Hi everyone! This year, besides trying to be a little more present in fandom, I'd also like to get better at finishing what I start and writing more oneshots. On that note, I'm posting this update to hold myself accountable for some of the things I would like to do:
Finish the following oneshots/ chapters:
this hell we create bonus chapter from Sebastian's POV (40% done)
Ominis x Reader naming their first child (80% done)
Garrinis smut (60% done)
Shelter of Our Night 12 (20% done)
Make more screenshots (or, let's be honest, memeshots) 📸
Write more shorter, prompt-based fics with requests submitted by the people! I've seen other blogs do this and I think it'll challenge me to get better at telling a narrative within certain conditions. I've tentatively opened anon asks so if you have any ideas let me know, although probably won't properly start until I finish the other stuff first. 🖋️
And participate in more fandom events. 💕
Wren & Wraith, consequently, will have more frequent breaks to accomodate. I love the weekly updates but I have to be realistic and understand that juggling this, irl and now my other oneshots means something has to slow down.
That's all! Hope to see more of you all this year 💚 (And if I don't finish those oneshots/ chapters by the end of 2026, you have my permission to kick my ass.)
Tsumugi’s death was…ordinary -could’ve happened to any of them, really. Had it been any other occasion, it might have even been ruled an accident, yet with the mystery of Sakuya and Tenma’s murders, they all knew it to be anything but.
He had fallen (been pushed? Slipped? Jumped? None of them knew, but he had fallen) from the roof, his shout and subsequent landing heard by those still awake. He’d landed amongst the flowers, beautiful blooms now crushed beneath him, their pots smashed apart and cutting into his body. His eyes had been unfocused, tears trailing from them, and his breaths laborious and slowing. He’d seemed not to notice his friends around him, pleading for his attention, for him to, “Hold on, stay with them, the ambulance would be there soon.”
He was dead upon arrival.
Later found at the site, was a feather -all but a slight speck of its soft cream dyed dark rust.
you know........kingsman 2 is coming out in october.................and “How deep does this thing go? Deep enough” was a real conversation harry and eggsy had....................................combine that with the fact that i’d trust matthew vaughn with my life.............................................. wake up america hartwin is endgame
I was writing my Garreth Weasley Fest 2025 fic (Garrinis heehee) and realised I've described POV's 'first encounter' with Ominis soooo many times now that I thought for fun I would compile them all here. (Good variety of ships/ friendships here, including a sneak-peak at upcoming work!)
🦡✨ TROUBLESOME AND UNLADYLIKE (Ominis/Reader)
"You're in the wrong place."
You swung around, almost hitting the boy in the face with your hair. He looked vaguely familiar – a name called out amongst yours during the Sorting, and though you didn't remember what his name was, he was definitely a first year, even though he was at least an inch taller. His wheat-gold hair was loosely combed back, posture straight and chin high, all a match with his high-born accent.
Goodness, you'd never met someone so posh before. Was he the descendent of some totty gentry? Were you supposed to curtsy? Call him milord?
But you merely tilted your head as he stared at the ground beyond you, his eyes like strange, chalky pearls. "Aren't we going to the form rooms?" you squeaked.
🥀🔮 SHELTER OF OUR NIGHT (Sebastian/Reader with Ominis/MC)
Locks crank, and the door swings open.
After five years, Ominis Gaunt has changed more than he expected. Taller, regal, and, well, more gaunt. But he also looks healthy, golden-brown hair in the same comb over style but less waxed, skin smooth and clean-shaven, his frame filling more the role of an adult man than ropey teenage boy. He's wearing a three-piece suit, and there's a ring on his left hand.
🍺🖤 THIS HELL WE CREATE (Sebastian/Muggle!Reader with Garrinis)
The next day, the door opens at precisely eight o'clock. Your head swings up from cleaning a nearby table. The man who strolls inside isn't Sebastian, however, but someone else – a new stranger. His fine garb, lacquered cane and pristine gold band on his ring finger are so at odds to the humble surroundings that you think he must've got lost on his way to the bank, the courthouse, or hell, bloody Buckingham Palace itself.
"Welcome to Ye Olde Hen House," you call. "Want a drink?"
His head cants, and then he's weaving between tables and chairs and Squiffy Joe. The stranger is tall and commands presence, but not in the way Sebastian does – this man is slender and lean, with coiffed dark blonde hair and a scattering of moles on his face. It's his eyes that draw you in the most, though, like waxy opals. They never quite focus on you.
"Good evening. I'm looking to thank you, actually. My name is Ominis Gaunt."
🌦️☄️ WREN & WRAITH (Ominis/MC)
Tabitha meekly followed behind the crowd lumbering towards Charms. Ominis and Sebastian were ahead, noticeable by their considerable height. Ominis was tall enough to lord over the peasant subjects that were his classmates, skin so milk-pale it'd probably never heard of sun. His hair had been a perfectly coiffed side-parting that morning, but thanks to their kerfuffle, a few strands of wheat-gold now lolled over those unusual opalescent eyes. Sebastian told her he was blind – a fact she'd missed while he was royally kicking her arse – but he nonetheless seemed to navigate the world with effortless grace, each stride smooth and proud.
Sebastian was a nice boy, charming and vain enough to be attractive but not arrogant, but Ominis? Good God did handsome not mean pleasant. In fact, Ominis Gaunt was the opposite. Mean. A big meanie. Tabitha didn't know how many times she'd have to say sorry to get his apathy, let alone forgiveness.
THE SEVEN-YEAR KISS (Garrinis for the 2025 fest)
Garreth peers up through the dense cluster of students. Ominis is scowling – an expression, he soon learns, is near a permanent fixture that sculpts the pretty, sharp features of Ominis' aristocratic face. Every part of him is neat and orderly, down to the flat, steam-ironed robes, impeccably knotted black tie and swept back hair that glistens gold in the dusk.
“You great brute, Sebastian,” he scolds, moving quickly – to Garreth. He poises his wand arm, blinking at his side, and offers a hand down. “Please excuse my friend his manners. Are you all right?”
Garreth isn’t usually one to stare. He’s a polite boy, raised right, he’ll swear it. But Merlin’s beard, is it impossible to look away. He’s never seen, never met, anyone quite like Ominis. Shakily he reaches for his hand, surprised at the contrast of Ominis’ supple skin and the strength with which he hauls him back to his feet.
"BLIND STRANGER" (Ominis/Muggle!Reader)
The blind stranger always comes at the crisp waking of dawn.
You don’t make a habit of recalling when certain customers became regulars; there are too many unremarkable interactions to remember them all, especially those who never say a word. But him – you remember him simply for his countenance, the sharply honed intrigue and aura of mystery, a puzzle in which the last piece was eternally missing. You remember him because, for many weeks, he's come in to browse, and hasn't purchased a thing.
Today is different.
You notice him garbed in a spring coat, a sage cravat and a silk shirt. He clasps with him his walking stick, fashioned from a deep, rich ebony, the handle an unadorned egg of silver.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, madam.”
If anyone reading this has described any of the HL characters 'first meet' multiple times like this, please feel free to share! I'd love to see it, for Ominis or otherwise 💚
Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis
[E-Rated, 5.6k words]
“Bit past your bedtime, isn’t it, bar girl?”
The smoky air catches in your lungs, and when you stand, he closes the distance with arms wide. You don’t just hug – you collapse into him, the relief so potent, so all-encompassing the physical cuts and pains simply fade away. More tears come unbidden; they sting as they trail down your keening cheeks and make the leather and copper of his scent taste like coal. He squeezes back with crushing intensity, and you feel all the safer for it.
In the aftermath of Harlow's attack, you and Sebastian have a choice to make.
[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV]
[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]
TW: alcoholism, blood/ injury.
7. to snuff a candle
Panic climbs up your throat as you stumble your way back to the pub hall, a jarring embrace of both night cold and flame heat. As the last few minutes ravel and unravel before you again, tangled as the overrun roots of a gnarled tree, you can barely think to breathe, the air is so tainted and chafing.
Harlow, unconscious on the ground by your hand. The lookalike, fleeing out the back and disappearing.
Sebastian, nowhere to be seen.
Hands stripped of skin from the pan, you grit your jaw with each beam of ashen wood you chuck aside. Instead of Sebastian's corpse, you find more of Harlow's men, knocked out and trussed up in perfectly intact rope, and the crushed remains of the furniture and crockery, scraps of the tapestries, shattered lamp glass, smashed jars, tankards blackened by smoke. Tears prickle the bags beneath your eyes. The place is a graveyard to your life's work – but not yet to a life itself.
I'll never complain again he lives, you send a desperate prayer to the universe. Let him be alive. Let him be well. Hinged on this plea, you comb the entire hall without protest, and yet he remains unfound, nursing the bud of hope to an unbearable size, so large you daren't feed it anymore. Better accept him dead and find him alive, than believe him alive, and find his bones in cinders.
Ominis climbs his way through the wreckage to reach you. Although his hair is clearly unwaxed, lolling over his eyes like silk tassels, the rest of him is more put together than expected. Shirt still tucked in, waistcoat done up and trousers without a single crease. You might've believed he wasn't present for the fight at all, if not for the numerous black soot stains splattering his cheeks – it almost looks like he simply stoked a fire too carelessly.
"Oh, hello, madam—" He seems caught off-guard by the way his foot punts against the upended floor boards – he curses beneath his breath. "You're not meant to be here."
"I had to come. Sebastian, is he—?"
"He's fine." He clears his throat, standing upright. "Everything is well. The culprits have been apprehended."
"Where is he?"
"Nearby, I imagine. Who knows with him sometimes."
It's so mundane, like Sebastian's just popped out for a bloody bottle of milk. Ominis' face is shuttered; he's not saying nowt for a reason, but what that reason is, you don't know.
"Where's your walking stick?" you ask.
"Ah. I, ahem, lost it in the fire. Please don't fret. I'll manage." He takes a tentative step closer. "It's still dangerous for you to be here right now. Will you wait outside until I assess the premises? I need to check the foundations are stable."
"Mr Gaunt," you say, deadpan. "You're blind."
Ominis makes his way to the back room.
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
So you go, carving the anxious pit in your stomach ever more hollow as you sit on the kerb outside what was once the front doors. After the groaning wood, crackling flames and frenzied proclamations, the silence is swollen. It has a wrongness to it, like being squeezed through a tube. The city never sleeps and yet it's sleeping now, using this one chance to exist in a moment without needing everyone to know it. There are no people, wandering close to witness the commotion, nor fox kits yearning for their mothers, nor even wind, like Mother Nature herself has abandoned this place. Life feels on pause, and oh, what you wouldn't give to hear voices, or movement, or breath. Your pub used to be a hive, and now it's nothing.
Harlow saw to that... as did your copy.
A shudder runs a course from your scalp, down your spine all the way to your toes. You dig them into your soles and drag your good hand through your sooty and matted hair. It isn't that the doppelgänger wore your face. It's your body shape. Your eyes. Everything down to the grittiest detail. Was it circus make-up? A cruel trick of the light? Punishment from God for lack of faith, lack of propriety this last week in Sebastian's embrace?
You feel the murmur of his lips on your skin, and you mourn those moments – you mourn this place, and the memories it bestowed upon you with a grief that siphons the rest of your strength. Fatigue is catching up now, and if matter could simply cease to exist, Ominis would never find you again.
A tumble of heavy boot steps draws your ear to the doorway.
"Bit past your bedtime, isn't it, bar girl?"
The smoky air catches in your lungs, and when you stand, he closes the distance with arms wide. You don't just hug – you collapse into him, the relief so potent, so all-encompassing the physical cuts and pains merely fade away. More tears come unbidden; they sting as they trail down your keening cheeks and make the leather and copper of his scent taste like coal. He squeezes back with crushing intensity, and you feel all the safer for it.
"Y-You... you crazy bastard..."
"Only crazy for you," he says, stroking your hair. "I'm all right."
You cry anyway, because you know how close he was to slipping through the veil to the other side.
"Harlow... he was... he was about to..."
"It doesn't matter anymore." He pulls back to cup your face, thumb away the tears. "Ominis and I locked him in the cellar with the rest of his gang. He'll go away for life now, I expect. Like he should've the first time."
There's some relief in knowing you'll never see him again. "There's no prison terrible enough for him."
"Oh, I can think of one." He winks, making you laugh. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
He tuts, taking your hands, still red and raw from holding the metal pan. Even the lightest flutter on the palm makes you flinch.
"This looks sore."
"It's fine. What about you?" You frantically check him over – by God's miracle he's almost completely unharmed, with only a few cuts, bruises and burns to prove he was here at all. But this is only what's visible beneath a cloak that seems oddly a size too small. "Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need—?"
"What I need," he says gently, "is for you to take a breath."
He sits you at the remains of the counter. In the short reprieve, Ominis has tidied a walkway through the carnage and presumably left to contact the authorities. Sebastian, on the other hand, works at the bar with his back to you, fingers deft as he sets the stove to heat a kettle, and sources one of the only remaining intact teacups. The tea he brews is weak, and probably hazardous, but you drink it all the same. The taste shrivels the tongue – it's a herbal blend, chamomile, but with odd notes of honey, mint and something earthy and dense, like bark.
"Going to explain why you're here and not safe at home, where I asked you to be?"
You don't want to throw Garreth under the bus for revealing parts of his plan. It was a decision made out of love, after all, and whether or not he told you about the bait you would've come anyway. The worry alone could've killed you.
"I'm glad I did." It murmurs out of you, soft as clouds. You look down – the skin on your hand doesn't hurt so much anymore. "I hit Harlow on the back of the head with a pan."
"That's my girl."
"It's not that, Sebastian. I did it to save someone, and I think... I think that someone was..."
Myself?
"What is it?" he asks, leaning forwards. With his sleeves rolled up, the veins bulge as his arms tense.
The idea is absurd. Yourself. You saw yourself. If someone said it to you, a laugh would've burst right from your belly, but it's the truth – you've seen enough mirrors to know it real. But the words won't come forth, stuck in your throat like rapidly cooling lava. You've worked at this very counter long enough to see the levels of delusion born from too much alcohol. Why not stress and fear and flame, too?
"It's nothing."
"Nothing?" He quirks a brow. "Are you sure?"
You let out a breath, steadying yourself. You trust him – so much it hurts – but this is one secret you'll take to your grave.
"What does it matter anymore?" You spin around to avoid his eye and take in the sight of the hall again. Less than twelve hours ago, there were people breaking bread at tables now rubble. "Harlow's finished and we may not be dead, but my life is still destroyed. Without my pub... I have nothing."
In the silence, he comes to stand next to you, propping himself against the bar.
"Far from it, love. Think about the legacy you built. Think about the comradery, the community. The building didn't make that, you did. You have so much strength, so much more than you think."
The words tighten below your collarbone. "Yeah, all that for what? Can't continue my legacy without a pub, can I?"
He leans down, kissing the shell of your ear.
"I can help with that." He takes your hands and places them over your eyes, shrouding your sight. "Keep your eyes closed."
"What for?"
"A little Sebastian special."
"This is hardly the time to strip, Sallow."
He chuckles. "Save that for later, love. Keep them closed until I tell you. Promise, okay?"
You nod. Sebastian pauses, and then whispers something inaudible – a few syllables that set off a chain reaction like a summer storm that arrives with no warning: a remorseless and enveloping cacophony of sounds and vibrations that almost tips your very stool over. Wood breaks, metal clangs. You think Sebastian, whatever he's doing, might be making it worse before the discord tapers into eerie silence once more. Even then, you don't open your eyes. Part of you is afraid of what you'll see.
"Okay," Sebastian says, after a pause. "Open."
You don't believe the sight at first. What was a burnt down wreckage is now clean, swept tables, polished windows and joists that grip the walls with stalwart intent, refusing to bow to the elements outside. The building is completely whole, a total dream. But as you stand, take a tentative step forwards, the reality of it dawns. It's real. Like he plucked the memory of every plank and hole, every detail from broad to miniscule, from the carpet colour and chair count to the delicate curlicues of the sconces and the wood trim on the wall frieze, painted like a forest woodland in twilight, and recreated it with impossible precision. Everything is intact, everything is as it was. Even things that were broken before are miraculously repaired. The damp is gone, wonky skirting board realigned, the lamps no longer flicker as they burn.
"What... but..." Your heart is racing too fast to count beats. "It... it can't be...?"
"Oh, but it is."
He's a smug beast, and yet as you touch the bar's surface to check it's not a hallucination, each grain and fibre feels unchanged, perfectly varnished without a single splinter. It's real. It's real.
Ye Olde Hen House, as you live and breathe.
You turn to him at a loss. "How the hell did you do this?"
He winks. "Told you. Sebastian special."
"Be truthful, for once. How?"
You sort of know how he's going to answer, how he's always answered when he does something he's not willing to explain. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you. Only, as his face contorts into an even more snarky grin and he opens his mouth to respond, the door pushes open with such force its bang echoes throughout the hall.
It's the last person you expect to see – Kath.
"I should've known you wouldn't do as you're told, Sallow."
An arsenal of people stream inside behind Kath, men, and women, it appears of equal rank, heading straight for the cellar to take Harlow and his gang away. Kath regards you and Sebastian stony-faced with her hands tucked into black coat pockets. There's some sort of insignia on the lapel, a simplified red Gordian knot, but you don't recognise the meaning.
"I can't say I'm surprised." Her gaze glaciates, like anything unfortunate enough to draw her attention will freeze and wither. "Ominis seemed to have faith you wouldn't be so careless. Now it's up to me to remove the liability."
What liability? Sebastian's shoulders curve upwards, and a growl escapes the deepest part of his throat.
"Harlow plotted to use this place to get to me," he mutters. "Was I supposed to let him?"
She draws something from her pocket and raises it. A... stick?
"Harlow is no longer relevant to this conversation. You've threatened the Statute in ways I can't possibly defend. This," she nods her head to the ceiling, to the whole building, "was the last straw." She fixates on you. "She must be removed."
Your lungs fray like worn rope. You are the liability. How, you don't get to ask before he moves between you, as fast as a sandstorm. You wish you could push him out of the way, take the blow from whatever she plans to do, but Sebastian is like the oak that has weathered a thousand years – he will not bend nor break for anything or anyone. He will protect you, no matter what.
Kath makes an irritated flicking gesture. "She's seen too much and you know it. Now step aside."
"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," you snap. Her eyes glaze briefly over you before fixing on him again, igniting your temper. "Whatever you want to do to me—"
"It's not personal," she says tersely. "And it won't hurt. You will simply forget we ever existed at all."
Forget? "What the hell—"
"Don't worry," Sebastian murmurs. His stance straightens. "I won't let you do it."
Frustrated, Kath reaches into her pocket and produces a scroll of parchment. "This here? It's an actual permit from my superior. She must be wiped. And not just her. Half the bloody area could've witnessed your spectacle tonight. This has the potential to be catastrophic, and I'm not even including her bar staff."
Your temper contracts. "If you dare lay a finger on my staff—"
"Easy, love," Sebastian soothes; he turns back to Kath. "The rules don't apply," he says quietly, "if there's a reason she can know."
Kath's eyes tighten. "You barely know her."
"I know her better than you."
Slowly, she drops her weapon, relaxing her posture, and takes a step back. The words seem to prick; you never figured out their relationship prior to his uncle's murder, but here it's flourished by the show of remorse and the set jaw, betraying the hurt she crushes into a ball to hide.
"Very well. You have until sunrise. If she declines, I'll be back. And keep her away from here, unless you want me to make the choice for her."
She passes you another look, harder, judgmental, like all your soul is laid bare for her scrutiny, before she marches past towards the cellar. Sebastian quickly takes your arm and leads you to the back alley, a quiet, mournful spot, and when he turns to you, all that bravado drains dry, the front he put up crumbling before your very eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
"It's all right." You will simply forget we ever existed at all. You rub his arms, then sweep the dirt from his face, and he leans into the touch. "How can I be a liability when it's my pub? What did she mean about making me forget? What's going on?"
"I can't explain, not properly, but I... I am giving you time to make a choice. It's not a lot of time, but..." The coffee of his eyes becomes mulchy like dregs. "I'm sorry for it."
"Choice for what?"
"It's true. You've seen too much. You've never questioned how I do things you can't explain."
"I questioned you not five minutes ago." But you think back on every instance. Making criminals confess, taking your parents to the beach, transporting back and forth, healing at incredible rates... each time, you swallowed your bewilderment, conjured ordinary theories for extraordinary circumstances. "For anyone else I would prod more, but... because it's you..."
The corner of his lip twinges, then it's gone. "Kath can make you forget everything. You'll forget Harlow and what he put you through."
"Forget? Truly?"
He nods.
"But then... would I forget you?"
"Yes."
"And it would be painful?"
"No, like snuffing a candle. Over in an instant."
It seems like no choice, none at all. You see your parents every day and know what it means to forget. It's more than candlelight yielding to dark; it's relinquishing the joy you gained from the happy memories, and the wisdom you gleaned from the sad. It's a whole part of your person stripped away – and what does it mean to be human if not a reverent shrine to your past?
"If I said no to forgetting," you say, "what must I do instead?"
But by the way Sebastian carries himself, taut like a bow string on the edge of a break, the second option is no easier.
He thinks about it for a long time.
"Do you remember when you asked me to tell you how I transported your parents to the beach? Or how I got those arseholes who hurt Bonny to tell the truth?"
You snort. "Yeah, yeah. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."
"No," he says with a sad smile. "I said, If I tell you, I'll have to... dot dot dot. You filled in the blank."
"I filled it the way you were implying."
"That's what I wanted you to think, yeah, but it's not quite true. If I tell you the truth, bar girl, I wouldn't have to kill you." He softens. "I'd have to marry you."
You're too stunned to respond.
"Marriage brings security," he says, delivering it with an unusual stoicism – a means of protecting his own heart. "If you married me, you would be allowed to remember."
"So the choice," you say carefully, "is forgetting, or marriage?"
"Yes."
"And what... what is it you want?"
"What I want doesn't matter—"
"It's not a pinkie swear over who eats the last biscuit. It's marriage, Sebastian. You don't agree to that willy-nilly." You grip his shirt, make him feel how important this is. "What do you want?"
He licks cracked, dry lips.
"What I want..." He muses upon it like he's tasting the words for the very first time. "I wanted revenge, but seeking it only brought pain and death to the people I love. I wanted release, but now I'm addicted to the thing that gave it to me. Everything I ever want turns rotten in my hands."
You touch his chest, over his heart, and listen to that steady rocking beat within. "It's not wrong to want."
"It's wrong to want what I want right now." Tentatively he reaches upwards, and the back of his hand leaves a trail of sparks down your cheek. "To want to marry you and care for you and love you, if you'd have me. To want you in my life for the rest of my life. More days spent together having fun, more nights making love until we fall asleep in each other's arms. There'd be no more secrets or trickery. I... I want you." A wry smile. "And I promise I wouldn't take your assets. We'd be equals in every way."
The idea sparks a beautiful fantasy. Waking up to his gorgeous face, the quiet moments getting ready together, sharing kisses in the ephemeral spaces between, spending mornings, noons and nights waiting to touch him again, kiss him again, and when the pub finally closes on a good day of trade and laughter and community, you would share those unforgettable moments with him, lavishing affection on each other's bodies until slumber claims the midnight hours. Days trickling into weeks. Growing older, maybe having a family. You can taste it, like ambrosia of the gods.
But that's all it is – a fantasy. You've always wanted marriage through the traditional means, not with your hands rope-tied as you dangle from a cliff. And although you have no doubt he loves you, from the tips of his fingers to the very marrow in his bones, there's something he craves more than you. And it's the very thing you trade for coin. The very thing that brought you together in the first place.
His eyes search you, and he must see the decision solidify behind your eyes, because his Adam's apple bobs, and his cheeks pull back as the weight of it bows his lips.
"I won't be coerced into marriage, Sebastian," you say, and each word feels like the stab of a dagger, "and... I won't put you in a more vulnerable position than you are now. You need to work on yourself."
You hold eye contact, though it threatens to break you – and watch the way his coffee eyes crumble to dust.
"I can be better. I'll give it up right now, I swear it."
"I know you can, which is why you have to do this away from here, for yourself. Getting married to a bar girl... that's a recipe for trouble. You're going to be surrounded by alcohol all the time. You'd grow to resent it. Resent me."
"I could never resent you."
"You were in prison for ten years, Sebastian. My life will always be here, but your life could take you anywhere. You didn't go through your sister's death just to settle without thinking it through, really thinking it through." When his brow crumples you try to soften the final blow. "No, Sebastian. This isn't the right way forwards... and you know it."
He exhales like he's letting go. He knows.
"You want to give up on us?"
"The opposite." He leans into the touch, fluttering his eyes closed as you sweep across his cheek, catching the crystal droplets on the pads of your fingers. "If... if what we have is strong—"
"It is."
"— and not another one of your fancy tricks—"
"Still don't trust me, after all this time?" He smiles. "Wise girl. Must be why I like you so much."
You smile too. "Fate will do the rest, if were meant to be together, but whether or not we are, this will give you a chance at a fresh start. I won't remember, and you won't have a reason to come back here anymore."
After a moment, he says, "If you're here, I'll always have a reason" in the most quietly broken voice possible. He speaks like the last sunray before nightfall, the final word of a beloved story, and the weak beat of the heart before it stops for good. When another swollen tear drips onto your hand, you shut your eyes, trying to stop the lump in your throat turning into a sob.
"I won't remember to miss you, but I hope you know that somewhere deep down I will." He presses his forehead to yours, and you open your eyes, blurry and undefined, yet you know its coffee that looks back. "Be good. Or try to?"
"I will."
His mouth finds yours in the haze. You grip his shirt collar, pulling him closer, closer still, desperate to have him like the air you breathe. If this is your last taste of Sebastian Sallow, you want it to imprint on your tongue, ghost your lips with every smile and leave a mark upon your soul. At another time, maybe in this life or the next, you would let yourself be his forever.
Just not here. Just not now.
His tears trickle down your cheek, and you force yourself to pull back, before it's impossible to do it at all. He clutches your arms, and you lean into him, pressing your forehead to his.
"You and I were not meant to be," you whisper, "not together, in this hell we create."
Lips shiny with tears, Sebastian flashes a smile.
"If being with you is hell," he says, "then heaven must be beyond paradise."
A notice goes up as the sun rises.
Opening late due to unforeseen circumstances.
At the bar, where nothing seems to have changed, you take a long sip of stout; it's strong, but richly malt, flavoured with notes of caramel and coffee that settle the turns of your stomach. No wonder Sebastian likes it so much.
Your last reminder of him will live sweet on the tongue.
The knock comes when you expect. You don't hurry, finishing the rest of the drink and wiping the froth away before going to the door. You pass the back door locked tightly, a corner used as a cheese board, a table cleaned vigorously of stains. Ye Olde Hen House is a memorial of him, and it will be your solace, even if you won't know why.
You pull the door open. Kath stands outside, alone.
"Your answer?"
"I said no."
She nods once. "Then you know why I'm here."
In the silence that follows, Kath performs a cursory check of the premises. With your parents upstairs, and your staff coming later, you are alone. Your limbs itch to take you away, constantly at brace of a blow that's not supposed to hurt. To Kath this is a quick, clean procedure, but it doesn't make you any less nervous. If only he was here to see you through.
"Sebastian is a good person, you know," you murmur.
Her gaze hardens. She says nothing.
"He makes mistakes, but inside he is good."
"You forget I know that all too well." Kath just sighs. "But the law thinks differently, and I have to follow orders."
"That's the difference between you and Sebastian. You follow orders. He follows his heart."
Her face is an impasse, unhewn stone. With all the compassion of a physician doing routine surgery, she comes to stand about five feet away, facing you with a lifted chin.
"He was happy with you." She says it neither with disdain nor tenderness, just pure observation, and maybe a way to guard her own pain. "I hope, for your sake, his heart leads him back here one day, when you're both ready."
"I hope so too."
You return to the stool, Sebastian's stool, and make yourself comfortable as Kath pulls out the stick. Like snuffing a candle. Over in an instant. You shut your eyes, and cling to the image of Sebastian as you know him best – a customer, friend, lover, protector, saviour. As one who opened your eyes to the breadth of human kindness and soul.
You think about his smile as Kath says a word you've never heard before.
A strange melancholy brews in your chest, a loss like a wound that will not heal. You've never understood this feeling. Your parents are the same as before, Bonny and the other staff are in high spirits, the pub is doing well. There's money in the till and food in your belly, a fire in the hearth and a roof over your head. But something's missing. For over a year you have withstood this phantom limb, ignored the pit so large and yawning that has no discernible source, but sometimes, like today, it feels impossible to bear.
"Awright, Miss?" Bonny asks, tilting her head so her hair tumbles down her bosom. "Got the morbs?"
You pull back from your thoughts, blinking confoundedly. "No, sorry," you laugh awkwardly. "Just feeling out of sorts."
"Turn that frown upside-down," she says, grinning. "Life ain't so bad, is it?"
Families huddle over homemade stew, old companions reunite for celebration, couples share wine and spirit. You look around at the clinking glasses, the gramophone spitting a jaunty tune, the happy staff, the filled tables and delicious food mopped up by greasy fingers.
"No," you say, with a content smile. "No, it don't get much better, really."
"Especially," she giggles, looking askance, "with such fine company."
You follow her gaze to the man loitering by the door, watching you. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, nine-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. He wears a long dark coat that swishes with his pronounced, proud stride, neatly stitched along the hem with a patch on the lapel, a charmingly written A in gold embroidery. The coat covers a blazer, waistcoat and tie, and pinstripe trousers that dust the ankles of his polished brogues.
"He's looking at you something fierce." Bonny wiggles her brow. "Bet the muscle on that man could make a horse swoon."
You look away from him, intrigued, flustered. "Control yourself, Bonny."
"Oh— he's coming over!"
She scurries off with a tray, giggling, and you accept the freckled stranger's attention as he slides into the stool at the bar.
"Hello."
Surprisingly his voice comes out soft, maybe a little star-struck. Up close, he is even more handsome, generously freckled, clean-shaven, and scented with a perfume that fills you with nostalgia. Chestnut curls shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like chocolate, like wood shavings scattered on the damp forest floor...
Like... coffee.
"Want a drink?"
His gaze hones in with a sincerity so beautiful it sends shivers down your spine.
"A pot of chamomile, please."
"Two farthings."
He barely glances down before sliding the coinage over. His hands are made from work, thickly stumped fingers and cracked nails and wide callouses, but with veins that contrast the skin like rivulets. He flexes suddenly, pronouncing the main one down the length of his arm, and you notice him watching you, each innocent movement of your fingers and lips intimately traced. You look away, flushing.
"Not seen you around before," you say as you pour the tea. "New in town?"
"Returning." The timbre of his voice could make a field bloom in roses. "I've been doing some soul-searching for the past year."
"Good on you. Sure you don't want to celebrate with something stronger?"
"Nah, tea's great." He winks. "Company's not bad either."
You snort. "Flirt all you want, it won't be free."
"Oh, I don't mind paying," he raises the cup, "if it always comes with the view."
Head braced in hand, he sips slowly, eyes half-lidded, content with himself but aware, and the steam sluices across his cheek like gossamer, pronouncing his jawline and how somewhere, deep in your chest, you take an odd notion to stroking it. Your father, when he was right of mind, used to tell tales of how he romanced your mother – over the counter, drink in hand, brazen but never overstepping, tongue silver yet wit as sharp as a blade. Is this man the same?
And why does it matter to you if he is?
Between work, you make scraps of conversation as the night wears on. Talking to the freckled stranger is, you find, as easy as breathing. He speaks generously, laughs earnestly, offers compliments without being saccharine. You could sit and listen to him all night, a pleasant and unexpected way to distract, maybe even fill, that missing void.
He gets up as the hour approaches late, fixing his cuffs and tossing the coat over his shoulder. You saunter towards him with pretend disinterest.
"What's your name?"
His grin grows slowly, like sunrise. "Now, bar girl," the nickname is murmured velvet, "I don't kiss and tell."
You let out a laugh. With a motion of finality, he pivots to leave, and you ask before it's too late, "Will I be seeing you here again?"
The freckled stranger pauses, turns his head to you, and smiles.
"Stupid question."
Fin.
A/N: This story is very different in vibe to anything else I’ve written, and the challenge was both fun and… a challenge, hahah. Thank you so, so much for reading, I really had a blast bringing this version of Sebastian to life and developing his relationship with a Muggle reader – writing his shenanigans from her perspective was my most favourite part. Special thanks this time to my tumblr readers, it's been wonderful writing this for you all!
I intend to post an Ominis/Muggle!Reader series at some point (it was actually going to come out first but Sebastian got mad and took over my muse, so). Follow if you wanna see that! It’s in the oven.
And I always like to give a shout-out to fics similar in vibe, so I’d like to recommend @morelikeravenbore's How to Make a Villain for its phenomenal prose, meticulously realised characters and nuanced discussions of difficult topics, like grief and death. If you liked Sebastian here, you’re gonna love him there.
Thank you so much for reading. I really appreciate it. <3
Please leave a like/ reblog/ comment if you enjoyed <3
Thank you to my tag list! 💚 @okay-j-hannah @morelikeravenbore @vylaris @gyattoru @cloudroomblog
Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader, minor Garrinis
[E-Rated, 3.6k words]
"It's hot."
"No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service."
"I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"
The freckled stranger has been visiting your pub for three months now, drinking to forget the worst times.
You might be the person he needs to remember the best.
[MASTERLIST][NEXT]
[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]
TW: swearing, alcoholism, grief, discussions of death.
1: stupid questions
The freckled stranger has been in your pub every day for the last three months.
It never matters whether it's windy, raining, or overbearingly sunny. It never matters whether it's busy, tables crammed, the counter sticky with spills, or if the tax on drink has gone up. It never matters if he's in a good or bad mood. Every day, right as expected, he shoulders inside Ye Olde Hen House, ignores the chorus of greetings from the tipsy regulars, lumbers to the bar and orders a drink. His choice is always the same: cold stout, brought over in as many glasses he can take before he's one whit away from passing out.
You're used to hauling out drunkards. In this part of the old city they trundle in after labour shifts, seeking to forget the day's worries, and wind up on the floor by hour's end. You pity them their weak constitutions and poor decision-making, and the wives who will have to suffer their company upon their brazen return in the middle of the night.
To his credit, the freckled stranger has never been that drunk.
Yet you pity him most of all.
The first time he steps foot inside the pub he immediately draws your eye. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, five-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. His hair is a bed of chestnut curls, and the ends shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like coffee. Stubble grows in patches over his sharp jaw. In the heat of summer he wears only a linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and you can see muscle there, and tattoos, though you force yourself to look away before you can determine what they are, burying your curiosity behind professionalism.
When he makes it to the counter, he slaps down a handful of change and sinks onto the barstool, looking at you, gaze burning expectantly but not with disdain.
"Pint of beer, please."
"Two pence."
He pushes all his coins over. You extract two pennies, then fill a glass to the brim. He drinks quietly but greedily, siphoning the beer like it's his first liquid in days, and when he finishes, every drop consumed, the glass clatters to the countertop in a white-knuckled grip, pronouncing the veins in his hands like cobalt forks of lightning.
"Another, please."
You raise an eyebrow. "Knock that back any faster you might see Heaven before you mean to."
"What makes you think I'm going to heaven?" He throws out a few coins – pennies and halfpennies this time. "Pint of beer, please."
He drinks slower and slower each time as the alcohol alleviates his worries. You feel pity, strong and true. Same age or abouts, and people would look down on you for having a peasant's job, but at least you're not wasting your life away like the freckled stranger.
At least of yourself you make a name, whilst the freckled stranger makes a fool.
By his fourth, sometimes fifth drink, he's spread-eagle on the countertop, playing with the pocket change between his fingertips, wide-eyed with fascination.
"Don't fall asleep," you tell him, squeezing a cloth over a soiled plate. "Or I'll kick you out."
"Not sleepy," he slurs, flicking a half-penny into a tailspin. "Am pensive."
"Pensive... right."
"Pensive about pennies." He chuckles to himself. "Your coins are so funny. What's the point of half-pennies and farthings?"
The use of your is unusual, but he's drunk, so what's new. "Why don't you ask King Edward?" you say humorously.
"You say it like he's only next door. Know him, do you?"
"'Course. We're best mates."
"Put me in contact. I'll change— more make sense."
You purse your lips. He's too drunk to respond coherently, though there's still about three fingers left in the glass, which he eventually works up the means to finish, leaving his lips sticky with cream. By this point it's almost closing time and he struggles to get to his feet. You don't help him. Why should you?
"Ta," he hiccoughs roughly in your direction, and staggers out the door, out of view. You wonder where he goes, what he does in the daytime, whether he has family, or friends, or a pretty girl who pities him too.
He's in a mood on a particularly hot June evening, when he walks into the pub with his shirt unbuttoned.
Do not look. Despite being a complete wastrel, the freckled stranger, you hate to admit, is extremely well-built, with a finely-toned chest and brawny arms that could easily win many wrestling matches, and many hearts too. Maybe he already has. The long stripe of flesh between the two front panels tease a wide chest tattoo, inked over his pectorals like fine canvas – what appears to be two runic symbols and the number 706.
You quickly glance away. That's already too much. Just because a man is attractive doesn't mean you should be staring. You compose yourself and make your way over before he reaches the bar.
"Shirt," you say. "Button it up."
He halts, drinking in the sight of you. Up close, all you can smell is his musk, salty like the sea, and just as powerful. His hair is soaked with it too – there are dirt marks there, like he's been in a scrap, but he appears uninjured.
"It's hot."
"No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service."
"I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"
"Do up your shirt," you grind out, "or get out."
The mischief dissipates as his eyes narrow, but he reluctantly buttons up the front. The shirt is ratty and torn at the elbows, but still smells enticingly like him, and he doesn't bother going up all the way, leaving an annoying glimpse of that unusual scrawl of symbols.
"Happy now?"
You go around the counter, ignoring him. "What do you want?"
"What do you think?"
Your eyes narrow. "You know the cost."
A hand slips into his pocket and produces a handful of coins, which he dumps out flippantly. They clatter to a stop in a wide arc.
Impertinent. Your lips flatten. Two can play that game.
"You've been here enough times to know the correct change by now."
He snorts. "Every bloody coin looks the same."
"It has Britannia wielding the trident on one side."
"Who the hell is Britannia?"
You roll your eyes. "Edward is on the other. Know who he is or have you really been living in the Arctic?"
"I remember your best mate." Finally he takes two pennies from the pile. "You could've just said it was the biggest bronze coin and saved yourself the hassle."
You could've also told him it literally says penny on the rim, but who knows if he's able to read – or whether he can right now. "You don't learn if you don't figure it out for yourself." You take them from his proffered hand. "Pint or half-pint?"
"Another stupid question."
"In that case, I won't serve you—"
"Wait." He grunts in annoyance and holds out the pennies again. "One pint of beer, please."
"That's better."
He takes the drink, and your gaze dips to the hand clenching the glass – you've never seen a drunk with such... muscle definition before. His frame is broad, his chest like full barrels of whiskey. He looks like he knows how to handle his body – how to use it to full advantage.
Shame. If only he didn't have the personality of a wet rag.
You serve another few people before he motions for you again, and this time you pour him the drink without saying a word. He exchanges the right money for the glass.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, before you go away again. "I've been rude."
You hesitate, suspicious. "Yes, you have."
"You're just doing your job."
"Yes, I am."
"Can you forgive me?"
That same glint of mischief there, except this one is charming – this one prods a little more insistently at your mental walls. You snort.
"This time."
He takes a sip, leaving a trail of foam on his mouth – he thumbs it away and licks the tip.
Hastily you look away.
"How long have you been working here?" the freckled stranger asks one Tuesday night, when the pub is dead.
You slap your cloth to the countertop, soaked with wood polish. You've talked to him a few times now, but this is the first that's been more than polite greetings, menial chatter, and get out, you're completely sozzled.
"Why?"
"What d'you mean, why?"
"Why d'you want to know?"
He leans back, lips tugging upwards. "I know you but I don't know you, if that makes sense."
"And it should stay that way."
"I just think it would be nice to properly appreciate the woman who serves me drinks every day."
You roll your lips. He's a good talker when he wants to be – when he's sober. "Been working here longer than you've been drinking here, that's for sure."
"A year? Five years? How old are you?"
"Careful."
"I'm twenty-six."
"Didn't ask."
His gaze on you is lowered but penetrating when he braces his chin in a hand. You can't help but feel a little flushed.
"Do you own this fine establishment?"
"I do."
"Not your husband?"
"Not married."
"But you're so old."
"Do you want to get kicked out?"
His smile curls. "Put-off marrying because it will mean handing all your assets to your undeserving husband?"
You pause to glare at him. "So you know the lack of women's rights but you can't figure out which coin is a penny?"
"Women's rights makes sense. The coins don't. Why do all the bronze ones look the same? I'm still waiting on a meeting with Ed about that, by the way."
"Oh, the lack of women's rights makes sense, does it?"
"I said women's rights makes sense. I'm on your side."He shrugs. "Personally, though, I'm more of a supporter of women's wrongs."
A laugh gutters out of you, and with a self-satisfied, feline grin, he drinks.
Something is very wrong when he comes in on his four-month anniversary.
If rain could embody a person, the freckled stranger would be a barely-contained hurricane. He looks the worst you've ever seen – dark crescents beneath red eyes, skin frighteningly wan, burst blood vessels webbing across his cheeks like crinkles on a flattened wad of newspaper. He glowers at anyone who looks at him askance, a clear signal to stay the fuck away.
He slumps bodily onto his normal barstool – and there comes the pity, an avalanche crashing through your body.
"Beer."
You don't move.
He lets out an annoyed sigh. "Pint of beer, please."
You pour it. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"Fine. All the same to me." It's not all the same – he looks like the truth might kill him from the inside. "Stout's out. I've got porter."
His eyes flash. "Porter's weak shit."
"That or ale. Take your pick."
"Porter then."
You pour it. It's infamously dark in colour, like his eyes right now, black and molten and unforgiving of a world that has cut him up and left him to die. When he takes the glass he doesn't thank you, just jams the rim between his teeth and gulps ravenously. The slam on the countertop reverberates.
"Another."
"Seem to be missing a thank you and please—"
"Can you just—" He catches himself. "Not today. Just not today."
"Today is a regular ol' Thursday for me," you point out coldly. "If you want some leeway for your absent manners you're going to have to give me a reason."
He mumbles something inaudible.
You lean forwards. "Didn't catch that."
Finally his gaze settles on you, and it's guarded, striking, like steel.
"My twin sister died four months ago today."
When people turn to drink, it's mostly because of one of two things: grief, or loneliness. Now you know the freckled stranger is both. You can see it in the shadows that cling to him, in the trembling of his cracked knuckles, grasping the glass like it's the only thread between him and sweet oblivion.
It doesn't surprise you to hear it, nor see it with your own eyes – but a death of a twin... now that's something you've never heard before. Especially not from someone so young.
"Sorry to hear that." The condolence softens your disdain, just a little. "I can't imagine—"
"No, you can't imagine what it must be like, yes, it's awful, is there anything you can do? Sorrows and prayers, sorrows and prayers!" The laugh is hysterical. "I don't want that. I didn't come here to listen to your pity."
Strange... until this conversation, pity was all you felt.
Now you're just angry.
"Why'd you tell me then?" you shoot back, as your temper builds in your belly. "You blurt your sob story and, what, expect me not to say anything?"
"I came to drink, so that's what I'll damn well do."
"Then shut your cakehole, drink your damn porter and stop fishing for sympathy."
Something cracks along his expression. He splutters. "Like hell I'm fishing—"
"Four months, you said? Yet here you are, sulking. You look like she passed only yesterday. Is this what she would've wanted, for you to drink yourself into stupor every bloody day?"
Genuine anger clouds his face. "You don't know what she would've wanted."
"I know you care for her deeply, so I can guess she cared deeply for you too, and I don't know a single loved one of mine who'd want me to live in this hell you've created for yourself."
He stands to his feet – nearly stumbles. "You can't talk to me— like— you don't—"
"Look at you, too drunk to even stand. You drank before you came here, didn't you? You've been drinking all day, feeling sorry for yourself. If you won't accept my condolences, fine, but you better heed this warning instead: if you ever talk to me like that again, I will have you chucked out and barred not just here, but every damn pub this side of the city, and I won't give a rat's arse about your grief or your shitty coping strategies. Do you understand?"
Something lifts and vanishes from his eyes, like a dark shape that flees arrest in the cover of night. The crack in his façade widens, and maybe it's the reek of him, of old stale drink that wisps out of him in short breaths, but something makes you lean back, give him space to process your words, to process his mistake in crossing you.
You were yelling all that, and the rest of the pub has quietened in response. One of the regulars stands up and makes eye contact with you, but you wave him away. You're all right. The freckled stranger understands now.
The look on his face is not just defeat... but clarity.
"Understood," he rasps out eventually.
"Good." Your heart races – you fight to control it. "Now, I've got other customers waiting, so if you don't mind keeping your voice down?"
But he knocks back the rest in one go and leaves without saying a word.
Maybe you were a little harsh.
You stew on it the next morning as you prepare for a busy day. Wiping the surfaces, preparing the stock, checking the tills, rallying the other staff and replenishing the taps – so much to do and occupy your mind, yet there you are, face creased as you think of the freckled stranger and his grief.
He needed the push, you don't regret that, but you do regret, just slightly, how you delivered it. It could've gone so many ways – he could've complained to the police and tarnished the pub's reputation, could've destroyed furniture, glass, could've hurt you. You might own Ye Olde Hen House but at the end of the day you're a glorified barmaid – a wench, some of the older patrons sometimes use against you derogatorily. Who are you to offer the freckled stranger life advice?
You thought he might not appear that evening, but at eight o'clock, he shoulders through the door and takes the same bar stool, right in front of you, as always.
"Pint of beer," he murmurs, "please."
You pour it for him, making it extra frothy, but say nothing when you slide it over. This time he pays the correct coinage, no fuss. So he's capable of using his brain just as much as you're capable of feeling guilt. His knuckles blanch over the glass, clenching it hard – you find yourself distracted by his hands, solid and engulfing, like he would never yield anything in his grip.
You let out a scathing sigh. "Look, I'm sorry."
He raises a finger and tips the glass back until all the porter has slid down his throat.
"Can't have this talk sober," he says, using his muscled forearm to wipe his mouth messily. "Another. Please."
He sets out the coin, you pour him the drink. He doesn't say a word until the next one goes down, and the next. Eventually he massages the bridge of his nose.
"I'm sorry myself," he forces out, even though the drink softens the consonants. "You shouldn't have to apologise."
"I was harsh."
"You were an arsehole."
"Funnily enough that's why I'm saying sorry."
"No, but... it was nice, your bluntness." He sags on the counter, but his gaze is still locked on you. "Every bloody person I know has been coddling me for months. Sorry about Anne this, I'm sad for you that. The condolences and sadness and hugs and well-wishes has never stopped. Even my best friends Ominis and Garreth keep tiptoeing around me like I'm as fragile as a Remembrall."
"A what?"
"Glass," he amends swiftly. His thumb presses into the curve of his jaw, protruding the strong cords of his neck. "I'm so fed up with it. So fucking fed up."
"You know you're not helping yourself, right?" you say, hoping this doesn't cross a line again. "Coming in here to drink—"
"Every day, I know. I just need it. I need to drink. I need to— to forget what I did—" He shakes his head and grasps his temple fiercely. "Tell me something. Quick."
"What?"
"Anything. Your favourite book, how your parents met, the drama of whoever you're shagging at the moment, I don't care. I don't want to think. Just – give me anything. And another beer. Please."
So you tell him your favourite book – you don't get to read very often, you're lucky you can read at all – and you tell him the less-than-exciting story of how your parents met. You're not 'shagging' anyone at the moment, which you say with a roll of your eyes, so you're relatively drama-free. Your life is utterly mundane, as you like it.
You don't leave him with nothing, however.
"I've been at this pub since I was eighteen, seven years ago. Inherited it off my parents now that they're too old to work."
He must do the maths as he squirrels away another beer.
"You must enjoy it."
"It was either here or the match factory. You must know how that went."
He smiles indulgently. "Expert in women's rights, remember?"
You huff a snort.
"You get how this place works, then."
"I've been helping out here since I was a tot, so yes, I know everything there is to know. Plus it pays well and keeps me mostly protected, and I get to be part of the community and meet new people."
He lets out a breathy chuckle.
"Like me?"
You tip your head.
"Yeah, like you, I suppose." You gently pry the empty glass from his hand. "Another?"
"Stupid question."
But he smiles fondly this time, so you make a face and pour his fourth beer without complaint.
You don't talk much from then. You're busy with other customers and he's probably tired of chatting, though you meet his eye several times during the last hour, like a hook on a thread that catches by accident – or fate. It's those coffee eyes that you're drawn to. They dance like fingers on skin, to a rhythm as constant as ocean waves, cascading down your spine even when you turn away.
By the time the other patrons have left and the gramophone has run out of records to play, all that's between you and closing is the freckled stranger.
"What's your name?"
You glance his way. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why'd you want to know?"
"It's not an interrogation. It's just so you're not the bar girl in my head."
"In that case," you smile sweetly, "it's none of your business."
"You drive a hard deal, bar girl," he says, taking it in his stride. "My name is Sebastian Sallow."
"Didn't ask."
"Trade you? I'll even throw in a middle name as a bonus."
"No thanks." You flick towards the door. "Now, it's nearly one o'clock and my pub is about to close, so you better skedaddle before I toss you out by ear, Sebastian Sallow."
"That's a lot more effective now that you can use it against me." The barstool scrapes – Sebastian Sallow manages to make it to the door without stumbling once. "Will I regret telling you?"
You hold the door and smile indulgently as he steps out.
"Stupid question."
You shut it in his face.
[MASTERLIST][NEXT]
[Gorgeous art by FlamboyantJelly][Divider credit]
Seven years he’s wanted Ominis Gaunt. Seven years he’s dreamt of it, in slumber and in wake. Seven years it’s become a deep-rooted love, so fierce it scalds like flame, yet never has he been able to express it.
Tags: fluff/ angst/ romance, oneshot, love at first sight, slow burn, pining, self-hatred, hurt/ comfort, Sebastian Sallow being a menace wingman, touching, gift giving, helping with injuries, there's only one room, coarse language.
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy @garrethweasleyfest! I’m so grateful to @cuffmeinblack for organising the event again, please do check out the other entries in the tag. My prompts were love at first sight, the sun doesn’t shine anymore and the joker, and, like last time, I wrote all three.
This is a companion fic to this hell we create, but works completely standalone. Rating is for language, but it will be going up when I eventually post a NSFW addition. Please enjoy <3
MASTERLIST | AO3
It’s an undeniable fact that Weasleys and Gaunts do not go together.
Garreth Weasley has known this from the moment Hogwarts was first uttered in his presence. Morals on Dark Magic so different, opinions on Muggles so differing, and grudges too powerful, the two families are chalk and cheese, oil and water, Ashwinder scale and doxy wing (those explode, Garreth would know). Being from the mighty and prolific Weasley clan, anti-Gaunt propaganda started young in his household, so of course he carried the preconceptions on the journey up in his first year, told his childhood friend Leander Prewett all about it until the castle came into view.
Gaunts are bad. All of them are mean, all of them are nasty, and worst of all, all of them only care about themselves.
He’s not really thinking about the undeniable fact as he staggers onto the Hogsmeade platform for the first time. It’s bloody cold, and his mouth is dry from the sudden rush of frigid air. Garreth tugs his robes around himself, trying to stifle the wind. God, is Scotland chilly. But the thought does rattle in the back of his head as the Sorting Ceremony creeps ever closer. Don’t make friends with any Slytherin, but especially not a Gaunt.
“Blast, my robe!” At his side, Leander rifles in his duffle bag and comes up empty. “I left it on the train!”
“Hurry up!” Garreth calls, as Leander charges down the train corridor. “I’ll wait on the platform!”
The crowds thicken like paste. On the crest of the mountainside, Garreth can just see the spires of Hogwarts amidst the darkness of night. Drawing his gaze back, he spots his brothers, red hair like beacons amongst their friendship groups, and hopes he’ll make new friends too. Leander and he have been close for many years, but he’d like to expand outside his circle, see the world through different eyes.
Just not, you know, Slytherin eyes.
A shoulder bumps him so forcefully he doesn’t have time to think – he topples forwards, losing balance and landing square on his arse. The boy doesn’t pause to help him up, skimming through the crowds with an excited yell.
“Ominis! Over here!”
Garreth peers up through the dense cluster of students. Ominis is scowling – an expression, Garreth soon learns, is near a permanent fixture that sculpts the pretty, sharp features of his aristocratic face. Every part of him is neat and orderly, down to the flat, steam-ironed robes, impeccably knotted black tie and swept back hair that glistens gold in the dusk.
“You great brute, Sebastian,” he scolds, moving quickly – to Garreth. He lowers his wand arm, poised and blinking at his side, and offers a hand down. “Please excuse my friend his manners. Are you all right?”
Garreth isn’t usually one to stare. He’s a polite boy, raised right, he’ll swear it. But Merlin’s beard is it impossible to look away. He’s never seen, never met, anyone quite like Ominis. Shakily he reaches for his hand, surprised at the contrast of Ominis’ supple skin and the strength at which he hauls him back to his feet.
Except maybe my brain. He takes his hand out of Ominis’ grip, watching his milky eyes steady on the distance. Blindness, right? Thank goodness he can’t see how Garreth traces the steep slope of his nose, the beauty marks like sun spots and the way his temple pulls taut in irritation. He’s beautiful, fascinating. Garreth can’t look away.
“I apologise anyway. Someone is about as conscious of his surroundings as an Erumpent in a cauldron shop.”
Sebastian reaches Ominis’ left just as another girl slows to his right, immediately bracing her hands on her knees and panting.
“Stop bloody charging off everywhere, Seb!”
“Sorry about that,” Sebastian says to Garreth; it’s earnestly contrite, with a wriggle of his nose. “No harm done, right? Good. Now let’s go!”
He grabs the girl’s arm in one hand, Ominis’ in the other, and pulls them towards the throngs heading for shore. Garreth watches them go, startled, star-struck. His gaze fixates on the blond cut that lords over the rest, and when he can no longer see the boy through the winding path in the trees, he finally steeps in that strange feeling, the shift in the very earth and atmosphere that sends his heart racing.
What in Merlin’s name is this? And why is Ominis the cause of it?
The platform is nearly cleared out by the time Leander stumbles out, tie half-done, shirt unbuttoned, sweat coasting his brow. They make the last boat across the lake with a proper view of Hogwarts Castle looming sinisterly over them. Leander remarks on it in awe; Garreth feels like he might shit his pants. A few boats ahead, he spots Ominis sitting upright, serene and disinterested, and Garreth thinks maybe he can channel some of that too.
It’s only at the Sorting Ceremony, when Ominis gets Sorted into Slytherin, that Garreth learns his surname. Gaunt. The world narrows in on that moment, and all the undeniable facts he’s learnt come crashing to the forefront of his brain. Rude, imperious, conceited. Rich, cruel, sinister. Mean, nasty, someone who only cares about himself.
Except… he doesn’t seem that bad.
After the feast, Garreth properly introduces himself before they head to their respective common rooms.
“I really am sorry for pushing you over,” Sebastian says. “I’ll make it up to you. My homework, all yours to copy for a whole day. How about it? Please, hold the applause for my generosity.”
Anne makes a face. “We haven’t had any lessons yet—”
He slaps a hand to her mouth. “Ssssh now, sister. I am making amends. What do you say, Weasley? Can you accept my most humblest apologies this way?”
Weasley. If Garreth doesn’t judge Ominis on his surname, he expects the same in return. Yet the iciness that radiates from Ominis’ body language, arms crossed, lips pursed, that same disinterest now turned on him, makes him feel colder than he did outside.
“Yeah, all right.” He grins but feels none of the warmth of it. “If I want to fail.”
Anne laughs. Sebastian mocks offence. “Slander!” he cries. “Gryffindor bias!”
He might be joking, but the bias is there. Garreth has heard of the Gaunts, and Ominis has heard of the Weasleys, and someone, a long time ago, decided the two families could never mix. There is a line that should never be crossed, and that is it. Sebastian and Anne Sallow grow to like Garreth well enough, but Ominis Gaunt remains stiffly on his own side, no matter how much he intrigues, awes, pulls Garreth in as a nail to a helpless skein of thread.
As the year progresses, he becomes frighteningly aware that this infatuation with Ominis isn’t like his friendship with Leander. Ominis is the face he falls asleep to, and the first person he thinks of when he wakes up. He contrives all sorts of reasons to be in the dungeons just in the hope of bumping into him, and often seeks him out in the Great Hall at dinner, wondering what he and Sebastian and Anne talk about, wishing he could be part of that elite circle of friends. Could be part of that unbreakable, unspoken pact of trust.
“Ugh!”
Ominis tosses the knife in frustration. Second-year Potions, where the ceiling is muggy and thick with smoke. Garreth can barely make out Ominis’ silhouette, though they’re adjacent one another at the workbench.
“These— confounding— gloves—” The leather is thick and imperturbable, but it makes Ominis’ fingers clunky and inept. “I can’t cut for damn!”
Their seatmates have shifted since last year. Sebastian and Anne would’ve quibbled with him about it, but Nellie Oggspsire and Cressida Blume are completely apathetic, too focused on keeping their own potions bubbling.
“You can’t touch bare nettle,” Garreth reminds him. “It’ll hurt like the Pain curse.”
Though their relationship has evolved over the year from chilly to cordial, mostly by osmosis from Sebastian and Anne, Ominis has never been actively pleasant. “If I can’t cut it into sizeable pieces, I can’t add it to the potion. Shouldn’t you know that? Aren’t you the potion prodigy here?”
And Garreth replies like he always does.
“Hey now, there’s no need to be so… prickly.”
“For god’s sake, Weasley.”
“Not even a laugh? That stings, Ominis.”
“Really?”
“I don’t want to nettle you.” Instead he raises his chopping board. “So I’ll let you use mine, if you want. I can cut another lot.”
“I don’t want hand-outs.”
“I was actually trying something new and fancy called helping a friend in distress.” He clucks his tongue. “And technically it’s a glove-out.”
So exasperated is his reaction that Ominis actually smacks his gloved hand against his face. Garreth normally would consider that a triumph… except that glove has just fondled a whole load of nettle – and those stingers spread like pox.
“Damn!” the boy cries, face immediately creasing. “The stingers— this is your fault!” He shucks his glove, hands trembling as they hover his cheeks. “Argh—”
“No, don’t touch!” Garreth immediately yanks his glove off, fetches nettle glue from the potion shelf, along with a flat sheet of parchment. “You’ll make it worse. Let me, you oaf.”
Tears weep in Ominis’ eyes, but he sinks onto the stool, still clenching his teeth. Garreth pours some of the nettle glue onto the parchment. A viscous yellow solution, it’s not something you wipe on one’s skin once stung. Rather, the sticky texture draws the stingers out, like glue. Garreth done it plenty of times, out playing in the fields around his home or experimenting with new recipes. He’s had nettles in places they really ought not to be.
“Hurry up, then,” Ominis scolds.
Garreth hesitates, holding the parchment an inch from Ominis’ face. They’ve never stood this close before. Ominis’ natural musk is sweet, floral, but not overwhelming, sweat with the lighter tones of honey. His impatient, shallow breaths make Garreth’s stomach squirm. He presses the parchment to his face and dabs, gently drawing out the stings. Relief eventually pulls loose the muscles of Ominis’ face.
“Better?”
“It smells terrible.”
“The main ingredient is rat saliva! Isn’t that great?”
“I could’ve lived securely in ignorance, Weasley.” He glowers, shifting beneath Garreth’s fingers. “It still hurts.”
“Yeah, it’s forming a rash now. Sorry, can’t do anything about that. But it’ll clear up in a few days.”
“Does it look terrible?”
“Nah,” Garreth says. “You look handsome as always.”
“Very funny,” Ominis snorts. A hair falls over his forehead. On instinct, Garreth reaches out, tucks it away, and Ominis’ face goes, if possible, redder. He swats him away.
“Thank you.” It’s genuine gratefulness, although he dresses it up with a scowl. “It’s still your fault though, so don’t get righteous about it.”
Family name notwithstanding, his disability became hot discussion a few years ago when quack healers made it a fashionable challenge to attempt to heal it. Slowly defrosting in Garreth’s presence, Ominis mentions it errantly, the months on end prodded and poked and fed nasty concoctions that made him wretch into the early morning hours. Nothing worked. His blindness, it was declared, was incurable even by magic, a fact that not only disappointed his family but angered them too, as if he was to actively blame. As if he purposely knitted the fabric of his existence this way. Belatedly Garreth recalls friends of his parents talking about the boy with odd eyes long before he even arrived at Hogwarts.
Just strange how no one ever told Garreth they could ever seem so sad.
He catches Ominis alone Christmas night on the shoreline of the Great Lake in third year. Legs hugged to his chest, cloak wrapped tightly to insulate his body, his ghostly eyes are unfocused, but wet, lashes budded with dewdrops that sparkle even in the faint lamp light. This is an unseen version of his friend; his stoicism is his armour, and for a moment he has let it clank to the ground.
Immediately he sniffles and runs his robe across his face as Garreth approaches.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps, jerking away. “Shouldn’t you be inside celebrating with everyone else?”
Garreth plonks down next to him. The sand is wet, unbearably cold. In the dead of winter the air might as well be tiny icicles, pricking indefinitely into his skin. God, Scotland is still chilly. How does Ominis stand this?
“I noticed you slip away. Thought I’d come check on you.”
“I don’t want checking in on. Just leave me alone.”
Maybe the answer is he doesn’t. Maybe the answer is he believes he deserves it.
“No one should be alone on Christmas.”
“Well, I want to be. I prefer it. I certainly don’t need anyone else.”
“Then why are you sad?”
“Good grief, don’t you have an ounce of tact, Weasley? Do you think I’d come out here to be alone if I wanted to talk?”
“Okay,” says Garreth, “then we don’t have to talk. You can just do instead. Here. I didn’t want to give you this in front of everyone.”
From under his cloak he reveals the brown-paper parcel and places it on Ominis’ knees. Ominis’ jaw seizes tight, but then relaxes once his hands snake over the wrapping.
“What on earth is this?”
“It’s a present! Merry Christmas!”
It’s the first time Garreth has ever seen Ominis at a loss for words; his mouth hinges and unhinges in rapid succession. “Well, I— this is— don’t expect me to miraculously reveal one for you—”
“Just—” Garreth presses lightly on Ominis’ arms. “Open it. You can whinge all you want then.”
“I don’t whinge,” Ominis mutters, delicately peeling off the twine.
The package unfurls into soft fabric. A scarf, Garreth found at Gladrags a month ago that he spent the last of his pocket money on. The look of it, a beautifully pearlescent fabric, milky grey threaded with silver and gold, reminds him of Ominis’ hair and eyes. It feels silken soft, too. Ominis rubs it between his fingers.
“Well,” he says. His throat bobs. “It’s…”
“Waiting for the whinge.”
“I do not whinge,” he snaps. “But this— this is…”
“Yes?”
“It’s… it’s very…”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Tolerable.”
“Whew. Is the cold getting to your head? That was almost sweet.”
Ominis flusters at once; the heat of it is firelight. Garreth scooches closer, narrowing the gap. As much as the boy doth protest, Garreth knows him well enough now to know he likes the gift – and likes it a lot. He will deny it. Refuse to admit such a weakness. Push and push and push he will try, and yet Garreth will feel only a pull, a desire to stay as near to him as possible, as if Ominis is the centre point of the universe, a sun to Garreth’s planet in orbit. Ominis continues to run the scarf between his fingers, plying every grain and thread.
“Why did you stay this year?” he asks suddenly. “Why would you stay at school when you have people who— when your family is home?”
They wondered that too, when Garreth sent a letter, proclaiming this decision. He’s never missed a single Christmas with them until today. It might not make sense to anyone else, but when he discovered Ominis was staying, that in fact his family didn’t want him home at all, the choice was already made.
“You’re my family too,” he says quietly, as heat buzzes his cheeks. “No one should be alone at Christmas.”
“You already said that.”
“Yeah, well, then I double-mean it, don’t I?”
“Gryffindor sentimentality,” he mutters. But then he adds, “Thank you,” and turns his head, ever so slightly, to face him. “You… you didn’t have to do that.”
Garreth grins. “Jokes on you, I wanted to.”
“You really are unbearably sentimental,” he says again, scowling. “If I am to suffer your company for the rest of the holiday, Weasley, you should know I do not tolerate such foolish notions…”
His lips move, curling around each syllable as if a gift that needs cradling, and Garreth stares, stares so hard he momentarily forgets himself, wonders what it must be like to touch those lips, to have those lips curl over his own.
God, he really likes Ominis Gaunt. Really likes him.
“Are you listening?” Ominis barks. “Excuse me?”
“What—? Oh, er—”
“For god’s sake. Just— put the thing around me. I’m cold.”
Garreth sits forwards on his knees, gently slides the new scarf around his friend’s neck. Skimming his cheek, cold like stone, Garreth draws it tightly around those lips, pursed in confusion – or is that a little smile? – that quickly diffuses into an irate pucker.
“Tolerable,” Garreth says, but it feels much more than that.
It always has done, to Garreth. The feelings he’s been desperately trying to suppress since he first laid eyes on Ominis on the Hogsmeade platform three years ago have only since grown, planted their roots in his heart and bloomed in vibrant colour. He remembers little moments between them, Ominis’ smile, his laughter, his joy, and his sadness and frustration too, as a painter recalls each stroke of a brush upon canvas. Ominis is a work of fine art. He is a distraction. He is the envelopment. He is the mountain peak, and Garreth does all he can not to tumble down in his wake.
He’s thinking about him constantly now. Recently it’s been less innocent thoughts. The brush of his fingers on his neck. The lips that curve in both delight and scathing. Hands intertwined, kisses in lantern light. Dreams overlay with reality so hard that one day, in fourth year, he walks into the Potions lab to do extra work and doesn’t notice the person occupying the desk in wait.
“Good of you to meet me here, Mr Weasley.”
With Sharp nowhere to be seen, Sebastian Sallow has made himself comfortable in his chair, legs thrown onto the desk and wand twirling in one hand, eyes locked onto Garreth as a chimaera would prey.
“Professor Sharp,” Garreth dispels his fantasies in mock horror, “you’re looking so much worse these days!”
“You and I have an important matter to discuss.” Sebastian twirls the wand. Stops. Eyes lower. “Something that desperately needs addressing, right now, post-haste.”
Garreth dumps his bag by the workbench and strides over. “You blow something up? That’s usually my job.”
“I’ve done nothing. I’m innocent.” He grins. “It’s you who’s guilty.”
“You’re not still mad I spiked your pumpkin juice with fart powder, are you?”
“Oh, have no fear, my revenge for that will come when you least expect it.” He leans back. “I want to know what you’re going to do about being in love with my best friend.”
There’s a distinct set of sensations about being caught in the act. Stomach dropping, heart squeezing, the sudden emptying of the contents of one’s brain. Garreth hasn’t done anything, Sebastian has just said a bunch of words, but he experiences all those sensations in the matter of half a second. The sordid fantasies bubble from the void; Ominis’ wicked smile, pursed in teasing, pursed in a kiss. Garreth’s face burns. His fingers itch. Why is the room so hot?
“What do you mean?” His voice has risen to an impossible pitch. “I’m not— I don’t— I’m not in love with Ominis. Don’t be daft.”
Sebastian simply tilts his head, his expression drier than Sharp’s sense of humour. A second passes. Two.
“… Fuck me sideways, how long have you known?”
“Oh please.” Sebastian immediately drops his menacing persona and gets to his feet. “All the tittering and blushing you do around him, the Diagon Alley brick wall could’ve figured it out.”
Garreth winces. “Do you think Ominis knows?”
“Nah. Blinder than a bat in more than the eyes.” He wiggles his brows. “That’s not the question you should be asking. It’s, what are you going to do about it?”
Garreth has never, not once, thought about it. In his fantasies they share cuddles and kisses and hold hands in the hallway, but never has Garreth thought about acting on the impulse.
“What makes you think I want to do anything about it?” His ears heat traitorously as the thoughts layer over reality. “I don’t even know if he… likes boys.”
Sebastian shrugs. “Never heard him talk about any boy that way. Mind, I’ve never seen him comment about girls either. The other day I said Professor Garlick’s boobs were massive and he called me a pervert.”
“… I mean…”
“Maybe he doesn’t like anyone? Who knows. You won’t know until you confess.”
Garreth jerks back. “Are you mental? I can’t confess! I can’t ruin the friendship!”
“So you’re just going to sit and pine for the rest of your life? God, how fucking miserable. That’s for me, by the way. Am I going to have to suffer your lovesick and mopey company forever?”
Garreth panics. He can’t fancy Ominis forever. Sebastian’s right – that would be miserable. For both of them. “I— I really don’t think I should.”
“Hmm, well, I guess it means nothing if we don’t know who he fancies.”
“Right,” says Garreth, relieved.
“So let’s ask!”
“What?”
Garreth doesn’t appreciate Sebastian’s pragmatism. They later find Ominis on the lawn near the Hufflepuff windows, murmuring to a Quick-Quotes quill to notate his homework. He pauses upon their approach.
“Did you hear the news, brother?” yells Sebastian. “Leander Prewett is dating Nerida Roberts!”
This is, of course, completely false. Leander would rather eat his own vomit than date a, ugh, Slytherin – making Garreth’s little fancy on Ominis very difficult – but Ominis has no ear to gossip. If Sebastian declares it true, he’ll have no reason to suspect it not.
“Well,” he says, “my condolences to Nerida. I hope she eventually finds the light.”
“It made me think – nay, ponder,” Sebastian plonks himself down, and Garreth besides him, “what sort of people we would date. You know. Witches. Veela. Muggles.” He clears his throat. “Other wizards.”
As Ominis’ brows curl in exasperation, sweat pools in the small of Garreth’s back. Suddenly it feels like he’s run a mile in slippers.
Ominis merely sighs and tucks his homework away. “If this is about Professor Garlick’s cleavage again—”
“No! Just an enquiry. Brother to brother to Gryffindor brother.” He throws his arms around both Ominis and Garreth, jerking them forwards. As the shortest of the three, he makes the missing height back in arrogance and tenacity alone. “I don’t think I’ll ever date a Muggle, you know? Too complicated. Imagine having to tell them you have magic. They’d think you proper mad! What about you, Ominis?”
“… I suppose?”
He gives him a little shake. “I suppose, he says. Give us more than that! How am I supposed to help you get a girlfriend if you don’t tell me what sort of girl you want?”
Now’s the chance to correct him. No, actually, I like boys. Or, it could also be a boyfriend. Anything, to say it would be remotely possible with Garreth.
“Anyone you recommend I’d know to steer clear of,” he snorts, shrugging off the grip. “What’s this for? Merlin’s sake, have you fed someone a damn love potion? You didn’t give him one, did you, Weasley?”
Garreth swallows his disappointment. “Not my fault! Although a love potion’s probably the only way Sebastian’s getting any action.”
“What about you, Garreth?” Sebastian grins maliciously – his gaze darts between them. “What’s your type?”
Tall. Reserved. Pale. Aloof. Beautiful. Clever. He can’t look away from Ominis, waiting with that disinterested serenity for his answer. Sweat gathers at Garreth’s fingertips. He surreptitiously wipes them on the grass.
“Someone who makes me laugh,” he blurts.
Sebastian’s grin falls.
Ominis snorts. “Oh, I see. So you’re limited to just yourself.”
Garreth laughs.
Sebastian groans.
It’s the status quo, untouched and unmoving. Even as they age and grow wiser, learn when to bend the rules and explore the true selves buried deep beneath their teenage insecurity, nothing seems to change. Garreth finds comfort in the routine, but as the ache grows, as the desire for Ominis flares in his chest, he yearns that change will come, that something will shift in the universe. New stars will birth as old ones die, and even though Garreth is Gryffindor, and courage is meant to be the bones that stand him upright, he can never find a moment to tell Ominis how he feels. He can never find the resolve to face the consequences, no matter how great or terrible.
Yet Ominis remains the same. He grows taller, speeding past all of his classmates. His face smooths, his acne disappears. His eyes grow sharper. A cold prince moulded from ice, yet always composed, aloof, and serene. How can he remain so stoic in an ever-changing world?
Garreth soon learns it’s a gift as much as it is a price.
“Garreth Weasley? Are you here?”
He glances up from an essay he was doodling in the margins in fifth year. One of the Gryffindor portraits trills his name.
“Yeah?”
“You have someone waiting outside. Seems urgent.”
Things have changed now, but that yearning for it has gone. Anne Sallow caught a sickness over the summer, and without his twin to anchor him to the ground, Sebastian’s ambitions have soared. He’s attached himself to the newest pupil, Katherine, who seems determined to do her best to overcome every challenge in her way. Now they’re inseparable. It’s inadvertently driven a wedge between him and Ominis, and in turn, caused Ominis to trust no one.
Including Garreth.
Garreth has tried. Pursued him after classes or requested him in the common room. Ominis has never wanted to talk. Invitations go unanswered. Notes are ignored. He’s polite in class, when he must be, but Garreth knows there’s something brewing beneath the surface, some deep hurt Ominis is desperate to quell.
He passes Leander a look of confusion and takes his robe. The castle is freezing this time of year; if a teacher’s going to scold him, he may as well be able to feel his fingers as he twiddles them awkwardly.
When he climbs out of the portrait, however, it isn’t a professor that greets him, but Ominis. He’s never looked so terrible, like his heart has been carved out and tossed aside, and his body drained of blood. Immediate alarm bells ring in Garreth’s head. Ominis is composed, collected – never this.
“Weasley, I…” Ominis says hoarsely. “I…”
“Easy.” Garreth gently takes him by the shoulders, steering him away from the nosy portraits. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re catching your death.”
Ominis lifts his head. Blind he may be, his eyes are usually full of calculation, or mirth. Today they may as well lead straight to the depths of hell.
“I…” His tongue is stuck. “Sebastian…”
“Breathe. Shall we go outside?”
Ominis isn’t wearing much more than a jumper, and he shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. Garreth shucks his robe and drapes it over his shoulders.
“Solomon Sallow is dead.”
That’s the last news Garreth expected. “Shit. Are the twins okay?”
“Sebastian killed him.”
“What?” It’s so absurd Garreth can’t process it. “He— what?”
“And now— Anne is gone. Fled. Kath’s injured. She’s already told Professor Black.” He screws his palms into his eyes. “Sebastian’s going to Azkaban.”
“Hold the broom! Let’s not jump to conclusions!” But when he gently pries Ominis’ hands away, the eyes are bloated with tears refusing to fall. Even in sadness, he is beautiful. “Ominis—”
“I didn’t stop him.” His teeth grind. The sun moves behind cloud, casting shadow over Ominis’ face. “I just let it happen, and now Solomon is dead, and it’s my fault—”
“How could it possibly be your fault?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I didn’t stop him.”
“Sebastian can make his own decisions, even when they’re stupid.”
“No, Weasley. A stupid decision is ignoring your homework until the last minute or sticking your hands in a candle flame. What he did—” He turns abruptly, forcing in a heaving breath. “I warned him, but he didn’t listen. I should’ve made him listen. Now there’s a dead man on my conscience.”
Garreth only met Solomon Sallow briefly, and brief was enough. He can’t say he’ll mourn the man – but he can mourn what it’s done to Sebastian. What it’s done to the Sallow family, to Ominis.
Garreth grabs his arm and yanks him around. “It’s not your bloody fault.” He musters as much force into the words as he can. “It’s not.”
“Don’t you understand? I must take responsibility for my inaction—”
“Fuck me, are you going to blame your mother for birthing you too?”
“Maybe I should!” he barks. “I was a mistake. I never should’ve been born, if I’d have been better, I—”
He seems to realise what he’s said. Disinterested serenity. It’s a façade Garreth watches, in real time, piece itself back into place. Ominis hastily wipes his eyes, rolls his jaw and clears his throat. Garreth is too stunned to say anything.
“I— disregard that statement—”
Then Garreth pulls him into a hug. Ominis freezes, caught like a doe in a circle of hunters. His hands hover precariously over Garreth’s torso. He doesn’t move. Barely breathes. The gesture has rendered him barren of thoughts. Garreth hugs him tighter, buries his head into Ominis’ neck.
“Don’t you ever say shit like that again,” he murmurs. “I’m glad you’re here, just as you are. I’m glad you’re in my life.”
Ominis squirms for release, but Garreth has years of Quidditch training. His strength is incomparable. Eventually Ominis’ arms fall, and slowly his head finds the nook of Garreth’s shoulder.
“I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve— imprisoned him in the damn dungeons if I thought he was going to…”
Wet heat gathers on Garreth’s neck.
“I’m sorry he betrayed your trust.”
The first sob vibrates from Ominis’ chest. It upheaves the image of him once more. The walls built over years and years crumble before his eyes as he finally sees the real Ominis beneath the splendour, an Ominis broken by his past and present, an Ominis who only wants someone to love him, wants someone he can rely on with his full mind, body and soul. Someone who cares.
Soon the tears slow. Ominis lifts himself from Garreth’s shoulder. Garreth keeps his arms around him a second longer, before slipping away, allowing him space.
He sniffles once. “The trial… I’m sure we can make an appeal.”
“Definitely.”
“If I have to represent the damn fool in the Wizengamot myself, I will.”
“I’ll help, if you want.”
“With your research skills? We’d have a better chance arguing the sky is red.”
“How’d you know the sky isn’t red?”
Ominis scoffs. “For goodness sake…” But he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Instead he laughs. “Thank you. Somehow you always know the right thing to say.”
“Is that why you haven’t talked to me since the year started?” he asks, making light of it. “You were saving me for your lowest moments?”
“I’m sorry for it,” Ominis says sincerely. “I don’t have a decent excuse. I should’ve been better. I will be better.”
Relief chips off the hurt from his heart. “I’d like that.”
“Part of me knew, though, that even with the distance… I knew you’d help me.” Ominis sighs. “As much as I am loath to admit it, Weasley, I… I do trust you. Wholeheartedly.”
Garreth smiles, even though Ominis can’t see it.
“I trust you, too.”
Things escalate. The appeal gets thrown out, despite Sebastian’s age and circumstances. Following a damningly honest testimony from witnesses, like Kath, Sebastian is unceremoniously sent to Azkaban the following week, not months after Theophilus Harlow, part of the Rookwood gang of criminals and another bad actor involved too much in their lives.
Garreth thinks Ominis will spend his time mourning. Azkaban is no party, and for a whole decade Sebastian will be going through a hell he created. But when Garreth finds Ominis in the library one afternoon, in sixth year, he is instead whispering furiously to the Quick-Quotes Quill, seated in one of the armchairs with his leg propped against the other.
He has such long, slender legs, and a terribly dirty thought enters Garreth’s head about running his hands up them.
Ominis stops dictating. “Must you linger there, Weasley? It’s distracting. If you want to speak, speak.”
Garreth drifts over from his spot, pointedly looking at Ominis’ face instead. It doesn’t help. Time and growth have done wonders to him, cleaving away the last of his baby fat for a handsome, delicate face.
“I didn’t want to disturb… whatever you’re doing.” Garreth pauses. “What are you doing?”
“I’m writing a letter,” he says, “to Sebastian.”
Curiously Garreth glances over the parchment. It’s only been a few days into sixth year, but somehow Ominis has already found something to ridicule. Without Sebastian, Ominis is stuck next to Duncan Hobhouse in Charms, his worst enemy, and mid-complaint, the quill waits perilously for his next insults.
“Ah. Whinging again?”
“I do not—” Ominis gathers himself. “I am complaining.”
“You know those are synonyms, right?”
“I’m just trying to write something normal,” he says, some of that irritation leaving with an exhale. “I… I think he would appreciate the mundanity of it.”
To know simply that the world is turning outside the obsidian walls. Yes, he probably would. Sebastian may never have said it, but his circumstances led him to cherish even the smallest things. It’s why Anne’s sickness hurt him so deeply – he was losing the last member of his true family.
Garreth pulls the chair out, sits opposite. “You’re not going to talk about Hobhouse for the entire letter though, right?”
“Of course not. He’s hardly worth the brain power.”
“Can I write something?”
“What?” He snatches the parchment away. “No!”
“Hey! Why not?”
“It’s that sentimentality of yours he will loathe, Weasley! You think he’ll want to hear all about that cute Cruppy you saw last week or how many goals you scored in training or, god forbid, the power of friendship, while he’s stuck behind bars with the Dementors? I should think not!”
“First of all, that Cruppy was cute. It had the squishiest cheeks,” he says. “Second of all, I disagree.”
It might be the first time, ever, Garreth has openly disagreed with Ominis. Minus any silly house spats, Garreth tends towards his opinion not only for the obvious reason of being unable to hate him in any way, but because cold though he is, Ominis by nature is incredibly logical, and that perspective makes him more insightful than most.
“Disagree, do you?” Ominis sits back, foot twitches. “Why, pray tell, is that?”
“All the time we’ve spent together, you’d think Sebastian would be used to me being me by now. I know I’m funny. Sebastian finds me funny. If I say what I want to say then it makes him laugh. That’s good, right? He needs a laugh! He’s in bloody prison! And, you know, what is sentimentality, anyway?”
“Oh good grief.”
“Especially to you! You just don’t like it when people are honest or emotional. I tell my teammate I’m proud of them at Quidditch and you call me a sap.”
“That’s because you are,” he protests. “No one should require verbal validation that they’re doing okay. They should validate themselves.”
Garreth frowns. “But don’t you think Sebastian could do with a little outside encouragement right now?”
Ominis opens, then closes his mouth. “I suppose.”
“You could do with it, too.”
“I should hex you for saying that.”
“It’s true. You’re just not used to it.”
Ominis squirms – Garreth realises he might’ve misspoken.
“You’re right,” he murmurs. “Not all of us were lucky enough to grow up with such beliefs.”
Shit. “I’m sorry.”
Ominis waves it away. “It’s true, what you said. I’m not used to it. I doubt I ever will be.”
Garreth gathers his courage. He brings the chair closer, their knees brushing.
“Well, it’s never too late to start! I’m proud of you, Ominis. You’ve fought against shit odds from the first day and you’re still amazing.”
His face goes ripe red. “I— for god’s sake, Weasley—”
“You’re intelligent, kind, and sweet when you want to be. It’s a bit annoying, actually.”
“I—” He’s full-on tongue-twisted. “I didn’t say I wanted positive reinforcement right now—”
“I mean— you even look good! Save some for the rest of us, much?”
“Weasley!” he barks. “That’s enough!”
Garreth chuckles.
“I’m glad we’re friends.”
Ruffled, Ominis turns back to the parchment. He’s so cute when he’s flustered. “Just— tell me what you want to write and I will dictate it for you.”
Beneath the poor jokes Ominis refuses to write, and the endless positivity, Garreth wishes him strength and luck. The quill finishes its letter with a flourished signature, and falls mutely back into Ominis’ bag. Ominis promptly rolls up the parchment.
“I shall send this tomorrow morning.” He clears his throat suddenly. “Do you… really think me good-looking?”
Heat courses through Garreth’s veins. Maybe it’s stupid to admit, but Ominis’ shyness gives him courage.
“Well— yeah.”
“Good,” Ominis says gruffly. “Obviously, I mean. I have no notion of my appearance.” Garreth knows that’s not true. For all his blindness, Ominis tries his best to keep himself well groomed. It pays off. “You— have a nice voice.”
Suddenly all he wants to do is talk. Garreth clears his throat, pitches deeper. “Do I?”
“Oh, and you’ve lowered it. Very funny.”
“Why say that? Is it too manly for you?”
“Your voice is manly enough as it is.”
Silence stretches onwards. Garreth finds his throat parching. God, he wants to kiss him. Wants to run his tongue along the seam of his lips and explore that catty, disinterested mouth. New fantasies bloom in the depths of his mind, so depraved that his throat dries, his cheeks burn with want and blood rushes south.
But he locks the thoughts up and throws away the key. Even if they talk like this, even if they flirt and tease and give compliments like no one else is watching, Ominis has never shown interest in going any further, and Garreth isn’t prepared to do what Sebastian worried about: pine forever, but never close the gap. He can’t be sure Ominis feels that way about him, about men, about anyone.
“Yeah, er.” Garreth rolls his mouth. “Weasley thing, that is.”
“Oh. Right.”
Ominis has been hurt too much; Garreth is now his only close friend. It’s a risk he’s not willing to take.
“If that’s all,” Ominis stands abruptly, “I have a letter to deliver.”
Garreth lets him go, and despite his active part in this decision, he finds it hard to breathe nonetheless.
His no-longer-latent feelings continue to make their friendship strained and painful, as if pus-filled spot on brink of bursting. Seven years he’s wanted Ominis Gaunt. Seven years he’s dreamt of it, in slumber and in wake. Seven years it’s become a deep-rooted love, so fierce it scalds like flame, yet never has he been able to express it.
Some respite comes, ironically, in the form of N.E.W.T.s. Deep into their final year at Hogwarts, Garreth has been so driven to get decent results that his feelings, although swollen and needy for attention, have been eclipsed by revision. Sometimes he barely registers the people around him. Ominis calls it absent-mindedness, Garreth calls it focus.
He’ll admit, that day, it is absent-mindedness when he takes a corridor corner too sharply, and knocks his knee into the wall. Cursing, he looks up – to see Ominis, and Kath, together at the end of the hall. First comes the jealousy. Now that Sebastian has gone, will Kath latch onto Ominis instead? He’s wondered this, worried this, for the past two years.
But there’s parchment in Kath’s hands, and her mouth moves, fast and urgent, and even from afar, Garreth can see the despair dawn on Ominis’ face. The jealousy quickly displaces for concern. The opposite of his usual, Ominis embodies desperate confusion. He gesticulates. Takes the letter. Pivots on his heel and marches off, leaving Kath to stand there, frowning.
Garreth hurries up to her. “What’s wrong?”
Her bronze skin is flushed, her brown coils limp. “He just received a letter from home.”
“About what?”
She shakes her head. “Best you ask him. It’s not my place to say. Garreth.” She takes his arm gently before he goes. “Be kind to him.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“Yes,” she says, “but I think he’ll need it now more than ever.”
As he follows Ominis’ trail outside, he rakes a hand through his hair. When did it get so long, and tangled? He attempts to finger-comb it as he searches beyond the Clock Tower Courtyard and onto the wooden bridge. Standing alone, Ominis leans on the railing, letting the June breeze mottle his cheeks red.
“Weasley,” he murmurs, but the greeting is parched of any fondness. “What are you doing here?”
“Saw you looked distressed. Thought you might like company?”
The old Ominis would say no. This one, who better understands Garreth as a person, offers the limp parchment to his waiting hands.
“I asked Kath to read it to me,” he says hoarsely. “Go on.”
The letter is addressed from his father. Garreth’s eyes widen as he reads. You have always been a disappointment, it says with barely any preamble. For the sake of the family, you must be removed from the family tree. Your personal belongings have been sold off. No one will contact you. You must find your own way from now on.
“They’re cutting you off?” he asks, bewildered as he reads the lines again and again. “For— for what reason?”
“For nothing,” says Ominis. “For everything.”
“But what have you done? I don’t understand.”
“I exist, Weasley. That alone is sufficient enough.”
Garreth crumples the letter. He’s half-tempted to chuck it away, damn the whole lot of them. “How could they cut you off now? We’re about to take our N.E.W.T.s! We graduate in two weeks!”
Ominis shrugs. His apathy is telling. “I imagine they were waiting until now to do it. Cause me to spiral, and fail, and therefore affirm their decision.”
“Fuck them,” Garreth says, stepping to his side. “Fuck all of them. This is lower than the other side of the earth! You can’t let this affect you, Ominis.”
“Affect me? Oh please. Even in all my blindness, I could see this coming. I’ve been mentally braced for years, and now that it’s come, I…” He takes a breath and turns to face Garreth. “My only issue now is that I have two weeks to find somewhere to stay.”
“My place.”
It doesn’t even remotely occur to Garreth that his place isn’t an option. He’ll offer his bed if it’s his only one. Anything, to ensure Ominis isn’t in distress.
Ominis shakes his head. “I didn’t say that for you to offer, I simply wanted to share my situation—”
“Which is not a situation anymore.” This time, Garreth does chuck the letter away, and he doesn’t wait to hear it land. “You’re staying with me. Won’t hear another word against it.”
“I shan’t do that, Weasley.”
“You shall, Ominis.”
“You’re a Weasley, I’m a Gaunt,” Ominis snaps. “Your family would never approve.”
“They would! I’ve told them all about you, and how you don’t care about blood status.” Years of his defence of Ominis have eroded their notions, and it’s not like his brothers haven’t clocked his feelings either. “You’re not your family and I’m not letting you be homeless. Take my offer, or… or on the last day of term I’m force-feeding you sleep potion and carrying you south myself.”
Ominis’ lip curls in dispute. “But I don’t know how long I would need to stay.”
“Yeah?”
“It could be weeks. Months.”
“So?”
“And I would need to get a job and find my own place—”
“Merlin’s beard, I know, Ominis! I don’t care how long it is, you can stay as long as you need it!”
“But I…” His resolve crumbles. He nods once, clasps his hands together. His cheeks pink. “Fine. All right. But you must ask your family first. I won’t stay if I don’t have their full consent.”
Garreth sends a letter to his parents with the news later that day. It doesn’t take long to get a reply from his mother, eager to give his friend a home. He lets Ominis know, and watches as the last of his grudging hesitancy dissolves without foundation. So on the last day of term, after N.E.W.T. results are published and the graduates are free, Garreth says goodbye to his friends for the last time on the Hogwarts Express, and escorts Ominis off the platform. Ominis pushes his trunk in such ungainly fashion along the platform of one of many Muggle London trains, clearly unused to physical labour, and barely speaks until he, Garreth and Garreth’s younger sister arrive home in Ottery St Catchpole, Devon.
After hours of travel, it’s almost midnight. Surrounded by acres made silver by the sickle moon, and an old barn a quarter-mile down the path, the six-storey house has always teetered precariously to the left. Its weathered, sun-bleached façade looks like it’ll tumble at the prod of a blade of grass, held together with seven crookedly-shaped columns of wood.
“What do you think?” he asks nervously.
Ominis looks out-of-sorts, his stiff collar and red brocade waistcoat at odds with the humble, messy house. Finally, he takes out his wand; his eyes give way to a fraction of awe.
“It’s... nice.”
Garreth swallows. “Bad nice?”
“Nice by its very definition is a positive word, Weasley,” he says. Then adds with a smile, “It’s good nice.”
The door still creaks when it opens, and Garreth is quickly embraced into a wall of fireplace heat. Mismatched furniture crowds around a dining table with three legs, decorated haphazardly with tired newspapers or old books. The carpet is worn, the curtains fray. Garreth knows the place isn’t what Ominis is used to, but he hopes he finds it comfortable nonetheless. Who knows how long he’ll stay. Whether he can stand it for long.
His parents greet them all. His papa in particular gives Ominis a long hug, another gesture that shocks Ominis enough into freezing, before awkwardly patting him on the back.
“Garreth’s told us all about you,” he crows, as he takes Ominis’ trunks inside. “Nice to know not all the Gaunts are bad.”
His mama pops Ominis on the armchair and forces a cup of tea into his hands as the rest of Garreth’s siblings come down to greet them. It’s brief, everyone’s tired, but he watches them embrace Ominis as if one of their own, watches Ominis embrace them back with a faint, enthralled smile, and secretly delights in the knowledge that even undeniable facts can be denied.
By way of goodnight to his family, Garreth hauls Ominis’ trunks to his bedroom.
“I-I’m staying with you?” Ominis’ face goes red.
“Nah, not enough room.” Garreth winks, even though he can’t see it. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh. Well. Yes. But then where are you staying?”
“In the barn.”
“The barn?” he bleats. “With the animals?”
“Yeah. It’s comfy there. Has a mezzanine with a double-bed and all. I’m practically spoilt.”
Ominis stops at the threshold.
“You can have this room. I’ll take the barn.”
“Er, no. You’re the guest,” Garreth says, bewildered. “You get the room.”
“I shan’t have you sleeping on hay, Weasley.”
“I told you there’s beds!”
“With the animals!”
“It’s four chickens, they’re not bloody mutts! Please,” he drops to a desperate whisper, “my parents will literally kill me if I make you stay there.”
He crosses his arms. “Then I must insist.”
Terrible timing, his mother comes upstairs. “Is everything to your liking, Ominis?”
“Mrs Weasley, I cannot possibly overstate how grateful I am for your hospitality,” he says, ever the disinterested, serene gentleman. “But I also cannot in good conscience evict Garreth from his own room. I insist I stay in the barn quarters.”
She immediately turns her cross gaze on Garreth. “What have you been doing, ousting our guest?”
“It’s my decision,” Ominis says firmly. “Please, I am already in your debt enough.”
“There are no debts, boy! Don’t be silly now.” She pets his cheeks. “I suppose if you insist—”
“Mama!” Garreth protests. Then, “I can’t let you sleep in the damn barn.”
“I will. You can’t change my mind.”
“Fine,” he says. “Then we’ll share.”
Ominis turns on him, jaw tight. “That isn’t—”
“Splendid idea!” says his mama blithely. “You can have a sleepover! That’ll be more fun.”
They get ready for bed, then cross the pasture to the barn. The four chickens have taken the furthest corners to sleep, undisturbed even as Garreth takes Ominis’ hand and leads him up the rickety folding ladder to the mezzanine. The summer warmth has nothing on the feel of Ominis’ hand, loosely intertwined with his. That potent love bobs to the surface, and after years and years spent in a cage of his own making, now it crashes free, a torrent through every fibre of his body that siphons his inhibitions until they’re as flimsy as wafer. So close together, Garreth thinks he might not be able to sleep tonight. Might not be able to breathe.
The modest room has been done up since last he was here. Normally, this is where Garreth’s cousins stay, and the multiple beds crammed against the wall are testament to that. Only two have been made next to each other, simple beige cotton covers that wrap feather-stuffed pillows. A lamp swings ahead, and it creates a great starburst of light in the centre of the barn’s garret.
Garreth lets Ominis go, and unceremoniously drops their bags. “You can have the bigger one.”
Ominis’ brow slants, and drags a hand through his hair. “You should have it.”
“You’re taller.”
“You’re broader.” Ominis goes for the smaller one and flings the duvet back, testing the mattress. “I hope you don’t snore.”
“Like a train.” He winces. “Sorry.”
“You could have just slept in your room.”
“You could’ve just slept in my room.”
“God, must you always argue with me?”
“I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m trying to agree with you. You always want to argue with me.” To hammer his point, he tosses Ominis’ bag onto his bed. “You’re ours now, so I have to make sure you’re comfortable.”
“I—” He swallows loudly. “I’m yours?”
“Yeah, of course. Family, like I always say.”
“But—” He looks flustered. His fingers flex. “I thought...”
“What?”
“I thought you were doing this because you felt sorry for me. You took pity on me.”
Garreth takes a long breath. He remembers all those moments before, when he offered help that Ominis accepted with a scowl. The façade gives way again for only the second time in their lives; there lies beneath the scared, insecure man, made pieces by his blood relations. Is it considered a weakness, what his family taught him? To take love when it is given freely?
“I’m doing it because I care about you,” he says firmly, making sure each note rings true. “I empathise with you, Ominis. I have done for the last seven years.”
“Well— yes, but—”
“But what?”
“Why?” It comes out strained, injured. “All I’ve ever done— all I ever do is push you away!”
“Because I feel your pain! Because I saw it, every time I was nice to you, and you thought I had some ulterior motive! Because I might not know what it’s like to have a shitty family, but I never want anyone to feel like they’re unwanted, least of all the clever, talented, funny and most annoyingly good-looking man I know!”
There’s a swell of a pause. Ominis cheeks have brightened so much he could rival the sun.
“I…”
Then, in two strides, he’s crossed the space between them, his hands have grasped Garreth’s cheeks, and he’s pulled him in for a kiss. Not a gentle one, either. He kisses like he’ll never kiss again, like this is his last moment on earth, lips moving and nails biting. It’s sloppy, rough. It’s the love in Garreth’s chest come to collect.
Before Garreth can do anything, can even process what the hell is going on, that this is real, Ominis wrenches himself away. His eyes have blown as wide as his cheeks are red.
“I—” He flinches back. “Please forgive my conduct—”
Garreth yanks him back down; their lips collide again. Dreams and fantasy have nothing on this, on the greed with which he kisses and Ominis kisses back. Without abandon, without restraint. His hands have pulled Ominis’ collar close to seal the gap, to walk him back to a bed, any bed, and push him down and kiss the swollen lips he’s been wanting for years. They’re so soft and pliant. The taste of sweat and tea and a hint of honey—
Ominis pushes him up, separating them.
“Merlin’s beard— let me breathe, Weasley!”
Garreth sits up, panting hard. “Sorry.” He pauses. “Also, erm, I’m in love with you.”
“I gathered, thank you!”
Garreth’s not in his own body right now. Nothing feels real. But it is. It is.
“So… so you… you like me too?”
It shouldn’t work. They’re a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, a Weasley and a Gaunt, one beloved and one who never was.
Yet when Ominis starts to laugh, the only undeniable fact Garreth knows is that he will love him for the rest of his life.
“For god’s sake, Garreth.” Ominis reaches up, trails his fingers along Garreth’s cheek, smiling brilliantly as a sun. “Just kiss me again.”
Thank you so much for reading! Please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed. NSFW addition to come soon <3
