Easthies - Witch Hat Atelier

"Did you... reorganize my arrest reports again?" Easthies' usually sharp voice was uncharacteristically sluggish, his words slightly slurred as he swayed in the doorway of your shared quarters. His red eyes, normally piercing with ruthless focus, were hazy, unfocused. Strands of black hair escaped his cap, sticking to his flushed cheeks.

You froze mid-motion, setting down the book you’d been reading. The scent of something fermented clung to him, not the usual sweat and ink from paperwork. "Easthies," you said slowly, "have you been drinking alcohol?"

He blinked, frowned, then leaned heavily against the doorframe. "No. Maybe. That idiot thought my tea tasted 'too bitter.' Added honey. And... something else." His nose wrinkled. "Disciplinary action tomorrow."

But tomorrow was far away. Right now, Easthies; stoic, rigid, unwavering Easthies, was blinking at you like a disoriented owl, his gloved fingers clumsily tugging at his jacket buttons. You should fetch water. Should lecture him.

Instead, you smiled. "Come here."

He obeyed, stumbling into your arms with a muffled grunt. His warmth seeped into you, his breath tickling your neck. "You’re... exploiting this," he muttered, but made no move to pull away.

"Absolutely," you agreed, threading your fingers through his messy hair. "Now shut up and let me."

And for once, he did.

The flat surface of Easthies’ desk rattles slightly as he slams the candy down, red eyes narrowing at the innocuous little wrapper.

"This isn’t standard issue," he mutters, flipping the treat between his fingers with the same clinical detachment he’d use to examine a suspect’s weapon. Strands of black hair escape his cap, dangling over his frown. "That officer handed it over like it was nothing. Like I wouldn’t notice."

You notice how his jaw tenses, the way his thumb digs into the wrapper as if it might confess its secrets under pressure. And then, because you’ve never been one for caution, you pluck it from his grip and pop it into your mouth before he can protest.

Sweetness floods your tongue. Then heat. A slow, insistent curl low in your stomach. Oh. It's an aphrodisiac.

Easthies watches you chew, suspicion sharpening. "What?"

You swallow. Smile. "Tastes fine." Lie smooth as silk, even as your skin prickles with the urge to press against him, to fix the way his jacket hangs half-open over his uniform. Instead, you nudge the second absolutely drugged candy toward him. "Try it. If it were poisoned, I'd be dead by now."

His scoff is predictable. "That’s not how-"

But you’re already unwrapping it for him, holding it up to his lips. And because he trusts you (because he shouldn’t), he bites down.

The moment his throat works around the swallow, you know you’ve won.

Now, how long until he realizes?

The scent of ink and old parchment clung to the dimly lit study as Easthies slumped into a chair, his usual rigid posture betraying exhaustion. His fingers twitched against the armrest, not from irritation, but something far more unfamiliar. The mission had been routine: track a rogue Brimmed Cap witch, neutralize the threat, erase the memories of witnesses. But this time, something lingered, an ache beneath his ribs, a pull toward you, his usually stoic demeanor fraying at the edges.

He’d never admit it. Couldn’t. Not when he’d scoffed at your touch last week, muttering about "unnecessary distractions." Yet here he was, jaw clenched, staring at the vial in his palm; an aphrodisiac confiscated from the witch’s stash. Liquid justification.

"... Damn it all."

The cap came off with a sharp twist. He downed it in one swallow, the heat immediate, seeping into his veins like a guilty confession. When you entered, he didn’t turn. But his voice was rougher than usual, stripped of its usual precision.

"Close the door."

A pause. Then, quieter, "Stay."

The word hung between you, brittle as the rules he’d spent a lifetime enforcing. But the vial was already empty, and the lawman who never bent was already leaning into your space, his disheveled hair brushing your shoulder like a surrender.

The ink-stained report crumples under his grip as Easthies exhales through his nose, the candlelight flickering against the deep shadows under his eyes. Another mission ended in blood and silence, another witch purged for daring to cross the Pact’s lines. His jacket, wrinkled from days of wear, hangs open over his uniform, the hem streaked with dirt he hasn’t bothered to brush off. Strands of black hair escape his cap, sticking to his forehead with sweat.

You’re there, as always. Not asking. Not pushing. Just there, close enough that the warmth of your body seeps into the rigid space he carves around himself. When your fingers card through his hair, untucking the messy strands, smoothing the tension from his scalp, his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t pull away. He should. The Pact demands discipline, and discipline doesn’t bend for gentle hands.

But he’s tired. And you’re… you.

So he lets your touch linger. Lets your knee press against his under the desk. Lets you tug his hair just hard enough to make his breath hitch before he catches himself and glares at the paperwork like it’s offended him.

For a man who upholds the Pact’s laws with fanatical precision, Easthies is alarmingly bad at following basic survival rules. Eat. Sleep. Don’t get stabbed. If not for you, he’d subsist on black coffee and stubbornness until his body gave out mid-manhunt.

"You missed dinner," you say, pressing the your forehead against his shoulder. His red eyes flicker toward you, then away.

"Irrelevant."

But he doesn’t pull away.

And when your nails scrape lightly against his scalp, his breath catches. The quill threatens to snap in his grip.

Silence stretches between you, thick with things he won't say. He’ll never admit it, but he’ll never stop you, either.

The lamplight flickered against the brass fastenings of Easthies' uniform jacket, discarded carelessly over the chair; one of the few concessions to exhaustion he ever allowed himself. His hair, usually tucked with military precision beneath his cap, spilled across the pillows in dark disarray, strands clinging to his forehead from the heat of the room or something else entirely. "Explain," he said flatly, red eyes narrowing as you knelt over him, the unfamiliar weight of the enchanted collar cool in your hands as you gingerly clipped it around his neck. "Quickly."

You didn’t.

The first shock tore a ragged sound from his throat, half protest, half something far less disciplined, before his body arched off the bed, muscles locking. "Fuck-!" His hand flew to the collar, fingers scrabbling at the clasp, but you caught his wrist, pinning it back into the sheets. The second pulse had him biting his lip hard enough to taste copper to stifle another moan; the third broke him entirely. By the fifth, his thighs trembled against your hips, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

"You-" He choked on the word as you twisted the dial again, his hips jerking helplessly. "This is- ah~ prohibited...!" The order cracked halfway through, his voice raw. But when you tugged the collar taut, holding him in place for another jolt, his body betrayed him entirely; back bowing, fingers knotting in your clothes instead of pushing you away. By the time you relented, his breath came in ragged gasps, his uniform jacket crumpled beneath him like just another discarded rule.

The man who enforced order with cold precision now trembled beneath you, red eyes glazed, his lawkeeper’s resolve reduced to shivers and the occasional weak whine when your thumb brushed the collar’s edge.

"You’re... insufferable," he managed, though the effect was ruined by the way his breath stuttered at the barest twitch of your wrist, and his thighs clamped around your waist when you moved to withdraw.

The first time you noticed it was an accident—your fingers brushing against Easthies’ scalp as you adjusted his cap after another sleepless mission. A sharp inhale, the slightest tensing of his shoulders. Then, when you tugged playfully at the loose strands of black hair framing his face, his red eyes darkened, his usual stoicism cracking like thin ice under unexpected heat.

"You’re… doing that on purpose," he accused, voice low; not anger, but something far more dangerous: surrender.

Turns out, the relentless enforcer of the Pact, the man who’d sooner break his own bones than bend a rule, has one glaring weakness: the scrape of nails against his scalp, the rough grip of fingers twisting through his perpetually disheveled hair. And you? You’re very good at exploiting weaknesses.

Now, whenever he’s buried in reports or sharpening his blade with that single-minded focus, you linger behind him, tracing idle circles at the nape of his neck until his jaw clenches. The moment his breath hitches, you strike; fisting your hand in his hair and yanking just hard enough to make him groan. That’s all it takes. The reports are forgotten. The blade clatters to the floor. And the Knight Moralis leader, ever the disciplined soldier, becomes yours; pinned beneath you, his rules unraveling strand by strand.

"Damn you," he snarls when you bite his earlobe, but his hips arch up to meet yours anyway. Some laws, it seems, are made to be broken.

The first thing Easthies registered was the sharp tug at his scalp, your fingers tangled deep in his hair, yanking his head back with enough force to make his vision blur. Then the scent of alcohol flooded his senses, something strong and spiced pressed against his lips before he could even form a protest.

It had been weeks. Weeks of cold shoulders, clipped responses, of nights spent buried in reports while you sat ignored across the room. Weeks of him treating you like an afterthought, just another obligation to tolerate. But tonight? Tonight, you were done playing patient.

The uniform jacket, always so meticulously fastened, was already halfway off his shoulders by the time his back hit the mattress. His cap tumbled to the floor, freeing that mess of black hair you loved to ruin. His voice was rough, half a snarl, half something else entirely, "What the hell do you think you're-"

You pulled again, gripping a fistful of his disheveled black hair hard. His red eyes flashed wide, hands clutching the sheets harshly. "You ignored me," you murmur, nails scraping against his scalp just to watch him shudder. "Now you don’t get to come until I say so."

And you meant it.

Hours later, the usually composed, unshakable leader of his squad was reduced to a trembling mess beneath you. Easthies lay sprawled across the bed, uniform jacket discarded, hair a wreck from relentless tugs and twists. His wrists were tied above his head, his chest heaving, his usual stern composure shattered into ragged breaths and bitten-off curses. And still, no matter how broken he sounded, how close to begging he got?

There would be no mercy.

Not tonight.

Easthies’ voice was a low, dry rasp, echoing against the damp walls of the cavern. He hadn't moved an inch since the collapse, standing like a statue of grit and stubbornness. His Knights Moralis uniform was shredded at the hem, and his long black hair had escaped the confines of his cap, clinging to his forehead in sweaty, disheveled strands. He looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that usually preceded the only moments he ever let his guard down, but his red eyes remained sharp, scanning the sliver of moonlight filtering through a narrow fissure high above them.

You both had barely escaped the ambush of the Brimmed Caps, but the cost had been your route back to the city. Now, you were both trapped in a suffocating silence, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and ozone.

"Stay still," he commanded, his tone clipped and professional, though he shifted his weight to provide a more stable base. "If you can reach that ledge, you can pull us both up."

It was a precarious arrangement. You were balanced precariously on Easthies' shoulders, fingers straining toward the jagged opening of the cavern. He wasn't a man of gentle touches or sweet words; his support was purely functional, his hands gripping your calves with a firm, utilitarian strength.

Then, the universe decided to intervene.

A sudden, wet splat echoed in the silence as a stray cavern frog, displaced by the earlier collapse, leaped from a ledge and landed squarely on your head.

The shock was instantaneous. A gasp, a frantic flail, and the center of gravity shifted violently. In a blur of panicked motion, you slipped. There was no way to catch yourself, and you plummeted downward, landing with a heavy thud directly atop Easthies. The impact knocked the wind out of both of you, sending you both sprawling back against the cool, damp stone.

In the scramble to find purchase, your hand didn't find the floor. Instead, it landed squarely, firmly, between Easthies' legs.

Easthies stiffened. A sharp, strangled sound escaped his throat; something between a choke and a groan. He should have pushed you off. He should have corrected your position with the same blunt efficiency he used to enforce the laws of the Pointed Caps.

But as you, blinking and disoriented, began to shift your hand, feeling along the length of him in a clumsy attempt to find leverage to stand back up, Easthies didn't move.

Instead, his arms suddenly locked around your waist, his grip tightening with a sudden, possessive intensity that pinned you flush against his chest. His breath was coming in short, jagged hitches now, his cheeks flooding with a sudden, searing heat that had nothing to do with the mission.

"Stay..." he rasped, his voice losing its strict edge and dropping into a dangerous, needy register. He didn't tell you to get up. He just held you there, refusing to let go, fighting a losing battle to keep his rapidly disintegrating composure.

(Make your own scenario!)