Quidditch Fight
Garreth x Sebastian for @hogwartslegacyprideweek 🧹
RATING: E
WARNING: None
CATEGORY: M/M
RELATIONSHIP: Garreth Weasley/Sebastian Sallow
CHARACTERS: Garreth Weasley, Sebastian Sallow
ADDITIONAL TAGS: Rivals to Lovers, Quidditch, Fighting, Top!Garreth, Bottom!Sebastian
Words: ~3,4k
AO3
Rain lashed his glasses, and the cold wind cut straight to the bone. The broom handle kept slipping, and the Beater’s bat was threatening to fly out of his hands entirely. No spell was helping any more, and the only thing Garreth wanted—the only thing—was for some Seeker on some team to catch the bloody Snitch. He didn’t even care which one. He didn’t care whether Gryffindor won, or Slytherin, or anyone else. He just wanted to get off his broom, have a shower, and be warm again.
Slytherins always played rough. But after years of training and matches, Garreth had grown used to it—he even knew some of their dirty tricks by now. The Snakes were predictable. Sometimes it seemed like they were deliberately winding him up, swooping in from the side, trying to cut him off, just to break his concentration. Though today there was something new: Sallow had nearly knocked him off his broom with the bat. Yet another reason for Garreth’s fury.
Sallow had played for Slytherin as long as Garreth had—since fourth year. He was the only player whose habits Garreth had never managed to learn. Sallow moved fast, gripped his bat with easy confidence, sending the Bludger away without effort. He always made it look effortless. Graceful, almost. Like it didn’t concern him in the slightest.
That was why the stands were always packed with girls when Slytherin played.
Girls liked Sallow. His confidence, his insolence, his arrogance. His large hands with their long fingers, his broad back, the scatter of freckles across pale skin. His rain-soaked hair and the sly grin that carved dimples into his cheeks.
Garreth deflected a Bludger that had been heading straight for the Seeker he was covering, and sent it sailing toward the opposing team’s Chaser. The Seeker—Miriam, a sixth-year a year below him—had spotted the Snitch. Garreth prayed silently to Merlin that she’d catch it, so he could finally get off his broom. The match had been going on for five hours.
Then, without warning, Garreth was thrown sideways toward the stands, barely clinging to his slippery broom. He spun like he’d been caught in a whirlwind, unable to stop or level out, heading straight for the terrified crowd. When only a few metres separated him from the stands, a Gryffindor Chaser came in from the other side and stopped him from slamming bodily into the spectators.
“What the hell was that?!” the boy shouted.
“Sallow! He shoved you and distracted Miriam. Slytherin caught the Snitch,” he said. “Finally, someone did.”
He flew off, and Garreth looked around, coming back to himself. The Slytherin stands were erupting—cheering, green sparks arcing into the grey sky. The Gryffindors, by contrast, were already going quiet, beginning to drift away.
“Weasley’s still our Quidditch king!” some sixth-year girls shrieked from the stands.
Girls liked Garreth the same way they liked Sallow. Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, with auburn curls and warm green eyes that flickered now and then with a spark of mischief. He could smile softly at them and they were already done for. In early autumn or late spring, when the weather warmed, spectators would gather for his training sessions in quiet hope that the flying would make him overheat, that he’d wipe the sweat from his brow with the hem of his training shirt, baring his stomach and torso, which was entirely inappropriate, and entirely compelling, in equal measure.
Garreth glanced at the stands, winked at the girls, pulled into a sharp dive, and landed on the pitch. He finally pulled off his helmet and let the rain cool his head. Then he walked slowly toward the changing rooms, where the rest of the players had already disappeared. Almost all of them.
“Weasley, confuse the pitch with a ballet studio?” Sallow caught up with him and shoved him roughly with his elbow. “You flew even worse than usual today.”
“Fuck off,” Garreth muttered, not looking at him, picking up his pace.
Then he stopped—so suddenly that Sallow nearly walked straight into his back. Garreth turned around, and the eyes that were usually warm and easy were holding a proper storm now. Rain ran down his face, and he didn’t feel it at all.
Garreth’s fury was almost a physical thing. This wasn’t about losing the match. This was revulsion—revulsion at the fact that Sallow had pulled another dirty trick and walked away without a scratch. He’d been nauseated by the Slytherin way of winning at any cost for years, but what was bothering him even more right now was how easily Sallow stood in front of him, smiling his infuriating smile with those insufferable lips. The smile didn’t reach his dark eyes.
“You could have broken my neck, Sallow,” Garreth said, voice low and even. “Or does that possibility not quite add up inside your empty head?”
The Slytherin let out a short laugh and switched his bat to his other hand.
“Oh, come off it, Weasley. Don’t you have danger on breakfast like a proper Gryffindor? I was just helping you get closer to your fan club a bit faster. You love the attention, don’t you? Every single one of them would love to get into a broom cupboard with you now, you’re welcome,” Sallow said, and reached out to clap Garreth on the shoulder.
As if they were friends.
Garreth shook his hand off with a sharp movement and stepped closer.
“Admit it,” Garreth said, looking down at him. “You just wanted to win. Couldn’t stand watching people look at my manoeuvres instead of your theatrical little pirouettes. Your ego is as overinflated as a cauldron full of Exploding Potion.”
He gave Sallow one last contemptuous look, turned, and walked away. He didn’t even notice the rain had stopped.
“At least my ego won my house the Cup!” Sallow called after him. Garreth turned back. Sallow’s smile had gone sharp as a blade. “Maybe you’ll manage it too, someday. If you learn to hold on to your broom.”
“Next time,” Garreth said, crossing the distance between them until their chests were nearly touching, “I’ll make sure you hit the ground before the first goal goes in.”
“Oh?” Sallow hissed, then leant in close. “You’re so hot when you’re losing. Rage suits you, Weasley,” he murmured, almost directly into his ear.
Garreth felt an electric charge run under his skin. He gripped his bat tighter, holding himself back from doing something he’d probably regret.
“Stay away from me, Sallow,” he hissed, and walked quickly to the changing room.
What the hell was that? he thought, as he slowly peeled off his soaked robes. You’re so hot when you’re losing. What is Merlin’s name! Who does he think he is, saying that to me? He didn’t dare follow the thought to its natural conclusion—the part where he’d liked hearing Sallow call him hot. Garreth shook his head, grabbed a towel, and headed for the showers.
His hands were still shaking from the cold, and adrenaline was still moving through him like a current. The hot water from the enchanted taps slowly warmed his body and dissolved his thoughts. Right now Garreth was thinking only about getting to the Great Hall as fast as possible, eating two sandwiches, and drinking two cups of hot herbal tea.
He stood under the water long enough that all his teammates had gone by the time he emerged. He stepped out at his own pace, wrapped a towel around his hips, and returned to the empty changing room. Steam from the showers had filled the space and settled warmly around his nearly bare body.
He was drying his hair with a second towel when he heard the door creak open. Garreth looked around, expecting to see someone from his team but the figure on the threshold was the last person he’d expected, and the last person he wanted to see.
“Sallow, are you lost?” Garreth said, turning away. “Close the door behind you. From the other side.”
The door closed. Only the Slytherin was still inside. Garreth heard the lock click and went still.
“Just came to check you hadn’t drowned in your own tears, Weasley,” Sallow said, moving a few steps closer before stopping and leaning against a wall a short distance away. “Actually… I came to apologise. That shove was… It was too far. Even for me.”
Garreth glanced back. The towel had slipped lower with his sudden movement.
“Too far?” Garreth gave a short laugh. “That’s all? You nearly killed me, and now you’ve come here while I’m on my own to apologise with that repulsive grin on your face? Don’t do me any favours, Sallow.”
“I’m trying to be civil, Weasley. Don’t be dramatic,” Sallow said, narrowing his eyes and his gaze moved, involuntarily, over Garreth’s bare torso, lingering a beat longer than decency, or the situation, or the nature of their relationship required. “You’re doing your drama queen impression again.” He pushed off the wall and took a step forward, arms folding across his chest.
“You’re a hypocrite,” Garreth said, taking a step toward him as well, feeling the anger he’d tried to wash away come flooding back. “You came here to sneer, not to apologise. Get out.”
“You think far too highly of yourself, Your Majesty,” Sallow said, taking another step until he was uncomfortably close—close enough that Garreth could smell his cologne. “I just… I don’t like being in debt. But if you’d rather keep going—”
“All I want is for you to clear off and leave me alone,” Garreth hissed and shoved Sallow into the wall.
“Oh,” Sallow murmured, smiling. “The lion cub’s grown teeth?”
Garreth didn’t think about what he did next. He grabbed Sallow by the collar of his robes and shoved him harder against the wall, pressing him there with his body. The Slytherin’s expression turned instantly hard. He pulled out his wand and pressed it under Garreth’s jaw, forcing his head up.
“Don’t you dare shove me, Weasley,” he said, voice rough.
“Or what?” Garreth hissed, pressing his jaw harder against the wand. “Going to hex an unarmed man? Very Slytherin of you, Sallow. Very honourable.”
The Slytherin merely made a sound in his throat and lowered the wand, sliding it into his robe pocket.
“I don’t need my wand, Weasley.”
Garreth felt the sharp pain in his cheek as Sallow hit him. He lost his balance for a split second, and the Slytherin took full advantage—his knee hit Garreth’s stomach and doubled him over. Sallow didn’t move, breathing hard, waiting for something he couldn’t name.
The moment Garreth’s breath came back, he didn’t waste a second. He lunged forward and grabbed Sallow by his shirt collar. They grappled, both breathing hard, and the momentum brought them both crashing down onto the wide bench.
It was not a graceful duel. It was a rough, chaotic brawl—elbows, knees, tangled limbs and hot breath in each other’s faces. Garreth pinned Sallow to the bench, looming over him, fingers digging painfully into the Slytherin’s shoulders. Sallow’s face was flushed, and Garreth could taste blood on his lip. Somehow, miraculously, his towel had stayed put.
“I hate you,” Garreth breathed, staring into Sebastian’s dark eyes—eyes that were burning now with something far more dangerous than anger. That infuriating smile appeared again.
“Keep telling yourself that, Garreth,” Sebastian said and in one sharp movement he flipped them over, so that Garreth was pressed against the cold surface and Sebastian was above him. He leant down and spoke directly into his ear. “Your heart’s going like it wants to beat its way into my hands. And what’s this? Goosebumps on your beautiful, solid body.” Sallow pressed close to his ear, holding the Gryffindor firm.
Garreth didn’t move. He barely breathed. What is happening? screamed the voice in his head. Meanwhile Sallow, slowly and carefully, touched the tip of his nose to Garreth’s cheek. The Slytherin held his gaze as he traced a path downward—descending carefully, centimetre by centimetre, his breath burning across freckled skin.
“What are you doing?” Garreth asked quietly.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like it, Your Majesty,” Sallow murmured and lowered his mouth to Garreth’s neck and pressed his lips there, gently.
Garreth’s pulse spiked, though he’d have sworn there was no higher for it to go. He wanted to shove the Slytherin off him, wanted to smash that insolent face in and put ten curses through his chest. But something in that desire felt hollow. False.
Sallow drew his tongue, barely touching, along the line of Garreth’s throat—from the base of his collarbone all the way up to his jaw. Still holding his gaze, he slowly, deliberately, released the hands that had been pinning Garreth’s arms, giving him room to move. Garreth should have shoved him off. Hit him. Throw him aside. But he couldn’t move. He was breathing through his mouth, deep and uneven, unable to understand what was happening or why he was enjoying the feeling of the Slytherin’s lips and tongue on his skin.
Sallow hung over him with that satisfied smile. It seemed as though even he had expected a shove or a fist to the chest and none had come. So he lowered his head slowly, eyes still fixed on Garreth’s. When only centimetres remained between them, the Slytherin slowly licked a drop of blood from Garreth’s split lip.
Garreth’s heart stopped for a moment. The voice in his head was screaming PUSH HIM OFF, WEASLEY!
Instead, Garreth crossed the remaining distance and pressed his mouth to Sallow’s, smearing the blood between them.
Sebastian answered immediately, threading his fingers into Garreth’s damp curls. The Gryffindor could finally move again—his hands gripped the waist of the boy above him and pulled him closer. After a few minutes they broke apart, staring at each other with something close to alarm.
“Is this… a joke?” Garreth asked quietly.
“No,” Sebastian said, equally quiet. “Why would you think it’s a joke?”
“I don’t know, maybe because we’re both blokes?”
“So what?”
So what, exactly? Garreth thought. What does it actually change?
“It’s just…” Part of him was still fighting. “It feels wrong somehow… I like girls.”
“Weasley,” Sebastian said quietly. “So do I. But you… you’ve drawn me in for a while now.” He admitted it like it cost him something. “And you’re nothing like a girl, so…” He looked away. “I hope I’m at least a little appealing to you as well.”
“I… I’m not sure,” Garreth breathed.
Sebastian pressed closer against the Gryffindor’s body and met his eyes again with that sly smile.
“I rather think a certain part of you is speaking for you, Weasley.”
Garreth’s face went the colour of his hair. He became suddenly, acutely aware of the pulsing heat that had built in him somewhere during their fight and peaked during that blood-tinged kiss.
“That’s just… it’s—”
“Don’t say ‘an accident’, Weasley,” Sebastian said drily. “You’ve just turned eighteen, not twelve. So…” Sallow had been slowly lowering his hand this entire time, and now he hooked one finger under the edge of the towel “…that is no accident.”
Garreth was losing, one battle at a time. His ears had gone red, his heart was hammering against his ribs, and his wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the boy pressing down against him. But somewhere deep in him, beneath the confusion and the shame, the same old Gryffindor lion stirred—the one that had never learned to back down.
Sebastian was holding him against the bench, but Garreth could see it: the slight tremor in the fingers gripping the edge of his towel. Garreth felt his advantage suddenly—felt the weight and reach of his own strength. Sebastian wasn’t actually dominating him. He was provoking him. And Garreth decided to accept the challenge.
In one sharp movement he caught Sebastian’s wrist, forcing him to let go of the towel. Before the Slytherin could react, Garreth used the momentum to flip them and now Sebastian was the one pressed against the cold bench, and Garreth was above him, breathing hard.
“You talk too much, Sallow,” Garreth said, his gaze hard and focused. “You want to be in control? Not now.”
Sebastian let out a short, low laugh, tipping his head back—a fresh challenge in his expression.
“Oh. So the cub hasn’t just grown teeth. He’s decided he runs things now? Go on then, Weasley, show me what you can do, apart from blush and die of embarrassment.”
Garreth said nothing. He simply exhaled and his expression didn’t shift. He unbuttoned Sebastian’s shirt beneath his robes and ran a warm palm slowly over the other boy’s freckled skin, drawing goosebumps in its wake. He undid the Slytherin’s trousers and pulled them down along with everything beneath.
“You locked the door, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Sebastian said, reaching for his wand. “Colloportus.”
“Give me your wand, Sebastian.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. His body went tense. But he held out the handle all the same, yielding to the Gryffindor.
“Hexing an unarmed man?” he repeated Garreth’s own words, but this time there was a thread of genuine unease running through it.
“I just want us both to be… comfortable,” Garreth said. He lifted the wand and levelled it at Sebastian, speaking clearly and calmly. “Engorgio,” he murmured.
Silver light poured from the tip of the wand and wrapped itself around Sebastian’s body. The Slytherin shivered, feeling the magic expanding, easing, making his body more receptive. It wasn’t pain—it was a strange, tingling sensation of opening, and it sent a pulse of heat pooling low in his stomach immediately.
“Have you… done this before?” Sebastian asked.
“A girl asked me to. I remembered,” Garreth said quietly.
“What a diligent student you are, Weasley,” Sebastian murmured.
Garreth set down the wand and, without wasting another second, pulled the towel away from his hips with one sharp movement. Sebastian’s breath caught as he took in the entirely bare Gryffindor—the lean, defined body, the pulsing heat of his arousal, which looked even more striking now through the lens of the spell and the visible desire that was radiating between them.
“You’re… you’re absolutely mad, Weasley,” Sebastian breathed but his fingers were already digging into Garreth’s shoulders, pulling him closer.
“I’m used to seeing things through when someone throws down a challenge,” Garreth said, leaning down over him.
“Was it good for that girl?”
“Trust me.”
Garreth gave Sebastian no time to think. He took hold of his hips with one hand and began to enter him—slowly, carefully, but without hesitation—while his other hand moved along Sebastian’s full length. Thanks to the expansion spell, the entry was smooth, almost natural. Sebastian let out a short, rough moan, his body arching to meet Garreth.
“Merlin, Weas—” he breathed, his fingers digging into the Gryffindor’s back. “Garreth…”
It wasn’t gentle. It was the fight continued—only in a far more intimate form. Garreth moved deep and hard, pouring into each thrust everything that had been building in him all day: the anger, the adrenaline, and something that was rapidly becoming indistinguishable from want. Sebastian met him without hesitation, his body moving with Garreth’s rhythm, his quiet sounds mixing with the Gryffindor’s uneven breathing.
Steam from the showers still hung in the air around them, leaving their skin slick with heat and dampness. The silence of the changing room was broken only by the sounds of them—breathless, urgent, increasingly unguarded. Garreth looked down into Sebastian’s eyes and saw it there: the thrill, the pleasure, and something that looked almost like relief.
“Who’s the drama queen now, Sallow?” Garreth murmured against his ear.
“Shut up, Weasley,” Sebastian breathed, his fingers twisting in Garreth’s damp curls. “And don’t you dare stop.”
Garreth pressed his mouth to Sebastian’s and kissed him deeply. He felt his own release building and moved his hand faster, slick and deliberate, refusing to let himself get there first.
The wave broke over both of them at nearly the same moment. Garreth collapsed onto Sebastian, breathing hard. The Slytherin licked a drop of sweat from the Gryffindor’s damp temple.
“Sallow,” Garreth said softly, still pressed against his chest.
“What?”
“I still like girls.”
“Noted, Garreth. So do I.”
