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sebflix · 2 months ago

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Best Friends, Better Lovers — S.S

pic creds to @deathlysallows!!

Synopsis: Sebastian Sallow is your best friend, but you fell in love with him. What are you going to do when your secret letter ends up in his hands?

Sebastian Sallow x FemaleReader

WC: 3.8K

18+ aged up characters, obviously in love best friends to lovers, soft smut.

DT: @sallowsproperty my sweet dani—you deserve soft seb 🥹

i never write sweet things bare with me

also ignore the mistakes it's 2:48am

MDNI!

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　　˚　　　⠀　⠀ 　　,　　　　　　.

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　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

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As soon as Professor Weasley signaled Transfiguration class was over, you were up and moving, weaving through desks with one goal in mind.

Your best friend had missed your first class today—no explanation, just an empty seat at the table where he normally slouched with a smirk and a quill he never used properly. You weren’t sure you wanted to know why he’d skipped. But you still wanted to see him.

Sebastian was still seated, deliberately slow in packing his bag, like he was stalling. Drawing it out on purpose. Part of you couldn’t help but wonder if he already knew you’d come over, that he was waiting for it. Maybe even hoping for it.

You reached his desk and leaned against it with a practiced ease, propping one elbow behind you, a subtle arch to your back just enough to draw his gaze in case he wanted to look.

You hoped he wanted to look.

Your smile was small, barely there, one that lived more in your eyes than your mouth. The kind of smirk that hinted at trouble. Dangerous.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you said, voice light, teasing. It was not a complaint, just a jab aimed to get under his skin the way you always knew how to.

“I missed one class,” he replied, looking up at you, but not too fast. Almost as if he was trying not to stare. “Hardly grounds for exile.”

You raised a brow. “I don’t know, Sallow. Seems a little suspicious. Were your causing mayhem without your partner in crime?”

A hand flies over your chest in mock offense, earning a chuckle from the boy.

“And if I was?” He challenges.

You reach into your satchel and pull out a few pages of parchments, holding it up between two fingers. Notes. Neatly written, edges crisp, possibly color-coded. “Then you wouldn’t get these.”

Sebastian blinked. “You took notes for me?”

You gave him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you retorted, though the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Ominis was going to set them on fire. Something about not deserving them if you don’t care to show up.”

His eyes sparkled then, deep brown catching the slant of afternoon light. It seemed he was thoroughly amazed with the fact that you took notes for him.

Your breath hitched, but you tried to mask it quickly.

“I thought I’d be your academic savior.”

He leaned back in his chair at your quip, arms crossing lazily over his chest. The movement pulled his robes tighter over his frame, but you tried not to notice. Just like he tried not to notice the way your collar had come undone, the fabric loose around your neck after a long day.

You both were failing spectacularly.

“You mean to tell me,” he began, “you spent your precious free time writing out notes to rescue me from academic ruin?”

You shrugged, feeling a slight flush beginning to creep on your cheeks. You brushed imaginary lint from your skirt, trying to regain some sense of composure. “Someone has to stop you from flunking out.”

“So you do like me that much.”

You rolled your eyes, because it was easier than telling the truth—which was, yes.

Yes, you did like him that much.

But he was your best friend.

You shifted just slightly. The angle of your body changing enough to make him sit up a little straighter. You held out the notes and didn’t let go when he reached for them. Your fingers brushed his, just once, and it was like flint striking against steel. A spark that both of you pretended you didn’t feel.

“In your dreams, Sallow,” you said smoothly. “I did miss you arguing with Sharp, though. Something about how many inches should be due next week.”

Sebastian snorted. “I could have talked him down.”

“Or gotten detention.”

He shrugged, reckless and unapologetic. It was one of the reasons you fell for him. Not just the charm and witty remarks—but the way he made everything seem easy, like gravity never pulled quite so hard on him. It was infuriating.

Intoxicating.

Inevitable.

You realized then that your hands were still touching.

One of you should have pulled away, said something clever and meaningless. But instead, your eyes met his, steady, and for a heartbeat you wondered if maybe it wasn’t stupid to feel this way for him.

Then he took the notes, a bit too quickly, shattering that shred of confidence. His fingers fumbled as he shoved them into his bag like they were suddenly too much to hold.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“Of course.”

A beat.

“Loser.”

His expression softened at the insult, like something in the word, or perhaps the way you said it, had altered his heart once more. It broke the tension, just as you had wanted.

You pushed off the desk, brushing by with a whisper of fabric. If you lingered too long, especially while he was looking at you like that, you’d say something you shouldn’t. something a best friend wouldn’t say.

“See you tonight,” you called over your shoulder, already peeking out into the corridor.

He didn’t get the chance to reply.

. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆. . • . .

Dear Sebastian.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

I mean, I do. I was talking to Ominis, because that attentive bastard found out my secret, and he told me to. Said writing things out helped him when he couldn’t say them aloud. And because he’s irritatingly wise, I listened.

But I’m not going to give this to you. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. Because if you ever read these words, if you knew the extent of what you really meant to me, I think I’d actually dissolve on the spot.

Spontaneous combustion via sheer embarrassment.

Here it is anyways.

I am in love with you, Sebastian Sallow.

Not the soft, sensible kind of love, the kind the creeps up gently and asks permission. No, Merlin help me, this is the all-consuming, knock-the-wind-out-of-me, ruin me forever kind of love. The kind that has engraved on my soul, whether I like it or not.

I’m surely going mad.

It’s getting worse. I can’t go a few hours without looking for you in a room, or imagining what you’d say in the middle of class. I miss you before you’re even gone. That’s probably not normal.

Definitely not normal.

Two whole years of this. Two years of being your best friend, of pretending that’s all I wanted. Watching you be reckless and brilliant and infuriatingly charming and telling myself I wasn’t falling in love.

I let you drag me into arachnid infested cave dwellings and up mountains in the pouring rain. I let you talk me into breaking rules and curfews and probably a few laws. I learned the way your brow furrowed when you’re focused. How your voice gets soft when you’re talking to me but don’t realize it.

I know how you laugh when I say something that actually surprises you. How you sing—horribly off-key—when you think no one’s listening, and dance like an idiot in the Undercroft when you’ve had too much of the that terrible honey mead. (Which, for the record, you stole. I was only an accomplice, like most times.)

I know you better than anyone.

Falling in love with you was never part of the plan. I think I would’ve avoided you altogether if I had known this was the outcome. Because now, nothing else compares. And the worst part is, I think you’ll never see me that way. Not really.

You’ll keep teasing me, keep being your impossibly frustrating self, and I’ll keep pretending it doesn’t make me ache in ways I don’t even have words for.

So, this letter—it’s a secret.

A coward’s confession.

Something I will most likely set ablaze the moment I finish it.

Yours. Always.

P.S. I will have to thank Ominis, because I feel, barely, better.

Sebastian had read that piece of parchment in your elegant scrawl once.

Then again.

And then a third time, just to make sure he hadn’t dozed off in his dorm and conjured it all up in some twisted dream.

It was quiet, Ominis had vanished off somewhere, muttering something about needing peace, and the rest of the boys were still lingering at dinner. He bailed early, knowing that he should probably be responsible, and take advantage of those notes that you had graciously given to him.

Except when he thought of you handing them over—propped up against his desk, giving him that dangerous half-smile, gracious was not the word he would use.

Sebastian dropped onto his bed, grinning to himself. You could pretend all you wanted that you didn’t care, but the ink on those pages said otherwise. They were detailed with tiny margin comments that almost felt like whispered jokes.

He pulled the pages from his bag and tossed them onto the blanket in front of him. His intent was noble, skim the outlie and read a line or two, enough to commit one potion recipe to memory before inevitably tossing them aside.

Something slipped from the stack.

A single folded piece parchment, thicker than the rest, slightly creased at the corners.

He frowned, brow creasing as he picked it up. It wasn’t labeled, just tucked between a diagram and an oddly flirtatious doodle of a bubbling cauldron.

It probably wasn’t supposed to be there.

But then he saw his name.

In your handwriting.

His entire body went still, immediately sitting up straighter.

He unfolded the letter slowly, like it might vanish if he moved too fast.

And then he read.

And read.

By the end, his heart was hammering like he’d just sprinted across the castle. Every word screamed you—sarcastic, stubborn, heartbreakingly vulnerable.

You had written that you had the kind of love he’d only dared imagine in the late hours of the night when everything else was quiet. Confessed the very thing he’d spent months—hell, a year—trying to bury.

Sebastian rubbed at his jaw, staring at the end of the letter, his thumb hovering over the last line.

Yours. Always.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Coward,” he murmured, a smile curling despite the ache in his chest. “You absolute coward.”

You loved him.

And you had no idea that he loved you, too.

That every other girl had paled in comparison since the moment you walked into his life with a smart tongue and a heart bigger than you let on.

And you wrote it down with the intention of burning it.

Sebastian folded the letter carefully, pressed it to his chest for one suspended second, letting himself feel everything.

Then he stood.

. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆. . • . .

You were dying a slow, humiliating death.

The realization hit halfway through brushing your hair, your eyes snapping open in horror as your stomach sank. That stupid letter you wrote. The one you poured your heart into like some desperate romantic.

It had been in your bag.

Next to your Potions notes.

You flung yourself across the room like a girl possessed, digging through your bag, once. Twice. Dumping it completely. Then tearing through your belongings like they’d personally betrayed you.

Gone.

It was gone.

And you knew exactly where it went.

A tidal wave of panic surged through your bloodstream, burning hotter than any fever. Not only had you accidentally handed over a soul-bearing love confession, but you’d done it to Sebastian Sallow.

Your best friend.

This was it. The end. The absolute, mortifying, inescapable end. He was going to read it and probably laugh, or worse, pity you.

This was surely going to ruin everything. Your friendship. Your entire existence.

You did the only thing a sane person could do in such a state.

You crawled into bed and pulled the duvet over your head, curled into a mortified little ball, and vowed never to emerge again.

Maybe the blankets would absorb the shame, and if you held perfectly still, Sebastian would forget you ever existed and move on with his life without ever bringing up the letter.

But of course, you weren’t that lucky.

Not even fifteen minutes after the devastating realization, you heard the soft creak of your dormitory door opening.

You went rigid.

Please be a roommate. Please be a ghost. Hell, let it be Peeves. Anyone but—

“…Hey.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

No no no no—

“I know you’re in here.”

His voice was soft, and amused. Way too smug and far too close for comfort.

When you didn’t respond, he took advantage of the silence.

“You left me a love letter,” he added casually, like that cursed thing hadn’t just detonated your world. A pause. “That I was never supposed to see, apparently. Which, by the way, is rude. Who writes something that romantic and just plans to obliterate it to ash?”

You sank deeper into your cocoon of embarrassment.

Then—fwip.

He grabbed the edge of the duvet.

“Sebastian—no—don’t you dare—”

Too late.

He peeled the covers back in one swift, dramatic flourish, like he was unveiling a piece of art. Your face was flushed to hell, hair sticking up slightly, eyes wide and full of horror. You looked like a startled cat.

He grinned. “There she is.”

You immediately rolled away, yanking a pillow to cover your face. “Get. Out.”

“I will, eventually,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed like he belonged there. “After you come out and face me like a brave girl.”

“I’m not brave. I’m dying.”

“Dramatic,” he chuckled. “Tragic heroine. Very on brand for you.

The pillow smashed harder against your face.

He spoke, softly, “…it was really beautiful. The letter.”

You peaked one eye out, expression wary. Suspicious.

He took that as an opening. Gently, he pulled the pillow away, and worse, worse, reached up and tucked a bit of hair behind your ear, fingertips warm and feather-light against your skin.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Oh no.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

A moment.

“You know I love you too.”

A statement. Not a question. Before you could even fully absorb the admission, he was speaking again.

“Can I kiss you?”

Surely, you stopped breathing.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but it was not that.

His eyes searched yours, open, vulnerable, and eager. He needed you to say yes, because he didn’t know if he’d survive if you said no.

You would be a complete fool to ruin this moment.

“Yes,” you answered.

That undid him completely.

He didn’t speak, just exhaled sharply as a mix of relief and desire collided inside of him. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over the line of your jaw while his gaze flicked down to your lips. His breathing was coming in uneven spurts.

Finally, his lips found yours.

It was slow at first, like he didn’t quite believe it was real, that he was kissing the girl he’d been so unbelievably in love with for the last two years.

It deepened in an instant. You made a sound in your throat, helpless and airy that lit something hot inside Sebastian.

His fingers slide into your hair, tilting your head as he kissed you like he’d been craving to. Your hands fisted into his shirt, pulling him closer until you bodies met in a soft thump as you tumbled back onto the bed together.

Side by side. Entangled. Still kissing like the world might end if you stopped.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Sebastian rasped against your lips. His mouth trailed down to your neck. “I’m sorry if I’m—fuck—if I’m moving too fast. I just can’t stop…”

His lips pressed a soft kiss to a sweet spot, causing you to let out a sigh.

“Don’t” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned low and rough, the sound activating butterflies in your stomach. His hand slid down your side, gripping your hip as he rolled on top, pressing his body flush to yours. A gasp fell from your mouth at the heat of him pressing against you.

“Merlin,” he rasped. “You feel that?”

Oh, you did.

He was hard. Incredibly hard. Heavy against your thigh in a way that made you clench around nothing. You’d imagined this after hours, basked in only dim candlelight, hand between your thighs.

Imagination had nothing on the real thing.

“Yes,” you practically begged, dazed. “Seb...yes.”

He kissed you again, slower, tasting the one thing he thought he’d never get as his hips rolled instinctively. His hands wandered, reverent, exploring you like you were a spell he wanted to master. His lips dipped lower, trailing to your collarbone.

You arched into him with a broken whimper.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, barely audible.

You smiled. “Sebastian, for fuck’s sake,” you teased. “I want you.”

His chocolate eyes darkened, playfulness bleeding into desire.

“Say it again.”

“I want you.”

His mouth was on yours again—hungrier now, desperate in a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. It tasted like years of restraint finally unraveling, all soft gasps and tangled fingers, as your bodies moved in perfect clumsy rhythm.

Clothes melted away between kisses and whispered I love you’s, scattered like leaves in the fall. He paused when he reached behind you, unclipping the small clasp and letting your bra come undone in his hands. The straps slid down your arms like silk and he had to take a moment to sit back on his heels, eyes roaming over your bare chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed, one hand sliding down your thigh with shaking fingers. “You’re gorgeous.”

His hand found the edge of your underwear, and you let out a moan when his fingers brushed your inner thigh. He froze, breath catching in his throat like the moment had stolen the air from him.

“Bloody hell…” he murmured, voice wrecked. His finger gilded higher, just barely grazing over the soaked fabric clinging to you. A low sound rumbled deep in his chest. “You’re so wet.”

Your hips tilted towards him without thought, your blush deepening.

“I can’t help it,” you replied. “It’s you.”

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closing as he tried to keep control.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted. “All the fucking time. What you’d sound like. How you’d feel under me…” he paused to open his eyes. “Around me.”

You whimpered at the last part, thighs trembling as slick pooled between your legs. He was going to be the end of you.

Sebastian did not waste another second. He pushed your panties aside and finally touched you.

His fingers were warm and sure, the pad of one brushing over your clit with delicate precision, and you let out the softest, sweetest cry.

“Gods,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through your slick, coating them, “You’re drenched, love. Absolutely soaked for me.”

“For you,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, nails leaving tiny crescents into the muscle. “Please…”

He didn’t make you beg twice. He started to rub slow, steady circles over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing out sounds you didn’t know you could make.

Then he pushed a finger inside.

“Oh—!”

He paused only to check your eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort. When all he found was satisfaction plastering your expression, he added a second finger, curling them expertly until he found that spongy spot that made you whine.

He worked you gently, lovingly, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure from you until you were shaking beneath him. He was panting watching you, his arousal painfully obvious through his boxers.

Sebastian needed to be inside you.

His fingers slipped out, and he kissed the whine from your lips. He tugged down the thin fabric of his boxers, tossing them aside. He sprung free, all of him.

You gulped. He was big, throbbing and leaking at the tip from how badly he needed you.

You pulled your panties the rest of the way down, chest rising and falling rapidly.

For a fragile second, panic fluttered in your stomach.

He noticed. Of course he did. He always did.

“Hey.” His voice was soft as he reached for your cheek, thumb brushing the skin. “It’s okay. We don’t have to—”

“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I-I want to. I’m just… nervous. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He smiled, warm, and pecked the tip of your nose.

“It’s okay,” he promised. “I’ll take care of you.”

He shifted, body slotting perfectly between your thighs. His hand guided himself to your entrance and he leaned down, lips pressing gently along your temple, down your jaw, over the shell of your ear.

“You’re going to take me so well.”

His tip nudged against you—teasing—and then he pushed in, sliding in easily.

A cry left your lips at the sensation, new and intense. He moved slowly, watching your face with care, giving you time. Your hands clawed at his back, leaving tiny half-moons he’d treasure later.

“Sweetheart,” he moaned, mouth parted in stunned bliss, “you feel so perfect. So fucking perfect.”

His hips stilled as he bottomed out, letting you breathe. He kissed your shoulder, trying to prove just how precious you were to him.

“Please, Seb,” you said breathless, biting your lip.

He pulled out nearly all the way, then slid back in, deep and unhurried. Your body welcomed him, desperately. You moaned at everything he gave you, and he swallowed the sounds, rolling his hips deeper each time.

You both laughed through one misaligned kiss, still panting through another wave of pleasure.

It was slow. Beautiful.

Two souls, finally connecting in the way they had been yearning to.

And fuck did it feel like heaven.

“Sebastian,” you gasped, voice cracking as he hit a spot that made your toes curl.

He groaned your name in return, thrusts turning a little messy.

“I’m not going to last,” he confessed. “Not after wanting you for so fucking long.”

You cupped his face, pulling him close. “I’m right there.”

That shattered him.

He thrust harder, hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gasped, trembling, stars blooming behind his eyes.

He spilled into you with a strangled groan, hips grinding to prolong the pleasure as you moaned beneath him, your own orgasm ripping through you.

Sebastian collapsed over you, heart hammering, your legs still wrapped tight around his waist. For a long moment, neither of you spoke—just clung to each other, panting, kissing lazily, mouths brushing as you caught your breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “That I didn’t last.”

You smiled, dazed and thoroughly wrecked, tracing your fingers through the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. “You were perfect.”

His laugh was breathless, and completely in love. He kissed you again gently, because he could.

“I owe you a love letter now.”

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