“Oh shit not again.” I look at my phone alarm and see 7:50am. “Damn it.”
I wake up with a blaring headache to my alarm letting me know I slept in Big Time. I rush to put on clothes and get ready before I am flying out of my on campus apartment towards the Biology Building.
I can’t be late. Not after last time. I need to measure my experiment at exactly 8:30 or I am screwed big time. My entire week thrown off. I can’t be late I just can’t.
It’s 8:07 when I get to the Biology building and quickly swipe my card to get in. I rush up the stairs and run into my lab bolting it to the bio safety cabinet (BSC). When I walk in with my lab coat half on I see that my efforts had all been in vain.
Sebastian was working in the BSC and clearly threw my overnights away. The overnights I needed to have grown. The overnights I needed to measure the OD of at exactly 8:30am or my entire week would be ruined. In the f*cking trash.
“Fucking Bastard” I say not thinking he would hear me but as though he was expecting it he turns around with that smug smirk I’ve grown to hate.
“Oh Violet, I didn’t expect you were coming. You were so late I thought you had well… given up on your silly little experiment” he says with a look that tells me he did it fact know I was coming but decided to throw my stuff out anyways.
“Of course I was, you know I was” I respond.
“Oh really, what am I supposed to expect when it’s 8:15 and you’re no where to be seen. Am I supposed to just wait around while you stake claim on the only BSC available for an experimental you’re going to sleep through anyways.” He proclaims angerly.
“It was hardly 8:15, I know for a fact that I entered the lab at 8:09 at the latest.”
“Oh big f*cking whoop. A six minute difference” He scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Yes big f*cking whoop. I had enough time before 8:30 and you knew that. You just wanted to screw me over.” I retort back.
“And what if I did. Not much you can do about it now. You were late. Deal with it” he says turning back to the BSC.
“You knew I needed to do this today.”
“You aren’t the only one on a time scrunch sweetheart. Better luck next time” he turns one last time “And nice lab coat” before turning back again and putting in his headphones.
“I hate you” I respond, with silence in return. He doesn’t seem to hear me or at least if he does he doesn’t dignify it with a response.
I walk away looking down at my pink lab coat I was gifted. I never usually wear it because of Sebastians teasing but I was running late.
I throw it on the chair at my bench and grab my things to leave. No use being in lab with no experiments to do today.
I walk to the small shoebox of an office I share with poppy and sit down. Poppy hasn’t arrived yet like the rest of the lab who usually arrive at 9. So I allow myself to quietly curse Sebastian and everything he loves.
It doesn’t really make me feel better. So I try to get my mind off of it and I start preparing for the class I TA for at 9:30.
I work on grading for about 30 minutes before realizing that at the rate I am going I might as well be doing nothing. Clearly this isn’t working as a good enough distraction. I am still fuming.
Who does that. I understand possibly using the BSC while I am not there but to straight up throw away my media is insanity. I know me and Sebastian haven’t gotten along since… well thats not important, but the point is I would never do this to him.
What sucks the most is that we used to be friends. Oh how times have changed.
Poppy finally arrives at 8:53 and I explain the whole thing.
“No way did he do that” she responds
“You can go look in the trash for yourself” I reply with a yawn. I really would have been better off sleeping in.
“No it’s fine I believe you. It just. Doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t do this to anyone else. I know y’all had a falling out but this seems extreme.” She replies.
“He’s a demon from Hell who has come to torture me specifically” I state in response while grabbing the grapes from the mini fridge under my desk and popping one in my mouth. “He knows I have my committee meeting next week. It’s like he wants me to not graduate on time. Just another thing for him to make fun of me about I guess.”
“He is just jealous that you’re on tract to graduate early and he’s not. That must be it”
“Yeah you’re probably right” I respond even though I am doubtful that is the reason. If I wanted to argue It would require giving context I am not ready to share. Talk about things I am not ready to talk about. Not now, maybe not ever.
“Well it’s 9:15, you better head to class Violet. You can’t let him get in your head where you can’t do your job” she urges.
I check the time as well and respond “Yeah you’re probably right. No more thinking about him or how much of a dick he is”
I pack my things and head downstairs to the Principals of Genetics class I help teach. Determined to not let this ruin the rest of my day.
SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)
a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭
The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.
SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??
NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!
You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.
You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.
Then something had swung overhead.
A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.
You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.
He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.
Spider-Man pushed off the wall.
Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.
You had run.
Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk.
By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.
He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human.
Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.
You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.
He turned his head.
For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.
You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.
Still, your stomach dropped.
Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.
You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.
After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.
You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.
Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.
Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.
Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.
Lucky meant hearing him talk.
That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.
“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”
The guy swung at him.
Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped toward you.
You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.
Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.
Then he pointed at you.
“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears.
Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”
“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”
A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.
“You noticed?”
His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”
You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”
“You are practically dating the damn tape.”
“I respect boundary lines!”
His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”
The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”
“That is relatively worse.”
It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.
Before he left, he looked down at you again.
“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder.
You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”
There was a pause.
Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.
“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”
Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.
Peter remembered you after that.
He didn't mean to.
He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.
But you, you became hard not to notice.
You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.
He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.
That made his stomach twist.
The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from.
Peter hated them in the abstract way he could.
He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.
He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.
Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.
It was relief.
Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.
“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.
You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.
Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”
Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”
“So am I.”
He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”
Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”
“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”
You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”
His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”
That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.
“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood.
He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”
You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”
You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”
“No.”
A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”
Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”
You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots.
You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly.
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?”
“Bleeding?”
“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time.
Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.
Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.
“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.
Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”
Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”
A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”
“Eventually is not good enough.”
You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”
“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.
The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.
Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.
Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”
“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more.
He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”
You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”
Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.
You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.
That was the lie at the center of it.
You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises.
He wasn't invincible.
But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.
You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.
It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.
It was the pauses he had.
The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.
That was what kept pulling you closer to him.
The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.
Your phone lit up.
Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.
SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??
STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.
Your friend stopped talking.
“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.
She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”
“It’s close.”
A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll stay back!”
She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”
The echo of his words should have slowed you.
It didn't.
Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.
Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.
The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.
You froze.
For once, your body understood before your obsession did.
Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.
Peter saw you from the ground.
Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.
His blood went cold.
“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.
You did not.
Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.
Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.
The strand hit your waist and yanked.
Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.
The street exploded white-blue.
Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.
For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.
Spider-Man lifted his head first.
“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you.
You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express.
“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”
The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”
Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”
You emphasized better. “I’m not.”
His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.
He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.
Then, he looked back at you.
You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.
The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.
“Stay here,” he all but demanded
You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so.
He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”
“I heard you.”
“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”
“I’ll stay.”
Peter really didn't believe you.
But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
You stayed.
For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.
“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”
A crash came next.
“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”
Another loud noise of impact.
You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.
The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.
Badly so.
He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.
You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”
Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”
His answer came too quick. “So am I.”
The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his.
He stepped closer.
“What is wrong with you?”
The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.
You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”
Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”
“I didn’t know it was going to—”
“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”
You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.
“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.
Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his.
“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”
Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”
You looked up again quickly with widening eyes.
There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself.
Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.
“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.
But that was not how you said it.
You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.
You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity.
You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.
Peter hated how easily that worked on him.
He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.
“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time.
Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”
“Want to know me.”
You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”
“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”
You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”
Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”
You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you don’t want the rest.”
You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.
“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression.
He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge. “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”
The confession landed badly.
You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.
Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”
“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more.
Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”
Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”
“You followed me home?”
He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”
You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”
“I was making sure you were safe.”
Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.
“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession.
Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”
You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”
“I notice threats.”
“You think I’m a threat?”
His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”
“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.
Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.
You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.
“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him.
The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
You let out an exasperated groan, one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”
“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”
Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
“It should be.”
“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.
Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.
He should have left.
He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.
Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m not joking.”
You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”
He stepped closer this time.
You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.
Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.
“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.
It mattered.
The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.
“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.
His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”
Your voice hadn't lost its lightness, but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”
Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”
Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.
It was a warning with a pulse.
“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.
You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”
His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”
“When you’re hurt?”
Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”
You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”
He went quiet.
That was answer enough for you.
You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.
But he was still holding your wrist.
And, he hadn't let go.
“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him.
“I did.”
“Tell me again.”
Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist.
Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.
“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away.
Neither did you.
The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.
You reached up with your free hand.
This time, you touched his jaw.
Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.
“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.
Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”
Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”
“No.”
That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.
You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.
Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.
The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.
“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders.
Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”
“To this.”
You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.
“I’m not saying no.”
Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words.
He stopped an inch from you.
The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.
Peter caught your fingers again.
“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning.
Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.
Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.
Only that.
The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.
You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice.
His mouth found yours before you could say anything.
The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.
You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”
“You keep saving me.”
Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”
Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”
He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.
“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily.
You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”
His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”
You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”
He answered by kissing you again.
This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.
The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.
When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.
“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe.
The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I get it.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”
Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.
“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.
There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.
“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw.
For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.
Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in.
You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”
His silence moved over you slowly.
He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.
But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.
“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting.
Your reply came back softer. “At what?”
“Letting people stand this close.”
Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”
You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”
“Great.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really not.”
You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”
That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.
“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding.
A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”
He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”
You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”
Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding.”
“I think you’re concussed.”
“You asked if I was hit.”
His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”
You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.
He looked at your mouth again.
You noticed.
This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.
The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.
You gave back as much as he took.
That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.
“Careful,” he said again.
This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”
His hand stilled on impact of your words.
“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again. “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”
Peter listened without interrupting.
That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.
Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”
“I won’t.”
His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”
You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”
He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”
You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”
Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”
“That seems really excessive.”
“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”
You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”
“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”
You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.
Peter did take you home.
Not immediately, though.
The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.
Peter moved differently while carrying you.
Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.
By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline.
Mostly.
He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him.
A laugh escaped you before you could control it. “You really do know where I live.”
Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”
Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”
“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”
The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”
“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils. “Not in a way I’m discussing.”
You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.
The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet.
Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.
You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.
“You’re not coming in?”
Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”
You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”
“You were most of them.”
“Still.”
His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.
You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.
“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong.
Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.
He really should have said no.
But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.
Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.
The room felt too small with him in it.
Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.
“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue.
“I’m injured.”
You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”
Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”
You stepped closer.
He watched you do it.
The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.
Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.
“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly, more hesitant than you'd have imagined.
Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.
“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”
The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.
A low sound left him.
“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer.
Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”
The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”
Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.
His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.
“That hurt?” you whispered against him.
“No.”
A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”
“Maybe.”
Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.
Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.
He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.
“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.
“You keep kissing me.”
His mouth hovered above yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved after that.
The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home.
Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.
“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could.
Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”
Peter pushed. “You swear?”
“I swear.”
“And if you see me on that app—”
You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”
He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”
“Now.”
You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”
Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”
You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.
He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.
It felt strange to let it go.
Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.
You deleted it.
Then the second one.
Then the third.
Peter said nothing while you did so.
When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.
“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite. “Happy?”
“No.”
You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”
“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”
Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m known for that.”
You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.
The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear.
He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had.
Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.
His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."
“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."
“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough.
You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.
Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.
"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"
"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."
Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.
"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"
You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.
"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."
He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.
“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.
"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."
You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.
"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."
"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.
"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"
You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.
"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.
The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.
Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.
"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.
“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.
The mask came off.
You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.
One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.
"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."
“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.
Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.
“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth.
Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands.
The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.
"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.
"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"
“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass.
The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.
"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"
Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.
Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.
Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.
He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.
"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"
You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.
"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.
"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."
You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"
His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."
The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.
"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"
His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."
“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”
His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.
"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"
You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.
"Fuck—I'm—"
"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."
You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.
"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"
"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"
The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.
"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."
Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.
"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"
His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."
Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.
"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"
His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.
A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.
"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."
You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"
His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.
"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.
You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.
"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.
Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.
"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."
You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."
Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."
The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.
The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.
You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.
Consciousness returned in pieces.
Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.
Your eyes cracked open.
The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.
You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.
Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.
Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:
P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.
A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.
"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."
Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.
The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.
summary: In this college AU, Sebastian Sallow thinks you’re the quiet, introverted girl on campus until one purposeful sexting text spirals into him showing up at your dorm at 2 a.m.
warnings: late-night nsfw texting, implied nudity, sexual tension, gray-sweatpants Sebastian, possessive/competitive behavior, flirty arguing, two idiots as always. characters aged up in a college au.
a/n: you could also find this Ao3 too.
dedicated to once again, @kelseyreads22 for the bullying and support on writing this. and my discord peeps as fucking always tagging me to support delusions together like these. i love you queens and kings. here's the link if you want to join in. enjoy xx
It hadn't been the best in his intentions. No, not at all. He knew it hadn't been by the way he bit his inner lip and paced around his dorm like a maniac.
But he was Sebastian Sallow. Popular. Attractive. Leveled player on the university's football team. "The Best One," as the coach would refer to him.
Even the girls who threw themselves at him. Girls and boys. Hot. Decent — surely, he wouldn't bed all. He wasn't a whore either. Football took much of his headspace either way. And academics.
So, why the hell was he irritating himself by getting the attention of the pretty smart girl he stumbled upon at the library? You.
He'd only known you from bits and pieces. A few murmurs of being the hot tutor who helped the freshman. Good style. And according to his teammates, a fucking menace in disguise.
"But she's off limits boys," Andrew Larson would announce mid-locker room, slamming his locker a little too loudly. A little too personal.
Sebastian would turn, pretending not to be invested, but hear regardless.
"—she'll play you." Larson clicked his tongue. "Think her brain does all the work to fuck you over."
Sebastian would smirk.
There was no way.
He didn't have a clear belief that someone like you. A smart one. Innocent-looking. Introvert — would have a game streak of your own with the men.
And why hadn't he known sooner?
"Didn't Lestrange get to fuck her once a few semesters ago?" Another rowdy player asked.
Everett Clapton. Benchwarmer.
— Fuck her. Sebastian didn't like the word much. He rather preferred much of, uh, bedding? making love? Or just in general, having sex?
No wonder Clapton was a virgin benchwarmer.
It hadn't been enough for Sebastian, though.
There had been a few afternoons he'll purposely take the longer way across campus buildings to take a glance at her. Or, in his way, get her attention.
It usually worked on his end.
Post-Football practice uniform set. Sweaty.
It worked — from other female grades, though.
A few fair, "Hey, Sallow!", "Nice practice, captain," and so on.
And you? Oh, you walked past him alright, and what happened after. Not a fucking glance at all.
If anything, he glanced back.
You passed him like a feather. A butterfly. You'd been so concentrated on the book you had been reading that even when the female students next to you waved at Sebastian and said his name, you grew a small smile, getting into a steamy smut scene in your book in hand, and never looked up.
This stirred him up.
And the only reason it did was because not only did he remember the way you smelled (that intense vanilla ache and cinnamon) were you even eating a cinnamon roll, or did his senses work that hard? - but you'd been so unfazed by the setting around him in general.
Now he stood in his solo-dormitory. Three buildings away from yours. It hadn't even reached the AM hour. It'd been a Friday night, and half of the field was most likely at the fraternities getting drunk as fuck or getting it on with a random chick they won't remember the next morning.
Sebastian stared blankly at his phone. His long fingers were tapping continuously on the university's stories on the bright screen. He usually wasn't a doom-scrolling guy.
He couldn't give two shits about people's stories with parties and all. It was all for attention.
Yet, somehow, he was repetitive for an hour, tapping to at least get some stupid hope you'll appear in one of the mutual stories. To find out you weren't actually introverted and he'll accidentally end up there too —
"Fuck, Sallow. Are you out of your mind?" Sebastian muttered to himself from his maniacal thoughts.
He needed to knock himself into reality again. Remind himself that he was Sebastian Sallow. The popular kind. Handsome. Egoistic and...and....
Within a few minutes, Sebastian's fingers dawdled over the contacts on his phone.
Specifically yours.
He was insane. Insane for asking your close friend, that Sweeting girl with a cute flowery name he barely remembered, for your number.
"For what, Sallow?"
"Come on, Poppy. And I'll make sure to 'accidentally' kick your ex Weasley's balls mid-practice tomorrow." He promised her.
That's all it took for the Sweeting girl to roll her eyes and agree. "She isn't easy to communicate with, Sebastian. Good luck, because she probably won't reply."
Sebastian's thumbs kept lingering that night. They wiggled back and forth over your contact number. He debated whether he could shoot a basic 'Hey, it's Sallow' or a basic 'Hey, you up?'.
But she wouldn't know it's me.
Isn't that the best part, though? He also thought to himself.
"...if she even replies." Sebastian whispered to himself, throwing a white towel over himself to prepare for a late-night shower.
Sebastian was well-skilled. He never usually aims to go so abruptly for his goal, but for some reason, that night, he risked it all. He didn't give a shit. He was going all in for the sake of the attention of a girl. Something he never really did before.
"No," He refused.
He was standing in the bathroom. The shower had been running for over five minutes now, yet the tall man had no urge to hop in right away until he made a move. A disastrous move.
It was out of his normal aim. He usually waited for a few message exchanges until he dived in. Even so, he rarely did it.
He did do it anyway.
Sebastian angled his phone enough over his stomach. Clear line of his V-line, but keeping it safe by aiming above. Not even his face was there. Just angled enough to give the perfect lighting on his abdominal area.
Sebastian:
Showering.
Photo sent.
Act stupid, Sallow.
Sebastian:
Shit. My bad. Wrong number.
He set his phone down on the counter near the sink, just reachable enough for anything, and hopped his entire body into the standing shower, pretending as if his heart hadn't been raising more than usual.
Sebastian had only let the steaming hot water run through his brown hairs and down the veins of his arms before he heard a vibration.
His eyes re-opened, and he paused, turning to the side. Certainly, he hadn't expected a reply so fast. Maybe it was all in his head.
It vibrated again.
With no patience, he slid the shower door open a few inches and reached over to his phone, taking a quick glance at what it could've been.
Larson:
Coach said practice at 8am tomorrow.
Great, it was just fucking Larson and his drunk reminders of—
You:
Ha. Funny.
If you're showering, where's the water dripping down your body?
Sebastian's brain flatlined for a moment. It couldn't even been seconds. It was a full minute of his male brain trying to process what you had sent him.
Was this a joke? Had Sweeting given him the wrong number, and the other end was joining along? — No, Poppy wasn't like that. She really meant her words.
His phone buzzed again.
Sebastian flushed. He couldn't even blame the steam. He was just shocked.
You:
I'm also about to shower.
And there, you sent a photo of your waist down.
No, you weren't an idiot. You had shorts on and cute slippers. Perhaps, some silly shoes that not many get to see. The photo you sent was completely harmless.
It was you. He knew it was.
It was your legs that gave it away. Same skin tone. Same width. Same shape — the kind he should not have memorized.
He'd seen them enough times around campus.
When you crossed one knee over the other in lecture halls,
When you walked through the courtyard in those tight leggings,
When you wore skirts that made his throat close for reasons he pretended not to understand.
"Shit," Sebastian threw his other hand, rubbing it around his wet face to comprehend his conformation. "...it is you."
He hadn't gathered how much confidence and bravery came out of you. It caught him off guard.
Was this part of the game you played? No. He's heard stories about how you'll fuck them over, but not like this.
Sebastian:
Aren't you worried I'll send these out?
He wasn't threatening, but he was just so out of bounds on how rapidly you were sending yourself. Not yourself, but legs. Slippers.
You:
God forbid my cute slippers get exposed!
Sebastian chuckled and rolled his eyes.
His phone buzzed again.
You:
I mean, you said wrong number. Wouldn't that make two of us not knowing who we're speaking to, stranger?
Sebastian scoffed to himself. God, you were right. Had a straight point there.
Technically, on your end, you had no idea who was texting. Allegedly. Sebastian should've connected that right away. He made the Sweeting girl promise not to tell you that he'll text.
But holy fuck. You were way more out of it than he had expected. He thought he would get blocked. Or a freaked-out "who is this???". Nope.
Sebastian ran a hand through his wet hairs. A few droplets dripped onto his phone screen, immediately tapping the camera button by accident. As if it had been doing him a favor already.
Where's the water dripping down your body?
His tongue rolled over his cheek, and then he shrugged. His plan was working then.
Sebastian lifted his phone now, adjusting his lighting and avoiding the water from the shower head from touching the phone as he clicked over his wet, veiny arms and neck. He flexed them once, and not on purpose. (Okay, a little on purpose.)
Sebastian:
Still thinking I'm lying about a shower?
He could barely take a proper shower that night. Each time he ruffled foams of shampoo over his hairs, he would intentionally open his eyes and burn them in order to see if you had replied back.
And you did.
The white towel hanging from the hanger was probably drenched from the number of times he had to stick his hands out to dry them and reply.
You:
That makes two of us in the shower.
But you didn't send anything.
Sebastian became greedy.
Sebastian:
Oh, yeah? Really?
Again, his thumbs wiggled.
Three dots appeared on his screen.
His breath hitched a little from the waiting. Were you really in the shower too? His brain could only imagine you naked now. It wasn't even intrusive thoughts. He was a man after all.
You:
What? Eager that you thought I'll send a photo back, stranger?
Sebastian's jaw clenched at your play.
"Oh, you are playing." He chuckled, but didn't get offended.
Sebastian:
You sent me your cute slippers. We're no longer strangers.
Three dots again.
God, he really was wasting the hot water tonight for this. For you.
You:
If we're no longer strangers, send me something else.
Sebastian's brows lifted, and his heart thudded.
You were one of a kind. He should've known then that you shouldn't slip through his sight from the way you used your words. He shouldn't have even underestimated you. You were smart as hell. You tutored other students in your free time, and teachers praised you.
He leaned his back against the wet tiles and smiled to himself. Was he in a dream?
Sebastian:
Something else like what?
Three dots.
You:
Be creative.
I want to see what you think I want as a girl.
Sebastian squinted, re-reading the text you had sent, over and over again, and he let out a low, disbelieving laugh.
You were killing him.
Killing. Sallow.
Of course, you'll flip the dialogue back to him. You weren't going to take the easy road and answer his prayers. Of course not.
Another wave of hot water rolled down Sebastian's back as he read your message. The hot water should've calmed him, but it wasn't.
Sebastian:
Be creative? Be specific, darling.
His pulse thudded, overthinking his message now. Was he being demanding? Did he sound like some asshole who talked like this to every girl on campus?
Before he could process his tone behavior, staring up at absolutely nothing, his phone buzzed again.
You:
NSFW.
Also, do you go around calling everyone darling?
The 'darling' part got him. For some reason, he had pictured listening to your voice saying that inside his head. Perfectly too.
Sebastian:
Only to those who wear cute slippers.
He flirted.
Sebastian:
NSFW?
You:
Not educated enough, I see. Bummer.
Sebastian scoffed. "Bummer?" But then raised a brow. He'd surely seen the abbreviation of NSFW somewhere once. It stood for something out of the ordinary.
Within a minute, Sebastian's entire chest warmed with something between embarrassment and interest. "You amaze me."
You were impossible.
Impossibly gorgeous and smart and manipulative and exactly what he wanted.
And oh, help him, he was going all in on your little 'NSFW'.
He wasn't trained for this. It was always the men handling the approaches. Begging for something. Yet, although you weren't begging, you had a way of words that enthralled the Sallow gene.
Like a drug.
Sebastian:
Are you sure? Won't you expose me?
He sounded dumb at the moment.
You:
How could I? I don't even know you.
Right...right.
Sebastian's thumb hovered over your message, and heat climbed through his throat from the intentions.
Again, he let the same dripping heated water drip down his face onto his chest, down the outlines of his abdominal area. He angled his phone now much lower. It was a more specific broad view. Not many saw it.
Unless, of course, girls with cute slippers.
Sebastian:
Is this too NSFW for you?
Sebastian reddened a little after he clicked send. Was he out his fucking mind? He didn't know what he was getting himself into. Maybe, you did play hard game, and you were plotting his photos like a psycho. Collecting his, or other men in the university.
No. He was overthinking now. He wouldn't believe you were like that.
You:
How could a woman get turned on with just the breadcrumbs?
"Fuck," It was a mixture of a groan and gasp that emitted out of Sebastian from your message.
You wanted more. He sensed that. He knew that.
Embarrassingly, from the disheveled moment, Sebastian felt himself twitch. It wasn't even a go-to plan to grow hard at the idea of how powerful the way of words were. He's never experienced this.
His cock spoke otherwise.
And he made sure you saw it on his next message.
Sebastian:
When is it your turn?
His lips were wet and parted, waiting for a fast response now. He had just sent his entire cock.
You:
We never agreed this was a 1v1, darling.
Darling. Ha, using his own tactics on him.
Sebastian frowned. Not that he had expected any photo back or compliment. He didn't even predict you'll even respond to his first message at all tonight, let alone send a photo of your toned legs and slippers — now he felt like a dog waiting for a bone.
Buzzed.
Lifting his arm, Sebastian hardened more at the sight.
You'd only send the bare minimum. A soft peck of your naked shoulder and left collarbone. You hadn't even hinted at your breast. It was just a wet photo inside a bath of your side.
And a very small, tiny butterfly tattoo at the bottom. Only ones who would see you naked would notice.
Though Sebastian paid attention to the imprinted ink on your wet skin, he focused on the structure of your jawline that you couldn't hide away, even if you tried.
The perfectly shaped face with a few baby hairs peeking out from having it in an up-do.
Sebastian:
Nice butterfly.
'Nice butterfly' huh. As if he wasn't wishing he was a leech, sinking his mouth into that same spot and devouring you from now on.
You were capable of weakening him. With just one fucking photo, and it hadn't even been a nude.
You:
Thanks. Not many get to see it.
Feel special.
Sebastian:
I've been feeling special.
You didn't reply right away.
Damn it. Did he mess it up by layering down that last message? He usually never sent something so...vanilla. It was usually a hit and go exchange of fun — now you had him wishing he could knock his head into those same wet tiles he was resting on. Or drown in his own shower thoughts.
After a few minutes, Sebastian Sallow finished his shower. It'd been around 2am by then. He hadn't realized he'd spent nearly an unnecessary amount of time just texting you mid-shower.
What were five-minute rinses became an hour.
He multitasked, walking out with a pair of loose sweatpants, back into his dormitory room, and brushing his teeth at the same time.
When he returned to the bathroom to glance at himself in the mirror and spit out his paste, he noticed his freckles had been a little more vibrant than usual from how fried he let that steaming hot water run on his skin all night.
All for you. You were his consequence.
He sighed again, at least appreciating the effort you must've taken to stay up with him and tease him.
You riled him up, alright.
He even kept thinking of you as he walked toward his undone bed and dried out his ears with a white towel — closing his eyes and trying not to get the urge to snatch his phone and look at the picture you sent, again. And again. And a-fucking-gain.
Buzzed.
Sebastian had been shirtless as he was settling in bed when his phone vibrated from his nightstand. He hadn't laid fully, but he let his weight rest on the edge of his bed before reading.
No, not reading. Seeing.
He had to take a loud breath and stand up from his own bed as he paced around his dormitory at the message.
At the photo.
You:
Goodnight, stranger.
The hem of your towel sat high on your hips, barely covering anything, your skin illuminated by the soft glow of your dormitory light. Your ankles were crossed delicately. An intentional pose.
It was aimed directly at him.
Sebastian's breath hitched. "What the fuck..."
His hand dragged into his hair. His heartbeat was disastrous.
Sebastian:
Fuck. I'm not a stranger anymore.
He needed you. It wasn't even a joke.
You couldn't just send that as a goodnight and called it.
You didn't respond again, and it drove him mad.
Sebastian:
You can't just tease me like that.
Maybe he was falling victim to your game.
No. He wasn't. He wouldn't allow it.
Sallow was surely not going to let you win this.
It wasn't very pretty to be walking around a mile on campus with a hard-on at 2am for Sebastian Sallow that night. Actually, that morning. It was an unfiltered nightmare for him to leave his dormitory for the sake of this. Of you.
It was torture now.
Sebastian hadn't even meant to leave his dormitory after a shower. It was bad luck, but he didn't care enough. He'd thrown on the first hoodie he found and rushed out before his body could cage so much in those four walls after the photo you sent.
He was halfway past the quad when a group of drunk students stumbled around the corner, yelling annoyingly, and alcohol trailing behind them.
"Yo—S–Sallow!" one of them slurred, pointing too. "Captain!"
Sebastian didn't even slow down.
He didn't even look. Didn't nod. Didn't give a single fuck.
He adjusted his hood and turned the opposite way. The least he wanted was to be interrogated about his whereabouts or waste any more time.
And there he was in your dormitory building in the AM. He would've expected to be denied access from the timings, but to his surprise, for a Friday night, most strict people were out.
Lucky him. Or unlucky, depending on how you measure self-control.
He knew the building you stayed in.
Sallow wasn't that much of a creep.
Everyone knew. Some girls in your major talked too loudly in the campus café; plus, he'd seen you walk out of here once or twice, usually when he pretended not to notice.
But your room number? That, he didn't know.
Didn't take long to figure out.
Not everyone had a silly cartoon sticker on their dormitory door that matched with their cute slippers.
You didn't take anything in life seriously. Some people thought you were uptight. Some thought you focused too much on academics, that the social world wasn't up your sleeve. Especially on Friday nights like these.
But you weren't an idiot.
Being introverted was a choice. Also, delusional.
It'd been a little past midnight when Sebastian Sallow sent his first text.
You knew it was Sallow.
Surely, Poppy wasn't going to break girl-code and give you a fair warning that the captain of the university's football team was asking all of a sudden.
Sure, he was handsome. You've heard endless compliments from his end from others, but you pretended not to care.
Keyword: Pretended.
You hadn't expected Sallow to be so egoistic in pretending to send you an "accidental" shirtless photo as a first ice-breaker. I mean, how much more cocky could these athletes on campus be?
But — it was Sebastian Sallow.
He had a popular reputation, yes. You've heard enough to know he's been here and there. Hadn't had a girlfriend since entering university. Focused too much on his stupid football sport that made up most of his personality — oh, and he was extremely hot.
Didn't help when he fit the same description as the male love interests in the romance books you spent most of the time reading in your dormitory.
Brown soft hair, majestic brown eyes that only shone over the sun, freckled that you could've count on like star constellations and...
Damn it.
You hated that he looked exactly like the kind of man authors wrote about.
You hated more that he texted you back exactly like the kind you fantasized about.
And you really hated that your thighs still tingled from sending that picture.
It wasn't intentional. You were bored out of your mind. All your friends were out at the fraternity parties, and you wanted to live in your little fiction world with Sallow until you played enough.
You were curled in your dormitory bed now, a dimmed lamp on as a thin blanket covered your mini shorts, enough of a leverage to set your current book and read it until you fell asleep and...and—
Knock.
The book nearly dropped from your knee as your brows furrowed in confusion at the sound of knocking at your dormitory door.
Huh?
You blinked twice. High-alert.
It was nearly 3am now. Nobody visited at these hours. Parties didn't end until like, four or five, and even so, an RA doing a check-up would be highly impossible.
You stood still. A little frozen as you were half up-half sat down in your bed.
Your phone on your nightstand buzzed, making the entire furniture vibrate loudly.
Sebastian:
Well? Aren't you going to open?
You felt your heart sink into your stomach. Almost to your ass from the anxiety; not literally, but you were still.
Because until that second, a small, delusional part of you still believed he was joking. That Sebastian Sallow. Popular athlete. Mister Stranger — wasn't actually here.
That he hadn't walked across campus at 2am because of you.
No. No. You paced in circles, your cute little slippers that were the star of the show following along your nervous steps as you reflected.
You didn't expect anything after texting Sebastian. Most of the time, most men gave up. Read the cue of your silliness and go on to the next, but not him. Sallow. He took it literal.
Must he have been so freaked out that you'll expose his girth he sent earlier? (The one you were indeed still fantasizing about)
"Fuck, okay," You hissed to yourself as you self prepared a confrontation.
You had put on a show for him. A false narrative that you'd been so confident through text — your use of words. But that was because it was through a screen.
"Okay." You confirmed once again.
You adjusted your tight, flowery pajama long sleeve. A bra wasn't in sight since, technically, you didn't expect anyone at this hour. Plus, how worse could it get? You sent him a half-nude not long ago.
When the dormitory door opened, he'd been standing there, breathless.
Sebastian Sallow.
He stood there out of the ordinary. A navy hoodie over himself like he just slipped it on, enough for his dampened brown hairs from his post-shower to ruffle all over the place. A pair of gray sweatpants hanging loosely under his waist, intact.
His jaw was tight when you confronted his face form. (You barely could). Worst of all, your building's hallway lights caught the heat in his brown eyes. A bit exhausted, but also locked entirely on you, as if it had been his final mission for the night.
And you? Oh, fuck, you were breathless. Heated. Flushed. There wasn't anywhere to look either when Sebastian just stood there hovering you on the doorframe like a breathless lost puppy. As if he known about your little game and wanted to fight back.
You cleared your throat, shifting your shock, and killed it with a confident smirk. "Hey, stranger."
That gave it away. A signal of 'I knew it was you this whole time'.
Sebastian didn't fret. He flushed, but hid it when he looked down at the slippers you wore and gave a cocky chuckle. "Cute slippers."
But it didn't hide the way he checked you out.
One would call it observation, but he didn't hide his prying eyes from scanning your legs. Those same damn legs from the photos, and then whatever silly flower shirt you wore. Tight enough to make your breasts sit nicely.
You prayed you didn't get a cold wind right now.
Sighing, you still hung near the door. "W-What are you doing here, Sallow?"
Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek. "Sallow?"
You rolled your eyes. "Please. You really thought Poppy would not say a zipping word?"
Now, Sebastian was embarrassed. Too fucking embarrassed. He thought that maybe you had a humiliation kink for men — you made him want to strangle himself a dozen times in the course of two hours.
Sebastian sniffed a laugh through his nostrils. "Funny."
"Yet, you are here standing in my doorsteps like a dog waiting for its bone," You cooed in a very cocky and joking manner.
This riled up Sebastian.
You watched his brows furrow. A dark, dominant demeanor in the way you used your words. God, had you hit a nerve? Oh, well.
He wasn't mad. Or offended. He accepted it. He was a dog. He walked a mile to get to you. Something he wouldn't normally do.
"Ha! Joe! Stop—"
Drunk chirps echoed through the halls, and panicking, you grabbed Sebastian and threw him into your dormitory without a second thought. The door shut closed and you kept your back leaning on it with deep breaths.
It took a few seconds for you to comprehend what you'd done.
Thrown and locked Sebastian Sallow inside your dormitory.
Sebastian didn't mind. He was in his own world.
He took admiration of your comfort zone. His face not afraid to turn on your cute bedding with a bunch of stuffed animals, a few posters of your favorite artists and movies on the walls, and the mountain of books in every genre in the far corner of the room.
A few he recognized, but wasn't going to say anything, yet.
You tried to breathe calmly. Maintain a nonchalant composure, but it was so difficult when all you could think about was the nudity session he sent you an hour prior.
Right. Nudes. Man on doorstep. Desperation.
Unintentionally, a mixture of a snort and a laugh escaped you from your thought.
Sebastian kept a hand in his pants pocket as he looked over the moment you made a noise. "Hm?"
You licked your lips and sighed, looking to the side. "Gosh, you men are all the same."
Sebastian furrowed his thick brows at your honest approach. If anything, he was offended.
"What?"
"One small hint of womanly skin and it gravels you when you guys don't get what you want." You responded.
"Get what we want?" He raised a brow. You weren't watching him, but you could sense his tongue roll over his cheek. "—you were asking for more, despite knowing now, you knew it was me."
You blushed, but didn't let it get to you. Even with the image of him most likely staring at you for a conversation.
"It's called bluffing." You said foolishly. "I never begged. Just used my words correctly in those messages, which by the way, Sallow," you brought your weight up from the door and laughed. "...you're so easy to let yourself loose on a stranger."
But you weren't a stranger.
"Clearly, I had your number given to me."
"Which you asked for and thought the messenger wasn't going to tell me." You said, organizing your books from behind.
Sebastian let out a sigh.
You turned to him now. Your hands behind your back as they played with each other.
Wow, he was way taller up close. Would he even fit in your twin bed — if possible?
"And if you knew it was me, why start off with a cliche accidental body photo?" You nearly snorted. "What happened to 'hey! hello'?"
"Perhaps I wanted a first impression."
"By selling your body to anyone?" You stopped playing with your fingers and brought your arms to your chest.
Sebastian looked to the side, also bringing his arms up and mirroring you. He smiled enough to spot a small dimple over his lip as he fought back.
"No. It was harmless." He defended. "Besides, you sent your photos too. Your tattoo. Unless...you send that to your other playful—"
"I'm not a whore." You scoffed.
"And I'm not either!" Sebastian matched your energy. "Let alone, have me send my entire cock to you at 2am and then show up here? In a span of a few hours?"
Maybe he has a point. Maybe.
As you recalled, you've heard bits and pieces of Sebastian Sallow with women. His name wasn't so known in the lustful field as the other males on campus. No record of bad history. Perhaps a few 'good in bed' comments, but not enough to prove he was a whore.
An egoistic, attention-seeking, handsome lad. That, he was.
"Why did you come here, Sallow?" You asked innocently. "Afraid I'll expose your photos?"
Sebastian shook his head, but stayed quiet. Then a wry smile originated. "I just found it hard to believe it was you texting me back, alright?"
Your brows lifted at the honesty he let out.
You were flattered, but also confused. "How? I sent you photos back?"
"Yeah, I know," Sebastian rubbed his nose a little from the reminder. The entire reason he was here in the first place. "...it's just..."
"Hard to believe that an introverted, silly nerd like me would want fun too?"
"I never said that." Sebastian laughed, noticing your twist of words.
"You're thinking it." You corrected.
Sebastian shrugged.
You could've kicked him out. Blame him like the others or something — the infamous, 'he's just like the others,'.
But nobody has shown up like him at 3am in your doorstep. Desperately. Needingly.
A small smile crossed your face as you walked across the dorm, swiftly passing him and going to your small bed. Your fingers grabbed the recent book you were reading, and you let your weight sit on the edge of the bed.
Sebastian watched you carefully.
You eyed him back, but not too much to avoid feeling feverish, and motioned him to sit beside you.
He didn't hesitate.
All he did was sit beside you.
He'd been so tall, his knees touched yours. There was also this manly musky scent crawling through your nose, especially after you knew he had just taken a shower prior, and it distracted you a ton.
A shower that you witnessed in photos.
You cleared your throat and handed Sebastian the book. "Go to chapter 27."
Sebastian didn't complain. He just obeyed.
You watched his long fingers flip through the book.
The way they were so gentle between the pages. The way he'd been tracing the text so carefully and slowly and....
Sebastian scoffed, beginning to read in his head, and you reddened.
It wasn't often you let your vulnerable side show like this.
He didn't finish the entire thing — he skimmed most of it, but he chuckled within himself and shut the book before looking over to you.
And he couldn't believe how you were sitting there all innocently after the vanilla filth he just read.
"This is," he raised the book at you. "This is porn in writing."
A sarcastic gasp came out of you. "What? No, it has a plot too. It took 27 chapters for the smut to start."
"Please," Sebastian laughed. "I'm sure I've seen this scenario on a website just cut—"
"Hey!" You laughed.
Sebastian kept a smile but didn't seem so phased by what he read. He was amused. He felt like he got to know all of you in a span of a reading prompt.
"Too much?" You asked, nervously.
"This is what you read when you're walking around campus? In the library? In the cafeteria?"
"Creep much?" You teased him. (But you were wet at the thought of him watching you more than anticipated).
Sebastian curved the accusation and then threw it at you. "Freaky much?"
You wanted to laugh, but instead you sighed and sat back in a straight posture at the truth. You bit your lip. "Well, not many know that about me, Sallow...feel special."
Sebastian had already felt like he had won a trophy in disguise. A lottery ticket. Fuck, everything.
"Usually, men never care about what a girl reads," You mumbled, resting your elbows on your bed and lying back. "Most of you just want the quick fuck and call it a day."
— quick fuck. Sebastian scrunched his nose at how the word was used out of your mouth.
"And I'm sure you've heard rumors about me saying how I'm off limits. Not worth it because all I do is lead them on."
Sebastian heard. He listened. He's always known something was missing in those rumors.
It was you. The real you.
"Plus...these athletes are always bedding all the girls," You kept complaining. You were ranting to the guy without notice. "—then expect me to be in line? Yuck. I heard Larson doesn't even last..."
"Less than 3 minutes?" Sebastian laughed. "Yeh, we make fun of him."
You laughed. "And I heard Everett is like..."
"Tiny like a turtle?" Sebastian finished.
You laughed. "Yet, I'm off limits."
Sebastian nodded beside you. Overthinking. "You probably think I'm so easy sending you my body and cock now, huh?"
You flushed now.
God, those photos live in your head now.
"No." You blinked in truth. "But I do think it's a little silly that you instantly tried to impress me with your body..."
"I don't know...based on what I read in your book...." Sebastian clicked his tongue in a tease.
You were redder than ever, but didn't deny him. It was a one-on-one heated texting mode — you couldn't deny it, even if you tried.
"I see why you're so self-reserved in campus now," Sebastian gathered with a breath. "You crave what you read. That's why you're so lost in books everywhere, huh."
You smiled but closed your eyes. "A girl can dream about cock in secret, Sallow."
"About mine?" Sebastian elbowed you.
Your eyes reopened and your head lifted. "Do you go around sending your cock like that?"
"No, not really," Sebastian pursed. "Perhaps, you're also special. You were good with words. I don't usually sell myself easily like that."
"Lucky me," You said sarcastically.
You locked eyes with Sebastian Sallow. At first, it was accidental. A usual stolen glance you both had been doing since he arrived. Now, it was different.
They were super brown. Too brown that there weren't enough words in the English dictionary to describe how the soft hues of them were enough to manipulate your weakness of raw arousal — of incoming pleasure.
You passed your saliva, because you were fitting the cliche scene of being inside a dormitory with the most popular guy on campus.
You watched Sebastian lick his lips as those same eyes reflected on your lips, then on your eyes, again.
"Did I..." he was stuttering a little, but in a good way. "...at least, satisfied any desire or fantasy you had inside your head by texting me?" he whispered.
He'd been so close, you could smell the mint of his toothpaste.
You hated how you felt the odd pulsing sensation in between your legs at just his words. It has been your fault. Your nose was engraved in books — words were powerful to you.
"I—" You couldn't even speak. You were distracted by the amount of freckles on his face, but it was more than that now. He had faint scars that only one could see up close.
"...or,"
You hitched a loud, unplanned gasp as Sebastian's fingers, those long fingers you were fantasizing about minutes ago, came into contact with your legs. A little below your shorts.
"...do you need a hand in fulfilling more than what you read?"
Again, the pulsing sensation hadn't stopped, and the room felt extremely hot.
"What would-" You could barely manage a word. "-you do if I—" you let out a gasp a Sebastian's hand scrunched up on your shorts as you finished. "-do?"
"Then," He squeezed your thigh.
Oh, those thighs he was so eager about. Those legs. That skin. That voice — He was going insane.
"...I'll help."
You jumped on Sebastian first in your twin-sized bed. It might've gotten him off guard, but after getting to know you over the hour, he allowed whatever you gave.
He matched your desire.
Because, shit, he was just as insane as you.
His lips were soft. Minty taste as predicted. Somehow, they knew where to go. They connected with yours like a puzzle piece as you felt his warm hands roam up your shorts and into your waist.
One thing about both of you: You were great kissers.
Sebastian couldn't time himself how long it'll be until he had the opportunity to plunge himself inside of you. After such a long Friday night, all he wanted was you — oh, forget a Friday night. All semester, pretending not to chase you.
His tongue didn't reach yours until he pushed his weight onto you, making your body fall back into the bed and lie on the pillow as he kissed you passionately.
But you were also eager. You weren't a virgin, but it'd been a first in a while to extend your neediness and match it back, comfortably.
Sebastian gave a quick groan, feeling your fingers tickle below his hoodie, a signal that you wanted it off and he answered. The navy piece sliding off his body like nothing.
Speaking of nothing, he wore nothing under.
He was in a rush to see you.
Sebastian leaned forward again, but then paused, his salivated lips parting as he looked down at your pijama shorts.
"Yes," You consented before he could ask anything. "Yes."
Your consent was enough to make his fingers tug away your shorts and slowly slide them off your legs. Yeah, they were cute shorts, but he could admire them later.
Sebastian held no patience on dipping his index finger in your clit and gently circulating it in patterns to only find out you were a mess on your own arousal.
"Fuck, are you kidding me?" He cursed in pleasure at the sticky sensation as he leaned back down to kiss you.
You reached a hand down to palm him. To get a first touch of his cock you were previously planning to daydream about for days, but you had it right there, in hand.
The outline of it fitted perfectly over your hand on his sweatpants. You wondered if he had even been wearing anything under? It felt so...
"Hmh," Sebastian whimpered. He whimpers. "Take them—" he kissed your cheek, "—off."
His whimpering was throwing you on edge, and it didn't help when you tried to slide down his sweatpants, only to prove your theory right that he wore nothing under — and at the same time feel a finger slide inside of you.
You bit your lip hard, wanting to ignore the motion, and your hand grabbed Sebastian's cock, running it up and down.
He felt bigger than the photo.
Everything in his body felt twice as what a screen showed, and it made your fantasies come into play.
Sebastian couldn't even hide the pre-cum from the tip of his cock as he felt your hands perfectly caressing. They fitted so well.
It didn't help when he would feel you tightening around his two fingers inside of you, as he went in and out...in and out....in and—
"Let me pleasure you," Sebastian said in a needy tone. He didn't mean to admit it, but damn, he wanted to be inside of you more than he could breathe. "...please—"
"Please, do," You whispered. "I'm on the pill," he seemed amused, but not judgmental. "...medical reasons."
Sebastian nodded, but felt jittery to be inside of you so raw.
"I hope you're clean—"
He shut you up with a kiss and smirked as he positioned himself between your legs. "Cleaner than ever, sweetheart."
And — holy. There hadn't been enough words to describe the sensation, the feeling, the stretch felt between both bodies at once.
Sebastian had to break the kiss once to take a proper breath as he filled inside of you; his lips brushing over yours more and more up as he kept entering.
Your fingers tugged on his soft brown hairs tighter as your eyes squeezed in adjustment and pleasure. A few, 'oh's' fogging out of you with every movement.
"You feel so amazing," Sebastian complimented, raising his hand to remove a few hairs from your face as he slid 80% of himself out of you and back in.
He was great with praising words.
When your mouth reconnected, you often found your hands shift from his dampened hair onto his neck, then into his back as Sebastian would quicken his pace above you.
His arm came up, folding to brush over an inch of your leg and give a perfect glance of his biceps. Those veiny, attractive things you read about.
Your hand intrusively came up, attempting to wrap it around his bicep, but as you did, Sebastian lifted your leg to drill into you more.
"S-Sebastian—" You moaned.
"You look prettier from this view," He praised, reaching down to trace your lips into your breasts. "So fucking...pretty."
Prettier, because you were already pretty.
But Sebastian wasn't going to lose himself all night in missionary. No, it wasn't all vanilla either. He knew something you didn't.
He lowered your leg, wrapping it around his back again, and slowed his pace like lovemaking as he went down to whisper, "You know...I have a twin. A sister," he said in your ear. "...in another uni, but you both read similar books."
You breathed heavily at his analysis.
"I stumbled on some," Sebastian hoarse at you. "—it's not just this you crave,"
Out of the blue, Sebastian slid out of you without warning, making a plop sound from the air, and smirked. "You," he grabbed your hips like a light doll and suddenly twisted you around into your back. "—like it rough."
He's read the books. Accidental or not. Sallow had done research, whether it was stealing his sister's books or keeping a streak of yours throughout the semester when you weren't watching.
You couldn't even deny it.
You clenched at yourself from Sebastian's truth before you felt his hand wrap around your throat behind you and lift you, while using the other one to buck your hips.
"Good. Girl." He said before lining himself up from the back and slamming into you.
And fuck. Even if you attempted to hide your shy, I never break a plate persona — it was gone.
You whined in a sloppy arousal as Sebastian groaned loudly, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow. His hand around your throat being so gentle, yet so tight. Just the perfect force.
The perfect force to turn your head aggressively toward him and lock eyes.
Those stupid, yearning brown eyes.
Despite being so dominant for your pleasure, Sebastian gave a half-smiled breath down at you. "You like this?"
"I love—love it." You moaned at him.
He wasn't going to let you go. Never.
Sebastian dipped down, kissing you hard and sloppily. It felt so good, he didn't want it to end, but he was tired, and you felt too good to resist.
The hand that wrapped around your throat released and tickled down your collarbone, where your tattoo was, down the middle of your breast before reaching the middle of your clit, rubbing it at a perfect pace.
"I won't stop until," He panted. "You come."
"S-Sebastian...you don't—"
His finger rubbed faster, and his cock pounded into you harder. Somehow, both of these two rapid speeds made you loss for words.
"Atta' girl." Sebastian praised, watching you close your eyes and weaken from the rapid heartbeat sensation over your orgasm.
He made you orgasm.
Sebastian Sallow made you cum.
You definitely weren't going to let him go either.
Sebastian let out every curse in the book a minute later. A mess inside of you, too.
You knew you'd regret the residue throughout the week, but you didn't care. It was worth it, and so was the pulsating sensation of him inside of you.
Sebastian and you barely fitted in your small bed later that morning. The sun must've been rising by now, but neither of you cared.
You lay on his chest, sweaty and sticky as he played with your hair and laughed.
Your brows wrinkled at his humor, and your eyes looked up tiredly at him. "What?"
Sebastian chuckled. "You're such a menace."
You couldn't help but laugh along. "You tried to sext me as a first text, Sallow."
Can I just say that I wholeheartedly do not support any pedo or incest related kinks on kinktober. I am an avid reader and more recently a writer of fan fiction and I understand AO3 leaving us be. But to have those being advertised by many as one of the days of kinktober is appalling. If you have any pedophilic, raping, or incest kinks please block me and reevaluate ur life choices.
Preface: MC and Sebastian have a falling out after the events of MC’s first year transpire. MC uses her diary has a way to cope with her trama and sort out her emotions over the way things ended between her and her “good friend” Sebastian.
Disclaimer: howdy yall, this is my first Fic so I wanted to make some disclaimers. This fic is between a Female MC and Sebastian Sallow. No physical description will be done of the character but some background information will be given such as them being muggle born and in Slytherin. This fic ages all characters up and takes place in a sort of Hogwarts college. (I have a whole elaborate explanation of how that would work in with whats canon but I won’t bore y’all with it unless requested. ) Basically MC didn’t start at Hogwarts until her first year of college while others started in “High school” so she is a bit late like in canon. This fic also takes place in the modern day. I wont have them texting or anything but it will be similar to the the harry potter series where its more modern day but the Wizard world is still very old fashioned when it comes to attire and postage and such.
Without further ado here is 2000 words of
Chapter One
Dear Diary,
8:15 am Sept 1st
It is Freezing, I can’t remember the last time I felt this cold. I also seem to have no recollection of how to perform the warming charm I used all of last year, but I certainly wont ask him to teach it to me again.
That sounds like hell. Breaking no contact to ask about a stupid charm. I’d be just as bad as my ex texting me randomly for help with English homework. I guess this would be different though. Sebastian was the one who ghosted me, not the other way around. Is it even called ghosting when it’s owls, or is that just a term for texting. I guess I’m still new to all of this.
He stopped reaching out to me as soon as his name was in the clear, that ass, and now the only proof I have that it even happened is these journal entries. I don’t even have my memories as well as I thought. I mean I can’t even remember the stupid warming charm he taught me. But even if I did, would that really be proof. Proof that I’m not crazy. Proof that…I don’t know… that we were friends at least.
I could always find someone else to teach me, Poppy maybe? But then again most people I know don’t use warming charms (including Poppy). No one seems to be as bothered by the cold. Maybe it's the fact that my dorm is in the dungeon, maybe it’s the fact that I’m not from Scotland. Whatever the reason is, it’s making my teeth chatter in September! It's pissing me off. College in the US wasn't like this. It was warm, at least for the few weeks I attended before I got the letter from Hogwarts.
I got the letter in my dorm while I was studying for my first midterm. It never occurred to me to say no, but these days make me wonder If I should have. Who would have thought that my first year at a School of Magic would be spent taking down a goblin rebellion and figuring out some freaky special magic I have that apparently no one else does.
That and going on adventures with a certain someone. A certain someone who basically ignores me in the hallway. A certain someone who murdered his uncle and expected me to tell him everything was okay. I didn’t turn him in but I sure as hell didn’t justify his actions to Anne, and now he blames me. For what? his sister not speaking to him. That was hardly my doing. When we met this summer, and I used my ancient magic to cure her she told me that her mind was made up way before speaking to me. She didn’t turn him in, but she wouldn’t watch him go down the path he was on. He would know that if he even read my letters, but returned to sender one after the other.
8:30 am
After mopping for a bit more, I finally got out of bed. I put on a million layers and cursed the cold one last time before heading to breakfast. My first class is advanced potions. Which is fine I guess. I don’t exactly love potions but I’m pretty good at it so it could be worse. I hope to have natty in my class. I know her mom wanted her in the advanced potions class, even if she had objections. I have a lingering pit in my stomach because I am almost certain that I will have Sebastian in most of my classes.
I hope he isn't, obviously, but it’s a fool's dream. Many of the subjects I was able to excel at seem to be because of his help last year. I seriously wish it was lunch already. After lunch I have only one class, muggle studies. For two reasons. I know for a fact Sebastian will be nowhere near that class, and it will be easy… because I was one, for 18 years.
I don’t think it will be that boring either, I’ve never been taught many of the things they will discuss in the class. I never had a good relationship with my parents, so having someone explain things like the stock market and how wifi works seemed like a no brainer.
8:45am
I quickly grabbed something small to eat and walked to class. At the great hall I wasn't burdened with the presence of anyone I wasn't fond of seeing so I took that as a good omen. When I arrived at class it seemed my luck hadn’t run out yet, because there wasn’t a brown haired Slytherin boy in sight. Well not one of interest anyways. I think I got put in class time with a bunch of gryffindor and hufflepuffs. I wonder if it's because not many slytherin’s take muggle studies, which happens to be at the same time as the other advanced potions block.
I quickly find a table with my favorite gryffindor and hufflepuff and think that maybe this year won't be so bad after all. Maybe leaving my entire life behind to become a wizard wasn't a mistake. Maybe this is where I belong…. until I realize the empty seat next to me isn’t so empty. There is a book bag that seems quite familiar sprawled across the empty area next to the caldron. That couldn’t be.. no he wouldn’t possibly.
I quickly try to gather my bag. Sitting with my friends be damned I can’t sit right next to…a low chuckle… The hair on my neck stands up and I turn to something not quite expected. “Hey uh Ominis”
“Hello MC…were you about to leave?” He said with an inquisitive look. Like he knew something I wasn't keen on sharing yet.
“Oh no I was just… putting away some stuff. Getting ready for class”. I said trying my best to sound casual but ultimately failing. He may not have seen my frantic exit attempt but he sure heard it. Maybe even knew why I-
“You didn’t think I was Sebastian did you?” He says with a smug look. A look that shows he indeed already knows the answer to his own question.
“Why would I… no of course not” I said with a bit more confidence than my last lie.
“Oh good because I would hate for you to have wanted to move seats because you saw the book bag I was borrowing” he stated with a slight smile.
Before I could embarrass myself with more lies and uncomfortable laughter he started to speak again.
“I am glad to know we will be partners. It’s been a while since we last spoke”
I hadn’t even thought about that. “Me too Ominis, it's good to see you” I said truthfully. Both of us then moved our focus to the lecture. I couldn’t focus on the lecture though. All I could think about was what he said.
It has been a while and I am glad to see him. We were in the same boat last semester. Both fighting to stop Sebastian from going to a point of no return. We both failed. Me because I had a habit of letting Sebastian manipulate me. Then in turn I would convince Ominis to go along with it despite his objections. I regret a lot from last year, but losing Ominis when I lost Sebastian was an unexpected consequence. Last time we spoke we were deciding what to do about the Solomon Situation. After that it was like an unspoken agreement to well…not speak again. I assumed Ominis needed to distance himself from both of us in order to heal, so I didn't push.
With Sebastian I did reach out and was ignored. With Ominis we both didn't reach out. I hope me and Ominis can become friends again. Sebastian left both of us to pick up the mess he made and then ghosted us. What he said about being glad I was his partner gave me hope.
Once Professor Sharp was done Lecturing we were left on our own to finish the potion. Before I could start Ominis began to speak again.
“Could you possibly grab the ingredients for me. I can’t exactly see them. At least not quickly as I would like”
“Of course, I will be right back.” I said with a smile. Then I went to the supply closet and grabbed two of everything.
10:25am
The rest of the class went by fairly quickly. I helped Ominis here and there when it came to portions that required the ability to see a change in color and such. But after some time we both were done. I tried to catch him after class to discuss…. Well everything, but by the time I turned in our potions to Professor Sharp he was long gone. I guess making amends would have to wait.
I walked to my next class with Poppy. Next class we both had and it was Charms. I felt a bit better now because if I hadn’t had Sebastian in my last class then maybe our schedules would be completely different. Maybe I could come out of this school year unscathed. No awkward interactions with the man who ruined my summer before it even started, and certainly nothing reminding me of last year every time I looked up.
I was feeling pretty good. I mean Sebastian knew charms. He obviously taught me quite a few. He probably took advanced charms and I wouldn’t have any shot of seeing him and his cocky smirk all year. I wouldn’t have to see him dominate the marks in class without even studying. I wouldn't have to see his smug self satisfied grin when he got to teach me something I don’t know….Not that it would ever come out again. Because we don’t talk now, so he wouldnt… he wouldn’t teach me anything anyways.
As I start to mellow in self pity I walk into class and am greeted with the very thing I was…. Hoping for. He’s not here. Why… Why does that surprise me? I just listed all the reasons he wouldn't be in this class and why that was a good thing. Why do I feel like this now? It’s probably just the anticipation. I want to rip the bandaid off but the universe wont let me. That has got to be it. I mean I hate his guts, obviously.
He didn’t owl me back all summer. He didn’t meet me in the undercroft after we finished our last day of school like I asked. He never came to visit me like he promised so many times last year. He never, he just never did anything. Complete radio silence. I hate him, and he….he hates me.
3:45pm
The rest of the day went by without much issue. I ate lunch with Imelda and some other girls from my dorm. I had Ominis in my muggle studies class, which makes sense seeing as he was the only other slytherin with the earlier potions class with me. This time we didn’t sit together though. I sat with Garreth because I thought it would be funny to see his reaction to Bitcoin. After the incident with Garreth burning Ominis’ eyebrows off. Ominis hasn't been able to stand sitting next to Garreth in any class. I don’t necessarily think his eyebrows are in danger here but I digress.
Ominis also could have just not wanted to sit with me I guess. Which is fine. We are partners in potions after all, he doesn't need to sit with me in every class in order for us to make up. Which is what I’ve been telling myself.
The class was actually quite fun. We looked at some kid toys and the professor talked about a TV. He said next week we will dive into what shows Muggles like to watch and other pop culture references that we might need to know if we ever visit the muggle world. I find it hard to believe you can go over all of that in one class but I am fairly excited to find out.
After class I finally saw an opportunity to catch up with Ominis as we both seemed to be heading towards our common room. But when I walked closer I saw Sebastian come from around the corner and they both walked into the common room together. My body freezes at the sight of him. Ripping the band aid off my ass. My hair stands up again and I can only imagine how I look right now. Probably as though I saw a ghost. I mean I did practically see a ghost. Sebastian may as well be dead to me…. Right?
Very NSFW request if you don’t mind 😂 Idk if this is sexy (I think it is lol) but can you imagine writing a fic/ one shot where they’re in 7th year, and Sebastian and MC are alone somewhere chatting, and they start talking about sex - both having some experience in this. They’re just friends (but like each other) Seb reveals quite sheepishly in convo that he cums too quickly through bjs/sex. And she… offers to help ‘coach’ him lol? Which seems insane at first but then she says that she can help him through it, how he can trust her blah blah, and it convinces him (plus I think deep down he’s dying to be with her like this, and so is she). So they do it. And I can imagine it being quite intimate, hot, and maybe kinda funny at times.
(I asked you and applin by the way. I’m not sure if you’d both want to write different takes on it, collab, or decide who should write it - but I thought I’d mention it)
Hellooo lovely! Thank you for this fun request. Here's Part I -- this'll be at least a two-, maybe three-part series, so buckle up. (:
What Are Friends For? | Part I
Sebastian Sallow x F!OC
Rating: Explicit/MDNI (smut, language); all characters are 18+
Words: ~8,300
Tags: friends with benefits, friends to lovers, sexual exploration, oral sex, semi-public sex, mutual pining, 3rd person POV
Notes: Characters are 18-year-old seventh-year Slytherins.
Read on AO3 or below the cut.
Spring had settled nicely over the Scottish Highlands, meaning Sebastian Sallow could be found outdoors. He took advantage of the favorable weather whenever he could, as the winter months tended to make him rather stir crazy.
On this particularly warm afternoon – or at least warm by April’s standards – Sebastian lounged lazily on his back in the grass near the edge of the Great Lake. He had charmed pebbles from the lakeshore to hover above him, perfect for some Confringo target practice.
Sebastian squinted an eye as he aimed and blasted the small rocks apart, leaving little trace of their existence, until one final rock remained. Sebastian followed it with the tip of his wand, waiting for the right moment, when–
“Accio!”
The rock zipped from the air above Sebastian straight to the open hand of Stella Alves. She smirked at Sebastian, her wand hand still outstretched as she tossed the rock lazily toward him. It bounced off his stomach and into the grass.
“There you are,” Stella said as she approached. She sank to the ground next to Sebastian, her legs outstretched as she sat back on her hands. “I thought maybe Sharp had given you detention for Friday’s incident.”
“That incident wasn’t my fault,” Sebastian drawled. “It was Weasley’s.”
“Oh? Garreth forced you to add lionfish spine to your cauldron?” Stella mused.
“No, but he left it on the table near my ingredients, and I accidentally picked some up while I was adding griffin claw,” Sebastian noted. “Not my fault.”
“Fair enough,” Stella snorted. “Guess I should’ve known you’d be out here. Though we do have that arithmancy exam to be studying for.”
“Callum’s got Violet McDowell in our dorm room,” Sebastian explained. “Can’t study in there.”
“And you can’t study in the library? Or the Undercroft?”
“I suppose,” Sebastian said with a dramatic sigh. “But it’s far too nice out to be cooped up inside.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The pair fell quiet for a moment, interrupted only by the occasional chirps from the birds perched in the surrounding trees. They both stared outward at the lake, its shimmering surface guarding the inhabitants of its indigo depths.
“Wait,” Stella finally said with a furrowed brow. “I thought Violet was going out with Andrew.”
“That was last month, apparently.”
“Oh.”
“That doesn’t mean you should get back with your ex, by the way.”
Stella turned her head to glare at Sebastian. “And who said anything about that? Andrew and I broke up ages ago.”
“Just checking,” Sebastian said in a sing-song tone. Stella scoffed at him.
“Do you really think that poorly of me?”
“Of course not. But I do remember how in love with Larson you were.”
“I was not!” Stella insisted, her cheeks tinged with a treasonous shade of strawberry. “It was nothing more than a harmless fling.”
Sebastian tilted his head for dramatic effect. “A harmless fling,” he deadpanned. “Stella, darling, the two of you had to be damn near pried apart with a wedge every day.”
“So?” Stella countered with narrowed eyes. “A healthy sex life is nothing to be ashamed of. You of all people should know that.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’ve no right to judge me for any of my past romantic encounters.”
“Oh, that’s what we’re calling them now,” Sebastian snickered. Stella smacked him gently on the back of the head.
“Sounds like you’re just bitter that you’re not the one in your dorm room with Violet McDowell,” she teased. Sebastian barked a sharp laugh.
“Darling, I’ve had Violet McDowell,” he noted. “Twice. Maybe three times. Can’t remember.”
“Charming,” Stella muttered blankly. Sebastian flashed her a cheeky grin. “Is there anyone you haven’t defiled?” Stella demanded.
“Other than you? Maybe a handful,” Sebastian chirped. He laughed at Stella’s disgusted expression. “Only joking, doll. Despite your harsh and judgmental assumptions, I haven’t made it a point to bed half of Hogwarts.”
“Oh? Then how many of our classmates have you had?”
They were inching toward tricky territory. Sure, Stella and Sebastian talked about sex, but they rarely revealed explicit details. Doing so always felt too suggestive, too flirtatious; it crossed an unspoken line that the pair avoided at all costs. But Stella had grown tired of the boys Hogwarts had to offer. It made her impatient and impulsive. Sebastian was the last man standing, because he was truly the only one standing – the one man she wanted and couldn’t have.
Meanwhile, Sebastian swallowed. He and Stella kept very few secrets from one another. After all, Stella had kept quiet about Sebastian’s sinister slip-up their fifth year, meaning Sebastian’s secrets couldn’t get much worse.
But there was one, tiny thing he didn’t want Stella to know. It was a secret that caused him constant stress, fearful that one of their female classmates would spill it. That was why Sebastian sometimes embellished his sexual escapades – to conceal the embarrassing occurrences that made him insecure.
“A-are you really asking me how many girls I’ve been with?” Sebastian asked, hopeful his tone sounded more amused than anxious.
“Why not?” Stella challenged. She, too, silently prayed her confidence was masking her pounding heart. “I’ll tell you the same.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. Now this was an intriguing offer. Though he knew Stella had sexual experience, she had never disclosed just how many of their classmates she’d granted such a privilege.
But that would also mean revealing his own number of past partners. And while he would never judge Stella for her number, whatever it was, he feared she’d judge him for his. It wasn’t nearly as high as he often implied, though he’d never explicitly revealed it.
“All right,” Sebastian finally agreed. “Out with it then.”
Stella blanched. “What? No, you have to go first.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“Fine. On the count of three?”
“Fine. One, two… three– four,” Sebastian revealed. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Stella said the same.
“Well?” Stella demanded with narrowed eyes. “What is it?”
Sebastian frowned in confusion. “I told you – four.”
“Oh. I thought you were still counting.”
“No, four is… is the number.”
“Oh.”
Sebastian suddenly felt like he was going to be sick. He wasn’t sure how Stella would react, but certainly not like that. Not with a simple, anticlimactic oh.
“Oh?” he demanded. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stella’s cheeks were deep crimson now. “Nothing,” she said quickly, her voice squeaking several octaves higher than usual. “It’s just… I just…” Her eyes suddenly became fascinated by her own shoes. “I just thought yours would be higher, is all.”
“Why do you sound disappointed?”
“I’m not!” Stella insisted. “I mean, it’s not like it matters. It’s not like I care. I’m just surprised, is all.”
“Did you really think I’ve been with half the school?”
“Maybe not that many,” Stella said as she fidgeted uncomfortably. “Just more than me.”
“It’s not a competition,” Sebastian laughed.
“I know that! I just- I really thought yours would be higher.”
“You really think I’m like that?”
“You know I don’t,” Stella huffed. “I just thought you were way more experienced than me.”
“Why, you want me to teach you a few things?”
“Sebastian!”
“Only joking, darling.”
Sebastian could sense the shift in their connection. Stella was genuinely surprised by his revelation, and seemed to feel guilty for it. Sebastian, ever the protector of Stella and her feelings, decided some vulnerability might relieve her discomfort.
“You’d be surprised,” Sebastian said, his eyes decisively avoiding hers. “By my experience – or lack of. It’s… it’s not been easy for me.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Stella asked with a curious gaze that Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to meet.
“It means that sometimes… I struggle,” Sebastian said carefully. Stella clearly wasn’t catching on, because she was staring at him in utter confusion.
“Struggle with what?”
“With… sex,” Sebastian answered through a clenched jaw. He couldn’t believe he was revealing any of this to her of all people. He could have sworn he’d dig an early grave before ever admitting this, especially to the one and only girl whose opinion actually mattered to him.
“How do you mean?” Stella had now turned to face him fully, her attention clearly engrossed by this exchange.
Sebastian chickened out. “The details aren’t important,” he said, unable to quell the surge in fear that gripped his nerves.
“Seb, it’s me,” Stella said in her best encouraging tone. In truth, it only made Sebastian more uneasy. “You can tell me.”
There was no turning back from this. They hadn’t just toed the boundary, they’d leapt over it with a running start. Sebastian sighed.
“Sometimes I… finish quicker than I’d like,” he said through gritted teeth. Silence answered him. He considered flinging himself into the lake and sinking to its onyx depths, never to return and never to address such an embarrassing revelation.
“I see,” Stella finally said tactfully. Sebastian’s insecurities weren’t squashed.
“Yeah,” was all he could manage. The wheels in Stella’s head were turning at breakneck speed, desperate to find the right words. She was stunned. She’d never met someone as confident and self-assured as Sebastian. Though his bravado sometimes stoked her ire, she’d always assumed it carried over into the bedroom.
It was a vulnerable admission and Stella was touched to know Sebastian trusted her with it.
“Does… does it happen every time?” she asked gently.
Sebastian shrugged. “Not every time. But more often than I’d like to admit.”
“Oh.” Stella bit her lip, unsure how to proceed, but even more unsure of just how much information she was willing to seek. The thought – the dreadfully detailed visions – of Sebastian doing those acts with their classmates made Stella want to drive her own wand through her right temple. “Is it… do you think it’s because you’re just… excited to be with them?”
Sebastian began to sweat. Beads formed over his brow and hairline as he shifted in his spot on the grass. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, it’s always exciting for me. I am an 18-year-old bloke, after all. But it’s not like I’ve ever been too enamored with any of the girls I’ve been with. Especially since I’ve been with a few of them more than once.”
“I see.”
“I guess maybe I just overthink it.” Sebastian was rambling now. His brain screamed at him to stop talking, that shutting the fuck up would be his best bet, but untamed words kept pouring from his mouth. “And maybe overthinking it makes me tense up. And maybe all that tension makes it hard for me to… contain myself.”
“I see.” Stella was quite aware that she wasn’t contributing much to the discussion at this point, but she couldn’t speak freely. She couldn’t tell Sebastian she was secretly relieved he hadn’t had dozens of girls in his bed. She couldn’t reveal that she wanted to be one of those girls. And she certainly couldn’t tell him that his admission only made her want him more.
Could she?
What if there was a way she could get what she had always wanted without admitting it? Would that be wrong and deceitful? She wouldn’t act without Sebastian’s full consent, but would it be wrong to initiate sex with him when she was secretly in love with him? And what if doing so made her fall even harder for him?
Or worse, what if she offered and he said no?
But would it be so wrong for two friends to rely on each other to improve their natural desires to be good in bed? And shouldn’t two friends be the ideal participants in something as simple as self-improvement?
Stella’s silence was driving Sebastian mad. He began to wonder how immoral it would be to obliviate her and make her forget they’d ever had such a conversation. But just as he was reminding himself that doing so was absolutely demented, she smiled kindly at him.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll sort it all out in time,” she said, hoping he understood her sincerity. “Maybe you just need a little more practice.”
“Er, right,” Sebastian agreed. Shame creeped across his cheeks in the form of a deep blush. He felt like an absolute fool. Surely, she must think he was a pathetic, sorry excuse of a man – an amateur who had no idea how to please a woman. And surely, she’d never see him on a romantic level now.
But Sebastian noticed that Stella was chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. He waited for her to speak her mind, squirming as he fought to suppress his impatience.
Stella was working up the courage to propose something so bold, so forbidden, she’d surely die if Sebastian said no. And there was a very good chance he would. After all, they’d formed an impenetrable bond over the last near-three years. If Sebastian had any romantic interest in her, he would have certainly acted upon his feelings, right?
Such a proposition could absolutely disintegrate their friendship. But this might be Stella’s only shot at exploring Sebastian Sallow in the one way she’d never known. She willed herself to be bold enough to take a chance.
“What if…” she began slowly, her palms sweating as she spoke. “What if I helped you practice?”
Her offer hovered in the air between them, a heavy haze that damn near made Sebastian choke as he processed the words. He had to have heard wrong.
“Wh-what?” he said stupidly. “Practice what?”
“You know,” Stella said, fighting to maintain a casual air though her breathless words betrayed her. “Sex. I could help you practice.”
Sebastian shifted, certain that doing so would wake him from the very obvious dream he was having. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamt of Stella in such a shameful manner. There was no other explanation for this. In no other realm of possibility would his best friend and the object of his unrequited desires be offering to have sex with him. But he wasn’t waking up. There were no bed curtains mocking him to remind him he was alone. There was no cold sweat or arousal that would need relieving in the boys’ showers. This was real.
“A-and how exactly would we do that?” Sebastian stuttered.
“We could just practice,” Stella said simply. “I could, you know, coach you through things. Different acts and positions and whatnot. We could practice them together until you, you know, gain more confidence.” When Sebastian didn’t immediately reply, it was Stella’s turn to babble on anxiously. “I just figure it makes sense, you know? We help each other out with everything else. It wouldn’t have to be any different than how we practice dueling together, or study together, right?”
But it would be different. They both knew that. But they were both too driven by desire to think better of it.
“And you’d… you’d be okay doing all that?” Sebastian asked softly. “With me?”
“Why not?” Stella offered boldly, though her shaking hands suggested otherwise. “I mean, we trust each other, right?”
“Right.”
“So why not? It seems like this could benefit us both. We can learn from each other, like everything else we do.”
Sebastian wasn’t sure how to respond. Of course he was going to say yes. He knew this arrangement could send their entire friendship spiraling south, but he was too desperate to know how it would feel to be with Stella to say no. This was his one and only chance to feel her, and to potentially convince her to consider him romantically. He could sweep her off her feet and make it impossible for her to think of anyone else.
Except there was that tiny, little problem of his inability to last long enough to prove himself to her.
But if there was one thing Sebastian couldn’t resist (other than Stella), it was a challenge. He would learn. He’d figure it out or die trying. If this was his only shot at winning Stella over, he’d find a way, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to squander it.
But he also didn’t want to appear too eager. He didn’t want Stella to know he’d spent damn near every night dreaming about her in ways that would make her hair curl. She couldn’t know he’d spent day in and day out scheming ways to make her fall for him. He couldn’t let her know he was hopelessly, haphazardly in love with her.
“Well, I do suppose we tend to work together on everything else,” Sebastian mused carefully.
“Do you… find me attractive enough that you could… you know…” Stella paused, terrified to ask such a question. “Become aroused.”
“Huh? Oh! Erm, of course.” The moment Sebastian answered, he wanted to sink into the ground, never to be seen again. But how else was he supposed to answer such a loaded question?
Stella was fucking stunning. Surely, she knew that. Surely, Sebastian didn’t have to tell her so. But he wanted to more than anything. He wanted to yank her by the collar of her shirt, pull her in close and tell her she was so beautiful, it made the heart inside his chest hurt and scream for relief.
“You’re beautiful, Stell. Do… do you find me, er, handsome enough to… you know?” Sebastian stammered.
Stella rolled her eyes. It was her most common defensive mechanism, her strongest veil for her insecurities. “Seb, come on,” she said, gazing at him with a pointed stare. She blinked for emphasis. “All the girls in our year practically fling themselves at you in hopes you’ll make them your wife when we graduate. You have to know you’re handsome.”
“Was just making sure.”
And then came the silence. It squeezed itself around them until both of their airways felt constricted.
“So, are you saying you want to try it then?” Stella finally had the nerve to ask. She tucked her hands beneath her thighs in an attempt to keep herself from fiddling with her hair. It was her common tell for nervousness.
“I do if you do,” Sebastian replied, far too aware of the tightening sensation happening within his trousers. All this talk of sex was forcing the blood to rush from his brain to the one place he didn’t want Stella to see. But she’d see it all soon enough.
“Alright,” Stella said with an air of forced confidence that she prayed sounded sexy and alluring. “When would you like to start?”
“Um, whenever it’s convenient for you.” Sebastian wanted to smack his palm against his forehead. He was speaking like he was in a formal job interview or having tea with the Minister of Magic, not agreeing to sex with his own best friend.
“We could start now,” Stella offered shyly. She glanced downward at the tent forming in Sebastian’s lap. Sebastian reddened even more.
“Oh. Okay, sure.”
Stella swallowed. This was it. She and Sebastian were going to plunge into the very risky waters of intimacy. But more importantly, he trusted her enough to guide him through one of life’s most personal, vulnerable endeavors. She wanted to get this right.
“We could use the Beasts classroom,” Stella offered. There were no classes that day. There’d be no reason for anyone to go anywhere near the classroom. At least that’s what Sebastian told himself as he found himself nodding in agreement.
Stella climbed to her feet and brushed loose blades of grass from the backs of her legs. It was then that Sebastian noticed how her skirt clung to her thighs. The pressure in his pants mounted.
Stella offered him her hand to help him up, her eyes averted as she led him toward the empty Beasts classroom. When they reached Professor Howin’s desk, Stella finally gathered the nerve to look Sebastian in the eye. Her gaze softened as she realized he was just as nervous as she was. The ever-confident Sebastian Sallow was unsure.
They didn’t speak at first, staring at one another as they both waited for the other to initiate action. Finally, Stella cleared her throat.
“Maybe we should start small,” she offered gently. “You know, foreplay stuff. Does that… does that sound good to you?”
“Yeah, sure,” Sebastian croaked.
Stella’s eyes shifted to Sebastian’s very evident erection. Her breath hitched at the notion that it was all for her; because of her. She’d touched herself in the quiet solitude of her bed to the very thought on countless occasions.
As Stella subconsciously ran her tongue across her bottom lip in thought, Sebastian clenched his jaw. His cock was pressing far too hard against the stiff fabric of his trousers for his liking, and the sight of Stella looking so fucking seductive was already testing his control.
“Maybe you should lean back against the desk?” Stella suggested. Sebastian obeyed without a word. Stella stepped toward him, her nerves still evident as she slowly lifted a hand to reach toward Sebastian’s erection. “May I…”
Sebastian nodded silently, too terrified that words would ruin the moment. Stella eyed him for a moment longer until her fingertips traced gently along the length of Sebastian’s erection. He inhaled sharply through his nose.
“I’ll go slow,” Stella whispered. Her fingers moved with tact over his taut trousers, tracing tantalizing lines over him. She suppressed a moan as she realized just how hard – and big – he was. She could swear she felt Sebastian’s cock twitch beneath her touch. “Does that feel good?” she asked innocently.
Sebastian nodded slowly, his failing attempts at controlling his breathing evident.
“I’m going to pick up the pace,” Stella warned, her eyes searching Sebastian’s for any indication he wanted her to stop. Instead, he nodded earnestly. “Tell me if it’s too much. Just… just keep breathing.”
She stroked his length faster, the friction of the fabric rough beneath the pads of her fingers. A grunt rumbled from Sebastian’s throat.
He knew this would be difficult. It always was. But he hadn’t properly accounted for the fact that this was Stella touching him. The way she was determined to take care of him, the way her voice purred as she spoke… it all made his self-control even slimmer. He was terrified he was going to embarrass himself.
She clearly had no idea how much she affected Sebastian. So as she gazed at him with a soft, doe-eyed stare, Sebastian’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the desk behind him.
Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut as he fought for control over his body. He didn’t want to tense, certain that would result in an accident. But when he felt Stella’s fingers fumbling with the button of his trousers, his eyes shot open wide and his spine straightened.
“Alright?” Stella asked, her voice raspier than usual. Sebastian pretended not to notice and nodded his reply. His throat dried as he watched Stella reach inside his open trousers and fish his erection out. It popped eagerly from the fabric, but remained rigid in Stella’s hand. Sebastian held his breath as he watched her fingers curl around him before she began to stroke him with her soft hand. The surreal sight felt like a vision only meant for one of Sebastian’s most explicit dreams.
Sebastian cursed under his breath at the sensation. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been touched like this, but this was Stella. This actually meant something, because she meant everything.
“Relax,” Stella repeated. “Stop tensing so much. It’s just me.” She flashed him a reassuring smile, unaware that her curved lips and bright eyes were Sebastian’s very undoing. “Take a deep breath and exhale slowly, okay?”
Sebastian nodded and obeyed, exhaling until his shoulders slackened and the tightness in his abdomen eased.
“Now close your eyes,” Stella added. Sebastian’s eyes fluttered shut. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I feel… fuck, that feels so good,” Sebastian breathed.
“Tell me. Describe it.”
“Huh?”
“Just do what I say, you git.”
Sebastian wasn’t sure how describing their current sex act would help, but he certainly was in no position to argue. The only position he wanted to be in was on top of – or beneath – Stella, preferably with much less clothing between them.
“Your hands… they’re smooth,” Sebastian murmured with closed eyes. “Warm, too.”
“What do you usually think about when you come?”
Sebastian resisted the urge to pop open a panicked eye. He couldn’t exactly tell Stella that the answer was always her. He couldn’t possibly explain that picturing her plump lips, curious eyes and the curve of her full hips was always the tipping point that sent his body into a euphoric state. She couldn’t know she was the cause for his filthiest behavior.
“Erm, I don’t know,” Sebastian lied. “I think about lots of different things.” He grunted as he felt Stella’s thumb swipe over the tip of his cock.
“How’s this feel?” Stella asked, her hand pumping harder.
“S-so good,” Sebastian panted.
“Do you feel like you’re going to… you know?”
“I-I don’t know.”
Stella’s line of questioning stopped for a moment as she continued to stroke him. She was thankful Sebastian’s closed eyes couldn’t see the flush creeping over her, or the way her eyes lingered on his cock. He felt like velvet and looked like he was big enough to fill her completely – and then some. It made the ache between her thighs throb.
Stella watched as Sebastian’s chest began to rise and fall, his labored breaths audible inside the classroom. He didn’t notice as Stella fell to her knees, her hand still dragging around his shaft.
Sebastian’s eyes shot open again the moment he felt the moisture of her mouth surrounding him. This was a display beyond anything he could envision – such a sinful act performed by an angelic figure was a paradox his brain could never conjure. It was enough to make him moan.
“Remember to breathe, okay?” Stella said, her eyes peering up at him. She returned her lips to his cock and Sebastian bit back a groan as they tugged around his tip.
The classroom soon filled with the coarse sounds of lips pulling around wet skin. Sebastian’s hands tangled in Stella’s hair, tightening as the coil inside him did the same. He was careening toward the edge, unsure how to stop himself.
He tried to breathe through it, but he was far beyond the threshold of sensory overload. The feeling of Stella’s mouth hungrily engulfing his cock, the vision of her on her knees before him, the sounds of her gurgling around his length – Sebastian was sure there wasn’t a single soul who would be immune to such divine sensations.
“Stella,” Sebastian panted. “I can’t-”
Stella hummed, the vibrations coursing around Sebastian’s cock until he was surging toward his ending. He didn’t want this to stop, but couldn’t help but feel impressed with himself for lasting as long as he had, especially given the circumstances.
“Stella…” Sebastian repeated. The warning merely spurred Stella on. She was eager to prove to him just how worthy she was to coach him through this. She'd show him just how good she could be at this - better than Violet McDowell or any other dumb girl who dared to approach Sebastian. Her cheeks hollowed and she sucked harder, her eyes watering as Sebastian’s tip dabbed the back of her throat.
Sebastian let out a sharp shout, his hips jutting forward as his cock twitched. The small of his back pressed against the edge of the desk as he spilled into Stella’s mouth. Her throat closed around his tip, the warmth of her flesh guiding his release downward as she swallowed.
When it was over, Stella released him, his cock bobbing as it popped from her mouth. She remained on her knees while Sebastian caught his breath, his chest quietly rising and falling as he slumped against the desk.
They didn’t speak. Sebastian quelled the urge to thank Stella, to praise her and tell her how fucking good she was, while Stella withheld the desire to beg Sebastian for more.
“You alright?” Sebastian finally asked, his eyes searching Stella for any signs that she was upset. But she smiled upward at him and nodded assuredly.
Sebastian extended a hand to help her to her feet until the pair stood, the awkward silence exposing their uncertainty on how to proceed. But Stella reminded herself that she had promised to help Sebastian, and she was never one to back out on her word.
“So how was that?” she asked casually as Sebastian tucked himself back into his trousers.
Sebastian’s brain stuttered. The truth was it was the most incredible encounter he’d ever had, simply because he’d shared it with her. But that kind of honesty would surely sever whatever this was – and the entirety of their friendship.
“It was… you… you’re brilliant,” Sebastian finally managed, still shocked that such a lewd act had just occurred with the girl he'd deemed his best friend for more than two years. Stella seemed content with his analysis.
“I think the problem is you’re just so damn tense the entire time,” she noted. It was bizarre to be assessing a sexual encounter with her best friend like they were discussing quidditch tactics, but she had offered to coach him, hadn’t she?
But her evaluation had fallen on deaf ears, because now, Sebastian’s guilt was dissecting his brain.
“You didn’t… I didn’t…” he started, his voice trailing off. “...How can I repay the favor?”
“You don’t need to,” Stella said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Not this time.”
Sebastian frowned – mostly because he didn’t want to be greedy, but also because he was desperate to touch her and wouldn’t forgive himself if he missed the opportunity to do so. He had to know how she felt, so yielding beneath his touch, how she moaned, how she looked when she fell apart at his orchestration.
“Please,” Sebastian pressed. “I can’t let you walk away without your share.”
Stella snorted. “Seb, really, it’s fine,” she promised. “You can make it up to me later.” She smirked as she smoothed out her skirt. “I’m pretty sure we’re just getting started.”
—
Sebastian was certain the entire afternoon had been some kind of demented dream when he woke up the following morning. But the details were far too vivid in his memory to have been a figment of his imagination; Stella’s fingers tracing over every ridge of his cock, her lips raw and red after they had wrapped around him, the plush sensation of her throat hugging his tip. It was better than any dream.
But now, how was he meant to face her? Guilt had clawed away at him the entire evening for not returning the favor. Now, all he could think about was how eager he was to do so. And what about their friendship? Had they really been stupid enough to jeopardize their entire bond all because of some suppressed sexual tension?
The war within his head made Sebastian want to sink into his porridge at breakfast. Ominis, sensing his friend’s tension, raised an eyebrow from the seat across from him.
“Alright mate?” Ominis asked. But Sebastian was too busy straightening in his seat to hear him. Stella was approaching the Slytherin table.
“Good morning,” she said breezily as she took the seat next to Ominis. Sebastian watched as she reached for a pastry, his eyes glued to her hands – those same hands that grabbed at his cock just hours before. He swallowed.
“Morning,” he managed. His eyes searched Stella for any indication of awkward tension, but she seemed as calm and content as ever.
“Have you two studied for tomorrow’s arithmancy exam?” Ominis asked.
“No,” Stella said as she shook her head, her right cheek puffed out from a large bite of pastry. “Not yet. Haven’t had the time.”
“Me neither,” Sebastian chimed in.
“Haven’t had the time? What were the two of you doing all day yesterday? I didn’t see either of you after lunch,” Ominis said suspiciously. Stella shrugged while Sebastian began to spiral toward a panic attack.
“Oh, we went to Hogsmeade,” Stella explained with casual ease. “I rescued a handful of diricrawl the other day and took them to Brood and Peck.”
Sebastian blinked. It was rather alarming – and impressive – how easily the lie left Stella’s lips. Of course, Ominis wouldn’t mind if he learned his two closest friends had spent an afternoon engaged in illicit sex acts, but none of it actually meant anything, right? Meaning there was no point in disclosing such details to Ominis.
Sebastian was pulled from his spiraling thoughts when Stella’s stare shifted to him. “Perhaps we can study tonight?” she asked him. Her eyes glimmered pointedly and Sebastian picked up on her implication.
“Er, yeah,” he agreed as his stomach performed a series of somersaults. “Tonight.”
“Well, as enthralling as it would be to pour over charts tonight, I’ll have to leave you two to it,” Ominis prattled on, unaware that no one would be studying numerical values that evening. “I’ve got to pen an ancient runes essay and I promised to help Violet McDowell.”
Sebastian couldn’t help but snicker. “That all you’re helping her with, mate?”
Ominis scowled as Stella snorted. “Unlike some people, I actually care about my studies,” he said, his tone taking on a self-righteous air. “Right, Stella?”
Sebastian couldn’t help but bite back a laugh as Stella nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. “Oh, right you are, Ominis,” she said as she stole a quick glance at Sebastian. “Some of us are quite dedicated to our studies.”
Sebastian smirked into his own juice.
—
Hours later, Sebastian found himself pacing outside of the library. Stella had instructed him to meet her there, which sent Sebastian into a confused, manic state.
Had she decided she’d no longer help him with his little problem? Had yesterday been a letdown? Had she expected more from him? Why weren’t they meeting someplace more private? Had Sebastian misread Stella’s eyes? Were they actually going to study? He’d left all his books in his dormitory.
“Hey.”
Sebastian looked up to see Stella approaching. She wore another skirt that barely draped from her curves, making it difficult for Sebastian to focus on much else – though the top button of her blouse had popped open, serving as another excruciating distraction.
“Hey,” Sebastian croaked. Stella raised an amused eyebrow at him.
“Alright?” she asked.
Sebastian nodded. “Ready to… study?”
Something flickered in Stella’s eyes that told Sebastian books and notes were not on the evening’s itinerary. “Ready,” she said, hoping she sounded more intriguing than nervous.
She started toward the nearest library door and Sebastian followed as she descended the staircase. The library was quiet, even for its usual standards. A small group of students sat at the right table, anxiously shuffling through Transfiguration notes. A fifth-year girl sat quietly in one corner, a romance novel open in her lap, while Duncan Hobhouse was flipping through an Herbology book at a table to himself.
“Come on,” Stella whispered as she led Sebastian to a table at the far end of the library, free from any students. She gathered an armful of books from the nearest shelf and dropped them on the table, her chair quietly scraping against the wood floor. She opened one to a random page to make it appear as if she was studying.
Sebastian took the seat next to her, his knees feeling wobbly as he lowered himself. He sat with a stiff back, his posture uncharacteristically prim and proper. It made Stella smirk.
“Relax!” she hissed quietly, one hand finding the top of Sebastian’s left knee beneath the table. It was anything but soothing. The muscles of Sebastian’s thighs went rigid and Stella gave his knee a gentle squeeze. His trousers were already feeling tight. Stella snuck a sideways glance at Sebastian, who was holding his breath. “If you make it through this test, I’ll reward you with something even better.”
Merlin, help him. He was a goner.
Stella slid a book in front of him. “Here,” she instructed. “Pretend you’re reading this.”
If her hand hadn’t been wandering up his leg, Sebastian would have laughed. It was an Introduction to Dueling book meant for first-years.
Sebastian flipped the book open to its center pages and focused on the words to keep himself from reacting to Stella’s hand, which was presently exploring his inner thigh. He gripped the edge of the table when it found his erection.
“How are you so hard already?” Stella whispered in his ear. Sebastian shot her a sideways glare.
“Kind of difficult to be anything but hard when you’re making lofty promises,” he growled back.
The friction of Stella’s hand running over the fabric of Sebastian’s trousers was just as glorious and agonizing as it had been the day before. Sebastian began to wonder if he was a hopeless case; a lost cause, meant to live his days in misery because he was too infatuated with his best friend to focus on their “practice.”
Stella shuffled in her seat and before Sebastian could react, she was unbuttoning his pants.
“Are you mad?” he hissed. Stella merely shrugged.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“...No.”
"That's what I thought."
Stella’s hand disappeared, her fingers grazing the skin of Sebastian’s waist before they found the base of his cock inside his pants. Sebastian chewed his bottom lip to stifle a groan. Stella traced a teasing finger down the full length of his shaft until it found the tip, where she made tiny circular motions. Her movements were slow and tantalizing, signaling her genuine intent to help Sebastian learn to withstand such pleasure.
But the forbidden nature of their act was making it far too difficult for Sebastian to focus on the task at hand. The thrill of sharing such a salacious moment with Stella made his heightened arousal evident in his flushed cheeks and strained breathing. Stella seemed to notice he was struggling, because her strokes around his cock became slower and gentler.
“Close your eyes,” she hummed quietly. Sebastian nodded and let his eyelids flutter shut. Stella squirmed against her chair, her own arousal testing her patience. As much as she enjoyed the power of controlling Sebastian’s ultimate undoing, she was desperate for her own. She wanted nothing more than for him to treat her the same.
But for now, Stella was content with studying Sebastian’s face. She gazed at him in quiet adoration, her eyes scanning his flushed cheeks and the locs of tousled hair that had fallen out of place. She watched as his jaw clenched and unclenched with certain strokes of his cock, particularly the way the muscles strained whenever her thumb pressed against his tip. She would have sold her soul to merely climb into his lap and kiss every freckle on his face.
Her focus on Sebastian’s handsome features forced Stella’s attention to falter. Just as she found herself wondering if Sebastian was good with his own hands, Sophronia Franklin rounded a corner and strode into view.
Stella jumped, her surprise causing her fist to squeeze around Sebastian’s shaft as her elbow smashed against the table with a sharp bang. She swore loudly as the pain stung through her arm while Sebastian yelped, his eyes popping open in surprise.
Stella did her best to remain still, her palm pressed against Sebastian’s cock as she smiled politely at Sophronia, who was studying the pair with a quizzical stare. Stella returned her eyes to the book in front of her, pretending to think critically about the prose on its pages.
“Perhaps this spell would conjure manacles to bind the person on the receiving end,” she mused loud enough for Sophronia to hear. But her plan backfired, as Sophronia stopped in her tracks to double back.
“Were you two just talking about the alternate form of Incarcerous?” she asked curiously. She stood about three feet from the table, seemingly oblivious to the debauchery occurring beneath it.
“It does.” Sophronia nodded in approval of Stella’s knowledge. “But a modified version of the spell can conjure manacles.”
“Manacles,” Stella repeated blankly.
“Yes. You know, like shackles used for fastening hands or ankles,” Sophronia offered.
“Right.”
“I can’t imagine what one would use them for nowadays,” Sophronia continued. “But I suppose they have their uses.”
“Can’t imagine,” Sebastian chimed in tersely through gritted teeth. Stella squeezed her hand gently to send a message. Sebastian wheezed.
“I suppose manacles might be a bit sturdier than rope,” Sophronia rattled on. “Much more secure, at least. They’d certainly be more likely to keep people in their place.”
“How wonderful for them,” Stella said stupidly.
Sophronia, seemingly bored with the rather one-sided discussion, shrugged and spun on her heels to continue toward the spiral staircase. Stella and Sebastian sat in still silence as she ascended, waiting in searing agony until her footsteps faded.
“Fucking hell,” Sebastian whined, his shoulders slumping forward. “Can you be more careful?”
Stella clearly found the encounter more amusing than unsettling. She shot Sebastian a sheepish smile, which instantly dissolved his aggravation.
“Sorry,” she offered. “My bad. Didn’t notice her coming.”
“Yeah well, keep it up and she won’t be the only one.”
Stella snorted, eliciting a shush from Sebastian, who was looking positively distressed.
“We should probably move,” Stella noted, her eyes scanning the area for any more potential intruders. “Consider this the passage of your test and the start of your reward. I’ve got just the place.”
“We can’t risk the Restricted Section just yet,” Sebastian said. “It’s too early. Scribner’s still around.”
“Not the Restricted Section,” Stella said as she removed her hand from Sebastian’s trousers. He swallowed a whimper at the sudden absence of her touch. “I know a better place.”
She waited for Sebastian to adjust his clothing before she stood, the books forgotten on the tabletop. She made a sweeping glance around the room before brandishing her wand to apply a disillusionment charm. Sebastian blinked at her invisible form and followed suit.
“Where are you? I can’t follow you if I can’t see you,” he hissed. The sudden feeling of Stella’s hand closing around his wrist was his answer. Stella guided him quietly across the library toward the fireplace.
“Glacius,” Stella breathed. The flames dissolved and she tugged Sebastian through the fireplace to the small, discreet room on the other side to shed her disillusionment spell. “See? Told you this is better.”
“How the hell did you even find this place?” Sebastian demanded as his own disillusionment charm fell. He gazed around the space, impressed by the tapestries on the walls and furniture in the corner.
“Shh!” Stella clapped a hand over his mouth and shot him a sharp look. “No one can see us but they can still hear us. Remember, we’re in the library so silencing charms won’t work.”
“Still one of Scribner’s most asinine ideas,” Sebastian muttered.
Stella whispered “Incendio” to reignite the flames in the fireplace, closing them in and guarding them from any wandering passerby. When she turned to face Sebastian again, her eyes drifted downward. His trousers were still tented. Now completely alone, Stella’s mind began to run wild with ideas of all the things she wanted to do with him.
“Wait,” Sebastian whispered as Stella reached to unbutton his pants again. He stopped her with a gentle hand around her wrist. “When do I get to return the favor for you?”
Stella squeezed her thighs together. The thought of Sebastian touching her had been burning between her legs for quite some time. “Now, if you want.”
Sebastian didn’t hesitate. His hands snapped to her waist and he pulled her closer. “Now’s as good a time as any,” he murmured. He nudged her gently toward the armchair in the corner, guiding her backward until the backs of her legs met the seat. Stella sat and Sebastian dropped to his knees in front of her.
His hands skimmed beneath the hem of her skirt and over her porcelain thighs. The heat between them made his cock stir with desire. As Sebastian bunched her skirt up around her waist, Stella held her breath. His eyes settled on the damp spot at the center of her panties. He stared for a moment as he mustered the courage to touch her.
It was finally happening. He was going to discover the depths of Stella he’d assumed were only reserved for his dreams. But he could feel himself starting to freeze, gripped by his insecurities that he wouldn’t be able to impress her.
As Stella caught his gaze, Sebastian could feel his intensity soften. She smiled at him, her warmth radiating through him with a sense of comfort only she could offer. Sebastian decided he wasn’t going to leave that library until he had Stella squirming from his touch.
He planted a trail of kisses up Stella’s right thigh. He could hear her inhale sharply, her hips lifting off the chair as the ache became unbearable within her core.
Sebastian’s hands drifted toward her hips, peeling the waistband of her panties downward until they pooled around her ankles. The sight of her soaked entrance ignited an invigorating surge of avidity in him. He’d fling himself into the flames of that fireplace before he allowed anyone to deny him a taste.
But first, he needed to touch her. He had to know how soft, how slick she felt. When his thumb made contact with her clit, Stella whimpered. He pressed against it, the pink flesh warm, wet and arousing.
Sebastian swiped his thumb, drawing a soft moan of approval from Stella. He began dragging his thumb back and forth in a steady rhythm while he sank a slow finger inside her. The surge of moisture surrounding his finger made Sebastian curse under his breath. There was no way he’d last long enough to bend Stella over the desk like he wanted, but if there was one thing he would ensure, it was to make Stella moan his name by any means possible.
Sebastian’s index finger pulled upward against her front wall as his thumb continued its assault on her clit. The fireplace room soon filled with the lewd sound of slick flesh, but the library’s visitors remained none the wiser.
Stella’s knees parted more as Sebastian added a second finger inside her, dipping and dragging against her walls in desperate determination to incite her undoing.
“God, Sebastian,” she breathed, her fingers gripping the armrests as she clenched her cunt around his fingers to coax her release. Sebastian hastened his movements, his fingers dabbing at the sensitive and spongy flesh until Stella was practically riding his hand.
She let out a quiet whine as her hips lifted off the chair, grinding her cunt around Sebastian’s fingers until she was hurtling toward her pinnacle. The pressure within her core mounted, her walls pulling greedily at Sebastian’s fingers until they began to quiver.
Stella unleashed a breathy hiss as she climaxed, her thighs clamped around Sebastian’s fingers in an attempt to prolong her peak. Her walls pulsed as his fingers continued to beckon. When the quaking subsided, she was breathless and sweaty, albeit fully satisfied.
But Sebastian wasn’t. Now, it was time for a taste.
Stella flinched when Sebastian’s tongue made contact with her sensitive entrance, but her hands immediately pulled at his hair, demanding more from him. Sebastian lapped at her folds and hummed in arousal at her taste. The pressure in his pants was excruciating.
His tongue flattened against her clit, pressing and prodding until Stella’s legs were shaking.
“Sebastian,” she panted, unsure if she could withstand the sensitivity between her thighs. But the way her hips were jutting upward, pressing her entrance against his tongue, told him she wanted more.
He drove his tongue harder against her clit, forcing it in swift, short swipes until Stella’s feet were kicking from the pleasure swelling inside her nerve endings.
Her back arched and her nails sank into the back of Sebastian’s neck as heat sprawled across her cunt, its ripples triggering a blissful shriek from her. Sebastian was too preoccupied to address the sinful sounds threatening to expose them. The tight, binding tension inside him cracked. He swore loudly as the sensation of Stella’s seeping arousal against his tongue sent him over the edge.
When both of their highs had subsided, they froze, fearful for the sound of approaching footsteps that never came. Sebastian remained rooted in place, shame spreading over his features.
This had never happened to him before. Sure, he’d had those premature incidents, but those always occurred as a result of someone touching him. It had never happened at the mere sight of someone else’s orgasm.
Stella couldn’t help but smirk at the damp spot that had appeared on his pants. The sheer thought of her release triggering Sebastian’s own undoing was more empowering than any bit of ancient magic. Sure, it was counterproductive to the coaching she had promised, but considering he had satisfied her – twice – she decided there’d be plenty more opportunities for carnal education.
And selfishly, there was something quite satisfying about causing the temporary downfall of the great Sebastian Sallow. She’d never admit to it, though.
“Alright?” Stella asked tenderly.
“What do you think?” Sebastian muttered as he brandished his wand. “Scourgify.”
“I think,” Stella mused as she pulled her panties back up, “Maybe we started with the stakes too high.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe we should try a more private setting – someplace where you’ll actually relax,” Stella explained. “Maybe these… public places are causing you too much stress.”
“What are you, my therapist now?”
“Sex therapist,” Stella quipped with a smirk. Sebastian turned red again. “To be fair,” Stella continued in a serious tone, “This therapy session was quite a stress reliever for me, so at least one of us benefited from it.” She frowned slightly as she rose to her feet. “I really was going to reward you, though.”
“Trust me,” Sebastian mumbled. “You’ve done plenty.”
Stella grinned as she flicked her wand toward the fireplace to freeze the flames. “What are friends for?”
where sebastian is actually worried about MC and regrets casting crucio on them
𑣲 caught in the rain I @/zevrra
you and sebastian seek shelter inside an abandoned home where every feeling is laid to bare.
𑣲 truth or dare I @ppomumgranatum
Truths emerged and friendships were tested as you found yourself confronting two years' worth of suppressed feelings towards Sebastian. Drunk.
𑣲 the dance of love’s sweet potion I @/ppomumgranatum
When a potion meant to repel backfired, it became a mishap that turned your world upside down.
𑣲 marry me I @theealbatross
The 3 times Sebastian thought about marrying you and the 1 time he asked.
𑣲 fight the alchemy I @/theealbatross
Garreth asks why Sebastian isn’t dating you. Sebastian spirals.
𑣲 i love you, it’s ruining my life I @/theealbatross
Sebastian has the worst insomnia known to man and you are not dating him.
𑣲 never not been mine I @/theealbatross
Everyone wonders if you and Sebastian are together. Sebastian wonders when will everyone mind their own business.
𑣲 a habit to kick, an age old cure I @/theealbatross
you and Sebastian are now strangers but at your most vulnerable moment he picks up the pieces. only he knows. only he can.
𑣲 fever (what a lovely way to burn) I @shadowtriovibes
"since you saved Sebastian from Azkaban, he has met you in the common room every morning and you have gone to breakfast together. One morning he isn't there so you go to his room looking for him to find him in bed, poorly.”
𑣲 request I @/shadowtriovibes
Eric Northcott is relentlessly pursuing you, so Sebastian offers to act as your heroic boyfriend to get him off your back
𑣲 break a sweat part 2 part 3 part 4 I @/shadowtriovibes
sebastian makes the house quidditch team after training all summer. before his first match, you let him talk you into a bet over its outcome that will in all likelihood ruin your friendship. (merlin, you sure hope it does.)
𑣲 mind if i move in closer? I @/shadowtriovibes
𑣲 it’s a sign of the times part 2 I @/shadowtriovibes
Rivals-to-lovers Sebastian and MC use a Time-Turner to travel to the future with Ominis in search for a cure for Anne. Instead they find a girl who's the spitting image of MC trying to sneak into the Restricted Section in the 1910s, only she has freckles like Sebastian
𑣲 fissured composure I @anto-pops
After watching you hold your own against a handsy classmate, Sebastian is feeling particularly needy and steals you away to the Undercroft to show you just how worked up your right hook got him.
𑣲 possessive touch I @/anto-pops
Sebastian has never been the sharing sort. He was happy to loan people notes or quills, maybe even the occasional book from the Restricted Section. But not you. Never you.
𑣲 sudsy confessions I @/anto-pops
Sebastian confessing his long-harbored love for you while you’re naked in a bathtub.
𑣲 request I @/anto-pops
𑣲 unspoken attraction I @arthenaa
The girls and you have a talk on who they'll date amongst the students in Hogwarts. No one mentions Sebastian despite being deemed the most handsome in your year. You wonder why?
𑣲 jealously, jealousy I @awkwardauthorwrites
𑣲 i think he knows I @/awkwardauthorwrites
Sebastian helps Y/N with an interesting request
𑣲 violets and verbena I @/awkwardauthorwrites
Two years have passed since the events in Hogwarts Legacy, in which Y/N has drifted away from Sebastian. What happens when she has to spend some time in the hospital wing and he comes to visit?
𑣲 in the middle part 2 I @/awkwardauthorwrites
After a few months of knowing the reader the boys suddenly realise one day they are falling in love with the reader and start to become a bit bitter towards each other and very jealous if another guy gives her attention.
𑣲 wildest dreams part 2 part 3 I @/awkwardauthorwrites
Ten years have passed since the events of Hogwarts Legacy and Y/N is invited back as part of a reunion to celebrate.
𑣲 diesel is desire I @wttcsms
sebastian sallow is a good friend. so good, in fact, that when you find yourself under the ungodly influence of a lust potion, he's willing to help give you some relief.
𑣲 trust fall I @fairytalesandlegacies
Sebastian Sallow teaches you how to fight against the Imperius Curse late one night, and in the process, some long-kept secrets are revealed.
𑣲 i need you I @ravenelyx
Sebastian has different ways of dealing with being hurt. One of them is burying his face in your chest while you cuddle him
𑣲 who do you smell? I @roarieluz
Sebastian Sallow has had a crush on Y/N for a while now, this isn't news to him but when a strong batch of amortentia is made for potions class it is hard to keep his mind clear of anything that isn't about you and what he wants to do to you.
𑣲 the night shift part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 I @writing-intheundercroft
You're the lead healer in the St. Mungo's intensive care unit, and a painfully familiar face ends up in your ward.
𑣲 a long time coming I @undergaunts
aka three times Sebastian is a flirt, one time he gets called out on it, and one time he finally does something about it.
𑣲 pining in potions class I @festivalsofmargot
Sebastian Sallow is forming a huge crush on you, and it’s hitting him all at once in a very annoying way. Something as simple as not being partnered with you in potions class eats away at him.
𑣲 pretty thoughts part 2 I @/festivalsofmargot
Sebastian is down bad for you, my dear reader. But a lot of overthinking on your part makes you blind to it. So, his only option is to keep chasing after you.
𑣲 a worrisome box of chocolates I @matchavellichor
𑣲 you look better in green part 2 I @fierymiasma
In which Sebastian sees the new transfer student wearing someone else’s scarf and proceeds to absolutely lose it.
𑣲 snow, scarves, and schemes I @spaceyaceface
Y/N is sick of Leander Prewett trying to court her. Luckily, she has a best friend named Sebastian Sallow who would love to help put an end to it. They devise a plan to pretend to court up until the Yule Ball. Should be simple, right? If only.
𑣲 the one who stayed I @talesofesther
For a moment, Sebastian thought he lost you, and now the guilt for what happened is eating away at him.
𑣲 the winner takes all I @justauthoring
in which, leander prewett is a prick and sebastian shows him not mess with his girl.
𑣲 bludgered I @slytherizz
Sebastian never really knew what his friend saw in Isaac Cooper but he never questioned it - he made his friend happy. That is until a Quidditch match goes quickly awry and he realises his feelings for her may go far deeper than simple friendship.
𑣲 between the two of you I @cuffmeinblack
Rewriting of the events of the Shadow of the Study/Discovery quests.
𑣲 i crumble completely (when you cry) I @atlabeth
there's only one way to get into salazar slytherin's scriptorium.
𑣲 right where you left me I @anomalyaly
You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.
𑣲 in the shadow of the mountain I @ellecdc
fed up with Sebastian. After admitting he "shouldn't have acted so bitterly about your goblin friend", you expect him to be in better spirits on your next quest. He keeps putting the both of you in danger, and you've had it.
𑣲 i remember I @whizzing-fizzbee
You died during your seventh year at Hogwarts before you could tell your best friend, Sebastian Sallow, how much you loved him. But when he discovers a box of your pensieve memories, he learns the comforting, yet cruel truth.
where sebastian is actually worried about MC and regrets casting crucio on them
𑣲 caught in the rain I @/zevrra
you and sebastian seek shelter inside an abandoned home where every feeling is laid to bare.
𑣲 truth or dare I @ppomumgranatum
Truths emerged and friendships were tested as you found yourself confronting two years' worth of suppressed feelings towards Sebastian. Drunk.
𑣲 the dance of love’s sweet potion I @/ppomumgranatum
When a potion meant to repel backfired, it became a mishap that turned your world upside down.
𑣲 marry me I @theealbatross
The 3 times Sebastian thought about marrying you and the 1 time he asked.
𑣲 fight the alchemy I @/theealbatross
Garreth asks why Sebastian isn’t dating you. Sebastian spirals.
𑣲 i love you, it’s ruining my life I @/theealbatross
Sebastian has the worst insomnia known to man and you are not dating him.
𑣲 never not been mine I @/theealbatross
Everyone wonders if you and Sebastian are together. Sebastian wonders when will everyone mind their own business.
𑣲 a habit to kick, an age old cure I @/theealbatross
you and Sebastian are now strangers but at your most vulnerable moment he picks up the pieces. only he knows. only he can.
𑣲 fever (what a lovely way to burn) I @shadowtriovibes
"since you saved Sebastian from Azkaban, he has met you in the common room every morning and you have gone to breakfast together. One morning he isn't there so you go to his room looking for him to find him in bed, poorly.”
𑣲 request I @/shadowtriovibes
Eric Northcott is relentlessly pursuing you, so Sebastian offers to act as your heroic boyfriend to get him off your back
𑣲 break a sweat part 2 part 3 part 4 I @/shadowtriovibes
sebastian makes the house quidditch team after training all summer. before his first match, you let him talk you into a bet over its outcome that will in all likelihood ruin your friendship. (merlin, you sure hope it does.)
𑣲 mind if i move in closer? I @/shadowtriovibes
𑣲 it’s a sign of the times part 2 I @/shadowtriovibes
Rivals-to-lovers Sebastian and MC use a Time-Turner to travel to the future with Ominis in search for a cure for Anne. Instead they find a girl who's the spitting image of MC trying to sneak into the Restricted Section in the 1910s, only she has freckles like Sebastian
𑣲 fissured composure I @anto-pops
After watching you hold your own against a handsy classmate, Sebastian is feeling particularly needy and steals you away to the Undercroft to show you just how worked up your right hook got him.
𑣲 possessive touch I @/anto-pops
Sebastian has never been the sharing sort. He was happy to loan people notes or quills, maybe even the occasional book from the Restricted Section. But not you. Never you.
𑣲 sudsy confessions I @/anto-pops
Sebastian confessing his long-harbored love for you while you’re naked in a bathtub.
𑣲 request I @/anto-pops
𑣲 unspoken attraction I @arthenaa
The girls and you have a talk on who they'll date amongst the students in Hogwarts. No one mentions Sebastian despite being deemed the most handsome in your year. You wonder why?
𑣲 jealously, jealousy I @awkwardauthorwrites
𑣲 i think he knows I @/awkwardauthorwrites
Sebastian helps Y/N with an interesting request
𑣲 violets and verbena I @/awkwardauthorwrites
Two years have passed since the events in Hogwarts Legacy, in which Y/N has drifted away from Sebastian. What happens when she has to spend some time in the hospital wing and he comes to visit?
𑣲 in the middle part 2 I @/awkwardauthorwrites
After a few months of knowing the reader the boys suddenly realise one day they are falling in love with the reader and start to become a bit bitter towards each other and very jealous if another guy gives her attention.
𑣲 wildest dreams part 2 part 3 I @/awkwardauthorwrites
Ten years have passed since the events of Hogwarts Legacy and Y/N is invited back as part of a reunion to celebrate.
𑣲 diesel is desire I @wttcsms
sebastian sallow is a good friend. so good, in fact, that when you find yourself under the ungodly influence of a lust potion, he's willing to help give you some relief.
𑣲 trust fall I @fairytalesandlegacies
Sebastian Sallow teaches you how to fight against the Imperius Curse late one night, and in the process, some long-kept secrets are revealed.
𑣲 i need you I @ravenelyx
Sebastian has different ways of dealing with being hurt. One of them is burying his face in your chest while you cuddle him
𑣲 who do you smell? I @roarieluz
Sebastian Sallow has had a crush on Y/N for a while now, this isn't news to him but when a strong batch of amortentia is made for potions class it is hard to keep his mind clear of anything that isn't about you and what he wants to do to you.
𑣲 the night shift part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 I @writing-intheundercroft
You're the lead healer in the St. Mungo's intensive care unit, and a painfully familiar face ends up in your ward.
𑣲 a long time coming I @undergaunts
aka three times Sebastian is a flirt, one time he gets called out on it, and one time he finally does something about it.
𑣲 pining in potions class I @festivalsofmargot
Sebastian Sallow is forming a huge crush on you, and it’s hitting him all at once in a very annoying way. Something as simple as not being partnered with you in potions class eats away at him.
𑣲 pretty thoughts part 2 I @/festivalsofmargot
Sebastian is down bad for you, my dear reader. But a lot of overthinking on your part makes you blind to it. So, his only option is to keep chasing after you.
𑣲 a worrisome box of chocolates I @matchavellichor
𑣲 you look better in green part 2 I @fierymiasma
In which Sebastian sees the new transfer student wearing someone else’s scarf and proceeds to absolutely lose it.
𑣲 snow, scarves, and schemes I @spaceyaceface
Y/N is sick of Leander Prewett trying to court her. Luckily, she has a best friend named Sebastian Sallow who would love to help put an end to it. They devise a plan to pretend to court up until the Yule Ball. Should be simple, right? If only.
𑣲 the one who stayed I @talesofesther
For a moment, Sebastian thought he lost you, and now the guilt for what happened is eating away at him.
𑣲 the winner takes all I @justauthoring
in which, leander prewett is a prick and sebastian shows him not mess with his girl.
𑣲 bludgered I @slytherizz
Sebastian never really knew what his friend saw in Isaac Cooper but he never questioned it - he made his friend happy. That is until a Quidditch match goes quickly awry and he realises his feelings for her may go far deeper than simple friendship.
𑣲 between the two of you I @cuffmeinblack
Rewriting of the events of the Shadow of the Study/Discovery quests.
𑣲 i crumble completely (when you cry) I @atlabeth
there's only one way to get into salazar slytherin's scriptorium.
𑣲 right where you left me I @anomalyaly
You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.
𑣲 in the shadow of the mountain I @ellecdc
fed up with Sebastian. After admitting he "shouldn't have acted so bitterly about your goblin friend", you expect him to be in better spirits on your next quest. He keeps putting the both of you in danger, and you've had it.
𑣲 i remember I @whizzing-fizzbee
You died during your seventh year at Hogwarts before you could tell your best friend, Sebastian Sallow, how much you loved him. But when he discovers a box of your pensieve memories, he learns the comforting, yet cruel truth.
Starting your seventh year at Hogwarts should be exciting, but transferring from Beauxbatons turns out to be more challenging than you anticipated—especially with Sebastian Sallow, the sharp-tongued school heartthrob, going out of his way to make things difficult. But unlike most, you refuse to back down. When he crosses a line, you push back just as hard, earning his respect and capturing his attention in ways he struggles to admit. But when a bet with Sebastian’s rival, Leander Prewett, comes to light, Sebastian must choose between protecting his pride or fighting to rebuild trust with the one person who’s ever truly challenged him.
Words: ~6,800
Tags: Modern AU, Reader Insert, Seventh Year, Female MC, No Y/N, Slytherin MC, Enemies to Lovers, Trope-y, Slow Burn, Humor, Fluff, Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Coming of Age, Plus-Sized Protagonist, Body Image, High School Drama
The rhythmic clatter of the train against the tracks filled the small compartment as you gazed out the window, watching the rolling Scottish hills blur past. You couldn’t help but feel like you were drifting through a dream—one both familiar and completely foreign. The Hogwarts Express, with its polished wood interiors and the faint scent of sweets from the trolley somewhere down the corridor, was a stark contrast to the sleek, airy carriages of the Beauxbatons carriages you’d grown used to.
“Still daydreaming, Chouette?” Imelda Reyes smirked, kicking your shin lightly under the small table between you.
You snapped out of your thoughts, turning your attention back to her. “Not daydreaming,” you said, though the heat rising to your cheeks probably said otherwise. “Just thinking.”
“About how different you look in those robes, maybe?” she teased, gesturing to your Hogwarts attire. Unlike hers, crisp and proudly adorned with green and silver, yours lacked a house tie and emblem, leaving you looking oddly plain. “Don’t worry; they’ll sort you soon enough. Though if you don’t end up in Slytherin with me, I might disown you.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled. Imelda hadn’t changed. Her sharp tongue was as much her armor as it was her way of showing affection. “They didn’t have houses at Beauxbatons,” you reminded her, smoothing the fabric of your robe self-consciously. “Sorting is new.”
Imelda shrugged. “He's just a nosy hat. You’ll be fine. Though I’ll admit, it’s going to be strange not knowing where you’ll sit in the Great Hall until after the feast. No matter what happens, at least we've got this first night together!”
You hummed in response, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. The idea of being paraded in front of an entire school while a magical hat decided your fate wasn’t exactly comforting. Then again, neither was uprooting your life for the second time in less than a decade.
Not that the move back to Scotland had been a choice.
Your grandmother’s health had been declining for months, and with your grandfather gone, your mother had insisted on returning home to care for her. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand—family came first, always—but it didn’t make the transition any easier.
You had grown up in Scotland but moved to France at ten years old to attend Beauxbatons. Back then, the language, the culture, the people—they had all been a steep adjustment, but in truth, they had molded you into who you were. Beauxbatons had become home, the place where you found your footing. Now, at eighteen, just as you were preparing to finish your final year, you were being uprooted again, starting over in a country that was both familiar and foreign.
Imelda studied you for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned back in her seat. “You're so quiet, this isn’t like you,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Normally, you’re the type to run headfirst into things… what gives?”
You hesitated, glancing down at your hands. “I don’t know,” you mumbled, though that wasn’t entirely true. “It’s just… a lot. New school, new people, everything being different. What if I don’t fit in?”
Imelda snorted, rolling her eyes as if the thought were utterly absurd. “Oh, please. You’ll be fine. Half the idiots at Hogwarts will be tripping over themselves to talk to you once they hear that half-French, half-Scottish accent of yours. And the other half will be too busy being jealous.”
You tried to laugh, but the sound came out more nervous than anything. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
“It is,” she insisted, her grin turning smug. “And besides, you’ve got me.”
You gave her a faint smile. “Thanks, Mel.”
She waved a hand, brushing off the sentiment with a casual flick of her wrist. “Don’t get sappy on me now, Chouette. You’re going to be fine.”
But as her words settled in the air between you, your thoughts drifted. Imelda’s confidence in you was comforting, sure—but it also felt so far from the truth you were carrying inside. Because while she saw someone bold and daring, right now you felt the opposite.
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels began to slow, and you felt a slight jolt as the Hogwarts Express started its final approach to the station. Outside the window, the landscape shifted, the rolling hills giving way to a darkened platform illuminated by soft, golden lanterns. Students began gathering their things, voices rising in excitement as they peered out into the cool evening air.
Imelda leaned over, her sharp eyes scanning the platform with a familiar confidence. “Here we go,” she said, nudging you with her elbow.
The train hissed to a stop, steam billowing into the night as the chatter inside the compartments swelled. You clutched the strap of your bag tightly, your pulse quickening as Imelda stood, gesturing for you to follow her. The aisle was a chaos of students jostling to disembark, and you found yourself swept up in the tide as Imelda led the way with ease.
When you stepped off the train, the chill of the Scottish air hit you instantly, sharp and bracing against your skin. The platform was alive with movement, students reuniting with friends after the summer, calling out to one another over the clamor of luggage being hauled off the train. Lanterns cast a warm glow over the cobblestones, and in the distance, you could see the faint silhouettes of carriages waiting to carry students up to the castle.
“First years, over here! First years, this way!” a booming voice called, and your head turned to see a figure waving a lantern high above the crowd. A group of wide-eyed first years shuffled nervously in his direction, their excitement palpable.
“Come on,” Imelda said, grabbing your arm to pull you along. “Our carriages are this way. Stick close, or you’ll end up in the lake with the first years.”
You followed Imelda closely, gripping the strap of your bag as your eyes darted around, taking everything in. The sound of hooves echoed faintly in the distance, and when you glanced up the path, you caught sight of the carriages waiting to bring students to the castle. They were drawn by strange, skeletal creatures with leathery wings—Thestrals, you realized with a start.
“Are those—?” you began, but before you could finish, a shout interrupted you.
“Imelda!”
Two boys waved from further up the platform, their voices cutting through the bustle around you. Your eyes were drawn to them immediately. The first was a red-haired boy with an easy, infectious grin that seemed to light up his face. Beside him stood a taller, blonde-haired boy, his striking features framed by an air of quiet composure. Their robes gave away their houses—red and gold for the cheerful one, green and silver for the reserved one. Gryffindor and Slytherin, you realized.
“Of course,” Imelda chuckled good-naturedly before raising her hand in a wave. “Come on,” she said to you.
You trailed behind her as she strode confidently toward the pair, your gaze flicking between them. The redheaded boy beamed as you approached.
“Reyes! Great to see you!” he called out, his grin wide and his green eyes alight with curiosity as they landed on you. “And who’s this?” He extended a freckled hand toward you, his energy practically buzzing with warmth. “Garreth Weasley, at your service.”
You hesitated for half a second before taking his hand. “Erm, hi,” you said, your voice a little unsure as you introduced yourself.
Imelda crossed her arms and smirked. “This is Hogwarts newest Seventh Year. You can call her Chouette,” she announced with a pointed look in your direction.
You felt your face heat instantly. “Imelda!”
Garreth perked up at this, a delighted grin spreading across his face. “Chouette? That’s French, isn’t it?”
“For ‘owl,’ yes,” you confirmed, your tone edged with mild bitterness.
Garreth chuckled, clearly amused, but it was the taller boy, the one with pale blonde hair and an unreadable expression, who spoke next. “Well,” he said smoothly, his voice low and measured. “I'm Ominis Gaunt. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chouette.”
The way he pronounced it was flawless, as though he’d been saying it his entire life. You blinked, caught off guard by the effortless precision. “Thank you, you too,” you said cautiously, unsure of what else to add as a flicker of recognition lit in your mind.
Gaunt. The name wasn’t just uncommon—it carried a certain weight, steeped in the histories of old wizarding families, and the implications lingered, leaving you hesitant as you glanced at him again.
Before you could dwell on it, Imelda’s voice cut through your thoughts. “Don’t look so worried,” she said breezily, elbowing you in the side. “Ominis isn’t nearly as scary as his last name makes him sound.”
Ominis’s lips twitched faintly, though whether it was amusement or irritation, you couldn’t tell. “Thank you, Reyes,” he said dryly, “for the glowing endorsement.”
Imelda smirked. “Anytime.”
Garreth grinned. “Ominis is harmless. He just looks intimidating because he refuses to smile properly.”
Ominis shot him a pointed look, but Garreth only laughed. The banter between them was easy, and you found yourself relaxing slightly, even as your nerves lingered.
“Come on,” Imelda said, jerking her head toward the carriages. “If we stand here any longer, all the good ones will be taken. We’ll get stuck riding with a pack of loudmouth second-years.”
You followed Imelda down the path, the sound of students bustling and calling out to one another echoing across the platform. The Thestrals loomed closer, their frames almost ethereal in the glow of the lanterns. You hesitated briefly before climbing into the carriage after her, settling onto the bench beside her while Garreth and Ominis took the opposite seats. The wood creaked faintly under the weight, and with a slight jolt, the Thestrals began to move.
As the carriage rolled forward, Imelda leaned casually out of the carriage, her hand raised in a sharp wave toward someone in the distance. “Samantha!” she called out, her voice carrying easily. “Don’t forget—we’re sitting together for Herbology this year!”
Further along the path, Garreth grinned and shouted something indecipherable to a cluster of students by another carriage. One of them—a freckled Gryffindor girl with tawny-brown hair—giggled and waved back. “That’s Cressida,” Garreth explained with a cheeky glance your way. “My girlfriend, and a Charm’s genius. I’d be lost without her.”
Ominis, though quieter, acknowledged almost every passing group with a polite nod or a brief exchange. At one point, you caught him waving to a dark-haired boy holding a stack of books balanced precariously in his arms. “Amit Thakkar,” Imelda muttered under her breath, catching your questioning look. “Smartest guy in school.”
You sat back, watching the interactions unfold, the warmth and familiarity in every exchange. Imelda, Garreth, and Ominis were like threads in a tightly woven tapestry, seamlessly connected to everyone around them. The ease with which they navigated the chaos made you painfully aware of just how out of place you felt.
At Beauxbatons, you’d had your own circle of friends—people who knew your quirks and shared your jokes, who had seen you at your best and your worst. Now, all of that felt so far away, like another life entirely. You wrapped your fingers around the strap of your bag, gripping it tightly as the ache of longing settled in your chest.
“Chouette?” Imelda’s voice broke through your thoughts, her sharp eyes studying you. “You good?”
You blinked, forcing a small smile. “Yeah, just… taking it all in.”
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but didn’t press further. Instead, she leaned back and crossed her arms, smirking as she turned to Garreth. “Bet all you Gryffindors are going to pout when she's sorted into Slytherin with Ominis and I."
Garreth snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Please. You really think the hat’s going to let you have her? Gryffindor’s clearly where she belongs.”
“Clearly?” Ominis interjected, one pale brow arching delicately. “The hat doesn’t favor reckless overconfidence, Weasley.”
Garreth grinned. “Speaking of reckles overconfidence, I'm sure Sallow is already up to no good and classes haven't even started."
“I don’t know what’s more concerning,” Ominis muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that you think he’s already causing trouble, or that you sound impressed.”
Garreth shrugged. “If you don’t admire a little chaos, Ominis, what’s the point?”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly at their bickering, though the unfamiliar name snagged in your mind. “Sallow?” you asked, your curiosity piqued.
“Sebastian Sallow,” Imelda said with a roll of her eyes. “Slytherin's star Beater, eternal troublemaker, and Hogwarts’ most persistent heartbreak. Next to Leander Prewett, that is.”
“Persistent is putting it kindly,” Ominis muttered. “He’s my oldest friend, but even I’d describe him as… relentless. If there’s trouble to be found, he’ll find it.”
“And probably make it worse,” Imelda added, smirking.
Garreth chimed in, grinning. “He’s also at the top of our Defense Against the Dark Arts class. As much as it pains me to admit it, he’s annoyingly talented.”
Imelda hummed thoughtfully. “Honestly, he’s a lot like you—except dialed up to eleven.”
You blinked, taken aback by the comment. “Like me?”
“Well, sure,” Imelda said with a shrug, her tone casual but knowing. “Sharp. Driven. Bold. Stubborn. Always ready to throw yourself into something headfirst.”
“Usually without thinking, in Sebastian's case," Ominis interjected dryly, though there was no malice in his tone.
You hesitated, their words sinking in. Confidence. Boldness. Those were the things people always said about you, the qualities they seemed to admire. But underneath it all, you weren’t sure how much of it was real and how much was just a well-practiced act.
Still, you managed a smile, brushing the thought aside. “So… troublemaker, charmer, and duelling prodigy. Got it. Should I be worried?”
“Yes,” they all said in unison.
You shook your head, suppressing a laugh, though the image of this mysterious Sebastian Sallow stuck with you. Still, your curiosity shifted back to the matter at hand. “What exactly does the Sorting Hat look for?” you asked, glancing between the three of them.
Ominis’s expression softened slightly, his thoughtful demeanor returning. “It depends. Qualities, values, ambitions… It’s not just about who you are now—it’s about who you have the potential to become.”
“And sometimes,” Imelda added with a shrug, “it just throws you somewhere unexpected to see if you’ll sink or swim.”
“Comforting,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Well, here’s hoping the hat knows what it’s doing,"
“It does,” Ominis said, his voice cutting through the chatter. His pale gaze was steady. “The Sorting Hat has been doing this for centuries. It doesn’t get it wrong.”
His words carried a finality that left little room for argument, and while they didn’t exactly ease your nerves, you found them oddly reassuring.
The carriage slowed to a stop, jolting slightly as the Thestrals came to rest. The castle loomed above you, its towers piercing the darkening sky and its warm, glowing windows casting light across the grounds. Students were already filing toward the massive oak doors in groups, their chatter filling the cool evening air.
Imelda hopped out of the carriage first, her steps confident as always, and you followed closely behind, clutching your bag.
Garreth offered you a cheerful grin as he stepped down after Ominis, his hair catching the glow of the lanterns. “Well, looks like this is where we part ways,” he said, his gaze shifting toward a small group of Gryffindors gathered nearby. One of the girls—Cressida, you realized—waved at him, and he waved back with easy enthusiasm before turning to you.
“Good luck settling in, Chouette,” Garreth said, his grin widening. “And remember—Gryffindor’s the obvious choice.”
You couldn’t help but smile at his cheerful energy. “Thanks, Garreth. I’ll see you around.”
“Count on it,” he replied with a wink, then jogged off toward his friends, sliding seamlessly into their group.
Your gaze lingered for a moment, watching the way the Gryffindors welcomed him. Their laughter was infectious, their camaraderie easy. Among them was a tall boy with dark red hair and an effortlessly confident demeanor. He stood slightly apart, twirling a wand idly between his fingers as he spoke. There was something about the way he carried himself—relaxed but assured—that made it hard to look away.
Imelda’s sharp snort broke your reverie. Looping her arm through yours, she tugged you along. “Don’t let Weasley fool you. Slytherin is the best option.”
You glanced back over your shoulder one last time, your eyes flickering to the boy just as he tossed his wand in the air and caught it effortlessly, grinning at something one of his friends said. There was something magnetic about him, something that made you wonder who he was. You hadn’t even realized you were staring until Imelda tugged on your arm again, chuckling softly.
“Oh, Merlin,” she said, clearly amused. “Already eyeing Prewett, are you?”
“What?” you asked, startled. “I wasn’t—”
Imelda rolled her eyes, her grin widening. “Sure you weren’t. That’s Leander Prewett. Top Summoner’s Court player in the school, a massive flirt, and annoyingly good at just about everything. And yes,” she added with a smirk, “he’s fully aware of how good-looking he is.”
You felt heat creep up your neck as you scrambled to defend yourself. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Right,” Imelda said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You were just appreciating the scenery.”
Groaning, you nudged her with your elbow. “Can we just go?”
Imelda rolled her eyes but relented, leading you inside and toward the Great Hall. When the three of you reached the Slytherin table, Imelda gestured toward a spot next to her. The table gleamed under the flickering candlelight, its surface polished to a mirror shine. You sat down tentatively, Imelda on one side and two other girls—one with dark hair spilling down her back, the other with her somewhat lighter hair tied neatly into a ponytail—on the other.
“Ladies,” Imelda said smoothly, gesturing to you with a casual wave. “This is my oldest friend and Hogwarts newest transfer student."
The girl with the ponytail grinned warmly. “Nerida Roberts,” she said, offering a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“And I’m Grace Pinch-Smedley,” added the other girl, giving a polite nod. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”
“Thank you,” you said warmly, offering your name as you shook Nerida’s hand. Turning to Grace with a small smile, you added, “It’s nice to meet you both.”
Ominis slid gracefully into the seat across from Nerida and Grace, his movements precise and deliberate. He rested his hands lightly on the table, his pale gaze shifting in your direction. “So, Beauxbatons,” he began, his voice polite and curious. “What was it like? I’ve always imagined it to be… grand.”
You blinked at the sudden attention but managed a small smile. “It’s beautiful,” you said, trying to sum up a place that had been your home for so long. “Elegant, for sure. But strict, too. Everything had to be perfect—uniforms, posture, manners.”
Nerida snorted softly, her elbow propped on the table. “Sounds dreadful. How’d you survive?”
You chuckled. “I ask myself that sometimes. It was a lot, but... well, it was home. And all my friends were there. Not to mention the grounds were stunning, and the food was incredible.”
Ominis nodded thoughtfully. “I imagine the transition to Hogwarts must be… a bit jarring.”
You hesitated, glancing at Imelda, who gave you a subtle nudge under the table. “It’s definitely different,” you admitted. “Less polished, but in a good way. It feels more alive.”
“Alive is one way to put it,” Nerida quipped with a grin. “Chaotic might be more accurate. Just wait until Peeves finds you.”
“Peeves?” you asked, furrowing your brow.
“The Poltergeist,” Grace supplied with a sigh. “You’ll hear him before you see him, unfortunately.”
Before you could ask for details, a voice interrupted the conversation—a smooth, confident drawl that cut through the noise like a sharp blade.
“Well, well, what do we have we here?”
You looked up and froze. The boy standing at the head of the table was, for lack of a better word, stunning. Dark brown hair framed his angular face, his warm brown eyes sharp and filled with mischief, and his smile—crooked and self-assured—had an edge of arrogance that was almost magnetic.
And then there was the way he was dressed—or, rather, the way he wasn’t. While everyone else around you was neatly clad in Hogwarts uniforms, this boy had abandoned the standard entirely. His black cloak was draped lazily over his arm, and he wore a faded black shirt with a band logo you recognized, the sleeves rolled just enough to show off his forearms.
Your stomach flipped before you could stop it. But then he opened his mouth again.
“New girl, huh?” His gaze flicked over you, assessing. “Guess Hogwarts is letting in anyone these days.”
The warmth that had been bubbling in your chest turned icy in an instant.
“Don't be an ass," Ominis said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
Imelda’s eyes narrowed as she leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. "Surely you don’t want to embarrass yourself before she even knows who you are.”
The boy shrugged, flashing you a grin that might have been charming if you weren’t already bristling. “Apologies,” he said, though his tone was anything but sincere. “Sebastian Sallow. And you are?”
You stared at him, your mind connecting the dots almost instantly. So this is the infamous Sebastian Sallow. Recognition flickered, followed quickly by irritation.
“Chouette,” Imelda said smoothly, gesturing toward you. “Hogwarts’ newest transfer student. My oldest friend. And if you keep running your mouth, you’ll be eating pudding from the hospital wing by the end of the night.”
Grace stifled a laugh, while Nerida smirked openly. Ominis simply sighed, his expression a mix of exasperation and mild amusement.
Sebastian raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t waver. “No need for violence, Imelda." He chuckled and slid into the seat beside Ominis as his sharp brown eyes flicked to your colorless robes, the lack of a house tie or emblem drawing his attention.
“Hmm,” he drawled, leaning slightly against the table as though appraising a particularly curious find. “I don’t think you’ll be sitting at this table for long.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh?”
“Judging by the… interesting nickname and the accent,” he continued, his tone dripping with amusement. “let me guess, you’re from Beauxbatons? And their students are what—Hufflepuff material? Maybe Ravenclaw?”
“Sebastian,” Ominis warned, his voice low and sharp.
“I'm just saying,” he said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Slytherin’s not for everyone, especially someone who’s used to…” He paused as he gestured vaguely again, “…a more delicate lifestyle.”
You scoffed. “And here I thought Slytherins were supposed to be cunning,” you replied evenly, tilting your head slightly as you found your voice. “But I guess all that ambition doesn’t leave much room for creativity. It’s almost impressive, really—managing to be both predictable and wrong in a single sentence.”
Sebastian’s grin faltered for a split second before snapping back into place, though the glint in his eyes turned sharp, like he’d just found a new game to play. “I'm just saying, adjusting to a new school at the last minute must be overwhelming,” he said smoothly, his tone dripping with condescension. “Let’s see if the Sorting Hat can find somewhere for you to fit.”
Imelda groaned audibly, throwing her head back. “Shut up, Sebastian.”
He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “What? Don’t you think it’s my duty to give her a proper Hogwarts welcome?”
“Your definition of ‘proper’ is questionable,” Grace muttered, not bothering to hide her annoyance.
“Is it?” Sebastian replied, his grin unwavering. “I think I’ve made quite the impression.”
“Yeah,” you said evenly. “Just not the one you think.”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s better to stand out than to blend in, don’t you think?”
“Oh, you stand out, alright,” you replied, your tone sharp.
Sebastian’s eyes swept over you again, sharp and calculating, before his expression turned mock-thoughtful once more.
"Well, I'm certainly not the only one," he said smoothly, his tone laced with something you couldn’t quite place but knew you didn’t like. “I mean, you’re kinda hard to miss. But, uh…” He tilted his head slightly, the smirk creeping back onto his lips. “Just a bit of advice, since I’m feeling generous,” he drawled. “The food here is great—buffet-style, really—but, you know… moderation. It’s worth considering.”
The words hit like a slap, sharp and deliberate, leaving the table in stunned silence and feeding into an insecurity you’d carried for as long as you could remember. You’d always been bigger—bigger than the other girls at Beauxbatons, bigger than most people thought you “should” be. It was something people seemed to notice before they noticed you. Your size came first, and everything else about you—your thoughts, your talents, your personality—became secondary, if they even mattered at all.
You’d worked hard not to let it define you, not to let the looks and whispers get under your skin. But in moments like this, when someone threw it in your face with a smug grin, it was impossible not to feel the sting. For a brief moment, the familiar ache threatened to creep in, whispering that you’d never belong here, or anywhere. That you’d always be the odd one out. That you’d never be good enough.
But you weren’t about to let him see that.
Before you could respond, though, Imelda was already snapping. “What the fuck? Do you ever stop to think before you open your mouth?"
“That was completely uncalled for,” Ominis cut in sharply, his voice cracking like a whip.
Nerida let out a derisive snort. “You’ve said some idiotic things before, but this is a new low,” she said, staring at him as though he’d sprouted a third head.
Sebastian glanced around, clearly taken aback by the backlash, though he quickly masked it with an exaggerated shrug. “What? I was just joking,” he said. “Don’t get your wands in a knot.”
“Truly, what an innovative personality you’ve cultivated. So original,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting through the tension at the table. The group turned to you, startled by the calm sharpness in your tone. “I know your kind. It’s always the same with guys like you."
That seemed to catch him off guard. His smirk faltered, confusion flashing in his eyes. “My kind?” he repeated.
You tilted your head, keeping your expression steady despite the thunderous rhythm of your heart. You told yourself you shouldn’t stoop to his level, shouldn’t let him get under your skin, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them, sharp and precise.
“Yeah. The student athlete heartthrob who thinks being a prick is endearing. The guy who throws around shitty comments thinking it makes him clever or edgy. If it wasn’t already abundantly obvious, let me make it clear: it doesn’t. It just makes you predictable and pathetic.”
Sebastian blinked, clearly trying to process your words. His smirk slipped further, replaced by something closer to genuine surprise. For a moment, it seemed as though he was searching for a retort, but nothing came.
Grace stifled a giggle behind her hand, while Nerida openly grinned, her eyes darting between you and Sebastian like she was watching an impromptu Quidditch match. Even Ominis let a faint smirk tug at his lips.
You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed in mock lamentation, your gaze pinned firmly on Sebastian. “What’s this? Quiet, all of a sudden?” you said, your voice saccharine and laced with venom. “Oh, don’t stop now, Sebastian. Please, enlighten me with more of your cutting wit. I’m positively desperate to hear what else you think qualifies as clever banter.”
For a fleeting second, Sebastian hesitated. Then he shook his head, his grin creeping back, though it was smaller now, almost reluctant. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, I’ll give you that.”
“And you’ve got a wardrobe full of pretense and exactly zero originality,” you shot back without missing a beat, your eyes flicking deliberately to his faded band shirt.
You were well aware of the hypocrisy in your words even as you spoke them. Merlin knew you had a drawer full of band shirts yourself, a rotating collection of your favorite oversized tees that served as both a badge of honor and a comfortable fallback. You weren’t the gatekeeping type—far from it. But Sebastian Sallow wasn’t the first guy like this you’d encountered, and experience had taught you exactly where to aim to knock someone like him down a peg.
Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown. “Excuse me?”
You tilted your head, feigning contemplation, your voice calm but laced with razor-edged sarcasm. “Let me guess—you picked up that Smiths shirt at a thrift shop because you thought it would make you look deep and brooding and intellectual. What’s next? Are you going to quote How Soon Is Now? at me and call it a personality? Because I’ve met that guy before, and trust me—you’re not breaking new ground.”
The stunned silence that followed was palpable. Sebastian stared at you, his smirk wiped clean from his face, replaced by a blank expression that was almost unnerving in its stillness. For a fleeting moment, you couldn’t tell if he was about to laugh, get angry, or fire back with something equally cutting. But he didn’t say a word.
The others, however, were less restrained. Imelda cackled, slapping the table with her palm as she leaned back in her seat. “Told you to shut up while you were still ahead, Sallow. Chouette's not a push-over."
Grace covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, while Nerida didn’t even bother hiding her amusement. “Honestly, it’s about time someone put him in his place,” Nerida said, grinning as she glanced between you and Sebastian.
Sebastian blinked, whatever fire he’d had earlier extinguished. His sharp brown eyes lingered on you, something unreadable flickering behind them—a spark of surprise? Annoyance?—but whatever it was vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He forced a shrug, the motion stiff and hollow, and leaned back in his seat with an air of practiced nonchalance that didn’t quite land. His bruised ego hung in the air like smoke.
Not that it mattered.
Before anything more could be said, the noise in the Great Hall suddenly hushed. You glanced toward the front of the room to see Headmaster Black standing by the Sorting Hat, his expression a mix of irritation and boredom. He raised his hands, gesturing for quiet, though his sour demeanor seemed to imply he didn’t expect much from the room.
“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” he drawled, his voice carrying across the hall. “The Sorting Ceremony will now begin.”
Your stomach twisted as Professor Weasley stepped forward with the list of names, her warm smile doing little to calm your nerves. She called the first name, and your heart sank when it was yours.
Imelda gave you an encouraging nudge. “Go on,” she said with a grin.
You swallowed hard and stood, your legs carrying you toward the front of the hall almost on autopilot. The weight of hundreds of eyes on you was suffocating, and you felt your face flush as you approached the Sorting Hat. You could hear faint whispers ripple through the crowd as students speculated about the new girl, but you forced yourself to ignore them.
The hat was placed on your head, and the world around you seemed to disappear as its voice filled your mind.
“Ah, a Seventh Year, eh? Interesting. Very interesting indeed. Let’s see what we have here...”
You swallowed hard. Is it always this dramatic? you thought, the sarcasm slipping out before you could stop it.
The hat chuckled. “A sharp tongue, I see. And wit to match. You’re clever—no doubt about that. Ravenclaw would suit you well. But there’s more… bravery, certainly... A strong sense of justice. Gryffindor might fit…”
You held your breath, waiting as the hat’s musings trailed off.
“But no,” the hat said, its tone turning thoughtful. “There’s ambition here—strong ambition. And a determination too. Hmm… tricky, very tricky…”
You could feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air, the hat’s hesitation palpable. But then the hat made a self satisfied "Ah!" and before you knew it, the hat's voice was booming through the hall.
“Slytherin!”
You froze for a moment and the world came rushing back into focus. Applause erupted from the Slytherin table, led enthusiastically by Imelda, though you couldn’t quite shake the knot in your stomach as you made your way back toward them… because you’d be stuck with Sebastian Sallow all year.
“Well, welcome to the den of snakes,” Imelda cheered as you approached. “Don’t worry, you already fit right in.”
You glanced across the table and found Ominis watching you with a faint smile. “Congratulations and welcome,” he said softly. “The hat made the right choice.”
“Thanks,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow. Your gaze flickered to Sebastian, who lounged in his seat with an expression that could only be described as... confused. His eyes met yours briefly, and you simply cocked an eyebrow, letting the gesture speak for itself.
Imelda caught the exchange and snickered, leaning closer to you. “Merlin’s beard, you’ve got him rattled,” she said in a low voice, her tone somewhere between impressed and amused. “That’s new."
“Is he always like this?” you asked under your breath, your gaze flickering back to Sebastian for a moment before returning to Imelda.
“Unfortunately,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. "But don’t let him get to you. He’s a prat most of the time, but he grows on you. Like a stubborn rash.”
“High praise,” you muttered, "Je pense que je vais garder mes distances."
Imelda snorted at your muttered French, clearly understanding enough to catch your drift. “Good luck with that,” she said dryly, her smirk widening. “Sebastian has a way of worming into everyone’s business whether they want him there or not.”
“Sounds delightful,” you replied, your tone flat.
As the sorting continued, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate the scene around you. Despite everything—the nerves, the awkwardness of being the new girl, and Sebastian’s infuriating attitude—Hogwarts certainly had a charm of its own. The way the candlelight flickered off the long tables, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the night sky above, and the palpable energy of students eager for the start of a new term—it all felt alive in a way Beauxbatons never had.
"Grace, look at that one," Nerida whispered excitedly, nudging Grace as another small first-year stumbled nervously toward the hat.
“Poor thing looks terrified,” Grace whispered back with a smile. “Reminds me of my own sorting.”
You smiled faintly at their banter, but a small, persistent voice in the back of your mind kept reminding you that you were still an outsider. Everyone around you had years of shared experiences, stories, and inside jokes that you couldn’t hope to understand or fit into overnight.
As the Sorting Ceremony neared its conclusion, the steady stream of nervous first-years dwindled until only one remained—a wide-eyed boy who looked moments away from fainting. The Sorting Hat barely touched his head before bellowing, "Hufflepuff!" A cheer erupted from the Hufflepuff table as the boy scurried to his seat.
Headmaster Black rose languidly from his chair at the staff table, his expression a blend of boredom and mild irritation, as if the entire evening had been an inconvenience. He waved a dismissive hand toward the hall, his voice carrying effortlessly over the chatter.
“Well, now that we’ve gotten that tiresome ordeal out of the way,” he drawled, his tone dripping with condescension, “you may enjoy your feast.”
The platters of food on the tables filled instantly with a mouth-watering array of dishes: roasted meats, golden potatoes, steaming vegetables, and fragrant pies. The smell alone was enough to make your stomach rumble.
Imelda grinned at you. “Now you’re getting the Hogwarts experience,” she said. “Trust me, the food here is one of the few things that’ll never let you down.”
You chuckled softly at Imelda’s remark, but her encouragement did little to silence the unwelcome echo of Sebastian’s earlier comment in your mind. “Moderation. It’s worth considering.” The words clung to you like a stubborn burr, sharp and biting.
Swallowing hard, you opted for a small portion: a single piece of roast chicken, a scoop of potatoes, and a few vegetables. The rich aromas wafted around you, but the knot in your stomach dulled your appetite.
Imelda didn’t seem to notice as she busied herself loading her own plate. Across the table, Nerida and Grace were deep in animated conversation about summer holidays, their voices blending into the lively chatter of the Great Hall. You focused on their words, nodding occasionally, but contributed little. It was easier to listen, to let their easy camaraderie wash over you while you quietly tried to find your footing.
Sebastian, at some point, returned to being the center of attention. He leaned casually on the table, his earlier smugness replaced with a more agreeable charm. He was laughing and gesturing animatedly as he recounted some story that had them all chuckling. The warmth in his tone was strikingly different from the sharp-edged comments he’d aimed at you earlier.
“Seems like he’s in a better mood now,” you muttered under your breath.
Imelda scoffed. “For now. Just wait until you see him on the Quidditch pitch.”
The mention of Quidditch piqued your interest, but before you could ask, Sebastian’s voice carried across the table, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Oi, Ominis,” he said, “What’s the over-under on me dragging you out to a practice this year? Still terrified of flying?”
Ominis, who had been quietly enjoying his meal, sighed deeply, setting down his fork with deliberate patience. “I’m not terrified,” he replied, his tone flat. “I simply prefer not to hurl myself into the sky on a broomstick, especially when there’s a perfectly good ground to stand on.”
Sebastian leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with exaggerated amusement. “Oh, come on. A little adrenaline never hurt anyone.”
“Except for the countless people who’ve fallen off their brooms,” Ominis shot back dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Like you."
Laughter rippled across the table, and you couldn’t help the faint tug of a smile at their banter. Sebastian’s teasing tone was lighter now, his words less pointed and more playful. It was clear this version of him—the one laughing easily with his friends—was the one they all knew and tolerated, even enjoyed.
But for you, the memory of his earlier barbs was too fresh, his easy charm only serving to deepen your irritation. You’d seen this type before: the golden boy who could say whatever he wanted and still be adored by everyone around him. He was the center of the group’s attention now, weaving through conversations with an effortless charisma that left you feeling even more like an outsider.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Ominis remarked eventually, his soft voice cutting through your thoughts. His pale gaze was turned in your direction, steady and unassuming. “Are we overwhelming you already?”
You managed a small smile. “No, not at all. Just... taking it all in.”
Ominis inclined his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Understandable. But I’ve no doubt you’ll settle in quickly.”
“Thanks,” you said, your tone genuine. Of all the people you’d met so far, Ominis seemed the most sincere, his calm presence a stark contrast to the chaos of the evening.
Imelda, catching the tail end of your exchange, grinned as she elbowed you lightly. “See? I told you. You’ll fit right in.”
You nodded, though the weight of the evening still sat heavy on your shoulders. You glanced back across the table, catching a fleeting look from Sebastian before he quickly returned his attention to his friends. For a moment, you wondered if he was deliberately ignoring you or if he simply didn’t care.
Either way, you decided, it didn’t matter. You weren’t here to impress him.
Steeling yourself, you took a small bite of the potatoes and focused on the warmth of the Great Hall around you. It might not feel like home just yet, but it was a start.
