This Is Literally My Favorite Fic Right Now

Sebastian Stan at Britain Sharper World Premiere

this is BEAUTIFUL

Sinners' tango

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It wasn't just meant to be a small collection of Papa x Sister of Sin!Reader, but also to have a little interpretation key. So, as usual, I invite you to comment/like to show your support!

I really like the idea that the Ministry of Ghosts is a matriarchal pyramid, where even though Papa seems like the most important figure, Sister Imperator is the one who holds the reins of everything. Furthermore, I like that this isn't seen as a threat to anyone's masculinity within the clergy.

This series had a bit of this in mind. The woman isn't shown to allow more or less everyone to insert/identify themselves, yet her presence is so strong that even without ever seeing her face, you should be able to perceive her as the dominant figure in the composition. Sometimes she simply doesn't bother to look at those who are looking at the images, as if leaving the dirty work to someone else, other times she plays with her men, who allow themselves to be moved docilely.

There's also a certain sensuality, the idea of intimacy between the sister and the pope, and the various popes looking into the camera is like an awareness of their position. It's a submissive, almost devoted but still proud. Except for Copia, but not because he's not devoted to her, but because he, more than anyone, couldn't take his eyes off her.

i love papas cute silly moves. 🥰

@writingjourney I am SO devastated, I am simply sobbing until I can no longer breathe. Screaming, crying, throwing up.

I didn't mean to add smut to the next iknbs chapter but we're at the stage now where I try to make them kiss and suddenly they're grinding on each other. I'm sure you'll be SO SAD about that 🫤

i only have inappropriate things to say omg

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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Hi, I'm MJ! She/her, '03 baby, Aquarius—

MDNI

Navigation — Updated 9/27/24

— About this Blog

— Fanfiction

MARVEL

Bucky Barnes x Reader: Through Sea Mist and Shadows (Series) ONGOING

SUPERNATURAL

Dean Winchester x Reader: Anniversary (One-shot)

ARCANE

Silco x Reader: I Trust You (One-shot)

HOGWARTS LEGACY

Sebastian Sallow x Reader: Winter Warmth (Drabble)

this was AMAZING ???!!!! omfg I loved every second

anything you want i did see a video where he was saying you hurt my darling to Rockwood and my did things to my heart

By Right of Blood | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

RAHHHH THIS WAS FUN. I LOVE PROTECTIVE SEB. I HOPE YOU ENJOY. I admit, I got carried away and this ended up longer than I anticipated which is why it took me a hot minute to get to this but I hope it was worth it!

Fair warning: this fic is realllllly just a lot of angry, protective seb + fighting/action; very little fluff/romance/etc until the very end

A very special thank you to @newdreamlove95 for reading this over and helping me revise before posting! <3

Words: ~13,000

Tags: Violence, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Canon Divergence, Post Hogwarts, Auror Seb, Auror MC, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance, Confessions

The ruin was ancient—far older than the maps suggested.

You exhaled, the sound swallowed by the dense, humid air of the underground chamber. The magic here was thick, pressing against your skin like something alive. It whispered at the edges of your mind, hinting at an enchantment cast long ago.

Your wand's light flickered against the damp stone as you stepped forward, careful, methodical. Runes lined the archways, warnings etched in a dialect you barely recognized. You traced your fingers over them, murmuring a translation under your breath.

Do not enter. Do not disturb what has been sealed.

A warning, not unlike many you had seen before.

You had been breaking curses for years, navigating the remnants of forgotten civilizations, dismantling traps left behind by those who feared their own creations. It was dirty, dangerous work—but it suited you, kept you sharp, fulfilled your unquenchable need for adventure.

This ruin was no different.

The patterns in the stone, the way the air hummed—there was something familiar about it.

Ancient magic.

You stepped toward the center of the chamber, fingers brushing the edges of an inscription half-buried beneath the dust of centuries.

Then, you heard a sound.

Faint, but unmistakable. Not a ghost. Not an animal. Not the whisper of long-dead magic. It was the slow, deliberate scuff of boots against stone.

Someone was here.

You whirled around, wand gripped tightly, heart immediately hammering against your ribs, adrenaline spiking.

"Identify yourself."

The laugh that followed was slow, low at first but rising, curling around you like smoke.

You recognized it immediately. It was a sound that haunted your nightmares, woven into memories you had long tried to bury. The echo of it sent something sharp and cold twisting in your gut.

From the darkness, a figure stepped into the dim glow of your wandlight.

“Hello, love.”

Your grip on your wand tightened.

“I have to say,” the man mused, tilting his head as though appraising you, “I was beginning to think I’d never get the chance to see you again. You’ve been quite the slippery little thing, haven’t you?”

Your blood ran cold, but you kept your stance firm, refusing to let him see the way his presence set every nerve in your body alight with warning.

“You should be dead,” you said evenly.

“Should be,” he echoed, almost lazily. “But I’ve always been a difficult man to kill.”

His eyes flickered over you, and something dark and satisfied curled at the edges of his expression.

“And you—still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” His gaze drifted to the ruins around you. “I wonder… is it curiosity that brought you here? Or instinct?”

Your pulse roared in your ears, but you held steady.

“You’re a fool if you think you’ll walk away from this,” you said, voice low, dangerous. “The Ministry has been hunting you for years. You won’t leave these ruins alive.”

Another laugh.

“Oh, I rather think I will,” he replied, tipping his head in amusement. “And you, my dear, will be coming with me, in due time of course.”

The words had barely left his mouth before you moved.

Your wand cut through the air, the incantation forming on your lips—but the curse never left your tongue, because he was faster:

"Crucio."

Pain exploded through you, tremendous and searing. Your knees buckled. Your wand slipped from your fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone as your body hit the ground. Every muscle seized, your spine arching against the agony as if to escape the pain.

The world blurred, your vision tunneling as your screams echoed off the cavern walls.

It felt endless.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling, nerves raw and burning in the aftermath. The cold stone beneath you did nothing to ground you, nothing to dull the lingering agony that curled through every inch of you like a live wire.

Boots scraped against stone.

Through the haze, you saw a second figure step beside you. You tried to move. To reach for your wand. To fight. But before you could, a boot connected with your face and pain erupted again—sharp and immediate, snapping your head to the side.

A burst of light—too bright, too fast—as your skull cracked against the stone.

The last thing you heard before everything plunged into darkness was a voice, smooth and satisfied.

"Sleep tight, love."

Victor Rookwood was a ghost story.

A name spoken in hushed tones, a shadow that stretched long over the years, fading in and out of whispered rumors like a specter that refused to be laid to rest. He had haunted the edges of Ministry investigations, slipping through the cracks, a vanishing act so seamless that some believed he had died in hiding. Others swore he had fled the country, abandoning his tattered empire to rot. There were even those who claimed he had gone mad—driven into the depths of some forsaken ruin, a king without a throne, wasting away in solitude.

But Sebastian Sallow knew better.

Rookwood was too proud, too vain, too damn angry to let himself rot in obscurity. He had spent a lifetime clawing his way into power—he would not fade quietly into the dark.

Sebastian told you once, in passing, that the Ministry still had a standing order to find him. That somewhere, someone was always searching. But he never told you that he was the one leading the hunt. That it was his team tracking every cold lead, every whispered sighting, every scrap of intelligence that might finally drag the bastard into the light. He never told you that he had spent every fucking year since leaving Hogwarts with a singular purpose: to make sure the ghosts that haunted you never had the chance to crawl out of the dark.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter how much you tried to leave it behind, there was one person tied to Rookwood’s downfall more than anyone else:

You.

It was why Sebastian had never questioned your decision to become a cursebreaker instead of an Auror, even when others did. Even when they called it a waste of talent. He knew why. Knew what the rebellion had taken from you—what ancient magic had cost you.

And it was why he hadn’t wanted you going alone.

Southern Scotland. Uncharted ruins. A job you couldn’t pass up.

“I don’t like it,” he had told you before you left, arms crossed, jaw tight with unease.

“You don’t like anything that involves me going anywhere alone,” you had pointed out, amused, packing your satchel with methodical efficiency.

Sebastian’s scowl had deepened. “And for good reason.”

He wasn’t wrong. Cursebreaking was dangerous by nature.

And what you didn't know was that to Sebastian, this wasn’t just another expedition. He had waded through enough bodies in his time as an Auror to recognize a pattern when he saw one, and of one thing he was certain: Rookwood’s activities had increased lately.

Small things, at first—whispers in Knockturn Alley, Ministry research going missing. Then the disappearances started. Then the unsolved cases, scattered across the country, all tied together by the same faint, rotten thread. His team of Aurors was finding bodies again, burned and mutilated in ways that were too familiar. The signs were all there—Rookwood was growing bolder, the noose of his ambition tightening.

And now you were gone.

A simple owl was all Sebastian had asked for. A brief message—I’m fine. Don’t worry. Still working. It was the bare minimum, a compromise between his paranoia and your stubborn insistence that you could take care of yourself.

But the hours stretched long, the silence thickening into something unbearable.

No owl. No sign of you. And Sebastian knew. Fuck, he knew.

Victor Rookwood had you.

He'd gone through every logical excuse—maybe you’d finished late, maybe found something interesting in the ruins and got sidetracked. You had taken worse risks before, pushed the limits of your own survival in ways that made him grit his teeth and call you reckless. But you were also experienced. Brilliant. And you knew the weight of promises made to the people who worried about you.

You wouldn’t forget to owl him.

Sebastian shot up from his chair so violently that it scraped across the floor, nearly toppling over. Across the room, a few of his fellow Aurors glanced up from their desks, but no one said anything. They had learned by now that when Sebastian moved with that particular kind of urgency, it was better to stay out of his way.

He stormed through the office, his mind already sharpening, already forming the next steps: he needed resources. He needed names. He needed your fucking location.

Sebastian tore through the corridors of the Ministry, moving fast enough to nearly knock over a passing file clerk. Papers went flying, a startled protest rose behind him, but he barely muttered an apology before pressing forward, his pulse a sharp, insistent drumbeat in his ears.

The Department of Cursebreaking was quieter than his own, filled with scholars and field researchers instead of hardened Aurors. Less war, more history. It had always suited Ominis.

Sebastian stepped into his friend's office without knocking.

Ominis was already standing, his chair pushed back, his posture rigid.

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. “She’s missing.”

“I know. I tried contacting her this morning,” Ominis replied, his voice tight, each syllable measured, controlled. “No response. And there were traces of magical interference, which means whatever happened to her—” He cut himself off, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His breath came a little too sharply through his nose. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Sebastian already knew that.

"Not shit," he snapped, voice raw, hoarse. His hands curled into fists at his sides, shaking with barely restrained fury. "Rookwood has her."

Ominis exhaled sharply through his nose, unreadable behind the usual mask of quiet control—but Sebastian knew him too well. He saw the tension in the way he stood, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his jaw clenched just a fraction tighter. Ominis was worried.

Good. He should be.

Still, when he spoke, his voice was measured, deliberate. "Sebastian—"

"Don’t tell me to calm down," Sebastian cut in, already knowing what was coming. "Don’t—don’t say that I should sit tight and be rational and fucking wait while Rookwood—" His breath hitched, and he turned away sharply, hands raking through his hair. "Fuck."

Ominis’ shoulders stiffened, but his voice remained level. "I'm worried too," he said, quieter this time, as if the weight of the words might reach Sebastian through the haze of his anger. "But we can’t do anything rash. You don’t know what you’re walking into, and—"

"Rookwood has her, Ominis." Sebastian turned back to him, his gaze wild and desperate. "You know what that means."

Ominis did know. Knew it all too well. Knew what Rookwood was capable of. Knew what he had done to people before. Knew what he would do now, given the chance.

And worst of all—knew exactly what you meant to Sebastian.

He had always known.

Had seen it written in every unspoken word, every sharp breath, every stupid reckless thing Sebastian had done for you since they were teenagers. It was in the way he watched you when you weren’t looking, the way he always reached for his wand at the first sign of trouble, the way his whole world seemed to orient around you without him even realizing it.

And now you were gone.

"Sebastian—"

"We don't have time to wait!" Sebastian interrupted, his voice raw, shaking. "We don't even know how long she's been missing. She could’ve been taken yesterday, she could be—" His throat tightened, something painful lodging there. "We don’t know, Ominis. And you’re asking me to fucking wait?!"

Ominis exhaled through his nose, struggling for calm. "Your team is in the field," he pointed out, even, steady. "They need to be here. You need them."

Sebastian shook his head, laughing bitterly. "I need to go. Now. Before it's too late."

"You’re talking about storming into a situation blind. Without backup. Without a plan. Do you hear yourself?" Ominis’ voice sharpened. "Do you even care if you survive this?"

Sebastian stilled.

And that—that—was what made Ominis go still, too.

Because Sebastian didn’t answer. His breathing was too fast, his fists still clenched at his sides, and in his silence, Ominis knew.

Sebastian wasn’t thinking about himself at all.

Sebastian had never been good at restraint, had never known how to stop when it came to the people he loved. He had already proven, again and again, that there was nothing—nothing—he wouldn’t do if someone he loved was in danger. And you—

You were everything.

"Sebastian, please," Ominis tried again, softer this time, stepping closer. "You going in alone is exactly what Rookwood would want."

Sebastian let out a sharp, bitter exhale. "Rookwood wants her, Ominis," he spat, voice hoarse. "And I’ll be damned if I let him have her."

Ominis hesitated. Because the truth was, Sebastian was right. They didn’t have time.

But Ominis also knew, with every shred of certainty in his body, that if Sebastian went now—alone, reckless, half-mad with fury—he might never come back.

But the Auror was already moving.

"Owl my team," he said, reaching for the door and ignoring Ominis's protests. "But I'm not waiting for them."

He stormed into the hallway, his mind a razor-sharp edge of focus. He didn’t know where you were, but he knew where to start.

The ruins. That was where Rookwood had found you. But Sebastian had never seen the ruins himself, had never been there. He couldn't apparate to a place he didn’t know.

Which meant he needed someone who did: your apprentice, Elias Vane.

Sebastian found him in the far corner of the Cursebreaking Department, hunched over a desk littered with notes, open grimoires, and a cup of tea, long forgotten.

Vane was young—barely out of Hogwarts—but sharp. Talented. You had spoken well of him before, praised his instinct, his skill. Reckless, yes, but capable. A good cursebreaker.

And right now, Sebastian needed him.

He didn’t slow as he approached, didn’t stop. His hands slammed against the desk with enough force to rattle the inkpot and send a loose parchment fluttering to the floor.

Vane jolted, eyes snapping up in alarm. “Shit—”

“You’re coming with me,” Sebastian said, voice cold, clipped. His pulse roared in his ears. No time. No patience. “Now.”

Vane blinked, still disoriented. “What—?”

“The ruins,” Sebastian snapped. “The ones she went to. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

Vane’s expression flickered with confusion, then something like wariness. “Y-yeah, once, during the initial survey, but—”

“Then you’re taking me there.”

Vane frowned, still catching up. “Wait—why? Where’s—”

“She’s missing,” Sebastian cut in, his voice like flint. “No owl. No sign of her.” He straightened, shoving back from the desk. “We need to leave. Now.”

Vane paled. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over the inkpot in the process, but didn’t even glance at it. “She—she’s missing? But—” His voice dropped to something unsure, something unsteady. “She’s good at this, Sallow. If something happened—”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. His breath came sharp through his nose.

“She didn’t just get lost,” he said, voice dangerously low. “She was taken.”

Vane hesitated, but whatever he saw in Sebastian’s expression had him snapping his mouth shut and nodding. “Alright. But if she’s just holed up in some side chamber taking notes, she’s going to kill us both for interrupting her.”

Sebastian didn’t respond.

He prayed to every god he didn’t believe in that was the case, but the dread clawing at his chest told him otherwise.

He stepped closer, gripping Vane’s arm.

“Hold tight,” Vane murmured before twisting his wand.

The world cracked apart, then Sebastian’s boots hit the stone with a sharp thud.

The ruins loomed before him, vast and desolate, and he felt it. Something was wrong.

Sebastian had been in enough places touched by dark magic to recognize the suffocating stillness that hung in the air. It was the kind of silence that only followed violence. The kind that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the surroundings while Vane exhaled beside him, eyes sweeping over the ruins. “She's supposed to be here,” he murmured. “She would have left something behind. Campfire. Equipment. A bloody note.”

Sebastian was already moving toward the mouth of the cave, his boots crunching over loose gravel as he walked. His pulse pounded, his grip tightening on his wand.

Then he saw it.

Boot prints. Many boot prints.

His stomach twisted as he crouched, fingers brushing over the disturbed earth.

Vane stepped up behind him. “What is it?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. A sick feeling clawed up his throat. The confirmation of what he already knew. You'd been ambushed. The evidence was right in front of him.

Victor Rookwood had been here.

Sebastian turned to Vane, voice tight with barely restrained fury. “Tell me everything she was researching.”

Vane swallowed. “Uh, ancient warding magic. Something about sealed vaults. She was trying to cross-reference Keeper records with—”

Ancient warding magic. The same damn thing Rookwood had been stealing from Ministry archives for months.

“Fuck.” Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, his pulse roaring.

He knew what Rookwood wanted, and it wasn’t just revenge. It was your magic—the same power you had buried, the same magic Victor had lost in the rebellion. The bastard had played a long game. He had waited, plotted, and then, the moment you had gotten too close—

He had taken you.

Sebastian turned to Vane, who was still pale, eyes darting to the boot prints in the dirt. The young cursebreaker swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under his unwavering stare.

“You’re going back to the Ministry,” Sebastian ordered.

Vane blinked. “What? No, I—”

“Go back,” Sebastian repeated, stepping closer, his grip tightening around his wand. “Go to Ominis. Tell him everything we saw here. He’ll know what to do.”

“But—”

Sebastian didn’t have time for hesitation. “You’ll just get in my way.”

Vane recoiled slightly, offense flashing across his face, but Sebastian didn’t let up.

"This isn’t some damn expedition," his voice was low, razor-sharp. "Do you honestly believe that when it comes down to it, you can make the call? That you can put someone in the ground before they do the same to you?" He stepped closer, eyes burning with intensity. "Because that’s what this is. It’s not research. It’s war. And I don’t have time to babysit you."

Vane opened his mouth, but no words came out. He swallowed hard, something in his face crumbling as the weight of reality settled in.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, forcing himself to pull back. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.

“You want to help? Find Ominis.”

Vane hesitated for only a second longer before nodding, his face grim. “What are you going to do?”

Sebastian barely hesitated. “I’m going after her.”

Vane’s frown deepened. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Sebastian cut him off, his voice low, lethal. “And I will.”

Something in his expression must have made it clear that there was no point arguing, because Vane exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re mad.”

Sebastian didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he turned his back on the younger man and stalked toward the deeper ruins, the weight of his purpose pressing like a blade against his ribs.

Behind him, he heard Vane mutter a curse before taking out his wand. “If you get yourself killed, I’m not explaining it to Gaunt.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

With a sharp crack, Vane disapparated, leaving Sebastian alone.

The silence pressed in immediately, thick and smothering as he moved deeper. He took a slow breath, centering himself. He had to think. Had to move quickly.

Rookwood had taken you, that much was clear. But where?

His eyes swept over the ruined chamber, cataloging every detail with a hunter’s precision. The boot prints led toward the collapsed corridor ahead, vanishing deeper into the tunnel. There were too many to count—at least half a dozen men. Maybe more.

Sebastian followed them without hesitation, his movements sure.

The ruins stretched ahead, the air thick with humidity and the musty scent of mildew. Ancient carvings lined the stone, half-obscured by moss and time. The dampness clung to his skin, the scent of earth and decay filling his lungs.

Then, as he stepped into a large cavern, he stopped abruptly, his breath catching.

Blood.

It wasn’t a lot—just a smear, a faint streak against the stone floor—but it was enough.

He dropped to a knee. There were boot prints everywhere, some overlapping, some leading deeper into the ruins. And the blood... he ran a finger through the smear. Still tacky. It was fresh. Recent.

Yours?

His gut roared at the thought, a sickening, lurching thing as he forced himself to breathe.

Every instinct screamed at him to run, to tear through these tunnels and hunt them down—but he couldn’t afford recklessness. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he straightened, rolling his shoulders back, steadying the fire burning in his chest. His wand was firm in his grip, his fingers still slick with the tacky smear of blood. He wiped them against his coat absently, his mind already working through the possibilities.

There were too many boot prints to count, but the path was clear. They hadn’t been subtle—there was no need. No one else was supposed to be here. No one was supposed to find you.

And yet, here he was.

Sebastian followed the trail. The air grew colder the deeper he went, the damp walls pressing inward like silent sentinels. The corridor narrowed, the carved runes along the stone becoming more intricate.

He stiffened at the echo of a sound ahead.

Low voices, faint but distinct. Men speaking in hushed tones as they walked, their words carried along the tunnel by the damp echo of stone.

Sebastian pressed himself against the wall, listening.

“—still unconscious. Probably won’t wake for a while.”

A rush of relief nearly buckled his knees. Unconscious. That meant you were still alive.

Another voice scoffed, rough and unimpressed. “You kicked her too hard. The boss wanted her awake.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand turned to iron.

They had hit you.

A red haze crawled up the edges of his vision, something sharp and vicious curling in his gut, coiling around his ribs like a beast that had been waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in.

Sebastian had never been afraid of the dark.

And he had never been afraid to become it.

He inhaled, long and slow, pushing the fire in his chest into something controlled, something sharp, then he moved. Silent. Swift. A shadow among the ruins.

The two men were just ahead, walking side by side, their pace easy, relaxed—unaware. Their figures flickered in the dim torchlight, heavy boots scuffing against the stone floor, their cloaks shifting with the movement.

Sebastian didn’t hesitate.

A flick of his wand, and the first man barely had time to choke before he collapsed, soundlessly paralyzed, his body hitting the ground in a dead weight.

Sebastian was already moving onto the next one.

The second man turned, mouth opening to shout, but Sebastian was faster. His wand slashed through the air.

"Diffindo."

The spell tore through the air. The man barely had time to gasp before a deep, jagged gash split across his chest, blooming red.

Sebastian stepped forward, pressing his boot against the man’s throat as he writhed, choking on his own blood. The dying wizard’s fingers scrabbled weakly against the stone, his panicked eyes meeting Sebastian’s.

Sebastian knelt over him, his wand pressed hard beneath his chin.

“Where is she?”

The man’s mouth opened, but only a wet, gurgling sound escaped.

Sebastian lifted his foot just slightly, allowing the man just enough space to take a breath. “Where. Is. She?” he repeated.

The man clawed weakly at his boot, his breath rattling in his chest.

Sebastian sighed, almost disappointed. He lifted his wand, tilting his head slightly. Then, without a flicker of hesitation—

"Petrificus Totalus."

The man’s body went rigid in an instant, his limbs locking at unnatural angles as the spell took hold. His eyes, wide and frantic, remained the only thing still able to move.

Sebastian watched, impassive, as blood continued to seep from the wound at the man’s side, pooling beneath him, soaking into the cracks of the ancient stone.

Helpless. Still.

The man would bleed out, unable to move, unable to take any action to save himself. And Sebastian didn’t care.

He moved deeper into the cave, following the footsteps. All the while, his sense of dread only grew, thrumming in the walls, in the air, in his bones, suffocating, unnatural, and reeking of something vile.

Then Sebastian heard it.

Laughter.

Low, amused voices, men speaking in tones that dripped with cruel delight. The sound sent ice through Sebastian’s veins. He pressed forward, inching closer to the chamber ahead. The tunnel widened into an open space, wandlight flickering against damp stone.

He counted five—no, six men, their postures relaxed, cocky. Unbothered.

Then he saw you.

Chained to a crumbling stone pillar, arms bound above your head, wrists rubbed raw and bloody against thick iron cuffs. Your head hung forward, temple bleeding, dark streaks cutting across the bruised, pallid skin of your face. Your breathing was slow, shallow. Unconscious.

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

One of the men—tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak hanging open over grimy leathers—stepped closer to where you hung limp against the pillar, head tilted at a sickeningly casual angle. His wand was holstered, his hands free, because why would he need his wand for this?

His fingers found your jaw, tilting your head up so he could get a better look.

"Such a pretty little thing, eh?"

For a moment, Sebastian couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

His entire body was coiled so tightly with rage that he thought he might shatter from it, might detonate with the sheer force of it.

Another man scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Wouldn’t give the likes of us a second look, though,” he muttered. “Fucking arrogant bitch."

The first man’s fingers drifted lower, tracing the delicate curve of your throat, brushing past your collarbone, slow and deliberate.

"Doesn’t matter, does it?" Another man chuckled. "She ain't gonna fight back. And the boss ain’t ready for her yet."

A smirk.

"So, boys—who wants a turn first?"

Sebastian moved.

No thought. No hesitation. Only rage.

The first man—the one touching you—never stood a chance.

A bolt of magic ripped through his chest, so fast, so brutal, that he didn’t even have time to scream. The impact shattered his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the chamber as his body crumpled, folding in on itself before it hit the ground.

The second man turned, his mouth opening in shock, powerless as Sebastian twisted his wand and sent a curse flying.

It struck the man mid-turn, his body arching backward, spine bending at a grotesque, impossible angle. He let out a choked, gurgling wheeze before collapsing in a twitching, broken heap.

Then the chamber erupted.

Shouts. The sharp scrape of boots against stone. Panicked movement.

Sebastian was still moving, weaving between them like death incarnate.

A man raised his wand, but Sebastian didn’t let him speak.

"Confringo."

A scream tore through the cavern, raw and agonized as fire consumed him. He collapsed against the stone, his fingers clawing at his skin like he could rip the pain out of himself.

Sebastian turned, already raising his wand for the next.

Another man lunged, his own wand slashing through the air, but Sebastian deflected him effortlessly, stepping into his guard before driving his knee hard into his gut. The man doubled over with a strangled grunt, but Sebastian wasn’t done—he slammed the hilt of his wand against the side of his skull, sending him sprawling.

A sharp movement to his left—

Sebastian pivoted, casting Expulso with enough force to send the next man flying into the cavern wall.

The impact was sickening. A wet, meaty sound, bones crunching on impact. Blood smeared against the stone as the man slumped, unmoving.

The chamber fell into silence.

Heavy. Dripping.

Sebastian was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts. His wand was still raised, fingers tight around the handle. The taste of iron burned at the back of his throat, the air thick with the stench of sweat and blood and fire.

And yet it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

His gaze snapped to the last man, who was trembling now, wand unsteady in his grip, eyes darting toward the exit, toward the ruins of his comrades, and then to Sebastian.

Sebastian took a slow, measured step forward.

The man sucked in a breath, his grip tightening on his wand, and then he moved.

Not toward Sebastian. Not to fight.

To you.

Sebastian’s blood ran cold. He saw it—the way the man lunged, wand flicking upward at just the right angle—

Apparition.

Sebastian didn’t think. He lunged, too.

His fingers snatched at the bastard’s cloak, curling tight in the fabric just as the magic took hold.

The world twisted. Everything spun, a brutal, suffocating force yanking him forward, ripping him from solid ground and into the crushing void of nonexistence.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the world righted itself.

Sebastian’s boots slammed onto solid ground. Cold air hit his face. The scent of damp earth, of moss and rain, filled his lungs.

They were outside.

Deep in the woods, far from the ruins. The sky overhead was dark, moonlight barely slipping through the heavy canopy of trees.

The man who had taken you staggered forward, thrown off balance by the rough landing. Sebastian wasted no time. His wand was already raised, his fury razor-sharp.

"Bombarda!"

The spell struck the man mid-turn, ripping him off his feet and sending him crashing into the nearest tree. His body crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Then silence.

Sebastian stood in the stillness, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls, his wand still raised, his fingers locked in a death grip around the handle. His heart was a drumbeat in his ears, fast and erratic, each pulse laced with fury, with need.

The bastard was dead. Good.

He turned.

His stomach plummeted.

You were in a heap on the ground, crumpled atop a bed of damp, decaying leaves. Your body was limp, your arms still bound, your deathly skin pale beneath the bruises and blood smeared across your face. The rise and fall of your chest was slow—too slow.

Sebastian’s fury shattered, replaced instantly by fear.

“Fuck, no, no, no—”

He dropped to his knees beside you.

“Come on, love,” he muttered, his voice shaking despite himself. “You’re alright. You have to be alright.”

He swore, frustration thick in his throat, turning his attention to the shackles. He had to get these off you.

His wand cut through the air again—Finite Incantatem. No reaction. Alohomora. Not even a flicker.

Sebastian’s jaw locked. Fuck magic, then.

He tossed his wand aside and lunged for the shackles, fingers digging into the rusted iron, trying to pry them off with brute strength alone.

The moment his skin touched the metal, a biting cold leached into him, unnatural and parasitic.

Sebastian gasped, his muscles seizing, his breath hitching as a sickly, creeping energy seeped into his fingertips, curling through his veins like poison. It crawled up his arms, pulling, draining—a deep, gnawing hunger that seemed to suck the very life from his bones.

Cursed. It was cursed.

Sebastian ripped his hands away, staggering backward, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. His fingers tingled where they had touched the shackles, as if something had tried to stay inside him, tried to take root.

“Fuck,” he swore again, running a trembling hand through his hair, trying to clear the dizzy haze the metal had left behind.

Then—

A twig snapped.

Sebastian froze.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled. “Isn’t this touching?”

Sebastian turned slowly, wand raised, heart pounding in his chest like war drums.

Victor Rookwood stood at the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow, his coat hanging open over the fine but worn layers beneath.

“You certainly do make things interesting, Mr. Sallow.” His tone was almost amused, but his eyes burned with something colder. “I do wonder, though—was it bravery or foolishness that brought you here? Love certainly makes people do strange things.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

He stood, wand still raised. His heart was a hammer in his chest, the weight of it crushing against his ribs, but his grip remained steady, his fingers curled tight around his wand.

Rookwood was watching him like a cat might watch a cornered mouse. His posture was relaxed, his stance loose, his wand held low like it was barely worth lifting. A show of control. A show of patience.

Sebastian had seen men like him before.

Men who spoke in honeyed words while they bled people dry. Men who lied with a smile, who thrived on games, on power, on knowing they were one step ahead.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to think.

He hasn’t killed her. That was the first fact that mattered. If Rookwood wanted you dead, you would already be gone. Instead, you were here, bound and unconscious, but alive.

Which meant Rookwood needed you. And if he needed you—then he wasn’t as in control as he wanted Sebastian to think.

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, as if he could see the thoughts forming in real-time. “Not even a word?” He tsked softly, shaking his head. “I must say, Sallow, I expected more given your reputation."

Sebastian didn't falter. “Let her go.”

Rookwood let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Ah. Straight to business.” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped in the dirt, before returning to Sebastian. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. “Then I'll kill you where you stand.”

Rookwood actually laughed at that. A slow, smug sound, low and indulgent. “Oh, you could.” He gestured vaguely, as if the idea was nothing more than a passing thought. “But let’s be realistic, shall we? You and I both know it’s not that simple. The curse on those shackles won’t lift without me.”

Sebastian stiffened. Shit.

"So tell me, Sallow," Rookwood’s voice was unhurried, easy, as if they were discussing the weather over tea. "What’s the play here?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as breathe the wrong way.

It was obvious now.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was a game. A dangerous, calculated game, and if Sebastian wanted to win, if he wanted to get you out of here alive, then he had to play it right.

Rookwood watched him, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Do you even know what those shackles are doing to her?” His tone was conversational. “I imagine you’ve already felt it yourself. That creeping little rot in your bones.” He tsked, shaking his head. “Must be excruciating, hm?”

Sebastian barely stopped himself from looking at you. Because that was what Rookwood wanted, wasn’t it? To make him look. To make him see how helpless you were, to force him to feel that panic tighten around his throat like a noose.

But the problem was Rookwood wasn’t lying. You were dying. Slowly, yes, but it was happening. So what the fuck was the right move here?

Every instinct in Sebastian's body screamed to attack, to kill him where he stood, but if the curse needed to be lifted manually, then Sebastian might as well carve your fucking tombstone himself.

His fingers twitched. He forced himself to breathe.

“Fine,” he bit out. “What do you want?”

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Now you’re speaking my language.” He took a slow step forward, watching Sebastian like a cat toying with a mouse. “It’s simple, really. You’ve been such a thorn in my side. Constantly investigating me, tracking me down, sending your little Auror friends after me." His expression darkened, the amusement fading into something more calculating. "So, here’s my offer: you leave. You walk away. You stop chasing me, stop meddling in my affairs, and, most importantly—” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped and dying in the dirt. “—you forget you ever saw me. And when I'm finished with her, you'll get her back alive."

The words slithered through the cold night air, wrapping around Sebastian like a chokehold. His stomach twisted, nausea curling tight beneath his ribs, but his face remained unreadable.

“I think,” Sebastian said slowly, voice even, steady, “that you have me confused with someone who bargains.”

Rookwood’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something else beneath it now. A flicker of something colder.

“Oh?” he mused, tilting his head, as if truly considering. “Then I suppose I'll just need to persuade you."

A curse slammed into Sebastian’s chest before he could react.

Pain exploded through his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs in a sharp, violent burst. The force of the spell sent him flying, his body crashing against the damp earth, his wand slipping from his grip and skidding across the forest floor.

For a moment, his vision swam—dark spots blooming at the edges, the world tilting on its axis. Cold night air bit at his skin, but his chest burned, ribs screaming with each ragged inhale.

Rookwood was on him in an instant.

A boot slammed down against Sebastian’s wrist, grinding it into the dirt, keeping him pinned, helpless, his wand just out of reach.

“I should’ve known better than to waste time talking,” Rookwood muttered, his voice low, almost disappointed. "Men like you—"

Sebastian moved. Fast.

Before Rookwood could finish his sentence, Sebastian wrenched his body to the side, twisting hard despite the searing pain in his ribs. He gritted his teeth, ignored the screaming protest of his muscles, and lunged—

His hand snatched at Rookwood’s ankle, yanking with every ounce of strength he had. The older man staggered, his balance thrown, his weight shifting just enough—

Sebastian ripped himself free, shoving himself up from the ground in a single fluid motion. His shoulder slammed into Rookwood’s torso, driving him backward, but the older man recovered fast.

Rookwood’s wand snapped up. Sebastian ducked. A jet of red light seared past his ear, narrowly missing him, splintering the bark of a nearby tree.

Sebastian didn’t let him cast again.

He surged forward, slamming into him, sending them both sprawling into the dirt in a brutal scramble.

A sharp crack echoed through the clearing as Sebastian's his fist connected with Rookwood’s face. Blood smeared across his knuckles, and Sebastian pressed forward, his other hand grappling for Victor’s wand, fingers brushing against the handle.

Then pain erupted through his side.

Sebastian gasped, his body jerking as something hot and burning sliced through his ribs.

Rookwood had a knife. A dirty, wicked-looking thing that he'd hidden beneath his coat.

Sebastian’s chest rose and fell in sharp, heaving breaths, his ribs screaming, his side burning where the knife had carved through him. His wand was still somewhere in the dirt, just out of reach. He shoved Rookwood back and forced himself upright, muscles trembling from the effort.

Rookwood now stood a few feet away, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

And he was grinning.

“That’s quite the right hook you’ve got there,” he mused, flexing his jaw. “And here I was beginning to think the Ministry had gone soft.”

Sebastian said nothing. His breath came slow and deliberate, fingers twitching for his wand—

Rookwood smirked.

“Eight years,” he mused, pacing leisurely in front of him. "It took you eight years to finally come face to face with me. Your entire career’s work—tracking me, investigating me, sending your little Auror friends after me.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And yet, despite all that effort, here we are. And I must say—” He tutted, tilting his head. “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? That you're just so bloody weak."

Sebastian clenched his jaw so tight it ached.

Rookwood continued, his voice smooth, almost pitying. “The Ministry is so slow, isn’t it? Always a step behind. Always cleaning up messes instead of preventing them.” His smile widened. “It took you eight years to catch up to me. And now you’re here. Wandless. Bleeding. Powerless.”

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists.

“You talk too much,” he rasped, his voice raw.

Rookwood chuckled. "Personally, I think I'm being quite charitable, Sebastian. Your life is about to end, surely you want to know what it is I've been working towards all this time, hm?"

Sebastian swallowed against the sharp taste of blood at the back of his throat.

“Ancient magic is such a fascinating thing, don’t you think?” Rookwood mused. "Older than the Ministry. Older than the Hogwarts founders. Power that predates our understanding of what magic even is.”

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was listening. Because that was the thing about men like Rookwood, they always wanted an audience, and right now, every second he spent talking was another second Sebastian had to think.

Rookwood exhaled, long and thoughtful, tilting his head. “You know, the real shame of it is that she never even stopped to consider what that power could do if properly harnessed." His gaze flicked toward you, still unmoving in the dirt. “She feels it. Wields it. And yet was still too much of a coward to reach for its full potential."

Sebastian forced himself to breathe, slow and steady. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rookwood tutted, shaking his head. “Come now, you already know.” He gestured broadly, as if to the very world around them. “The Repository. Sealed. Hidden away. Even though ancient magic is my goddamn birthright.” He clicked his tongue. “The Ministry likes to pretend she warded it off for good. How naive."

Sebastian inconspicuously scanned the forest floor for his wand, finally locating the green and black handle laying a couple meters to his right.

“The problem, of course,” Rookwood went on, “is that the only one who can open it is her."

His gaze flicked toward you again.

“Because she’s special. I imagine you’ve known that for a long time." Rookwood's smirk deepened.

“So what?” Sebastian spat. “You think she’s just going to help you?”

Rookwood chuckled. “Oh, Sebastian.”

Sebastian hated how easily he said his name.

“She doesn’t need to help me," Rookwood continued. "She simply needs to be there.”

A cold dread curled at the base of Sebastian’s spine. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Rookwood hummed. “I’m saying that she is the key. Quite literally. You see, I don’t need her consent. I don’t need her to willingly give me anything." He tilted his head. "I just need her alive long enough to get me in."

Sebastian’s vision went red. His mind screamed for him to move. To lunge. To tear Rookwood apart.

Eight years ago, before Auror training, before he had learned restraint, he would have. He would have thrown himself at Rookwood with all the reckless fury he had in him, would have clawed and ripped and killed him with his bare hands if he had to.

And it would have gotten him killed.

But now—

Now, something cold settled into his chest. Not quieting his rage. Not taming it, but focusing it.

Sebastian couldn’t afford to be reckless, not while he was wandless and bleeding and Rookwood held a winning hand. He just needed to break Rookwood’s composure. Needed to goad him into making a mistake.

Then he’d gut him.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose. His gaze flicked toward his wand, half-buried in damp earth.

"Must be exhausting," Sebastian said, forcing a breath past the sharp pain in his ribs. "Still clinging to old failures, knowing you were bested by a fifteen-year-old all those years ago."

Rookwood’s jaw tensed. Sebastian smirked.

"You’re desperate," Sebastian continued breathlessly. "That’s why you need her. Ancient magic is beyond you, and you know it. You’re just a desperate, pathetic bastard trying to steal power he doesn’t understand."

That did it.

Rookwood’s eyes darkened with something dangerous.

Sebastian had seconds. Maybe less.

Rookwood lunged, knife in hand—but this time, Sebastian was ready. His heel dug into the dirt, and he dove sideways, landing with a heavy thud.

His fingers wrapped around his wand, and before Rookwood could even think, Sebastian flicked his wand, "Depulso!"

The force of the spell slammed into Rookwood’s chest, sending him staggering back. He barely had time to recover before Sebastian staggered to his feet.

"Expelliarmus!"

Rookwood’s blade flew from his grasp, falling to the ground, and for the first time, Rookwood looked genuinely surprised.

But Sebastian wasn’t finished.

"Bombarda!"

The force of the blast sent Rookwood hurtling backward, his body slamming into a tree. Leaves floated down around him, and he collapsed to the ground, coughing violently.

Sebastian stalked toward him, wand steady, fury burning white-hot through his veins.

"Like I said, you talk too much," he growled.

Rookwood lifted his head, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his smirk weak but still present. "And you… are entirely too predictable."

Before Sebastian could react, Rookwood’s fingers barely twitched with wandless magic—and you flew across the clearing. The air whooshed past, and in an instant, you were wrenched from where you lay and pulled into Rookwood’s grasp like a ragdoll.

No.

No, no, no.

Sebastian's fingers flexed around his wand, and the rest of him—his body, his mind, his fury—all locked into place, caged by the sight of you limp in Rookwood’s arms, unconscious, barely breathing.

Rookwood smirked, his hand curling around your throat—not tightly, not choking, but firm enough to send a clear message.

Sebastian's mind raced, working through every possible scenario, every hex, every fucking spell that could fix this—

But there was nothing. Not while Rookwood held you like a human fucking shield.

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. "You're going to let her go."

Rookwood smirked, tilting his head. "And what, pray tell, will you do if I don’t?"

Sebastian gritted his teeth. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his expression blank, to push back the fear clawing at his throat. He couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t give Rookwood anything.

"I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Rookwood laughed a full-bodied laugh, low and indulgent, like this was entertainment to him.

“You are delightful,” he mused. "Truly."

Sebastian’s pulse was a steady, furious drumbeat in his ears. He needed a plan. Needed to separate you from him.

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you, keeping you firmly between himself and Sebastian. "Tell me—are you willing to gamble with her life?" He hummed, considering. “Because I will snap her neck if you make a single wrong move."

Sebastian felt sick. His muscles were coiled tight, his every instinct screaming to act, to fight, to rip Rookwood apart piece by piece—

He forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose. He's bluffing.

"You won't do it," he said, voice low, razor-sharp.

Rookwood lifted a brow. "And what makes you so sure of that?"

"Because you need her alive. You said it yourself."

Rookwood hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "That’s true. I do need her."

Sebastian could feel the shift, the subtle tug-of-war, the way Rookwood was toying with him.

"But you—" he tightened his grip around throat. "—you need her more."

Sebastian’s wand was steady, unwavering, but inside—inside, something cracked.

The bastard would kill you.

Because the game had changed.

This was no longer about Rookwood getting you to the Repository.

No.

This was about Rookwood staying alive.

Sebastian hadn’t realized it at first, hadn’t put the pieces together because of the rage clouding his vision. But now, with Rookwood wandless, his weapon gone, his body pressed against the bark of a tree with you limp in his grasp—

Now, Sebastian saw it.

Rookwood wasn’t in control anymore. He was stalling. Because of course he was. He was self-important, arrogant, an entitled little bastard who thought the world owed him its power. Your death would be an inconvenience to him, yes—a massive fucking setback to his ambitions—but between your death and his?

There was no question which life he valued more.

Sebastian swallowed against the raw fury pressing against his throat.

“You’re scared,” he said.

Rookwood’s smirk twitched, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Sebastian took a slow step forward.

“You should be.”

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you slightly, shifting his stance. “Bold of you to say, given the circumstances.”

Sebastian tilted his head just slightly, eyes locked onto his. “Is it?”

Rookwood’s fingers flexed against your throat, as if he thought the subtle pressure might rattle Sebastian. Might make him desperate.

But Sebastian didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he let his gaze flick—just for a second—toward Rookwood’s empty hands. Just a cornered rat, grasping for anything to keep himself from getting eaten alive.

“Do you know what I think, Rookwood?”

The bastard said nothing. Sebastian smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make it mocking.

“I think you know you’re already dead.”

He could see the moment Rookwood understood. The moment his arrogance cracked, the moment he finally saw the board for what it was, and realized he was out of moves.

Sebastian lunged forward, his hands fisting into the fabric of Rookwoods coat in a white-knuckled grip as he dragged him forward and apparated.

The world lurched.

Magic pulled tight around Sebastian’s ribs, wrapping around him like a vice as the weight of Apparition crashed over them both. He pulled Rookwood with him, his grip unbreakable. 

And then they landed. 

The world snapped back into focus. The bright light, the desks, the walls lined with maps and case files. The scent of ink, parchment, and freshly brewed tea clashed violently with the blood and dirt smeared across his skin.

The Auror Department had been buzzing before—anxious, tense conversation rippling through the air as Sebastian’s team and Ominis scrambled to form a plan to go after him.

But now? The second they appeared—Sebastian, you, and Rookwood—

Silence.

Total. Utter. Fucking. Silence.

And then—

Chaos. Pandemonium.

A crash of chairs and desks as Aurors surged forward, wands raised.

"GET HIM RESTRAINED!"

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

"IS THAT—? THAT'S ROOKWOOD!"

Sebastian staggered, his grip ripping away from Rookwood as Aurors descended on the bastard like a pack of wolves, yanking his arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees as enchanted restraints snapped tight around his wrists.

Sebastian's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts, his fingers shaking from the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins.

Then Rookwood laughed. A slow, breathy chuckle, low and condescending, even now, even fucking now, after everything.

Sebastian's wand clattered to the ground as his rage overcame him, his fist connecting with Rookwood’s face before anyone could react.

The impact was brutal. A sickening crack as knuckles met bone, as Rookwood’s head snapped to the side. Blood splattered against the Auror Department’s pristine floors.

Another hit. Another.

Sebastian didn’t stop. Didn’t think. Just swung.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"You filthy fucking bastard!" Sebastian roared. His voice was hoarse, frantic, furious. His hands ached, knuckles split and raw from the force of his own rage.

Rookwood spat blood, still grinning, his lips split, his nose crooked from the sheer force of Sebastian’s attack.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" he rasped, voice wheezing from the damage.

A snarl ripped from Sebastian’s throat as he drove his fists into Rookwood’s face, over and over. Blood splattered across his knuckles, staining his skin, but it wasn’t enough. The world had narrowed into a singular, blistering point of rage—a fire that burned so hot it consumed everything else.

Because Rookwood took you. He hurt you. He was going to kill you.

And Sebastian couldn’t fucking stand it.

The room around him was filled with shouts and barked orders and hands gripping at his coat, but none of it registered.

All he could see was Rookwood. Bloodied. Laughing.

Even as multiple sets of hands dragged him backward, it didn’t matter. Sebastian fought against them with everything he had, his body twisting, muscles coiled tight with rage, his knuckles dripping with blood—his own, Rookwood’s, he didn’t fucking care.

"Get off me!" he snarled, wrenching free for just a second—just enough to grab the bastard by the collar and slam his head back against the floor, hard enough to hear the crack of impact.

Rookwood let out a wet, choking sound, blood bubbling between his teeth, but that smirk—that fucking smirk was still there.

“Sebastian, enough!” Ominis yelled—but even he didn’t sound convinced it would work.

Sebastian twisted, his hand snapping toward his wand on the floor, fingers closing around the handle, the weight of it grounding him, feeding into the burning need.

"Crucio."

Rookwood screamed.

A raw, inhuman sound, his back arching violently, his limbs spasming against the enchanted restraints, his body writhing in agony as the curse took hold.

Sebastian watched. Breathing heavy. Eyes dark. Hands steady. And fuck, it was satisfying.

No one moved. No one dared move.

Aurors, seasoned war-hardened witches and wizards, stood still, stunned into silence, their wands raised but motionless.

Ominis—Ominis—was silent.

Sebastian didn’t care. Didn’t feel a damn thing beyond the pure, burning relief of watching Rookwood suffer. Of watching him break. Of making sure the last thing this filthy fucking bastard felt before he died was pain.

When he finally dropped the curse, the silence was suffocating.

The only sound left was Rookwood’s ragged, shaking breath, the way his body twitched, the way he tried and failed to push himself upright.

Sebastian crouched low, gripping Rookwood’s collar in his fists, jerking him just slightly forward—enough to make sure he was listening.

And then, voice low, voice calm, voice filled with everything he meant—

"You were dead the second you laid a fucking finger on her."

Rookwood’s eyes barely flickered. His mouth opened, but whatever smug retort had been forming died the second he saw the way Sebastian lifted his wand.

A breath. A heartbeat. Then—

"Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light.

Rookwood’s body jerked and then stilled. Lifeless. Dead.

The room remained silent. No one moved. No one spoke.

Sebastian didn’t feel an ounce of fucking regret.

And then—

"Sebastian."

Ominis’ voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Sebastian turned, slow, sluggish, like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the sheer finality of what had just happened.

His gaze landed on you.

Still on the floor. Still unconscious. Still dying.

"Fuck—" He dropped to his knees beside you so fast the impact jarred through his bones, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care—his hands were already reaching, shaking, desperate as they curled around your wrists, your shoulders, cupping your face, tilting your head back slightly, searching for any sign—anything—that you were still with him.

"Come on, love," he muttered, barely aware of his own voice, the way it cracked, the way his breath came too fast, too sharp. His thumb brushed against your cheek, tracing the bruises, the cold sweat on your skin. "You’re alright. You’re gonna be alright."

No reaction. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Ominis—" his voice cracked, breath hitching, and then he was looking up, wild-eyed, desperate. "Ominis."

Ominis was still standing in place, his wand gripped tight in his hands, the only sign that he was even processing what had just happened.

Sebastian didn’t have time for that.

"The shackles," he rushed, words tumbling out too fast, too frantic. "They’re cursed. They’re killing her—I tried to take them off, and I—" He swallowed, shaking his head. "Do something!"

Ominis hesitated.

Sebastian saw it. Saw the way his lips parted, saw the way his fingers twitched, the uncertainty bleeding into his normally measured expression.

Sebastian lost it.

"You’re a fucking Cursebreaker, Ominis!" he roared, his voice cracking with something raw and ragged. "So do something!"

Ominis' mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression grim, but finally—finally—he moved.

He dropped beside Sebastian, already drawing his wand, already tracing over the metal shackles with precise, practiced movements. His lips moved in near-silent incantations, magic thrumming low and steady through the air, golden light weaving intricate, delicate patterns against the iron.

Meanwhile, Sebastian snapped his head up, wild, furious, helpless.

"Someone get the fucking Healers!" he barked, his voice a whip crack in the stunned silence. "NOW!"

Aurors scrambled. People rushed, bodies moving too slow, too fucking slow, and Sebastian turned back to you, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, pleading.

"Come on, love," he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered over your body. "Come back to me."

Ominis was still working, his wand tracing over the metal in sharp, methodical movements, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

"I need time," Ominis muttered, his voice tight. "It’s layered magic—whoever did this knew what they were doing."

"We don’t have time!" Sebastian snapped. "She doesn’t have time!"

And he didn’t mean to—he didn’t mean to lash out at Ominis, but fuck, he was drowning in this, the weight of everything crushing him, suffocating him. Because he had been here before. Kneeling over someone he loved, begging the universe to give him one more chance.

Anne, after she was cursed—her body wracked with pain, her screams tearing through his skull, his useless hands gripping hers as she trembled beneath his touch.

His parents—dead before he even got to try to save them.

And now you.

The realization hit him, slamming into his ribs like a blade—sharp, vicious, undeniable.

You were everything. Had always been everything.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years of standing beside you, watching you grow into the force you were now. Ten years of chasing the same battles, fighting the same wars, of laughing together, bleeding together, of existing in a world where, no matter what happened, no matter who came after you, he had always been there. You had always been there.

And not once—not once—had he ever fucking said it. Not once had he looked at you and admitted what had been rotting inside of him since the day he met you.

That he loved you. Had always loved you.

And now, when you were slipping away from him—when your body was cold beneath his hands, when your lips were parted but there was no sound, no whisper of recognition, no sign that you even knew he was there—

Sebastian realized he might never get the fucking chance.

His jaw locked. His breath hitched.

"Ominis," he said again, voice raw, pleading, his entire body vibrating with the weight of everything he never said. "Please—"

"I'm working as fast as I can," Ominis snapped, but even he sounded frayed at the edges, his voice tighter than usual, his magic straining against the curse.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, fingers clenching around your wrist, grounding himself in the weak, faint pulse beneath your skin.

Still there. Still beating.

But for how long?

"She's dying," Sebastian whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "She’s dying, and I can’t—I can’t fucking—" His voice broke, sharp and raw, and fuck—he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore.

Ominis’ jaw tightened, his wand moving faster, the golden light flaring brighter against the rusted iron of the shackles.

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Because Ominis could feel it too.

The same dread. The same fear.

Sebastian swallowed, his throat aching, his lungs burning with every sharp inhale. He wanted to scream. Wanted to fight something, wanted to rip the world apart until it gave you back to him.

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was sit there, gripping your hand too tight, his fingers threading through yours as if holding you hard enough would tether you here, force you to stay.

"Please," he murmured, barely a whisper, forehead pressed against your temple, pleading into your skin. "I need you."

More than he had ever needed anything.

Ominis swore under his breath, shifting as the shackles clicked, magic flaring violently before it shattered, sending a wave of heat pulsing outward, knocking dust from the ceiling.

The spell broke.

Sebastian jerked forward, pulling you into him as life snapped back into your body. Your limbs twitched. Your breath hitched. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingertips.

"Thank fuck—" Sebastian’s grip tightened, his body curling around you, anchoring you against him like he could force your soul to stay inside your fucking body.

"Sebastian," Ominis muttered, voice thick, tired. "She still needs—"

Finally, the Healers rushed in.

Sebastian barely registered them. His arms were still locked around you, his body curled over yours, keeping you anchored against him like some desperate, helpless thing.

"Sir," a sharp voice cut through the air, firm but cautious. "We need to assess her condition."

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge them. One of the Healers reached for his shoulder, intending to physically pry him off—

"Don’t bother." Ominis's voice was sharp. A clear warning.

The Healers hesitated.

"He’s not going to let go," Ominis said, voice resigned. "So don’t waste time arguing. Just work around him."

Sebastian heard that. Felt it. But his grip didn’t loosen. Not even as hands moved over your body, casting diagnostic spells, pressing against your ribs, checking for internal damage. Not even as a warm glow filled the air, as magic hummed through you, as one of the Healers sighed in relief and muttered something about stabilization.

Another set of hands pressed against him this time—his ribs, his chest, fuck—he barely managed to bite back a hiss when something sharp burned at his side.

Right. He’d been stabbed.

Healers were already diagnosing him, murmuring between themselves, muttering about blood loss and fractured ribs.

Sebastian barely processed it. His eyes were on you. Only on you. The rise and fall of your chest.

"You’re gonna be fine," he whispered against your temple, barely audible, his voice still raw, still thick with something unbearable. "You’re okay."

The Healers worked. The Aurors still lingered. The world around him was moving, spinning, shifting—

"Sebastian."

Sebastian finally looked up.

Ominis was standing now, his wand gripped in one hand, his face carved from stone, but Sebastian knew him too well.

There was tension there. A weight behind his expression that was dangerous.

"I’m going to fix this," Ominis said simply.

Sebastian frowned, his mind still sluggish, too caught up in you, in keeping you here, to fully process what he meant.

Then it hit him.

Crucio.Avada Kedavra.

Sebastian had cast two Unforgivables in the middle of the fucking Auror Department.

Ominis sighed, running a hand down his face before muttering, "Merlin, you make my life impossible."

Sebastian managed a short, breathless laugh.

"Don’t move," Ominis said. "Stay with her."

Sebastian didn’t plan on going anywhere.

Ominis exhaled through his nose, turning on his heel, and then he was gone, already making his way across the room, already stepping into whatever bureaucratic fucking mess Sebastian had left behind, already handling it.

One of the Healers, still somewhat exasperated by the fact that Sebastian refused to let go of you, sighed. "Sir, can you stand?"

Sebastian barely glanced up. His fingers were still curled around yours, tightly, like if he so much as loosened his grip, you’d disappear.

"Yes."

The Healers exchanged looks, clearly unconvinced. One of them muttered something under her breath, but aloud, she only said:

"Then follow us. She’s stable, but both of you need to be under observation. And we’ll need to speak with her when she wakes."

Sebastian forced himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest, his ribs aching, his knuckles raw, his vision swimming for just a second before he locked his knees and shoved through the pain so he could carry you down the hall.

He hardly remembered the walk to the Hospital Wing.

All he knew was that the moment you were in a bed, he was there. Hovering. Watching. And when they tried leading him to another bed across the room, he tugged his own bed directly next to yours.

The Healers sighed. One pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "For the love of Merlin—"

But they let him.

They moved around him, murmuring amongst themselves as they worked—closing the gash along his ribs with precise, practiced wand movements, mending the bruised muscle beneath his skin, forcing him to drink something vile that numbed the throbbing pain in his knuckles. Someone cast a spell to soothe the soreness weighing down his body. Someone else checked his vitals.

It all blurred together.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the room settled into silence.

The Healers left.

The heavy weight of magic in the air dissipated, leaving behind only the dim glow of the lanterns and the quiet hum of distant voices from the hall.

Sebastian lay still. Exhausted. Sore.

His body felt like it had been dragged through hell. Every inch of him ached, the phantom pain of adrenaline still lingering in his bones, his knuckles still raw despite the Healers' best efforts. But his mind—

His mind wouldn’t stop.

He stared at the ceiling, watching the patterns in the stone swirl and shift under the flickering light, but all he could see was you.

The moment he realized you were gone. The blood smeared across the ruins. The way your body looked lifeless under the weight of those cursed shackles. The fucking fear. How close he had come to losing you.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into the sheets, his nails digging into the fabric as his chest tightened with something raw, something suffocating.

He was never going to let this happen again. Never. He would never go another day without telling you the truth: that he loved you. That he had always loved you. That you were the only thing in this godforsaken world that mattered.

His head turned, gaze drifting to you. Still asleep. Still too pale.

But alive.

The breath that left his lungs was shaky, uneven. A ghost of a thing. Then—

A movement. A stir.

Sebastian’s eyes snapped to your hand, watching as your fingers twitched against the blankets.

He shot up immediately, the sudden movement making his ribs scream in protest, but he ignored it, pushing himself onto his elbows, heart slamming against his ribs as he watched you.

Your eyelashes fluttered. Your head shifted slightly against the pillow. And then your eyes opened.

Sebastian froze.

For a moment, his brain refused to process what was happening. He had spent the last eternity—hours but what felt like years—trapped in a suffocating haze of fear, pain, and fury. But then your eyes opened.

His chest caved in.

"Fuck—" The word barely left his lips, broken and shaky, a raw, wrecked thing. He hadn’t even realized he was gripping the sheets, white-knuckled, his entire body locked so tightly with tension that now—now that you were looking at him, alive, breathing—he thought he might actually fall apart.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump clawing up his throat. He had to keep his voice steady. He had to.

"Hey, sweetheart," he rasped, and fuck—he wasn’t doing a good job of it, wasn’t doing a good job of anything, because his breath shook the second the words left him, and suddenly it was taking every bit of strength in his body to keep himself together.

Your brow furrowed, your eyes dazed, unfocused, barely tracking his face as you blinked sluggishly.

"Sebastian?" Your voice was hoarse, raw from disuse, but it was you. It was your voice, alive, and he nearly lost himself right then and there.

"Yeah, love," he breathed, nodding quickly, reaching for your hand as if trying to ground himself, as if trying to make sure you stayed here, tethered, with him. "I’m here."

You exhaled a slow, uneven breath, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room, blinking as you tried to place yourself. "Where—" A pause. A slow inhale. "What happened?"

Sebastian opened his mouth, then shut it, his throat tightening.

Where the fuck did he start? How did he say it? That you had been taken, that you had been chained up and cursed and dying in his arms, that he had nearly lost you—

That he had murdered a man because of it.

"You—" His voice cracked. He sucked in a sharp breath, exhaling through his nose, forcing himself to steady. "You scared the shit out of me, that’s what happened."

Your brow furrowed again, still groggy, still trying to process. Then, after a long pause, you sighed, your voice scratchy.

"You look like shit."

A wet, breathless laugh punched out of him before he could stop it, something caught between relief and absolute fucking devastation.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Sebastian moved, shifting onto his knees, ignoring the way his ribs screamed in protest, the way his body ached from the fight, from the blood loss, from every single fucking injury he had ignored.

It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered except you.

Sebastian climbed over the narrow gap between the beds and into yours.

"Seb—"

You barely had time to react before he was pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you, pressing himself against you.

His body curled over yours, his fingers clutching too tight, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

"You scared me," he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked, trembling. "You scared me so fucking bad."

You shifted slightly beside him, your body still sluggish, still weak from everything, but your hand moved, sliding up to rest against the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, your touch so fucking gentle it made his chest ache.

"I’m here, Sebastian," you murmured.

His breath hitched. Then he broke.

A sharp, ragged inhale. A violent, shuddering exhale. His fingers fisted into your clothes, gripping so tightly it felt like he was holding on for dear life.

And then the first tear slipped free.

It hit the bare skin of your shoulder, vanishing into the fabric of your hospital gown, but another followed. And another. His face twisted, his breath coming uneven, shaky—his entire body trembling with the force of what he had been holding back for hours.

His chest ached, physically ached, with the sheer weight of it all. With the terror. With the helplessness. With the image of you—chained, barely breathing, slipping away from him—burned into the back of his skull like a nightmare that would never fade.

A choked, wrecked sound clawed its way up his throat, something between a sob and a breathless gasp, and fuck—he couldn’t stop it.

His shoulders shook as more tears spilled over, hot and unchecked, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he cried.

He hadn’t cried in years.

Not when he had stood over Solomon’s lifeless body. Not when he had nearly lost himself to grief, to rage, to everything wrong inside him. But this—

His breath stuttered again, a broken, gasping thing, his tears falling freely now, soaking into your skin as he held you so tightly it should have hurt, but you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t tell him to stop. You just let him.

"I love you," he whispered, voice cracked, wrecked, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. "I love you so fucking much. I’m sorry I never said it sooner."

His entire body shuddered with the weight of it. With the relief. With the fear. With the unbearable, suffocating truth of how close he had come to never being able to say it at all.

He felt your fingers twitch against his back, hesitant but there, like you weren’t sure what to do with him like this—because this was something no one had ever seen.

Sebastian breaking. Sebastian weeping. Sebastian, who had spent years hiding behind sharp grins and reckless bravado, now unraveling, falling apart in your arms.

And he didn’t care, because fuck hiding. You had almost died, and he had almost never gotten the chance to tell you.

So he did. Again.

"I love you."

He had never meant anything more in his entire fucking life.

Sebastian felt your fingers tighten against his back, your grip weak but still there, still trying. It was barely anything, just the faintest pressure against his spine, but it sent something wrecked and aching curling through his chest, something raw and unbearable.

You were holding him.

And after a beat, after a long, quiet moment, you pulled back ever so slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

There were tears in your eyes. Not from pain, not from fear—but something else. Something that made his pulse trip over itself, something raw, something knowing.

Your lips parted, voice hoarse, cracked, still heavy with exhaustion.

"I remember now," you murmured, blinking slowly, your expression distant for a moment as if piecing it together in real-time. "It was Rookwood."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, something tight in his chest releasing at your words—relief, fury, heartbreak, he wasn’t even sure what the fuck it was. He just knew he never wanted to hear that fucking name again.

His hand came up, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch almost desperate in its gentleness,

"He’s dead."

You blinked at him, your breath hitching just slightly as his words settled over you. Then something shifted in your expression. Not relief, not satisfaction, but a quiet, unshaken certainty.

Because of course he was.

Your lips curled—just barely, wobbly and weak and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.

"You came after me," you murmured, like it was something you’d just now realized, something that settled over you like a slow-burning warmth.

Sebastian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly, his lips pressing together for a moment before he said, "Of course I did." His voice was still hoarse, still raw from everything, but there was something steady beneath it. Something true. "I’d follow you anywhere."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just looked at him. Really looked at him.

"I love you too."

Sebastian swore the entire fucking world stopped. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse stuttering violently in his chest, his entire body locking up because—

You loved him too.

His eyes burned, his throat tightened, his fingers shook where they were still clutching onto you.

And then—he was kissing you.

Soft, desperate, aching.

His hands cupped your face like you were something holy, something irreplaceable, his lips pressing against yours like he was trying to carve himself into your very fucking soul.

It was a kiss that held everything—the fear, the relief, the love neither of you had spoken aloud until now. It was unsteady, a little broken, but it was real.

When he finally pulled back, it was only because you both needed air, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath still uneven. His thumb brushed against your cheek, so painfully gentle it made something deep inside you ache.

“You’re still shaking,” you whispered.

Sebastian let out a soft, breathless laugh, one that barely even sounded like him. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice raw. “I think I’m gonna be shaking for a while.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. It was just the sound of your breathing, the distant murmur of voices outside the infirmary walls, the rhythmic, steadying beat of your heart against his. The world had been so loud—so chaotic, so terrifying—but here, in this fragile, stolen moment, there was only silence. Only you and him.

Then, softly, you said, “I’m okay.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t sure he believed you, like he wasn’t sure he ever would, but his fingers tightened against your back, and after a moment, he just nodded.

“Yeah. But I’m still never letting you out of my sight again.”

A weak laugh tumbled from your lips, breathless and exhausted, but real. “I figured.”

Sebastian huffed, but there was something warm beneath the sound, something a little less raw now, a little less wrecked. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple, letting it rest there, like a silent promise.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he muttered against your skin.

Your fingers curled in his shirt again, holding him close, feeling the steady, unshaken certainty in his words.

“Good.”

ANNOUNCEMENT!! ♥️

hey, everyone!! there's probably not many of you but despite the fact that I put it on hiatus indefinitely like a gajillion years ago, I will be rewriting and continuing Through Sea Mist and Shadows (my Bucky Barnes fic)! I hope you'll all come along for the journey as I have some really exciting new ideas that I'm super passionate about!! You can thank Thunderbolts for inspiring me lol, and I do intend on writing more for other characters as well.

I'm temporarily taking down what currently remains of my series master list for that fic so that I can rewrite it completely. Make sure not to miss the new content!!

I'm here!! I literally just stumbled across this and I have never related more to a post dude! do you listen to radiohead??? trying so hard to motivate myself to write

trying to motivate myself to be a little more active here, i want to discover some new writeblrs to follow!! feel free to reach out if you wanna!

i'm particularly interested if you...

🎧 write adult fiction, especially literary fiction, horror (gothic or otherwise), gothic romance, fantasy, or really anything with a gritty/emotional feel

🎧 like any bands from the 90s grunge scene (or 80s hard rock) (i can and will yap for days)

🎧 like vampires, pirates, or cowboys

🎧 are a fellow college student (we can struggle together!!)

even if we don't have any of this in common, i'd love to chat anyway! hopefully this finds some folks <3

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK

Behind the scenes of “I’m Dying Up Here”