˖°.⊹ scriptumsempra ⊹.°₊

yeahhhh

Pairing:  Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Summary: He was supposed to be fighting. Not flying. And definitely not kissing her mid-duel. (Not by accident—or maybe exactly that.)

Tags: No Y/N, Fluff, Teenage Romance, Female MC, Slow burn (but fast collision), Confession(ish), Mutual Pining, Awkward Silence, Banter and Yearning

It was always midnight with them.

Midnight when they slipped past curfews and patrolling ghosts. Midnight when they stumbled into danger they absolutely did not plan for. Midnight when Sebastian grinned sideways and said something reckless — and she rolled her eyes before following anyway.

And tonight, it was Ashwinders.

They were supposed to scout. Observe. Note patterns. Catalogue locations. Return undetected.

But it never quite worked like that when Sebastian was involved — spells flew the second someone made the mistake of calling him “boy.”

He hexed first. She sighed second.

And then all hell broke loose.

She was holding her own, wand steady. A Stupefy here, a Confringo there — deliberate, graceful, controlled. Sebastian, on the other hand, was fighting like a firework: all flare and chaos and brilliant, barely-contained destruction.

He loved a good mess. She made it look like art.

And then someone shouted, “Depulso!”

And he flew — quite literally.

Straight at her.

There was a crash. A gasp.

And suddenly —

Lips.

They weren’t fighting.

They were… kissing.

Or — well. Technically, yes.

His body had slammed into hers, knocking them both to the ground. Her back hit the dirt. His face hit hers. Their mouths, stupidly and perfectly aligned in what could only be described as unfortunate precision.

For a breathless second, neither moved. Her eyes wide. His brain short-circuiting. The warmth of her lips, the absurd closeness — it shorted the world out entirely.

Then someone shouted again. A curse crackled past their heads.

Right — Ashwinders.

Fight first. Humiliation later.

They didn’t speak when it was over.

Just silence.

No quips. No smug grin from him, no eye-roll from her. Just the soft, awkward crunch of gravel underfoot as they stood in the quiet aftermath, trying very hard not to think about what had just happened.

Or more accurately — how it had happened.

And why it hadn’t felt terrible.

She looked, quite frankly, offended.

Her face was bright red, blooming all the way to her ears. Still flushed — but her expression had sharpened, lips drawn, jaw tight, her gaze fixed on a very uninteresting patch of grass. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to — the indignation was radiating off her like heat from a wildfire.

He stole a glance anyway.

Eyes on the horizon. Ears red, again. And her mouth — her mouth was pressed into a very thin, very unimpressed line.

She looked like someone who’d had her first kiss stolen in broad daylight and intended to file a formal complaint.

He nearly apologized.

But what would he even say?

Sorry I tackled you lips-first mid-duel?

My bad for thinking it’s kind of nice?

Instead, he kept quiet. Let the silence stretch.

Midnight crept back in — not the thrilling kind this time, but the awkward kind. The kind that rustled leaves without saying anything. The kind where you walked side by side, just close enough to feel the other’s warmth and far enough not to ask for it.

By the time they reached the edge of the castle grounds, her face had faded from crimson to a soft, thoughtful pink. Still quiet. Still avoiding his eyes.

But no longer fuming.

And when the wind lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek, she tucked it back with a sigh — not of exasperation, but something gentler. Something like… resignation.

He risked one more glance.

This time, she finally met his eyes.

Her gaze was steady. Curious, even. The embarrassment had cooled into something contemplative. He could still see the remnants of her blush; more of a fluster than fury.

And Merlin help him — she was adorable.

She didn’t look away.

Didn’t scowl.

Just looked at him like she’d decided — privately, quietly — that it was alright. That maybe she’d forgive him for it.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Sebastian exhaled — not a laugh, not quite. More of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

The tension slipped from his shoulders.

It was still midnight, technically. But something had changed. Something small.

The kind of shift that didn’t break silence, but softened it.

He nudged her elbow, just barely. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice low, “I wouldn’t mind doing it properly next time.”

She raised a brow. “Depulso-ing yourself into me?”

“Not exactly the method I had in mind.”

That earned him the smallest scoff. But she didn’t walk away.

Didn’t say no.

Just turned back toward the castle, steps quieter now, as if the night had stopped holding its breath.

He followed, hands in his pockets, heartbeat still embarrassingly off-rhythm.

Romance was never on their syllabus.

Not in 1890 — when propriety was prized and affection was meant to be whispered behind closed doors — certainly not fumbled into, mid-duel and all.

Not when there were cursed sisters to cure and ancient magic to trace.

Not when midnight was just another hour to survive.

But maybe — just maybe — it had found a way in anyway.

Even if it had to crash through.

Lips first.