Cherry Pie

In process of becoming the self proclaimed Mercer girl 18+ only, minor dni Requests/dms are open 🩷

[chrrry-pie]

︵‿︵‿୨♡ Masterlist ♡୧‿︵‿︵

Fluff- ❀ , Smut- ♡ , Angst-☆

One shots

Ambushed ♡ -Teylan

Drabbles

Series

Courting 101

part 1 ❀- So'lek te Elusa Kori'itan

part 2 ❀- So'lek te Elusa Kori'itan

part 3 ❀- So'lek te Elusa Kori'itan

Art (if anyone is interested)

Art masterlist

[vexi4]

PAIRING ꒰ Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader ꒱

TROPE ꒰ STALKER x STALKER ꒱

[ 𑣲⋆] – At 1940s Hogwarts, the Reader maintains a carefully crafted façade as a bubbly, cheerful, and academically hopeless Slytherin. Classmates like Abraxas Malfoy treat her like an annoying airhead, completely writing her off. In reality, she lives a dark double life: she is obsessed with the polished, untouchable Head Boy, Tom Riddle. Every night behind locked bed curtains, she pastes secret camera photos, logs his exact movements down to the second, and writes unhinged rants about him into her scrapbooks. Tom is quietly aware of her shadowing him, subtly letting her trail behind him in the dark corridors out of a cold, quiet curiosity.

content & warnings ꒰ Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings :: Graphic Depictions of Violence :: Unhealthy Obsession :: Manipulation :: slowburn :: Gaslighting :: Toxic/Co-dependent Dynamic :: Unreliable narrator :: Stalking(mutual) :: Creepy & Voyeuristic Behavior :: Blackmail(pt 2) :: incorrect use of Amortentia(pt 2) :: non-consensual kissing(pt 2) :: murder(pt2) :: reader a Genki and a hopelessly academic girl :: Abraxas Malfoy mentioned :: OOC :: usage of (Name) :: 7.3k words ꒱

PT 1(here!) out of PT 2…

Masterlist

AUTHOR’S NOTE ꒰ English is not my first language so expect bad grammar and story lining! Part 1 focuses on the setup, obsession, and the introduction of the journal. Part 2 focuses on the darker parts. My apologies if I didn’t write this well! ꒱

The dungeons of Hogwarts were always damp, but near the Slytherin common room, the cold seeped straight into your marrow. It was the kind of chill that made normal students huddle closer to the green-flamed hearth, clutching their dragon-hide gloves and complaining about the draft.

You, however, were entirely unbothered.

"If you stare at that parchment any longer, it might actually take pity on you and write the essay itself," a drawling voice sneered from the leather armchair across from you.

Abraxas Malfoy sat with his ankles crossed, impeccably ironed robes draped over his frame like liquid silver. He held a crystal tumbler of pumpkin juice, looking down his sharp nose at the disastrous pile of ink-stained parchment scattered across your lap.

You blinked, letting your eyes go wide and slightly glassy as you looked up at him. Pouting exaggeratedly, you dropped your quill, letting it roll off your lap and onto the rug.

"Oh, Abraxas, don't be mean!" you whined, your voice carrying that light, bubbly high pitch you had perfected over the last three years. You slumped back against the sofa, dramatically tossing an arm over your forehead. "Professor Slughorn’s prompt makes zero sense! 'Detail the subtle differences between the Draught of Peace and the Peace-Filtered Elixir.' They both have 'peace' in the title! Why can't they just be the same thing? It’s completely unfair."

Abraxas let out a rich, condescending chuckle, shaking his head as he took a slow sip of his drink. "They aren't even in the same classification of brewing, you idiot. One requires crushed moonstone added counter-clockwise, and the other requires shredded fluxweed harvested during a full moon. A first-year could tell you that."

"Well, maybe I'm dumber than a first-year!" you chirped, sitting back up with a bright, sunny grin that reached entirely too wide across your face. You giggled, clapping your hands together softly. "Magic is just so... fussy! Who has time to keep track of moon phases anyway?"

"Clearly not you," Abraxas muttered, turning his gaze back toward the fire, dismissing you entirely. To him—and to every other self-respecting Slytherin in your year—you were nothing more than a colorful, harmless annoyance. A girl who had somehow slipped through the Sorting Hat's fingers, lacking both the cunning ambition and the sharp intellect that defined the house of the serpent. You were loud, you were academically hopeless, and you laughed too much at things that weren't funny.

They thought you were an airhead. They thought you were empty.

Which made it ridiculously easy for you to get away with everything.

Beneath the warm, foolish smile resting on your lips, your heart was beating in a steady, frantic rhythm. Underneath the table, hidden beneath the folds of your oversized, messy robes, your fingers were delicately clutching the small, metallic box resting in your lap.

A heavy set of footsteps echoed down the stone staircase leading from the boys' dormitories.

The air in the common room subtly shifted. Abraxas immediately adjusted his posture, straightening his back and wiping the smug indifference from his face.

You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. You knew the cadence of his step better than you knew your own heartbeat. The left foot is slightly heavier than the right—a habit leftover from wearing ill-fitting secondhand shoes during his childhood in London, though he hid it so impeccably now that only someone who had watched him for hundreds of hours would ever notice.

Tom Riddle stepped into the green light of the common room.

He looked, as he always did, fundamentally superior to every living thing in the room. His Head Boy badge was pinned with mathematical precision to his lapel. His dark hair was combed back, perfectly styled, with not a single stray strand out of place. He carried a leather-bound folio beneath his arm, his expression a masterclass in polite, approachable calm.

"Good evening, Abraxas," Tom’s smooth, baritone voice purred through the quiet room. It sounded like dark silk dragging across stone.

"Tom," Abraxas replied instantly, his tone laced with an eager respect he gave to no one else. "Heading out to the library before curfew?"

"Just a brief trip to return a few texts for Professor Merrythought," Tom replied softly, offering a warm, perfectly tailored smile that made him look like an angel carved from marble.

While they exchanged brief pleasantries, your hand slipped inside your cloak.

Your fingers found the cold glass lens of the tiny, modified camera you had bought off a dark-arts smuggler in Knockturn Alley during your summer break. It was a muggle device, heavily altered with concealment charms and silencers. It didn't flash. It didn't click. It merely absorbed light and captured a fraction of a second in time.

You raised your head, letting your bright, foolish smile remain fixed on your face.

"Hi, Tom!" you called out, waving your hand with exaggerated enthusiasm, playing the part of the harmless, silly girl who had a pathetic little crush on the school's golden boy.

Tom turned his dark, obsidian eyes toward you. For a fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto yours. To anyone else, his expression was politely tolerant—the handsome prefect enduring the foolish greeting of an inferior classmate.

Click.

Deep inside your pocket, the shutter fired with a silent, invisible pulse.

You caught him. The exact angle of his jaw under the emerald firelight. The slight, almost imperceptible shadow beneath his cheekbones. The precise manner in which his long fingers held the edge of his leather folio.

"Good evening," Tom said to you. His voice was polite, but his eyes... his eyes lingered on your face for a half-second too long.

A shiver of absolute, intoxicating ecstasy ran down the length of your spine, turning your blood into liquid lightning. He didn't just look at you. He saw you.

"Don't stay up too late struggling with your Potions, baseline work won't pass Slughorn's midterms," Tom added softly, offering one last charming smile before turning on his heel and gliding toward the dungeon door.

"I won't! Thanks, Tom!" you squeaked out, waving foolishly at his retreating back until the heavy stone door ground shut behind him.

Abraxas groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Honestly. Do you have to embarrass yourself every time he walks into a room? Riddle doesn't even know your middle name. He’s just being polite because he’s obligated to."

"Oh, hush, Abraxas!" you laughed, gathering your ruined, blank Potions homework and shoving it messily into your satchel. "You're just jealous because he talked to me about Potions!"

You didn't wait for his reply. Giggling like an airheaded fool, you picked up your bag and scampered up the stairs toward the girls' dormitories, keeping your movements light, clumsy, and loud until you reached your private room at the end of the hall.

The second the wooden door clicked shut behind you, the smile melted off your face.

The bright, bubbly energy vanished instantly, leaving behind a cold, breathless silence. Your eyes lost their wide, silly luster, narrowing into something sharp, hungry, and dangerously focused.

You walked over to your bed, pulling the heavy velvet curtains tight around the four posts. You cast a quiet Muffliato charm with a flick of your wand, sealing yourself in total, absolute darkness.

With practiced, reverent hands, you lit a single, tiny candle, casting a warm glow inside the enclosed bed. You reached down beneath your mattress, sliding out a thick, heavy leather album bound with brass locks.

You unlocked it with a quiet click.

Inside were hundreds of photographs.

Tom writing at his desk in the Great Hall. Tom walking down the East Corridor at 3:14 PM on a Tuesday. Tom adjusting his tie in the reflection of a dark window. Tom smirking slightly as he watched a Gryffindor fail a spell. Tom looking down at his hands during a lecture.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out the small film strip from tonight. With a tiny droplet of developing potion, the picture materialized before your eyes.

You pulled out a fresh pair of brass scissors, carefully trimming the edges of the photograph until it was perfect. You pressed it gently into the corner of the latest page, your thumb lingering over his printed cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw over and over again.

"Page ninety-eight," you whispered into the silent darkness of your bed, your voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of the high-pitched giggle you used downstairs.

You looked down at the bottom of the page. There were only two blank inches of paper left in the entire album.

You were running out of space.

The quiet scratch of your quill against the thick paper was the only sound inside the claustrophobic sanctuary of your bed curtains. You pressed the tip down, neatly scribbling the exact timestamp next to the newly pasted photograph: 22:14 — Slytherin Common Room. Looking toward the library.

Then, you flipped the page, expecting the comforting resistance of fresh, crisp parchment waiting for your obsession.

Instead, your fingers met the stiff, cold leather of the back cover.

You froze. Your breath caught in your throat as you hastily turned the page back, then forward again, frantically flipping the last few leaves of the album. Blank space. Nothing. Just the dark, woven lining of the binder.

"No, no, no..." you hissed, the low, raspy murmur cutting through the silent room like a blade. The sweet, airheaded melody of your public persona was completely gone, replaced by an ugly, desperate twitch in your jaw.

You gripped the edges of the heavy photo album so tightly that your knuckles turned translucent white. Pages ninety-nine and one hundred were completely filled. Every single inch of parchment was covered—overlapped photographs of Tom’s hands, tiny snippets of his handwriting you’d stolen from thrown-away draft essays, detailed timelines of his nightly patrol routes, and dense, frantic paragraphs of your own observations.

There was no room left for tomorrow. No room for his morning walk across the halls. No room for the way his eyelids drooped just a fraction of a millimeter when he was bored during History of Magic.

A sudden, violent wave of frustration bubbled up from your chest. You slammed the album shut with a heavy, muffled thud, the brass locks rattling violently in the dim candlelight.

"Stupid, useless thing!" you snarled in a sharp whisper, shoving the book away so hard it bounced off the carved wooden headboard. You buried your face in your hands, draggin your fingernails down your cheeks. Your chest heaved with shallow, panicking breaths. It felt like a physical starvation. How were you supposed to survive tomorrow without a canvas to capture him? How were you supposed to function if his movements weren't documented, pinned down, and owned by you?

You spent the rest of the night tossing and turning in the dark, your skin itching with a restless, feverish energy.

By the time Potions rolled around the next afternoon, your head was pounding with a dull, persistent throbbing. The damp, chilly air of the dungeon classrooms usually comforted you, but today it only made your nerves feel exposed and raw.

You sat at your usual corner cauldron toward the back of the room, surrounded by chopping boards, dried lacewing flies, and half-crushed roots. Naturally, you were doing a pathetic job. You had purposely let your Draught of Peace turn a violent, sickly yellow instead of a soft turquoise, ensuring that Professor Slughorn would sigh, pat your shoulder sympathetically, and write you off as a lost cause for the day.

Which left your mind completely free to do what it was made to do.

From your angle near the back pillar, you had a perfect, unobstructed view of the front row.

Tom sat beside Abraxas Malfoy. Naturally, Tom’s cauldron produced a faint, shimmering violet steam that curled upward in perfectly uniform spirals. He moved with a terrifying, rhythmic grace—his long, pale fingers handling the silver knife with surgical precision, slicing roots into identical millimeter-thick discs.

You leaned your chin on your palm, letting your eyes glaze over into that wide, dopey, daydreaming expression you wore like a mask. But behind the wide eyes, you were calculating every breath he took.

Slice. Pause. Dip the knife in rosewater. Two clockwise stirs.

You squeezed the tiny brass camera hidden inside your left sleeve, your thumb itching to press the silent shutter. But you couldn't. You had nowhere to put the film. The thought sent a fresh spike of irritation through your stomach, making your sweet smile twitch at the corner.

"Look at her," a low, sneering voice carried across the room.

It was Abraxas. He didn't even bother keeping his voice entirely down, knowing Slughorn was currently bustling around a pair of terrified Hufflepuffs near the door. Abraxas leaned toward Tom, tilting his head back toward your corner with a cruel, amused smirk.

"She’s been staring at the back of your head for forty-five minutes, Riddle," Abraxas mocked, tossing a silver beetle eye into his cauldron with casual arrogance. "I think her brain fully melted during third year. Look at that expression—there isn't a single thought behind those eyes. It’s like watching a golden retriever try to understand arithmancy."

Abraxas chuckled, a quiet, mean-spirited sound, waiting for Tom to join in on the joke.

Your pulse spiked. Your fingers tightened around your stirring rod until the wood creaked under the pressure. You wanted to leap across the stone table and carve that smug, pretty smile right off Malfoy’s face. You wanted to scream at him, to tell him that you knew every single one of his dark, pathetic little secrets—like how he bribed third-years to do his Herbology prep, or how he cried in the owlery when his father’s letters arrived.

Instead, you forced your smile to widen. You tilted your head, letting out a soft, airy, foolish giggle as if you had only caught the tail end of a pleasant joke.

Tom didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

He didn't turn around to look at you either. He merely paused his slicing, his dark brown eyes shifting sideways toward Abraxas with a cold, unreadable stillness that instantly suffocated Malfoy’s laughter.

"Focus on your lacewings, Abraxas," Tom said softly, his voice smooth, even, and entirely devoid of emotion. "Your potion is beginning to curdle."

Abraxas flushed a dull pink, instantly snapping his mouth shut and looking back down at his work.

A quiet, ecstatic shudder rippled through you. He didn't join in. Tom never defended anyone, but he hadn't validated Abraxas either. To Tom, Abraxas was just as foolish, just as insignificant as everyone else.

"Alright, class! Time is up!" Slughorn’s boisterous voice echoed off the damp stone walls as he clapped his hands together. "Fill your vials, leave them on my desk, and clear out! Excellent work today, Mr. Riddle, as expected! Outstanding!"

A flurry of noise erupted as students began scraping chairs, corking glass vials, and throwing heavy textbooks into their satchels.

You packed your things with agonizing slowness, waiting for the crowd to thin out. You watched Tom out of the corner of your eye as he meticulously wiped down his silver knife, capped his potion, and draped his emerald-lined cloak over his shoulders.

Abraxas, eager to escape the dungeon and recover his wounded pride, swept out of the room first, calling over his shoulder for Tom to catch up.

Tom nodded politely, gathering his leather folio and a stack of heavy parchment. He stepped away from his workstation, turning toward the door just as a group of Gryffindors crowded past him, noisily debating their homework.

In the minor chaos of people exiting the narrow doorway, Tom bumped slightly against the corner of a heavy oak display cabinet.

It was a tiny, subtle slip—so fast that if you hadn't been staring directly at him, you would have missed it entirely.

A sleek, plain black book slid out from beneath the papers held loosely in his hands, falling silently onto the dark stone floor right beside the leg of the table.

Tom didn't notice. He adjusted his folio under his arm, his dark head tilted slightly as he answered a brief question from Slughorn, and then walked out of the classroom, his dark robes sweeping gracefully behind him.

The dungeon cleared within seconds. Slughorn vanished into his private office at the back, slamming the door shut to mark his papers.

You were left entirely alone in the quiet, dim room.

Your heart began to hammer against your ribs, a loud, violent thumping that echoed in your ears. You stepped out from behind your workstation, your eyes locked onto the dark rectangle resting in the shadows near Tom's desk.

You walked toward it like a moth drawn to a flame, your breath catching in your throat.

You knelt down, your knees hitting the cold, damp stone. Your hand trembled as you reached out, your fingers closing around the sleek leather cover. It was warm—imprinted with the subtle heat of his body from where he had been holding it against his side just moments ago.

You pulled it into your lap, turning it over with reverent, terrified hands.

Stamped into the bottom right corner of the back cover, in elegant, gold-embossed lettering, were four words that made your entire world stop spinning:

Tom Marvolo Riddle

Your breath hitched in your throat. You pressed the warm leather against your chest, clutching it so tightly your fingers bruised. It was his. A personal notebook belonging to the golden boy himself. The sheer, intoxicating thrill of holding a piece of his world made your head spin, your chest aching with a wild, fluttering panic.

What if he realizes he dropped it? What if he turns around right now?

You practically scrambled off the cold stone floor, shoving the book deep into the darkest inner pocket of your robes. You slung your satchel over your shoulder and bolted out of the Potions classroom, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You kept your head down, practically flying up the winding dungeon staircases, bypassing the bustling corridors and ignoring the cheerful greetings of a pair of Hufflepuffs you usually gossiped with.

You didn't stop until you were inside your private dorm, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind you.

Your fingers fumbled with your wand, hastily whispering three different locking and privacy charms. With a ragged exhale, you threw yourself onto your bed, pulling the dark velvet curtains tight around you and lighting the single stub of a candle.

With trembling hands, you pulled the black book from your robes.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could taste copper in the back of your throat. This was it. His private thoughts. His notes. Maybe his secrets. You were about to peer directly into his mind.

Slowly, almost reverently, you cracked open the front cover.

Blank.

You blinked, your smile faltering. You hastily flipped to the next page.

Blank.

Panic rising in your chest, you flipped through the middle, then toward the back, fanning the heavy parchment leaves rapidly beneath the candlelight. Every single page was completely, undeniably empty. Pristine. Smooth. Unmarked by a single drop of ink.

"No..." you breathed, a hysterical, disappointed laugh bubbling up from your chest. "No, no, no... why would he carry around an empty book?!"

You dropped the journal onto your lap, dragging your hands down your face. The sting of disappointment was razor-sharp. You had expected standard schedules, maybe a secret diary, or drafts of his brilliant essays. Instead, it was just... paper.

Then, your eyes fell upon your nightstand.

There lay your own stalker scrapbook, bursting at the seams, its spine cracking because you had run out of pages. You looked back down at the sleek, beautifully bound black book resting in your lap. Hundreds of empty, high-quality parchment pages, practically screaming to be filled.

A slow, dark smile stretched across your face, replacing the frustration with something sharp and wicked.

He left it for me. a delusional little voice whispered in the back of your mind. It’s his... So if I put my thoughts in it, we’re sharing it.

You reached under your bed, pulling out your brass scissors, your pot of sticky photo-mounting paste, and your dark green inkwell.

Without a single second thought, you took the freshly developed film strip from this afternoon’s Potions class—the one of Tom holding his silver knife, looking utterly lethal and perfect—and trimmed the edges. You smeared a glob of paste onto the very first page of Tom's journal and pressed his face firmly into the paper.

You dipped your quill deep into the ink and began to write.

16:02 — Potions Dungeon, you scribbled in your messy, enthusiastic handwriting, the ink wet and heavy on the pristine page. Abraxas was being a complete pig today, but Tom didn't even care. He looked so handsome when he cut those roots. I loved the way his hands looked. I want to keep this book forever.

For an entire week, Tom’s diary became your absolute, intoxicating sanctuary.

You brought it everywhere, tucked securely inside your inner robe pocket next to your beating heart. By day, you played the foolish, airheaded Slytherin—failing Astronomy, giggling loudly in the corridors, and letting Abraxas Malfoy roll his eyes at your utter incompetence.

By night, locked behind your bed curtains, you poured your entire, unhinged soul onto Tom's pages.

On Monday, you pasted three photos of him studying by the stained-glass window in the library, writing four pages about how the sunlight hit the sharp angle of his jaw.

On Wednesday, you logged his exact schedule down to the second, detailing how he took exactly forty-two steps from the Great Hall to the Viaduct, and how he paused for three seconds to adjust his Head Boy badge at 12:15 PM.

On Friday, you went on a frantic, three-page rant about a Ravenclaw girl who had dared to ask him for help with her Transfiguration essay, scribbling in dark, jagged ink about how you wished her cauldron would explode in her face.

You held nothing back. Every dark thought, every obsessive detail, every secret photo, and every embarrassing confession was pressed deep into the leather-bound book. You treated it like a vault that only you possessed.

You had no idea that beneath the paper, lurking just under the surface of the blank margins, an entity was drinking in every single word you wrote—learning your secrets, studying your mind, and patiently waiting for the perfect moment to answer.

The week had turned you into a ghost in plain sight.

You moved through the stone corridors of Hogwarts with your usual wide, glassy-eyed smile, letting Abraxas Malfoy push past you in the halls and accepting Professor Slughorn’s gentle pities on your abysmal Arithmancy marks. But underneath the colorful, foolish shell, your mind was entirely consumed by the sleek, dark book resting against your chest.

Every night was a fever dream. You had filled nearly thirty pages of Tom’s journal. It was covered in your frantic green ink, overlapping photographs, and jaggedly clipped schedules. It felt like a sacred ritual, a private communion between your obsession and his memory.

The dungeon air felt suffocatingly still, heavy with the scent of old parchment, damp stone, and the iron tang of green ink.

You crawled onto your four-poster bed, pulling the dark velvet curtains tight around you and casting your usual suite of privacy charms with practiced ease. The single stub of a candle flickered on your nightstand, casting long, dancing shadows across the bedposts.

You rested the sleek black journal on your lap, smoothing your hand over the warm leather cover with a quiet, reverent sigh. You dipped your quill deep into the green inkwell, letting a fat, heavy droplet hover over the parchment before pressing the nib to the page.

23:15 — He looked so cold at dinner today, you scribbled, your messy handwriting slanting wildly across the pristine paper. He barely touched his pumpkin juice. I watched him through the gap between the tall silver candelabras. He looks so perfect when he’s quiet. I wish I knew what he was thinking about. I wish he would look at me-

You stopped.

You leaned in closer, your brow furrowing as the candlelight caught the surface of the paper.

The wet, dark green ink of your last sentence was glistening under the flame. But then, right before your eyes, the liquid began to pool. It shuddered, soaking into the fibers of the parchment like water being swallowed by dry sand.

Within three seconds, the words 'I wish he would look at me' completely vanished.

"What...?" you whispered, freezing in place.

You tapped your quill against the page, thinking the parchment was somehow damaged or coated in oil. But then, the ink from your entire paragraph began to sink into the paper, line by line, disappearing into the pale white leaves until the page was as blank and untouched as the day you found it. Even the photograph of Tom sitting at the Slytherin table—which you had glued down with thick paste four days ago—gradually faded into the parchment, dissolving like a breath on glass.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Panic flared hot and sharp in your chest. My photos! My notes!

Before you could scream or grab your wand, deep from within the grain of the paper, dark, black ink began to bleed upward to the surface.

It didn't form your messy cursive. It bloomed into an elegant, sharp, exquisitely neat handwriting slanted, precise, and breathtakingly cold.

Words formed slowly, smoothly, as if an invisible hand were writing from the other side of the page:

You certainly have a lot to say...

Your breath caught in your lungs. The quill slipped from your frozen fingers, clattering onto the bedsheets as a cold, terrifying shiver raced all the way down your spine.

You stared at the words, unable to move, unable to think.

The black ink dissolved back into the paper, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, only to be replaced by a second line of crisp, dark prose:

I must admit... I was wondering when you would finally run out of ink, or if you intended to spill your entire life into my margins.

Your brain short-circuited. You scrambled backward against your headboard, pressing your back flat against the wood, your eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated shock.

It talks.

The book wasn't just a container for notes. It was alive. Or possessed. Or enchanted with something dark and deeply complex.

Wait, a frantic, screaming voice echoed inside your head, your heart hammering a violent rhythm against your ribs. Does it know who I am? Does it know I'm stalking Riddle?!

Your hands trembled so violently you could barely pick up your quill. You leaned over the journal, keeping your distance as if it might reach out and bite your fingers. With trembling hands, you pressed the nib to the paper, your ink shaky and jagged.

Who are you? you wrote, the ink pooling unevenly. Are you a spell? Who owns this book?

Your green ink sank into the paper instantly, devoured by the parchment.

A heartbeat passed. Then two. The quiet in your bed felt heavy, almost suffocating.

The black ink bled back through, forming words with a slow, deliberate composure that felt utterly mysterious:

A spell? No. I am simply a shadow on parchment. An old, forgotten confidant bound to these pages. As for who I am... that is hardly the interesting question here, is it?

You swallowed hard, your throat bone-dry. The ink dissolved again, making way for the next line:

For seven days, I have sat in the dark while you filled my pages with frantic timelines, stolen photographs, and endless ramblings about this boy... this 'Tom Riddle'.

A hot flush of intense embarrassment and wild, intoxicating fear surged up your neck, burning your cheeks. It had read everything. Every schedule. Every photo description. Every dark, manic confession about how you wanted to keep Tom away from the rest of the world where no one else could ever look at him.

You write about him as if he were a prize to be collected, the black ink continued, flowing across the paper like slow-moving venom. Tell me, little stranger... does this boy have any idea someone is trailing three paces behind him in the dark? Or are you content to remain a coward behind a curtain?

The insult stung, but as you stared at the sharp, elegant handwriting, a dark, twisted thrill blossomed deep in your stomach. Whoever or whatever was inside this book, it was listening to you. It was asking about him.

You leaned closer to the candle, your eyes narrowing with a quiet, dangerous spark. You dipped your quill into the inkwell, your hands steadying as a slow, unhinged smile crept onto your lips.

He doesn't know. you wrote back, your black ink soaking into the page. He thinks I'm stupid. Everyone thinks I'm just an airhead who can't pass Potions. But I see everything he does. I know him better than anyone.

The black ink answered almost instantly this time, as if amused:

Do you? You know his routine. You know the way he walks. But you do not know his mind. Perhaps... if you keep writing to me, I might teach you how to actually catch his attention. Or perhaps I will simply enjoy watching you try.

You stared down at the words, your heart leaping into your throat. A secret advisor. A hidden voice in the dark that understood your obsession instead of mocking it.

You pressed your quill to the paper, writing three simple words:

Deal with me.

The dark ink bled through one last time, forming a single, chilling sentence before fading entirely, leaving the page blank and clean once more:

Then let us begin.

The shift in your daily routine was almost intoxicating.

To the rest of Hogwarts, you were still the same cheerful, useless airhead who tripped over her own robes, giggled too loudly near the Great Hall doors, and ruined every Potions brew Professor Slughorn dared assign you.

"Honestly," Abraxas Malfoy scoffed one morning, tossing a piece of toast onto his plate with an annoyed clatter, "if you keep squinting at your Arithmancy chart like that, you're going to give yourself a migraine before breakfast even ends."

"Oh, but Abraxas!" you chirped brightly, tilting your head and letting out a breathless, airy laugh. "The numbers are just so... squiggly today! I think my parchment is possessed!"

Abraxas rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath to the sixth-year sitting next to him about how the Sorting Hat must have had a stroke the night you were sorted into Slytherin.

You just smiled your wide, foolish smile, dipping your quill into your inkwell.

Underneath the table, hidden beneath the drape of your robes, Tom’s black journal rested on your lap.

By day, you kept up the double life effortlessly. You stalked the real-life Tom Riddle with a quiet, lethal precision. You snapped stealthy camera shots from behind suits of armor, noted down the exact minute he left the library, and memorized the faint, sharp smell of ozone and peppermint that followed him through the corridors.

By night, you opened the journal—and the shadow on the parchment gave you power.

Every evening locked behind your bed curtains, you poured every detail of your day into its pages. And the mysterious voice inside wrote back, analyzing Tom’s movements with an eerie, surgical accuracy.

He does not look at the courtyard because he is enjoying the view, the sharp black ink had written two nights ago. He looks at the courtyard because he is calculating the patrol rotations of the prefects. If you wish to capture a picture where he is truly unmasked, wait until 21:05 near the Astronomy Tower. He will be alone.

You had followed the book's advice—and the resulting photograph was the most breathtaking, dangerous thing you had ever captured.

But the strange voice didn't just give you advice on how to stalk Tom. It began quietly meddling in the rest of your life, too.

"A 'Marked Improvement', Miss. (Last name)," Professor Slughorn announced on Thursday afternoon, beaming down at you as he tapped his wand against your desk. "An Acceptable! In fact, very nearly an Exceeds Expectations! I must say, I was beginning to think the Draught of Living Death would completely stump you!"

Abraxas’s head snapped toward you so fast his silver hair practically whipped his face. "An Acceptable?" he repeated, his voice laced with absolute disbelief. "Her brew was sloshing all over her desk ten minutes ago!"

"Well, practice makes perfect, Malfoy!" Slughorn chided cheerfully. "She clearly applied herself!"

You gasped exaggeratedly, bringing your hands to your cheeks in a display of pure, airheaded shock. "Oh, Professor! Really?! I just guessed on the root ratios! I guess I just got super lucky!"

You giggled, waving off Abraxas’s glaring eyes as you packed up your cauldron.

You hadn't gotten lucky.

Three nights ago, after you had written a furious rant into the journal about how Slughorn’s potion steps made no sense, the black ink had bled onto the paper, cutting right through your chaotic scribbles:

Your failure in Potions is pathetic. It draws unnecessary, irritating attention to your incompetence. Stop stirring counter-clockwise on the fourth turn. Add two drops of wormwood essence after the flame is lowered. Do it precisely as I tell you, or do not bother writing to me tonight.

You had followed the book’s instructions to the letter—and for the first time in your Hogwarts career, your potion hadn't exploded or turned into toxic sludge.

It was happening in other classes, too. Defense Against the Dark Arts. Charms. Even your terrible Arithmancy essays were suddenly coming back marked with dark red 'Acceptables' and 'Exceeds Expectations' instead of your usual sea of 'Dreadfuls'.

You were still playing the fool. You still pretended to be clueless, laughing off your sudden string of good grades as "silly luck" or "guessing right." But beneath the surface, your mind was sharpening. The voice in the journal was subtly fixing your flaws, smoothing out your messy magic, and sculpting you into something much more dangerous than a mere airhead.

[ 𑣲⋆]

That evening, as the Great Hall cleared out after dinner, you lagged behind, pretending to search for a dropped brass badge under the Slytherin table.

Near the Head Table, Tom Riddle stood talking to Professor Merrythought. He was, as always, immaculate. His posture was perfect, his tone deferential and polite.

You squeezed the tiny camera inside your sleeve, watching him through the gap in your messy hair.

As Tom finished his conversation and turned toward the doors, his obsidian eyes swept casually across the room. For a brief, agonizing second, his gaze locked onto you—kneeling on the floor, looking like a total mess.

Instead of looking away with his usual mild tolerance, Tom paused.

His dark eyes narrowed just a fraction of a millimeter. His gaze drifted down toward the heavy satchel slung over your shoulder—where his sleek black journal lay hidden—and then back up to your face. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of his lips.

It wasn't his fake, polite Head Boy smile. It was something colder. Something sharp.

He didn't say a word. He simply turned and walked out of the Great Hall, his dark robes swirling behind him.

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Later that night, breathless inside your enclosed bed, you frantically dipped your quill into your green inkwell and wrote directly into the black pages:

He looked at me today. At dinner. He looked right at my bag, and then he smiled. Do you think he knows I’m improving? Do you think he’s starting to notice me?!

The black ink vanished into the parchment.

You waited, your chest heaving, watching the blank white paper.

Slowly, the black ink bled up from the depths of the journal, forming words that made your blood run hot and cold all at once:

He notices. He notices that the loud, foolish girl who used to fail every simple charm is suddenly becoming far more interesting than she used to be. Tell me... do you like the feeling of his eyes on you? Or are you afraid of what happens when he finally steps out of the shadows?

The heavy, suffocating silence of the Slytherin dormitories at night became the backdrop for your true life. By day, you drifted through the cold stone corridors like a bright, noisy specter—giggling at nothing, dropping your quills, and letting everyone believe you were a harmless airhead. But the moment the velvet curtains of your four-poster bed snapped shut and the quiet hush of your Muffliato charm took hold, the mask melted away.

In the faint, flickering glow of a single tallow candle, you opened the sleek leather journal resting on your lap.

Your fingers trembled with a familiar, intoxicating anticipation as you dipped your quill deep into the dark green ink. You didn't just write to the book anymore; you bled your days across its pages, pouring out every petty frustration, every manic observation, and every sickeningly sweet detail of your obsession.

00:14 — He wore the silver cufflinks today, you scribbled frantic, slanted cursive filling the pristine parchment. The ones with the subtle serpent crest. He only wears them on Thursdays when he has meetings with the Slug Club. He looked so cold, so distant while Abraxas was talking about his family's estate. I wanted to reach out and touch his wrist just to see if he’s actually made of ice. Do you think he feels as cold as he looks?

You held your breath, watching as the wet green ink glistened for a brief second before pooling into the paper, swallowed whole by the parchment.

A beat passed. Then two.

From the empty depths of the page, the sharp, elegant black handwriting bloomed upward like dark dye in clear water:

He is not made of ice. He is simply surrounded by fools, and he lacks the patience to pretend otherwise. Your obsession with his cufflinks is ridiculous. However, you are correct about one thing—he despises Abraxas’s endless grandstanding. If you want to remain useful to my patience, stop staring at his wrists and pay attention to how he reacts when Slughorn flatters him. That is where his real armor cracks.

A breathy, unhinged laugh escaped your lips. You leaned closer to the candle, your chin resting in your hand as you stroked the smooth paper with the tip of your finger.

You always know exactly what to say about him, you wrote back, the green ink sinking into the page almost as fast as you could write. It’s like you’re inside his head. Sometimes I feel like you understand my crush on him better than I do.

The black ink bled back through with a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt almost smug:

I understand efficiency. And I understand that watching you pine like a pathetic, star-struck child is far less interesting than watching you manipulate your way into his sphere. Speaking of which... your Arithmancy essay was a disgrace.

You rolled your eyes, dramatically tossing your quill onto the sheets.

Arithmancy is stupid! you complained to the parchment, writing in big, jagged letters. Professor Vector expects us to calculate planetary transits mapped against personal character numbers! It’s all nonsense numbers! I’m going to get a Dreadful, and then Abraxas is going to make another stupid joke about my brain being made of sawdust!

The black ink didn't write back immediately. For a moment, the page remained dead quiet. Then, line after line of dense, razor-sharp equations began to etch themselves across the paper, solving the entire three-foot assignment in seconds:

Copy this precisely. Do not alter the secondary alignment for Mars. Vector is overly fond of traditional Agrippan methods. If you submit this, you will receive an Exceeds Expectations. And if Malfoy speaks to you again in that tone... do not laugh like an idiot. Look him directly in the throat. Say nothing. Watch how quickly he loses his nerve.

Your jaw dropped slightly as you stared at the flawless, highly complex Arithmancy work appearing before your eyes. "You're incredible," you whispered into the silent darkness of your bed, a dark, intoxicating heat blooming in your chest.

It wasn't long before this midnight exchange spilled over into your daytime routine.

During history of Magic, while Professor Binns droned on in his dull, monotonous ghost-voice about the Goblin Rebellions of 1612, the rest of the class slumped over their desks in sheer, unadulterated boredom. Abraxas was practically asleep on his arms two rows ahead of you, and even the Ravenclaws were staring blankly out the high, arched windows.

You sat in the back row, your head tilted, wearing your usual wide, dopey, daydreaming smile. To anyone passing by, you looked like a girl completely lost in her own silly little world, aimlessly doodling on her parchment.

In reality, your left sleeve was carefully draped over the edges of Tom’s black journal, hiding it from view. Your quill moved in swift, tiny motions across the lower margin.

Professor Binns is going to make me fall asleep, you wrote quietly, keeping your hand low so no one could see. What is the answer to question four on the quiz? Something about the Treaty of 1614?

The wet black ink dissolved instantly into the paper. A second later, while Binns drifted through the blackboard, tiny black letters began to form right under your quill, so small and neat that only you could read them from above:

The Treaty of 1614 was signed in Urquhart Castle. The key clause was the goblin concession on silver-minting rights in the Northern Highlands. Write it down, and stop fidgeting. You are tapping your shoe against the desk leg. It is deeply irritating.

You bit back a gasp, your eyes darting up. You looked across the room.

Four rows ahead, sitting in the center of the classroom, Tom Riddle was sitting impeccably straight, his dark head tilted as he wrote his own pristine notes. He hadn't turned around. He hadn't moved. He looked like the absolute picture of a dedicated, brilliant Head Boy absorbing a lecture.

Yet, deep inside your satchel, the voice in his journal had just told you to stop tapping your foot.

A violent, ecstatic shiver raced down the length of your spine, turning your blood into hot, crackling electricity. You stopped moving your foot instantly, pressing your knees tightly together under the desk.

How did you know I was tapping my foot?

You frantically scribbled into the margin, your heart thumping against your ribs like a caged bird.

The black ink bled back, forming a single, chilling response before vanishing into the paper, leaving the margin pristine once more:

I know everything you do in this room. Now finish your quiz, little stalker. We have far more important things to discuss tonight.

PT 2…(in the making!)

[anxietyismyspideysense]

Untamed

Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Ancient magic was not supposed to have feelings.

That was the first thing Professor Fig had told you, back when you were still new to Hogwarts, still learning what it meant to carry something this old inside you — it isn't emotional, it isn't personal, it responds to need and instinct, nothing more.

Professor Fig had, with respect, never met Sebastian Sallow.

It started small. It always did, with him.

It was the third week of term, Defense Against the Dark Arts, the two of you partnered for practical. It was nothing unusual, you'd been paired before, Sebastian was good and he knew it and he made an excellent partner if you could tolerate the running commentary on everything.

You could tolerate it. You were used to it. You had — and this was the part you were working very hard not to examine too closely — you had organized your entire Hogwarts experience around being used to Sebastian Sallow.

The practical magical application had been fine.

Normal.

You'd managed the shield charm, he'd followed with the counter, the exercise was going smoothly — and then he'd leaned over your shoulder to correct your wand angle, his hand over yours, his voice low and close because the classroom was loud and he needed you to hear him, and the ancient magic had surged.

Not dangerously. Not explosively. Just... a visible ripple, silvery-black and unbidden, flickering across your outstretched hand like something waking up in a hurry.

Sebastian had stepped back, glanced down at your hand, and then back up at you.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you blurted, "Fluctuation."

"That wasn't a fluctuation, that was—"

"Sebastian." You lowered your wand, "It's fine."

He'd let it go. Mostly.

It happened again in the library.

You were across from each other at your usual table — the one in the back corner Sebastian had claimed like territory on your third week and defended from other students through the power of his general demeanor. You were trying to focus on Potions theory while Sebastian was trying to focus on the same and also, apparently, on a separate activity that involved watching you read with his chin in his hand and his own book open in front of him as a prop.

You hadn't noticed the watching part. You found out about it later.

You were aware only of looking up to ask him something. It was something about the Dittany passage, something textual and genuinely academic — and finding him already looking at you, closer than you'd gauged, because the light was low and you hadn't realized how much you'd both been leaning over the same surface until you were abruptly eye-level with him at approximately fourteen inches of distance and he was—

He was looking at you with an expression you didn't have a precise name for. Attentive in a specific way. Not the way he looked at a difficult spell or an interesting problem. Something else.

The ancient magic crackled, silvery-bright, and your ink spilled.

Neither of you moved for a second.

Then Sebastian looked at the spreading ink, looked at your hand, and something shifted in his expression. You couldn't read it fast enough.

"Sorry," you apologized, grabbing parchment to mop it up, "I don't know why it keeps—"

"Does it happen often?" he questioned with a tilt of his head. It was still in that tone... Thoughtful.

"No," you stated, too quickly.

"Just recently?"

"Can we—" you gestured at the ink— "this is a mess, can we address the mess."

He helped with the ink. He didn't bring it up again that night.

You could feel him thinking about it, which was almost worse.

Sebastian Sallow, when he decided to figure something out, was genuinely dangerous.

This was a trait you'd always admired in him. He was relentless and curious and he followed a thread until he had the whole thing unraveled. That was most of what made him brilliant in the field, it was most of what made him difficult in an argument, and it was turning out to be a serious personal problem for you when you were the thing he'd decided to figure out.

He started testing it. You realized this later. Much, much later.

The first test was probably the Great Hall, the morning after the library incident, when he sat down across from you at breakfast — which he did every day, this was not new — but he sat down and instead of immediately stealing your copy of whatever you were reading, he just said good morning and smiled over at you. It was his standard charmer grin. His smile, which you had spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time cataloguing over the past months.

The ancient magic warmed along your fingertips, starting to leak out of its own accord.

You put your hands under the table.

Sebastian's expression turned into a knowing smirk. He said nothing, but he looked all too satisfied as he poured his coffee.

The second test was the covered bridge.

You'd been walking back from Hogsmeade, the two of you and Ominis — and then, abruptly, just the two of you, because Ominis had said something about forgetting his things at Honeydukes and departed with the suspicious efficiency of someone who had not, in fact, forgotten anything.

"Ominis is terrible at excuses," Sebastian stated with a boyish laugh.

"He really is," you agreed.

The bridge in winter was cold and clean, the valley below wrapped in low cloud, and you walked beside Sebastian with your hands in your cloak pockets and tried to be a normal person who was not having any particular feelings about the proximity. It didn't help that every time the wintery breeze slipped across your face, you caught a whiff of his intoxicating cologne.

He waited until you were halfway across the bridge— until there was nowhere to usefully redirect yourself — and then he said, conversationally, "You're doing it again."

You looked down. A faint shimmer, ancient magic bubbling up at the edges of your fingers inside your pockets, just barely visible.

"It's cold," you stated defensively.

"Ancient magic doesn't respond to temperature."

"You don't know that."

"I've read everything written on the subject in the Hogwarts library," he replied slyly, which was probably true, "It doesn't respond to temperature."

"There could be things not in the library."

"There could be," he agreed, pleasantly, "but that's not what this is, is it?" He looked at you sidelong, "I have a theory."

"I don't want to hear your theory."

"I think—"

"Sebastian, I genuinely and sincerely don't—"

"I think it's emotional," he stated with a knowing smirk, "Your magic specifically."

The ancient magic flickered, bright and obvious and deeply treacherous, and Sebastian watched it happen with an expression you finally had a name for, standing on that bridge in the winter cold.

Satisfied.

He looked satisfied.

"That's very interesting," he stated teasingly, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"It's not interesting, it's a calibration issue, I've been working on it—"

"What were you thinking about just now?"

"Potions," you blurted out, fast, and a complete lie.

"Were you?" He stated in a tone that very much showed he did not believe a word you were saying, with a raised brow, stepping closer to you.

"I'm always thinking about Potions."

"You hate Potions."

"I have a complicated relationship with—"

"What were you thinking about," he stated again, and his voice had dropped into the register it went when he was being deliberately patient, the one he used when he already knew the answer and was giving you the chance to get there yourself, and you wanted, sincerely, to be anywhere else.

"The view," you redirected with another lie finally, with great dignity, "I was thinking about the view."

Sebastian looked at the valley, stepping even closer, before turning his gaze down to meet your eyes, "The view. huh?"

"It's a nice bridge."

He said nothing for a moment.

Then — and this was the beginning of the problem, this was the point where things shifted from Sebastian figuring something out into Sebastian doing something deliberate with what he'd figured out— he leaned even closer into your space, and he reached over, and he tucked a piece of hair back from your face that the wind had pulled loose.

Simple.

Quiet.

His fingers brushed your cheek, before setting on your jaw tilting your chin up towards his heated gaze.

As if that was the que it was waiting for, your ancient magic surged outward.

Not a flicker.

Not a shimmer.

A full, rolling surge of silvery-blackish- blue that ran from your hands to your shoulders and lit the air around you both like something that had been waiting for permission, and you made an absolutely undignified sound and stepped back and the light faded and Sebastian was looking at you with his hand still raised where it had been, an expression of pure, unholy delight spreading across his face.

"Oh," he gasped out with a delighted grin.

"Don't."

"Oh, that's—"

"Whatever you're about to say—"

"That is very, very interesting."

"Sebastian."

"It's emotional," he exclaimed, like a man announcing the results of a very successful experiment, "Very specifically emotional," He tilted his head, "Maybe... about someone very specific."

"I'm leaving," you said, your tone very embarrassed, "I'm going back inside."

"We're in the middle of the bridge."

"I'll manage."

You started quickly walking towards the castle. He easily fell into step beside you with the confidence of someone who had just won something and was in no hurry about it.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," he stated gently.

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Your magic literally just—"

"It was wind interference."

"It was not wind—"

"Sebastian, if you finish that sentence, I will find a very advanced curse—"

"In the restricted section? Because I know where—"

"I hate you," you groaned out, which was the least true thing you'd said in months, and he knew it, which was the worst part.

He behaved for exactly three days.

You knew, in retrospect, that he was recalibrating. Regrouping. This was what Sebastian did when he had new information — he took it somewhere quiet and figured out what to do with it, and the outcome was never in your favor when the subject was something he wanted.

Three days of normal. Of him being the same Sebastian he'd always been, which meant present and sharp and occasionally insufferable but not doing the thing, not touching your face or looking at you in that particular way or saying your name in the raspy register that made your magic forget its academic obligations.

You started to relax.

This was your mistake.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, Friday afternoon.

New unit: advanced curse-breaking, another practical component. You needed a partner. Sebastian appeared at your elbow with his wand already out, because of course he did.

"Ready?" he called over to you.

"For the exercise," you said, precise.

"Of course," He quipped, perfectly neutral, "What else."

The exercise involved taking turns — one person cast a moderate binding curse, the partner broke it, technical and controlled. You went first. He broke your curse easily, because he was 'Crossed Wands Champion Sebastian Sallow' and also because it had been moderate.

Then... it was his turn.

His curse hit cleanly and you worked through the counter, focused, and you got it on the second try and he watched you do it with an expression of — you checked — genuine quiet pride, which was actually his resting expression when you did something well, and you had spent months pretending not to notice this but you noticed, Merlin knows you always noticed, and your ancient magic stirred warmly.

"Good," he praised. Simple word. Your magic pulsed.

He saw it gleefully.

You watched him clock the tiny shimmer at your hands and make an immediate, apparently involuntary decision.

"Really good," he purred, lower, and the ancient magic responded with the enthusiasm of something that had no sense of self-preservation.

"Sebastian," you warned quietly.

"I'm complimenting your curse-breaking."

"You are doing something else with your voice while you compliment my curse-breaking."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You know exactly what I—"

"Should we go again?" he interrupted, all innocence, and cast the binding before you could finish the sentence, and you were so distracted that you missed the counter completely and the curse ran up your arm and he looked catastrophically pleased about this, stepping in to help you break it himself. Sebastian dragged his hand up your wrist, and the ancient magic erupted, shimmering silvery blue from your elbow to your shoulder, and two other students looked over.

"Sorry," you called to the room, to the professor, to anyone, "Calibration issue."

Sebastian, beside you, said nothing. His hand was tracing along your wrist, thumb finding your pulse point with the careful precision of someone checking something, and your heartrate was not behaving, and he could probably feel that, and his expression was—

Delighted was still the word. But there was something else in it now. Something that had not been there on the bridge. Something that was watching you with the same heated focus he gave to things he wanted very much and had decided to pursue.

"Better?" he murmured lowly in your ear. About the curse. Possibly not about the curse.

"Fine," your response was high pitched and not at all helping your case.

"You're sure, pretty?"

"Sebastian."

"Because it looked like—"

"I will bind you to something," you retorted with an eye roll, "if you don't—"

"Hmm, kinky. You missed the counter completely," he mused, with tremendous fondness. "First time all term. What were you thinking about?"

You turned to look at him directly. He held your gaze with the particular steadiness of someone who had already won and was politely giving you the chance to arrive at that conclusion yourself.

"You're doing this on purpose," you wined, glaring up at him.

"I'm being a supportive partner."

"You used your voice—"

"I complimented you."

"You did it deliberately," you pouted, and his mouth curved up, and the ancient magic flickered between your joined hands like it was agreeing with you, "Oh, you are — this is unbelievable, you are using it on purpose—"

"I'm just being attentive," he blinked down at you innocently, "To your needs. Educationally."

"I will transfer to a different Defense section."

"No you won't."

"Watch me."

"Ronen's section has no windows," he pointed out, "You'd hate it. You always work facing the window."

You stared at him. The fact that he knew that — that he had filed it away, that he knew your habits the way you knew his, that this had been going on in both directions apparently, and he was standing here in the middle of class with his thumb over your pulse and ancient magic lighting up like a lantern between you—

The surge was bigger this time. Involuntary. Bright and warm and running all the way to your shoulder.

Sebastian looked at it, before turning his gaze back to you. The teasing thing softened at the edges.

"I figured it out," he added, quieter. Not performing now. Just him, just Sebastian, looking at you like you were the most interesting thing he'd encountered in his entire academically voracious life, "Took me a while."

"You figured it out immediately," you stated flatly.

"I suspected immediately. I wanted to be sure."

"And now you're sure."

"Very." His thumb was still on your pulse, as he gave you a boyish grin. "For what it's worth." A pause. "Mine does something similar."

You looked at him, "You don't have ancient magic."

"No," he said simply. "But my heart rate spikes just like yours does when I look at you."

The Defense classroom carried on around you — spells and counters, the general orchestrated chaos of forty students practicing curses — and Sebastian Sallow stood in the middle of it with his hand around your wrist and looked at you like a solved theorem, like something he'd been working on for months and was very satisfied to have proven.

Your ancient magic settled into a warm, steady glow that showed no signs of going anywhere.

For once, you didn't try to make it.

Ominis, when you found him after class, stated, "Finally," with great feeling and no further elaboration.

Sebastian grabbed your books with one arm, slipped his free hand in yours, and looked insufferably pleased.

He had earned it, you decided.

Marginally.

[sentrysallow]

Dream of Me - Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

Summary: Leave it to Crossed Wands to pose Sebastian Sallow against the girl whose dream he walked— the girl he's fallen madly in love with: you.

He knows too much—far too much—so how well exactly will that go over in a duel?

> Part 1 <

Word Count: ~4,200

Warnings: aged-up characters, language, sexually explicit content

Sebastian Sallow suffered from a chronic case of ‘being in the right place at the right time.’

Was he miffed about the diagnosis? Absolutely not. Not when it made him privy to a conversation like that, with, not to mention, the notable bonus of coming to understand the purpose of the strange, blue artifact. Sebastian chuckled to himself, thumbing over the star’s sanded edge.

Your words had played over and over in his head, loudest of all being the ever-important way you’d said them. Call him crazy, but it had almost sounded like you’d enjoyed the dream, because, hold on, hear him out— Anne’s ‘yuck’ from the depths of her soul had gone notably absent of an ‘I know, right?’ on your part.

You and Anne were close, like sisters close, so to hear — in a way — he hadn’t in fact been auto-sorted into the dreaded ‘like a brother’ category, he figured his chances wouldn’t get any better than this.

You were, by nature, a quiet observer. You were calm and composed, thought about what you said before you said it, and carried yourself like a doe grazing gently in a clearing— only now Sebastian was beginning to suspect something else lurked beneath your amber coat.

Within the sanctity of your dream, you’d guided him behind you like he belonged there, and had spoken to him like he ought to know that. It was a combination he’d never seen, and frankly wouldn’t see, the likes of during the waking hours, a realization that had him cornering his resolve to visit you again tonight— find out what was behind the ‘kiss him or pants him’ look you’d shot him.

Sebastian pulled the Dreamvisitor from his pocket. He didn’t want to part from it, but all of him had to admit it was far safer beneath his pillow than in his pocket during a duel. The last thing he needed was it tumbling out of said pocket and rolling to the feet of today’s opponent. You.

He sighed, staring at the dormant star. Dueling had always cleared his mind, but something about last night, and the confirmation he was anxious for it to serve, threatened to bring a side of him to the fight he wasn’t sure he could control.

-~- You -~-

Crushing on someone, you’d decided, was both the best and worst thing that could happen to a person.

On the one end of it, the word ‘bored’ no longer existed in your vocabulary. History of Magic with Boring Bins? Decidedly not. History of Magic with your best friend’s hot brother? Decidedly so.

Then there was the worser half of it all. The half where you acted a bumbling fool in front of said best friend’s hot brother. You’d see him from afar, down the hall, or even across the table, and before you could say ‘a pixie picked a pack of pickled poppies,’ your heart was hammering, your throat was closing, and most infuriating of all, you couldn’t look him in the eyes.

The eyes were the window to one’s soul. Narrowed and cold, distant and guarded, warm and comforting… ack. It didn’t matter. All were traitorous. You could always rely on them to give away your opponent's next move, always… unless it was Sebastian Sallow.

Sebastian stood before you, big, brown, doe eyes eating at your resolve like you were sugar in water. Damn him. He was too hot for his own good, and with that characteristic smirk painted along his lips, you’d swear he knew it. You tore your gaze from his, salvaging what was left of your composure, and took a deep breath, silencing the humdrum from a crowd that had gathered along the Clock Tower wall.

“By majority vote, and a landslide at that, the Crossed Wands have named their most-desired duel: y/l/n vs Sallow!” Lucan called.

You shook the tension from your wrist, letting the magic slow your breathing, tame your heart. If you couldn’t get a hold of yourself, banish this elementary avoidance of one stupidly gorgeous pair of eyes; you had no hope of winning this thing.

“Duelists, take your marks!”

You took another deep breath and the crowd quieted.

He’s just a boy.

A thrumming wand.

Just your best friend’s annoying brother.

One opponent.

Who wants absolutely nothing to do with you.

One target.

Your gaze snapped up in time to the small spark that shot from Lucan’s wand into the rafters. With a crack, it exploded, showering embers that fell like smoking stars. Game on.

The smirk Sebastian had flashed you earlier held true. He struck first, snapping his wand in an attempt to throw your wand from your grasp.

“Expelliarmus!”

You tucked and rolled, letting it sap into the stone wall behind you as you headed for the center of the room. Once there, you landed on a bent knee and swept your wand up and through Levioso.

The spell soared towards him like a swallow over a field, but Sebastian summoned Descendo. Yellow clashed with purple, and the colors tore each other apart in a fantastical display of opposing forces. The crowd ‘ooo’d’ and ‘ahh’d,’ but you didn’t have time for sightseeing, not when the boy was raising his wand for another attack. You had to find his eyes, and though it cut your heart short of a full beat, you found them. Mischief. Jinx.

You stood to your feet, blocking the Levicorpus he cast at your feet— a jinx, but Levicorpus? He was really going to hoist you into the air by your ankle? In front of at least thirty students?

You tilted your head, allowing the addictive burn of revenge to lace itself into your magic.

“Confringo.”

The incantation pushed through your clenched teeth and the emotion incarnate roared to life, but Sebastian kept his eyes on you. You didn’t want to admit it, but you froze, helpless to the grin etching its way into his features as he let the flame barrel toward him. A game of chicken with a blasting curse? Bold, and a notch too attractive for you.

At the last second, Sebastian side-stepped the assault like a curtain blown aside by a gust of wind. He watched the fire blacken the stone as it feasted on dust that lay atop it before it wilted, starving to death, then turned back to you.

“Confringo?” He mouthed over the amusement that poured from him like smoke. Or was that pride? Whatever it was, that gaze had no right pooling heat between your legs during a duel.

Damn it! He was trying to get into your head. Toss that, he was in your head. You lashed out, flicking your wand through Flipendo.

Sebastian blocked the jinx and sent an Accio of his own in return. You pulled a shield over your frame, bracing for its impact, but it was what he did next that rendered your seasoned experience near innate.

Sebastian wormed his wand to the side and spun it, and the spell you should’ve blocked pivoted left. Spells didn’t do that. They remained true, but it turned out your fellow Slytherin was the Top Duelist for a reason.

Before you could track its movement, your feet were lifted from the floor beneath you as the spell sank into your back. Caught in a force that cascaded over your shoulders and wrapped around your waist, you were pulled toward the boy who had summoned you. You kicked furiously, catching the grooves of the stone with the tips of your shoes, but it was a fruitless pursuit.

Though not nearly as insulting as being upended by your ankle, hovering helplessly before Sebastian Sallow in front of a crowd of now nearly fifty had its qualms. For one, hearing students snicker, followed by the rattle of monetary exchange, had you refusing to come to terms with this being the outcome. And secondly, the way he was looking at you, victorious, smug, like you were his to manipulate… had molten lava surging through your veins in one direction and one direction only.

“Haven’t seen that one yet, now have we?” He taunted, soft locks falling to gravity as he looked up at you.

His dark eyes settled on yours. He was close. Too close. A breath away from his chin brushing your abdomen. He’d only ever been this close in your dreams, dreams that often ended with distance being a long-forgotten stranger— dreams that often had him speaking to you as he did now.

“Want something, princess?” He slithered.

You avoided his gaze, an attempt to shut him out that also served to refuse him what he wanted.

“Be a good girl and ask.”

You shuddered. Sensual arrogance was pouring out of him, and though every nerve in your body wanted to swallow all he had to give, you noticed something. Plucking up the courage to peer once more into those damned brown eyes, you found something flickered beneath it all. Call you crazy, but it almost looked like Sebastian could see right through you, knew what he was doing to you, and either of those being even a slight possibility scared the living shit out of you.

With a sudden jolt, you flexed a knee forward. Sebastian dodged the physical attack with expected grace, but hadn’t accounted for your foot that made contact with his wand. It clattered to the floor and you caught yourself in a crouch as his hold on you was broken. The crowd went silent, transactions frozen beneath stolen conversations as all eyes were pinned to you, including Sebastian’s, but you avoided them all, focusing on the chest at the end of your wand, and then the Clock Tower erupted with cheers.

Sebastian stood before you disarmed, shocked, and was starting to extend a hand of congratulations, but you ran. You ran, because faster than you could say ‘a pixie picked a pack of pickled poppies,’ your heart was hammering, your throat was closing, and scariest of all, your best friend’s older brother might just want something to do with you.

-~- Sebastian -~-

Sebastian stood dumbfounded in the center of the Clock Tower, wand still at his feet, eyes trained on the corridor you’d fled down. Confused with a dash of existential crisis. That’s what he was. He thought he’d finally caught on, and if he hadn’t, just what had been that moment where he’d held you over him? He’d seen the look in your eye. It had been brief, but it had been the one and the same one you’d given him in the Undercroft… the one he would never forget… There was no misinterpreting that look.

“Just what did you do now?” Anne asked, arms folded tighter than a boa constrictor.

Sebastian shook his gaze loose only to get caught in Anne’s suspicious stare, “Gee, I dunno, lost?”

His twin blinked about twenty times in ten seconds, “Don’t play dense, Sebastian.”

He pretended to rack his brain, even gave it a confused squint, but twin telepathy was real, and it was being exercised now.

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried, hiding from her scrutiny in the interest of picking up his wand.

He stood, scrubbing at a scratch on the handle, then just about jumped out of his skin when he caught the look his sister had fixed to him— one she’d one hundred percent inherited from their mom.

“What did you say to her?”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. He could share some of that information.

“Haven’t seen that one yet, now have we?” He repeated.

“That’s it?”

He threw her a stiff, but wounded toss of his head, “Yes, Anne, that’s it.” A beat. She wasn’t buying it. “Now, am I free to go mourn the loss of my crown?”

Anne didn’t respond verbally. Instead, she pivoted her gaze toward the same hall he’d gazed down, looked back toward him, narrowed her eyes, and then turned to leave.

“I’m gonna go ask y/n,” she disclosed, and once she’d carried herself a liberal distance from her brother, called over her shoulder, “And Sebastian, please wipe the drool from your mouth, you love-sick puppy.”

Sebastian frowned and practically smacked himself with the back of his hand. It wasn’t wet. He wasn’t drooling? Wait— love-sick? Puppy? And ‘I’m gonna go ask y/n?’

“Anne, wait! Don’t you dare!”

“No dare, just doing!” She exclaimed, then skipped around the corner and out of sight.

* * *

Anne wasn’t the type to sabotage, that much Sebastian knew, but having zero idea as to what she’d said about him was damn near torture. Against his wishes, his mind had run through all the possible ways the conversation could’ve gone, and that, in combination with his vital desire to sleep, had dragged the sun through the sky like a troll’s club behind a troll.

But now, with candles extinguished and curtains drawn, Sebastian, for the first time in his academic career, was going to bed early. He lay on his side, staring at the star that shone deeply. Now knowing its purpose, the Slytherin was faced with the burden of making a choice that teetered atop one assumed fact: your unconscious mind was more comfortable with him than your waking one.

Sebastian was fighting a two-pronged battle. In his right hand, he wrestled the ethics of it all, and in his left, his carnal desire to dip into what he’d been teased with the previous night. Part of him understood it was wrong, but a greater part of him knew that just as in the waking world, he wouldn’t try anything you didn’t want him to. Your dreams were of your own conscience— it was you, and if you really didn’t want him that close, he’d back off, pocket the star for a life-or-death situation, and go with plan B, that is, take you to the hidden library— even if that was just as friends.

He sighed, content with his reasoning, and finally shut his eyes.

* * *

Sebastian’s eyes fluttered open over a languid intake of the cold, dungeon air. It was dark, and what he could see of his room was lit faintly by the blue glow that emanated from beneath his covers. He frowned. Had it not worked?

He felt for the star and pulled it out, but seconds before he could interrogate it, he noticed the empty side of the room that Ominis’ bed usually occupied. He was pretty sure that had been clear and present when he’d gone to sleep. Maybe it had worked. If so, where were you?

That’s when his attention was drawn to his open dorm room door, firelight spilling along the wall. Through there, likely.

He padded over to it, squinting against the orange light, and once his eyes adjusted, he found you sitting before the common room fireplace, the same one he’d met you in front of years ago. You were alone, wrapped inside what looked to be a bed sheet as you bit at your fingers nervously. This was a dream. It had to be, a fact made sure by the strange geography of the dorm, and because it was a dream, he needed to act like it wasn’t.

Sebastian knocked gently on a side table, “Y/n?”

You turned and met his eyes, “Hey, Sebastian.”

He smiled, enjoying the gaze he could never quite find, “Are you ok?”

A sigh, “Yeah, just missed you.”

Sebastian tied his brows down. Don’t react. Instead, he took that as a sign he could get closer. He rounded the sofa and joined you on the carpet a generous distance away, then remembered he could talk.

“Missed you too.” And he really did. He hadn’t been alone with you in Merlin knew how long.

You hummed, adjusting your grip on your bed sheet before you scooted closer to him and lay your head against his shoulder. While he was able to soften his shock, he was unable to stop the turn of his head. Your cover had slipped down the side of your arm, revealing the dark viridian top you wore. It was a lace of some sort, a single strap over your exposed shoulder that held up a small amount of silk over your bare chest. Sebastian swallowed, hard.

And then you caught him staring.

He snapped his head forward, burning his gaze in the flames for its crimes, but then your touch was turning his head back to you. It was soft, warm, and raised goosebumps where it landed. His lips parted over a shudder and his eyes fluttered in time to the chill that ran down his spine.

“Sebastian,” you called, and the velvet with which you’d said his name matched the look in your eyes.

It was The Look, and it rendered him mute. What was English? What was any language for that matter? He swallowed again, chancing a misdemeanor at your lips that earned him a smile, a gentle thumb along his cheek, and a look of your own at his. He leaned forward, hesitantly, mouth watering when your breath ghosted along his cheek, and then you kissed him.

Sebastian was unable to catch the voiceless whimper that escaped his throat. For how many years had he wanted this? Three? Three hundred? Three million? It felt like that latter, and that fact tethered dreams and reality into the one and only here and now.

It was so real, and Salazar be damned that this was a dream. For all intents and purposes, you’d kissed him, wanted to kiss him, and were kissing him now, and though he’d been trying to purge himself of carnal desires, the fact that you too were dreaming of this, feeling all of this, a hall and a door down, had him hiding its effect on him with a bent knee.

Then you mumbled his name against his lips.

“Sebastian~” It was soft, so soft and wanting, and it hit him far too hard between the legs for him to keep quiet.

He voiced a gentle groan, pulling away to steady himself before whatever this was pulled him under. He looked down at you and found your gaze again, one you held poisonously as your touch sailed down his neck and coiled around his tie.

You didn’t say anything, but the want that had been laced in your tone now veiled over your eyes. You were asking for something… asking for him. He leaned toward you, intent on giving you what you wanted, but then you fell backward on an elbow, pulling him over you. Sebastian huffed with disbelief, shared a smile with you, then let his lips capture yours once again.

He kissed you gently, content with your earlier pace. He sighed, settling a hesitant hand against your side and you moaned. He squeezed his grip, letting the mix of your cool silk and warm skin shove his reserve up, over, and out the window. His tongue, that had been tied down by precaution, worked loose and swiped along your bottom lip, begging to cradle your own. A sigh, another moan, and you let him have his way, shuffling beneath him as you pulled your cover from your frame. He wandered everywhere he could, up and around your back, along your torso, and down your hips.

“Perfect,” the thought slipped between kisses, “So perfect.” And then he was mouthing at your throat.

You gasped, letting the sensation pull you into a quiet cry that paired exquisitely with your fingers around his wrist, guiding his touch to your breast. Sebastian obeyed and sank into the flesh, a feeling that dipped his hips toward you, but he caught himself with a knee. Kissing you was everything, touching you, Nirvana, but that? Him? Between your legs? You’d have to verbally ask for that.

For now, he kept himself busy with your neck, sucking your skin between his teeth because he was positive his craftsmanship would remain a thing of only this world. The thought pulled him back. He wanted to see you marked by him, and was met with an agonizingly erotic sight. You lay beneath him, dazed by him, neck ravished by him, and the small top you’d worn had been pushed up, leaving your chest entirely exposed.

“Fucking hell,” he stuttered, and brushed his knuckles over you.

One caught the peak of your breast and you whimpered loudly. You’d liked that. Sebastian let a toothless grin settle onto his features and swiped a thumb over it. Another whimper. Gods, he loved those sounds, and so, lips parted, eyes blurring, he continued the ministration, drowning in your cries.

Your chest began to rise and fall in time to his attention, your eyes fought to stay open, and your lips parted perfectly over your melancholic distress.

“Does that feel good?”

He knew it did, but something about seeing you nod languidly at him felt more than right, and it seemed you felt the same. In addition to your response, you now rolled your hips toward him… and that… that had his cock twitching painfully between his legs. Still, he needed you to ask.

“Use your words, love,” he pleaded, “Tell me what you want.”

Your brows knit together at his request, but you gave in with a sigh, “You, Sebastian.”

The Slytherin shuddered. You wanted him, but he needed more.

“Me? What do you need from me?”

He held his breath, watching you struggle for the words given his touch hadn’t relented.

“I need, gods,” you whined, then lifted a heavy head to peer between him and you, “Sebastian, I need your cock.”

Your words hit him hard, but not as hard as your foot that kicked his knee out from beneath him. In one fell swoop, he landed between your legs, now a victim twice to that fatal kick of yours. All the oxygen in his being was punched from his lungs. Through trembling lips, he inhaled sharply, blinking through the stars in his vision as his hard cock pressed deliciously against your clothed cunt. You groaned, loudly, bottom lip taken between your teeth when he gave a hesitant roll of his hips.

“God fucking damn it,” he cursed.

It felt good. He rolled his hips again. Too fucking good. He wasn’t going to be able to stop himself.

Mind clouded with lust, he did what only felt natural. With a hand still on your breast, he let his lips attach to the other. He took the bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and earned himself a disastrous moan from you. You rounded your own hips into his, grinding against him to a rhythm that saw his climax approaching far too fast.

Gods, he was close.

“Y/n, wait, I’m close,” Sebastian whimpered against your chest, hot breath fanning over the wet skin as he tried to hold back.

You didn’t stop. He looked up at you. The Look.

You were wrecked, intoxicated, pupils blown wide, drunk on him, and it seemed it was exactly what you wanted. You threw a leg over his hip and pulled him against you, then ground your hips harder.

“Cum, Sebastian,” you hummed, tethering his gaze with yours.

It was too much. Too much for the boy that, outside of your dreams, was forced to beg for even an ounce of your attention, so, with a pathetic cry, Sebastian did as he was told. His shoulders shook, his arm trembled, and as his length pulsed and ecstasy rushed through his frame, he didn’t look away from you. You watched him fall apart, looked at him like he belonged between your legs and he should know that… and that took the ground right out from beneath him.

He collapsed on top of you, whimpering helplessly as your fingers threaded into his hair, and though he fought it nobly, in the end, he slipped from your world.

* * *

Sebastian shot up, chest heaving as a waning pleasure buzzed between his legs. He ripped his covers back, and as he’d expected, the dream had translated over into real life.

“Fuck.”

It was the perfect word, and he meant every version of it that existed. Gods, it had felt so real. So fucking real, and the best part? It technically had been. Your dream, your conscience, your choice. You’d kissed him, you’d pulled his fingers to your breast; you’d asked for his cock, and you had told him to cum. Sebastian laughed softly. Never in a million years would he have thought that lay beneath a doe like you, but as he’d suspected — and now he knew — something downright sinister lurked beneath your coat. The challenge now was getting you to let it loose, to wreak havoc on him in the waking world.

With a sigh, he pulled his pajama pants from his legs and tossed them in his hamper, then rummaged quietly through his dresser for a new pair of underwear and sweatpants. He did his best, even dragged the Dreamvisitor over to provide a bit of light, but as he searched, a realization paused his digging.

He hadn’t been wearing his pajamas in your dream. He’d been wearing his uniform, with a tie, specifically— something he’d started going without because he couldn’t spare thirty seconds most mornings. Sebastian felt his lips tighten into a smirk. It seemed you had a favorite. He could spare thirty seconds. He continued his digging with newfound fervor, found the pair he was looking for, slipped into them and the new pair of underwear, then fell back into bed with a grin.

It was safe to say Sebastian Sallow knew what he was going to wear tomorrow.

- - -

<<< Previous Chapter

[sentrysallow]

Dream of Me - Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

Summary: A "double-dose of forbidden." That is what Sebastian Sallow stumbles into -- quite literally -- after one step too far into the Restricted Section.

A secret passage, a hidden library, and within it, an artifact he'll worship once he comes to understand it.

> Part 2 < Now up!

Word Count: ~2,800

Warnings: aged-up characters, language, sexual allusions

“Who’s down here!?”

With a criminally loud thunk, Sebastian hit the back of his head against the bookshelf he was digging through. 

Shit. Madam Scribner. Did the damn woman ever sleep?

“Mr. Sallow, if that’s you…”

He needn’t hear the rest because it was him, and if her incoming threat was to come to fruition, he wouldn’t have a way out of it this time. He was the furthest into the Restricted Section he’d ever been, and given Scribner’s footsteps echoed from the direction his only exit lay in, he’d have to push deeper, hide inside a sarcophagus or something. 

Sebastian scrambled down the ladder he’d topped, landing on his feet with the practiced grace of stray cat. He darted left and down the stairs, the same stairs that had a nasty habit of resurrecting the evening Peeves had ripped from him— the evening he’d planned to kiss you. 

Now, was he sure he hadn’t been rushing into things? No, not entirely, but part of him then — and all of him now — knew you were someone he wanted to keep around. 

He couldn’t explain it in detail because he didn’t understand it ‘in detail.’ It was just a feeling. A feeling that made him feel ten times lighter when you were by his side, and a feeling that had him diving deeper into the Restricted Section night after night in search of anything that might give him an excuse to talk to you. 

If Sebastian hadn’t been currently running for his right to graduate, he would’ve kicked himself for the elementary stratagem, but seeing as Scribner had knocked her knickers into full pursuit, the Slytherin figured he should hide before he ran out of runway.

He paused and darted his eyes about his surroundings, but aside from a troll statue, it seemed his best option was still forward and down the last flight of stairs. With a ceding frown, he fled into the cold corridor. 

Tears from the Black Lake spilled down its walls, clueing Sebastian in on just how far down he’d found himself, but the damning realization was quickly forgotten with a gust of wind.

Sebastian paused at the foot of the stairs. Wind? How? This section of the castle was underwater. He shook his head. Why was he questioning his a way out of what might damn well near be a guaranteed expulsion?

He extended his hand and caught the icy current. Left. Two bookshelves. That had to be it. He traced his fingers gently over the sliver of space between them. His assumption had been correct, but how to open it? He pulled at a statue on one of the shelves. Nothing. Then a large, ornate book. Nothing. He pushed another book in that stuck out a smidge too far. Nothing.

Damn it! That's always how it worked in the novels.

He whirled around. His mind raced back to the sarcophagus option, but there were none in sight.

He backed against the bookshelves like a cornered animal. Scribner would cross that threshold any second, and thus would be the four-month, premature end to his Hogwarts career. With an exasperated sigh, he readied himself to face the woman's wrath, but then his heel landed against a different section of the stone floor beneath him, and he was falling backwards. 

The passageway had opened, revealing a slope one could definitely walkdown if they’d been expecting it. Instead, the boy practically somersaulted his way through it. He bumped his head there, knocked an elbow here, and by the time he’d recovered, he didn’t need the light from the closing bookshelves to know he was covered in cobwebs. 

Spiders. Sebastian ripped his wand from his side and cast the ‘save-all’ incendio. Flames swept in every direction, curling up and around him, but the orange glow soon revealed the only threat lay upstairs. The sliver of pale light was growing brighter and the wind that wrapped his robe around his legs threatened to clue the librarian in on the passage's exisistence too.

He flicked his wand toward the narrow hall, “Ventum obice.” 

The words weaved themselves into the breeze, reversing its path so it now blew his curls out of his face, and with a subsequent colloportus, the stone he’d unknowingly triggered locked into place. He held his breath, gaze pinned to his saving gateway until Scribner muttered something about being ‘too old for this’ as her footsteps retreated back up the stairs. 

Sebastian’s shoulders fell in time to the relief from his lips. 

Thanks dark, secret, ominous passageway.

He smiled, finally dusting the cobwebs from his frame. You’d liked that one, and speaking of you, there had to be something — aside from the passage itself — he could tell you about in here. 

"Lumos."

White light settled atop his wand, illuminating all he would ‘tell you about.’

Sebastian had found himself in the secret room of all secret rooms. Along either side of him, shelves upon shelves of books rooted themselves to the floorboards before they branched out overhead like trees. Tomes and objects held inside defied gravity, their spines and twisting shapes looking down on him like curious demiguise. The room was massive, so much so the upper section of the library was concealed in an enchanted night sky, and yet, despite the grandeur, what entranced him more than all of that was an object in the center of the cavernous room.

Reflecting in the boy’s dark brown irises was an eight-point star, awakened by the light it now drank from his wand. He padded towards it, and as he did so, it brightened, but not in the way he’d expected. It didn’t light the room, nor did he need to shield his eyes. No, its light deepened. It grew a fantastical blue, one that pulled him closer like a cold room and warm covers did after one too many hours spent awake. 

Sebastian tilted his head, coming to a stop at the foot of the pedestal it sat upon.

“What are you?” He whispered.

He reached for the star and placed a cautious finger atop it. Almost expectantly, it was cool to the touch, soothing, and quickly convinced him he should take it into his hand. 

With eyes fixed to it, Sebastian gently tossed the light on his wand toward the ceiling where it settled, and slumped into an arm chair nearby. 

Citing the pedestal in the center of the room, it was clear the space had been made for the artifact; what wasn’t clear, however, was what it was, and why it needed to be hidden in the Restricted Section— a double-dose of forbidden.

Almost reluctantly, he looked away from it and placed the star in his pocket. If there were answers anywhere, they had to be in here. 

For the next few hours, Sebastian scoured the shelves, skimming through and peering into books that piqued his interests — which was just about all of them — and the whole time he couldn’t help but wonder if he was dreaming. He was swimming through information, drowning in random facts, and his quest to discover the purpose of the star was long forgotten. He was a kid in the candy capital, and once he’d run his ‘sugar high,’ he crashed appropriately.

Against his will, the words on the pages began to blur. He fought it, even pulled the lumos from the center of the room to light the parchment, but eventually, inevitably, he lost the battle. His lashes fluttered shut, mind giving in to the lazy current that wound toward the isle of sleep, and along the way, he couldn’t help but think of you.

* * *

“Sebastian, come help me with this, would you?”

Sebastian frowned. Where— What—?

“Sebastian? Hello?” You called, waving your hand in front of his face, “Anyone home?”

He looked down at his feet. He was standing. Then up at you, over your shoulder. The Undercroft. 

“S-sorry,” he answered, tightening his slack jaw as he shuffled over to help you, apparently, move a couch.

What was going on? He’d just been— had it been— no, he’d fallen asleep there. No one wakes up standing. He looked at you to ask you what was going on, but considering he’d rather you fancy him than think him mad, he opted to figure it out on his own. 

With a huff you set down your end of the couch and he followed suit.

“That should be enough space, yeah?” You asked, knuckles planted against your hips.

He nodded fruitlessly, watching you make your way to the center of the Undercroft. Maybe you were practicing spells, or maybe wielding that Ancient Magic of yours he could never take his eyes off of, but judging by the way you cocked a brow at him, neither seemed to be correct.

“Sebastian? You ok?” A hand was back on your hip.

Ok? Not exactly. He had no idea what you were talking about or how he’d gotten here.

He shot you an embarrassed smile, “Nothing, just… thinking.”

You smiled back at him and his heart fluttered.

“You already do enough of that. Now get over here! You promised!”

Another embarrassed smile with a dash of fear. What had he promised that had you looking at him like that? Like you might kiss him, or pants him, or both? He shook the question off. Did it really matter? Who was he to deny you anything? 

He headed towards you, a cautious weight lugging around his ankles, but once he’d neared you enough, you grabbed him by the cuff of his robe and guided him behind you… centimeters behind you.

Sebastian swallowed as the cold heat of proximity prickled at his skin. What in Merlin’s name did you do, Sebastian?

You continued, moving his fingers so they wrapped around your wrist, then went to place his other hand on your thigh. Absolutely not. Sebastian tried to pull back, but you turned further into him and pouted.

“Seb, you said you’d help me.”

His wide gaze betrayed his inner turmoil, flattening your expression.

“Did you seriously forget?”

He wanted to answer, he did, but with your frame brushing against his inner thigh, it was a hopeless cause.

“Merlin, you did forget!” You shook your head, blurring the blush that crept along your soft features, “You said you’d help me nail the spell.”

He stared blankely. You huffed, then leaned further into him.

“Sectumsempra.” you whispered.

Sebastian looked down at you and practically melted. You were so close, and through dark lashes, you wore a shade of mischief that struck his composure harder than physical touch ever could.

What was going on? Just yesterday he’d worked up every nerve in his body to sit next to you at lunch, just for you to scoot an inch away from him once he’d done so— and he couldn’t remember the last time the two of you had been alone in the Undercroft. Trust Merlin, he’d tried, but you always had an excuse, a fact that had him wondering if perhaps this was the dream.

That’s when he saw it. Between his and your robes, a rich, blue light poured from his pocket. The star.

The hand still innocent of resting on your thigh dove into his robe and pulled it out, it cooling his touch as his features were bathed in blue.

He looked back to you.

“Alright Sebastian,” you declared, taking a step back, “What’s the matter with you.”

He scrunched his brow and parted his lips, ready to wave the gleaming artifact in front of you like a lollipop, but that’s when he noticed your complexion was immune to its glow. Your skin was still lit by the candelabras overhead and your gaze only reflected his empty hand. 

You couldn’t see it. 

He shoved it back in his pocket, the image of him presenting 'sod all' to a very confused you was enough to fuel his nightmares for a week straight. 

“Nothing!” he exclaimed, “Nothing’s the matter! Just uh, thought I— never mind.”

You were suspicious, gaze narrowed, head turned, but still you settled back against him. This time, he placed his hand on your thigh and positioned your stance, pulled you close, and tightened his grip on your wrist.

“Sectumsempra, right?”

You nodded slowly and pulled your attention off of him and onto your wand. 

Sebastian guided you through the invisible symbol over and over, and you eventually eased back into him. On any other day, under any other circumstances, he’d have leaned into you, mind racing through the thousands of ways he could take things one step further… but tonight… today? Gods, he didn’t know. Whatever it was, he needed to figure out just what it was he’d stuffed in his pocket. 

* * *

Sebastian had a habit of staying up late, glued to books he soon fell asleep with, so when his enchanted pocket watch began ringing like an alarm, he wasn’t surprised— but what did surprise him was where he woke up. 

He sat up, craning a sore shoulder to reach for the rattling timekeeper. He clicked it off and blinked the sleep from his eyes. He was surrounded by piles of books, and beyond them, an underground library with stars still settled overhead like the one in his pocket. 

His fingers brushed over its sharp edges.

It had been a dream? 

If it had been, it had been the realest dream he’d ever had. He wasn’t proud to admit it, but Sebastian had had plenty of dreams that had followed the plot of him being close to you— and often more… Be that as it may, none of them had ever felt so real. 

Sebastian dug the heels of his hands into his eyes with a sigh. The stale air of the Undercroft, the heat of your frame against his, the swell of your thigh— all of it as real as the thin carpet he sat on now and the chill that crept beneath his robe. 

He dropped his hands and peered at the star in his pocket.

"You’re guilty," he mumbled.

He couldn’t explain it. He just knew, and was absolutely going to find out why.

* * *

On his trek back to his room, Sebastian discovered something worth knowing. Madam Scribner was no where to be found, and that fact had the Slytherin rearranging his sleep schedule to fit such a timeline on his way to the dungeon restrooms. 

He didn’t have time to change. Besides, a wrinkly robe was more common than an ironed one these days, so a washed face and wet fingers through his hair would more than suffice. 

If Scribner is asleep now, she probably went to bed just after I discovered the room. So, if I sleep from ten to two, I can probably bring y/n down there about three and we can be out by five…

“Anne, I’m telling you, it was the craziest thing.”

You stepped from the girl's restroom, head turned toward who he naturally assumed was his twin, and Sebastian about tumbled over himself coming to a stop. He spun backward, punching the air out of his lungs when he slammed against the stone wall.

“Your dream?” Anne asked, her classic skepticism clear and present.

“Yes, my dream.” You replied.

A pause.

“You sure it wasn’t just a lucid one? Drink too much apple juice or something last night?”

“No, I didn’t. Not a lick of it. And I don’t think apple juice makes you feel dreams.”

“Oh, yuck!” Anne exclaimed, “Don't you dare tell me! I don’t want to know!”

You laughed, and though the sound of it always made him smile, the prospect of what Anne’s ‘yuck’ entailed kept him stone-still. 

“Stop it! Not like that! You really think I’d tell you about this if that’s what it involved?”  

“I’d hope not…” Anne chuckled.

“Look,” you started, “all we were doing was practicing a spell in the Undercroft, I swear— and I’m only sharing it with you because it was crazy real.”

A pause. Practicing a spell? The Undercroft? Sebastian's breath caught in his throat and he pulled the star out of his pocket to stare at it.

“Crazy real because what?" Anne snickered, "You felt my brother?”

“Oh never mind!” You exclaimed, “You're impossible!”

His twin laughed now, "Hey! You could always ask Professor Onai about it in Div!”

You didn't reply, only your footsteps could be heard echoing on the stone beneath you as you fled, forcing Sebastian to scramble around a corner and out of sight. 

His chest heaved, swallowing gallons of dank dungeon air in an attempt to let reality sink in. What in Salazar’s snively snake?

He’d been in your dream, but more than that, he’d been in your dream— and the star he held in his hand was to blame, no, to thank. He looked to it again, and suddenly its deep glow held an immeasurable sense of value as he turned it over in his hands. 

It was a Dreamvisitor.

- - -

A.N. I can confirm this is the one and same Dreamvisitor from the Wings of Fire series.

Next Chapter >>>

[anto-pops]

Restraint - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Sebastian wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful for your lack of attention. The clueless facade you maintained where he was concerned made him equal parts angry and confused. Didn’t you know he was a man? An eighteen year old man who catered to your every whim? A legal adult whose room you spent an unorthodox amount of time in? Anyone with eyes could see that Sebastian was into you, and yet you never gave him any sign that you were aware of his feelings for you. 

It was mind-boggling. It was frustrating. He was at the end of his rope.

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, masturbation, intense pining, possessive behavior, cunnilingus, oral fixation/oral smut, explicit sexual content

This random Monday oneshot is also on Ao3 | Part 2 now included

Sebastian had never been one for subtlety. In Ominis’ own words, he wore his heart on his sleeve and let his emotions fuel his tone, but there was little he could do to remedy that fact. Tiptoeing around a subject or beating around the bush never failed to frustrate him. He preferred it when people said what they meant and meant what they said. Being straight up and getting to the point spared him a headache and prevented him from losing his temper, which was the best case scenario for everyone. 

Sebastian said what he wanted, did what he wanted, and never wasted his breath apologizing for his actions when he knew deep down that he wouldn’t mean it anyways. Placations were pointless. 

Unless, however, you were involved. 

Everything about you had driven Sebastian mad for the last three years. From the moment you had arrived at Hogwarts, he had been completely and utterly entranced by you. Then you’d gone and broken his dueling win streak in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the infatuation had turned into obsession. You were the one person he wouldn’t– no, couldn’t be authentic with. How could he be? You made him stupid. He could barely think straight around you, his mind imbuing him with the sorts of thoughts that would land him in an asylum if he voiced them. If he didn’t filter himself around you, it wouldn’t end well. Not for him, and certainly not for you. 

He didn’t know if your obliviousness to his behavior was all for show or if it was completely genuine, but he didn’t want to risk finding out. 

“Sebastian?” Your voice made him go rigid, the tired rasp to your voice sending his body’s entire blood supply straight between his legs.  

“What?” 

“Do you want to work on that History of Magic report with me later? I fell asleep and missed half of the lecture.” 

He watched you over the rim of his cup, the steam from the hot chocolate wafting into the air and obscuring his view of you slightly. Of course he knew you’d fallen asleep– he had been watching your head bob up and down for twenty minutes in class before the fatigue had won out and you’d slumped over your desk. Professor Binns was always too preoccupied with floating listlessly around the chalkboard to take notice, which was why Sebastian hadn’t bothered to wake you up. If you were tired, you needed to rest. 

More to the point, Sebastian enjoyed watching you when you weren’t looking. What better opportunity was there to do so than while you slept? 

Your chin was daintily perched in your palm as you pushed around the food on your plate, waiting patiently for his answer. With your tired smile and half-lidded eyes, he was convinced you were on the verge of passing out again. How late had you stayed up last night? What had you been doing instead of sleeping? Had you gone out with your friends– or Merlin forbid– someone else?

He banished the train of thought from his mind, lest he piss himself off with the possible answers. “Sure. Library?” 

“Hm… can we go to your room? If I fall asleep again, at least it’ll be in an actual bed.” 

The mental image of you sprawled out on his bed did nothing to alleviate the growing bulge straining against his trousers. His jaw hardened as he breathed in deeply through his nose, then exhaled through his pursed lips. “Yeah, fine. I won’t do the work for you if you fall asleep, though.” 

Your tired expression lit up as you beamed at him, and his stomach churned violently. It was pathetic how smitten he was. He knew he would agree to come to class in a ballgown if it meant getting to glimpse that dazzling grin of yours. 

The smile he gave you was mildly strained, but you didn’t notice. Thankfully. 

Sebastian spent the rest of lunch holding his breath and thinking of anything that fit the criteria of gross and off-putting. He had to. It wasn’t like he could rub one out in the middle of the Great Hall to get rid of the half-mast hidden behind his zipper. He couldn’t even excuse himself to go back to his dorm to take care of it in private– he’d be showcasing the full extent of the problem between his legs to the entire student body if he did. You were none the wiser to his internal turmoil as you rambled on innocently about one thing or another, but he could barely hear you over the rush of blood in his ears. 

He checked the giant grandfather clock against the wall. Twenty more minutes for lunch. With any luck, it would prove to be enough time for his cock to calm the fuck down. 

—

You were always late. 

Sebastian had grown accustomed to your unyielding habit of showing up places behind schedule. In the beginning it had bothered him, if only because he was the exact opposite. He had to be early to everything on his agenda, otherwise he was panicky and on edge. But your reliable tendency to arrive after an agreed upon time was exactly what he needed right now, because if he didn’t kill the boner he’d been sporting since lunch, he was going to lose his fucking mind. 

The dorm was empty since all of his roommates were either in the Library or in Hogsmeade, but Sebastian still tried to stifle his noises. Choked moans of your name were bitten back and swallowed as his fist furiously worked the aching length of his cock. There was nothing sensual or graceful about how he moved his hand– it was all frantic. Berserk, even. His fingers were pressed roughly against his shaft, his wrist twisting rapidly over the head as he tried to practically yank his orgasm out. Any other day he would be ashamed of how pitiful he had to look, but not now. 

Right now, he was desperate. He had to stave off his cravings for you as a precaution before you showed up, otherwise he knew he’d be done for. 

A quick succession of three knocks sounded from the door, halting his movements. Then Sebastian’s blood ran cold when he heard your voice from the other side. “Sebastian? Are you here?” 

The stinging slap from his hand clamping over his mouth worked to snap his mind out of its lust-induced haze. Squeezing the base of his cock with bruising strength, Sebastian let his head fall back against the headboard of his bed as tears of frustration and pent-up pleasure filled his eyes. He blinked them back stubbornly, digging his teeth into his thumb as his entire body seized with agitation. 

Figures that this was the one time you were actually early. 

You started knocking again, your knuckles rapping against the wood of the door faster, your impatience permeating the air on your side of the wall until it was too much to bear. 

Sebastian snarled as he hastily stuffed himself back in his pants, at a complete loss for how to proceed. He was hardly in a state to be around you right now. All of this had been so he wouldn’t be a fraught mess around you, but now things were ten times worse. His legs were tense as he swung them over the side of the bed and made his way to the door, taking an extra moment to readjust his painfully hard cock in his pants before undoing the lock and wrenching the door open. 

“Finally,” you huffed angrily, your narrowed eyes widening when they took note of his flushed, sweaty face. “Merlin, what’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” 

“You’re early,” Sebastian replied flatly, ignoring your question completely. 

“Yeah, Garreth offered to help Poppy out at the stalls for me so I came over sooner. What’s the matter with you?” 

“I–” Shit, what did he say? His brain scrambled for an excuse, his red cheeks and disheveled clothing leaving little room for interpretation. Unless… “I was working out. Getting ready for Quidditch next week. I thought I’d have more time to finish up and shower, but now you’re here.” 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I forgot about Quidditch. Figures Imelda is making you prepare early,” you waved your hand over your shoulder in the general direction of the bathroom. “Go ahead, don’t stop on my account. I can start reviewing what notes I did manage to take today.” 

Sebastian wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful for your lack of attention. The clueless facade you maintained where he was concerned made him equal parts angry and confused. Didn’t you know he was a man? An eighteen year old man who catered to your every whim? A legal adult whose room you spent an unorthodox amount of time in? Anyone with eyes could see that Sebastian was into you, and yet you never gave him any sign that you were aware of his feelings for you. 

It was mind-boggling. It was frustrating. He was at the end of his rope.

And he still needed to shower. 

“Give me ten minutes,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you. You nodded and stepped inside his room, watching as he stiffly grabbed a change of clothes and a towel before striding past you without a second glance. 

If the universe held any affection for him at all, a cold shower would be enough to loosen the tight knot in the pit of his stomach. 

—

Unsurprisingly, Sebastian’s excursion to the bathroom was unsatisfying. The shower head ought to count itself lucky that it was still mounted to the wall and not lying in a broken, dented heap on the floor. The icy spray of water had eased the problem between his thighs, but it had also snapped him out of his stupor, sharpened his senses, and left him with the grating realization that nothing would help him quench his thirst for you. 

After donning a pair of pajama pants and an old Quidditch jersey that had definitely seen better days, Sebastian slowly– painfully– made his way back to you. He dimly towel dried his hair as he shuffled towards the door, giving himself as much time as possible to steel his nerves and barricade his lustful thoughts behind a mental, brick shield. A chill snaked its way up his spine as the cold air of the Slytherin dorms kissed his damp skin, but he barely paid it any mind. 

He would rather be cold than embarrassingly hard. 

When Sebastian pushed the door open, he found you laid out on his bed on your stomach, a textbook and a pile of notes situated before you. You’d shed your robes and were clad in your school uniform, the trousers you’d stubbornly kept since last year acting like a second skin. The passage of time was ultimately Sebastian’s greatest enemy, because with every month that went by, you changed. Physically changed. You were taller, curvier, and more womanly than ever. Instead of replacing your uniform with one that fit, you held on to ones from years past that had no business living in your drawers. 

That perky ass of yours was going to be his undoing. Why did that outdated pair of trousers have to hug your hips so nicely? 

He averted his gaze to the wall, curling his hands into tight fists that left violent red crescents on his palms. Get a grip, he thought to himself. 

“You certainly made yourself comfortable,” he finally managed to bite out, his voice strained and pitched higher than normal. Idiot. 

You glanced over at him with what he could only describe as a doe-eyed look. Those plush lips of yours were parted in mild surprise before they curled up into an easy smile, and your feet proceeded to kick up in the air playfully. “Your bed is much more comfortable than the one in my dorm.”

Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths, Sebastian. 

“Is that why you’ve practically moved in here? Not sleeping well in your own room?” 

“Among other things,” you admitted around a sigh. “Don’t pretend like you don’t live for my company though. What else would you do if I wasn’t around to pester you?” 

“Relax, most likely.” He allowed himself a shit-eating smirk, and he was rewarded by the sound of your indignant gasp. Closing the distance between you both, Sebastian sat down on the edge of the bed, confidently moving so that he was situated against the headboard for the second time today. You shifted around to give him more space, then brazenly draped your legs over his before shoving your notes into his lap. 

His smirk vanished, and it took everything in him not to let out the choked groan that bubbled in his throat in response to the close proximity. “Whatever. You love me, and we both know it,” you huffed tauntingly, your downcast eyes keeping you from seeing the way his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed thickly. “Now read over this and tell me if I got most of the important material. Then I can start drafting the paper.” 

History of Magic was the one class that never failed to make everyone sleepy, but presently? Working on an assignment like this with you in the wake of his shitty day? Sebastian had never been more awake, and it had everything to do with how pent-up he was. With excruciating restraint, he blocked out the feeling of your legs weighing down on his thighs and picked up the notes. 

It was going to be a long, long evening. 

—

It hadn’t been easy for Sebastian to maintain his composure for an hour straight, and there was even more truth to that fact now. You were still propped up against the bedpost with your notes scattered around you, your legs still tossed lazily over his, only you wouldn’t stop fidgeting. 

Seriously. Sitting still was a foreign concept to you and had been for the last twenty minutes, because your feet wouldn’t quit fucking rubbing together. That wasn’t the direct cause of Sebastian’s frayed composure. It was the fact that your incessant twitching was pulling on the fabric of his pants, drawing the material taught over his groin over and over and over. It wasn’t an unusual thing for you to get so restless after studying for so long without a break, but considering that his impromptu masturbation session had been cut short earlier, he was loads more anxious than usual.  

He didn’t mean to be so aggressive when he slapped his hands over your knees, stilling your absentminded writhing with a scowl. Later on he would apologize– and mean it– for being so harsh. But if he didn’t put a stop to your shifting, he was going to have bigger problems that superseded you being upset with him. 

“Hey!” Your head snapped up from your notes, your grip on your quill turning white knuckled as you openly glared at him. “That hurts. Let go–”

“Stop moving so much, you’re driving me insane!” He fired back defensively, hating how gruff his voice sounded. “Is it too much for you to sit still?” 

Your brows rose up your forehead in complete bewilderment, your expression warring between offended and shocked. “You could just ask next time instead of trying to dislocate my kneecaps. Merlin…” Sebastian didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgruntled when you attempted to withdraw your legs from his lap. Either way, he refused to let you move the limbs, and your loud sigh was laced with blatant vexation. “Let go, I’ll just move–” 

“No. I don’t want you to move, I just want you to relax.”

Your wary gaze pierced right through him, and if he wasn’t already coiled tighter than a fucking spring, he would stiffen at the way your lower lip jutted out into a pout. You obeyed, though, your legs staying mercifully still as you went back to reading over the notes he had added to, and Sebastian took the opportunity to watch you through his lashes while he pretended to look down at the papers in his own lap. 

Mussed strands of hair fell into your face, a byproduct of how frequently you’d run your fingers through them. Following summer break, you had returned to school with a light smattering of freckles dusting your nose. They couldn’t hold a candle to the ones that covered damn near every inch of him, but they were still pretty. Cute, even. The dark rings under your eyes would have looked sickly on anyone else, but in your case, they made the whites of your eyes all the more vibrant. You looked like a doll. 

A scrumptious, effortlessly beautiful doll. 

He watched as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, scratching out something you had written before hastily replacing the sentence with another. When the bit of skin was released, it was left red, swollen, and far more tempting than it had any right to be. 

He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to bite at your lips, your neck, your breasts, and leave imprints of his teeth all over you. He wanted to mark every inch of your body and lay his claim in some primal, unseemly way that went against every lick of gentlemanliness he had been taught. He wanted to toss his inhibitions to the wind and indulge in the taste of you– something he had wondered about for a long, long time. Were you as sweet as he imagined? Would your thighs work to crush his head if he found himself situated between them, lapping up your essence like a man starved? 

When your head popped up to glance at him again, Sebastian was unprepared for it. He was still staring– no, ogling you– with his eyes narrowed and his chest rising and falling rapidly. His fantasies had gotten the better of him and had left him a panting, lust-drunk mess. Another cold shower couldn’t even begin to lessen the painful throbbing of his cock. All of his hard work at keeping calm and in control had just flown out the fucking window, and he could only thank the stars in the sky that he had a pile of notes in his lap, concealing the evidence of his innermost thoughts. 

“Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” You asked him, abandoning your quill against the mattress so you could sit forward and scan his very flushed, very tense face. 

“I’m fine,” he looked away, trying and failing to wave you off. 

Stubborn as ever, you didn’t back down. “You’re all red. Do you have a fever?” 

“Seriously– I’m fine. Don’t worry about it, just finish your report already.” 

The force of his heart hammering against his sternum left him worried that it was about to jump out of his ribcage. Your hand was suddenly closing in on him, concern etched across your features as you shifted your legs to move closer into his space. The tantalizing smell of your perfume oil invaded his senses, filling his nose and setting his blood alight in his veins. There was something to be said about how primal humans could be when it came to scents. Yours had always been incredibly intoxicating, and Sebastian was all too willing to breathe it in deeply as the back of your hand made contact with his forehead. 

He was so fucked. 

“You’re burning up. Maybe we should call it a night… you probably need to sleep it off.” 

“I don’t need sleep,” he insisted with a frown, reaching up to pry your hand away from his face. “I already told you; I feel fine. Just drop it.” 

That spark of rebellion you reserved for your most loathed enemies came to life behind your irises, burning brighter than the sun as you narrowed your eyes at him and tried to plant your hand against his forehead again. Sebastian held you back with little effort, your arm shaking with the force you exerted in your attempts. “You’ve been weird all day– if you’re sick, you need to be checked out. So either you tell me what’s wrong with you, or I’ll drag you to the Hospital Wing myself.” 

That dark, animalistic part of him that conjured up the most obscene of daydreams silently laughed at your threat. Drag him? You couldn’t move him if you tried. He was infinitely stronger than you– broader, faster, tougher. You were the prey his inner predator yearned to claim. It was your fault that he was so out of it today, and yet you had the gall to order him around? 

With the utmost difficulty, Sebastian checked himself in record time, reining in the bestial side of him as his grip on your wrist tightened. “For the last time, nothing is wrong. If you can’t accept that, then leave. There’s the door. You have your notes– go finish your report in your own room.” 

You scoffed and strained in his hold, realizing that your attempts at moving your hand forward were fruitless. Then, faster than Sebastian could process, you threw your other arm out– deciding that if he was going to hold back your left hand, your right could pick up where the other had left off. He instinctively jerked you sideways to throw you off balance, which sent you careening forward against his chest. A guttural, almost pained groan ripped from his throat when your palm pressed directly against the throbbing bulge in his pants, your efforts to catch yourself effectively giving him away. 

The jig was up. Your hand was right on his cock, the notes in his lap crinkling loudly as your fingers flexed in alarm. His eyes, which had squeezed shut in response to the abrupt contact, cracked open to find you blinking up at him blearily. “S-Sebastian?” 

“Stop. Just don’t,” he grit through his teeth, his molars clenching together so roughly that he was certain his jaw would lock. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t– I shouldn’t have–” you tried to backpedal away from him to remove yourself from his personal space, but you only succeeded in applying more pressure to his groin. A choked whimper escaped his lips, the sound forming too quickly for him to stifle it and too loudly for you to have missed it. 

Fuck. 

Sebastian blindly yanked you forward so the brunt of your weight was pressed against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist to prevent you from escalating the situation further, and the sigh of relief that slipped through his teeth when you moved your hand away from his cock was pathetic. He was pathetic. 

He was glad that you couldn’t see his face when he desperately whispered, “Don’t– don’t fucking move. Please, just… give me a minute.” 

That was all he needed. A moment of reprieve. He needed sixty, uninterrupted seconds to focus on his breathing– to imagine a Dugbog in a swimsuit, or Madame Scribbner in lingerie. He needed to cycle through the things that never failed to kill his libido, and he could only do that if you let him. 

You didn’t. Fuck– you didn’t even give him five seconds to open his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, your hand was back on his cock, your fingers digging into the parchment that covered his lap as you fucking squeezed his pulsing length with intention. 

The effect was instantaneous, and the sounds that fell from Sebastian’s lips were ones that would be seared into your brain until the end of time. His brain, too. He had never made such a wretched noise in all his eighteen years of living. 

“Don’t make me throw you off this bed,” he growled slowly, but the high-pitched edge to his voice made it seem like despite his words, he was secretly pleading for it.

The image of himself climbing over you on the hardwood floor, pinning those damnable hands of yours above your head with one hand while the other was knuckle deep in your tight, fluttering cunt flooded his mind, and the brick wall of restraint he had constructed earlier crumbled into dust. He sucked down a shaky breath, his entire body vibrating with need as you gave him yet another testing squeeze, and that was what finally prompted him to seek out your eyes. 

They were glimmering with unrestrained curiosity, something strangely like wonder dancing behind your pupils. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I don’t know,” you admitted breathlessly, the prettiest flush Sebastian had ever seen spreading across your cheeks as you glanced down to where you gripped him. “I just… is this why you’ve been so out of it today?” 

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he rumbled, his mind urging him to shove you away while his body begged him to arch into your touch. “You better stop while you still have the chance.” 

“But…” you trailed off, squeezing him for the third time and jumping when he hissed loudly through his teeth. “This seems pretty bad. Painful, even.” 

If he wasn’t so wound up, he would have laughed. “You don’t even know the half of it.” 

Sebastian was convinced that he was the hardest he had ever been. The dual sensations of your hand on his cock and your shallow breaths fanning across his cheek had him dripping precum, the fluid swiftly soaking through the fabric of his pants and creating a stark wet patch that you noticed immediately. Almost testingly, you swiped your thumb over the spot, sending a bolt of arousal straight through him that left him gasping with need. 

His willpower was shot. It was going to take a fucking miracle to come back from this. You had effectively taken every last bit of Sebastian’s resolve and crushed it all beneath your heel, leaving him trembling and keening as every part of your being invaded his senses and held him hostage. 

“Fuck– please,” he moaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He couldn’t look at you right now– it would be the end of everything if he did. The end of this insanely euphoric moment, the end of his restraint, and maybe even the end of his friendship with you. This was… uncharted territory. He was scared to explore it, but gods, did he want to. “Please, I can’t– I can’t take it…” 

He heard you swallow, your hesitation evident in the way you paused before lifting your hand away from his groin. The wrist he had held apart from you slipped free, his fingers closing over nothing but air, and a wave of disappointment crashed over him. Every inch of skin you pried away left him emptier and emptier, his heart and his dignity deflating with each passing second. His chest felt tight, and he was fully prepared to sit there in agonizing silence while you gathered your things to leave as fast as your legs could take you. 

But then your hands were back– on either side of his face to tilt his head up to yours– and his sharp intake of breath was smothered by your soft, delectable lips pressing against his. 

Bloody hell. 

You weren’t leaving. 

A switch flipped. 

A carnal growl ripped from the back of his throat, and then he had you splayed out on your back with his knee wedged insistently between your thighs. He faintly heard the sound of your notes being scattered across the floor, but your startled gasp transforming into a hapless moan was more important. His lips crashed back into yours with zeal, the mask he had maintained this entire time dissipating like smoke in the wind, and his tongue bullied its way into your mouth, probing and tasting as though he didn’t have enough time to memorize every facet of information he unearthed. 

You tried to match his pace the best you could, nipping at his lips and breathing heavily into his mouth, but your attempts only annoyed Sebastian. He asserted dominance by grabbing your chin between his index finger and thumb, then pried your lips apart with his tongue and conquered your mouth wholly and without subtlety. 

“I need you,” he panted against your face, his fingers digging sharply into your hips. “I need you so bad, darling.”

You could only moan shakily when Sebastian dove back in to latch his lips over your pulse, peppering your neck with wet, sloppy kisses and decorating it with an assortment of love-bites. His teeth left a trail of imprints that his tongue worked to soothe, comforting you like he always had while hopelessly committing the taste of your salty skin to memory. 

Sebastian felt you shudder as he worked his way up the column of your neck to the sensitive area below your ear. He nipped at the warm flesh waiting for him there, and when you whined and shamelessly bared more of yourself to him, he couldn’t stop himself from grinding his clothed cock against your hip. “Please, fuck– let me taste you. I’ll do anything you ask, just spread your legs and let me make you feel good.”

Your breathing hitched, and you tried to turn your head towards him, but he was too busy panting against your neck to meet your flustered stare. “S-Sebastian–” 

“Please, darling. I’m fucking begging here. Let me in. Let me do this.” 

Sebastian sounded drunk, his mind positively swimming with lust. The prospect of getting to see you like this, of getting to touch you, was driving him absolutely insane. His voice was airy and reedy– almost choked as though he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. 

“I– I’ve never done this before,” you stammered softly, your cheeks flushing with humiliation at the revelation. 

Sebastian’s head snapped up, a fire burning behind his eyes as he stared down at you with newfound hunger, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had to look deranged. “You– no one has ever touched you like this? Never?” 

“I mean, I’ve been kissed before, but not…” you trailed off, suddenly bashful in the face of your inexperience. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Something buried deep inside of him broke free at that moment– a wild, untamable piece of himself that salivated at the fact that you were a virgin. No one had ever laid with you before. No one had ever glimpsed the intimate, private parts of yourself that were always hidden beneath that damn uniform. He would be the first– he would be your first. It should have been impossible, but the thought alone made him harder, his cock straining and leaking so much precum that he wouldn’t be surprised if it was dripping through the fabric of his pants. 

Rational thinking returned to him then, and he was able to blink back the fog that shrouded his morals. “We can stop,” he croaked, not meaning a fucking word of it. “Fuck– tell me to stop and I’ll leave you alone. We can’t come back from this. Tell me to back off and I will.” 

“I…” uncertainty washed over your pretty features, and much like before, Sebastian’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach. He was so selfish. He was such a self-serving bastard– he didn’t want you to call him off. He wasn’t the religious type in the slightest, but for the first time in his entire life, Sebastian started honest to God praying that you wanted this. That you wanted him. 

He was going to have to make a point to pray more, because after a few tense beats of silence, he heard you shyly murmur, “I don’t want you to stop.” 

Fuck. Thank Merlin. 

There would be time later to be embarrassed about how his body sagged with relief. He was too busy kissing you again to bother with such a trivial emotion right now. Savoring your taste with a deep groan, Sebastian allowed himself a minute to grind against your hip, then moved back so he could begin the laborious process of stripping your too-tight trousers from your legs. It took longer than he would have liked, but once the attire reached the base of your ankles, he was able to rip them off and discard them haphazardly over his shoulder. 

“Need to burn those,” he growled. “They drive me crazy.” 

A brief huff of amusement came from you, and you squeezed your knees together in some feeble attempt to hide yourself from him. “They’re just pants.”

He didn’t have the mental capacity to get into why he had such a potent love-hate relationship with the clothing. Instead of explaining himself, he reached out to pry your legs apart, taking immense satisfaction in the way you squeaked and your entire face turned red. “Let me taste you. I’ve been wanting to for so fucking long– I swear I’ll make you feel good, love.” 

Sebastian was sure that if he opened a dictionary to look up the word ‘disoriented’, there would be a photo of your face printed right next to it. You had never looked at him like that before; flushed, wide-eyed, and with traces of both confusion and arousal shadowing your tight features. Your expression had no right to rile him up the way it did, but he wasn’t interested in hiding his thirst for you. Not anymore. 

“Are you sure?” You asked him, voice quivering. “That– I mean, if it’s gross or anything, don’t feel like you have to.” 

Sebastian scoffed. You had no clue how extensive his fantasies were. As if he could ever be grossed out by you. 

The level of innocence you displayed only spurred him on faster, and he eagerly sat forward to cover your mouth with his again, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your blouse so he could wrench it over your shoulders. Even though he was vibrating with barely contained need, he had to allow himself a moment to take in the sight of you completely bare, the staps of your brassiere hanging seductively over the sides of your arms and tightening the knot in the pit of his stomach. Your undergarments had to be as outdated as your trousers, because they were snug, short, and way too sheer to qualify as new. 

He needed to burn those, too. 

Sebastian watched you with predatory intent as he slipped his fingers under the waistband of your unmentionables, letting his nails scratch against your thighs when he began to drag the clothing down your legs. Without your blouse in the way, he was able to see the full extent of your reddening skin, the color more vibrant than the Gryffindor banners that hung in the Great Hall. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, then stilled when the underwear was fully removed. Save for your brassiere, you were completely bare before him, and Sebastian audibly moaned when he looked down to find your folds glistening with moisture already. 

“I’m going to drink up everything you have to give me until there’s nothing left,” he braced his hands on either side of your hips to lower himself onto his stomach, taking care to plant soft, revering kisses against your hip bones. “I know you taste so fucking good. I just know it…” 

Your entire body tensed when you felt Sebastian exhale against your damp center, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled your intoxicating scent. Then before you could collect your bearings, he was licking a broad, flat stripe up your slit, collecting as much of your wetness as he possibly could, and the sensation made you jolt. “S-Sebastian–” you gasped, digging your fingers into the rumpled sheets of the bed in a bid to ground yourself. 

“Yeah, say my name,” he urged roughly, his chest swelling with male pride. The sound of his name on your lips had the same effect as a bolt of lightning; it sliced through him to his very core, electric and unbelievably erotic, and he brazenly covered the entirety of your cunt with his mouth, licking and sucking at whatever parts of you he could reach. 

The wetness that covered you was so extensive, it was hard to tell whether it was your own arousal or Sebastian’s saliva to blame. A cacophony of moans and whines tumbled from your throat without restraint, prompting him to dig his nails into your sides as he hauled you closer. He fucked his tongue into you with inhuman vigor, his jaw aching in protest, but he ignored the discomfort and continued to devour every drop of your essence like he would die if he didn’t. 

It was so messy, too. Sebastian could feel the moisture dripping down his chin, but that only inspired him to work harder– his grip on your waist turning so severe that he knew he would find finger shaped bruises there later. Another mark left by him. Another brand proving that you were his. 

“I knew it,” he panted hoarsely, his voice strained and deep as though he’d been screaming before now. “You taste so good, darling– so fucking sweet.”

“I– Sebastian, I–” you covered your face with your hands, the appendages shaking in earnest as your muscles began to tense. “Fuck, I think I–”

He sucked your clit between his lips then, laving his tongue over the swollen bud with so much pressure that your hips bucked against his face. The chuckle he let loose was guttural and dark, and he broke his unwavering concentration to glance up at you. “Are you close? You want to come for me, huh?” 

Sebastian knew you had to be embarrassed, because you were still hiding behind your hands, the heels of your palms digging into your sockets. He could faintly see the row of teeth-shaped marks that lined your neck, but the majority of his hard work from earlier was concealed by your forearms. That wouldn’t do. He reached up and wrenched one of your arms away to reveal your watery stare, the glassy sheen covering your eyes telling him everything he needed to know about how close to the edge you were. 

“Don’t hide from me. I want to see your face when you fall apart on my tongue.” 

“It’s embarrassing,” your voice shook, as did the hand Sebastian held in his own. “I can’t– it feels hot. Like I’m on fire. I can’t even think–” 

“Then don’t,” he interjected immediately, tenderly kissing the insides of your thighs in a way that made your stomach churn. “Don’t think. Just feel. Let me do all the work, and you just sit there and enjoy every second of it.” 

It was a simple enough concept, but you still yelped when he dove back in, the singular hand he kept on your waist pulling you down so he was smothered by your wet, pulsing cunt. Sebastian didn’t waste any time picking up where he’d left off, his eyes burning as your potent scent drove him into a frenzy. He inhaled sharply as his tongue poked and prodded incessantly, its only goal to collect as much of your slick as possible, the ferocity of his movements making you tremble. Your nerves were totally scorched as the heat within your body reached new levels, the pleasure building in your gut nearing a peak that you were almost afraid to fall over. 

“S-Sebastian, I can’t– ah!” Your words transformed into a keening moan when Sebastian sucked your puffy nub into his mouth again. The bedframe shook in time with your own vibrating, your eyes crossing as the symphony of ecstasy he gave to you climbed to its crescendo. Sebastian’s lungs burned from the lack of oxygen he sucked down, but he didn’t care. If he suffocated to death while fused to your sopping wet cunt, he would die a happy man. 

Breaking away from your clit for a brief moment, he hastily murmured, “Come on, love, let go. Use me and let go.” 

He released your arm and tucked his hand somewhere under his chest, your confusion lasting for all of two seconds before you felt his fingers snaking their way inside of you. There was no resistance thanks to the slick gushing from your hole, the wetness saturating his hand and making him groan with desire. Sebastian’s tongue continued to flick and press against your bundle of nerves with reckless abandon, his fingers pumping and curling in and out of you as you deliriously cried out his name. Your walls tightened around his digits, sucking them deeper at the same time your brows furrowed in alarm, and Sebastian knew he had you right where he wanted you. 

“Sebastian– wait, I can’t– I’m going to–” 

His eyes strained as he fixed them on your face, his lips barely parting from your clit as he encouraged you. “Come on, darling, come on my face. Be a good girl and let go– just let go.” 

The praise drove you clean over the edge, the coil in the pit of your stomach finally snapping as his voice and his fingers and his tongue reduced you to a quaking, moaning mess. Sebastian’s desperation for you consumed you, pure rapture washing over your limbs before they fell boneless against the mattress. Stars danced in the corners of your vision, and you heard and felt Sebastian groan against you before his unrelenting grip on your waist went slack. 

You hardly registered him slipping his fingers free from your cunt and climbing over you until his face was right in front of yours. Sebastian took a flurry of mental snapshots of you, tucking each one into the far reaches of his mind and vowing to himself that he would never forget the fucked-out expression you bore. He made a point to suck the remnants of your pleasure from his digits while maintaining eye contact, and you whimpered breathlessly at the sight. 

“You were so good for me,” Sebastian cooed as he gathered you up in his arms. He moved so his back was nestled against the pillows before repositioning you so your head was tucked against his shoulder. Soothingly, he carded his fingers through your hair as he asked, “Are you okay?” 

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” you managed between deep, shuddering breaths. “What about you?” 

“More than okay. Don’t you worry about me.” 

“But…” your eyes flicked down at the same time he tried to cover the blossoming wet patch on his pajama pants. “I thought you didn’t–”

Almost sheepishly, he admitted, “I did. Trust me, that did more for me than you could possibly imagine. I’m sorry for being so aggressive. And for being such a prick today. I just… it’s been hard to rein it in around you recently.” 

He felt your chin dig into the side of his pec as you glanced up at him, the virtuous, doe-eyed look you fixed him with threatening to undo him all over again. “Rein what in?” 

“You can’t honestly tell me you don’t realize the effect you have on me, right?” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut as he dredged up the very thoughts that had been hounding him for years. “I’m hopeless where you’re concerned. I get stupid. I act like a daft, brainless idiot, and you just strut about without a clue. I thought I’d finally gotten the hang of keeping that under control, but…” 

“Apparently not,” you helpfully supplied, and Sebastian grunted confirmingly. Those blasted trousers of yours had nullified the remnants of his restraint. So had your eyes. And your hands and your voice. All of you was to blame, really. Like he’d said from the very beginning; he was hopeless where you were concerned. 

“Anyway, thank you for… well, that.” 

“Please don’t thank me,” your face pinched, your body going rigid. “Then it will feel transactional, and I don’t want that.” 

Fair point. “What do you want, then?” 

That rosy flush reappeared against your cheeks, and Sebastian had to beat back the smile that threatened to split his face in the wake of your obvious shyness. “I– well… is there anything I can do for you?” 

Yes. No. Maybe? Sebastian’s laugh was humorless, mostly because there wasn’t anything funny about how his cock twitched in interest at the offer. “I don’t think we need to venture down that path right now. Especially since you’ve already given up so much tonight. I honestly feel kind of bad that your first experience was me jumping your bones…” 

“But what if that’s what I want?” His heart leapt up into his throat so fast that he nearly choked. The kind of uncertainty that went hand in hand with inexperience was written all over your face, but the stubborn set to your jaw told Sebastian that you were serious. Was he dreaming? Maybe he had passed out in the bathroom and this was all a very lovely, very cruel figment of his imagination. You pressed on, “Maybe I want to walk down that path with you. There’s no one else I trust as much as you, so… what would be the harm?” 

This time, Sebastian’s chuckle was genuine. He blinked rapidly, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes that it would settle his nerves and calm his racing blood. It didn’t work. “In that case, there’s plenty you could do for me, darling. I still think we should save it for next time, though.” 

You appeared to chew the inside of your cheek, your brows furrowing as you contemplated something that interested Sebastian to no end. Then, before he could process what you were doing, the hand that had been splayed against his chest inched down tauntingly, your nails dragging lightly across his skin. His breathing hitched, and then it stopped entirely when you gripped him through his pants. Much like he’d expected, the conversation had roused his cock back to life, and he was achingly hard in your hand. 

“I want ‘next time’ to be right now,” you declared stubbornly, pulling a hiss from him when your fingers rubbed over the sensitive head of his length. “I’m a little curious about this. You recovered pretty fast, but if you’re too tired…”

The wicked gleam in your eyes conveyed quite clearly that you knew exactly what you were doing. Where had the bashful innocence gone? Sebastian had blinked and suddenly it was like he was staring at a different woman, the challenge in your voice leaving him with one daunting realization. 

Either he had created a monster, or there had always been one lurking beneath the surface. 

His cock twitched again, and Sebastian knew that he was so, so fucked. 

[sh4kygravez]

Dating Sal hcs!

Pairing: Boyfriend!Sal Fisher x GN!Reader CW: Fluff, established relationship obviously, smut under the cut (first time first time dont kill me aha im a virgin idk how these things work) i have NO idea who owns the divider, PLEASE lmk if you know who they are so i can credit them properly.

Boyfriend!Sal who ABSOLUTELY gets flustered when you kiss his mask. To Sal, it's rather new: having someone so personally close to him (he enjoys it tho, so dw) Boyfriend!Sal who lets you paint on his mask. in literally any way. You could put lipstick on and cover his extra masks with kiss-marks and he'll wear it on dates. Boyfriend!Sal who vents to you first. Yeah, Larry and Ash and Todd are his best friends, but YOU and him are on a completely different level.

Boyfriend!Sal who gets extremely quiet when you touch his hair. Not because he's uncomfortable, he just... leans into it like a cat. You and Larry tease him constantly about it.

Boyfriend!Sal who pretends he doesn't care about the height difference. He very much cares, but he isn't complaining when you rest your chin on his head (he is complaining. just to Larry or Ash)

Boyfriend!Sal who always has song recommendations for you. Even if you're not into metal, it's always: "Just this one song, I promise!" and you'll be nursing a bloody nose 8 songs later.

gonna kms rahhh okay smut time i surpose

Boyfriend!Sal who, despite your efforts, doesn't like taking off his mask during sex. You two are at a point in the relationship where, yes, he'd be perfectly fine taking his mask of around you, but he just doesn't think you seeing him drooling and panting would be appealing.

Boyfriend!Sal who is extremely sensitive. The first time you guys had sex, it lasted 45 minutes solely because he was trying not to cum every 20 seconds and kept whimpering about needing to stop.

Boyfriend!Sal who is not into degradation. like, period point blank. He'd feel so bad for shaming you, and there's a good chance he'd get all sad if you called him some demeaning name. That being said, he's definitely into reassurance/praise.

Boyfriend!Sal who almost cried when you said no to him playing metal music in the background.

Boyfriend!Sal who adores your body. Chest, stomach, thighs—you name it and his hands will already be there, watching his fingers sink into the skin with reverence.

Boyfriend!Sal who, by no surprise, is extremely good at aftercare. He's always so careful with you, getting you water and cleaning you up :((( cuddling and massaging ur legs :(((( awhh

[urmom3001]

George Weasley's Crush on

Y/n Longbottom

Summary: The five times George Weasley realises he really likes Y/n Longbottom, a confident, smart girl to her opposite counterpart, Neville. And, the one time he did something about it to seal the deal. 

Warnings!: Fem!Reader, Hufflepuff!Reader, Mostly fluff, nothing really. 

W.C: 6.0k

1, Year 4, 1993

For the first two years of her little brother’s career at Hogwarts, Y/n tried to keep her distance from him– per his request. He was a young boy, just starting his amazing magical career, and Y/n understood that he wanted to flourish by himself while she idly stood by watching him struggle to do just that. She never lost faith that he would though. 

Now, it wasn’t like they hadn’t interacted, of course they talked throughout the year, and studied in the library together. However, being in different houses helped with the distance that Neville wanted to keep. Y/n was a Hufflepuff, the house a lot of people thought Neville should’ve been placed in. Y/n thought otherwise, she trusted in the Sorting Hat’s judgement very deeply, her loyalty never faltered. 

Y/n loved her brother endlessly, and was happy to oblige with whatever wishes the boy had. So when Sirius Black had miraculously escaped from Azkaban prison over the summer, and Neville had insisted they would stay close together in fear of the man, she was glad to do just that to make him feel comfortable. She knew exactly why he was terrified, Sirius Black was the cousin of Bellatrix Lestrange, their parents’ torturer. 

While Neville had been the one to request her to stay away, he was also the one who gravitated towards her when he felt afraid–which was half of his time at Hogwarts. Y/n would never deny him anything, she was his big sister, how could she ever? So, even though they were not together for most of their time at Hogwarts, they had been seen around each other to note that they were in fact siblings, it was a mystery how none of his fellow lions seemed to realise it. 

It was the first breakfast of the term, the Longbottom siblings walked down the aisle arm in arm, hooked intertwined with each other. “Do you think Sirius Black would ever try to enter the castle?” 

“I highly doubt it, Nev. The castle is protected by talented Professors, it’d be an idiotic mistake to attempt to.” Y/n logically answered, visibly calming her brother’s nerves as they walked through the grand doors of the Great Hall. Y/n was very good at grounding Neville when he was feeling especially anxious. Y/n walked Neville down all the way to the Gryffindor table where his friends resided. “Alright, Neville, I’ll be off at Hufflepuff table, I’ll meet you at the courtyard for lunch, okay?” 

Neville nodded. “Alright.” Y/n nodded happily, before kissing Neville on the forehead, and turning her heel to leave. Neville went pink of embarrassment, one of the reasons he had asked Y/n to keep her distance was because she was very affectionate, hugs, and kisses on the cheek and forehead were her go to greetings, and biddings. Not that he minded, however things that seem little in private, and the comfort of your home seem different under the gazing eyes of your peers. 

Neville brushed it off, and sat down. “Morning guys.” He was now seated across from Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, and Ron’s older twin brothers Fred, and George. 

“Morning, Neville.” Ginny Weasley chimed from beside him, Hermione Granger echoed her one seat down. 

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Neville?” Said Ron, through his mouth of sausage. 

Neville, Ginny, and Hermione looked bewildered staring back at Ron. “Girlfriend?” Neville asked. 

Fred, and George looked at each other knowingly. “The Hufflepuff that just dropped you off.” Fred teased. 

“Meeting you in the courtyard for lunch?” George raised his eyebrows in amusement. He was quite a bit jealous of Neville, the Hufflepuff he had never seen before was quite gorgeous to him. The four boys laughed, and Neville looked at Ginny, and Hermione. 

“That’s his sister!” Ginny cackled, and shook her head. 

“Sister?” All of the boys said in a synchronised surprise, how is it that they’d known Neville for three years now, and had never known he had a sister?

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Do you ever pay attention? Her name is literally Y/n Longbottom. Honestly.”

“Older, or younger?” George asked, he was trying to see if it was appropriate to grow a crush on the girl. 

“She’s a fourth-year.” Neville answered. “We’re together all of the time…” Sure they hadn’t spent every waking moment together, but they were together enough to put two, and two together that they were related. Longbottom was a particularly easy name to miss. 

“A fourth-year?” Ron repeated. 

“Yes, Ron, he just said.” Fred jokes, causing them to laugh. But George was distracted, his eyes across the room looking at the boy’s brother. She was gorgeous, and there was something about her that made him want to find out more. He knew her last name, and that she was a Hufflepuff, but that was just about it.

“Oi, Georgie’s staring.” Lee whispered to Fred. Fred looked at his brother, and followed his gaze. 

“No way…” Fred whispered to Lee, Fred sat in between the two. “Georgie’s got it for Neville’s older sister!” 

After the first day of term, George had started to see the girl everywhere, in places he had never noticed her before. 

He began to notice her when she walked past the Gryffindor table with her friends in the mornings, and afternoons. He saw her on his way to Potions in the corridors while she was on the way to her next class as well. And most of all, in the library– well exiting the library when he was on his way back to the common room from Quidditch practice. He began to make it a point to try and see her whenever he could during these times. It was a small, simple crush, one he figured he would let go of once he realised she was the type of girl that would never give him the time of day for his personality that was seen as immature, and loud. 

George Weasley, and Y/n Longbottom were opposites, totally, and completely. 

2, Year 5, 1994

George Weasley thought that his crush on Y/n Longbottom would dwindle, but no…oh no. 

During the summer he hadn’t given her much thought, but once he saw her at the train station on September 1st, he remembered why he had liked her so much. She was glowing, and was with Neville. He berated himself for nor noticing her sooner. 

“Oi.” Fred whispered. “You’re staring.” 

George furrowed his eyebrows. “Am not.” 

“Are too.” Fred teased. 

“So what?” George rolled his eyes as they stepped onto the train. 

“So. You’ve got a crush on Y/n Longbottom.” Fred chuckled. 

“It’s not a crush…” George looked back onto the line of students waiting to also board the train. Her, and her brother were just a few students down from himself, and his own brother. “She’s just–” George tried to find the words. “Intriguing.” 

“So…you like her.” Fred shook his head, and shared a look with Lee. 

“Oh, he’s got it bad.” Lee snickered. 

Later on in the train ride, George really, really had to go pee. He wasn’t sure why he had held it for so long. Perhaps it was his extremely short attention span that made him put it off, afterall the conversation he, Fred, and Lee were having was quite remarkable. A conversation of which Slytherins they were to prank this year, and the mysterious “event” that was going to occur at Hogwarts. 

He was walking down the aisle extremely fast to get to the lavatory at the end of the aisle, that was so close, yet so far. He was walking so fast that he didn’t realise one of the compartment doors had opened, and a girl had walked out. In his defense, the girl was not looking into the hall either, and would not have seen the redhead that was zooming to the bathroom because her head was turned to her friend.

Of course, as all people do when they aren’t paying attention to their surroundings, the boy, and the girl crashed into each other. The girl George crashed into? Y/n Longbottom. Great, George thought to himself, not only did he need to pee extremely badly, he had also just embarrassed himself in front of the girl he had a raging crush on. 

The girl, being so different in body mass from him, fell straight to the floor. George was mortified. “I am so sorry–” Until she started laughing. It was melodic, and George could've sworn he’d just heard a chorus of angels sing. George let out a hand for her to take. 

She continued to laugh while she took it. “It’s alright. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She sighed, dusting herself off. 

George looked at her, no, not looked, inspected. He could not believe how that just played out. There was a moment of awkward silence, George forgetting how to function completely, even the feeling of the uncomfortable need to pee was gone. Finally he realised he hadn’t even checked on her. “Are you okay?” He asked, hoping she didn’t notice the effect she had on him. 

She nodded. “Nothing but a bruise on my bum, I’m sure.” She joked. She hadn’t really hit the floor that hard, she was fine. 

George nodded, and began to walk backwards. “Sorry again.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” She shook her head, with a small smile. A small smile that went a long way for George, as his cheeks went pink once he turned around to make his way towards the lavatory again. 

Of course, there was a line he could now see as he approached. He curiously looked back, just to see if Y/n was still in the aisle. He wasn’t expecting her to be just a few paces behind him. He now realised she needed to use the restroom too. He internally panicked. Things had just been adding up, he needed to pee extremely badly, he had just practically knocked the wind out of the girl he had a very big crush on, and now after just knocking her over, had to stand in line for the bathroom with her. 

George gulped now that she was caught up to him, and standing in the line as well. He leaned on the wall, and looked up before huffing. “Are you okay?” He wasn’t expecting her to make conversation. 

He looked down at her, she looked really concerned. She could definitely sense his uncomfortableness. He nodded. “I feel like I should be asking you that, considering–” He wasn’t trying to make her laugh, but she let out a small chuckle. 

“You don’t have to worry about that. I'm a-okay, I promise.” She reassured him. The conversation went idle, before George gathered up his courage to keep it moving. 

“You’re Neville’s older sister, Y/n right?” Smooth George, ask her questions you know the answer to already, he mentally berated himself. 

She smiled at the mention of her little brother. “Yes, he’s my little brother, he’s in your house, and you’re one of the Weasley twins.” George opened his mouth to confirm which twin he was when she cut him off. “Wait, let me guess!” Neville had told her that whenever he wanted to differentiate the twins he always looked for a mold on either one of their necks, because George had one, and Fred didn't. 

She inspected his neck subtly, and quickly found the freckle Neville was talking about. “You’re George.” She confirmed. 

George raised his eyebrows in a pleasant surprise. “You’re right.” He chuckled at her excitement, albeit she cheated, but who cares? Not him. George was a little sad when the line got to him, and he entered the lavatory. 

Finally, he was able to empty his bladder. Once he got out, Y/n was patiently waiting outside of it for her turn. Y/n smiled, as she entered the bathroom. “I’ll see you around, George.” 

“Alright then.” He said, although immediately regretted it. Alright then? He could’ve said anything else, but that. He could’ve said, “See you around.” or “See you too” instead he said, “Alright then.” Before he could redeem himself, the lavatory door was already closed. 

He groaned. He was less of a lady’s man then his twin brother was, but he was still not bad when it came to getting girls in his court. What was it about Y/n Longbottom that made him so…nervous?

3, Year 5, 1994

The Yule Ball was in full swing, the date was confirmed for Christmas day, and the halls were buzzing on who was bringing who, or who they were asking. George was stumped. After the incident on the train ride to Hogwarts with Y/n, they had become good acquaintances. They waved to each other in the halls when they passed by each other– George had changed some of his class routes to align with hers, and they would even have short conversations in the mornings sometimes when she would stop by to talk to Neville. 

George was the last one in his friend group to not have a date. Lee was going to Alicia Spinnet, and Fred had coolly asked Angelina Johnson to go with him on a whim during study hall, leaving just him. 

George wanted nothing more than to ask Y/n to the ball. Especially when he’d caught wind that Ginny was going to the ball with Neville. Now that there was no Quidditch due to the Triwizard Tournament, he didn’t see her coming out of the library like he used to, but figured she might be there at around the same time. 

Last year practice would end at around 7:00 pm. So that’s where he went at 7:00 today. He went to the Library corridor, and waited for her to exit. He had it all planned out, he would make it look like chance that he was there when she came out, and then he would say hi, and bring up the ball, and ask her. It was simple, but he was nervous. Very nervous. 

Finally he saw her walking out of the library with her things. He walked opposite to her, and greeted her. “Y/n! Hi.”

She furrowed her eyebrows, she never saw George around the library anymore especially now that Quidditch was paused for the year. “Hi, George.” She had gotten pretty well at telling the twins apart, mostly because Fred didn’t really speak to her. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh you know just walking, but– now that I have you here, I was hoping to ask you something?” George started, he could feel the words getting stuck in his throat. 

She nodded, she wasn’t even expecting the words that were going to come out of his mouth. “Yeah sure, what’s up?” She asked curiously, giving him her undivided attention, whatever it was it seemed important. 

George gulped. “I was just wondering if…” He paused, and she waited patiently. He took a deep breath. “If you wanted to go to the ball with me?” George immediately regretted even coming to the corridor when he saw the look of rejection flash onto Y/n’s face. 

“Oh…I’m sorry” She started, George sighed. “I really would’ve loved to, George. Truly. But someone’s already asked me to go, and I’ve already said I’ll go…with him.” She explained, a Durmstrang boy she’d gotten to know a bit from her Magical Creatures class had asked her just a couple of days ago. But she also would’ve loved to go with George if he had asked her sooner. 

“Oh.” George sighed, the sting of rejection was laced in his voice. “Well, that’s alright, then. I’ll just–” He turned to leave. But Y/n stopped him. 

“I really am sorry, George.” She said in a sorry tone. “I would’ve loved to go with you.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for. I guess I should be sorry for asking so close to the ball.” He scratched the nape of his neck, the ball was next week.

Y/n’s expression remained sour. “Maybe we both can be sorry.” 

4, year 6, 1995

George’s crush on Y/n had somewhat mellowed down this year. It was still very much there, but as they became closer friends throughout last year, her presence seemed to dull his big feelings about her. 

When he was abruptly woken up in the night to the news that his father had been attacked in the Ministry, he was distraught. Groggy, and achy he and his siblings made it to the headmaster’s quarters, where they had gotten news that his father was attacked brutally, but was found, and was now safe. 

Which led him here during his winter break. At St. Mungos Hospital to visit his father. Himself, Fred, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and Harry walked aimlessly around the hospital, they weren’t allowed to visit Mr. Weasley until he had awoken. Mrs. Weasley had told them to spend their time “exploring”, whatever that meant. They’d gotten to a room, it had many old witches, and wizards in the room, the plaque on the door was labelled as, Permanently Magically Incapacitated. That sparked the group's attention, but their interest deepened more when Ginny recognised two people in the room. 

“Is that, Neville, and Y/n?” Ginny said to her brothers, and friends.

“Neville, and Y/n?” Ron repeated. 

Hermione peaked through the window’s blinds. “It is.” She pointed out. “And that’s their grandmother.” 

“Why are they here?” Harry asked, and the others shrugged. 

“We should say hi.” Ginny suggested, making her way to the door. Before any of them could stop her, she had knocked on the door, garnering the attention of Neville, and Augusta Longbottom. 

Somehow, in the five seconds it took for them to get to the room, Y/n had disappeared, which saddened George. Neville seemed nervous that they were all there. 

“Uhh oh! Hey guys.” He acknowledged them, once Ginny waved. His grandmother eyed him. “Oh, grandma, these are my friends, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George Weasley.” 

His grandmother, a tall intimidating woman, reminded George of Y/n. She had the same perfect posture, and the same piercing intimidating gaze. “Why are you here, Neville?” Ginny curiously asked.

“My parents live here.” Neville shortly said, he sounded scared to reveal the truth. 

“They live…here?” Harry asked. 

Neville nodded, he wasn’t expecting his grandmother to give them his parent’s whole biography. Towards the end of her long rant, George had caught sight of Y/n. He must’ve lit up or made a face, because his grandmother turned to where his gaze was. The sight was despairing, as Y/n walked arm in arm with a frail thin woman, she looked just how their grandmother explained how their parents ended up here. Insane from torture. 

“Neville, Mum has something for you.” Y/n quietly said, her face surprised to see all of the familiar faces looking at her. 

“Again?” Her grandmother said. “Very well, Alice, dear. Very well. Neville take it– whatever it is…Very nice, dear.” Her grandmother said to her mother. 

“Thanks, Mum.” Neville said, taking the small bit of paper from her hands. It was a gum wrapper. Y/n let out a small smile. 

In that moment all of the others realised why Neville was, the way that he was. And why Y/n was so protective, and respective of him and his boundaries. George admired Y/n at that moment. He realised she probably had to have had a lot of self resilience to have grown up the way that she did. 

George wanted to converse with Y/n, but her mother was pulling her elsewhere into the room. As if on cue, Neville’s grandmother had excused the two of them from the conversation. “Well, we’d better get back. Very nice to have met you all.” She began to follow Y/n and her mother. “Neville put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough to paper your bedroom by now.” George heard their grandmother instruct. 

Just as George was about to follow the others that were now filing out of the room. Y/n shortly told her grandmother something before calling out for him. “George!” She said, slightly jogging over. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” He smiled, happy that he was able to speak to her just for a bit. 

“Just wanted to say hi. But I ought not to keep your family waiting…” Y/n snickered, seeing an amused Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Fred staring at them through the window of the room. 

“Ignore them.” He rolled his eyes, there was an awkward silence between them, there was always an awkward air that surrounded them mostly due to George and his feelings for her, but also her blooming ones for him. 

“So, what are you guys here for?” She asked curiously, trying to fill the awkward air surrounding them. 

“Uhm, my Father. He was attacked while working in the Ministry. He’s okay though.” 

“I’m glad to hear. Well, I better get back to my parents. I hope your Father feels better soon.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it in comfort. “See you at school, George.” She smiled, before letting go of his hand, and happily walking over to her parents, brother, and grandmother. 

George had thought his crush on Y/n Longbottom had mellowed, but the way his heart pounded out of his chest from the way she held his hand. The feeling was something he’d never felt before. He’d held hands with tons of girls, kissed tons of girls, but never had they once made him feel how she did. 

When George had finally joined the others in the corridor outside, he was teased relentlessly, mostly by Fred, and Ron. However, he didn’t seem to care nor deny the fact that he did in fact have feelings for Y/n, because quite frankly it was undeniable now. George Weasley was deeply, utterly in love with Y/n Longbottom. 

5, year 6, 1996

After Dumbledore’s Army had been caught, George, and Fred had cracked a plan to end Umbridge's madness once, and for all. Of course, with the plan came dropping out of school, and beginning to work on their joke shop. 

Y/n was currently helping younger years with their wounds after having their detention with Professor Umbridge. As most Hufflepuffs were, and like her brother, Y/n was good with herbs, and plants. One of the plants she grew in her own dorm was Dittany, a plant that was used in many healing potions, and had many magical healing properties. 

She sat in the Gryffindor common room, because most of Dumbledore’s Army was Gryffindor students, healing the students’ wounds. George watched her, waiting for his turn, all of the older students collectively decided to let the younger students go first. They could handle the pain for much longer than the younger ones could. 

Y/n looked like she was in her element, healing people. She had once confided in George that she wanted to be a healer at St. Mungos. He could definitely see it. George admired how she could be so maternal at her age. She was very mature. It made George insecure about his feelings towards her, he felt they would never be reciprocated just because they were so different. 

But he couldn’t have been more wrong. Y/n had grown to like George just as much as he liked her, only she was a little bit better at hiding it. It was apparent to everyone except the pair of them. George was next in line for Y/n’s healing. 

They conversed while she did her routine. A couple of drops of essence of Dittany, and then a wrap to prevent irritation. She would’ve done it faster, but because they were conversating she moved a bit slower than usual. 

“How bad is it doc?” George joked, as she dropped the Dittany onto his skin. 

“Horrible, I think you’ll need extensive care after this one.” She played along, now wrapping his wounds with medical tape. 

“I don’t know doc, I think a kiss on the cheek would do it for me.” He was feeling bold, but he wasn’t expecting her to actually kiss his cheek. 

“There, all better?” Y/n asked, her voice was almost teasing. George nodded dopily before allowing the next person to be healed. 

“Why don’t they just get together already.” Ginny asked her brothers, Harry, Hermione, and Neville, watching Y/n start her healing routine. Neville looked shocked. 

“Together? My sister?” Neville questioned, he noticed they were friends now, but it went completely over his head that they liked each other. 

“They flirt with each other all of the time,” Ginny chuckled, and the others agreed. 

“It’s sickening.” Ron added. “George reckons she doesn’t like him back. That’s why he’s so afraid.” 

“Y/n doesn’t really…date. At least from what I’ve seen.” Neville said, now keeping his eyes on the pair, he looked away for a split second. 

“Are you sure about that?” Fred asked, as he looked at his flustered brother. Y/n had just kissed George on the cheek. 

Neville was very unsure.

6, The beginning of the war, 1997

After the twins dropped out of school Y/n hadn’t seen much of them until she joined the Order of the Phoenix as a healer after she graduated. Her parents were a part of the original Order, it didn’t come as a surprise to anyone when she happily accepted the invitation. 

George had long forgotten about his crush on Y/n, thinking about her from time to time– it’d been over a year since he’d last seen her. Until he saw her at one of the Order meetings for the first time. All of his feelings came flooding back. She looked older, her face had matured, and somehow she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her head was tilted back as she laughed with Tonks while they waited for the meeting to begin. 

After the meeting concluded, they had a short conversation catching up on their time spent apart. “Longbottom, long time no see.” He cheekily said.

“Hello, George.” She chuckled. “How have you been? I hear you’re a successful business owner with Fred. I knew you could make it out of selling from your trunks in the corridors of Hogwarts.”  

During their years at Hogwarts, George, and Fred sold their products from their dorms, small things like their canary creams. Y/n was the only Prefect that let them off with a warning every single time they were caught. 

George chuckled. “Yes, have you been? I would’ve seen you if you had.” 

“I have.” Y/n nodded, George was surprised, he greets every single one of his customers, he would’ve known if Y/n Longbottom walked into his store, in fact he would’ve been ecstatic to see her. 

“You have? Perhaps you walked in when I was on break. Trust me, I would’ve known if you were in my shop.” George seriously said, but Y/n laughed, making George’s heart swell, it was a sound he hadn’t heard in forever. 

“Fred greeted me when I walked in, so perhaps you are right. I was only there for a few minutes, otherwise I would’ve been late for my shift at St. Mungos. Very impressive what you two have done with the shop.” She informed him. George groaned, having missed her by a few minutes, he would’ve loved to see her sooner than he had now.”Congratulations.” 

“You too, you’ve always wanted to work at St. Mungos.” Y/n was taken aback that he remembered such a small detail about her. 

“Thank you.” She smiled, before catching a glimpse of the time. Her smile dropped. “I’m so sorry. I have a shift at the hospital now. I would love to stay and chat, but I have to go. I'll see you next time.” She smiled, and apparated away with a pop. 

George was left alone; he couldn't even say goodbye. Fred, and Tonks watched with amusement written all over their faces. “He still has a crush on her?” Tonks remembered in 12 Grimmauld Place, the other teenagers would tease George about his crush on the girl all of the time. Fred nodded. 

“Oh he’s in love.” 

That was two weeks ago. It was July 27, and tonight they were transferring Harry to the Burrow. Y/n was a stand on healer, in case anything happened. She was to wait at the burrow for the others with her remedies, and potions for any injuries that might have occurred during the transportation. 

Y/n hadn’t seen George since the meeting, but she was having a deep conversation with his mother as they waited for the others to come to the rendezvous point. Mrs. Weasley, and Ginny were nervous. So was Y/n, the anxious air engulfed the room, so much so that after her conversation with Mrs. Weasley Y/n found herself on the front porch. 

The groups were late now, and Y/n was starting to worry. She looked up at the night sky if it were under different circumstances she would’ve thought the summer night to be beautiful, and calming, the way the crickets chirped, and the wind moved the grass. 

The calming sounds broke when the sound of the barrier being broken was heard. One of the pairs had arrived. Ginny was bolting out of the door, and running towards the approaching pair, it was Hagrid, and the real Harry. Y/n let out a small sigh of relief, however that was still six other groups left unaccounted for, one of them being George. 

“Harry! Hagrid!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. Y/n stood behind her with Ginny. “What happened, where are the others?” 

“Is no one else back?” Harry asked, and Y/n shook her head dimly. 

“They were on us from the start, Molly.” Hagrid explained, making Y/n’s stomach churn. “We didn’t stand a chance.” 

“Well, thank goodness you two are alright.” Mrs. Weasley said. 

“The Death Eaters were waiting for an ambush.” 

“Come inside, I’ll have a look at you.” Y/n said, while Ginny walked over to Harry. She figured she would let them come in on their own accord. 

They had barely made it a couple of steps towards the house before another pair came through the barrier with a loud whoosh, catching Y/n’s attention. 

“Here!” Lupin shouted, holding onto a bloodied Harry, transforming into one of the twins, not just one of the twins, George. 

Y/n went straight into healer mode, immediately rushing over to take the other arm of George to act as another crutch, although she wasn’t of much help due to Harry beating her to it. “Quick! Into the house.” Instead of waiting around, Y/n rushed into the house to grab her potions, and healing supplies. 

“Oh, my boy…” Mrs. Weasley said, making room for him on the couch. Y/n grabbed her wound-cleaning, blood replenishing potion, and calming draught for George,ignoring the ruckus from Lupin, and Harry. If it were anyone else she would have remained calm, but she was nervous having to care for George. Mrs. Weasley was hunched over George, but made room for Y/n once she saw her making her way over. 

Y/n placed all of her potions down. “Mrs. Weasley, could you please get me a warm damp towel?” Mrs. Weasley nodded, and made her way to the kitchen. “George, can you open your eyes, I need to see if–” 

George’s eyes opened as soon as she asked. “You’re beautiful.” He abruptly said. 

“You must be concussed…” She concluded, her wand was dimly lit. “Follow my wand please.”  George did as she asked perfectly, meaning he shouldn’t have been concussed. 

“I mean it.” George whispered, he had just almost died, and all he could think about is how he never asked out the woman he loved, out of fear. 

Y/n shushed him, her cheeks pink. “Let me care for you, and when you’re all better you can tell me all about it.” She grabbed her calming draught, and poured a bit into a small cup. “Drink this.” 

George drank it down with a big gulp, immediately feeling lighter, his tense body releasing. “This might sting just a bit.” She whispered, gently wiping away the excess blood from the side of his head. Her expression went even more serious when she realised George no longer had an ear. Still, he inspected her while she worked. She dropped a couple of drops of her wound-cleaning potion onto his wound. He winced. “Sorry, I know. I know.” She could feel the eyes boring into her now that more of the others had begun to arrive. 

She added the blood replenishing potion before sealing his wounds. “Vulnera Sanentur…Vulnera Sanentur…” She waved her wand around his head. Fred now kneeled beside Y/n while she cleaned up her supplies. She stepped away to give the brothers some space, and to grab her wraps to wrap his head. 

“How are you feeling, Georgie?” Fred asked. He still had a lot of blood in his hair, and on the side of his face. 

“Saint-like.” George answered. 

“Come again?” Fred confusedly requested. 

“Saint-like. I’m holey, Fred. Get it? I’m holey?” 

Fred shook his head, and smiled. “The whole wide world of ear related humor, and you go with, I’m holey. It’s pathetic.” 

“Reckon I’m still better looking than you.” George chuckled, and Y/n came back around with the wraps, and another wet towel to clean the rest of his blood. Y/n kneeled beside Fred, and from behind her heard:

“Mad-Eye’s dead.” Bill Weasley announced. “Mundungus took one look at Voldemort and disapparated. 

While they grieved, Y/n continued her job. Moody was a kind man, but a man Y/n hardly knew. She cleaned the rest of the blood off of George’s neck, and head. “Now that I’m all better, can I tell you how beautiful I think you are now?” George whispered. 

“You’re still in a daze, and medicated up. I doubt you’re not kidding me right now, Weasley.” She said, but a small part of her hope he was being serious. 

“I’m serious. I’ve had a crush on you since my fifth-year.” George confessed in a low voice. 

Y/n paused, before continuing to wipe the blood off of his skin. “Mrs. Weasley, he’ll need a change of clothes.” Mrs. Weasley nodded, and walked up the stairs. She began to wrap his head. 

“Let me take you out on a date.” George asked, lifting his head slightly off of the pillow so she could wrap his head.

“A date?” Y/n chuckled, but continued. “Where too?” 

The others shamelessly watched while the two flirted. Ginny, and the trio sharing cheeky glances. 

“Anywhere you want.” Y/n let his head down. 

“Anywhere?” Y/n confirmed. 

“Anywhere.” George nodded, although he was in pain, and a bit dazed, he knew he wanted this more than anything. 

“It took you almost dying to confess your feelings to me all of these years?” Y/n asked, realising how serious George was. 

George smiled. “Sounds about right.” 

“Alright, how about the Saturday after the next? If my calculations are correct, your ear should be mostly healed by then.” Y/n suggested. 

“Sounds like a plan, doc. But I think I’ll be fully healed if you kiss me right now.” George tried his luck, and smiled when Y/n leaned in. 

Y/n paused, her lips practically brushing against his. “Later, not in front of everyone.” She pulled away with a proud teasing smile. “You’re crazy, asking me to do such a thing in front of your family.” She chuckled. 

“Crazy for you.” He whispered. 

“You sap.” 

[serenisleepy]

[iwriteiguessandiloveit]

Living in a fantasy.

Living in a Fantasy."

Jerry x GN!Reader

My very first smut fic! If you know me in real life (you know who you are) please don't bring this up. Also he's 19 and a grown adult here.

Jerry prides himself on his imagination. 

He’s the Eltingville Club’s secretary of fantasy and role-playing games, after all. He’s written hundreds of pages of campaign lore, DM'ed more Dungeons & Dragons sessions than he could count. It was his entire life. 

But right now, with the memory of your arms around his middle during a hug and your scent in his lungs, he wondered if it was more of a curse. 

He had taken care of himself a half hour before you arrived to make sure there were no… embarrassing… incidents, and it seemed to work. 

He was fine for most of the night. You needed to learn the rules of D&D before you started attending the Eltingville Club meetings, and Jerry was happy to oblige. He invited you into his mess of a room and started explaining the mechanisms of being a DM and how each dice was different. He even gave you one of his many sets of dice out of the goodness of his heart. 

But in the present he wasn’t doing so hot. He grunts in frustration, shifting his position on the bed. Even with the covers over his body he could feel the stretch of his erection against his boxers. It wasn’t fair! He had tried to be helpful and he had tried to keep his mind out of the gutter. But was it really his fault that you looked so good? 

Focus on the more mundane things you two talked about, maybe. He could think about the making of your character. That was a safe train of thought. He had fun doing that. 

“What about an elf?” He had suggested. “They get +2 dexterity points, Darkvision, and Fey Ancestry!” 

Elves. Fucking elves, why?! His one weakness, his one guilty pleasure… 

The thought of you with pointy ears, small see-through wings, and large hypnotizing eyes flashed through his mind. 

His hips ground down into the mattress without his permission. 

“Already done this today… Dammit Jer…” 

…Fuck it. 

He turns over and tugs his boxers down to his knees, cheeks heating up as his erection springs out. His fingers run over the tip and spread the precum leaking out of it around for makeshift lube. 

“A-Alright, Jerry. Gonna get this over with. It’s just what h-happens. It’s, uh, normal. Elves are hot! mmf~ A-and so a-are they! N-nothing to feel- ah~ weird about…” He mumbles under his breath. 

His knuckles grow white with the force he’s exerting on his dick. Up and down, up and down, from base to tip back down to the base, like he’s done so many nights before. 

His eyes flutter shut and Jerry does what he does best, he fantasizes. 

In his mind’s eye it’s your soft hands pumping up and down on his cock instead of his own rough ones. The wetness is your spit, not his own juices. Without thinking about it he grabs a pillow and presses his face against it, lips puckering to mimic kissing on the fabric. 

“Ohmygod- holy shit, i’m gonna- ah~ please~” 

For his mind’s final hurrah, the sexy elf version of you leans down and takes his throbbing tip into your mouth; and almost embarrassingly fast, he can’t handle any more. 

He cums in hot spurts onto his abdomen, using the pillow to muffle his whines. 

Jerry slumps back onto the headboard. His thighs shake slightly, and his dick finishes emptying itself and starts to soften against his leg. He takes a long moment to steady his breathing before he grabs a couple tissues off the nightstand. 

“B-beedee beedee beedee… gotta get y-your brain under control, Buck…” He mutters to himself, lazily wiping the cum off his stomach. “Or this’ll happen every night.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can't believe i'm putting this on main.

(P.S. @nerdboy-boynerd I have a feeling you'll like this one)

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[secondlina]

Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.

[plagued-roses]

MAGIC POTATO GO!🥔

[thaumbody]

here we go again

reblogging the golden potato

hoping it will work

that my life will get a perk

[hereticofthestars]

Reblogging the magic potato!

I hope something good happens!!

[zeedoesstuffs]

i have the utmost faith in thee o potato of luck

[peoniesfortuesday]

Ri'nela getting more comfortable with being Tsahìk and learning her herbs and slipping aphrodisiacs into ur food with a little smile because her heat's just around the corner and she wants her mate wet and ready when it comes

[molabuddy]

i couldn’t think of a better way to communicate this so its this . my struggle

[bronkenj]

[daxite]

the ride never ends

[weirdstrangeandawful]

[bowenoke]

[shock-micro]

don't cry because it's over. attack. attack everything around you. do spin attacks

[cherriecove]

Sa’nu

So'lek x Trr'ong!reader // Na'vi!Reader x Platonic!Sarentu

Summary: You did not choose motherhood, it chose you. Cherrie's Notes: My love, Z...sorry for the delay, hope you like this! This is a F!reader I hope that is okay. AFOP Masterlist

The first time one of the Sarentu survivors called you “Ma,” it felt as though the entire forest stilled.

The sound came from Teylan—half-asleep, trembling in the wake of a night terror. He was taller than you, all long limbs and growing strength, but in that moment he folded into himself, trying to make himself smaller. Safer.

You did not hesitate.

You guided him gently down, gathering him into your arms as your own mother once had. You rocked him slowly, humming beneath your breath, an old Trr’ong song, one you had not sung in years. One neither you nor So’lek had heard in what felt like a lifetime.

Still… it felt right.

“I am here,” you whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You are safe.”

The word came then—fragile, instinctive.

“Ma…”

You froze. Not from rejection, but from the weight of it. What it meant.

Across the shelter, So’lek saw it happen. He said nothing. But something in his chest tightened… and then slowly settled.

After that, it became natural.

They gravitated towards you without thinking, drawn by something they could not name. Ri’nela sought you out to braid her hair, asking you to weave small decorations through it with careful hands. Nor lingered nearby, quietly asking for your voice when doubt crept in. Tamtey asked for nothing at all—only your presence beside him, silent and steady.

You gave it freely. Because you understood. There were wounds no medicine could reach. After Teylan, the others followed.

“Ma.” “Sa’nu.”

The names came easier each time. And you never corrected them. Never told them they were too old, too strong, too anything for that kind of tenderness. Because you knew better. Survivors did not outgrow the need to be held. You hadn’t.

“You coddle them.” The voice cut cleanly through the moment, sharp, controlled, artificial in a way that never quite felt alive. Alma Cortez stood at the edge of the camp, her dreamwalker form unnervingly still. Watching. Measuring.“They do not need you to play mother,” she continued. “Not you.”

You did not look up, only pausing briefly in your weaving. “They need to feel safe,” you replied simply.

Alma’s expression tightened. “They are not children. They are not your children.”

“No,” you said softly, finishing the weave with careful precision. “But they are not yours.”

That ended it—for now. But the tension lingered long after she left.

So’lek found you later, away from the others. You sat in the stream, hands submerged as the water carried away the remnants of the day. Quiet. Guarded. He approached without sound, as always. And as always—you knew.

“You carry them as though they are yours,” he said, crouching beside you.

“They are not,” you murmured. “But they have no one who is.”

A pause. Then, softer—more vulnerable than you usually allowed: “And I remember what it was to have no one.”

So’lek studied you—the strength in your posture, the gentleness in your hands. The way both existed without contradiction. He reached out, brushing a stray bead back into place along your braid. “You are… different with them,” he said.

You huffed faintly. “Is that your way of calling me soft?”

“Yes.”

You turned to him, mock offence flickering briefly—but it faded the moment you met his gaze. There was no judgement there. Only quiet admiration.

“I like this softness,” So’lek said, his voice low.

Your breath caught. “You do?”

“It is not a weakness,” he replied. “It is… something we nearly lost.” His hand found yours, rough palm against rough palm. “You remind them what it is to be cared for. To belong.” Silence settled between you—but it was not empty. It was full. Steady. Safe.

“They call me Sa’nu,” you admitted after a moment, almost shy.

“I know.”

“It should not mean so much.”

“But it does.”

Your gaze drifted back towards camp, where distant laughter echoed through the trees. “I do not want to replace what they lost,” you said quietly. “I only want them to feel they are not alone any more.”

So’lek shifted closer. “They do not see you as a replacement,” he said. “They see you as what they need now.” His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. “And so do I.”

That made you look at him properly. Not as a warrior. Not as a survivor. But as himself. “You?” you asked softly.

He nodded once. “You bring life where there was only survival.” Your lips parted—but no words came.

The forest hummed around you.

Alive. Listening. Waiting.

“When the RDA are gone,” So’lek said quietly, as though testing the thought, “what will you do?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… do not know.”

A small, rare smile touched his lips.“I think you do.”

Your heart stumbled. “…Say it.”

He leaned closer, his voice lowering to something meant only for you. “Perhaps you will not only care for those who were left behind,” he murmured. His gaze softened—open, unguarded. “Perhaps we will have little ones of our own.”

The world seemed to still. Your breath hitched, something fragile and bright unfolding in your chest. “You would want that?” you whispered.

So’lek did not hesitate. “Yes.” Simple. Certain. Like everything he meant.

Your fingers tightened around his. “Then we survive,” you said, steadier now. Stronger.

“For them,” he agreed. “And for us.”

From the distance, a voice called— “Ma!” You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“I should go,” you said.

So’lek released your hand, though reluctantly. “I will watch over you.”

You squeezed his fingers once before slipping away. “I know.”

And as he watched you return to them—kneeling among them, laughing softly, gathering them close as though they had always belonged to you— he allowed himself, just for a moment, to believe they truly did.

He stood where you had left him, the cool water slipping past his ankles, his gaze fixed on you amongst them. You did not stand above the Sarentu. You folded into them—into their laughter, their quiet questions, their unspoken needs—as though you had always been meant to fill that space.

Not as a leader. Not as a warrior. But as something far rarer.

“Sa’nu, look—” Ri’nela’s voice carried first, bright and eager as she held up a small cluster of woven fibres she had clearly attempted herself. Uneven. Crooked.

You took it as though it were something precious. “It is good,” you said gently, adjusting a strand with careful fingers. “But here—tighten this, or it will come apart.”

Nor lingered close, watching, before speaking low enough for only you to hear. “It is quieter today,” he said. “In my head.”

You glanced at him, something soft and knowing in your expression. “Good,” you murmured. “Then we will keep it that way.”

Tamtey said nothing, only settled beside you, shoulder brushing yours. That, too, was an answer.

So’lek exhaled slowly. He had seen many things in his life—war, loss, survival carved from nothing—but this…This quiet rebuilding.This fragile, stubborn healing…It was unfamiliar.

And yet, he found himself unwilling to look away.

“You stare again.” The voice came from behind him this time—sharp, measured. Alma Cortez stepped lightly across the ground in her dreamwalker body, though there was nothing natural in the movement.

So’lek did not turn. “I observe,” he said evenly.

Alma followed his gaze, her expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “They are becoming dependent,” she said. “It will weaken them.”

“No,” So’lek replied. “It will remind them they are not alone.”

“They cannot afford that kind of attachment.”

“They already have it.” That made her pause.

“They need discipline,” Alma insisted. “Focus. Not this… illusion of family.”

So’lek’s jaw tightened slightly. “It is not an illusion.”

Alma’s gaze flicked back to him. “You think this will last?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “it is the only reason they will.”

She did not answer immediately. And in that silence, the distance between what she understood—and what she refused to—felt vast.

“They are not children,” she said again, quieter now.

“No,” So’lek agreed, his gaze never leaving you. “But they should have been.”

That left her with nothing more to say.

By the time So’lek approached the group, the light had shifted.You looked up as he neared—always aware, always attuned—and something in your expression softened further.

“You have come to join us?” you teased lightly.

“I have come to see if they will allow it,” he replied.

Ri’nela brightened immediately. “You can sit.”

Nor gave a small nod.

Tamtey shifted just enough to make space.

You smiled at that—soft, pleased—and reached out, your fingers brushing briefly against So’lek’s wrist as he settled beside you. A small touch. But grounding.

“They were telling me about their training,” you said.

“Were they?” So’lek glanced between them.

“Yes,” you continued, amusement threading your voice. “Though I suspect some details were… altered.”

Teylan looked mildly offended. “They were not.”

Nor muttered, “They were.” Ri’nela laughed. And just like that—lightness.

So’lek watched you again, but this time from within it. The way your laughter softened the edges of everything around you. The way they leaned into it. The way he did, without even realising.

Later, when the others drifted away one by one—drawn by food, rest, or the quiet pull of evening—you remained where you were, your gaze following them until the last disappeared into the trees.

“You worry,” So’lek said quietly.

“I care,” you corrected. A pause. “…But yes.”

He shifted closer. “They are stronger than they were.”

“I know.”

“And they are not alone.”

Your shoulders lowered slightly. “I know,” you repeated, softer.

The sky dimmed above, the forest settling into its night-song. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly: “If we have children…” Your voice wavered—not with doubt, but with the weight of hope itself.

So’lek turned slightly towards you. “They will not know this kind of fear,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a promise.

You studied him, something deep and searching in your gaze. “And if they do?”

“Then they will not face it alone.”

That settled something in you. He could see it. The same way he had seen it that first night, when a single fragile word had changed everything.

“Sa’nu!” The call came again—faint, but insistent.

You huffed softly, though your smile returned just as quickly. “They will not let me rest.”

“No,” So’lek said, a trace of warmth in his voice. “They will not.”

You rose, brushing your hands lightly against your thighs before glancing back at him.

“Come with me,” you said. It was not a request. So’lek stood without hesitation. And this time when you returned to them he did not remain apart. He walked by your side.

[gothdolphin-deactivated20190409]

me: how do churches deal with gluten at communion

first response on a catholic forum:

[hvlthgxth-deactivated20241124]

The Roman Catholic church is the only Christian faith with any mettle.

[hvlthgxth-deactivated20241124]

It’s not bread. It’s Jesus, dipshit. Next question.

[regrettablyjake]

It’s jesus, but also jesus’ body activates Celiac’s

[baddywronglegs]

Around 1% of Catholics are severely allergic to Jesus

[queer-here-and-in-fear]

i love how they arent even arguing that someone with celiacs should just eat the bread. they acknowledge they shouldnt! they just also feel the need to state it Is jesus, and even if jesus doesnt contain gluten, he sure damn acts like it. for some reason

[kissmebeforecourt]