He was strikingly different from his odd younger brother. His name was flawless: the model Auror, the pride of the wizarding community, a figure to emulate and, by common opinion, an eligible fiancé for Leta.

Or perhaps it was his fault after all, and not yours?

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. His hand buried itself forcefully deeper into the tangled silk of your hair. The belt and suspenders of his sagging woollen trousers gave a dull clink against the parquet as he shifted in an armchair. For a moment, his eyes rolled back into his skull, because you were never easy.

Could any of it truly be real? He wanted to believe it was just a dream, the feverish fantasy of the young student he had once been. But, alas and alack, it was harsh reality itself.

He shouldn't have given in, not then, not ever. But your insistent fingers clung to him, preventing him from thinking clearly. There was something unacceptably powerful about it, and at the same time seductively humble.

His palm was still on the crown of your head.

You had started working at the MACUSA a year ago—the new pretty secretary as the male employees whispered among themselves. But Theseus tried not to notice you, writing off your light-hearted chatter and carefree manner as mere youth or simple naivety. Yet the longer you were around, the more he was drawn to where he shouldn't have been, for he was, after all, a man and vulnerable to the kind of sweet beauty that you were.

He finally ruined his life when he returned from a failed mission one day.

That, perhaps, drove him mad most of all.

When he had come back from the assignment, covered in his own blood, you, staring at him with wide eyes, continued to chirp sweetly about how he must rush to the hospital. But Theseus no longer heard your words: he looked uncontrollably at your trembling hands. Your frightened gasp turned out to be the last straw. He snapped, greedily catching you right on the desk. His wounded, exhausted body craved only you.

And ever since, that bright memory had haunted him again and again, returning him to the moment when you first found yourself under his arms.

Yes, he remembered every detail: the lovely curves, the moles and freckles, the little hollows.

A soft plop cut through the office and he blinked as if roused from a long sleep. Everything was back: the fire in the hearth and the heavy curtains, the scent of parchment and your hair tickling his kneecaps. The present was too obvious to continue hiding in the past.

He lowered his gaze to your hazy eyes. A damp trace glistened on your lips, and you idly ran your tongue across them.

"Yes, well done," Theseus wriggled in the armchair, settling himself more comfortably. "Keep going. You're marvellous at overtime."

His head fell limply back on the chair. His right hand clutched the armrest until the knuckles ached, while his left sank deeper into your hair, leading insistently. Waves of sweet torment crashed over him one after another, his hips answering with shudders, until he dissolved in your commanding tenderness, no longer able to tell where his will ended and your movement began.

It was wrong.

But bloody hell… where did you learn to use your tongue with such skill?

"Best worker I've got. Right, pretty birdie?"