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forbiddenxfairytales · 7 months

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Trust Fall

• Author: forbiddenfairytales • Fandom: Hogwarts Legacy • Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Reader • Warnings: 18+ Characters | NSFW | MDNI • Word Count: 23.5k

Summary:

A heady rush of defiance and determination surges through your veins, lighting up all your nerve endings like a live wire, and in your eagerness to rebel against the enchantment, you end up doing the complete opposite of Sebastian's request, hands sliding under the fabric of his cloak and slipping it off of his shoulders in one swift, fluid sweep, silk-lined wool pooling at his feet as you dive straight for his necktie, making a fine mess of the striped emerald and silver satin in your eager attempts to loosen it, fingers curling around smooth silk and giving it a gentle tug to urge him closer, unraveling until it's completely come undone, spilling into the hood of his cloak. The words kiss me ring out inside your head, desperate and longing, and for a moment, you can't tell whether it's his voice or your own imagination, caught up in a fantasy you've been playing out inside your head for the past two and a half years. Or: Sebastian Sallow teaches you how to fight against the Imperius Curse late one night, and in the process, some long-kept secrets are revealed.

✨ Read On AO3 or below the cut ✨

Trust Fall

After a whirlwind first year filled with dragon attacks and crumbling ruins, keepers and keys and hidden passageways, bonds of friendship forged in secrets and fire, daring quests and trying trials to prove your worth to wield an ancient form of magic only few can see, you should have expected your final year at Hogwarts would be anything but uneventful — and that suits you just fine.

Though, eager as you are to move beyond the confines of the castle and take the wizarding world by storm, there's a part of you that isn't quite ready to leave this place you've come to call home just yet, a part of you that's still got a few more noteworthy memories to make. Luckily for you, you've got a best friend who certainly knows how to make things memorable.

Ever since that thrilling excursion to the Restricted Section back in your fifth year, the two of you have been sneaking out of your common rooms almost nightly to go on all sorts of daredevil adventures — midnight waltzes through the Forbidden Forest in search of the legendary unicorn den, swarms of lacewing flies fluttering all around you like traces of dark magic; summer nights spent sneaking out of the sweltering confines of the castle and stealing away to the lake for a refreshing swim, diving down to its depths to see if you can catch a glimpse of a pod of mermaids or the eye of the giant squid, exploring cavernous grottos hidden beneath the waterfall, turquoise and sapphires made of pure light dancing across the surface of the water by the glow of your wands.

And of course, just last autumn, the night the two of you flew to the top of the Astronomy Tower to make wishes on a shower of shooting stars, bright sparks of silver and gold lit up in his warm brown eyes as he'd gazed up at them with a wide smile on his face and slowly counted to eighteen — one wish for each year he'd been alive. You suppose it would've been a truly breathtaking sight to behold, only you were too busy gazing at something far more beautiful, charting constellations of your own design in the sun-kissed freckles that dapple his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Luckily, you didn't have to wait long to get your second chance, a flurry of snowflakes swirling down from the sky the night the two of you snuck back up for an encore in celebration of your birthday a few months later, green and silver scarf wrapped around both of your shoulders to keep you warm as you blew out candles lit by an overzealous Confringo cast and shared bites of a slightly lopsided cake he'd insisted on baking himself (though you suspect the only reason it was actually edible was because he'd had help from the house elves.) You never told him, but it was the best birthday you've ever had.

That's just how it was with him. Sebastian Sallow had a way of making every moment feel like an adventure.

And tonight is no exception. An owl asking you to meet him at your usual spot wakes you from your bed at a quarter 'til midnight, and the next thing you know, you're following his Disillusioned form down a candlelit corridor, traversing well-worn paths you've come to memorize like the back of your hand. You assume you're off to the Undercroft as per usual, but the longer you follow, the more it seems Sebastian has other plans (either that, or he has no idea where he's going and is simply feigning confidence — wouldn't be the first time.)

"Sebastian," you hiss, but he doesn't seem to hear you, moving ahead at the same steady pace.

You try again.

"Seb—"

"Bash—"

"Oi, Sebastard!" you call out in a series of escalating whispers, running through your rolodex of well-loved nicknames until he finally hears you, a wrinkle in the hood of his cloak catching under the candlelight as he turns his head in your direction.

"Yes, darling?" he whispers back, and you don't need to see his face to know that he's smirking underneath his cloaking charm. You're suddenly very glad for your own Disillusionment Charm — even though you know he only does it as a joke, purely to rile you up, it still makes you blush up a storm every time he calls you that. Thankfully, you have a lot of practice brushing it off.

"Did my Quaffle hit you a little harder than I thought during last week's match?" you tease, relishing every opportunity to gloat that you were the one to score the final goal and lead your team to victory. "Undercroft's the other way entirely."

"Have a little more faith in me, darling. I know exactly where we're going," he reassures you, cocky as ever. "We're simply taking the scenic route."

"I wouldn't exactly call this scenic," you snicker, casting your eyes around the bare stone walls of the corridor you're currently sneaking down.

"Are you sure about that?" he counters, throwing open the unassuming double doors at the end of the passageway with a graceful flick of his wand.

What lies beyond steals your breath away, shivers akin to a haunting melody in an empty cathedral dancing across the back of your neck as you step into a corridor bathed in glittering golds, greens, and blues, kissed by silver in the light of the full moon spilling through wall-to-wall windows, a mosaic of painted glass depicting star-strewn skies over tempestuous ocean waves, fields of wildflowers dotted between snow-capped mountains, and twisting ivy redolent of the Scottish countryside curling in curtains around a sprawling scenery of a vibrant, lush green forest.

At the very end of the hallway, you spot a familiar fixture — the Serpentine Beast Window, leading right out into the middle of the Defence Against The Dark Arts Tower. How extraordinary — a whole corridor hidden inside of a window. Nearly three years here and you're still discovering new secrets about the castle, despite all your eager exploring back when you first arrived.

"Stumbled upon this little beauty earlier today and immediately thought of you," he says softly, and then quickly clears his throat. "I mean to say, I thought you would like it. And, judging by that little dip in the outline of your cheek that can only mean you're wearing your signature dimpled smile, I'd say I was right."

You turn to face him, exchanging one beautiful scenery for another, wondering just how many of your mannerisms he's got memorized, and could know to look for even when you're nearly invisible.

"And look," he adds with a smug smile, pointing toward the little alcove with the familiar clockwork fixture sat just beneath the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom as the two of you peer around the corner. "You see? Told you I knew exactly where I was g—"

Without warning, a bat-like figure emerges from out of the blindspot of the alcove, and the two of you immediately fall silent.

"Impertinent piece of— I know there's a secret room hidden behind here, if I could just—" Headmaster Black curses, flitting agitatedly back and forth in front of the clockwork cupboard, muttering all manner of incantations to try and figure out a way inside.

In your panic, the two of you bolt back behind the corner you've just rounded, hastily squeezing into a little recess in the wall of the corridor. You've never been the most graceful of people, tripping over your own feet and nearly falling flat on your face in your eagerness to escape, but Sebastian is well prepared for it, reaching out to steady you, grabbing ahold of your waist and pulling you into the little hideaway. Next thing you know, you're pressed right up against him, caged between the cold stained glass wall and the warm, heavy weight of his rapidly rising and falling chest, heart beating like the wings of a wild thunderbird beneath it.

You've never been this close to him before, but even though he's nearly invisible, you've all but memorized his every feature, so it's easy enough for you to map them all out — from the sharp curve of his jawline to the devil-may-care sweep of his hair, to the plush pink pout of his lower lip, and— uh oh, you're definitely staring. And maybe it's just a trick of the light, but you could almost swear he was too, that little telltale flicker as his eyes snap back up to meet yours.

Ocean blues filter through his Disillusioned form as the aquatic landscape bleeds through from behind him, making him look as though he's one with the water, moonlight dancing along the edges of his outline, igniting him in a soft silver glow. Sebastian was right, it is very beautiful in here…though you'd wager it's less to do with the colorful mosaic and entirely due to the man standing in front of you, lips a mere breath from yours, close enough to lean forward and—

Oh, you really need to sort out your priorities. If you're not careful, your less-than-pleasant headmaster will catch the two of you sneaking around past curfew, and that's worth two poltergeists on a good day. This is no time to be thinking about your best friend's lips, wondering whether they might taste like the strawberry sugar quills he'd snuck the two of you after dinner, or the spearmint toothpaste he uses every night before he goes to bed…

The sound of distant footfalls headed down the opposite corridor snaps you out of your reverie, accompanied by the dulcet tones of your irate headmaster, evidently giving up in his attempts to break past the barrier into the place that's been your refuge for the past two and a half years, until all you can hear is the sound of the Defence Tower's crackling Floo flames and the frenzied staccato of both of you trying to steady your breathing.

"I think we're safe now," you tell him, whispers disguising your breathlessness.

"Hmm?" Sebastian replies with a distracted hum, gaze snapping back up from the shape of your lips for the second time in as many minutes.

Sebastian shakes his head, and for a few nerve-wracking seconds you hold your breath in fear that he can feel the sudden jump in your pulse as he leans in even closer in an effort to peer around the corner, before giving you a quick nod of affirmation and slipping out of the passageway, taking what's left of the air in your lungs along with him. The glass wall against your back suddenly feels a lot colder without Sebastian's warm weight against your chest, and for a brief moment you wonder whether you've gone mad, wishing that Black had hovered around for just a little bit longer.

"Yes, it would appear so…for now, at least," Sebastian grouses, lips twisting into a frustrated scowl. "But if Black's been sniffing around the Undercroft, then it's only a matter of time before he works out how to get inside, and that means it's as good as lost to us as a safe haven. I'm…not sure where else we could go," he says, sounding genuinely heartbroken by the notion of having to cut this little nighttime rendezvous short.

You're about to join him in his lament, when a spectacular idea comes to you.

"Oh!" you exclaim, quickly clapping a hand over your mouth when the outline of his eyebrows shoots up in alarm.

"Sorry, got excited," you explain. Sebastian's lips quirk up in fond amusement.

"Follow me," you whisper, taking him by the hand and leading him up the staircase directly across from the hidden corridor.

"Where—" he starts, but you cut him off with a cryptic, "You'll see."

Without another word, Sebastian follows you up several flights of stairs, twists and turns leading you past Charms and up through the Astronomy Tower, sleeping portraits tutting at the two of you along the way.

"Can't believe I didn't think of it before, but, well…I've only just discovered it, and we've always had the Undercroft, so I didn't think…aha! Here we are," you whisper excitedly as the two of you round one final corner, coming to a stop between a blank stretch of stone and a tapestry of Barnabas The Barmy.

Sebastian looks at you like you've gone mad.

"Darling," he drawls, the affectionate moniker dripping with the urge to tease you senseless. "That's a bare stone wall."

"Are you sure about that?" you ask in a mimic of his playful prodding from earlier, lips quirking up in a smug smile at Sebastian's gasp of surprise as an ornate doorway bleeds into view, sprawling across the stone wall like fast-growing ivy.

With a confident smile, you breeze through the door and into a spacious moonlit room decorated in a blend of botanical greenery and gothic architecture, ceiling enchanted to reflect the world outside, sky full of stars glittering through an array of blossoming vines suspended from the illusion of a skylight.

You haven't quite finished setting everything up just yet, so it's still a little messy in some areas (a seemingly endless struggle to coax the paintings and fixtures to hang just right) but you're fairly happy with what you've done with it so far. A handsome writing desk strewn with stacks of dusty old textbooks, half-finished essays, inkwells, broken quills, and a bowl magically enchanted to fill with fresh fruit whenever you enter the room (courtesy of your friend Deek, who'd noticed you missing meals one too many times because you were too wrapped up in one of your projects, and decided to intervene) sits in one corner, while a potioneer's station with a trio of burners and a potting table with nearly-sprouted dittany and mallowsweet sits in another, a whole empty corridor just waiting to be filled with anything your heart desires (your own private library, perhaps) nestled in between.

"Is this…the Room Of Requirement?" Sebastian whispers from beside you, awestruck expression on full display now he's no longer cloaked by his Disillusionment Charm. "I thought that was just a myth."

"So did I," you chuckle, lifting your own with a casual flick of your wand. "…until a fortnight ago."

Sebastian turns to look at you, eyes narrowing.

"Hang on," he says, tone changing from fascinated to guarded in the span of a few words. "You've known about this room for two whole weeks and you haven't told me?"

You can't but feel a little pang of guilt over how hurt he sounds.

"Come now, it's not like that," you assure him, reaching out to take his hand. Despite his sudden shift in mood, he immediately takes it, fingers slipping easily between your own, sighing as you rub soothing circles along his thumb.

"Like I said, I've only just found out about it," you explain. "Professor Weasley showed it to me after I spoke to her about wishing I had a quieter place to study for my N.E.W.T.s. — suppose she took pity on me, seeing as two out of three of my only years here have been plagued by nerve-wracking exams — let me turn it into my own private study, and decorate how I please. She made me swear not to tell anyone, but…well…you're my best friend, Seb, of course I was planning on telling you. I just wanted to wait until I'd finished setting everything up first," you finish, eyes narrowing at one of the paintings above your desk set several inches above the others at an odd angle.

"You are a wonder, you know that?" Sebastian laughs, warmth flooding back into his features as he gazes down at you with a fond smile, giving the palm of your hand an affectionate squeeze. "You've got all these professors fooled into thinking you're this saintly, rule-abiding student, yet here you are, sneaking out past curfew with the school's biggest mischief-maker to learn forbidden magic in a secret room you swore you'd tell no one about. We do so adore restricted areas, don't we?"

"Forbidden magic?" you repeat, arching a curious eyebrow.

"Why do you think I invited you to meet me tonight?" he says, lips curving up in an impish grin. "I've got another spell I'd like to show you."

Your eyes light up in excitement, eager as the day he taught you Confringo.

"But first, I think you owe a tour of your secret private study, starting with…whatever those are," he says, curious gaze flitting between three magnificent archways connected by an imperial staircase just across the way, slivers of gold waltzing between the branches of two majestic oak trees twisting around the entryway of the first, a lullaby of birdsong and gentle ocean waves echoing from the bright, hazy doorway of the second, climbing vines curling like serpents around water-logged trees cloaked in mushrooms and moss, casting shadows like Celtic filigree across the marble floor as the soft silver glow of magically-conjured moonlight spills down the steps leading up to the entrance of the third.

"Oh, you mean my vivariums?" you reply with an air of feigned nonchalance, smiling at the way he gazes at them with all the wonder of a small child discovering magic for the first time. "Forest, swamp, coastal, or grasslands — where would you like to start first?"

Sebastian turns to look at you, eyebrows arched in astonishment.

"You mean to tell me there's an entire ecosystem in each one of these?" he asks.

"Well, of course," you answer. "Each beast I've rescued deserves to feel right at home, wouldn't you agree?"

"You've got magical beasts in there?" Sebastian huffs out around a disbelieving laugh.

"Would you like to meet them?" you ask, lips curling up in a bright smile.

"Would I like to— is that even a question?" he asks, jubilant.

"Please, lead the way." Sebastian sweeps into a low, theatrical bow and is nearly knocked off his feet as you eagerly tug him by the hand toward the first of four doorways, stepping from the serene moonlit study into a lush green forest teeming with birdsong and honeybees, lit by the soft golden glow of warm summer sunshine.

"—should really check on everyone anyway. I set up an automatic feeder and a toy chest in each one, but they still need to be brushed on occasion so I can collect all their feathers and fur," you ramble, but your idle chatter is lost on Sebastian as he stands there in the middle of the forest clearing, gazing awestruck at a pair of unicorns — a bright white female and her little golden foal, coats adorned with a series of swirling spirals that seem to shimmer in the sunlight — trotting toward you in the distance.

"I— I can't believe it," he breathes. "After all that time we spent searching, you finally found the unicorn den."

"Do you remember that mooncalf den we found in the middle of the Forbidden Forest that one time?" you prompt, smiling at the memory of one of your many midnight forays.

"How could I forget? The way you cooed over them. Adorable," Sebastian teases you with a fond smile.

"Fifty paces east and we would've found it," you tell him, delighting in the impressed look on his face.

"Huh," he muses softly. "All that time, we were so close. Funny how often that seems to happen."

You watch his gaze drift down to your entwined hands and settle there for a moment, heart thundering to the beat of swiftly approaching hooves. Before you can think of anything to say, you're pulled out of the intimate embrace by the arrival of your unicorns, the bright white female nearly knocking you off your feet in her enthusiasm to greet you. She nuzzles at your shoulder before shooting Sebastian a curious glance, her little foal hiding behind her. You've never brought anyone else into your vivariums before, and she has every right to be wary after everything she's been through.

"It's alright. Sebastian is safe, I promise," you assure her in a comforting whisper, reaching up to stroke along the bridge of her nose. She huffs out a breath and closes her eyes, shaking her head in an effort to get you to reach a little bit higher. After a moment's deliberation, she approaches Sebastian, bowing her head and allowing him to touch her. Sebastian shoots you a wary glance, asking your permission. You give him an encouraging nod, and slowly, carefully, he reaches up to gently stroke along the same path, letting out a delighted laugh when she huffs and nuzzles against his shoulder in turn.

"This is Hazel," you tell him with a soft smile. "A lovely woman by the name of Betty Bugbrooke bonded with her when she was just a foal, came to visit her in the forest every week. But one night, they were attacked by wolves, and Hazel ran off scared. Betty worried she might be injured, or worse— that poachers might have gotten to her. She asked if I could find her, give her a safe place to recover. It was only after I brought her here that I realized she was—"

On cue, the little golden foal takes this moment to make his grand entrance, squeezing in past his mother to head-butt Sebastian in the stomach, eager for attention.

"Oof," Sebastian laughs, raising his other hand to gently stroke the foal's mane.

"And this is Hazel's son," you chuckle, glancing back and forth between the two boys. "I haven't thought of a name for him yet — he was only just born last week. Perhaps you could help me name him?"

"You'd let me?" Sebastian asks, pleasantly surprised.

"I think it's only right. He seems to have taken quite a shine to you," you smile as the little foal head-butts Sebastian's outstretched hand.

"Either that or he thinks my fingers are carrots," Sebastian laughs.

"I don't think he's quite figured out how to work the automatic feeder just yet," you venture, glancing back at the row of little wooden crates by the entryway and making a mental note to double check you've conjured the spellcraft correctly. "Would you like to feed him while I brush Hazel?"

"Sure," he says, glancing warily at the automatic feeder, not quite sure how to use it himself. "Should I just—"

Before he can finish asking, you lift your wand and produce a fresh bag of beast feed similar to the ones you've used in class, handing it off to him before conjuring your brush and heading toward Hazel.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Sebastian reaches into the bag and lifts a handful of food into the air, where it floats between himself and the foal, who eagerly reaches forward to chomp at the pieces. Sebastian chuckles fondly at the hungry little unicorn and sets about trying to figure out a name for him, listing a few choices out loud and asking him what he thinks of each one in turn.

"What shall we call you?" Sebastian muses, tapping a finger against his chin. "Oh, I know! How about a wood-themed name to match your mother? Let's see…how do you feel about Hawthorn?"

The golden foal snorts and shakes his head.

"Alright, I'll take that as a no," Sebastian chuckles. "Hmm…how about Rowan, then?"

The little foal stamps his front hoof in even deeper disapproval.

"Well, we can't very well call you Dogwood," Sebastian laughs.

Hazel lets out an impatient snort as she waits to be brushed, bringing your focus rather sharply back to her. You breathe out a hasty apology, but she merely gives you a look like she knows exactly why you were so distracted.

"Hush, you," you admonish her with a small smile, reaching up to brush the tangles out of her long silver-white mane.

Hazel lets out another huff like she's sighing at you, glancing over to watch Sebastian playing with her son, red-faced and laughing as the two of them chase each other across the clearing, before turning back to level you with another pointed look, nodding her head and nuzzling her nose into your shoulder, and you think it might just be the closest anyone's ever come to getting a unicorn's stamp of approval.

A little while later, the two of you are sitting at the edge of the forest by the toy box, discarded cloaks laid out underneath you like a makeshift picnic blanket, watching Hazel and newly-named Willow chasing an unpoppable bubble around the clearing, when Sebastian lets out a long, slow, contented sigh and leans his shoulder into yours.

"I have to admit, it's a wonder I've seen you at all these past two weeks," he says with a soft chuckle, gazing out onto the golden horizon, mesmerized by the way the sunlight kisses the surface of the lake. "I could easily stay like this forever."

He turns to look at you, sunlight dancing in his warm brown eyes just like the stars had that night on the Astronomy Tower.

"Here…with you."

Breath catches in the back of your throat as you look at him, eyes trailing down the curves of his freckled cheeks to land on his lips again. Here in the soft afternoon light, his freckles are more pronounced than ever, each one a kiss from the sun. You imagine him spending his summers running around outside, tearing through the countryside on all sorts of rollicking adventures, tending to the gardens and livestock in the village on his quieter days. Perhaps that's how he developed such a sturdy build, broad shoulders straining against the sleeves of his button-up, rolled halfway to his elbows, baring toned, freckled forearms that flex with each flick of his wrist as he guides the moving path of the unpoppable bubble.

You feel your body start to lean forward of its own accord, eyes fluttering closed, but manage to stop yourself before you do something monumentally stupid like kiss your best friend in the middle of a magically-conjured forest clearing.

"Ah, but then you wouldn't get to see the rest of my vivariums," you quickly recover, jolting yourself out of the moment.

"Merlin, I forgot," Sebastian shakes his head, seemingly coming out of his own little reverie. "This is just one of three."

"Four," you correct him with a small smile. "The doorway to the grasslands sits just above the entrance to the Room Of Requirement."

"I didn't even notice," Sebastian marvels. "I was so preoccupied with the three right in front of me."

You slowly get to your feet, dusting grass off the edge of your skirt.

"Well then, are you ready to see the next one?" you ask, holding out your hand.

"Absolutely," he says, taking your offered hand, though he does most of the heavy lifting as you help him to his feet. You expect him to let go once he's standing, but he only holds on tighter, slipping his fingers back in between yours. You can't help the rush of warmth that surges through you at the contact.

"Shall we take the scenic route?" you ask, inclining your head toward the darkened forest just ahead.

"Is there any other way to travel?" Sebastian quips back, eagerly following at your side.

Jobberknolls and fwoopers fly overhead, weaving between the autumn-kissed treetops as the two of you make your way through the thicket, while kneazles chase rolling puffskeins through the leaf-strewn undergrowth. As the two of you trudge along, the forest itself grows darker and darker, fading from the warmth of a golden summer's day into a misty moonlit night, the ground beneath your boots becoming steadily more uneven and unforgiving, solid dirt and gnarled tree roots giving way to soft, muddy earth dotted with moss and mushrooms, puddles of water stretching between patches of grass and tall, swaying cattails, until you reach the very edge of the forest, opening out onto the swamplands.

Sebastian lets out a sharp gasp, faltering for a moment when he sees two skeletal, horse-like creatures with wingspans the size of a Hebridean Black swoop down from the night sky to land at the edge of the forest, one pitch black like the sky above, one as bright as the moon.

"You have thestrals?" he whispers, equal parts amazed and apprehensive.

"There's a den just north of here," you tell him, giving the palm of his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Absolutely riddled with poachers, last time I checked. It's not safe for them out there anymore, at least not at the moment. So, Deek asked me to rescue a mated pair."

"Deek," Sebastian repeats, the name somewhat familiar. "That's that house elf that's friendly with Professor Weasley, right?"

"The very same," you reply with a small smile. "He's the one who helped me set up my study, in fact; encouraged me to rescue as many creatures as I could, give them a safe place free from the threat of poachers."

"Which is how you ended up with a mated pair of thestrals," Sebastian concludes, sounding both amused and impressed.

"Gomez and Morticia," you answer with a cheerful nod.

Sebastian glances at you, one eyebrow arched in amusement.

"It's what I've taken to calling them," you say with a small shrug. "Suits them, don't you think?"

Sebastian watches the pair of bad omens curl up together under the shade of a weeping willow, Gomez stretching out his wings to wrap around Morticia's shoulders like a protective shield, before leaning forward to nuzzle his nose against hers.

"It certainly does," Sebastian replies with a soft smile.

He turns back to look at you, teasing grin returning in full. "Came up with names for all of them, have you?"

"Of course," you reply with a jovial smile. "It would get awfully confusing if I didn't, especially with an entire herd of— aha! There they are, right on cue."

One by one, all seven of your mooncalves emerge into the clearing, moonlight dancing in their big, bright blue eyes, webbed feet splashing through muddy puddles as they all come hurdling toward you, jumping up and down, enveloping you in a cuddly circle. You greet them all by name — Millie, Mooncake, Marzipan, Vanilla Bean, Snickerdoodle, Pancake, and Jellybean — giggling and cooing over them as you ask each one how they've been, who's hungry, and who needs to be brushed.

Too wrapped up in your little herd to notice the way Sebastian's lips curl up in a soft, smitten smile as he watches you, heart fluttering inside his chest at how utterly adorable you are, how big and pure your heart is. Of course you'd have a whole herd of them. He shouldn't have expected anything less.

"Where on earth did you find them all?" he asks, huffing out a laugh as one of the braver ones comes sniffing around his ankles, peering up at him expectantly.

"Poacher camps," you explain, upper lip curling in a scowl. "Every so often, I'll come across an encampment near their den in the forest, catch them before they manage to steal away with their quarry. They mostly use cages with level one locks, so they're easy enough to pick while their backs are turned, but it's not exactly the quickest process. So far, I've only been caught twice. Managed to duel my way out of trouble without too much fuss — nothing a vial or two of Wiggenweld couldn't patch up — and more importantly, without any mooncalves getting hurt in the process. Poachers scare pretty easily when they find out a student knows Confringo — thanks for that, by the way."

You look up from your little herd of mooncalves to find Sebastian staring at you in astonishment, mouth hanging open like you've just revealed some grand secret double-life, so distracted he doesn't even notice the muddy paw prints saturating the knees of his trousers as Jellybean jumps up to nose at his pocket, searching for treats.

"You—" he falters, breath coming out in a disbelieving laugh. "You're amazing, you know that? I wondered where you'd been disappearing off to whenever you weren't with me. Speaking of which…I'd like to come with you next time, if you'll have me. Help you fight the baddies, keep these little ones safe," he says, leaning down to stroke the top of Jellybean's head and letting out a contented hum when she closes her eyes and makes a high-pitched squeaking sound.

"I take back every time I've ever teased you for going soft over these little gremlins. I can see now why you like them so much," he relents, chuckling as Jellybean purrs and nuzzles her head against the palm of his hand, eager for more scritches.

"Aren't they wonderful? They're so sweet and soft and silly," you laugh as you watch a trio of little ones chasing after a tiny floating moon conjured from the toy box with all the fondness in the world. "Oh, I just love them so much."

"Is that what it takes to earn your love? I'm at least one out of three of those things," Sebastian chuckles under his breath, eyes growing wide the moment he realizes he's just said that out loud.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that," you say, struggling to hear anything over the sound of Snickerdoodle happily crunching away as you feed him a handful of treats.

"Nothing," Sebastian lies, summoning a handful of beast feed from out of your bag with a flick of his wand. "I was just asking Jellybean here if she was hungry."

At the mention of food, all seven of your mooncalves come gallivanting up to surround you both, floating toy moon immediately forgotten.

"Alright, easy there, I promise I won't let anyone go hungry," Sebastian reassures them, laughing as their little pink tongues poke out to tickle the palm of his hand. There's no Hazel to tease you this time as you stand there, rooted to the spot as though you've just been Stunned, one breath away from sighing like a lovesick damsel as you watch Sebastian dote on your mooncalves, heart threatening to burst with the overwhelming love it carries.

You wait until the very last mooncalf has huddled in with the rest of their herd and laid their head down in the tall, swaying grasses to drift off to sleep, fur brushed and bellies full, before making your way to the next vivarium. Together, the two of you wade through knee-deep swamp water littered with lily pads and lotus flowers, cloaks soaked and caked in mud and moss, until you reach the mouth of a darkened cave, shards of moonstone jutting from floor to ceiling like rows of shark's teeth.

Led by the glow of your wands, the two of you carefully make your way through the cavernous passageway, a kaleidoscope of colors bursting across the walls each time your light shines through a cluster of crystals, until eventually, the light at the end grows bright enough to outshine even the strongest of light spells, a symphony of crickets and tree frogs and echoes of dripping stalactites giving way to the soft cries of seagulls and gentle ocean waves, moss giving way to seaweed, until the muddied puddles of the swamp meet little whirlpools of sea water.

Together, the two of you step out into a bright, hazy world lit by golden sunlight streaming through fluffy white clouds stretched across a brilliant blue sky, ocean waves crashing against massive weather-worn rocks surrounding you on all sides.

After thestrals and unicorns, Sebastian really shouldn't be surprised to learn that you have hippogriffs too, but he gasps in disbelief all the same when two of them come swooping down from the sky to land right in front of you, eager to be brushed and fed.

They're wary at first, only used to you, Natty, and Poppy from your daring rescue weekend last, watching Sebastian with a kind of cautious curiosity as he dips into a low bow, warm brown eyes fixed first to Highwing's golden gaze, and then Caligo's piercing bright blue. After a moment, the two of them bow their heads, allowing Sebastian to come stand beside you and brush them, Caligo affectionately nipping at the hood of Sebastian's cloak when he sneaks him a few extra treats from your bag of beast feed.

"Keep that up, and I bet he'll let you ride him in no time," you chuckle, plucking another loose feather from Highwing's bright white plumage and stowing it in the pocket of your cloak.

Sebastian turns to look at you, eyes wide with excitement.

Your lips quirk up in a smug smile.

"There's nothing quite like the view of the castle grounds from the back of a hippogriff," you sigh, mischief dancing in your eyes as you cast him a playful grin. "Want to see for yourself sometime?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Sebastian quips back, lips pulling up into a brilliant smile.

"Is it just the two of them in here, or are there any other surprises I should know ab—" Sebastian barks out a startled laugh as a bright white diricawl bursts into existence right beside him.

"Oh, hullo Gwyneira, nice of you to join us," you chuckle as the squat little bird marches up to the automatic feeder, bobbing and weaving without a trace of fear between the hippogriffs' taloned feet, and steals three helpings' worth of food before disappearing again with an audible pop.

You didn't think Sebastian's face had room for any more freckles, but after a long stretch of sitting at the edge of the beach, dark gray trousers rolled up to his knees, wool socks and worn leather boots discarded in favor of dipping his toes into the sand, tempting the water to come up and kiss the soles of his feet, you're proven quite wrong, a ruddy hue settling into the hollows of his cheeks as he squints against the blinding sunlight and watches in fascination as Caligo and Highwing take to the skies.

Eager to see where they're off to, the two of you make your way a little further east, where a large formation of rocks leads up a steep cliffside covered in a thick coat of lush greenery, cracked and crumbling steps ascending to the ruins of an old castle. It's a bit of a climb that's hell on both your knees, but the view at the top is well worth it, sunlight spilling over a landscape that seems to exist forever in the golden hour, rolling grasslands teeming with billywigs and honeybees buzzing about a colorful sweep of wildflowers, surrounded on all sides by majestic, snowcapped mountains.

Sebastian gazes out onto the horizon, elbows resting against the edge of the wooden guardrail fencing in the highest outlook of the clearing, mesmerized by the way the sunlight hits the glittering golds of Highwing's feathers and the cool blues of Caligo's as the two of them soar across the mountain range, when a flash of bright red wings swoops by overheard, wind curling its fingers through his hair.

"Is that— oh, there's no way," Sebastian gasps in unbridled excitement.

"Oh, did I forget to mention I have a phoenix?" you reply cooly, though your proud, beaming smile gives you away.

"Incredible," he says, a little breathless as he watches the legendary bird soar across the mountainous landscape. "Absolutely incredible."

He turns to look at you, sunlight catching against the back of his frame and igniting him in a soft golden glow, fixing you with a smile that's somehow even softer as he adds, "Every time I think I've seen everything, you always find a way to surprise me."

Sunlight spills across his features as he holds your gaze, kissing brand new freckles into the curves of his cheeks and the bow of his lips, and in that moment you've never been more jealous of the sun, longing to follow in its lead.

You're shaken out of the moment by a series of curious squeaks and whines, turning in time to see a family of nifflers eagerly waddling up the path toward you, keen to sniff you out and see if you've got anything valuable to nick. You introduce Sebastian to the felonious foursome — the infamous Irondale Pilferer, Calamity, his partner in crime, and their newborn twins, Mischief and Rascal. Sebastian greets them with a friendly smile, crouching down to tickle Mischief's belly and laughing when a handful of coins comes spilling out of her pouch. You tell him he's more than welcome to pocket them…if he can manage to keep them out of her brother's clutches.

Sebastian lets out a deep, contented sigh as he gazes out into the distance, watching as the sun slowly starts to slip beneath the mountains, bathing the clearing in hazy shades of citrus and rose.

"Blimey, how long have we been in here?" he laughs, glancing down at the edges of his nearly-dried cloak. "It feels so real in here, I'd honestly forgotten we're still in a room inside the castle, and haven't just traversed the whole of the highlands in the span of— what, a couple of hours? This place feels never-ending, it'll be a wonder if we ever manage to find our way back."

He glances over at you suddenly, a worried crease settling into his brow.

"Do you know the way back, or do we just live here now?" he asks, huffing out a nervous laugh.

"Come along, lost boy. Let's get you home," you tease, fixing him with a fond smile as you take him by the hand and lead him down a curved, winding pathway that twists around the cliff face of the clearing, tall grasses and fragrant wildflowers weaving between the pickets of the worn wooden guardrail, down down down until you reach a magnificent waterfall spilling out into a vast, glittering lake on the periphery of a familiar terrain.

As you climb down the last moss-covered boulder and make your way across the clearing, you spot Hazel curled up around her little foal, the two of them softly dozing under the shade of an oak tree, gentle sunlight spilling through its branches in a lazy waltz across the lush green grass.

Hand in hand, the two of you step back through the doorway opposite the edge of the forest, and into the heart of your starlit study.

Sebastian shakes his head like he's coming out of a trance, glancing back toward the sunlit doorway to double check it hadn't all just been a dream.

"An entire world — sorry, four entire worlds — existing inside a single room in the castle?" he marvels, breathless laughter rushing out of him as he glances around the study. "And you managed to set all this up in just two weeks?"

"Well, I had a lot of help," you're quick to assure him, not wanting to take all the credit. "From Deek and the room itself."

"But you're the one rescued all those creatures, and you chose all the decor, didn't you?" he insists, playfully knocking his shoulder against yours.

"I suppose that's true…" you relent, lips curving up in a proud smile as you glance around the room, sleek mahogany bookshelves lining nearly every wall, just waiting to be filled with all your favorites, moonlit sky casting shadows on the polished marble floor through the twisting greenery adorning the skylight up above.

"It's magnificent, by the way…your private study," he tells you, voice soft and low as he turns back to look at you.

"Our private study now, if you'd like," you correct him, mesmerized by the way the moonlight dances in his eyes.

"A secret room that's just ours alone? Oh, I like the sound of that very much," he says, voice close to a whisper now as he keeps his steady gaze fixed on yours.

It's easier to catch this time, now you're no longer under the spell of a Disillusionment Charm, the way his eyes trail down to your lips and linger there, just for a moment. Your tongue darts out to swipe across your bottom lip in instinctual anticipation, and you could almost swear you hear his breath hitch, hand gripping yours a little tighter.

And oh, you're going to do something very stupid if you don't snap yourself out of this right now.

"So," you prompt, embarrassed by how breathless you sound. "You promised to show me something forbidden tonight?"

Sebastian blinks, eyebrows jumping to his hairline.

"What?" he blurts out, half shocked disbelief, half breathless laughter.

Ah. You just clocked the way that sounded. Brilliant subject change. Spectacular choice of wording right there.

"You— you said you had a spell you wanted to show me?" you clarify, cheeks burning at the eager look in his eyes.

"Oh," Sebastian breathes, shoulders sagging a little. He shakes his head to try and clear it.

"Right, we should—" he falters, suddenly nervous, hand slipping out of yours as he makes his way into the middle of the study. (You try very hard not to mourn the loss, the space between your fingers a little too empty without his to fit perfectly between them.)

The look he gives you as he stands opposite you is apprehensive, posture worse than usual as he ducks his head down in an effort to appear smaller.

"So…" he starts, lips pulling up in a wincing smile. "I trust you remember a little spell called…" he swallows. "…the Imperius Curse?"

All the air rushes out of the room like a Dementor's kiss, fear lancing through you like slivers of ice, leaving pins and needles in its wake.

It's been over a year since the catacombs. You thought he'd put all that behind him.

"Sebastian…" you say his name like a warning.

Sebastian puts his hands up in surrender.

"Allow me to explain," he says softly. "Please."

You purse your lips, eyes narrowed. After a moment's deliberation, you let out a sharp sigh and give him an impatient look, your silence giving him permission to continue.

Sebastian breathes a sigh of relief and nods in gratitude.

"Okay, so…hear me out," he starts. "You and I have both known what we wanted to do since the end of our fifth year, yeah? But getting Outstandings in our O.W.L.s is only the beginning. If we're to have even a shot at surviving life as Curse-Breakers, then we need to be prepared for what's out there."

"Even— no, especially— all the things the school deems too dangerous for us to even know about. Honestly, what's the use in Defence Against The Dark Arts if they're not going to teach us how to properly defend ourselves against the Dark Arts?" Sebastian scoffs, rolling his eyes as he riles himself up over his longstanding disdain for the curriculum.

Your lips twitch into a small smile in spite of yourself.

Sebastian shakes his head and lets out a wearying sigh, reeling himself back in, gaze softening as he turns back to look at you.

"Listen, I know you didn't want to learn it last time…but this time, I really think you should," he insists, solemn conviction laced with an undercurrent of soft, desperate pleading. "Not for the purpose of using it on anyone, but so you can understand how it works, the kind of power that comes with wielding it, and most importantly, how to fight against it, so that if anyone is ever fool enough to cast it on you, you won't be so easily subject to their whims."

A shudder runs through the both of you at the very thought, Sebastian bristling with a kind of fierce protectiveness you've only ever seen him display for a few choice souls — his twin sister, his oldest friend, and you.

"And the other two curses?" you ask tentatively, voice low and quiet as your vision swirls with sparks of acid green and crackling carmine, a phantom burst of pain unlike anything else in this world rippling across your abdomen as the memory of cold stone beneath your hands and knees overwhelms you. "Would you have me fight against those, too?"

"No!" Sebastian says a little too sharply, terror flashing in his eyes.

He takes a deep breath, grounding himself.

"The only one I feel even remotely comfortable casting on one another is the Imperius Curse. In the right hands, it's the only one that isn't inexorably harmful…the only one anyone's ever been able to fight against. With the other two, it's really just a matter of…of dodging it," he swallows thickly, a flash of guilt tightening his jaw. "Or…or enduring it."

Sebastian's expression darkens and you know he's thinking back to the Scriptorium again, his reaction so raw and visceral it's as though you're back on a different stone floor, tears drenching the hood of your cloak as he'd clung to you, shoulders shaking in violent, body-wracking sobs.

It's not as though he's made peace with what happened with his uncle, or that he feels more remorse for one grievance over the other. You suppose it's just a little easier to contend with your past mistakes, to quiet the voices of all the people you've wronged, when you don't have to look one of them in the eye every day…when they've been nothing but kind and loyal to you, and all you did in return was repeatedly let them down.

And you know, because he's told you countless times now, that there isn't a single day that goes by where he doesn't wish it'd been him instead, that he should've fought harder against your refusal to cast it on him. But that's an empty regret, because even if you had to go back and do it all over again, you still never would have let him be the one to take it.

"I'll never cast that spell on you ever again," he says, broken, choking. "Once was already too much. I'm so—"

"I know you are," you tell him softly, the same words you've repeated countless times since that quiet little moment in the Undercroft at the end of your fifth year.

You'd kept in touch over the summer, too eager to hear from him to follow through on any half-baked notions of needing space. And a good thing, too — Sebastian, it seemed, was just as keen to hear from you in return. He'd written dozens of letters — two, three, four, sometimes five times a week, if his owl was feeling up to it (though according to one of his letters, she'd start biting his fingers if he ever reached for his quill a sixth time in the span of a single week.)

He never veered toward the topic of your magic or what happened down in the catacombs, content to talk at length about the mundanities of your day instead, asking after your fancy new life in London living all on your own in the flat Fig had left you in his will, commiserating over the hardships of settling a late loved one's affairs. He never seemed bored in the slightest, even when you felt you were droning on about nothing, always happy to hear what you've been up to, even on the days you never left the house. To Sebastian, it seemed no subject could be exhausted, especially when it came to you.

In each new letter, he'd oh-so-casually ask about one of your favorite things, from sweets to flowers to the muggle authors you'd grown up reading, and every week, you'd find a little hand-wrapped parcel among his many letters — a box of sugar quills or a chocolate frog he'd picked up in Hogsmeade the weekend before, a bright blue jobberknoll feather he'd found at a nearby den and fashioned into a quill, fresh honeysuckles and hyacinths from his neighbor's garden pressed between the pages of a quote he'd scribbled down from one of your favorite books, along with an essay on why he liked it.

He'd been keen to keep you up-to-date on how he'd been faring too, eager to keep busy and make himself useful, helping his neighbors with various errands and tasks they might need done, tending to livestock and community gardens, helping to fix up the hamlet in the wake of loyalist destruction. He spoke like he was desperate to prove himself, prove he was keeping his word. A few times, you couldn't help but giggle at the way he sounded like an overzealous suitor trying to woo his intended, keen to sell up his accomplishments.

At first, you'd thought it was simply because he was lonely, that you were his only correspondent, but then Ominis finally broke his silence in July (insisting in his letters to you that given the choice between his family's company and Sebastian's, he supposed he'd rather tolerate the latter, and not because he missed the impish bastard, or anything — his words) followed by a tentative hope you're well from Anne in August. Though she hadn't quite been ready to forgive him back then, Anne was still anxious to know how her brother was faring, not-so-subtly asking if you'd heard from him in her owls to you, and, according to Anne's letters, getting an earful from one of her former neighbors.

After Anne left Feldcroft, she'd kept in touch with one of the neighbors she'd always been closest to — a kindly old woman who used to send over home-cooked stews when Anne and Sebastian first arrived on Solomon's doorstep, and who'd apparently been singing Sebastian's praises all summer for all the hard work that nice young man had been doing to help cut back on the gnome infestation threatening to overtake her rose garden.

Evidently, there were only so many times Anne could bear to hear about that poor boy's crumpled face every time the old woman mentioned Anne's name in passing, how sweet it was that he missed his twin, but wished her luck in her travels as she took a much-needed respite to mourn the loss of their uncle, opting to stay behind and look after the estate, that she'd finally broken and decided to send him a letter. Just one line — hope you're well — but to Sebastian, it was everything.

And yet, the frequency with which he wrote to you never wavered. If anything, it'd given him even more to talk about.

You remember how excited he'd been for term to start back up again — it was all the two of you seemed to be able to talk about in the days leading up to September. You'd grown so used to his presence, even if it was only through letters, that the stroll through Diagon Alley felt rather lonely without him, as did the train ride from King's Cross (though an afternoon of stories, snacks, and Exploding Snap with Ominis, Poppy, Natty, Garreth, and Amit certainly made for a lovely journey through the countryside) but seeing as he could easily get all his supplies in Hogsmeade and simply use the Floo Network to travel to the castle, it seemed rather silly to invite him to come all the way to London, just to go all the way back.

You remember the way the floor fell out from underneath you the first time you saw him again — teeth as white as a Patronus Charm against the sun-kissed glow of his skin, an impossible surplus of freckles scattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, spilling into the curves of his dimples as his lips pulled up into a bright smile, warm brown eyes lit up like afternoon sunlight across the forest floor, somehow even taller and stronger than he'd been only a few months prior as he'd rushed toward you and lifted you off your feet in a dizzying hug, shivers dancing down your spine as he'd buried his face into the crook of your neck and whispered, "Merlin, I've missed you."

By then, you'd finally begun to admit to yourself that maybe, quite possibly, you might have developed something of a small crush on your closest friend. This moment clearly endeavored to whack you round the back of the head with it.

Laughter caught like honey in the back of your throat as you'd pulled back to look at him, cheeks burning like you'd just hugged a living Confringo blast, and said, "Thought you'd be sick of me by now. We only wrote each other every day."

But Sebastian's sincerity only grew stronger.

"Never. Much as I looked forward to your letters, it's not the same as getting to see you in person. Merlin, can't believe it's been almost three months since I last saw you. You look—"

Sebastian paused, eyes lingering on the silken spill of your hair as it cascaded down your shoulders, longer now and out of its usual braid, the healthy glow that had blossomed across your cheeks from all those downtown strolls in the warm summer sun, same bright eyes, same soft smile you always seemed to reserve just for him.

"I sure hope the end of that sentence is good," you'd teased in the wake of the silence that stretched between you, momentarily worried you had some leftover pumpkin pasty on your face, or forgotten to repair a singe in your cloak.

But then Sebastian had let out the softest laugh, ducking his head in a sheepish grin and peering up at you through his lashes. And Merlin, how your heart raced.

"That's one word for it. Good. You look good," he said softly.

He looked at you for a moment longer, lips pulling up into a soft — dare you call it adoring — smile. And then he shook his head, and in the next instant it was gone, replaced by something sharper, cheekier.

"Though it appears you've somehow gotten even shorter since the last time I saw you," he added in a teasing lilt, lifting his arm and settling it atop your head as though you were a particularly moody armrest.

"Or you just shot up over the summer, you bloody tree," you'd quipped, wriggling out from under his arm, only for it to fall around your shoulders and stay there until they called for everyone to take their seats for the start of term feast.

Sebastian's laughter lanced through you like a bolt of lightning, and you spent far more time than you'd care to admit lying awake later that night wondering whether he'd planned it.

The next morning, you awoke to find him waiting for you bright and early outside of your common room, in the midst of a heated debate with the eagle doorknocker over the answer to the riddle when is a door not a door?

"When it's ajar," you'd answered as you stepped out into the corridor, eagerly accepting the freshly-baked croissant held out in his hand.

"That's—" Sebastian blurted out, flustered. "How is that more of a correct answer than a portrait? Ever heard of the Fat Lady? The painting of the ticklish pear? The doorways to both the kitchen and the Gryffindor common room are literally hidden behind a portrait. So technically, my answer was correct."

You'd never seen a doorknocker look so exhausted.

"Does this little serpent belong to you?" the bronze eagle asked you as it cast a wearying glance at Sebastian.

Now that's one hell of a riddle.

"I— yes. He's with me. Sorry," you answered quickly, turning on your heel and steering Sebastian down the corridor before the doorknocker decided to exact vengeance by locking you out of your common room later that night.

You glanced over at the serpent in question, shit-eating grin spread across his ruddy cheeks.

"Sebastian," you prompted as you took in the sight of him, out of breath as he greeted you with a cheeky hello you. "Do you know how many staircases it takes to get from Slytherin Dungeon to Ravenclaw Tower?"

"Oh bloody hell, not another riddle," Sebastian groaned.

"Seventeen," you replied, cheeks aching from the effort of trying not to laugh. "Seventeen staircases. And you climbed all of them this morning just to…what, argue the merits of what makes for a good riddle with my house's doorknocker? You do know I could've just met you in the Great Hall, right? You didn't have to go to all the trouble."

The redness in the hollows of his cheeks spread like wildfire across the bridge of his nose, nearly drowning out the smattering of freckles there.

"Well yeah, I could've just waited downstairs," he brushed it off with false bravado. "But I figured it's only right I escort my charge to her first day of classes. It is a special occasion, after all."

"Is it, now?" you asked, smile growing even wider.

"It is," he quipped. "Did you know it's officially been one whole year since the day we met?" he asked, puffing out his chest with a kind of pride that made your stomach swoop like you just fell through the vanishing step in the grand staircase.

"You mean since I knocked you on your arse?" you teased around a mouthful of warm flaky pastry and rich chocolate.

Sebastian pouted at you and made a grab to take back his croissant, barking out a laugh when you shrieked and proceeded to shove the entire thing into your mouth.

"The very picture of grace," he'd mused, smile fit to bursting as you stuck your tongue out at him.

"Speaking of which," he added, smile turning sly. "I think it's high time we had a rematch, wouldn't you?"

"Eager to make losing to me a yearly tradition?" you smirked.

"You wish," he snorted, smile fond as he rolled his eyes. "Meet me in the Undercroft after your last class, and we'll set the record back to rights."

"I look forward to sweeping you off your feet again," you countered with a playful smile.

Sebastian's eyebrows drew up the slightest fraction, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile as he let out a sound that was half hum, half laughter.

"Here's hoping one of these days I can manage to do the same," he'd mused, all the air rushing out of your lungs in a single breath as he took a step closer and reached out to swipe his thumb across your lower lip.

You had half a mind to wonder whether the duel had begun early, whether he'd been practicing wandless, nonverbal spells over the summer, and had struck you unawares with a combination of ice and fire charms, heart pounding in your chest as you watched his tongue dart out to lick a dab of melted chocolate off the edge of his thumb, darkened gaze locked on yours the whole time.

"See you then," he said, the low hum of his laughter stirring something that felt an awful lot like wings in the pit of your stomach, threatening to burst out of you and chase him down the corridor as you watched him walk away.

It took you five whole minutes to find your way to your first class, despite the fact that he'd literally walked you to the door.

You were still in a bit of a daze when you'd strolled through the sliding gate several hours later, hair wild from a particularly humid session in Potions brewing your first-ever N.E.W.T. level Draught Of Living Death, a streak of dirt on your nose from wrangling a screaming mandrake into a fresh pot of soil in Herbology — at least, that's the excuse you'd told yourself when Sebastian caught you off guard in the middle of your rematch, knocking you off your feet with a well-timed Depulso that had absolutely nothing to do with the way his forearms flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

The spell hit you directly in the stomach and had you gasping like you'd just been struck by a charging graphorn. You vaguely registered the clattering of a dropped wand against worn stone, and in the next moment, Sebastian was on his knees beside you, hands reaching out reflexively and then faltering in midair, like he wasn't sure what to do, whether he was allowed to touch you.

You'd laughed it off, relieved for that first rush of air back into your lungs, head swiveling to where he kneeled beside you, preparing to see a sheepish grin, a wincing apology made less effective by a triumphant, gloating smirk, but all you saw when you looked into the eyes of your best friend was sheer terror, and you knew in an instant where his mind had gone.

Sebastian's gaze flitted between your eyes and the place you'd been hit — the very same spot his Cruciatus Curse had struck you less than a year prior.

"Oh Sebastian, it's okay," you reassured him, wincing at the slight wheeze to your voice. "I'm fine, see? It wasn't anything like—"

Sebastian's lower lip trembled, and in the next moment you'd been pulled into a tight embrace, shaking in his arms as seismic sobs wracked his entire body, an endless chorus of I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me spilling from his lips.

You'd held him back just as tight, assuring him between gentle strokes of his hair that you'd long forgiven him, that you knew he didn't have a choice.

"But I did have a choice," he argued, pulling back to fix you with a red-rimmed scowl. "I led you down there. I insisted. I'm the one who got us into that impossible situation in the first place. I made so many terrible choices, and all that time I let myself believe it was worth it because I thought I was doing the right thing. But in the end, all I did was hurt the people I—" he faltered, swallowing around a sharp burst of nerves that only had half to do with the guilt welling up inside him.

"I've had all summer to relive what I did to you…to everyone," he whispered softly, haunted by ghosts both living and dead as he'd looked into your eyes.

It's the same way he looks at you now, desperate and pleading for forgiveness you've already granted him, absolution he still won't allow himself.

You know how much he regrets it, how deeply it haunts him, even now. You know he's changed, learned from his past mistakes, determined never to repeat them. You know you can trust him. So if Sebastian wants you to learn one of the Unforgivable Curses, then you have to trust that it must be for good reason.

"So you're telling me it's actually possible to fight against the Imperius Curse?" you ask, still wary, but, you'll begrudgingly admit, curiosity effectively piqued. "How in Merlin's name did you ever learn how to do that?"

Sebastian lets out a breath he'd likely been holding that entire time, some of the tension unraveling from his shoulders as his lips pull into a smile like he's relieved you're still standing here with him, eager to share in something new he's learned like it's just another trip to the Restricted Section.

"Well, as you may have noticed, our dear friend Ominis is not exactly thrilled about our choice of career," Sebastian starts, and you can't help the small smile that curls across your lips as a litany of passive aggressive comments about how he'd better not see the two of you anywhere near the Janus Thickey Ward when he starts his residency in June, comes flooding into your memory. Sebastian clocks your smile and his lips twitch into one of his own.

"Keeps lamenting about how he wishes we'd choose something less dangerous," he adds, rolling his eyes in a show of fond amusement. "But that if we absolutely must, then he'd rather we go in fully prepared for what's out there. I'd assumed he was just going to help us practice a few defensive spells, offer to teach us some of the healing charms he's been learning shadowing Nurse Blainey. Imagine my surprise when Ominis Gaunt, self-proclaimed opposer of anything to do with the Dark Arts, offers to teach me the ins and outs of the Imperius Curse."

That certainly does surprise you, helping to put whatever remains of your unsettled nerves at ease. You know Ominis would never agree, let alone be the one to suggest practicing dark magic unless he truly felt it would be beneficial, unless he truly believed Sebastian could be trusted with such a thing.

"We've been practicing nearly every night in the Undercroft for the past several weeks," Sebastian goes on to explain. "I'd have told you sooner, but I didn't want to risk subjecting you to such a spell until I'd grown comfortable using it myself, fighting against its effects. Now that I have…would you like to see how it's done?"

A frisson runs down your spine, and you're not entirely sure whether it's thrill, fear, or some strange combination of the two. You swallow, only trusting yourself to nod.

"Alright then, draw your wand," he instructs, taking a few tentative steps closer until he's standing right behind you, gentle hands wrapping around the wrist of your dominant hand and bringing it into the air alongside his own.

"We'll begin with the wand movements so you can establish muscle memory," he says, warm breath ghosting across the back of your neck as he speaks in a low, soothing voice, sending shivers that have nothing to do with the forbidden magic you're about to perform racing down the length of your spine.

Together, you aim for the opposite wall, following his directions as he speaks them aloud. Arc up…left…up at a sharp diagonal to the right…and then straight back down in a figure four.

After you've completed your first circuit, Sebastian takes a step back and allows you to practice a few more times on your own, making sure you've got the movements just right.

"Good," he says, sounding impressed, but not altogether surprised. "Perfect form, in fact."

You can't help the automatic smile that curves across your lips at his praise.

"Now to put it into practice," he prompts, drawing his own wand from the inside pocket of his cloak and turning round to face you.

"Do you trust me?" he asks softly, fixing you with a serious, almost pleading look, like if you answer no it's as good as casting Crucio.

"You know I do," you answer automatically. Because even though you're still a little nervous at the prospect of delving into darker forms of magic, there's no one you'd rather learn it from.

Sebastian's eyes crinkle in a grateful smile, before quickly shifting back to something more serious.

"Alright then," he says, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Prepare yourself, I'm going to cast it on you."

"I'm ready," you tell him, standing with your spine a little straighter, wand at your side.

"Imperio," he intones, wand flicking through the air in the pattern he'd just taught you.

The effect is instantaneous, a serene sort of blankness settling over your mind like you're floating through the clouds, a comfortable warmth akin to dozing off in front of the fireplace spreading throughout your entire body. Then, clear as a bell, you hear Sebastian's voice ring out inside your head, instructing you to walk over to your desk and bring him back an apple from the bowl set atop. Without even questioning it, you do so, legs moving of their own accord.

"Finite," he says as you come to a sudden stop in front of him, a bright red honeycrisp apple held out in offering in the palm of your hand. The floating high disappears instantly, leaving you feeling out of sorts, a little dazed as you stare down at the apple, almost as if you'd dreamed you'd gone to fetch it.

"How are you feeling? Are you alright?" he asks, checking you over like he's the one preparing for a Healer's career. "It can be a little overwhelming when you first experience it. Part of why I asked you to bring that," he adds, pointing down at the apple. "The sugars will help you recover."

Sebastian's always had a bit of a sweet tooth, but the sudden uptick in the sheer amount of sugar quills you'd seen stuck between his teeth as of late suddenly makes a lot more sense. Slowly, as though testing the bounds of being back in control of your own limbs, you lift the apple to your lips and take a small bite, mulling over his question.

"It was…strange," you decide, aware that's the biggest understatement of the century. "I know I should've been scared, but instead I felt oddly serene."

"That's what it does to you," Sebastian nods solemnly. "Lulls you into a false sense of security. Tricks your mind into complacency, like you're merely a vessel and someone else is steering the ship."

"I can see how it earned the name unforgivable," you agree with a grimace. "I reckon the only reason I'm not nearly as unnerved as I should be right now is because I knew you were the one casting it."

"That's exactly why I wanted to be the one to teach you," he says with renewed conviction. "In order to learn how to defend ourselves against it, it's important to practice with someone we trust."

"Which is why," he adds with a wry chuckle. "You're going to be the one casting it on me next."

Your lips part in surprise. Even though you knew it was coming, it still catches you off guard.

"Are— are you sure?" you ask warily.

"Course I am," he reassures you with a confident grin. "As I said, it's important to know what it feels like from both sides, understand the kind of power you wield."

You stare at him for a moment, mulling it over, and then give him a curt nod, taking a few steps back to allow enough room for a safe cast.

"Remember, you have to mean it," he reminds you, stowing his wand in his pocket and standing in front of you with his arms behind his back. "Concentrate. Think the command very clearly in your mind."

You take a deep breath as you square your shoulders, assume your stance, and raise your wand.

"Alright, I'm going to cast it," you tell him, giving him the same warning he'd granted you.

"I'm ready," he assures you in an echo of your words.

"Imperio," you say aloud, and a warm weight like you've just been handed the reigns to the carriage of Helios himself settles into your dominant hand. The effect on your intended target is immediate, spine straightening as he stands to attention, an eerie green glow flickering to life in the heart of his warm brown eyes.

You nearly lose your nerve when you see it, an overwhelming, all-consuming realization that you're completely in control of another human being settling into the pit of your stomach like lead, terrified that one wrong move could potentially hurt your dearest friend. But then you remind yourself that he's the one who asked you to cast it on him, that you're learning this spell for a reason, and so you close your eyes and clear your mind, focusing on the task at hand.

Walk over to the desk and bring back one of Highwing's feathers, and then place it behind my ear, your own voice rings out inside your head, clear as crystal. You open your eyes in time to see Sebastian already on the move, watching with a kind of macabre fascination as he does exactly as you'd commanded.

"Finite," you say the moment you feel the quill gently slide into place behind your left ear — though at first you wonder whether you've done it right, when Sebastian doesn't immediately withdraw his hand, instead letting it linger to brush back a lock of hair and tuck it behind your ear to join the bright white feather. You're saved from worry when he clears his throat a moment later, the bridge of his nose dusted in a curious shade of pink.

"A perfect first cast," he tells you, and although you don't necessarily want to be proud that you'd gotten such a dark spell right on your very first try, you can't help but preen a little at his praise.

"Now, I want you to try it again, but this time, let's focus on recitation," he says, backing up a few paces and resuming his stance from before. "Think the words very clearly inside your mind and watch as they come spilling out of my mouth as though we were a living ventriloquist act," he quips, lips curling up in a wry smile.

Used to his rather dark sense of humor in light of things he should probably take a bit more seriously, you merely smirk and roll your eyes.

After another steadying breath, you lift your wand and cast it again, beginning with a simple, "Hi, my name is Sebastian Sallow, and I'm a seventh year Slytherin at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," watching in equal parts wonder and horror as he repeats every word you'd just been thinking in perfect recitation.

That's what an utterly ridiculous idea comes to you, and, curious to test the bounds of the enchantment beyond mere facts and figures, you instruct him to say something you know he never would of his own accord.

"Hello, I'm Sebastian Mallowsweet, and cockroach clusters are my favorite treat in all the world! I can't wait to buy a whole barrel from Honeydukes the next time I'm in Hogsmeade," Sebastian repeats in a bright, cheerful voice that makes you giggle so hard you nearly slip up and lose your hold on the spell, but not before you get him to add in a hearty, "Perhaps I'll share some with my best mate, Duncan Hobhouse, the bravest man I've ever known."

"Finite," you manage between poorly-stifled bouts of laughter.

"Oh, that's just cruel," Sebastian chides you with a playful scowl, shaking himself out of the enchantment.

"I'm not sure what's worse, the image of a whole barrel of cockroach clusters, or the idea of voluntarily spending time with Puffskein Dunkein," he adds with a sharper shudder toward the latter. "Rest assured I'll get you back for that heinous slander."

At this point you're a lost cause, laughing so hard it's like you've downed a dozen shots of giggle water, shoulders shaking as you struggle to regain composure. Try as he might, Sebastian can't even pretend to be cross with you, lips quirking up at the corners in a fond smile.

"It's a power feeling, isn't it?" he asks softly, giving you an appraising look, curious to see how you'll answer.

"Is it bad that I sort of enjoyed it?" you ask, wincing as though you've just admitted something wicked.

Sebastian studies you for a moment, choosing his next words very carefully.

"There's nothing wrong with the thrill that comes with learning a bit of forbidden magic," he says thoughtfully. "As long as you're responsible about how you use it."

"Some people learn that lesson through trial and error," he continues, lips twisting into a self-effacing frown. "And to some, it just comes naturally. Given that I am speaking to the person who had the chance to take one of the most powerful sources of magic known to wizardkind and keep it all to herself, but chose not to…I think it's safe to say you've more than proven yourself."

Your lips pull up in a small, grateful smile.

"And let's not forget one very important caveat: I gave you full permission to cast it on me and make me say whatever you wanted," he reminds you. "So let me ask you this: would you ever cast it on me without my consent?"

"Of course not!" you answer without hesitation, scandalized by the very thought.

"There you go," he says with a reassuring smile. "So, no, you're not a bad person for enjoying that little moment of power, because in the end, all you did was make a friend say something silly."

"But the kinds of people who usually wield this type of spell…well, let's just say their intentions aren't quite so whimsical," he says, grounding you back in a sharper reality, the chilling warning like a gust of wind through lantern light, reminding just how dark and twisted the path through the woods can be.

"Which is precisely why you're learning it," he says with bright conviction. "So you can understand the dangers of it, learn how to fight against it."

"Now, with your permission, I'm going to cast it again, and this time, I want you to try to break it, alright? Concentrate on channeling your own wants and needs, making your own voice louder than the one giving the commands."

You give him a firm nod of affirmation, wand held steady at your side.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready," you reply.

Sebastian raises his wand.

You brace yourself for it this time, try to shake yourself out of the fog the moment it hits. Just before you slip under, you see Sebastian's lips curl upward in a mischievous smirk, dark eyes glinting with mirth. It doesn't take long for you to figure out why, when, true to his promise to get you back for your little cockroach clusters prank, the words, "Sebastian Sallow is the best in our year — a dueling champion, clever as Merlin, graceful as a phoenix on the wind," come tumbling out of your mouth without your approval.

You concentrate all your effort on trying to break his hold on you, your own voice snorting with laughter inside your head as you recall that first day in Defence Against The Dark Arts when you'd knocked that cocky little smirk clean off his face with a single blow. Dueling champion, my arse.

That little burst of your own laughter grounds you, gives you clarity, strengthens your resolve to push back against the commanding voice inside your head, until you feel the curse's hold on you start to weaken, little by little, like the steady tick tick tick of an unlocking charm, before all the right tumblers and springs click into place.

Spell broken, you decide that the best way to get Sebastian back is to take his own ostentatious accolades a step further, hand over your heart as you pretend to swoon, sighing, "Devilishly charming, too. I would gladly spend hours charting constellations in the freckles that adorn his handsome face."

"With my lips," you add with a salacious wink to really drive it home, delighting in the way his whole face goes up in flames, burning brighter than a Confringo blast.

(The fact that it's all true is irrelevant. The point of the thing is to tease him, and judging by the stupefied look on his face, you've succeeded.)

"I—" Sebastian falters, embarrassingly breathless. "Hang on, I didn't tell you to say any of that!"

"That's right!" you exclaim, doubled over laughing for the second time in as many minutes. "I'd already broken your hold on me, that was me having a lark," you tell him, beaming with pride.

Sebastian looks relieved and disappointed all at once.

"That's…that's amazing," he manages. "Broke free from the enchantment on your very first try. You really are something special, you know that?"

You sweep into a low, theatrical bow like a performer on a stage, lips curving up in a smile when he snorts with laughter.

"Alright now, don't get cocky," he chides with a playful roll of his eyes. "While that was excellent for a first try, I still managed to get in a few commands before you broke the enchantment. So, we're going to keep practicing until you're able to completely throw it off from the get-go, alright?"

"Yes, professor," you tease him, stifling one last bout of giggles as he levels you with an admonishing arch of his eyebrow, though the fond upturn of his lips gives him away.

"Cheeky," he chuckles, shaking his head.

You can't help but stick your tongue out at him, further proving his point.

"Now, as you'll have no doubt noticed, fighting off verbal vs. physical commands requires different levels of concentration and technique," he continues, assuming a professorial stance in spite of (or perhaps, unconsciously, because of) your playful commentary. "One is merely a matter of holding your tongue, but it's a different game entirely having to fight for control over the entire rest of your body."

"With that said, I'm going to cast it again," he warns, wand at the ready. "And this time, I want you to practice fighting against a physical command."

"Ready?" he asks, checking in one last time.

"Ready," you nod, back straight as you prepare for the incantation.

"Imperio," he says, and in an instant, that same serene blankness creeps in, only this time, it's like you can make out distinct shapes in the fog, growing clearer and clearer the harder you focus, the more you ground yourself, holding fast to your own thoughts, your own feelings, your own desires.

His task is simple — button his cloak and straighten his tie.

You feel your feet start to move toward him, hands raising to complete the command, when—

No, your own voice rings out, loud and clear. I don't want to do that.

Your hands settle over the front of his cloak, pausing as they inch closer to the open clasp.

Button my cloak and straighten my tie, Sebastian's voice calls out again, more insistent this time. But the voice that answers — your voice — is so much louder and stronger.

No, you stand your ground, snapping back with a triumphant laugh. No, I really don't think I will.

In fact, that's the last thing I want to do right now, you muse, lips curving upward in a cheeky grin.

You can't help but notice how pretty and pale his throat looks beneath it, adam's apple straining with each swallow, caught on the edge of a soft, stuttered groan as you slide your hands up the length of his chest, fingertips dancing across the back of his neck and threading through the soft chestnut curls at his nape. Your eyes follow the movement with a needy, yearning kind of hunger, consumed by the thought of how much prettier it would look littered with pink and purple bruises in the shape of your lips.

A sharp intake of breath sends your senses into overdrive, head swimming in an intoxicating blend of spearmint and strawberry sugar quills lingering on the edge of his lips and the tip of his tongue, and suddenly all you can focus on is how badly you want to taste it. The words kiss me ring out inside your head, desperate and longing, and for a moment, you can't tell whether it's his voice or your own imagination, caught up in a fantasy you've been playing out inside your head for the past two and a half years.

Whatever remains of the enchantment's hold on you is immediately withdrawn, sobriety washing back over you like a sudden plunge into a freezing lake, stumbling forward as Sebastian takes a few cautionary steps back. Instinctively, he reaches out to steady you, gentle hands prying yours from around the collar of his button-up shirt. He holds them there between the two of you for a moment, and then slowly glances down, letting out a small gasp when he realizes he's touching you, and immediately pulls away like he's just been burned.

He looks at you like he's afraid of you, eyes wide with panic and shame, a fiery red heat blossoming in the hollows of his cheeks.

For a moment, you're terrified you've crossed some sort of line, turned his stomach with the regret of having to eat his own words, all that lavish praise he'd bestowed upon you, all those gallant notions of a natural proclivity for responsibility, moral compass thrown off course by the magnet that always seems to pull you toward him.

Your mind reels as you struggle to process what just happened, one little moment changing the course of everything in the space of a few seconds. It all happened so fast — one minute you were fighting against the enchantment, and the next, your hands were in his hair, all sense lost to everything but how soft it felt beneath your fingertips, swept up in the way those warm brown eyes fixed on yours like he burned for you, sunlit warmth and dulcet sugar ghosting across your lips with each breath, and suddenly all you could think about was how desperately you wanted to kiss him, so focused on channeling your own thoughts and feelings into a shield to defend yourself against the curse, you unwittingly summoned everything you've ever wanted to the surface, all those long-held desires you've tried so hard to keep buried, unearthed.

You open your mouth to apologize for getting carried away, scrambling to come up with a reasonable explanation that doesn't involve spilling your deepest secrets, pouring your heart out to the man who's held it captive for years, hoping like hell the connection severed before he heard those stupid little words ring out inside your head, that you haven't completely ruined your friendship — but before you get the chance, he's the one who starts talking, a litany of apologies falling from his lips at a dizzying speed, promising you that he would never, ever use Imperio to make you kiss him of all things, begging you to trust him.

You blink in surprise. What's he on about? Of course you trust him. That was never in question. He's mischievous, certainly, a silver-tongued charmer when he wants to get his way, but you know he would never do anything as villainous as use potions or spells to try to get someone to…to…

Oh.

So you hadn't imagined it, then.

His thoughts. His words. His voice. Wrapped so sweetly around those two little words.

Kiss me.

Not a command, but a subconscious desire, just like yours.

Sebastian wanted you to kiss him.

A mad, blissful smile spreads across your face, heart pounding in your throat as it threatens to leap right out of your chest. Your lips part, willing the right words to come, to assure him it's more than alright, but his anxious steamrolling doesn't give you the chance.

"I'm sorry," Sebastian cries, agonized. "I'm so sorry. You have to believe me, I would never take advantage of you like that. I swear to you it wasn't intentional, I just got carried away in the moment and it sort of slipped out. Beautiful girl tugging at my clothes like that, soft hands running through my hair, the way your eyes sort of burned when you looked at me, I—"

His expression softens to something you'd dare call smitten, lips curving upward in a big, goofy grin as he plays it back, and then quickly shakes his head, admonishing himself.

"Merlin, there I go again," he sighs, wincing in embarrassment as he chances a glance at you, an earnest longing burning in his eyes that makes your heart ache with the need to reach out and touch him. "I've tried so hard for so long to keep my feelings in check, because I know you don't feel the same way, and the last thing I want to do is jeopardize our friendship, so I—"

You're certain the end of that sentence would've been lovely and heartfelt, but you'll never know for sure, the rest of his words swallowed in a soft, surprised oh as you rush forward, closing the distance between you and pressing your lips against his. It's soft and small and tentative, hands gently cradling the sides of his face to keep you both steady, but when you pull back a moment later, Sebastian looks at you like he's just been Confunded, his face an adorable blend between shocked and hopeful, sun-kissed freckles spilling into the curves of his dimples as his lips curve into a bright, blissful smile.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it's gone, replaced by apprehension and disbelief.

"Wait," Sebastian falters, holding you back at arm's length and looking you over with the same care and consideration he'd shown the first time he cast the curse on you, concern etched into his narrowed eyebrows. "Are you still under my spell?"

You can't help the smirk that curls across your lips at his choice of wording.

"In a manner of speaking," you reply, sly smile turning soft as you reassure him, "but not in the way you're thinking."

Sebastian blinks at you, confused.

"Then why would you…do that?" he asks, like he genuinely can't believe you'd kiss him of your own accord.

"Because I wanted to," you tell him, and the weight of it makes you laugh like you're about to cry. "I've wanted to kiss you for so long, Sebastian, you have no idea."

Sebastian's breath comes out in a sharp burst, redolent of that same euphoric laughter bubbling up inside your chest.

"How long?" he asks.

"Since you took the fall for me that night we got caught sneaking into the Restricted Section," you tell him, smiling fondly at the memory.

"The first time, that is," you add with a wry chuckle.

Sebastian lets out a disbelieving laugh, raking a hand through his hair and grinning at you like he would gladly go back and do it all over again.

"And you?" you ask tentatively, hardly daring to believe this is actually happening.

Sebastian's lips pull up into a playful smile.

"About five seconds after you knocked me on my arse during our first duel."

Now it's your turn to let out a surprised laugh. All that time you spent thinking your feelings were one-sided, and he's the one who fell first.

"It took you five whole seconds?" you tease, slipping easily back into your usual banter, reveling in the fact that you can freely flirt with him now.

Sebastian snorts with laughter.

"Yes, well…if you'll recall, I was rather stupid back then," he heaves a dramatic sigh. "After all, it took me two and half years to finally work up the nerve to kiss you."

"I'm the one who kissed you," you remind him, quirking an amused eyebrow at him.

"Ah, still besting me, I see," he chuckles, warm breath ghosting across your lips as he takes a step closer.

"Oh, but I wonder…do I still have the power to knock you on your arse?" you tease in a soft, low murmur.

His eyes do a slow, deliberate sweep down to your lips, tongue darting out to lick his own in anticipation, before slowly trailing back up to meet your eyes.

"Every time you smile at me," he replies with a cheeky smirk.

"You charming bastard," you chide him, laughter swallowed up in another kiss as he leans forward to press his lips against yours.

"Mmm, that reminds me," Sebastian murmurs in between stolen kisses, smiling against your lips as you let out a needy whimper, already addicted to the way he tastes.

"So, earlier…when you called me devilishly charming and told me you wanted to — what was it — chart constellations in the freckles that adorn my handsome face…you really meant that?" he teases, positively beaming.

The look on his face is so smug, you're torn between wanting to knock him on his arse again, and wanting to kiss the stupid smirk right off his stupid, handsome face. (Though you already know which one is going to win out.)

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh. "Yes, I think you're handsome and charming—"

"Devilishly so."

"Yes, yes, you absolute menace. I think we've well and truly established that I like you," you wave him off, rolling your eyes in fond amusement. "Now, shut up and kiss me."

Sebastian chuckles under his breath and starts to lean forward, stopping just short of your lips, making you let out another impatient whine.

"Just one more thing," he says, remnants of mint and sugar ghosting across your lips as he leans in close, voice dropping to a low, prowling murmur. "You are, without a doubt, the most breathtakingly beautiful person on the face of this earth, and I consider it a goddamn tragedy worse than the falling out of the founders that I've gone this long without the pleasure of reminding you every single day from the moment we met."

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, spellbound by his words, heart aching to leap right out of your throat and build a home inside his chest right next to his own, and then you're rushing forward, closing that hairsbreadth distance that might as well be the space between two mountains, crashing your lips against his and kissing him senseless.

Your hands are everywhere, tugging at his shirt, threading through his hair, pulling him as close as possible. So lost in the intoxicating touch and taste of him that you don't realize you've been steadily moving backwards until your backside collides with the sharp corner of your desk. You let out a startled gasp that quickly turns to laughter, head lolling against Sebastian's shoulder as your own shake with self-effacing mirth.

"Are you alright?" he asks, concern akin to a battle with an ashwinder and not a piece of inanimate furniture. You manage a small nod through your laughter.

"Damn desk, bruising my girl," Sebastian scowls, the words my girl sending a thrill like a bolt of lightning right through you.

You let out a surprised giggle as he picks you up and gently places you on top of the desk, settling between your thighs.

"The only kind of marks you should ever have on you are the ones from my lips," he whispers in between soft, slow, teasing kisses up the length of your neck, sucking a bruise against your pulse point that has you curling your fingers through his hair and moaning his name.

"Always hoped I'd hear you say my name like that," he murmurs in a deep, rumbling growl you can feel thrumming between your ribs like thunder.

Eager to return the favor, you thread your fingers through his hair and give him a gentle yet insistent tug, delighting in the way it elicits a rough, guttural moan in the back of his throat, pulse point jumping beneath your touch as you run your tongue along the curve of his adam's apple.

You're fairly certain one of the buttons goes rolling off under the desk as you tear open his shirt and splay your hands across his chest, pleased to find a whole new canvas of well-earned muscle teeming with sun-kissed freckled dotted between soft patches of chestnut hair, uncharted territory just begging to be mapped out with your lips.

By contrast, Sebastian is equal parts gentle and nervous. Clumsy, trembling fingers work the buttons of your blouse and the lacings of your bra until you're completely bare before him, the flowing fabric of your sleeves hanging loosely off your shoulders. For several long moments, all he can seem to do is stare at you like you're a miracle made real, licking his lips in anticipation as his eyes rake across your breasts.

Sebastian's gaze flickers up to yours, a silent plea. You let out a soft breath, nodding eagerly. In the next second, he's pressed in close again, warm hands skimming up the length of your torso before gently settling under the swell of your breasts, holding you like you're a precious artefact, pleasure sparking low in your core as hard-earned callouses graze across your nipples with a perfect texture.

Sebastian lets out a soft hum as he feels them pebble against the palm of his hand, eyebrows arching in a kind of curious fascination as he glances down at his own hands like he's just performed a spectacular bit of magic. Freckled cheeks curve into an eager smile as he ducks his head down, pressing a series of tentative, exploring kisses from the soft slope of your breasts down to the pale peaks of your nipples, taking one of them into his mouth and applying the gentlest bit of suction as he swipes his tongue across the sensitive bud, grinning in triumph as you let out a lurid moan and arch into his touch.

He pockets that bit of very useful information for later as he slowly makes his way back up toward your lips, eager to kiss you again, peppering fevered kisses across your collarbones and up the length of your neck, not wanting to miss a single inch of skin. Within seconds, he's captured your lips in a searing kiss, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gently cradling your cheek as he kisses you breathless, groaning into your mouth as you pull him flush against you, soft breasts pressed against the hard plane of his chest, heathered skirt hiked up around your hips as he cages you in.

Sebastian's rapidly growing hardness is an insistent pressure between your thighs, sparking your own arousal in a pleasant ache that pulses through your core with each touch. In an effort to get even closer to you, Sebastian shifts, and the head of his cock inadvertently grinds between the gusset of your underwear, sending shock waves of pleasure that have you gasping into his mouth, white-knuckling the sleeves of his shirt.

You can't take it anymore. It's too much and not nearly enough all at once. You need more of him. You need all of him.

"Sebastian," you sigh, breathless between kisses. "Do you— do you have protection?"

"Protection?" Sebastian pulls back to look at you, eyebrows arched in a look of adorable confusion.

"From what? I doubt anything will attack us while we're in—" he stutters as the tip of your finger curls into the waistband of his trousers and gives a suggestive tug forward.

"Oh," Sebastian's eyebrows jump in surprise.

"Unless you don't want—" you immediately pull back, feeling foolish.

"Oh, I want," he insists, drawing you back toward him, voice rough and pleading with exactly how much he wants. "I was just caught off guard. I wasn't expecting—"

Sebastian falters, nerves ramping up again.

"You have to know, when I asked you to come out with me tonight, I wasn't expecting any of this."

"I know you weren't," you reassure him with soft, gentle strokes through his hair. "I trust you, remember?"

Sebastian nods, breathing out on a sigh of relief.

"But, yeah…if you're asking me to be honest…stick a pin in trying to be a gentleman," he lets out a sheepish laugh, one of his hands coming up to attack a phantom itch on the back of his neck. "Then the answer is a resounding, embarrassingly keen yes. I very much want to."

"I do too," you admit with a shy giggle, fingers curling under the collar of his shirt to draw him in for another, softer kiss.

The moment the words leave your mouth, two small crystal phials appear next to you on the desk, labeled in pristine print across each side: infecunditatem temporalis, XXIV h. — temporary infertility, lasting twenty-four hours.

The two of you stare down at them for a moment, blinking in surprise, and then slowly pick them up.

"Well, that's handy," Sebastian remarks with a breathless laugh. "This room really does think of everything."

"Cheers," you murmur softly, instinctually linking arms the same way you've always done for every shot of Firewhisky and post-match Butterbeer toast, before downing your respective phials in one swig.

You set them back down on top of the desk and glance up at one another, suddenly nervous.

"I've never done this before…have you?" you ask, not entirely sure you want to know the answer. You've always been exceptionally close, but you doubt he's told you everything.

"Ah well, you know me…" Sebastian starts with a cocky upturn of his lips, and then immediately deflates, letting out a long, slow, defeated sigh. He knows he'd never be able to lie to you, but a part of him momentarily considers whether he should, irrational fear mingling with a deep-seated insecurity that you'll be put off when you find out he has no idea what he's doing. He's researched, of course. Extensively. But it's not like he's ever put it into practice.

"No," he sighs, admitting it like it's some kind of flaw. "Most I've ever done is kiss someone…and that was back in fourth year…on a dare."

He doesn't miss the way your shoulders relax, relief in the form of a small smile curling across your lips, and suddenly he's very glad he never did anything for the sake of just getting it over with, rebounding his hopeless feelings with some faceless stranger wishing it was you, giddy with a heady mix of nerves and excitement that he'll get to be your first.

And if he's very, very lucky, your only.

"And since?" you nudge, keen to hear him say it.

Sebastian's lips quirk up in a playful grin.

"There's only one person I've wanted to kiss since then," he says, leaning forward to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss.

"Only one person I've imagined lain on their back as I fall to my knees and bury my lips between their thighs," Sebastian confesses in a low, hungry growl, punctuating each word with a searing kiss as he slowly works his way down the length of your body, mouthing at your neck, between your breasts, across the ticklish plane of your stomach, until he's on his knees in front of you, gazing up at you like you're a brand new constellation in a starless night sky.

"You've no idea how badly I've been longing for a view like this," he says with an appreciative groan, kissing a hungry trail up your inner thighs. "Makes the view from the top of the Astronomy Tower look rather dull by comparison."

You can't help the blissful laugh that escapes you, legs trembling beneath his eager lips. Sebastian pauses his ministrations to look up at you, eyebrows arching in lighthearted indignation.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I say something funny?" he admonishes, nipping playfully at your inner thigh and making you let out a sharp peal of laughter.

"No, it's just…oh, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm just…pleasantly surprised, is all," you giggle.

"Whatever for?" he asks, rising back up to meet you. You throw your arms around his shoulders and pull him close, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose.

"You hear stories…about men who absolutely refuse to do that sort of thing, yet seem to expect it from their partners," you explain, thinking back to all those hushed conversations you'd overheard in the girls' lavatories, whispered in the dark before bedtime. "I suppose a part of me has always wondered whether you'd be the same. More of a taker than a giver in the bedroom."

Sebastian leans back to look at you, lips pulling into a frown.

"On the one hand, I'm insulted you think I'd do anything short of worship you," he says, diving back in to press a series of hungry kisses up the length of your neck that have you shaking in anticipation of such a promise.

"But on the other," he counters, pulling back to fix you with a teasing smirk. "It's nice to know you've spent a great deal of time thinking about what I'd be like in the bedroom."

A carmine blush creeps across your cheeks as you remember all the times you'd done far more than just think about him, careful to draw your curtains and cast a silencing charm so no one would hear you when you called out his name.

If only he knew…

…come morning, you'll make certain he does.

"Speaking of which—" Sebastian prompts, eyes darting around the room with an appraising frown, before landing on the desktop underneath you, broken quills and crumpled sheets of parchment hastily shoved aside to make room for your — ahem, more amorous ventures.

"This room might be fine for study and spellwork, but it's not the most romantic of places. I can fix that," he says, giving you a wry smile as he offers you his hand and helps you down from the desk.

"Just close my eyes and picture what I want, yeah?" he asks, looking to you for reassurance. You nod in encouragement, slipping your fingers between his and giving the palm of his hand an affectionate squeeze.

Sebastian closes his eyes and concentrates, summoning two and a half years' worth of fantasies to the forefront of his mind. A moment later, there's a soft grind of stone, and the two of you glance up in time to see a marble statue of an owl that's always sat in the alcove between the grasslands and the coastal vivarium twisting into an invisible recess in the floor, revealing a brand new corridor in its wake.

You let out a startled laugh as Sebastian scoops you up into his arms and carries you down the corridor, lulled by the excited thrum of his heartbeat as you bury your face into his chest and wrap your arms around his neck. In just a few short strides, you arrive at the end of the hallway, where a handsome set of oak doors adorned with elegant swirling filigree in blossoming flowers and twisting vines, crescent moons and little stars, springs to life like fast-growing ivy.

You reach out to turn the handle, and for a moment, you're plunged into total darkness, the room beyond an unfinished painting, transforming before your very eyes the moment the two of you step inside, polished floorboards rippling into place like piano keys playing an arpeggio, walls and ceiling a patchwork puzzle as they slowly piece themselves together.

Brushstrokes in deep ocean blues and dark verdant greens turn the heart of the Forbidden Forest under a midnight sky into a painter's palette, dozens of paper lanterns lit by softly flickering candlelight floating all around you like fireflies, bathing the room in hazy hues of silver and gold as they mingle with the light of the crescent moon trickling down from up above, ceiling enchanted to look as though it opens out onto the heavens, night sky glittering with thousands of shooting stars.

A trail of your favorite flower petals leads to a cozy alcove bed cradled between two recessed bookshelves brimming with pristine leather-bounds the two of you will no doubt spend hours perusing at leisure, gossamer curtains woven with intricate stars and crescent moons spilling down across the silken sheets.

The gentle cadence of rainfall taps its fingertips against the glass of an ornate three-paned window set just above the bed, painted in a perfect replica of the sprawling landscapes from the hidden corridor he'd shown you earlier in the night, while a crackling fireplace dances merrily in the heart of a cozy reading nook complete with two plush armchairs tucked together side by side.

Sebastian lets out a contented hum as the last little details of the room settle into place, glancing down to gauge your reaction, eager to know what you think.

"Oh, Sebastian," you whisper as you gaze around the room, candlelight dancing like flecks of gold in your eyes. "It's beautiful."

Sebastian beams. Of all the times you managed to leave him utterly spellbound tonight, it's a point of pride to finally be able to elicit the same response from you.

"Trust I've been dreaming of the perfect place to be romantic with you for quite some time," he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against your cheek.

You gaze up at him adoringly and lean up to kiss him, butterflies taking flight in your stomach when you feel the hard press of his uncontainable smile against your lips.

"Now, where were we?" he whispers, whisking you away to the cozy alcove bed at the heart of the room and gently setting you down at its edge between the star-strewn curtains.

As though he can't stand to be parted from you for a second longer, Sebastian sweeps forward to capture your lips in another breath-stealing kiss, gentle hands sliding across the curve of your jaw to thread through the hair at the back of your neck, cradling the back of your head as he kisses you slowly, deeply, savoring every second.

He takes his time peeling off the layers of your clothing, unwrapping you like a gift, hands sliding between bare skin and soft cotton until your blouse comes spilling off your shoulders to pool around your waist, eager lips following its trajectory as he presses a series of adoring kisses down the column of your throat, tongue darting out to smooth across the tender, claiming bruise he'd left on your pulse point, smirking at the way it jumps beneath his touch, gently palming at your breasts as he makes his slow descent.

Where before he'd allowed himself a small taste, this time Sebastian indulges, falling to his knees and burying his face between your breasts, pressing lavish kisses in time to the beat of your heart, before taking the nipple he hadn't had the pleasure of tasting earlier into his mouth and applying a gentle suction, delighting in the way it elicits the same sinful response from you as it did before.

Not wanting to neglect either of them, Sebastian tries to mimic the same technique on the one not currently occupied by his mouth with his fingers, gently kneading the pebbled peak between his thumb and index finger. Clearly it's the right move, because the moment he does both in tandem, you let out a sharp gasp, arching your back in an effort to get even closer to him, fingers curling around the sleeves of his shirt and gripping tight.

Sebastian chuckles, a low rumbling laugh that vibrates like a crackle of thunder inside your chest as he worships every delectable detail of your breasts, until a series of pink and purple bruises in the shape of his lips starts to blossom across your skin. The sight of it stirs something primal inside him, little reminders lasting well beyond tonight that let everyone know you're his.

Sebastian would gladly spend the rest of his days buried between your breasts, but the curious, insatiable, thrill-seeking side of him is eager to keep exploring, map out every inch of your body with his hands, lips, and tongue until he's memorized every single way you love to be touched, keen to know what other addictive sounds he can get you to make.

He presses a trail of kisses down your torso, smiling when you giggle and squirm beneath him as his lips tickle the curves of your stomach, pausing when he reaches the waistline of your skirt.

"Lay back, darling. Let me take care of you," he insists in a low whisper, sending heat like an inferno straight to your core. You do as he asks, hair fanning out across the sheets, a cool press of silk against your fevered skin.

Deft fingers carefully work the buttons at your waist, unraveling your wrap-around skirt until it's laid out flat beneath you. Hands shaking from a mess of excitement and nerves, Sebastian carefully hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your knickers and slowly slides them down your legs, breath hitching when you tilt your hips to help ease them off, giving him a glimpse of your backside.

"Fuck, you're stunning," he says with a wrecked, desperate groan that has you blushing like you've just downed a shot of Firewhisky, laid bare beneath his hungry gaze as he takes a moment to drink you in.

"Can I touch you?" he asks in a quiet, almost pleading voice.

"Please," you tell him, just as desperate.

Nervous, gentle hands slide up along the outside of your thighs, smoothing over the curves of your hips before settling in the space between, breathing out on a soft, stuttered gasp as his fingers thread through the soft patch of curls at the apex of your thighs.

He skims a finger featherlight along the seam of your lips, testing the waters before delving deeper, a low groan rumbling in the back of his throat when he feels how wet you already are for him. Heat pools low in your belly as he slides between your folds in an achingly slow tease, sending shivers like shock waves rolling down the length of your spine, working you into a frenzy as careful, calloused fingers graze your clit.

Once he's satisfied you're ready to take him, fingers coated in your slick, Sebastian slips down to rub teasing circles against your entrance, driving you to the point of madness, canting your hips with soft little whines, until finally, he relents, slowly sliding his ring and middle fingers inside you and curling them in a come hither motion that has you gasping and writhing above him.

"Is this— is this alright?" he asks, concern bleeding through breathless exhilaration.

"It feels amazing, Seb," you manage, yours words barely more than a stuttered moan as his fingers twitch inside you. "Please don't stop touching me."

Your soft gasps and moans guide him to where he needs to go, thumb rubbing heady circles against your clit as his fingers curl in that blissful breath-stuttering way inside you. He works you into a maddening frenzy, pressure slowly building like an arrow being drawn across a bowstring, and Sebastian can't help but let out a low groan each time you flutter and tighten around him. If this is how incredible you feel against his fingers, he can't even imagine how amazing you're going to feel around his cock. Though that particular pleasure will have to wait just a little bit longer, because Sebastian isn't anywhere near finished with you yet.

You let out a needy whine as that delicious pressure suddenly disappears, only to be replaced by a sharp burst of breathless laughter as Sebastian grabs a handful of your backside and hauls you closer to the edge of the bed, coaxing your legs over his shoulders as he buries his face between your thighs.

"Forgive me, darling, but I need to taste you," he groans, tongue darting out to delve between your folds.

"Sebastian," you cry out as a burst of pleasure sparks through you, hands fisting in the sheets. Sebastian lets out another loud moan as you call out his name, tongue gliding down to lick at your entrance, burying himself deep enough to taste your pleasure at the back of his throat, before sweeping back up to capture your clit in a blissful blend of gentle suction and the sinful swirl of his tongue.

Slowly, carefully, he slides his fingers back inside you, curling them against that sweet spot deep within you, lips and tongue working in perfect tandem to worship your clit with the same eager attention he'd given your breasts.

You've never felt so feral in all your life, hands clutching at the sheets as you writhe above him like a wild animal in heat, Sebastian's name spilling from your lips in a flurry of sighs and soft, keening moans. With a contented hum, Sebastian reaches up to gently pry your fingers from the bedspread, lacing his own through yours and giving the palm of your hand an affectionate three-pulse squeeze, encouraging you to hold fast to him instead, not wanting to miss a single detail of just how wild he makes you.

Your other hand follows suit, seeking him out, chestnut curls even softer than the silk sheets as you curl your fingers through his hair and give him an insistent tug, and oh, he really likes it when you're a little rough with him, so desperate and needy for his touch that all you can think to do in that moment is pull him even closer, the low, throaty moans he makes every time you do only serving to heighten your pleasure as they vibrate through your core like rolls of thunder.

He brings you crashing over the edge, wrecked and breathless as you call out his name, begging him between stuttered sighs that you need him to be inside you, now.

Sebastian lets out a soft, blissful breath as he presses a few more kisses to your inner thighs, and then slowly rises to his feet, gaze locked on yours as he swipes the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, tongue darting out to lick the last of your release. The sight is obscene, riling up a primal pride deep within you that only makes you want him even more.

You sit perched on the edge of the bed, reaching up to slide his button-up shirt off his shoulders and running your hands down the length of his torso, soft curves over hard-earned muscle, freckles scattered amidst soft patches of chestnut hair like a star-strewn sky through a forest canopy, pausing to take a steadying breath as you reach the waistband of his trousers. Hands trembling from a mix of nerves and excitement, you carefully work the buttons to relieve him of his trousers, the last layer of clothing left between you.

You take a moment to drink him in, eyes raking down the length of his body in hungry appraisal, letting out a soft gasp as you take in the sight of his generous length, before slowly sweeping back up to meet his gaze again, thrill and desire outweighing any apprehension over his intimidating size. You understand now how he must have felt when he first saw you — every inch of him is absolutely stunning.

You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him down for a kiss, sending the two of you tumbling backward against the pillows, giggling and grinning as you cling to one another. Sebastian kisses you, soft and slow, his body a warm, comforting weight as he settles between your thighs, hovering above you. The two of you breathe in on a stuttered gasp as he takes himself in hand and slides the head of his cock between your folds, coating himself in a combination of his saliva and your release, hesitating as he lines himself up with your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks with a steadying breath, heated gaze locked on yours.

"Ready," you answer, just as breathless as you tilt your hips in invitation.

With a broken, blissed out moan, Sebastian slowly sinks inside, stuttered breaths ghosting across your lips as he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against your own, hips stilling the moment he hears your soft gasp from underneath him.

"How're you feeling, love? Are you alright?" he asks with an edge of panic to his voice, terrified at the thought of hurting you. He keeps still as a statue, giving you a moment to adjust to the sheer size of him.

It's indescribable — the most incredible pressure, a pleasant ache like kneading sore muscles, building and unraveling tension all at once; a feeling of fullness after a life spent starving; a kind of magic even more timeless and powerful than the rarity thrumming through your veins, wonderstruck by how perfectly he fits inside you, like the two of you were made for each other.

"More than alright," you reassure him with a breathless, euphoric laugh. "I feel amazing."

Sebastian lets out a sigh of relief.

"Merlin, that's one word for it," he breathes out on a blissful laugh, eyes rolling back at how amazing you feel wrapped around him. "You're perfect."

He leans down to kiss you, soft and slow and sweet.

"I'm going to start moving now…is that alright?" he asks after a few quiet moments, voice straining like it's been torture holding back.

"Please," you sigh, coaxing him closer as you wrap your legs around the small of his back.

Sebastian sets a slow and steady pace, achingly tender as his hips rock against yours in long, languid thrusts, pressing soft little kisses to your cheeks and the corners of your lips as he moves above you, whispering between kisses how beautiful and breathtaking you are. He's careful and controlled, each move dulcet and deliberate like a slow dance between the sheets, determined to make this perfect for you, determined to get it just right, because it has to be. Because this is you, and you are everything.

He's been dreaming of this moment for years, and a part of him still can't believe it's really happening, that he actually gets to be with you. He's spent the better part of the last two and half years convincing himself you'd never feel the same, that he was lucky just to call you his friend, selfish to want more, that he didn't deserve you…though that never stopped him desperately wanting you all the same.

He understands now why they call it lovesick — feverish blush prickling at his skin, heart beating like a staccato as he moves above you, hands trembling as they gently cradle the back of your head and draw you in for a slow, sweet kiss. It's all-consuming, burning through him in equal measures of fiery fervor and glowing embers, like he's just swallowed an Incendio charm. Incurable — though this is one life sentence he'll gladly serve.

It's overwhelming how amazing you feel wrapped around him, soft hands threading through his hair and tugging ever so gently, legs locked around his hips to keep him anchored in your depths, shallow gasps and stuttered ohs whispered in between soft sighs in the shape of his name as you gaze up at him like he is everything to you.

It would be all too easy for him to lose himself in the euphoria of finally getting to be with you, and Merlin, he wants to.

He wants all of you. It's like he can't get close enough, a primal hunger to fuse himself with you, body and soul, bury himself inside you like treasure, climb inside your chest and build a home inside your heart, dive down to your depths and spill all his secrets inside you, long-held confessions of how deeply he's fallen for you.

The words bubble up inside his chest like steam inside of a screaming tea kettle, burning his throat as years worth of messy, nerve-addled feelings threaten to spill past his lips. He wants to kiss the words into your skin, knit his love so deep within you, you feel it in your bones, with each pulse of your heart, his name a subliminal sigh with each breath you take, until you're inextricably woven together, until he's an irrevocable part of you, just as you are for him.

He aches for you to be his, because he's so desperately yours. He'd shout it from the top of the Astronomy Tower, from the stars themselves, if he could.

But if he does…he's afraid you might actually hear him. And Sebastian can't have that. He can't let you know the true depth of his feelings. Not yet. It's too soon, too much for something so fragile and new. He knows he can be a little intense, a little overwhelming. When Sebastian loves, it's fierce and unwavering, and as much as he wants to tell you, show you, how deeply he loves you, he's afraid the intensity of his feelings will drive you away.

He supposes that's one of the many reasons he's always been so drawn to more fiery forms of magic. After all, they're just like him. Fervent. Insatiable. Incendiary. Kindred — kindling — spirits. Cast with the best intentions — to protect and keep warm — but one wrong move, too much, and it becomes dangerous, destructive.

Sebastian has spent his whole life being told as much — that he's too much. Overzealous. Unrelenting. Reckless. Doesn't know when to stop. Breaks everything he touches. Loses everyone he loves.

He can't lose you too.

He's a wildfire, and you— you're a forest teeming with birdsong and greenery, and he's terrified that with one wrong move he'll burn you to the ground, when all he wants to do is keep you warm.

So he holds himself back, concentrates all his efforts into taking it slow, swallowing a symphony of lovesick confessions and pouring the softest version of his love into every touch, determined to make this perfect for you, determined to get this just right. Because maybe, if he gets this right, he'll actually be lucky enough to keep you.

"So perfect," he sighs as he moves above you, soft and sweet.

"Tell me what you need, love," he urges between stuttered breaths and slow, languid thrusts. "To make this perfect for you, too."

You can tell he's holding back — each touch a little too gentle, a little too careful, a little too reserved — and you think you know why, because you know him.

Sebastian Sallow has never done anything halfheartedly, so when he loves, it's without reservation — fiercely, deeply, perhaps a little madly.

You also know that he's lost just about everyone he's ever loved.

Though you've never actually spoken the words out loud, you know that he loves you too. It's always been there, unspoken, thrumming beneath the surface of every interaction.

You can hear it in the silence of a lazy afternoon spent cloud-watching under the shade of a flutterby tree in the summoner's courtyard, splayed hands edging across the grass until you feel the accidental brush of his pinky finger against yours.

In little gestures played off as teasing banter, covert hands sliding stacks of toast and chocolate croissants across the shared desk of your first class, wrapped in scribbled notes admonishing you for missing breakfast after yet another sleepless night.

It's in the way you wish each other goodnight, stretching out the moment with hastily stifled bouts of laughter and stolen glances over your shoulders as you watch him make the long trek back from Ravenclaw Tower to Slytherin Dungeon, hesitant to part after yet another nighttime lark, despite the fact that you know you'll see each other the very next day.

In the way he insists on coming along with you on some of your more daring ventures, pushing down his deep-seated fear of spiders and instinctively stepping between you and a thornback ambusher seconds away from incapacitating you with its venom.

You've always known Sebastian loves you, but up until tonight, you've always thought it was in the same way he loves Anne and Ominis. Fond. Familial. Kindred.

That was before you'd felt the weight of his lips against yours, the tremble in his hands as he'd pulled you close, the beat of his heart thundering in time with your own.

Now that you know it runs even deeper — not just friendly or familial love, but romantic love, too — it adds a whole new layer of vulnerability. And if he loves you the way you think he does, the same way you love him, then you know why he's holding back. Because when someone is your whole heart, the prospect of losing them is that much more terrifying.

This is a man who has endured more pain and loss than most people could even dare to imagine. This is a man filled with more fear and guilt than anyone should ever have to bear. Afraid to fuck up again. Afraid to hurt you again. Afraid to lose what little remains of the people he loves. Afraid to let himself have what he wants, because deep down, he still doesn't think he deserves it.

Afraid that he is too brash, too broken, too intense, too much for anyone to ever want, the weight of his grief too heavy for anyone else to carry, spirit too bright and burning for anyone to ever want to get close enough to touch.

And maybe he is. Maybe he is too much. But that's never stopped you wanting all of him just the same. If he is an untamed beast, then your heart is a vivarium, a home built for an occamy at its full potential. For you, he could never be too much, because you could never get enough of him.

He's a wildfire, but you've always been drawn to his warmth, his light, bright sparks lighting up your coldest, darkest nights. You wouldn't just walk through his flames, you'd dance in them, safe in the knowledge that you'll never get burned.

Because he's a wildfire, but you are a hurricane, and you're more than a match for his heat.

So when he asks you, soft and sweet, what you need make this perfect for you, that's exactly what you tell him.

"You. Just you," you sigh as you lean up to press a trail of kisses in between the freckles that dapple the pale column of his throat. "I want all of you, Sebastian. Please, show me how badly you've been wanting me all this time, too. Don't hold anything back. I can take it…anything and everything you're willing to give."

Sebastian's hips still as he pulls back to look at you, lips parted in surprise.

"Are— are you sure?"

You lean up to kiss him, slow and deep, your answer little more than a sigh against his lips.

"I'm yours, Sebastian. I've always been yours," you whisper. "Now all you have to do is take what's yours."

Sebastian gazes at you, stunned for a moment, breath catching in his throat. And then his eyes darken, and that charming smile that's always made you weak in the knees curls across his lips, adoration burning like the heart of a wildfire in his irises as he keeps his steady gaze locked on yours.

He laces his fingers with yours and pins your entwined hands above your head, holding you captive, using them as an anchoring point as he begins driving into you with rough, zealous thrusts that hit deep and steal your breath, his other hand coming up to smooth across your cheek as he pulls you in for a kiss, swallowing his own name as it falls from your lips in a stuttered sigh.

"Like this, love?" Sebastian groans, the hard line of his smirk pressed against your lips. "Is this how you want me fuck you?"

"God, yes. Please, Sebastian—"

"As you wish, darling," he growls, picking up pace even faster, his thrusts coming even rougher. "You've no idea how badly I've wanted to have you just like this."

"Tell me," you urge, voice barely more than a whisper.

A litany of lovesick confessions spill from his lips in between desperate, hungry kisses: how deeply he adores you, how beautiful you look laid out beneath him, how amazing you feel wrapped around him, how you must've been made for each other with how perfectly you fit together, how he's been dreaming of being with you like this for so long and he can't believe he's lucky enough to actually have the real thing.

How he'd love nothing more than to keep you forever, make you his in every possible sense of the word (because he's yours, he's always been yours, every beat of his heart belongs to you and you alone) wants you to feel the ache of him throbbing between your thighs days after he's made love to you, a constant reminder of what you've done together; wants to leave claiming bruises all over each other's necks so that everyone will know you belong to one another.

You tilt your head back, bearing your neck in offering, and Sebastian lets out an appreciative groan, swooping down to leave another mark right below the first, fire dancing in his eyes are he pulls back to admire his work.

"Mine," his voice rumbles through you like thunder as he presses the word into your pulse point.

"Yours," you sigh, leaning up to graze your teeth along the column of his throat, eager to claim him in return.

It's enough to drive him over the edge, burying his face in your neck and breathing in deep, greedy lungfuls like you're a burst of fresh air after a life spent drowning, praising you between hungry kisses. How he could gladly spend the rest of his life right here between your legs. How wild you drive him with the sounds you make, the way you call out his name.

"I've wanted to hear you say my name in every possible way — in laughter, in sighs, in gasps…in screams," he says with a prideful smirk as he gives a rough snap of his hips that hits deep enough to pull his name from your throat in a sharp, breathless gasp.

Sebastian lets out a low, throaty chuckle that sends shock waves straight to your core, heating burning every inch of your skin like a shot of Firewhisky as he tells you how badly he wants to watch you come undone beneath him, feel you wrapped around him as your body clings to him, see himself reflected in your eyes as you call out his name, to know that he's the only one who can make you feel like this, take you apart just to be the one that completes you.

The hand that's spent all this time tangled in your hair, gently pressed against the curve of your cheek, comes down to wrap around your waist, tilting your hips upward and pulling you roughly against him, the new angle giving him access to an even deeper sweet spot inside you, each thrust causing the space where you're connected to grind against that sensitive bundle of nerves, sending waves of pleasure radiating throughout your entire body as he keeps a steady, consistent rhythm, buried to his hips between your thighs, building you to climax until you're crashing over the edge, fingers laced with his as you fall together, fluttering around him, pulling him in even deeper, an endless chorus of I love you, I'm so in love with you, I'm yours falling from his lips as he spills deep inside you, calling out your name like it's a sacred prayer and you're his salvation.

Sebastian collapses against you, panting against your neck and pressing lazy kisses to your cheek before rolling to the side to lay on his back. You're barely able to get out a breath before he's pulling you into him, coaxing your head onto his chest, wrapping his arms around you in a protective hold, burying his face into the top of your hair and breathing you in with deep, contented sighs.

The words he'd said to you as he'd fallen over the edge repeat inside your head like a mantra, pulling your lips into a bright, blissful smile.

"Sebastian?" you ask as you snuggle in closer, heart full.

"Yes, darling?" he asks, still breathless but utterly blissed, voice muffled by your hair.

"I love you too."

You feel his whole body relax, exhaling on a long, slow, contented sigh that almost sounds like a sob toward the end, like he's relieved to hear you say it out loud.

"D'you know," he says into the comfortable silence after a few moments, lips pulled into a bright smile as he glances over at you. "I've seen entire ecosystems co-existing inside a single room tonight — bloody hell, I saw a phoenix — and all of that still couldn't even hope to compare to being with you," he marvels, still a little breathless. "To think, we could've been— I mean, two and a half years. I can't believe it took us this long to finally act on our feelings."

You lift your head, a playful look in your eyes as you gaze up at him dreamily.

"We just took the scenic route," you tell him, smiling as you lace your fingers together and press a kiss against each of his knuckles in turn.

Sebastian's chest rumbles with laughter as he nuzzles in even closer, pressing kisses to the top of your crown. You do the same to his chest, charting constellations of your own design in the sun-kissed freckles you find there, falling into a deep, comfortable sleep before you have the chance to name them all.

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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

That Damn Scarf

summary:

But Martyn is also definitely the guy he’s spent the most time around. And because of this, he would have thought he’d find the answer to the strange man he first came across floating in the sky (which is actually a lie, he’d been watching him putter around for a little while before that, but he didn't actually speak to him until he was several thousand feet in the air and approaching certain death by suffocation). But he still doesn't have his answer: why the scarf?

(ao3 link)

(12,489 words)

Scott has met, and spoken to, Martyn several times. He likes to think they're on rather good terms at the moment, with him poking his head, or his arm, or any other limb, really, in to poke at Martyn in a way of saying hello. Martyn then, often, pulls him all the way through the portals, dragging him (quite literally) into a conversation, or pulling him in to help with whatever task he’s doing that day. Most of which are very boring and are not things that Scott would normally consider doing, however, when he’s with Martyn he cannot help but smile and go along with it, enjoying the moments they spend together.

So, Scott likes to think they're friends- and rather good ones at that! He’s met several other people on his wanderings around the world, popping in and out of places, checking on the new faces he spies around. A few of them are interesting, catching his interest for a few minutes or hours, leading to him watching them from a distance, either until he got bored, approached them, or he noticed them.

Scott knows what a scarf is, obviously, but what he doesn't get is the purpose of the garment. Everyone pulls out a scarf, maybe some mittens and a hat too, when it gets a little bit chillier and frost begins to nip at any exposed skin and the winds turn sharper, more likely to cut at your face if you venture out into it with insufficient protection. It’s a normal response to bundle up and add a few extra layers, perhaps spruce things up a bit with how artfully you drape your scarf around your neck and over your shoulders.

Scott’s fallen victim to several nice scarves over the years, though most of those had been thin pieces of fabric, silken and floaty things designed to look pretty rather than keep the chill away. Not that he was particularly bothered by the cold, preferring to let it bite at his skin and find that he’s actually impermeable to their teeth of ice and snow. He hails from places far colder than what a little snow can achieve, it’ll take more than the measly winds to get him to cover up more.

So, Martyn’s scarf. Scott’s not actually sure why he’s so fixated on it, only that he’d noticed it once, taking a moment too long to fixate on the knitted garment; and just like that, it had snaked its way into his mind, capturing him in its threads and pulling his attention towards it when he has a free moment- every waking moment of his, not occupied by other things, has been consumed by the blue and slightly-darker-blue wool of Martyn’s scarf.

It is a very nice scarf. Obviously handmade, but made by someone that clearly knows what they're doing, possibly a master of their craft. Or maybe Martyn just bought it from some random person, and it was made in bulk with several thousand others that look exactly the same. But it also just looks handmade, and Martyn treats it carefully, as though worried it might get harmed by something. Scott has watched him tuck a loose thread back in carefully, neatly folding it back amongst the blues.

The only thing, and the thing that he’s focusing on, is that he’s never seen Martyn without the scarf.

He wears it seemingly constantly, always in the same way, with it a few scant inches from being tugged up to cover his lips completely- not that Scott spends long periods of time looking at Martyn’s lips, his scarf is just really close to his lips, and it’s hard to look at his scarf without also looking at his lips, and…maybe he does look at his lips. But only in quick, friendly glances that mean nothing more than watching Martyn speak and the way he shapes his vowels as he talks.

And he still doesn't know why Martyn even wears it! He doesn't get cold, something that Scott had been able to establish pretty early on, asking first why he wears all of the layers, then finding out just how cold Martyn was the time he clamped a bare hand down on the back of his neck. It had sent several shivers down his spine and forced him to squirm away from the ice blocks Martyn had pressed against his skin. Ice blocks that turned out to be his hands, which also turned out to be his normal (and healthy) temperature.

So, he doesn't need the scarf. Definitely not for keeping warm reasons, because Martyn actually explained to him how higher temperatures are bad for his health. Though only in the extremes, like deserts or the Nether. And he also doesn't enjoy hanging out in completely frozen environments, both for the lack of life there, and because the cold can still bite at him, just not as fiercely.

And yet he wears it! Scott’s has never, ever seen him without it- even that one time when it was really late at night, the moon halfway towards its descent, and he’d been stranded in the middle of nowhere and the first waypoint he’d managed to connect to was Martyn’s. And it would have been rude and cruel and not at all friend-like of him to kick a dear friend, like Scott, out in the middle of the night (closer to early morning, but semantics) when it was so dark and cold and dangerous.

And Martyn had been in his pyjamas, very obviously just woken up with quite spectacular bed-hair that Scott had to exert all of his willpower not to comment on (he wasn't going to risk being kicked out just because Martyn’s hair made him look like a parrot with how it stuck up at the back). And still wearing his scarf. Neatly tucked around his neck and trailing over his shoulder, a perfect compliment to the pyjamas he was wearing.

His ongoing theory, until recently, was that the scarf was simply a part of him. Scott had never met a chillager before he came across Martyn, and so he wasn't one to judge, nor was he one to question something. He much preferred to figure things out on his own, mainly because the satisfaction of eliminating all incorrect assumptions and settling on the most plausible (and usually correct) answer was something basically unbeatable.

He’d been able to eliminate that theory rather quickly, though he still went through several testing stages to be certain of his initial conclusion (he would much rather spend time determining that he was wrong than skip over it and find out that he was right initially).

He’d tugged at the scarf experimentally, twisting the fibres to see if it gained any reaction from Martyn. He’d done it before, definitely, but he had a concussion that time from one of the “Colins” that Martyn insisted on keeping in his cave-house, and had been a little too blurry around the edges to look for a reaction to the action. But on his second, and then third and fourth and fifth, attempt, when he still garnered no reaction from the man, he had to give up on the theory, crossing it off his quickly shortening list. The lack of response meant it obviously wasn't sewn into his nervous system, and Scott had seen him adjust it several times before, even if it was only a tiny bit, either tightening or loosening the material.

But he’d continued to tug and pull at the scarf, gently at first, then growing with force once he’d determined it wouldn't hurt Martyn if he did so- he may be carrying out tests to determine the truth behind the scarf, but he wasn't going to willingly hurt one of his friends.

And Martyn had only protested slightly (actually a lot, especially when Scott yanked at the scarf), but not enough to dissuade Scott from forming perhaps his worst habit in the entirety of his life.

His teachers would be so disappointed.

===

The sun was just warm enough to be uncomfortable, the sun bearing down with some force on the bare skin of his arms. He eyes Martyn from the corner of his eye, watching as he ambles along easily, hood still pulled up around his ears and looking entirely unbothered by the heat that seems determined to slowly boil his insides. He feels like he’s being slowly eased off of a simmer and onto a boil.

It leaves him feeling too hot in his own skin.

He trips, too focused on side-eyeing Martyn and questioning how the man hasn't melted into a little puddle yet. He pops back into place a few feet ahead, sparks drifting around him as he continues walking, backwards now, so he can squint at Martyn.

Martyn looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did you need something?” His face isn't even a little pink, not at all betraying that he might be feeling a little on the toasty side. It’s also beginning to piss him off a little. He looks far too cosy, at too much of a comfortable temperature with his stupid scarf tucked neatly around his neck, brushing against the bottom of his chin.

He hums, spinning around so he’s walking forwards again and falling back into place beside Martyn. “Just wondering if your brain is melting into a puddle.” He makes a small, considering noise in the back of his throat, turning his head to continue squinting at Martyn. Martyn is watching him. “You look like your brain is melting outta your ears.”

Martyn stares at him, jolting to a halt for a second before his brain seems to reboot (maybe it’s not quite melted yet. Just…defrosting) and he starts walking again, jogging for a moment to catch up with Scott.

“What does that even mean?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. His face scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing and forming a small crinkle between his eyebrows. Scott can't quite bring himself to look away, though he covers up this new and embarrassing discovery by grinning wide.

“Means you look like an idiot.”

Martyn goes a little pink in the face at that - though, Scott notes, unfortunately it doesn't look like the pinkness of his face is due to the heat. It looks more like- he teleports a few feet to the left, crossing his arms and frowning at Martyn.

“That’s not very nice of you.” He complains. He stops walking so he can plant his hands on his hips and frown at Martyn disapprovingly. “We use our words, not our fists to communicate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martyn shakes his head. “I wasn't gonna hit you hard.” He pauses, then smiles at Scott, sidling a little closer, “Just a little tap.”

Scott reels back as Martyn flicks him on the nose, hands shooting up to cover his face, glaring at Martyn once he’s managed to blink the tears back from his eyes enough to actually bring Martyn’s face back into focus.

Martyn laughs at him, bending almost double at the waist as he laughs. It echoes around them, sending a few rabbits shooting off through the grasses, disappearing quickly into the browning grass. He frowns after them, watching the bobbing of their cotton-tails disappear. He’s got a recipe for rabbit meat somewhere, tucked away in one of the recipe books lining his bookshelves. He’s hardly had an opportunity to make any rabbit-based dishes.

The slowing of Martyn’s wheezing (sounding more like he’s choking and less like he’s laughing) brings him out of his thoughts, and he remembers to glare at him, lowering his hands from his face to properly achieve the full effect.

“Did your mother teach you no manners?” He cries, once he’s managed to gather himself sufficiently enough to be annoyed. “Or did you just grow up in a barn?” If he ever dared to flick someone on the nose (on the nose) back home, he’d have gotten a slap on the wrist and sent to his room for a week. His teachers would have also made sure to slot in some extra etiquette classes, just to rub salt in the wound a little further.

“My mother was a lovely woman,” Martyn huffs back at him. “She taught me plenty of manners, but she also told me not to waste them on rude people.”

“I'm not rude!” Martyn snorts a laugh at that. “I am not!” He has to jog to catch up with Martyn, following behind him as he pushes through the tall grass, carving a path for Scott to easily follow behind.

The grass brushes over the bare skin at his wrists, causing him to shiver and tuck his arms a little closer. He loves the plants of this realm far too much to be disgusted by many of them, but tall grasses are something that makes him want to claw his skin off when it brushes over him, skittering across his flesh like the similarly unwelcome bugs he’s come across recently. Simply the thought of the spiders is enough to send a shiver down his spine, crawling uncomfortably over his skin.

“You're one of the rudest people I've met.” Martyn says, turning his head over his shoulder to look at him. His scarf slips a little lower, exposing a pale flash of skin at his neck. It’s almost enough to make him swallow a look away, though the heat can be blamed on the sun, still trying to cook him from the inside out. Like his insides are soup and his organs the meat of it. He grimaces at his own analogy and looks away.

Looking away means he makes direct eye contact with the creeper lurking just to the side of them, fixing him under its beady stare. He stares at it for a moment, not even registering that his feet have stopped moving and Martyn has continued on in front of him, unaware of the creature waiting to put a dent in this horrible, itchy field.

It hisses, swelling slightly in warning. It’s all the warning he’ll get, and he grabs it with both hands and holds on, teleporting to Martyn and grabbing the closest available thing, dragging him forward and through another one of his portals, both of them tumbling through several feet away, tumbling over each other in the grass as Martyn yells something into his ear.

The grass brushes past every bit of exposed skin, and he feels several of his joints protest the movement, twisting oddly and promising him pain later if he doesn't use heat and pressure. He ignores it, ignores the scratching of the grass as it tickles him.

The explosion rocks through the air a moment later, causing him to wince and duck his head, far closer to Martyn’s face than he’s…ever been. Ever. Martyn’s staring up at him, eyes wide and hood halfway fallen off of his head, revealing his ridiculously fluffy deer ears. His scarf is still tucked neatly around his neck, though, not a speck of dust caught in its fibres.

“What,” Martyn wheezes out, “the hell.”

“There was a creeper,” he manages, still a little disoriented from the sudden, jarring teleportations- he hasn't gotten dizzy like this since his first few teleports. Certainly not after he’d graduated his first year. “Uh. Thought it’d ruin the day a bit if one of us got blown up.”

“You think?” Martyn’s breathing still sounds a little wheezy. His voice slightly strained as he speaks. “Might do a bit more than ruin the day.” Scott shifts slightly, knees digging uncomfortably into the weirdly soft ground…

He shifts backwards onto his haunches a little further, drawing back as he realises he’s hunched over Martyn, knees digging into his chest, faces far too close to be friendly. The sun is unbearably hot on his back, flushing his face with the heat and recent exertion.

His ankle twinges painfully as Martyn sits up, dislodging him from where he had been crouching. It brings them almost face to face again, because Scott’s still sitting on his legs, just below the knee, grass still itching at his arms as they shift about.

The smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, hanging heavy about their heads, even as the small particles of smoke begin to float back down.

Martyn’s hand wraps around his, slowly prying his fingers away from something. Scott looks down, finding the end of Marytn’s scarf clutched in his grasp, fingers digging into the material tight enough that his knuckles are white.

“Next time you decide to save my life,” Martyn says, a small note of humour lingering in his voice, “try not to yank me around by my neck, yeah?”

“I- yeah.” He shifts back a little further, pulling his hands back to himself once he’s managed to release Martyn’s scarf. “Course.”

===

Martyn almost walks off a cliff the next week.

He’d been speaking, saying something that Scott can't even remember anymore, after the adrenaline-fueled and anxiety-inducing five seconds that resulted from Martyn stepping off a cliff. It’s no wonder there’s so many stories about death in this realm, if people so easily fling themselves to their doom on the regular. Or if small accidents like this spell the end for most people.

Martyn’s foot slips, something giving way beneath his heel. Scott gets a brief moment of seeing Martyn’s face twist - morphing to something like horror - as their eyes meet, before Scott is lunging forward, reaching for any part of Martyn.

One hand curls around Martyn’s shoulder, the contact enough for him to snag onto Martyn with his powers, a thread coiling tightly around him as he releases him once more, staggering back from the cliff edge, not even giving himself a moment before he’s yanking on that thread, fingers twisting tight in it and pulling.

It gives way with a snap, and Scott becomes weightless. The ground below him rushes up, a mix of greys and darker greys, a few dripstone reaching up, eager to impale him. He twists, reaching for a spot on the clifftop.

He stumbles, feet coming into contact with the ground, jarring his knees hard enough to make him gasp, knees buckling as they decide they don't want to hold his weight up anymore. He winces as his knees hit the ground, lungs feeling too empty as he gasps, attempting to breathe properly again after…that.

“God, Scott,” Martyn sounds equally out of breath as he does. “I- thanks, thought I was a goner there.”

“You're lucky I was around,” he bites back, straightening up so he can see Martyn. One of his knees twinges painfully, as he rocks back to rest on his heels, one hand still planted firmly on the ground for balance. “Or you’d be a smear on the rock right now.”

“Alright, no need to rub it in.” Martyn grimaces. His hood has fallen back, exposing his windswept hair and flushed cheeks. His scarf trails loosely around his neck, no longer tucked snugly against his neck. Scott gets the odd impulse to tuck it back into place for him.

He clenches his hands into fists before he can make a move to act on that thought, snagging several blades of grass in one hand, almost ripping them free before he relaxes again, releasing them carefully and checking that he didn't damage them. He might hate their taller cousins, but the short and soft green grass is something that he’s found himself growing rather fond of.

“I need to put you on a leash,” he mutters, pushing himself to his feet. When he looks back up, Martyn’s cheeks look a little rosy. Possibly a little wind-bitten, but he looks fine otherwise. “If you keep wandering off, I’ll put you in one of those child leashes.” He threatens.

“You wouldn't,” Martyn denies. He looks confident in his denial, as well, which Scott supposes is fair; they've only known each other for a little while, and thus he cannot expect Martyn to understand how willing he is to commit to things, especially if it means he can stop getting an adrenaline rush when he decides to go a nice, leisurely stroll with one of his friends.

“I would,” he steps closer, grinning up at Martyn. They're close enough that he can almost feel Martyn’s breath on his cheeks. Close enough that he can study the odd, square shape of Martyn’s pupils (something he’s been meaning to ask about for the past while but has never managed to). “But,” he hums, glancing down, “I suppose this will have to do for now.”

He winds the end of Martyn’s scarf around his hand, pulling on the end a little, just to watch it tighten around Martyn’s throat. It’s closer to how he normally wears it, even if Martyn immediately grabs the scarf, tugging it away from his throat.

“Absolutely not.” Martyn loosens it a little further. Scott tugs at it again, watching how Martyn’s hands curl into his beloved scarf a little tighter, holding onto it.

“Why not?” He asks, tilting his head to the side as he continues to look up at Martyn.

“Because I'm not a child.” One of Martyn’s hands has come up to scrape at his hand, trying to peel his fingers back from where they're curled into his scarf. His gloves mean that Scott can't feel the bite of his nails, and so his attempts are rendered useless.

He seems to realise this, after several seconds of silence between the two of them as he fruitlessly attempts to free himself.

“Would a dog be better?”

“What?” Martyn stops his attempts, hand pausing where it hovers over his own. He can feel the cold of his hands seeping through the fabric of his gloves. His own fingers tingle in sympathy, and he almost winces at the thought of his hands being that cold.

“If I compared you to a dog rather than a child,” he grins. He already knows that the comparison is not better. He’d had a lovely conversation with Gem - a swarm, he didn't even know such a thing could exist - about dogs and how cute they are. She’d seemed quite enthusiastic about them, even if, to Scott, having a dog seemed rather inconvenient; you had to take it for walks and pay it so much attention. It was hardly self-sufficient, and they always seemed far too cheerful about everything. And a dog also seemed like it would create lots of messes.

So, not something someone wants to be compared to.

“No!” Martyn protests, redoubling his attempts to pry Scott away from his scarf. “No, that is not better.” He pauses, looking up at Scott, before he begins slowly pulling his hand upwards-

“Don't bite me!” He cries, yanking his hand back, releasing Martyn’s scarf. “What the hell, Martyn? Why?”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn yells back, eyes wide and ears pinned backwards, looking almost startled. “I didn't know what else to do!”

“And biting me seemed like a good idea?”

“Yes!” Martyn clutches at his scarf, holding tight onto the fabric where Scott had held it, brushing a thumb over the material. “My teeth aren't sharp like yours, you’d be fine.”

“Human bites are some of the most dangerous bites in the entire universe,” he rattles off. “They're more dangerous than animals, due to the bacteria that live inside human’s mouths. As such, if a human bite breaks the skin, it can become infected.”

Martyn blinks at him, still holding his scarf. “And you just know this?”

“I only met humans recently,” he replies. “I wanted to be aware of the dangers. Especially if one tried to bite me.”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn repeats, holding his scarf closer to his chest, clutching at it like it’s some precious treasure rather than a knitted item. Maybe it is more valuable to him than any treasure.

“Fine,” he sniffs, turning on his heel. “Come on.”

Martyn doesn't follow him, and he turns after a few steps to look at Martyn. Martyn’s regarding him with suspicion. “What?”

“Where are we going?”

“To my house, duh,” he raises an eyebrow. “Where did you think we were going?”

“Why are we going to your house?” Martyn asks, but he does take a step after Scott, and then another. Satisfied that he’s following him, he turns and continues walking.

“Because I have an actual kitchen. And because I have actual food, and I don't have creepers infesting my living room.”

“Leave the Coliny alone.” Martyn frowns at him as he falls into step beside him, matching him step for step. Scott smiles as he notices this, glancing down at their feet then back up at Martyn’s face.

He grins, and Martyn takes notice, pulling away from him with a suspicious look. “What?” He asks, glancing around them, as though worried another cliff is going to appear out of nowhere and he’s going to walk off of it. Maybe Scott would let him this time, just to remind him to look where he’s putting his feet.

“Look at you,” he sidles up beside Martyn, bumping their shoulders together. “You listened when I called you to heel, just like a good dog.”

He’s well enough accustomed to Martyn’s reactions by now, meaning he can duck and teleport away when Martyn swings an arm at his head, reappearing a few feet in front.

“Compare me to a dog again and I’ll bite you.”

“How violent.” He grins. “Guess we still need to work on a little bit of training for you.”

Martyn’s face is absolutely worth it. Absolutely. Even if he’s forced to, very politely, ask Martyn for some ice so he can reduce the swelling of his face. Martyn also gives it to him, which means that he’s already forgiven.

Martyn’s scarf is tucked neatly around his neck once more, but Scott’s fingers itch to tug at it again, just to see how Martyn would react. He holds off on that urge, for now.

===

“Woah,” he reaches a hand out to yank at Martyn’s scarf, pulling him back a step. “Watch your feet there. And your head.”

“I thought I told you to stop that.” Martyn slaps his hand anyway, but he does duck his head, watching his feet as he navigates the shaky-looking bridge. Scott chooses not to risk it, eyeing the half-rotten boards and teleporting to the other side, landing on the rock there silently.

Martyn continues to inch along the walkway, watching his feet and with his head ducked to avoid tangling his antlers in the chains above him. He takes his sweet time too, leaving Scott peering down the abandoned tunnels of the mineshaft in boredom, scanning around for any skeletons lurking around corners, waiting to stick an arrow in him.

The sound of Martyn’s hooves against the wood is loud, echoing around them and down into the darkness below the unsteady bridge. Scott glances back at it again, watching the way Martyn wobbles for a moment before stabilising again. He looks unsteady on his feet, placing them carefully as he makes his way across the yawning chasm.

In theory, he could have offered a helping hand in the form of a portal. But Martyn had slapped his hand, and there’s still a light pink mark on the back of his hand. It doesn't sting - it had only stung in the moment when Martyn had actually hit him - but he’s content to give Martyn his penance through this.

The wood creaks dangerously beneath Martyn, and Martyn apparently decides that he’s had enough of walking cautiously across the gap, because he launches himself forward, pushing off of the board, causing it to splinter, and landing on the other side with a clatter.

Scott barely avoids being crushed, dipping out of the way and slipping through a portal. A few sparks land on the ground around his feet, illuminating the area for a few moments before fading away.

“You could have killed me,” he says. Martyn gives him an unimpressed look, brushing his coat off as he peers back into the gap. The gap that is now no longer bridged by a dubiously stable plank. The darkness reaches upwards when Scott joins Martyn in peering over the edge, squinting as he tries to see into it.

A clattering sound reaches them, several seconds after the plank initially fell.

“But I forgive you,” he adds, glancing over at Martyn. “It’d be a shame if I had to go scrape your remnants off the cave floor. And so far down too!” He rocks forward, positioning himself more precariously on the edge, toes slipping just over the lip of the rock.

Martyn grabs at the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards and attempting to choke him. He coughs, ripping Martyn’s hands away from him once he’s certain he’s not going to send both of them to certain doom.

“It’d be a shame if I had to scrape your remains off the cave floor, too.” Martyn says, pulling his hands back towards himself. “It’d be far too inconvenient, and then you’d just be stuck down there for eternity.”

“I’d haunt you.” He retorts. “I’d haunt you so hard you’d be sick of me.” He pokes Martyn in the chest, just to emphasise his point.

“I'm already sick of you,” Martyn says, but there’s a small smile teasing at the edges of his mouth as he leans a little closer, reducing the distance between them.

“Oh really?” He leans back, finger still pushed into Martyn’s chest, keeping him at a distance. If Martyn really wanted to lean further forward, he could, very easily- Scott’s finger isn’t going to be enough to stop him. “If you're so sick of me, why didn't you let me plummet to my death?”

“Because I'm not rude?” Martyn responds, sounding almost confused. “Do you…kill people that annoy you?” He sounds a little more concerned than confused there, eyes searching Scott’s face.

“Only if they really annoy me,” he grins back up at Martyn, watching the way his eyes widen a little before he forces his face back into a more neutral expression. “Like, it’s definitely not a first resort. Or a second resort. Probably around a fourth or fifth solution to whatever problem. And even then I don’t really like doing it.”

“That’s weird.” Martyn tells him.

“Your sky is blue,” he responds. “That’s weird.”

“What other colour would it be?” Martyn asks. They're still stood in the abandoned mineshaft, feet away from the almost endless drop into the abyss. “Red?”

“Don't be stupid,” he scoffs. He’s not sure what Martyn wanted from here- there was some point to their visit here, but he can't remember it anymore. Martyn had only told him what it was once before asking for company. Scott would have offered company even if it wasn't asked for. Mainly because if Martyn gets shot by a skeleton, he wants to be there to witness it. “Purple is a far more normal colour. Or even just black.”

“The sky is dark at night,” Martyn says. His eyes flash a little in the darkness of the mineshaft, and, why didn't they bring torches? Surely having a torch would make this whole thing a lot easier- coal. That’s what they're here for. Martyn needed some more coal, and there was a mineshaft he hadn't explored yet. “And it turns all sorts of colours at sunset.”

“The sun is even weirder.” He concludes. “Don't even talk to me about the sun.”

“The sun is the most normal thing there could be!” Martyn cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You're telling me wherever you came from doesn't have a sun?”

“No.” Martyn’s eyes are unusually bright for how dark this corridor of the mineshaft is, their blue bright amongst the darkness. As blue as the stupid sky that everyone in this realm seems to be obsessed with. “There are numerous celestial bodies, but each of them are much too far away to have the same impact on us that the sun has on you. If the sun disappeared - permanently, that is - did you know you’d die? That would simply be it, the end of all life unless you could adapt to the colder temperatures and overall lack of food.”

“What a cheery thought.”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “Did you want coal or not? I'm fine with continuing to stand here and bicker, but I'm also pretty sure you disturbed a spider’s nest earlier when you broke that plank.”

“I- what?” Martyn had been beginning to step away from him, but he whips his head back around to stare at him with the mention of spiders.

“Spiders.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Can't you hear them?”

“No I can't hear them,” Martyn hisses out. “Why didn't you say anything earlier?”

“I thought you could hear them. And I thought you wanted to continue arguing more than you wanted to remain not poisoned.”

“Why would I want to get poisoned?” Martyn sounds almost distressed, like he’s rapidly reaching the end of his tether and is desperately trying to hold onto the last thread of his sanity. People from this realm often sound like this, though he’s not sure what the cause of it is.

“You drink alcohol, don't you?” Martyn narrows his eyes at him, but nods anyway. “See!” He gestures. “It’s a form of poison- or toxin, whatever, and your liver filters it, right? Most creatures wouldn't even drink alcohol if it poses such a risk to them, and yet you do so anyway?”

Martyn appears to mentally flail for a moment, before sighing and replying. “It’s…they’re not the same thing.”

“Could've fooled me.” Scott shrugs. He then reaches out and grabs Martyn’s scarf, yanking him downwards as a spider launches itself where Martyn’s head had been moments before. It sails right over his head instead, landing on the ground with an irritated chitter, circling around to try and bite one of them again.

He crushes it beneath his heel, driving his foot downwards until it stops making that awful screeching noise. One of its legs still twitches, just slightly, and he grimaces at the sight, pulling Martyn past the spider corpse.

“You're welcome,” he provides, when Martyn doesn't seem inclined to thank him.

Martyn scoffs, yanking his scarf back out of Scott’s hands without even a muttered thanks. “You could just tell me rather than pulling me around by the scarf.” He strokes a careful hand over the scarf, smoothing it against his chest.

“But you follow so easily,” Scott spins on his heel to face Martyn as he walks, watching the corridor behind him for any pursuing spiders. He doubts they'll chase after in revenge for their fallen brethren, but some of the creatures he’s encountered are also far more vengeful than he’d first considered. “And it’s far easier than letting you get bitten. Wouldn't it have been sad if you died of spider poison in a dingy little mineshaft?”

Martyn doesn't give him a verbal answer, but his withering look is enough of one anyway.

===

He pokes at the pot on the stove, watching as the lentils continue to bubble. He stirs them once more before covering the pan again, leaning to the side of the stove to read the recipe from the book. It had seemed like a rather easy recipe, but then he’d had to go hunting for several ingredients- a few of which he didn't have in his garden yet, so the seemingly simple meal actually turned into a short trip to find a mango.

He flicks over the page, turning to the covered bowl nearby and peeking at the mixture inside. It looks like the recipe says it should, as well as the few additional tips the villager had helpfully given to him when he was noting the recipe down in the first place. He pulls the ball of dough from the bowl it was resting in, admiring its increased size as he sets it onto the counter.

There’s a small groan from behind him and he turns his head to the side to peer at Martyn, watching how his guest slumps a little further into his sofa, turned to the side and leaning against the armrest rather than sitting on it properly.

His hooves are pressed up against the other armrest of his admittedly small sofa, leaving him looking scrunched up and uncomfortable. His notebook is open in his lap, several scribbled and crossed out lines glaring at him from the pages.

He doesn't say anything, turning back to the meal he’s making. He learned, a few weeks ago, that when Martyn gets like this it’s best to just leave him to it. Asking him anything will either cause him to sulk, or to go on a rant about the problem he’s facing, then solving it halfway through said rant and leaving the conversation unfinished to write…whatever it is in his notebook.

The lentils are still happily bubbling away when he checks on them again, leaving him free to divide the dough up into several, smaller balls. They get covered in flour rather quickly, from simply coming into contact with his incredibly flour-covered counter. He tries not to wince and think of the clean-up he’ll need to do once he’s finished.

He stretches the first ball of dough out, setting it into the pan before diverting his attention to the first experiment, leaning back and away from the steam that billows out once he removes the lid. He dips a spoon into it, blowing on the food before tasting it, humming a little at the flavour.

When he glances back at Martyn, he’s managed to contort himself so he’s leaning backwards over the arm of the sofa, hooves now planted firmly in the middle of his sofa and head almost brushing the floor. His scarf dangles in front of his face, blocking at least half of his notebook from view. But he seems unbothered by the position.

He dips the spoon into experiment number one again before stepping towards Martyn.

“Up,” he tugs at Martyn’s scarf, yanking him upwards none too gently. It forces him to rise from where his head is nearly brushing the floor, which is surely uncomfortable from all the blood rushing to his head, right? Martyn grumbles, and Scott yanks at his scarf again, a little harsher than before and probably in a way that’s beginning to cut off his air supply. He keeps half an eye on the spoon, watching to make sure it doesn't drip onto the floor.

Martyn grumbles, but sits up without any further complaint. He tries Scott’s new experiment too, not even pausing to ask what it is, simply taking the offered spoon. Scott doesn't get the opportunity to tell him that it’s hot, but Martyn seems relatively unbothered by the temperature of something fresh off the stove

He hums and offers the spoon back to Scott. “Nice. Got a little bit of a kick to it, what’d you make?”

“Uhh,” Scott spins on his heel, rocking forward on his feet to squint at the cookbook propped against his half-open window. He hears the springs in his sofa creak as Martyn flops back down onto his sofa, no doubt contorting himself into another wildly uncomfortable position. “A de-ahl?”

“A what?” His sofa creaks and he turns back to face Martyn again.

“A de-ahl?” He tips his head to the side. Martyn mirrors him, only upside down, his hair fluttering about his face as he looks up at Scott. He also looks like he’s got a headache (probably from sitting upside down for the past hour) with how his face is scrunched up. “It’s a soup thing with lentils in it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Martyn nods, then thwacks his head against the sofa and grimaces. “A dhal. You're saying it wrong.” Scott hears some kind of bone crack as Martyn adjusts himself, sitting a little more upright than before, but not yet actually sitting up. He seems to prefer sitting on the arms of his sofa than the actual sofa part of it. He would think this is just a difference between realms, but he’s had other guests capable of sitting on his sofa properly, so maybe it’s just a Martyn thing? Or maybe it’s because Martyn is here more often than he’s not and thus more comfortable, so perhaps it’s simply a familiarity thing?

“Dhal,” he repeats back to Martyn, then shrugs. “I got the recipe from a nearby village when I was perusing their markets and crop fields, ahm,” he pauses, eyes flicking back to Martyn. “I mean, looking at their crop fields. Admiring them.”

“You were stealing from their crop fields?” Martyn asks, sounding surprised, and Scott is ready with a no on the tip of his tongue, only to be interrupted by Martyn continuing. “Nevermind, I can totally see you doing that.”

Scott pauses, unsure of whether he should be offended by that or not, stopping with his mouth just slightly open as the words form. He settles on giving him an affronted look that will hopefully communicate how offended he is by the implication that he steals from villagers. The effect is ruined by the notebook blocking his sightline to Martyn’s face.

“You know Villager?” Martyn asks after a second of silence, lowering his book to look up at Scott.

“Yep,” he steps back to check on the dhal again, stirring it and checking on the lentils to see if they're soft enough yet. “Vocational course.” He turns back just in time to watch Martyn mouth vocational course to himself with some measure of disbelief, before plastering a grin on his face when he sees Scott watching him. “They said it would be nice with…nan bread?”

“Naan,” Martyn corrects. “With a h sound.”

“Thanks.”

Martyn hums in response, followed soon after by the sound of writing, of a pen scratching against the paper of a page. It’s an element of background noise that Scott had never chosen to pick up on before- there had been hardly any point when his day was filled with the sounds of people writing, scratching against surfaces to imprint their thoughts in whatever way best suited them.

And the ideas were all the same. Each fragment of information was taken from the same sections of the same libraries, each book read from cover to cover by every single person occupying those spaces. Each idea was the same, formed by the same hands and guided in the same direction. It was boring.

What would be the point of writing, when it was something that had been written a thousand times over? What would be the point in verbalising your thoughts on a topic if you were only commended for specific points, if those same points were reiterated over and over again, month after month, year after year. Only the higher-ups were able to make new discoveries, able to poke into topics that haven't been so thoroughly investigated- studied so carefully that every stone had been overturned several times already.

He finds himself paying attention to Martyn, though. He finds himself listening when he hums to himself, muttering words and beginnings of sentences beneath his breath as he writes. He scratches words out with the same energy, too, with an almost frenzied pace as his brain ticks and whirrs and finds better ways to phrase things. Better ways to communicate his newest idea.

He lays the food out on the table, leaning over Martyn at first, not quite catching his attention yet. His book page is open to a sketch of something that looks like a poster. The lines are messy and not joined together (a drawing that would not get any commendations from Scott’s teachers), resulting in an almost chicken-scratch look, but neater. It’s not a style of drawing he’s seen before, and not one he gets to study for much longer as Martyn notices him watching and slams his notebook shut, rolling over to face him.

“That’s not for your eyes yet,” Martyn says, grinning. “Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.”

“I don't like surprises.” He says, turning back to the table, and the still steaming food, when he’s certain Martyn’s not going to just dive straight back into his brainstorming.

“You’ll like this one,” Martyn hops up to follow behind him, “promise.”

He’s grinning, wide, and in a way that makes Scott think that he is definitely not going to enjoy whatever surprise this is that Martyn has prepared for him. His grin looks like the “cheshire cat” that Martyn has compared him to several times in the past. He certainly looks too pleased with himself, and it fills Scott with a sudden feeling of dread.

“For some reason, I'm doubting the genuinity of your words.” He’ll have to revisit that village at some point and thank them for sharing their recipe with him. Touching his hands to the side of the bowl warms his fingers, chasing away the small chill that had been lingering since that morning.

“I'm hurt,” Martyn presses a hand to his chest and Scott rolls his eyes at the dramatism of it all. “You've wounded me, I don't know how I will ever recover from this.”

He snorts at the high pitch of Martyn’s voice, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again (he’ll probably end up giving himself a headache by accident) and looks down at his dhal, stirring his spoon idly. “What, want me to kiss it better?”

Martyn goes silent very quickly- even the sound of his breathing stops, and it’s enough to make Scott suspicious of what he’s doing now. He glances upwards, watching as Martyn very quickly begins coughing, cheeks flushed red as he angles his head away from the table.

He’s still holding a spoon in one hand, and Scott watches (with barely restrained amusement) as Martyn struggles to handle the spice in his food. He wasn't sure if Martyn had ever had spicy food before, but his knowledge of what a dhal was filled him with a little more confidence. Apparently, that confidence was unwarranted, as Martyn is struggling to get his coughing fit under control.

“Did you inhale some of the spice?” He asks. He goes for sympathetic but probably comes across a little more mocking. Martyn glares at him from one watering eye, face still a little pink.

He coughs once more, a pathetic little cough that probably did nothing to actually help. “Something like that,” he manages after a moment. He doesn't hesitate in picking his spoon up again, turning back to his bowl with a narrowed glare down at the dhal, as though it’s personally offended him.

He doesn't seem to struggle as much for the rest of the meal, though the pink of his cheeks doesn't fade completely and he won't make eye contact with Scott.

Personally, he doesn't think the dhal is that spicy. Probably because he barely added anything, leaving it as mild as he could without ruining the flavour.

===

“Why did I agree to do this?” Martyn groans next to him. Scott ignores him as best as he can, even when Martyn goes so far as to drape himself over Scott’s back, attempting to crush him into the ground. He pays no mind to the guests that are now staring at them. He thinks he hears Sausage make a choked-off little giggle sound.

He breathes in through his nose, and out slowly through his mouth, reminding himself that Martyn is his friend, and that he values his companionship, even if he can be insufferable on occasion. He must not do a very good job of looking calm and collected, because Sausage makes another weird, laughing sound behind him.

He shoves his shoulder into Martyn’s chest, jabbing him between the ribs as best as he can from the odd angle Martyn has reduced them to.

Martyn whines, rolling off of him and onto his own feet. Which are still perfectly capable of supporting him, he’s just a pain.

Scott ignores him as he finishes collecting the vegetables from this section of his garden, tucking them neatly into his wicker basket. It’s the result of a project he picked up a week or so ago, trying his hand at something new, just to see if he could weave something. The basket is a little uneven in places, but, personally, Scott thinks that it’s a rather good first attempt. And it fulfils its purpose of holding his vegetables.

“C’mon,” he grabs hold of Martyn, fingers winding around the end of his scarf. “You're helping me wash these.”

Martyn whines for a moment longer, before giving in and allowing himself to be dragged back into the house. The stares of their guests - why did he agree to host their picnic here? Who even came up with the idea? - are hot on his back, but he does his best to ignore them, striding into his kitchen with purpose.

He dumps the vegetables out onto the side, not even flinching at the dirt that follows them out. He releases Martyn, blipping to the other side of the kitchen to grab the knives he needs, before reappearing beside Martyn again.

“Knife,” he holds it out.

“I can see that.”

“Just take it.”

He washes the vegetables, because Martyn doesn't understand why the vegetables need to be washed- still doesn't, even after the lecture Scott gave him on health and the potential for harmful bacteria living on the vegetables. He admitted to eating carrots with dirt still on them, too. He didn't even see a problem with it, so Scott labelled him as a lost cause and moved on.

He’s also far better at cutting vegetables than Scott is, somehow still nimble enough even with his glove-clad hands. Scott can barely manage to cut vegetables neatly without gloves on, struggling with the dexterity it requires and balancing that with not cutting a finger off by mistake.

There’s a sound of something exploding outside.

He closes his eyes and prays that it didn't go anywhere near his farms, before flinging the window open and leaning out, hands braced on the edge of the sink to yell at either Sausage or Jimmy. It was one of them that much is certain, but he isn't sure which one of them it was yet.

Sausage is watching him with wide, guilty eyes. He’s holding onto Jimmy’s arms, keeping them high above his head and away from wherever it is that he stores his bombs. Maybe he should have reiterated his rules a little more harshly.

Smoke is wafting off of them both, but the crater is relatively small and has only singed the edge of one of his paths. He sighs, dropping his head down and praying to any god that is willing to listen to give him patience.

“If I come outside,” he speaks just loud enough for his voice to carry, but doesn't bother yelling. They're listening either way, Jimmy’s sunglasses slipping partway down his face to reveal his equally guilty-looking eyes. “And there is still a crater in my front garden, I am not going to be pleased with you.”

“Yeah!” Martyn joins in, grinning at him as he shoves his way to stand beside him in the window, pressing him up against the window frame. It digs uncomfortably into his spine. “Get that crater outta our garden!”

“It is not our garden,” he hisses, shoving at Martyn. Martyn shoves him back, pushing him into the window frame hard enough for him to wince. “It’s mine.”

“I'm here often enough for it to be mine.”

“No, you're not.”

“Nuh-uh, I'm here more often than I am at home. The Coliny pines for me when I'm away.”

“That’s your fucking problem,” he shoves Martyn back again, pushing him into the window frame. See how he likes it. “And it’s still my garden. You don't own any part of it.”

“I planted some stuff.” Martyn argues, pushing himself closer. Scott’s arms are beginning to ache from holding himself up and over the sink for this long, made worse by Martyn shoving at him.

“What did you plant?” He never let Martyn plant anything. Martyn doesn't even know where he keeps the seeds for his current crops.

“Nothing.”

“No, you just said-”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Yes you did! You just said you planted something. So help me god, what did you plant?”

“Nothing!”

(Sausage loosens his grip on Jimmy, far more entertained by whatever’s happening in front of him right now. He didn't think it would get any better than watching Scott lead Martyn around by his scarf- and for Martyn to let him. Jimmy doesn't seem to notice that his grip is loosened, as his hands don't return to his bomb storage compartment, instead choosing to continue staring at the fighting pair in the window.

Scott’s grabbed onto Martyn’s scarf again, yanking him, somehow, closer than they were before. They were practically pressed nose to nose before this, but now they're practically kissing. Or, they would be if Martyn didn't just grab a handful of Scott’s hair and yank at it.

“Um,” someone else pipes up from behind Sausage, he doesn't know who it is and doesn't turn around to find out, far too entertained by the people arguing while squished together in a window. “Do you think they still know we’re here?”

“I don't think they care.” Someone else responds.

Oh, this is far better than what Sausage thought would happen at this picnic. He agreed because he thought he might get to see them kill each other- but this is far more interesting (and baffling) than fighting each other to the death. He’s not actually sure what this is.

Someone makes a despairing sound, like their soul is being sucked out of their body, when Martyn headbutts Scott.

They disappear a moment later, in a cloud of orange and cyan sparks. Sausage is disappointed in the lack of entertainment, having to content himself with listening to the sounds of fighting that occasionally drift outside.)

(No-one comments when they re-emerge, clothes rumpled in a way that would imply something else if not for the bruise blooming on Scott’s forehead and the way they glare at each other.)

===

Scott’s not actually entirely sure on how he managed to end up like this; leaning over a stove as he watches the pot bubble away ominously. Perhaps not one of his better ideas to experiment in the kitchen while there’s a sick person in the house. But he also doesn't know what else he’s meant to give a sick person.

The recipe is for some kind of soup. He’s not entirely sure of the actual name of the soup, just that there’s chicken in it, and it’s filling his kitchen with a warm and inviting smell. Definitely one of his better first attempts, but the lack of complexity in the recipe itself may be what he needs to thank rather than his improving cooking skills- they've improved, definitely, but not enough to perfect a harder recipe on his first try.

He stirs it, sighing as the steam continues to drift upwards. The recipe was easy enough, at least, and he had all the ingredients he could need for it. And the villager had said it was perfect for when someone was sick. He’s not sure what makes something good for a sick person, but he’s not going to question the villager’s wisdom.

Something thumps above him, echoing around the entire house with how loud it is. It is then very suspiciously quiet, far quieter than it had been a few moments before. Almost as if someone is consciously choosing not to make as much noise, focusing on being as quiet as possible-

Something clatters down the stairs, but this time it’s followed by the sound of someone groaning softly.

He turns, setting the spoon over the bubbling pan as he plants his hands on his hips.

His guest looks up at him from the floor, some parts of him still encased in ice and immobile. At least he’s still aware enough of…his general everything to respond like that to falling down the stairs, rather than allowing himself to break a bone.

Martyn continues to grin up at him, from his position flat on his back at the bottom of his stairs. His rug is slightly disturbed, folded over at the corner. He doesn't seem bothered about the uncomfortable floor beneath his back, seemingly content with his position.

“Didn't I tell you to stay put?” He asks. He’s not actually sure why he asks, because the previous times he had bothered to question whatever it is that Martyn was attempting to do had only given him incomprehensible answers and left him more confused than he had been previously.

Martyn’s forehead crinkles as he puts visible effort into thinking, face flushed pink as his eyes trail along the ceiling, away from Scott’s face.

He uses the momentary distraction to stride across the kitchen, after checking the pot isn't at risk of boiling over, and hauls him to his feet again. He brushes him down, watching and dying a little inside as the chunks of ice fall onto his rug, already beginning to melt.

He steers Martyn over to one of the seats by the kitchen counter, sitting him and ignoring whatever protest Martyn is attempting.

He’d shown up late last night, several hours after the time they had agreed upon for dinner in the first place. Scott had eaten alone after half an hour went by and Martyn still hadn't shown up, preferring to eat his food while it’s still at least a little warm rather than stone-cold.

And then, lo and behold, three hours later, Martyn had shown up on his doorstep shivering and soaked through. It hadn't even been raining! They’d had a small heatwave that Scott had suffered through, Martyn seemingly content in his thick overcoat despite the blistering temperatures.

He was sick, rather obviously. Though it wasn't anything life threatening, and definitely not something that Martyn couldn't take care of on his own. But when Scott had attempted to kick him back out of his house, after determining he wasn't about to keel over (he wasn't heartless), Martyn had whinged and complained, clinging to Scott until he simply gave in and let him back into his house.

And he was still here today. No less sick and seemingly more miserable than before. He might even be a little bit more sick today, if the pink flush across his face is anything to go by.

“How do you even get a cold,” he complains, once he’s determined that Martyn isn't going to try and brain himself on the counter. “Your whole thing is being cold.”

“It’s not my thing,” Martyn says. His voice comes out odd, all congested and slightly wet. It takes all of Scott’s willpower for him not to wince at the sound of it. He pushes a glass of water across the counter a moment later, only warning Martyn not to drink it too fast- he is not cleaning up vomit today. Or ever. He’d prefer never having to clean up vomit.

“Then what is your thing,” he asks.

“Being cool,” Martyn grins at him, as though that isn't his worst attempt at a joke in a while. Scott stares at him for a moment later, waiting for the actual punchline and waiting for Martyn to come up with something better than that.

He doesn't, just continues staring at Scott silently.

“God,” he turns back to the pot, turning the heat down to let it simmer. “You're sicker than I thought. That joke was shit.”

“Was not.”

“Uh, yeah it was.”

“I’ve been thinking of that one for the past half hour,” Martyn protests. “Didn't you find it funny?”

“Not at all.”

“You're horrible to me.” Martyn sniffs, or maybe he’s just trying to breathe through his nose, Scott’s not sure. “And while I'm sick.”

“I'm horrible to you no matter what,” he’s not really. He could be much more nasty, could pick the right spot to poke and prod at until everything is sensitive. Martyn probably knows this too, because he did it to him once, once and never again because it left him feeling sick to his stomach for several days afterwards. “I'm not going to suddenly start being nice because you're feeling a little under the weather.”

“I'm not just under the weather, I'm dying.”

“Shame,” he hums. “And here I was, about to waste this soup on a dying man. Perhaps I shouldn't bother, if you're going to be dead soon.”

Martyn makes a noise that’s halfway between a groan and the sound of a wounded cat, followed quickly by the sound of his head hitting the counter. Scott panics for a moment, and yanks him back upwards, perhaps not as gentle as he normally is. Martyn whines a little at that too, eyes a little glazed over and unfocused.

He presses a hand against Martyn’s forehead, pulling his hand back almost immediately afterwards, wincing in sympathy at the heat radiating from him. Maybe he was more than a little worse than yesterday.

He turns back around, leaving Martyn to sprawl himself over his countertop, ignoring the small voice in the back of his brain that’s reminding him of how he’s going to have to disinfect it later and remove all the infectious germs from his cooking area.

He has to rummage through three separate cupboards before he manages to find what he’s looking for, emerging with a triumphant noise that has Martyn perking up, trying to get a closer look at what he’s holding.

“Here,” he holds the tablets out, offering two (he thinks it’s two? He can't quite remember the correct doses for humanoids, but it’s something like two? It could be three, but he’s sticking with two to be safe).

Martyn stares at the tablets in his palm, before slowly raising his eyes to him. The pupils are a little larger than they should be, and he still has that hazy look to his eye that suggests he’s not entirely there.

“Are you a drug dealer?” Is the last thing that Scott expects to hear from him, though.

“Sorry?”

Martyn’s eyes flick between his face and his hand, and the tablets in it, a few times. “Are you giving me drugs.”

He sighs, resisting the urge to brain himself on the counter as Martyn continues to stare at him. Trust that to be the first thing he thinks of in this situation.

“Yes,” he grits out. “But ones of the medical kind. The safe ones.”

“There are no safe drugs.” Martyn crosses his arms, leaning away from him. He seems to forget he’s on a stool as he leans too far backwards and has to lunge forward and grab the counter before he topples off of it entirely. “My mother taught me that, and my mother was a very smart woman.” He blinks. “Are you saying she’s wrong?”

“No, I'm-” he cuts himself off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn't help as much as he hoped it would. “Just take the tablets, please.”

“My mother also said not to take drugs from strangers.”

“I'm not a stranger!” He shoves the aspirin tablets towards Martyn, “You are in my house because you dragged yourself here looking like a drowned rat, and so I'm trying to make you better.”

Martyn picks one of the tablets up, but doesn't swallow it. Whatever, a win is a win, and he’s pretty sure this is a step closer to the end goal. Whether than end goal is him strangling Martyn or Martyn getting better is still up in the air.

He turns to the soup, and when he turns back around again Martyn is still holding the tablets, looking at them like they're going to bite him.

“They're safe,” he says, trying not to sigh too hard. Sighing this often is probably bad for him. “I should know, I made them myself.”

“You made these?” Martyn’s eyes widen a little, gaining a little more clarity back as he looks at the tablets again. “How?”

“I'm not explaining it to you when you're sick,” he says. “It took me three years to learn how to do it like that, you're not gonna get it.” He winces a little at his dismissive tone, ready to turn around and add something on the end that’ll lessen the sting of his words.

“That’s really smart.” Martyn says, cutting off whatever train of thought he was having beforehand. “You're, like, really smart, you know that right?”

“I- huh, thanks.” He does know he’s smart, or at least above average. He’d done well in his classes, and his teachers had been pleased with his progress. Pleased enough to sanction his exploration of another realm, at least. “You're pretty smart too.”

“You think I'm pretty?”

Scott is glad he’s facing the stove at that point, and that he has the excuse of something cooking right in front of him for how warm his face suddenly feels. He needs to stop talking. Martyn is latching onto all the wrong parts of a conversation right now, and really, he should probably be sleeping.

“Didn't say that,” he steps around the counter, grabbing Martyn’s scarf (which he hadn't managed to get off of him. Martyn bit him for trying) and yanking. Martyn follows easily, feet tripping over each other as Scott leads him away from the kitchen.

It’s a task, getting him up the stairs without him falling back down, but he seems happy to follow when the alternative is getting his airway slowly cut off by his favourite garment.

“Sleep,” he has to hold Martyn’s shoulder down so he doesn't try and roll out of the bed. “You are sick and you are going to be so embarrassed when you feel better and remember this.”

“Why would I be embarrassed?”

“Because I'm going to remind you,” he pushes a little more of his weight down onto Martyn’s shoulder, just to emphasise it, and remind him that he is staying here. “You get up again and I'm videoing you for everyone else to see.”

Martyn grumbles at him, but flops over onto his side anyway, closing his eyes.

He’ll be back up thirty minutes later, threat forgotten, but the moment of peace is all Scott needs to finish the soup. And collect himself so he can stop thinking about the way Martyn had looked at him when he said pretty.

===

“You're insufferable, you know that right?” He tries to tip his head back, but Martyn keeps a firm hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to continue facing forward.

“I strive to be!” Martyn chirps in response. He’s not at all gentle in the way he’s braiding Scott’s hair, tugging at it just a little bit too hard for it to be comfortable.

Scott sits there and lets it happen, sinking into the feeling of someone playing with his hair, tipping his head back the slightest amount that Martyn is allowing. He relaxes moment by moment, listening to whatever song Martyn is humming under his breath.

It’s not a song he’s heard before. So much of the music of this realm is entirely different from anything he’s ever heard before, varying so much in the different sounds used despite using the same few notes that he knows. Every piece of music he’s ever been forced to learn had sounded the exact same, with perhaps a slight difference in pitch.

Every piece of music here has him feeling a different variation of emotions, sometimes an entire collection of them. It’s confusing, but in an almost good way. Everything in this realm seems confusing, far too much and far too little at the same time, so different from everything he knows and everything he expected.

He finds himself liking it more than he expected.

He winces as Martyn tugs at his hair again, waving away the murmured apology Martyn gives him in return. He’s not sure what possessed Martyn to do this, but he’d had the idea halfway through their dinner, voicing it moments later. Maybe most surprising of all was how easily Scott agreed, in exchange for Martyn drying the dishes and putting them away.

(He does that anyway, finding comfort in helping out when Scott won't let him in his kitchen. He’s been brought up with truly impeccable manners - whoever his mother is, Scott wouldn't mind meeting her - and cannot stand to take something from someone without giving anything in return. Scott doesn't quite understand the sentiment, seeing himself as offering the meal freely in exchange for company, but he’s also not going to protest help in washing up.)

“And…done!” Martyn leans back, Scott can feel the way his weight shifts behind him. He raises a hand to carefully feel along his hair, fingers drifting over the braid winding its way around the side of his head. He didn't think his hair was long enough for this, but Martyn somehow made it work.

“Thank you,” he twists around to direct his smile at Martyn. Martyn smiles back at him, a little softer around the edges than usual. Though maybe that’s just the effect of his hood being down for once and his scarf a little looser around his neck.

“It really suits you,” Martyn says, tipping his head to the side. One of his ears flicks, the furry ends catching the light and holding it between the fine hairs there. He still hasn't explained that part, though he’d made it clear that it was a separate entity from the cold that laces his bones. Scott hadn't understood his explanation- mainly because there hadn't been an explanation in the first place, but he hadn't dug deeper in search of one. The people of this realm are fascinating, but they're also insanely private with their personal affairs, preferring to hold things close to their hearts when those feelings cannot be accessed.

Scott finds that his own feelings have migrated closer to his chest in mimicry. His emotions are a tangled ball of thorns that he’s not looking forward to unwinding when he has to return. To unpick the knots that have snared themselves within that tangled ball of feelings and experiences is bound to tear them apart in places, leave them misshapen and incomplete.

Leaving them a tangled snarl of confusing emotions is preferable to him. It’s something for him to hold onto, to remind him of this experience once he’s left. Because he will have to leave, eventually, the days ticking by and counting down on an invisible clock.

“Thank you,” Martyn continues to watch him, even after his thanks. He feels himself growing a little warm beneath the attention - something else he hadn't experienced before now. Something he hadn't ever expected to experience.

He’s not sure what possesses him- maybe it’s something entirely out of his control taking over his body for a moment to push him forwards, to shove him from one door to another, forcing him through it before he can deliberate any longer. Or maybe it’s his mind taking a backseat for a moment, allowing his heart to push him forward.

His hand closes around the end of Martyn’s scarf, the fabric worn in all the right places beneath his fingers, in all the familiar places. He’s not sure how many times he’s held this scarf in his hand, exactly like this before. Far too many to count, probably not enough to mean anything.

He yanks, before his brain can kickstart and send him sprawling away, backpedalling in the hopes of saving whatever fragmented friendship they come out of this with.

He’s never kissed anyone before.

It’s nothing like what he expected, but somehow everything at the same time. Fireworks don't go off in the background, there’s no dizzying rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. Nothing like the few romance novels had described it as, nothing so extreme as losing control over yourself and sinking into the sensation of it.

He’s entirely aware, can feel the warmth of another person’s body beneath his hands, can feel the brush of skin against his lips, the slightest amount of pressure, before he’s pulling back again.

He shoves himself off of Martyn hurriedly, and would have had a rather undignified meeting with the ground if arms hadn't circled around him, dragging him back towards that warmth, that orbit that seems to drag him further and further in, no matter what he does in an attempt to distance himself.

He learned about black holes, on a whim as it was on none of the courses or optional modules that he signed up for. It just didn't cross over into his branch, didn't overlap with any of the courses he took. It wasn't anything he ever learned in a class, but it was something he studied anyway- some interest that had seized him and left him in what some may describe as a frenzy as he studied everything about the stars he could get his hands on.

Black holes drag anything and everything in, indiscriminate in what enters their orbit and is consumed. This slow dragging back towards Martyn, no matter how many times he tries to put a safe distance between them, reminders of his limited time here doing very little against the gravitational force Martyn seems to have swathed himself in.

But it is not the crushing force of some immeasurable celestial being. It is not how he imagined being dragged into a black hole would feel like. It’s more like the soft tugging of a hand, caught on the edge of clothing, or linked around a finger, urging him to return towards them.

Such a force should be easy to overcome, should be easy to break away from. And yet, Scott finds himself sinking back into the feeling every single time, coaxed back by the oddness that everyone he now surrounds himself with seems to possess.

“Where d’you think you're going?” Is Martyn’s only question, but it’s enough to drag Scott back into his orbit once more. Maybe enough to keep him there, this time.

#juno.writes #new life smp #new life smp fic #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficshipping #majorwood #nlsmp #nlsmp martyn #nlsmp scott

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