#Sebaura

[morelikeravenbore]

🦋✨Seventh year Aurélie growing her hair out and putting all those Beauxbatons dance and etiquette classes to use 🥹

💙 Ballerina pose by @lorriiraine

[silentmossfern]

Aurélie Collins @morelikeravenbore

[morelikeravenbore]

have you ever shipped something so hard that you become irrationally happy and make a sound akin to steam escaping from a kettle everytime they so much as stand next to eachother

[morelikeravenbore]

The entire contents of the Restricted Section is in Sebastian's room.

[morelikeravenbore]

✨ First Date, part three

After books & ballet comes...?

[morelikeravenbore]

Aurélie over-dressing for quests to annoy Sebastian, a series ✨💅

sebastian: ... really?

aurélie: 😇😊😌✨💅💖

[morelikeravenbore]

I'VE NEVER LOVED ANYTHING AS MUCH AS I LOVE THIS COMMISSION BY @vienguinn 😭🦋✨

THE FOREHEAD TOUCH 😭

THEIR SOFT LIL SMILES 😭

SEBEBE'S CURL RESTING ON HER HEAD 😭

HIS HAND ON HER WAIST 😭

THEIR EYES 😭

THEIR FRECKLES 😭

THE YELLOW BACKGROUND LIKE THE SUN HAS FINALLY COME OUT FOR THEM 😭

This is literally my favourite thing that's ever existed. THANK YOU @vienguinn, you are soo talented and such a sweet person!

🦋 I used [this screenshot] as reference because I could not get it out of my head.

[morelikeravenbore]

✨ First Date

🤭 smooches under the cut

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beebeeeeeesssss 😭

[morelikeravenbore]

Sebaura core 🥹

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bucko thought himself highly intelligent until he met her

[morelikeravenbore]

same, sebastian. same.

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Aurélie over-dressing for quests to annoy Sebastian, part 462 💅✨

[morelikeravenbore]

Sebastian "Touch Her And I'll Kill You" Sallow.

How to Make a Villain [wattpad | ao3]

actually the best ship dynamic is i would kill for you. i would kill anyone who layed a hand on you. please let me kill for you. please let me show my devotion by dirtying my hands, it's the only way i know how. let me destroy anything that hurts you. i've hurt you too. i'm destroying myself.

[morelikeravenbore]

i—

im just

im just gonna be extremely unwell over these for the rest of

like eternity

dress by @ominouscorridors

[morelikeravenbore]

Croissants & Comfort

Or: Sebastian Sallow loves being married.

Husband!Sebastian, Domestic!Sebaura. Mild sexual references and passing mentions of nudity but otherwise sfw. Written for a discord writing event with the prompt comfort food.

Word count: 1.1k

🦋 [my HL masterlist] 🦋

Sebastian Sallow absolutely, resolutely, with every fibre of his being and inch of his damaged soul, hates cats.

While others, perhaps those more trusting than he, might coo over bright eyes and bushy tails, fluffy paws and little pink noses, Sebastian sees only the sharp claws and pointy teeth of a predator. So when one of them shows up on his doorstep meowing for his soul (or for food, who can tell when it comes to cats?), he closes the door in its little demon face and pretends he never saw it.

Likely, it’s only next door's cat coming to investigate the newly-weds who've just moved into the tiny cliffside cottage, but to him, it’s a dark omen: anything that can supposedly raise itself from the dead nine times is not the type of creature he wants anywhere near his home.

After all, he's had enough of necromancy to last him nine lifetimes of his own.

'Was there somebody at the door?' his wife calls out in French.

Wife.

Sebastian grins like an idiot. Oh, how he loves having a wife.

'Non,' he calls back. His French is still terrible, but likely this is due to the fact he can't stop kissing his French tutor (who also happens to be his wife, who he's married to) long enough to learn anything.

Practically skipping through the cottage, he finds said wife in the kitchen wearing nothing but one of his shirts. The sight of her standing there all supple-skinned and soft-haired and half-naked makes him ache in every fathomable way a husband can. Without another poorly-spoken word in French, he scoops her up, marches her off to the bedroom and forgets all about the cat at the front door.

The second time the cat comes to enquire, it’s via the half-open bedroom window on a blissful Sunday full of slow kisses, little to-no-clothing and other such marital delights. Boneless, Sebastian is sprawled gloriously naked across the bed in a patch of late-afternoon sun with a satisfied grin plastered across his face. His wife, also gloriously naked, sleeps soundly beside him, breathing sweetly on his shoulder with her arms and legs thrown haphazardly across his body. He wishes she were awake (desperately so), but after she practically fell asleep on him mid-smooch, he conceded to let her nap a while to regain her strength. Still, he can't help but trace his fingers up and down her spine, through her hair, along the curve of her waist and over the bumps of her ribcage until he's panting with barely suppressed desire—

He can't help himself — being married has ruined him.

The cat interrupts his breathless worship with a curious little chirrup through the window. Sebastian quickly preserves his modesty with a pillow (lest the cat is not actually a cat at all) and glowers at the unwanted intruder.

‘Shoo!’ he hisses, mindful not to wake the sleeping angel by his side.

When the cat refuses to shoo, he shoo's it again with a French accent.

When that fails, he lobs the pillow at it.

The third time the cat appears, it's cradled so tenderly in his wife's arms that he feels a pang of jealousy that she's not holding him to his chest like the most precious thing in the world. They both look up at him with matching sets of big, pleading eyes (hers as blue as the ocean, the cats as black as a soulless void), but Sebastian is unmoved.

‘Absolutely not,’ he says flatly, pointing at the door.

Aurélie pouts and hugs the cat tighter. ‘But she's hungry!’

‘Aurélie, no way. No.’

Sebastian doesn't mind that his wife gets whatever she wants. After all, he is at his happiest when she is — but a cat is out of the question.

After Aurélie begrudgingly puts the cat out, the only touches he gets for the rest of the night are the daggers she glares into his back; this is the first disagreement they've had as a married couple, and it kills him.

Before he crawls into bed that night, he leaves a stupid bowl of scraps out for the stupid cat.

‘I fed the cat,’ he tells his pouting wife, reaching for the soft, warm weight of her under the covers.

She turns to him, all perfectly soft sweetness, and smiles, ‘I knew you would.’

Several hours and many, many kisses later, Sebastian goes to sleep a happier husband than he'd been in waking.

He wakes up considerably less so.

Beyond the bedroom windows, the ocean is loud, smashing itself into salt against the cliffs.

The cat yowling out the back is also loud, smashing itself against the door for food (or for his soul.)

Very reluctantly, Sebastian extracts himself from the tangle of sheets and limbs, struggles into the first pair trousers he's worn in weeks and drags himself from the bedroom with every intention of giving the cat a gentle nudge up the backside with his foot. On the way through the kitchen, he commits a French sacrilege by stuffing a day-old stale pastry into his mouth before wrenching open the back door.

He glares down at the cat; she's only a wee tawny thing, but he's absolutely positive she'd try to kill him in his sleep given half a chance.

He narrows his eyes.

‘What do you want?’ he growls in English: he doesn't have the patience to butcher French at five-thirty in the morning — especially not for a cat.

The fallacious feline eyes the half-eaten pastry in his hand with a hopeful tilt of its head. Sebastian scoffs: of course the French cat wants his pastry. He expected nothing less.

With a long sigh, he sits on the top step of the porch, pastry firmly in hand. Before him, a vast horizon of sparkling turquoise ocean stretches out as far as he can see — a far-cry from the wilds of Scotland he's grown accustomed to. In the Highlands, the landscape rarely changes: for thousands of years, the scrubby heather-covered hills and rocky, sky-reaching outcroppings have stood unmoved by time or weather — consistent in its beauty, dependable in its familiarity. But in the south of France, the ocean changes day by day, hour by hour; the waves that bid him good morning are not the same that lull him to sleep at night, and though Sebastian understands that his home — his real home — dwells in the heart of the sleeping woman just inside, in France he feels… adrift.

Still, at least the food is good; a small comfort in an unfamiliar land.

He offers a scrap of pastry to the cat.

‘This isn't going to become a thing,’ he warns it.

But it does.

It becomes a thing every single morning.