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creativitysloyalservant · 4 months ago

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i have decided to break my lack of original posting on this blog to bring you my Thoughts on Rot in Paradise. because i played it as soon as i got up this morning and i have scoured for some opinions after finishing it, and now i have my own!!

(and also i posted this on twitter but twitter has such a Shit wordcount that i'm also posting my things here with More Detail)

so! spoilers under the cut, please go and play the game if you haven't. it takes literally an hour (it only took nearly 2 hours for me because i like voice acting by myself and exploring every nook and cranny) and it's also free. so maybe come back into the tag once you're done.

okay, so i noticed quite a number of people being confused and disappointed on the lack of an explanation for the monster. it's brought up in the story as the central thing driving the plot, but it's never explained on what "she" is, why she's compelling people to eat a ton of fish-related food or hell, metal, and why this doesn't impact June at all.

but you know what I think?

i think that that's the point. the focus of rot in paradise isn't supposed to be on the monster.

yeah, it's the thing that pushes the plot along besides June and the gang going on vacation in this island. it's what's causing that uneasiness from the moment that guy grabs June's arm at the drinks, to the sheer unnerving feeling of witnessing people going to the ocean to get Raptured basically. i know i personally felt a chill when i saw that one dude literally eating chains and the other hauling an anchor, as if they're trying to make themselves heavier so they get taken by whatever She is.

but that's not the main point! the main conflict is about June and her friends.

as people have pointed out, this game is about toxic friendships and relationships! it's foreshadowed in the conversation that June has with the gang about her cousin (which i will also get into), and it carries it through the way her friends are horribly warped by this ocean Creature. June goes on a silly little vacation trip with her friends only for them to become so so different from themselves that they lash out at her and even hit her in McCoy's case.

but she still sticks it out with them. through the whole game, even despite their verbal abuse, despite being slapped, despite them being people that she can hardly recognise. she stays with them for the whole game, up until the point where you are given the two options at the very end. and she could still stay with them.

because they're still her friends. she cares about them even if they still hurt her. from the way June still tells Carmen to tell June if she needs anything after Carmen literally tells her to shut up and leave, the way June worries about Vonnie eating seafood even though she continues to stuff herself despite being implied to either hate or make an active choice to not eat seafood, to the way June still trudges out to sea screaming for McCoy to come back to the shore as he wades further in even after he slapped her until her nose bled.

it mirrors the conversation about her cousin, the reason for why June was looking forward to the vacation. that while she did comfort her cousin through all of it, June clearly says that "they were dickheads, and she should have ditched them a long time ago".

but it's funny, isn't it? that June, an outsider to her cousin's friend group, easily sees the pain that her cousin's friends are causing her, and immediately calls it as it is. that her cousin should have left the second they hurt her.

and yet now, when her friends hurt her, even though this was a quick and sudden change that happened in a span of three days, June still sticks around. her friends are dickheads right now, and we can see that in the way they interact with June, but she still stays.

because they're her friends. and how could she just leave them like this if it's something that's causing them to be this way?

so no, i don't think the monster is supposed to be the main picture. we don't need to know what it looks like, or why it needs to do this to the islanders, or how it's even doing it in the first place. it adds to the scariness of the game, as per the Spooktober Game Jam, sure, but that's not the point. might be a bit disappointing to some, but that's not the point.

the point is about June, and the choice that she needs to make at the end of the game.

it's a choice on whether she chooses to be pulled deeper into the tides and be with the friends who hurt her and will continue to hurt her in this way,

or to leave them to their fates, whether deserved or not, and resurface to a world where she's alone without her friends.

and even though the first choice hurts much more in the long run, doesn't the second hurt even more in the moment? knowing that you're alone at the end of all of this?

even if it is the right choice, i'm sure the pain must be unbearable in the moment.

#Rot in Paradise #Rot in Paradise Spoilers #RIP Spoilers #Studio Investigrave #this game isn't supposed to have a happy ending i'm sure. june's gotta deal with it no matter the ending #also because its not super relevant to the contents (more spoilers in tags)#i also see people speculate on why ryan just upped and went in as well #people say its possibly because he tried helping too much that he got sucked in (which i can see it!)#but also i'm wondering if he was sorta on the fence in terms of being got by the monster?#yeah he was on june's side but there was that moment at the bar with the woman and the metal shrapnel that he went-#“uh don't know about that but it did look like a huge chunk”. like he's sort of wavering on it?#but also i wonder if june's words on sunday night got to him. where she thought that maybe von mccoy and carmen were right #and that they were wrong. did that get into ryan's head? did he second guess himself?#did he go into the ocean wanting? leaving after giving june one last reminder of him (the jacket) as some sort of comfort?#man i don't know. but this game do be getting the cogs turning.

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galaxiasgreen · 1 month ago

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🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-Rated, 4.7k words]

He pulls you so close there's a mere thread of air between the tips of your noses. You look up and see a man lost in the midst of his demons, drowning under a pain so core-deep there's no hope of excavation – and in the reflection of those coffee eyes, you see yourself, the angel, the life ring, the last hope that keeps him tethered to the world. "No." The word punctuates with unyielding command. "No. I would never, ever let them hurt you. I swear it to god." "I don't care about God," you whisper. "Swear it to me."

The truth comes out as you sew Sebastian's wounds.

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: alcoholism, coarse language, blood/ injury, surgical stitching, explicit smut MDNI (dirty talk, table sex, porn with feelings, semi-public sex, very slight breeding kink).

5. living and surviving

Sebastian comes to when you hold smelling salts under his nose.

Between last breath and now, you were a mile out in the centre of town, a minute's walk from the pub, maybe more, depending on how far astray you were led by Harlow's men. You have no idea how you ended up in some cramped one-bed flat overlooking a dim, dingy street near the docks – and until you noticed the empty bottles strewn on a damp, sticky floor and smelt a musk of sweat and leather infused with the bedsheets, you didn't know where you were either. The garret converted from a servant's quarters feels like its own world, not quite tangled with reality.

But Sebastian's bloodied body is no dream. Everything that's happened – waking up in the middle of the night, Harlow attacking, Sebastian interfering, then transporting to his lodging in the blink of an eye... you can barely process it.

His eyes flutter open at the smell, and you place the salts aside to wipe the sweat from his brow. Now is not the time to panic; Sebastian needs you. You can't let it get to you while he's on the brink of seeing his parents again.

"Easy. You blacked out."

"Fuck." He winces. "I..."

He tries to reach for his pocket – you stop him. "I told you to take it easy."

"Need... drink..."

"No you don't. I got some bandage from your bathroom and cleaned and wrapped the wounds, but the one on your chest is too deep. It needs sewing. Have you got a needle?"

His gaze drifts to the empty whisky bottle on his bedside drawer.

"Don't tell me you used the good stuff?"

"You won't get to appreciate the good stuff if you die." You sink down onto the chair, staring at the dried blood on your hands. "My parents, Sebastian. What if Harlow—"

"He won't," he says gently, making you look at him. "He'll want to go lick his wounds and whinge about losing to a child." Fresh blood blooms into the bandage when he sits up. "There's an emergency kit in my bathroom, under the sink. Can you grab it?"

The kit turns out to be a canvas basket of unmarked phials of an oozing grass-green liquid.

"What the hell is this?" you ask, when you hand one to him.

Instead of applying it to cloth, like you expect, he places the phial to his lips. Half of it bobs down his throat before you slap it away, smashing it against the wall.

"What the—!"

"For God's sake, are you insane? Taking some potion like that? No herbal nonsense is going to clear a wound. That's not a natural colour!"

His head cocks, like he's thinking of some joke.

"Potion, you say?"

"It's not funny." You snatch an old shirt and press it to the wound – he lets out a yelp. "I told you, it needs sewing. You must have a needle somewhere."

"I don't." Already he sounds better, and colour returns to his cheeks. "You've got one at the pub?"

"Obviously."

"Then we'll go back."

"You're in no state—"

"We can check on your parents."

The retort vanishes. Realistically you can't say no. You had every intention of making sure he was okay before going yourself, but Sebastian's method of transport, whatever that entails, is a lot faster. You take his outstretched hand and shut your eyes, and as quick as it takes to adjust to the pleasant fizzing his grip brings do you return to the pub's main hall like you never left.

Sebastian barely teeters. For someone badly injured not ten minutes ago, his recovery is remarkable, and he prowls along the surroundings with molten grace. Every shadow seems sentient and beastly, every corner a secret, and when the darkness is both the cloak and the dagger, turning from friend to foe at whatever whim it designs, the potential for danger flares panic in your belly. You were a fool to follow the noises. A fool to fall for the trap. Harlow plucked you up like you were nothing. If not for Sebastian, you'd be dead. Or wishing you were.

Sebastian's presence is the only thing keeping those thoughts at bay, and when you check your parents upstairs – fast asleep and undisturbed – relief douses some of those flames.

After a cursory perimeter patrol, Sebastian lumbers back into the hall and sits on the edge of a table. You fetch an emergency kit from under the bar and light a candle, exposing how much worse the wound has become. Some sort of gungy discharge weeps through the bandage, a worrying shade of yellow.

"I can clean the infection." You scooch closer, ignoring the way the smell of his sweat makes your mouth dry. "It— it should be okay."

"Hope so. Can't imagine dying in your pub would be convenient."

"Don't you realise that could have happened?" you snap, letting out the tiniest vent of emotion. "Fuck, you got off light, Sebastian! You could've been left with a hundred stab wounds or beaten so hard you were unrecognisable or killed in a bloody alleyway—"

He intertwines his fingers with yours suddenly, curbing the tremors.

"I'm all right, bar girl. I will live."

It's an invitation of calm in calamity. He's okay. He'll live. You repeat it over and over again, trying to absorb the words and focus on his grip. It anchors you, devours you, makes your heart soar into the vast endlessness of the night sky. Is it the anxiety of Harlow's attack that makes your knees weak, or is it him, an embodiment of light on the wings of darkness?

You pull away, flustered. For fuck's sake. He's covered in blood, bruises, sweat and dried alcohol. He's confusing and contradictory and crass. He's an illusion of perfection, an enigma no close to being solved. He should not be an option – ever. But your body tingles with desire as you singe a needle beneath the kettle's boil.

What would it be like to taste him? What would it be like for him to taste me?

"You know," he says, "I could've just drank the potion and saved you the hassle."

You sit opposite him to thread it, aware of his penetrating gaze. "Yeah, and then I'd be reviving your arse from bloody cardiac arrest."

"Might be worth it for a kiss."

You look up at him, stunned.

"The kiss of life, bar girl." That insufferable smirk. "Keep up."

You finally stick the thread through the eye, and when he removes the bandage, sodden with blood, you get a proper look at the damage. It's a clean slice down his chest, not long but deep. Strangely, it seems smaller than it was before.

"Shirt off, I need full access to sew it shut."

His mouth crooks upwards – handsome and charming and utterly vexing.

"First a kiss, now my shirt? There are easier ways to get me in bed, bar girl."

But he obeys, peeling off the soiled linen.

And by God do you stare.

It's hard not to. Sebastian Sallow is built like fucking Adonis. Chiselled, hard abs, perfectly moulded shoulders, tufts of hair that run a course down his chest, hinting at the V-shape below the trouser line, and freckles – so many freckles it could fill a night sky.

And tattoos.

There's more than the runes and the 706 – his body is a monument to ink. Black and gold snakes coil around his arms. Lilies bloom across the waist. There are bones, cracked and whole, compasses that point north, faux claw marks and barren oaks struck by lightning. When you inspect his back, the eyes of a white fox peer at you, the pillar of a dark building bisects crashing waves, a strange clock chimes with six differently-sized faces and a silver globe glows, suspended in air and intricately filigreed. Other symbols decorate him too, most you don't recognise, and there are dates on his wrist, XXVIII-III-MCMI, and another, III-II-MCMI.

He is terrifying – and beautiful. He's not the canvas, but the piece in itself, an accumulated expression of ideas, love, joy, sorrow and pain, engraved on his surface like the epitaph on a tomb.

ᚺᚲ706

"This one," you mumble, reaching out, hesitating before your fingers graze the fine bristles of hair. "The runes, and the number 706... what does it mean?"

"This," he says, "is my identification number."

"For what?"

"Sew me up and I'll tell you."

Maybe you won't need to. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone might be branded this way.

After a brief swish of acid-dipped cloth, the needle goes through his skin. His jaw sets and he lets out a low rumble of a groan, a noise that sets your blood pumping. You close the suture as fast as you can, hoping not to extend the moment of pain, but it seems to go on forever, his ember gaze burning firelight into your soul.

"I went to prison," he says quietly, when you're almost done. "Ten years."

You go rigid. "For?"

Petty theft, fraud, anything but the worst ones.

But he looks away.

"Murder."

Fuck. It hits you like a punch – his hands around some faceless victim's neck, or a knife in hand, glistening red. He ended another life. The air parches, hot and heady.

"I swear I would never do anything to hurt you," he says, reading your horror. "I didn't—" His face contorts, like he knows better than to finish that sentence. "I learnt my lesson."

"What, that killing is bad?" You give him a sad smile. "I learnt that when I was five."

He lets out a derisive snort. "I was... a difficult child." For the first time ever, Sebastian seems sheepish, bashful. "Our parents died when I was young and the only relative who could take us in was our uncle. He didn't give a shit about us. Anne was dying and he hated that I was trying to help her, and I... I just snapped.

"Kath was there. It's why she resents me. We were close, me and her, but then she was implicated – and she never forgave the choice I made."

The last thread knots evenly. You cut it clean. With one final wipe of carbolic acid, all that's left is a long, wicked seam, slashing diagonally through his final tattoo, a skull.

Some wounds, it seems, can never be mended.

"Your sister... she had cancer?" you ask hoarsely.

Sebastian inhales deeply. "Something like that."

"I'm sorry."

"No. Fuck." He laughs and rakes a hand through his hair – the movement tugs you along like a helpless skein of thread. "She didn't die from it. She lived with it. Then everything happened with my uncle and every day in that shithole prison I thought of her and hoped she was all right. She forgave me, you know, for it all. Took her eight years, but she did. Finally wrote me a letter on our birthday. I was so happy I'd get to see her again. But prison – the prison I went to... it changes you, makes you lash out and do things to protect yourself. I made enemies there."

"Like Harlow," you whisper.

"During school he made Kath's life hell, so in prison I made hell for him. He took that personally. When I got out, I finally reunited with Anne... and when he got out, he thought he'd get me back after all those years."

It hits you again, a soundless but fatal strike. What he means, what he's suggesting, is so awful it leaves you breathless.

"Sebastian, you... you can't let him get away with it."

"What else can I do? Anne is dead. She was the light of my life and he just winked her out like she was nothing."

The almighty fist, and the weak little grape.

"If you do nothing," you say firmly, "he wins."

"He's already won. He took my twin sister."

"And who's to say he won't take a shot at Ominis? Or Garreth? Or... or me? He already has and I was a fool to fall for it—"

"No." The word punctuates with unyielding command. "No. I would never, ever let them hurt you. I swear it to god."

"I don't care about God," you whisper. "Swear it to me."

These coffee eyes grind you up and spit you out anew. His lids lower, his attentions wandering down your face, down the slope of your nose to the peak of your lips. They fixate there, lit with a whetted appetite.

"I swear it to you," he breathes.

Your gaze goes to his lips too, and his tongue moistens the curve.

"Prove it."

Sebastian hesitates.

It's the last time he does.

His thumb finds the column of your throat and wanders upwards until the pad grazes your lips, starving for a morsel of a taste. His mouth parts again, and you breath his air, every atom like divine nectar. You would beg for a taste. Sensing the hunger, his lips tug into an insufferable, delicious, affectionate smirk, and his other hand brings your chin closer to finally seal the gap.

Sebastian kisses like you're the last breath he'll take before falling to the ocean deep, never again to resurface. It isn't tender but consuming, taking, greedy. He wants. For the longest time he forgot what that meant to a body broken by grief and seduced by dependency. Now he takes it back. This is the rawest form of seizing control.

You dig your nails into his scalp, and his curls coil around your fingers like snakes on a vine. You want too. To give, to take, to stake your claim in a way no one else can. Sebastian is spontaneity and release and desire and imperfection. The storm and the eye, at once unpredictable and comforting. Your days are mapped, aligned and ordered for years to come, as a corpse that breathes and moves and survives, but he guides you to that last missing piece – the spirit of the human soul.

He grips your hips, swapping you around so you're pressed to the table, and kisses again fiercely, taking ownership of your mouth like no one has before. Pressed down, your back hits the table in an arc, and Sebastian sucks on your lips greedily, he the alcoholic, you his last pint of beer.

"I want you," he breathes into your ear. "Fuck, I've wanted you for so long."

You gasp when his teeth bite down on your throat, marking you for himself. The pain is welcome and ingratiating and your sex throbs, begging for attention. His hands greedily unbutton the top of your ruined nightdress, yanking the panels apart to give him access to your breasts.

"Sebastian," you cry, as his tongue licks the sore spot on your neck, and his hand finds the nipple, erect and waiting. He thumbs it in taunting swirls. "W-We can't."

"Why not?"

"My pub... people use these tables..."

He winks. "'Bout time we broke it in, don't you think?"

Somehow it heightens every sensation. The hardness of the table, the wrongness of the act. Tomorrow people will drink and dine here and you do not care. Sebastian knows it. He grasps your face, slipping his hot tongue into your mouth and claiming it for his own, and you whimper, drawn so entirely into him that all you can think, taste, feel, is him.

Your lips smack when he breaks off. His hands run through your hair until the strands spill over the edge, and his lips find other pursuits – your jaw, your throat, the other side of your neck.

"I'm not a good person," he whispers as his hands rip the top of the dress clean off, exposing your breasts again. "I've lied, I've hurt, I've killed.... and I've paid the price. I gave up pretending to be someone I'm not. But you make me want to try."

His tongue slithers over the arc of your breast.

"You are good, Sebastian," you stammer out. "You are—"

His teeth clamp on the nipple – pleasure bursts up your chest. He sucks, pulling upwards as he does, and your sex pulses so badly you close your legs and hope the friction will suffice.

"Sebastian— fuck—"

He lets go, panting, kissing the sore nipple before moving onto the other, and you cry out again. Bite, suck, pull. The cycle tortures you. When he bastes the nipple with his tongue, a soothing gesture, you try to catch your breath before his kisses trail to the junction below your navel.

"You make me want to fight. You make me want to be better. You make me want to start again. Before you I was surviving... you've taught me how to live."

You're delirious with emotions, pleasure yes, but joy too, threatening to make you burst. How can he say that when he's the one giving you this celestial high? Sebastian litters kisses all over your skin, some gentle, some with teeth, uncaring of how ungroomed you deem yourself when he parts your legs. The first stroke on your clit is fire, his fingers a firmness in the wet slickness of your folds.

"Sebastian—"

"I make you this solemn vow." He probes more firmly over the nub, sending wave after wave of pleasure. "I would hunt everyone down if it meant I could keep you safe."

He rubs until you're swollen and desperate and rabid for more than his touch. You want him inside you. Now. Yet some part of you not mad with pleasure manages to raise your head to look him in the eye.

"You... you'd create hell for me?"

Those coffee eyes flicker to meet yours – and they glimmer in a kaleidoscope of lust.

"I wouldn't create hell for you, bar girl." He grins. "I'd raze it."

The finger slips in so easily, like you were made to fit him. Your head hits the table and a cry rips almost involuntarily from your throat. Sebastian gives you little time to adjust before he pulls out and thrusts back in, the intrusion a mercy of pleasure. You clench around him, desperate to be stretched more.

"How badly do you want this?" he finally asks, bringing attention to the dirtiness of his act. "You feel like you like it."

You bite your lip as he rolls in and out. "God..."

"Do you like it?" he demands. "Say it for me."

"Yes," you say – whine. "Yes, I like it."

"You like what?"

"W-When you fuck me with your fingers."

He scoffs, propelling so fast you feel pleasure quickly coalescing. "So impatient, love. I'm only using one."

Love. The term of endearment sends a shudder up your spine. A second finger slides into your warmth, turning that shudder into a quiver, and a third turns it into a quake. Then he curls upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes your vision dizzy. It doesn't take him long to find it, when your breath catches and your eyes shut, and he thrusts in and out with breathless pace, determined to undo you. You give in to the pressure like ice to fire. You're so close. Fuck, it's frustrating and powerful and pure ecstasy. You rock your hips in time to him, chasing your orgasm.

"Not yet."

"W-What?"

He slows suddenly, maddeningly, and then slips out, leaving you cold and empty. "Not yet."

"Sebastian," you bark, "you better finish me off or I swear—"

His low chuckle cuts you off. He goes back to gently thumbing the pearl, ebbing your pleasure back to an insufferable ache. You hiss when he stands upright – his own pleasure evident by the bulge in his breeches.

"You're going to cum," he murmurs, "when I let you."

His hand comes away, and you let out a needy, pathetic wail that ignites the fervour in his eyes. He stares at you unflinching as he discards his bottom half and allows full view of his cock. It's big, far bigger than any you've ever taken before, proudly erect and forked with a prominent vein. The tip is already beading, and he gives it a few pumps with the hand wet with your juices before running his fingers up and down your thighs.

"You gave me a head start," you say, ravenous to try him.

"Oh, don't worry about that, bar girl," he says, leaning closer, grazing the tip against you. His face betrays a flicker of pleasure. "I'll make sure we're even."

Sliding along your entrance makes a sinfully loud, wet schlick, but he rubs at a leisurely pace, building you back up again until you're clawing the table's edge.

"If you keep doing that—"

But he continues to grind himself lazily through the slick folds, getting slicker by the moment. You open and close in time with each thrust, stimulating yourself, hips rocking, rhythm quickening until you're on the verge of letting go again.

He grips your hips with one hand, and the other finds your clit – the perfect time. "Cum for me, love."

It's too much. The orgasm implodes – the pleasure pulses through every fibre of your body as you dig your nails into the table's edge so hard you graze the polish. That dam of frustration crumbles to relief, to reaching the second celestial high of the night. Sebastian rides along with the aftershocks, each thrust slow but demanding, coating the base of his cock with the sticky release until his skin shines with it.

"Not bad," he murmurs, as he runs his tongue over his thumb, eyes glimmering with satisfaction. "But I think we can do better, bar girl. How badly do you want me inside you?"

You pant, barely conscious. "Sebastian—"

"Say it," he trills. "Or..." He pulls back, leaving you cold and aching for his touch.

You grunt loudly. "Just fuck me already!"

With that shit-eating grin you adore, he takes his cock and lines it up. The tip kisses your entrance; you can feel him, hot and sticky and wide, encouraging you to open for him, each sensation honed tenfold with anticipation. The push inwards stretches you gaping, and you widen yourself as far as you'll go to pull him inside, accommodating each inch until his hip is flush with your thighs. God, it feels amazing. He was always meant to fit, always meant to fill you completely.

"Fuck," he mutters, "you are tight."

You clench down, and his eyes flicker to yours, wild with lust.

"Minx."

He lets out a strained breath, that smirk finally giving way to a pleasure that knits his brow together. He's so warm, and... safe. As he repositions, curling his arms around your legs, you suddenly, dizzily, experience a completely new sensation – you want to take all of him, to let him use you for his own pleasure. To be pumped full of his seed, every drop until it fills the cracks and drips down your thighs, and even more after that. You want him to claim you, to fuck you so hard the rest of the shitty day fades into oblivion. Nothing else matters, only him and this perfect moment.

Being with him is truly freeing. It is truly living.

He flicks curls out of his eyes. "I have no intention of going slow."

You match his smirk.

"Good."

He withdraws – then slams back inside. The friction makes you cry out. Sweat beads his brow, but he does it again, and again, not once taking his eyes off you, coffee as dark and deeply seducing as hell itself. He keeps your thighs in a vice grip as he thrusts into you with a ruthless pace. His, the motions say. You are his. His rhythm starts to speed up, his balls slap noisily against your arse.

"You have— no idea— how long I've wanted this," he growls, each thrust punctuating his words. "No idea— how much— I've wanted to fuck you."

He releases your legs and braces his hands at your sides, finding a new angle to pound.

"You're taking me so well," he groans. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours." It comes out ragged and emotional.

His pace quickens. You drink in the scent of his sweat, his love-making. Fire gathers in your core. It's painful to hold it off until he's closer. It kills.

His breath shudders.

"I'm yours too."

It's too much. Tipped over the edge, the second orgasm sends pulses a pleasure so cosmic you black out for a moment. Each thrust is a mark of possession – your possession. He belongs to me. Only me. You clench around him as he plunges frantically into you in the chase for his own pleasure. With one final groan, he pulls out, thrusting madly into his hand until he doubles over, bleating a beautiful sound, brows knitted together and head craned as the thick ribbons of cum spill over your belly. His mark, left on you. I belong to him. Only him. He pumps until he's spent, leaving the residue hanging off his fingers like spun sugar.

"Sebastian..." you mumble.

He finds his way to your lips in a daze. This kiss is tender, full of love and appreciation, wanting, but in the small ways, too. Too exhausted to return the affections for long, you part from him and marvel at the way he smiles – like a sunrise on the highest mountain peak, so hopeful and full of life.

"I could get used to that," he pants out, tracing the cum on your stomach. "Vigorous shagging."

"Jesus Christ." He laughs and you eye his wound; red and sore but miraculously intact, despite his best efforts. "You shouldn't have exerted yourself so much."

"Oh, you care now that you've used me?" he teases, sitting you up to place kisses on your bare shoulder. "I never thought you'd look twice at me, you know."

It's an endearingly sad thought. Your head lolls to allow him better access. "Definitely not when you first walked in here."

"That Sebastian couldn't get his dick up."

"That Sebastian couldn't get himself up."

A finger sweeps across your forehead, tucking back a stray hair – the tenderness makes your bones melt. "You didn't have to help me, but I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're in my life. It's better with you in it."

"I wouldn't be here if you weren't a good person at heart, Sebastian Sallow."

A bashful sweep of crimson makes every freckle glow. His eyes lower to half-lids.

"I know addiction is a curse," he whispers, "but if there's one thing I'm willing to crave, it's the way your smile takes my breath away."

You seize him for another kiss, this time with all the fumbling, giggling and yearning of a first. His broad hands, branched with a river network of veins, cups the back of your neck as he kisses with as much ferocity as he does tenderness. He wants, you want. Separate you survive, but together, with your bodies intertwined and your souls connected, you live.

In a perfect world, this is all there is. You, your life and the man who loves you. But though you wish you could snuggle closer and shut your eyes to what lays beyond the walls, the high must wane eventually. It's a satisfying, but unnerving feeling to have when you pull away.

"What do we do now?"

"Already keen, bar girl?" Sebastian smirks, thumbing your waist. "Didn't think you had anything left."

"I meant," you say gently, "about Harlow."

"Please can we not talk about him when my cock's poking your thigh?" At your deadpan stare, he scrubs a hand down his face. "Look, I don't know right now, but I'll think of something." He draws you close, kisses your forehead. "That's a promise. Don't worry."

"You know I'll worry anyway." You go to stand. "Now I need to clean up. You've made a terrible mess."

But Sebastian scoops you into his arms, and in the darkness, his grin is sinful and wicked.

"Your mistake, bar girl," he growls, heading towards the stairs, "was thinking we were done."

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#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy mc #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x reader #thwc #the bar girl #my writing #my stuff #not a huge smut writer so if you like this let me know and i might write more spicy stuff :)

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