andrealol7

[andrealol7]

Bless the Telephone ; a series

James Potter is positively useless with muggle technology, doesn't matter how much Remus tries to teach him, James cannot seem to grasp it— even the telephone. It’s not so bad though— At least he met you

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James Potter x f!muggle!reader

series warnings: no war!au, swearing, suggestive/adult themes, mentions of drinking/smoking etc,

updates twice a week !

please send me an ask if you wanna be tagged!

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛...

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##06

[andrealol7]

somewhere in the crowd theres you <3

James Potter x fem!reader

based on the song Super Trouper by ABBA

summary: When James Potter injures his arm just before a big Quidditch match, he convinces his secretly talented (but anxious) girlfriend to take his place.

tw: anxiety attack

a/n: not proofread

---

The problem starts with James being an idiot.

Or, well. Technically, it starts with a dive during practice — “for dramatic effect,” he claimed — and the next, he was on the ground clutching his arm and wincing with a dramatic flair that Sirius called “very on-brand.”

But you maintain it was his fault for trying to pull that ridiculous stunt he kept bragging about during breakfast.

“Madam Pomfrey says he’ll live,” Remus says gently beside you as you hover in the Hospital Wing, arms crossed tightly.

“Pity,” you mutter.

Sirius snorts. “She doesn’t mean that.”

You scowl. “No, I do.”

James is lounging dramatically on the infirmary bed, with a cast on his arm and an arm sling, acting like it’s he's on the verge of death.

“Don’t look so mournful, love,” he croaks at you. “Your hero lives on.”

“I don’t look mournful,” you snap. “I look furious. Because you decided to pull that ridiculous stunt earlier and now you’ve got the grace of a knocked-over bookshelf. And may I need to remind you, a day before the biggest Quidditch match of the season."

"And now how are you gonna find someone who's gonna fill out your spot just in time for tomorrow.” you continue with your eyebrows furrowed.

Its ironic how you're the one who's stressed out about this whole thing while the Quidditch captain doesn't seem to have a care in the world.

“Bookshelves are noble,” he says. “And stacked with knowledge.”

“Stacked with idiocy, apparently.”

Remus hides a smile.

James just blinks up at you like you’re the sun and he’s been staring too long. “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Snogging.”

“Well, that too.” He smirks. “But also — you flying for me.”

You blink. “What.”

“You. Tomorrow. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. You fill in.”

You laugh. Like, actually laugh out loud.

James just keeps smiling. “C’mon, you’re brilliant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Y/N.” He sits up straighter, and his voice softens. “You’re the best flier I know. You just don’t like the pressure of people watching you.”

You look down. Your throat tightens.

Remus, ever the peacemaker “You’re the best flier we’ve got besides James.”

“You’ve never even seen me play,” you scoffed, heart rate already spiking.

“Please,” James groaned, “you made me eat dirt third year when we were messing around on the pitch. You flew circles around me.”

You crossed your arms. “That was a one-time thing and I was showing off because you wouldn’t shut up about your record.”

“Exactly,” James said, beaming despite the sling on his arm. “And now you get to show off again. Officially.”

A quiet moment goes by

“I…I can’t,” you murmur. “You know what happens. I freeze. My chest locks up. I feel like I’m going to faint or fall or—or die or worse, vomit in public.”

James reaches out, his fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

“Then don’t look at the crowd,” he says gently. “Just look for me.”

Your heart aches a little.

Because he says it like it’s easy.

Because part of you wants to believe he’s right.

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you could do it. We’re playing Slytherin. We need you.”

You swallow. Your heart is already trying to break out of your chest, and it’s only the day before.

“But what if I mess it up?” you whisper.

James leans forward. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do” with that signature grin of his.

“Really reassuring”

⸻

If someone had told you two weeks ago that you’d be starting as Seeker in the biggest Quidditch match of the year, you would’ve laughed, choked, cried, and then passed out.

In that order.

But here you are. Dressed in James’s oversized scarlet and gold jersey, broom clutched in white-knuckled hands, standing just outside the changing tent with your heart in your throat and what feels like a war inside your lungs.

Eight minutes to go.

The pitch roars outside. A blur of cheers and chants and stomping boots.

Your brain is short-circuiting.

You can’t breathe.

You’re too hot in your jersey. Your hands are shaking. There’s a stone lodged behind your ribs.

“I’m gonna die,” you mutter, sitting down hard on the bench by the tent flap.

“Bit dramatic, even for you.”

You flinch.

Sirius stands in the doorway, arms crossed, still in full gear and a crooked concern in his expression.

You try to smile.

He doesn’t smile back.

“Talk to me, Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up and cry.”

“That’s just my face. You’ve seen it before.”

“You’re not funny.”

“No, you’re right. I’m hilarious.”

He strides over and crouches in front of you. His voice is quieter now.

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll talk to McGonagall. I’ll bloody fly two positions if I have to.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. I want to.”

Sirius studies you. His eyes soften.

“You’re terrified.”

You nod. “Yeah. Just—just give me a minute, okay? I need a second.”

A long pause.

Then, quietly “Okay.”

He squeezes your hand once. Then leaves.

Your body slumps with the effort of just existing.

You bury your face in your hands. Try to breathe like Madam Pomfrey taught you — in for four, hold for four, out for four — but your lungs still feel too small.

You’re going to mess it up.

You’re going to fall.

Everyone’s going to laugh.

“You alright?”

You jump so hard you nearly kick your broom.

James Potter.

Leaning against the post of the tent like he owns the world, hair wind-tousled, grinning at you like you’re the one who’s handsome and ridiculous.

He’s still in a sling from yesterday. Which is his fault, by the way.

You groan. “Don’t look at me.”

“Too late. Already doing it.”

“James.”

“Y/N.”

You glare. He sits beside you anyway.

“I’m fine,” you say preemptively.

“Brilliant,” he replies. “Then I won’t offer you this emergency chocolate I just so happen to have in my pocket.”

You pause.

“…What kind of chocolate?”

James grins, pulls a small Honeydukes bar from his robes, and holds it out like it’s a peace offering.

You snatch it. “Thanks.”

“So,” he says, swinging his legs under the bench. “You’re panicking, huh?”

You freeze mid-bite.

“I—no—I just—”

He raises an eyebrow.

You sigh. “Okay. Yes. Like, a lot.”

James nods. “Good. That’s normal.”

“Is it?”

“Sure.” He gestures grandly. “I panic all the time. Yesterday I forgot how to spell ‘February.’”

You snort. “That’s just because you’re stupid.”

“And you’re gorgeous and terrified. We all have our things.”

You blink at him.

He leans in, nudges your knee with his.

“Listen to me,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just get out there. Do your thing. You don’t have to be me.”

You scoff. “Good, because I have more brain cells.”

“Debatable. But we’ll circle back.”

You laugh. It breaks the fog around your ribs a little.

James smiles.

“I’ll be in the stands. Front row. First person you’ll see when you look up.”

“What if I can’t look up?”

“Then I’ll scream so loud you’ll have to look up.”

You shake your head chuckling. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugs. “Born this way. Curse and a gift.”

You hesitate, then quietly: “Thanks. For… being here.”

He meets your eyes.

“Always,” he says simply. “Now go kick Slytherin’s arse.”

You stand, wobble slightly, then straighten your shoulders.

You’re still scared.

But he’s watching.

And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

-

Your vision swims.

The stands are packed — students crammed shoulder to shoulder, flags waving, chants rising like thunder.

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. In for four. Hold. Out for four. You repeat it. Again. Again.

“Y/N,” Sirius says behind you, voice low and protective as he tightens his gloves. “If you freeze up midair, you land. Got it? I don’t care if we’re down 200 points. You land.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

He glares at you, jaw tight. He doesn’t say I’m worried out loud, but he doesn’t have to. You can see it in the twitch of his eye and the way he keeps glancing between you and the sky like he’s weighing the wind himself.

You offer a weak smile. “Try not to punch a Slytherin in midair again.”

“No promises,” he mutters.

⸻

The whistle shrieks.

You mount your broom and push off. Your stomach lurches.

The world spins around you for a second — air whipping past, people screaming, wind pressing at your ears — but you manage to stay steady.

You start flying slow circles above the match. Not diving, not chasing. Just… existing.

Barely.

The Slytherin Seeker zooms past you with a sneer. “Gryffindor couldn’t afford a real one, huh?”

You want to scream. Or vanish. Or both.

You pull your broom a little higher. Hide.

Then you hear it.

“Y/N! Y/N!“ “YOU CAN DO IT! GO! THAT’S MY GIRL!”

You blink.

The voice is obnoxiously loud — familiar and grinning.

You glance down instinctively and spot him immediately.

James Potter, front row of the Gryffindor stands, somehow out of his sling, hands cupped around his mouth as he screams.

Next to him, Remus is trying to calm him. And Peter who has somehow acquired a red-and-gold megaphone screaming encouragements.

James waves both arms in the air like a man possessed.

“SHE’S GORGEOUS AND SHE’S GOT A SNITCH TO CATCH! MOVE OUT THE WAY, SLYTHERIN!”

You laugh.

Actually laugh.

A short, stunned laugh that escapes you without permission. It rattles your chest and leaves your lungs a little lighter.

You look up.

The wind hits your face. The sun glints off something to your left, fast, bright, fluttering.

The Snitch.

You dive.

Nothing exists but the gold flicker ahead of you and the rush of air behind you.

The Slytherin Seeker spots it too and follows, but you’re faster. Lighter. Sharper.

Your heart pounds. Your eyes sting from the wind.

The cheers around you turn into a dull roar and somewhere in it, you hear him.

“YOU’VE GOT IT, LOVE! GO, GO, GO!”

And suddenly, you’re not scared.

Suddenly, you believe it.

You flew like you were born to do it.

Sharp turns. Clean dives. You didn’t even notice the eyes on you after the second lap — you were too busy focused on the wind in your hair, the sound of the air parting around your broom, the way your muscles remembered how to move.

It was like a song you’d known all along.

You chased the Snitch, heart in your throat, eyes locked, adrenaline buzzing.

Faster. Closer.

And with one final lunge—your fingers curled around it.

The whistle blows and the crowd explodes.

You can’t believe it. You actually did it.

You land shakily back on the ground, your teammates crushed you in a hug, screaming and laughing. People were chanting your name. Marlene gave you a headlock no one asked for. Even McGonagall looked impressed.

Sirius rips his helmet off midair, looking like he might cry and punch someone simultaneously. He swoops down, grabs you in a crushing hug mid-laugh.

“You absolute maniac,” he breathes. “That was insane. That was—Merlin. You did it.”

You can’t stop smiling. You’re breathless and shaking but so happy.

The team is lifting you up. Students are pouring down the stands.

But your eyes are searching for only one thing.

You’re still riding the high — the Snitch clutched in your hand, your chest tight with laughter and disbelief. Gryffindor is screaming. Red and gold confetti is falling from somewhere (you suspect Remus had a charm ready).

And then — from the crowd — comes the voice again “THAT’S MY GIRL! SHE’S A LEGEND! SHE’S—” James Potter.

Charging down from the stands like a golden retriever on fire.

You catch his eyes just as you’re lowering to the ground. He’s pushing through people like a man possessed — beaming, breathless, sprinting.

And—wait.

That’s when you finally realised.

He’s using both arms.

No sling. No careful cradle. Just full arm-swinging enthusiasm, waving at you like he’s landing a plane.

You freeze mid-step.

You glance at his shoulder. Then at your hand — still holding the Snitch. Then back at him.

He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy literally jumping up and down.

“Y/N! Did you SEE that catch? You were like—woosh! and then—bam! You’re a star, I mean—I’m amazing for choosing you, obviously, but you—”

You stare at him.

“James.”

“—and the way you dropped into the dive, Merlin, I was ready to pass out—”

“James.”

He blinks. “What?”

You just… point.

To his arm.

Now very much not broken.

The whole team starts going quiet around you. Sirius raises one eyebrow so high it practically vanishes into his hairline.

You fold your arms. “You’re not even hurt?”

James immediately backpedals. “I—I was! I mean, technically, there was a mild—”

“Mild?!”

“Okay, so I may have exaggerated the severity of the fracture—”

“It wasn’t even fractured, was it?”

“…No.”

The team loses it.

Sirius lets out an actual cackle. Remus just pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s questioning every life choice that led him here. Peter’s laughing so hard he nearly drops his wand.

“You lied,” you say, half-stunned, half-laughing. “You faked an injury.”

James holds up his hands. “I didn’t fake—okay, yes, but I had to! I wanted you to play!”

You gape at him.

“Y/N, you’re so good, and you’d never try out on your own, and I knew if I didn’t give you a reason—”

“You could’ve asked me!”

“I did! That one time in third year!”

“That doesn’t count, you offered me the Beater position as a joke!”

James grins sheepishly. “Okay, yeah, that was mostly for the flirting. But this time I was serious.”

Sirius chimes in, “You’re never serious. I’M Sirius.”

You and James both groan.

“You are—” you jab a finger into his chest, “—an absolute menace.”

“And yet…” he leans in, eyes twinkling, “…you still look good in my jersey.”

You shove him. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs. “Maybe. But you did it, didn’t you?”

You sigh, finally letting a grin creep in.

“…Yeah,” you admit. “I did.”

He beams.

“I knew you could do it,” he said, soft and proud.

And when he wraps both arms around you in a warm, full-bodied hug — with no sling, no excuse, no apology — you let him.

Because somewhere in the crowd, it was him.

Even if he was being a complete idiot.

[andrealol7]

sooo gooodd

The Nightingale Masterlist

series trailer

Regulus Black x fem!reader

playlist pinterest board analysis of regulus

hunger games au: You were thirteen when your name was called. He was fourteen when he took your place, becoming the youngest Victor the Capitol had ever seen before disappearing into its glittering grip. Now, your name is drawn again for the 70th Hunger Games, and Regulus is willing to do anything to make sure you make it out alive. But the Capitol is watching, and in the arena, nothing is as it appears.

A/N: This series is inspired by The Hunger Games, though it follows its own original storyline. It’s going to be a long journey — the full story will be over 100k words. I try to update every week, but please bear with me if there are occasional delays. Your support, engagement, and feedback truly mean the world to me and help keep me motivated. Thank you so much for reading! <3

↳ The Volunteer (5.3k)

↳ Victor’s Mask (7.4k)

↳ Starling in the Sky (6.8k)

↳ The Stage Is A Cage (7.3k)

↳ The Game Begins (8.4k)

↳ The Capitol Has Teeth (9.0k)

↳ The Wolf and the Wood (6.4k)

↳ City Of Stars (7.1k)

↳ The Fall Of Shadow

↳ Only Blood Remains

↳ District 13

↳The Rising Of Starling

comment to be added to the taglist <3

[andrealol7]

I wish I knew you wanted me (James Potter x reader)

James Potter x reader

Based on the song bad habit by steve lacy

a/n : If you see this symbol *** I recommend playing the song :)

warning: english is not my first language so there might be some errors LOL

ENJOYYYY

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time you see James Potter again, it’s like time folds in on itself.

It’s been years since Hogwarts — since late-night firewhiskey in the common room, since detention with McGonagall, since you used to sit beside him during every meal because of course you did. You were his best friend.

And the first time you see him again, standing in Remus Lupin’s flat, surrounded by Sirius’s latest attempt at rekindling the “glory days,” laughter echoing against the low ceiling beams, he smiles at you like no time has passed at all.

Like he didn’t marry someone else. Like he didn’t miss the part where you loved him your entire seventh year.

⸻

“Still drinking firewhiskey like it’s pumpkin juice, Potter?” you tease, nudging his arm as you sit beside him on the old couch in Remus’s flat.

He laughs — and God, it’s still that same laugh. The one that makes your heart clench. The one that used to pull you in without trying.

“Only when you’re around to remind me I have a liver,” he shoots back.

You smile, even though it hurts.

Across the room, Lily is talking to Marlene and Dorcas. She’s radiant. The kind of woman who commands the room without raising her voice. Her laugh rings through the air like a bell.

And she loves him. And he loves her.

And that’s the end of it, right?

⸻

But then everyone else starts to leave.

One by one, people disappear — Apparating out, hugging goodbyes, dragging Sirius to bed after he tried to race the clock (again). You’re laughing, you’re tipsy, and somehow… it’s just you and James.

And suddenly, it’s quiet.

Just the two of you. Like it used to be.

⸻

“You remember the Astronomy Tower?” he asks, looking over at you.

You blink, startled. “Uh. Vividly. Why?”

He smiles, a little sheepish. “I almost told you, then.”

“…Told me what?”

James leans back against the couch, arms behind his head, like he can pretend this conversation isn’t going to crack something open between you.

“That I liked you…back then.”

The room feels like it tilts.

“You—what?”

“I know. Stupid, right?” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I did. I was going to tell you. Then… you started dating Michael fucking Travers and I figured—well. I figured you didn’t feel the same.”

***

You stare at him, heart pounding, the sound of your blood louder than the silence.

All this time

All this time you could have had it all

If you had just made a move.

Instead of biting your tongue every time the thought of it crossed your mind.

Then all of this would have happened differently.

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

Because suddenly you’re not in Remus’s flat. You’re not grown. You’re not pretending.

You’re seventeen again — heart wide open, and no one seeing it.

- Flashback to seventh year

The Astronomy Tower wasn’t technically allowed after hours. But then again, neither were a lot of the things you and James did.

You’re lying side by side on your backs, coats pulled over your uniforms, breath misting in the cold autumn air. The sky is scattered with stars — and James is scattered with laughter.

“Bet you ten galleons that’s not Orion,” you say, pointing up.

“Bet you ten galleons you have no idea what Orion even is,” he shoots back.

You turn your head, raising a brow. “I’ll have you know I passed Astronomy with flying colors.”

James snorts. “You fell asleep in the final.”

“And still passed. That’s raw talent.”

He grins, head turning slightly toward you. “Yeah. That’s what I’d call it.”

There’s a beat. A soft lull.

You realize he’s looking at you.

Not in the casual, goofy, “we’ve-been-friends-forever” way. But really looking at you. Like he’s trying to memorize something.

Your breath hitches.

You look away too quickly, eyes flicking back to the stars. Your voice is quieter when you speak again.

“D’you ever think we’ll still be like this? After all this?”

James hums. “What, sneaking into school towers and mocking each other’s astronomy knowledge?”

You smile. “I mean… just. Us. Friends. Whatever this is.” you said as you secretly hoped for more.

There’s a silence after that. Not heavy. Just full.

You don’t look at him again, but you feel his gaze. Like his eyes are warm hands on your skin.

“I hope so,” he finally says. “Wouldn’t feel right without you.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to tell him. Want to roll over and grab his collar and kiss him. Tell him you’ve been in love with him since fifth year, that he makes everything lighter and harder at once, that being around him feels like holding your breath while wishing you never had to exhale.

But you don’t. You bite your tongue.

Because he hasn’t said it. Because he never will. Because you don’t want to ruin this — whatever this almost is.

So you say nothing.

And that’s where the story splits.

Two weeks later

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You tell yourself this every time James laughs too loud at one of Lily’s jokes, every time his arm brushes yours and he doesn’t notice, every time he says your name and it still sounds like home.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

But you’re not.

Because he doesn’t look at you like you look at him.

He looks at you like his best friend — like the girl he sneaks chocolate frogs to in the library, the one he teases about falling asleep in Transfiguration, the one he talks to at 2AM about dreams and war and fear and what it means to grow up.

But never like more.

And you… You look at him like he built the sky.

You’ve tried not to. You’ve tried to ignore it, to bury it, to laugh it off when your heart starts racing just because he tugs his sleeves up to his elbows. But it’s there. It’s always been there.

And lately, it’s been getting harder to pretend.

So when James runs off after practice that afternoon — hair a mess, eyes sparkling, talking about some plan for the Gryffindor party that night — and doesn’t even look back…

You break a little.

You’re sitting on the steps outside the courtyard, plucking at the hem of your skirt, when he appears.

“Hey,” says Michael Travers.

You glance up. “Hi.”

He shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You got plans tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve asked me that three times this week.”

He laughs, a little embarrassed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

You should say no. You always do.

Michael isn’t a bad person. He’s smart. Friendly. Looks at you like you’re a secret he wants to learn by heart. But he isn’t James.

And that’s always been enough of a reason to walk away.

But today… something in you snaps.

You think about James’s smile. You think about the way he calls Lily “brilliant” and doesn’t see the way it tears you open. You think about the way he never, ever notices you looking at him like he’s every star you’ve ever made a wish on.

And then you look at Michael. Kind eyes. Patient smile.

And you lie.

You say, “Sure. Why not.”

Michael blinks. “Wait — really?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

⸻

That night, he holds your hand on the way to Hogsmeade. He talks about his future, his favorite bands, a stupid joke he heard from his dormmate. You laugh. You smile. You try.

But every time he looks at you with hope in his eyes, all you can think is:

He’s not James.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because maybe, just maybe… if you keep pretending hard enough — if you keep saying yes to the wrong people — someday you’ll stop wanting the right one.

The one who never wanted you back. Or so you thought.

End of flashback

Present time (back in remus’s flat)

He looks over, grinning faintly. “I mean, you two were joined at the hip for a while. I didn’t want to… mess things up. Especially if it was just me.”

Just him.

Just him.

You swallow.

You want to scream. You want to tell him.

Tell him that the only reason you ever dated Michael Travers was because it hurt too much to stay in love with your best friend and know he’d never look at you that way. That you spent all of seventh year dying a little more every time he flirted with Lily, convinced he’d never see you.

That you would’ve said yes if he’d just asked.

“Merlin, I wish I knew” after a short moment of silence

“Knew what?” his eyebrows furrowed

“That you wanted me” you trailed

Because then I would have had the courage to tell you I wanted you too.

Because maybe then, things would’ve been different. Maybe the story would’ve ended with you.

It was killing you to let the words out.

But you look at his left hand — at the simple gold band on his finger — and you swallow it down.

Because that moment is gone. Because you don’t want to be the reason his life falls apart. Because she loves him, and he loves her, and you’re just… the almost.

And instead you joked

“Because then I would have teased you endlessly about it” hiding your true feelings behind a smirk.

Then a soft smile. It’s not a real one. It’s the kind of smile you’ve perfected — the one that hides everything that matters.

“Funny how things work out, huh?”

James’s smile falters. Just slightly. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Funny.”

You both sit there for a while. Not saying anything.

Because why would you.

Now that he’s happy. And you?

You hug him at the door.

Just like always.

And you walk away with a smile he’ll never question, carrying a love he’ll never know he missed.

Because this isn’t some love story where you get what you’ve always wanted.

Or maybe you did. And maybe it was too late.

[andrealol7]

the exit (part 2)

mattheo riddle x reader

part 1

inspired by the exit by conan gray

a/ n : this was honestly a joke but im just gona finish it anyway. LMAOOO THIS IS SO DUMB ITS SO BAD

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Silence hung between you.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Mattheo’s words echoed in your mind, over and over, like a curse you couldn’t shake.

“Because I love you.”

You should have been happy. Should have felt victorious, knowing that after everything, after all of it, he had finally admitted the truth.

But all you felt was angry.

Angry that it had taken this long. Angry that he had waited until you were finally trying to move on. Angry that he only wanted you when he thought he might actually lose you.

You let out a shaky breath. “You don’t get to do this, Mattheo.”

He stiffened. “Do what?”

“You don’t get to say that now.” Your voice was quieter than you wanted it to be, more fragile. “Not after everything. Not after pretending like I didn’t mean anything to you.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“You let me think I was nothing to you,” you interrupted, your voice rising. “And now that I’m finally done—now that I’m finally trying to move on—you suddenly love me?”

His eyes darkened. “You think I suddenly love you?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I think you love the idea of me. I think you love the way I looked at you like you hung the stars. I think you love knowing I would have done anything for you, and now that I’m not waiting around for you anymore, you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

His hand shot out before you could react, gripping your chin—gently, but firm enough to make you look at him.

“I have always loved you,” he said, voice low, unsteady. “You don’t think I wanted to tell you? You don’t think I wanted to be yours?”

You swallowed hard, your resolve wavering.

“Then why didn’t you?” you whispered.

He exhaled sharply, his grip loosening. “Because I’m not good for you.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “And you think that’s your decision to make?”

His fingers brushed against your cheek, barely there, like he was afraid you would disappear if he held you too tightly. “I thought I was protecting you.”

Your throat tightened. “By hurting me?”

His face twisted in something like pain. “By making sure you didn’t get too close.”

You stared at him, your heart breaking all over again. “Well, you failed.”

Mattheo closed his eyes for a second, exhaling shakily. When he opened them again, there was something pleading in them.

“Please,” he murmured. “Tell me you don’t love me.”

The words hung between you, thick and heavy, filling the space with something dangerous.

You should have said it. Should have let the lie fall from your lips and walked away. Should have left him standing there, alone, the way he had left you so many times before.

But the truth was—

You did love him.

And you always would.

Your lips parted, the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.

And then—

“Mattheo?”

Your blood turned to ice.

Because that voice?

That voice wasn’t yours.

Slowly, you turned.

And there she was.

The girl from the party.

Standing at the end of the corridor, her wide eyes darting between the two of you—between your flushed cheeks, Mattheo’s hands still lingering on your skin, the undeniable tension crackling between you like a storm waiting to break.

Realization dawned on her face.

And then—

“Oh.”

Just one word.

Just one little word.

But it was enough.

Mattheo’s body went rigid.

Your stomach dropped.

Because suddenly, everything clicked into place.

The way he had looked at you that night, guilty but unreadable. The way he had kissed you like he was trying to forget something. The way he had waited—waited until you were moving on, waited until you had finally found someone else, before telling you the words you had begged to hear for so long.

You turned back to him, breath catching in your throat.

“Mattheo,” you whispered, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Because the silence was enough.

Because the truth was written all over his face.

Because suddenly, you weren’t the only one he had been lying to.

And in the end—

You weren’t the only one he had betrayed.

-

You felt it before you understood it— That slow, sinking feeling in your chest. Like the ground had been ripped out from under you, and you were still waiting for the fall to kill you.

Mattheo didn’t say anything. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try.

And that silence? That hurt more than anything else ever could.

The girl—his girl, your replacement, the one he had let drape herself over him at the party—stood frozen, staring between the two of you. Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

You knew that feeling well.

Because how were you supposed to react when you realized someone you loved—someone you trusted, even when you knew you shouldn’t—was a liar?

Was a coward?

Was never really yours to begin with?

The truth settled in your bones like ice.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

You were just another game, another distraction, another girl he had pulled close just to let go.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep your chin high, to school your expression into something unreadable. You wouldn’t let Mattheo Riddle see you break.

Not anymore.

The girl finally found her voice, though it was barely a whisper. “Mattheo…?”

He still didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because there was no way out of this. No excuse, no lie, no charming grin that could make either of you forget what had just happened.

The truth was standing right there in front of him.

Two girls. One confession. A lifetime of damage.

You felt the ache of it pressing against your ribs, but you swallowed it down, forcing a bitter smile.

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one waiting for you to choose me.”

That got his attention.

His head snapped up, his eyes searching yours with something desperate. “Don’t—”

But you were already turning away.

Already walking past the girl, offering her nothing but a fleeting glance of understanding.

She wasn’t the villain here.

Neither of you were.

The only monster in this story was the boy standing between you.

You kept walking.

One step. Then another. And another.

It was harder than it should have been. Because some stupid, pathetic part of you had spent so long hoping—waiting—for Mattheo to run after you.

For him to fight for you.

But he never did.

Not when it mattered.

Not when it was too late.

And that was the thing about exits, wasn’t it?

The moment you walked through one, there was no going back.

-

It had been days.

Days since you had walked away.

Days since Mattheo had let you.

You had expected to feel free. Lighter. Relieved, even.

Instead, there was only a hollow ache, a weight in your chest that refused to fade.

You hated it.

Hated that after everything—after all the lies, all the secrets, all the bullshit—he still had a hold on you.

But that was the thing about Mattheo Riddle.

You never really left him behind.

No matter how much you wanted to.

-

The Great Hall was loud, as always.

Laughter, conversations, the clinking of silverware—it all blurred together into a background hum.

You weren’t paying attention to any of it.

You were too busy pretending.

Pretending to listen as your friends talked around you. Pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of the Slytherin table. Pretending you hadn’t caught Mattheo staring at you three times already.

You hadn’t looked back. Not once.

And you wouldn’t.

You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

You wouldn’t let him think you were still his to keep.

But even as you focused on the conversation in front of you, even as you forced yourself to laugh at something someone said, you felt it—

The heat of his gaze.

The storm brewing beneath it.

And then—

The scrape of a chair.

The heavy thud of boots against the stone floor.

The sudden silence that settled over your table as Mattheo Riddle—dark-eyed, disheveled, and entirely too close—dropped into the empty seat beside you.

Your body went rigid.

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

Didn’t react, even when the air around you grew thick with tension, even when your friends glanced between the two of you, their conversation dying out entirely.

And then, in a voice too low for anyone else to hear—

“Are you really going to ignore me forever?”

A slow inhale. A steady exhale.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m eating, Mattheo,” you said simply, keeping your voice level, unaffected.

He scoffed, leaning in slightly. “Right. And I’m supposed to believe that’s all you’ve been doing these past few days? Just—what? Eating? Laughing? Acting like you don’t care?”

A muscle in your jaw twitched.

You would not let him get to you.

Not here. Not now.

“I don’t care,” you said.

Lie.

You heard the way Mattheo exhaled sharply, the way his fingers curled into fists against the table. “You do.”

“No.” You forced yourself to take a bite of food, to act like he wasn’t sitting right beside you, like he wasn’t unraveling you piece by piece. “I really don’t.”

His voice dropped even lower, his breath ghosting over your ear.

“Then look at me.”

Your grip on your fork tightened.

You wouldn’t.

Because if you looked at him—if you saw that familiar fire in his eyes, the one that had always burned for you—you might start to believe him again.

And you couldn’t.

So you gave him nothing.

No reaction. No flicker of emotion.

Just silence.

Until finally, he exhaled harshly, shoving back his chair and standing up.

The moment he was gone, the table around you came back to life. Conversations resumed, the tension dissipated, and someone—one of your friends, maybe—muttered something about Mattheo being a stubborn idiot.

You didn’t disagree.

But as you pushed your food around your plate, your stomach tight and your thoughts tangled—

You realized something.

You might have left Mattheo Riddle behind.

But he wasn’t ready to let you go.

-

That night.

You weren’t expecting him.

You should have been.

Because when had Mattheo ever let something go without a fight?

It was late. Too late.

The castle was silent, the corridors dimly lit as you made your way back to your dorm.

And then—

“Are you done pretending yet?”

You froze.

Turned.

And there he was.

Mattheo Riddle, standing in the shadows like a ghost from your past.

His uniform was disheveled, his tie loosened, his hair a mess like he had run his hands through it too many times.

His eyes—Merlin, his eyes—were wild. Dark. Desperate.

You swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step closer. “Waiting for you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, but you kept your expression unreadable. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“That’s bullshit,” he said, his voice rough. “And you know it.”

You crossed your arms. “Oh? Enlighten me, then. What exactly do you think I want to say to you?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“That you miss me.”

You inhaled sharply, but he kept going, stepping even closer, his voice softer now. “That it’s killing you as much as it’s killing me. That you’re just as fucking miserable as I am.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re delusional.”

Mattheo let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe I am. But you know what I’m not?”

He reached out, fingers ghosting over your wrist.

You didn’t pull away.

And he noticed.

“I’m not lying to myself,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your breathing.

Because this was Mattheo.

The boy who could ruin you with a look.

And the worst part?

You wanted to let him.

But then—

You thought about that night.

About the way he had let you believe you were his, while he had someone else waiting in the shadows.

The moment shattered.

Your eyes snapped open. You yanked your hand away, stepping back.

“I don’t miss you,” you said, each word slow, deliberate.

Lie.

Mattheo’s jaw tightened. “Say it again.”

“I don’t miss you.”

Lie, lie, lie.

His eyes searched yours, looking for a crack, an opening, anything.

And when he found nothing—

He exhaled, his expression hardening.

“Fine,” he said, stepping back. “If that’s what you want.”

It wasn’t.

But you didn’t stop him as he turned away, as he disappeared into the darkness.

And as you stood there, alone in the empty corridor, you couldn’t help but wonder—

If he had stayed just a second longer—

Would you have let him ruin you all over again?

[andrealol7]

the exit

mattheo riddle x reader

inspired by the exit by conan gray

a/n : part 2 is up!!!

part 2

————————————————————————

You should’ve known from the beginning.

Mattheo Riddle was never yours. Not really.

He was magnetic, unpredictable, the kind of boy who could ruin you with a glance and make it feel like a privilege. Everyone wanted him—he was darkly charming, effortlessly dangerous, and impossibly out of reach.

And yet, somehow, you had gotten close.

Close enough to be the one he smirked at from across the Great Hall. Close enough that his knuckles grazed yours under the table. Close enough that, in the dead of night, when the castle was quiet and your dormitory felt suffocating, you would find yourself in his bed, tangled in silk sheets and whispered confessions.

You had him.

Or at least, you thought you did.

-

The night was cold, and the corridors were dimly lit as you walked through them, trying to push down the feeling in your chest.

It was stupid, really. The way you lingered, the way you let yourself believe, even for a second, that this—whatever this was—meant anything to him.

Because Mattheo didn’t do relationships.

He didn’t do love.

And you weren’t supposed to care.

You weren’t supposed to need him like this.

But Merlin, when he looked at you like that—when his hands were on you, when his voice was in your ear, when he made you feel like you were the only person in the world—it was impossible not to want more.

So when you heard about the party, you knew where you would find him.

And you knew, deep down, you shouldn’t go.

But you went anyway.

-

The Slytherin common room was packed, the air thick with smoke and the scent of firewhiskey. Bodies pressed together, music thrummed through the walls, and in the center of it all—

Mattheo.

He was laughing, leaning back against the couch like he didn’t have a care in the world, a drink dangling from his fingers.

And she was next to him.

You didn’t know her name. Didn’t care. All that mattered was the way she was draped over him, whispering something in his ear, her hands on his chest.

He didn’t push her away.

He didn’t even look uncomfortable.

And that was the part that hurt the most.

Your heart clenched, but you forced yourself to breathe. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t surprising. You knew what Mattheo was like.

You had no right to be hurt.

So why did it feel like you were about to break?

-

You didn’t know how long you stood there, frozen in place, before his eyes finally landed on you.

And when they did, something flickered across his face.

For a split second, he looked… guilty.

But then, just as quickly, the expression was gone. Replaced by that infuriating smirk, the one he always wore when he wanted to pretend nothing mattered.

When he wanted you to pretend nothing mattered.

Your fists clenched, but you forced yourself to smile—forced yourself to walk past him like you didn’t care.

Like you weren’t falling apart.

You barely made it a few steps before his hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice was low, teasing, but there was something underneath it. Something almost… desperate.

You yanked your hand away. “What do you care?”

His smirk faltered. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you snapped. “Like someone who actually thought they mattered to you?”

The words hung between you, sharp and unforgiving.

Mattheo’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. “You do matter.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah? Sure doesn’t look like it.”

His lips parted, like he was going to say something else, but you didn’t give him the chance. You turned on your heel, shoving past the crowd, ignoring the way your vision blurred.

Because if you stayed—if you let him look at you like that for a second longer—you knew you would break.

And you refused to let Mattheo Riddle be the one to break you.

-

You didn’t see Mattheo after that night.

Not for weeks.

You stopped seeking him out in the halls. Stopped waiting for him to show up at your door. Stopped pretending that what you had—whatever it was—had ever been real.

And it was fine. It was good.

Until it wasn’t.

Until you found yourself at another party, another crowded room, another place you shouldn’t have gone to.

And this time, he was the one who saw you first.

You felt it the second his eyes landed on you.

Felt the shift in the air, the weight of his gaze like a burning brand against your skin.

But you didn’t look at him.

You were too busy laughing, fingers trailing over someone else’s arm, a boy you didn’t even know.

And Mattheo?

For the first time since you’d met him—since you had been tangled up in his sheets, since you had whispered secrets into his skin, since you had let yourself love him—

He looked jealous.

He looked wrecked.

And it should have made you feel better.

It should have made you feel like you had won.

But when he crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into the nearest empty corridor, it didn’t feel like winning at all.

“Let go of me,” you hissed, trying to yank yourself free.

He didn’t.

Instead, he pressed you back against the wall, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. “What the hell are you doing?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “What does it look like?”

His jaw clenched. “It looks like you’re trying to piss me off.”

“Well,” you whispered, tilting your head. “Is it working?”

Something snapped.

His lips crashed against yours, rough and desperate, and suddenly, everything else disappeared.

Your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer, his hands roaming over your body like he was afraid you would disappear.

Like he was trying to memorize you.

And then—just as quickly as it started—it was over.

Mattheo pulled back, chest heaving, eyes searching yours. “Tell me you don’t love me.”

Your breath caught.

Tell me you don’t love me.

It was a demand. A plea.

You opened your mouth, ready to say the words—ready to lie.

But then he whispered, so soft you almost didn’t hear it—

“Because I love you.”

And suddenly, you weren’t so sure you could lie after all.