Chapter Text
A bright pink tongue traced intricate patterns down the dipped line from belly button to monochrome stubble. Then, it ducked down to mid thigh, tracing up to the rounded swell of a muscled curve. Dark lips spread into a devious grin, revealing sharp, white teeth that barely grazed the surface, primed to bite down, before a quick hand gripped the base of an arched neck, pinching the skin in a claw-like fist and pulling up. Yellow-green eyes snapped up, bright with anger, but the snarl on those lips faded to a neutral line. Slitted pupils watched. Waited. The chance to strike would come eventually.
.
.
.
It was a trap. Curled around him moments before, then suddenly belly up, chest and neck exposed, arched upward, begging to be touched... It had to be a trap.
Cautiously. Carefully. But never gingerly. Never show fear. Never show weakness.
Slip off the glove and explore the lines and crevices of powerful yet sleek musculature. Circle lightly around the dusky nipple, careful not to overstimulate. Stroke slowly up the bared neck with even motion―no jerky bursts of speed. Up over the chin... Nearing the lips...
It was a warning nip, the underside of a knuckle caught between the teeth but not bitten. Don't push your luck.
.
.
.
The height of passion. Skin afire. Back arched. Neck bared.
Too exposed. Too tempting. Too vulnerable.
Too late.
A growl. Flesh torn. Blood gushing. Darkness rushing in.
*
Divus woke in a cold sweat, grasping at his throat to stem the blood flow... But he was whole. It was only a dream. A memory. A little of both.
Focusing on his breathing, the alchemist slowed his heart rate, all too aware of what a fool he was to get so worked up. Senegral was long gone from Nightraven Academy, and with him went Divus' lingering shame.
Though a rare sight donning the royal purple of Pomfiore, Divus Crewel's former student lover had been a therian of surpassing feline elegance. Senegral was sleek and dark with a silky black tail and pert black ears ever so slightly rounded. The left tip was studded with a diamond that brought out the sheen of his obsidian hair. The only other part of him that didn't blend perfectly into the night were his peridot eyes.
He was also a born hunter. His unique magic lured the unwary right to him, like moths to a flame, and when they were within his grasp, he toyed with them before going in for the kill. He was a predator through and through.
In first-year, he had been quiet, but with an intelligent gleam in his eyes that betrayed his clever―and strategic―mind. In second-year, he began to take on a rougher demeanor, getting into fights with his closest friends until he was seen alone more often than in the company of his peers. In third-year... Something changed before Senegral's third year at Nightraven. He returned a more seductive man, with a styling to his uniform that accentuated his sexuality, and along with the changes came that diamond stud in his left ear. It was two months in when his first lover turned up in the hospital ward. After a second incident with a senior, Divus knew what had to be done to prevent a third.
He set the trap by assigning Senegral a potion-making partner too tempting to pass up. The sweet little rabbit therian had no idea what he was walking into when he arrived in the lab to work one-on-one with his handsome classmate. The room went dark, the air itself seeming to transform into a sweet, black smoke that drifted toward Senegral―who appeared to disappear entirely, luring in his prey.
Just as Senegral poised to pounce, Divus stepped out from behind his wards, employed his own unique magic to send the little bunny scurrying, and pulled a nail file with a dagger-tip on the stunned panther. Using his magic along with the allure of a worthy challenge, Divus redirected the predatory therian's focus towards himself. He won that first battle for dominance by the element of surprise, but it was far from the last.
Accustomed to handling canine temperaments, Divus Crewel had learned the hard way what it took to prevent a therian of the large cat families from harming unwary bystanders when their feline instincts were triggered. He lost the first of his precious 101 souls to Senegral, resurrecting from a throat torn out by a riled up pantherian in heat. That wasn't the last soul spent on caring for and controlling the confident, egotistical narcissist of a mage that Senegral had become, either. By the time Senegral graduated, Divus was not the same fresh, enthusiastic teacher who had arrived at his alma mater eager to pass on his expertise to a new generation of magicians.
In a way, it was as though the illusion was stripped away. Instead of seeing his students through the eyes of a teacher, as innocent minds to be molded, he remembered the bullies, cheats, liars, and cutthroats of his own youth. He began to recognize the students of Nightraven Academy for the dangerous creatures that they were. He became wary of them, more certain than ever that the only way to guide them was to assert control.
When the Kingscholar prince arrived the year after Senegral's departure, Divus kept his distance...but he watched, waiting for the first sign of predatory behavior. As it was, Leona Kingscholar was almost a disappointment; rebellious in some ways, but otherwise tame. As far as Divus could tell, he exhibited more of the feline predilection towards laziness than the dangerous tendency towards sexual violence. It wasn't until Malleus Draconia arrived at Nightraven that Divus saw the first signs of a predatory nature in the lazy lion. Shortly after that, Leona began to disappear conspicuously and return rather worse for wear. But so long as his rough lover wasn't on campus, it wasn't Divus' problem.
Besides, along with Malleus Draconia came other concerns. Aside from the polarizing presence of the fae prince himself, there was the odd little old soul by the name of Lilia Vanrouge, whose eyes gleamed with far too much wisdom for his supposed years. The headmaster was curiously cagey where the Diasomnia freshmen were concerned, and that made Divus suspicious.
However, the true attention grabber came in the form of a pretty young man whose hauteur masked a dearth of self-confidence. But his potential... It sang to Divus. From the moment he laid eyes on Vil Schoenheit, Divus knew he had found his protege―his reason for becoming a professor. Vil's self-consciousness was born of an inherent yearning for perfection. It was evident in everything from the way he intently studied every guideline and measured every ingredient to the hungry jealousy in his eyes when Leona's grace and majesty was on rare display on the magic shift field. Vil craved perfection with a desperation that would destroy him without careful mentoring.
Vil was Divus' salvation. Protecting and guiding him would be absolution for breaking the code of ethics a professor ought to adhere to. Whatever the extenuating circumstances, he should have found another solution.
Repeating history only proved that he was the corrupt influence, poisoning the well. He had to be the one to purify it―by resisting temptation. By being a better mentor to Vil than he had been to Senegral...or Trein had been to him.
*
As a child model, Vil had been surrounded by the most perfect specimens of humanity ever since he could remember. Few men or women could turn his head on looks alone. However, Nightraven Academy seemed not only to be a hub for those few, but there were students and teachers alike who exuded a magnetism beyond the visual. Any one of them could have made a name for themselves in the entertainment industry.
Vil secretly had to admit that his eyes had leapt ahead of his brains to form an unfortunate crush upon the gorgeous but grumpy Leona Kingscholar. The fuzzy-eared, swishy-tailed bad boy just ticked all of his boxes with that deep growl and roguish grin. He was infuriatingly stunning.
And if the naturally gorgeous Leona was maddeningly oblivious to the rigors of beauty care, Vil didn't even want to acknowledge that someone as pristinely perfect as Malleus Draconia could even exist. It wasn't fair! It wasn't natural!
Vil dieted, used expensive skincare products, had a rigid routine to ensure regular sleep, and still wasn't happy with his skin tone, the shadows around his eyes, or the pinch of skin at his hip.
But he could never be like Malleus. Malleus wasn't human, after all. His fey beauty was truly fae. And as for Leona... If nothing else, Vil found himself driven to start jogging, and was considering buying some weights. For the first time, he was inspired to build up some muscle tone to hone his shape a little more. It couldn't hurt. Not when that lithe, feline musculature looked so good on Leona...
But there was one other person Vil often caught himself obsessing over, and unlike secret crushes and marked competition, he badly wanted to impress the man who redefined beauty in Vil's personal dictionary. The Professor of Potions and Alchemy, Divus Crewel, was the most exquisite man Vil had ever laid eyes on. Like Malleus, he was naturally blessed, but unlike Malleus, he refined and schooled his natural assets to surpass perfection. Like Leona, he had a manly dominance, but unlike Leona, he balanced it with a fashionable elegance that gave him a slightly feminine aesthetic, maximizing his charm.
If Vil wasn't so determined to stand out by excelling in Professor Crewel's classes, he might have spent them daydreaming about moonlit kisses and whispered seduction. It was okay to fantasize a little, when he was alone with his thoughts, but Vil had to work hard to make a name for himself at Nightraven Academy. If he was going to study magic, he was going to study harder and more successfully than anyone else. And maybe―just maybe―someone like Divus Crewel might appreciate his efforts. Obviously Vil couldn't hope for too much special attention from a teacher―especially one who was such a stickler for the rules―but a little praise... A little extra acknowledgement... That would mean the world to Vil.
"And what is this, Mr. Schoenheit?" crooned the rich, creamy voice of the Potions Professor, approaching from the left. "You've opened up the bluebells and fanned out the petals? I don't recall issuing such instructions."
"No, Professor... But when you told us that our work would be judged on precision and accuracy during the making and not only the final product, I borrowed out Precise Potions by The Magician's Apprentice from the library. I wanted to make sure I did everything just right."
The appraising arch of one artistically groomed brow caused Vil's insides to bubble as vigorously with nerves as the contents of his cauldron. He waited with baited breath to find out if he'd overplayed his hand or earned the Professor's esteem.
Gloved fingers nestled under his chin, balancing his jaw on the tips and tilting his head up just enough that his eyes were fully exposed. There was no hiding behind lashes or falls of hair. He felt naked as Professor Crewel's majestic, silvery irises bore into him.
"Good boy, Mr. Schoenheit. Good boy, indeed." The professor's hand shifted as he pulled away so that his thumb briefly petted the curve of Vil's neck, sending tendrils of excitement down into his belly.
He held his breath as an explanation of the reason for fanning the petals followed and the rest of the class began copying Vil's technique which culminated in trimming them to equal surfaces before adding them to the potion. As the roiling cauldrons settled, shifting from pale red hues to a cool violet, Vil's insides only grew more tense. He couldn't shake the feel of that gloved thumb stroking his skin, and it was making him uncomfortable, the heat of the cauldron conspiring with his rising body temperature to bead his brow with a light dew.
Leaving the classroom, Vil felt almost dizzy with the fever of unaccustomed desire. He needed a cool drink and some fresh air.
Heading for the stone well out in the courtyard, he was grateful for a subtle breeze that helped him breathe a little more regularly. But when he bent over the well to draw up the bucket, shadows fell across him, sending danger signals racing through him. Adrenaline flooded his system as cruel laughter assaulted his ears moments before a light shove pushed him into a flanking figure.
"I wanted to make sure I did everything just right," mocked the guy who'd shifted to Vil's back, holding his arms to his sides. "What a suck up!"
"Bet that's not all he wants to suck," taunted a failing second year Vil recognized from his potion's class wearing the maroon of Scarabia. "I bet Professor Crewel would let you, too. You wouldn't be the first student he took for a pet. Don't feel too special now. He's just looking for someone new to take to his bed now his pet pussy's graduated."
"If you really want to impress him, why don't you get on your knees and practice sucking on something he'd really appreciate," snarled the voice from behind, locking Vil's arms behind his back.
Fury was rising up in Vil's bones, making him tremble with the sheer outrage of being spoken to like that and blatantly manhandled. He began twisting, not caring if he got injured trying to break free so long as he did.
"Enough."
The frigidly chill voice that rasped a warning out of Vil's line of sight simultaneously filled him with dread and relief. Just days before, Vil had witnessed Narise claim cold responsibility for a subtle poison that left the former prefect of Pomfiore face down in a gravy boat.
"Unless you want to find out the hard way what this quill against your cheek is tipped with, you'll let my dorm's new darling go."
"N-Narise... It's not... We were just warning him..."
"And now we are warning you. Get gone."
The stiletto bootheel of Narise's 2IC, Grizalle, slammed into the wall of the well between Vil and his Scarabian assailant―who promptly fled, along with the captor at Vil's back. Looking up...up...and up at the tall Grizalle's unsavory expression, Vil didn't blame them for bolting. Vil wasn't exactly short, himself. It was the heels, of course, that gave the dreadlocked pale blond such height, but the effect was impressive.
"You all right?" asked Grizalle, bending to peer into Vil's wide, startled eyes.
"They won't bother you again," said Narise, with disturbingly little inflection as he moved toward his partner, tucking a feathered quill back into his pocket.
He was of a height with Vil, his hair the deep shade of mulberries and cut in a way that was short and stylish with the longer tufts at the back wrapped forward around his neck like a flared collar. His eyes were dark and deep-set, the lashes a smokey charcoal and the lids painted with a shimmering grey. Everything about him gave Vil cool, chilling vibes.
Grizalle was somewhat warmer in both aura and demeanor, but he, too, carried an air of danger. There was an unpredictability or instability about him that made you think he might snap any second.
"Thank you," Vil said quietly, still not quite sure he was in the clear.
He shivered as Grizalle's finger traced the shell of his ear. The vice dorm leader then drew it along his jaw, glancing down as the tip came away damp with the dew of arousal and fear. Sweat. Vil never sweated. How embarrassing.
Smirking, Grizalle licked his finger without a word, then stepped away to make room for Narise, who moved between them, leaning against the well. He casually raked his eyes over Vil.
"It's true, you know. Crewel was fucking a fourth-year from our dorm. Wouldn't put it past him to set his sights on you next," Narise murmured without a hint of subtlety. "Not that I'd blame you if that's what you wanted."
Blushing, Vil bit his lip, trapping it for a moment before releasing the bud before he could torture it. It was a bad, recent habit he was trying to break before he damaged his perfect, flower petal lips.
"That wouldn't be appropriate," he said, hoping he was able to disguise the sliver of wistfulness he felt. "I'm just...eager to learn from him. I've always had an interest in poisons."
"I saw you on the cover of The Magic Man," Narise intoned. "You're not shy."
There was something in his eyes that said he'd stared long and hard at that image. Long. And hard.
Vil stood a little taller at that, remembering who he was. Narise wasn't going to hurt him, not as long as Vil was both desirable...and attainable. But that didn't mean he should play easy to get.
"I'm not shy," Vil agreed. "But that cover is just a snapshot of who I am, so don't go thinking you know me."
"Then join us for tea this evening, so we can get to know the real you," suggested Narise, his lips quirking almost in challenge. "And you can get to know your rescuers."
Not waiting for a reply, Narise pushed off from the well, striding away without looking back. Grizalle gave a brazen wink before stalking after the prefect.
With shaking hands, Vil gripped the rim of the well, waiting until they stilled to draw the water up. His throat was dry as the desert by the time he tipped cool water down it, and then the morning break was over and he had to hurry to his next class.
He had the rest of the day to plan how he would receive Narise's attentions. In the end, he recognized that he had little choice but to be grateful for the opportunity to have the prefect's protection. He just wondered who was going to protect him from Narise if he misstepped and went crashing through the thin ice that was stretching out under him.
*
Perhaps, a year prior, Divus might have broken up the altercation he observed from the staff room window overlooking the courtyard. But as he watched sweet, pretty, disciplined Vil struggle against the bullies and their sinister intentions, he remembered similar scenes from his own youth, and recalled how they shaped and changed him. He imagined Vil, no longer naive to the dangers of his classmates, wary and vigilant, prepared to face any surprises...
Vil wasn't just taking the bullying meekly. He was twisting roughly, trying desperately to break free. He had fight in him. That was good. He was going to need it if the pair rounding the well had their own designs on him.
Divus scowled as the situation unfolded. If Vil had fought off his attackers himself, he might have developed some grit, but so long as he was at the mercy of that schemer, Narise, he wouldn't be able to attain the resolve and resilience that a student of alchemy required to face the trials and temptations of the deep, dark magics.
If Narise sank his poison-tipped claws too deeply into Vil, no antidote would rescue the promise Vil had shown in the early weeks of his magical education. Narise was a problem. Grizalle... Grizalle, Divus could use.
*
After class, Vil wandered the grounds. There was too much on his mind to return to the dorm right away. He needed to clear his head before he would be ready to face an evening with the frightening Narise and unsettling Grizalle.
Part of Vil found the older students intriguing. They were both clever and powerful. He could learn a lot from them. An equal or possibly larger part of him doubted their intentions. But they had saved him while he floundered―too weak to fight back.
Vil's weakness was only highlighted by the sight of Leona Kingscholar riding at rip-roaring speed across the sports ground, gripping his broom between impressive thighs as he drilled loops and twirls hands-free. Magic shift practice was a sight to behold...and it wasn't the first time Vil's wayward feet had carried him past the team during training.
Vil could only dream of being as strong and athletic as Leona. His whole existence had been one long diet full of unhealthy pitfalls and constantly sagging self-esteem. But Leona's muscles were art. His feline grace and lithe form accented by firm curves made Vil start to re-evaluate everything he thought he knew about beauty. Maybe there was more to life than being thin. Maybe...if he was a little stronger...he might make the casting lists for bigger and better roles―the kinds of roles that required stamina and stunts. Lead villains... Or even the coveted hero.
Upcoming auditions crowding his thoughts, Vil found himself opening up that evening over tea. He was surprised to hear the words tumbling out of him, but it was a relief to reveal his ambitions to someone. Listening intently, Narise kept Vil's cup filled for hours, while Grizalle seemed to soak up the information almost passively.
"Ever since I was little, I've been pigeonholed into bad-boy photo shoots. I know I look good in dark colors, and rock or punk aesthetics, but even when I get to wear white... It's black, red, or purple lips and slicked back hair. Dark, dangerous...sexy. Now that I'm acting, I get typecast into those same roles no matter what I try."
That night, as sleep crept in from the corners of his mind, it occurred to Vil that neither Narise nor Grizalle had spoken much at all. Nor had they asked many questions. Vil's torrent of chatter had been almost entirely unprompted.
*
Underestimating the life experiences of Vil Schoenheit was Divus' downfall. In choosing to see only innocence and integrity in the first-year in order to stifle his own seductive instincts, Divus left the young man vulnerable to other corrupt influences.
Vil instinctively sought out a role model in the prefect of his dorm, and Divus watched in dismay as yet another predator made his move. Narise was no therian, driven by animal instinct. He was a sociopath, and Vil's admiration, however hesitant, made him the perfect target for that twisted nature.
As it turned out, by the time the opportunity presented itself, Divus had no qualms whatsoever about taking Vil into his bed as well as under his wing. As Divus saw it, his was the safest and most worthy bed for Vil to be in if the other options were pricks, predators, and pretenders.