saw something else entirely. There was a desperate need in his eyes, a yearning for more of the pain and pleasure that only you could provide. His lips were parted, his breaths coming in short gasps as he struggled to contain the sensations coursing through him. Despite the pain, there was a sense of longing that tugged at your heartstrings, filling you with a powerful desire for more of this intoxicating mixture.

"More," he whispered, his voice low and husky with need, barely above a breath. "Do it again."

"Oh, I don't fucking think so..." you sneered, your cunt clenching involuntarily at his request. But you were determined to make this man suffer. To humiliate him just as bad as he'd humiliated you, time and time again. "If you want something, you’ll have to ask for it nicely…I want to hear you beg for me."

Mattheo grunted again, bucking his hips, trying to grind back despite the pain of his injuries. Finding that impossible, his hands went to your waist, gliding up and down your thighs as he attempted to move you faster along his member, craning his head forward to get a better view. You scowled and smacked him away.

"I don't recall extending an invitation for your touch," you asserted, a glacial edge to your voice. "Why would I want your hands on me? After everything you've fucking done?"

His fingers balled into fists, exhaling when his head fell back against the pillow. You could feel him aching below you, already entirely fucking anxious to get inside of you. But then, he was still, hungry eyes trained on yours as he waited for your prompt.

"That's better," you purred, and found the next words coming out before you'd even thought them. "Good boy."

Your hips moved sinuously against his, a deliberate motion that left him breathless, his fists tensing against the desire to seize hold of your flesh. The surge of power was intoxicating, a heady blend with the fervor of your overwhelming desire and simmering rage. More than ever, your yearning for him to suffer consumed you. With a wicked grin, you lifted your hand to your lips, sensually running your tongue along the length of your crimson-stained fingers, sucking off the remnants of his blood. The sharp note of copper lit up your palate, sending a delightful shiver through your being.

"Mmm...you taste so good." You met his gaze between the long licks of your digits, his taste coating your mouth. "Wanna try?"

Mattheo remained silent, his gaze tracing the movement of your tongue as he moistened his lower lip. You enveloped one of your fingers with your lips, emitting a soft hum as you sensually cleaned it, gliding it in and out with deliberate slowness. Finally, you withdrew it with a wet pop, eyes rolling in dramatic effect.

Mattheo's jaw constricted, the sinews in his forearms taut from the tension in his fists. "Please..."

But you, unfazed, dipped your fingers back into the trail of blood leaking from his gash, adorning your skin with a bold red hue before returning them to your mouth.

"Mm, not good enough, I’m afraid..." you murmured, eyes twinkling with sadistic satisfaction. "You'll have to do much better than that, big boy..."

A growl echoed in Mattheo's throat while he gripped your thighs, pushing you down onto his swollen cock. His own hips thrust up against you, seeking any friction, any pressure at all from your heat. Frowning, you slapped his hand--and to your amazement, he pulled back, averting his gaze.

"These hands of yours are growing quite fucking insolent," you observed with a sly smile. "It's high time we addressed their rude misbehaviour."

A sinister grin etched across your lips as you shifted, smoothly extracting your wand from its thigh strap. With a deft flick, you summoned restraints, securing Mattheo's wrists to the metal headboard. His lips parted, eyes smouldering with desire, pulsating beneath you as the tightness closed around his wrists. Once finished, another few flicks ensured the door was locked, and the room was cloaked in a silencing charm.

"Much better," you said, tossing your wand aside. The gleam in your eye was almost maniacal as you reveled in the exquisite agony you were causing him, feeling a sense of power and control that you had never experienced before. "How's that feel, hm? Ready to utter those pleas for me, Riddle?"

"You're going to regret this, little witch..."  he spat out through gritted teeth, his gaze locked onto yours. "Nothing you could do to me is worse than the fate that awaits you when I get out of here…your days are fucking numbered."

Involuntarily, you clenched at his threat, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you dipped your fingers back into the pool of blood emanating from his wound--and with a decisive move, you seized his jaw with your free hand, thrusting your bloodied fingers past his teeth before he could voice a protest.

"Now isn't the time for your futile threats, Mattheo," you husked, tilting your head. Your fingers pushed forcefully into his throat, emphasizing your point. "Look how fucking pathetic you are...if only your friends could see you now...big tough guy, bound and gagged by his own bitch…it’s beautiful, really."

Abruptly, you withdrew your fingers, leaning back to assess your handiwork. His wrists were securely bound, a vivid red imprint gracing his skin, while his mouth shimmered with the subtle traces of his own blood. It was a tableau of perfection--humiliating yet exquisitely so. The image of him squirming against the taut restraints, his chest rising and falling with each desperate breath, compelled your hand between your legs. Sliding up your skirt, you explored through the delicate lace of your panties, skimming eagerly over your clit.

"Fuck," you murmured, glimpsing his mouth, “you look perfect like this."

This was retribution, and as you teased yourself while admiring the pathetic sight of him, thoughts buzzed with the torment he'd inflicted--the scalding intensity of his erratic behavior, the icy indifference he wielded, treating you with disdain, unfounded accusations of infidelity, and the frigid distance he maintained. The searing resentment flared as you recollected the havoc he'd wreaked upon your life.

It was months of emotional manipulation. A pattern that was impossible to acclimate to. His cycle of hot and cold, the relentless mistreatment, the baseless accusations, and the moments of aloofness, all preceding his inevitable return, pleading for your affection--this was the culmination of his deeds. More than anything, this was the reckoning he deserved.

"Come on, princess..." he muttered, eyes wide and pleading. "For Godrics sake, please...fucking please..."

A grin creeped across your lips, your heart leaping with excitement. You'd finally fucking broke him.

"There we go, Matty...that wasn't so hard, was it?" You purred, inching backwards along the length of his thighs, reaching out to pull the cover from his waist in an excruciatingly slow fashion, exposing his black briefs. "I love hearing you beg for me...you're being such a good boy..."

Mattheo's response came in the form of an exaggerated huff, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently pleading for your touch to alleviate the burning desire between his legs. Your grin expanded, reveling in the palpable tension.

"You want me to fuck you, Matty? Do you think you fucking deserve that?" You cooed as you caressed his erection through the fabric, glaring at him while he jerked and shook from your touch. It was incredible, watching him trying to thrust into your fist, whimpering, head lolling while you sped your ministrations. "Do you think you fucking deserve me?"

His groan reverberated, his body twitching beneath the firm clasp of your fingers. His lids fluttered, and his head arched back in a nearly imperceptible shake of denial.

"You never fucking deserved me, did you?" Your frustration at his silence echoed in the air as you delivered a sharp crack across his face, prompting a gasp from him. "Fucking answer me, Mattheo!"

"No!" he finally hissed, his knuckles whitening as his entire frame tensed. "Fuck! No! I didn’t…”

"That's right, you didn't…” you laughed, shaking your head. The sinful delight coursing through you at his torment was undeniable. "At least you can finally fucking admit it...a tiny step towards what might pass as progress, I suppose."

As Mattheo huffed, not daring to meet your eyes, you sighed, finally feeling as though some of your anger had dissipated. Not by much, but by enough. Granting him the smallest percentage of mercy, you wrapped your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, freeing his needy, throbbing cock--the length of his smooth heat springing back and slapping against his belly, a low groan leaving the depths of his throat as it did.

You clenched at the sight, the pool of heat in your abdomen expanding throughout your entire body now, your mouth practically watering at the mere vision of him. Just when you thought this whole thing couldn't get anymore perfect. Gods, he was undeniably fucking delicious.

"Tell me what you want, Mattheo..." you said, wrapping your fingers around his cock, slicking the bead of precum around the head, twisting your wrist as you stroked him. "Tell me what you need."

His eyelids pressed together in bliss as he panted, the rhythmic movement of his throat visible with each swallow. In the throes of pleasure, he surrendered himself to the intensity of your touch, the heat enveloping him in a cocoon of sensation.

"You..." was his only reply, head snapping back and forth, thighs tensing, cock twitching. "Please-fuck-"

"You like that?" you purred, biting your lip. "You like when I jerk your cock like this? Hm?"

Mattheo's jaw was slack with desire, his voice laced with breathy need, "yes..."

"Yeah?" You purred, tightening your grip, increasing your pace as you stroked him, leaning down slightly to spit on the tip, slicking your saliva along his shaft. "Who else could make you beg, huh? Who the fuck else can make you this fucking hard?"

"Fuck-" he choked, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, you could tell he was close. "No one-princess-fucking no one..."

"Mhm...that's fucking right, Riddle..." smiling, you threw your head back, your other hand resuming its motion on your clit, teasing yourself as you continued stroking him. "You know you can't fucking live without this...I don't know why you have to make things so goddamn complicated..."

"Fuck," he hissed, sputtering your name, "please, fuck me, please. I fucking need you."

"Shit...you're just spoiling me now," you mewled, your pussy clenching undoubtedly at his words. "Such a good boy...so eager to please me, hm?"

Mattheo released a long, exasperated sigh as you released him, shifting yourself closer. With a swift motion, you shimmied your panties to the side before you aligned his cock with your dripping core--the moan that escaped your throat was deep and lengthy as you sank onto him, feeling every inch of his hard, aching cock stretching you wide, filling you up with ease. Mattheo's body lifted from the bed in response, a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream escaping his chest as you enveloped him to the hilt. Leaning forward, you placed your palms on his stomach, shifting your weight to the heels of your hands as you began to slide up and down his shaft.

"Fuck," you breathed, lids fluttering. "I missed this cock...shit, you feel so good..."

Mattheo's only response was a string of shameless, guttural moans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he surrendered to the potent mix of pleasure and pain. His body writhed beneath yours, his abdominals tightening in response to your movements. You panted heavily, bouncing up and down on his cock, taking pleasure in every inch of him slamming deep into your wet, eager pussy.

With each movement, you drove Mattheo wild with desire, listening to his moans grow louder and more intense with each passing moment.

Having control was entirely different--you were able to drag him into you, squeeze him tight with your walls while you slowed your pace, slam down onto him and make him howl. You watched him struggle below you, realizing he was trapped at his peak--and you were happy about it. This. This was close to what he deserved.

"I fucking hate you," you growled, the depth of your emotion evident in every word. "You embedded yourself into every part of my life and now you want to just fucking end things? Just go back to being fucking strangers? Over nothing?" Your voice cracked, the words flowing from your lips without restraint as you continued to ride him, hips moving in an untamed rhythm. "Why do you always fucking do this to me? Fuck-why?..."

Between his deep groans, his shuddering gasps as his wrists fighting their resistance, he managed to shake his head, his noises only growing louder the harder your rode him.

"I...I'm..." the words were forced through barred teeth, his eyes pleading for mercy. "I'm fucking sorry."

"Are you mine, Mattheo?" Your voice was strained with exertion, sweat growing on your forehead. "Were you ever fucking mine? Or was it all just a big game to you?"

"No,” he stammered, almost wincing. "No!"

Unable to resist the intense sensations coursing through you any longer, you brought your fingers back to your clit, setting a frenzied pace as you massaged the stiff nub with the pads of your fingers. You could feel Mattheo pulsing inside you, could feel his overly urgent need to cum, but right now, all that mattered was your own pleasure. As you worked yourself toward climax, your breaths grew ragged, soft moans escaping your lips as your body responded to your own touch. The pressure inside of you was building with each passing moment, urgent and insistent, and you knew that you wouldn't be able to hold off for much longer.

"Say it," you panted, eyes rolling and body trembling as you slammed down on him again and again. "Tell me who you fucking belong to."

"Fuck-fuck..." he grunted, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Please, princess...you keep squeezing me like that and I'm going to fucking cum-"

"If you want to cum, you'll fucking say it, Mattheo-" you practically moaned, entire body quivering with excitement. "Fuck-say it..."

A string of whimpers slipped past Mattheo's lips, his fists balled so tight it looked almost painful. "Fuck--you! I'm yours, fuck..."

Every word leaving you was a curse, and between every word was a strangled moan, resonating through your throat as you worked your clit fasting, fucking yourself on his cock harder.

"Gods, Matty, I'm going to cum," you moaned. "I'm going to cum on this thick fucking cock-fuck..."

Without being able to hold off any longer, you shattered, your hips jerking and twitching in an erratic rhythm, free hand digging into the flesh of his chest as you clenched and pulsed around him, forcing another onslaught of pleasured whimpers to leave his throat before he too reached his high--the tight heat of your orgasm sending him over the edge, twitching and thrashing beneath you as you continued riding him through your collective highs, not beginning to slow until the aftershocks began to rumble through you.

And after you stalled, you allowed yourself a moment to regain composure before you wearily eased yourself off him, releasing a prolonged breath--with a cautious movement, you reached over and gathered a sampling of your intertwined cum on the pads of your fingers, briskly bringing them up to his lips.

"Taste what I did to you," you murmured with a smirk, relishing in his groan against your flesh. Methodically, you glided your fingers against his bottom teeth, leisurely pulling them from his mouth. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

His breaths lingered in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of his silence, his eyes seemingly unable to leave your form. With deliberate movements, you leaned over, deftly undoing the restraints that bound him. As you meticulously adjusted your appearance back to its usual state, a mask of calm control, your gaze shifted towards the door, a calculated glance.

"May your recovery be swift, Riddle," you uttered with a tone that held a hint of farewell. "Until next time."