kittyminion

[kittyminion]

one word= arthur morgan

fanfics coming soon *wink *wink

[kittyminion]

better for change jon snow x brothel worker!f!reader

-au, smut 18+, angst, violence, abuse, sex workers, slut shaming, canon-typical discrimination against women, jon is at least twenty one, same for reader, dual POV, reader grew up poor, reader is more experienced, fluff, happy ending -after a moment of weakness, jon snow visits a brothel in Winterfell and meets you, a brothel worker just trying to get by in life, but you impact him not just physically, but emotionally -word count= 8.3k

Sometimes, Jon Snow hated his life. He hated being forced out of banquet halls just so Catelyn Stark couldn't be reminded of her husband's unfaithfulness, he hated the constant snark remarks from Theon Greyjoy. He hated being left out, and called the bastard, and most of all, he hated the loneliness that came from it all.

He hated the silence in his bedchamber on the far side of the castle, hated the chill in the air when all the Starks had family duties that didn't include a Snow. His mind ran so fast sometimes that it scared him, not to mention all the intrusive thoughts that almost had him running out of Winterfell for good.

The loneliness was like a deep ache in his bones, so chronic that nothing could fix it—except for a woman.

He'd first gotten the idea when talking to Theon and Robb. It was a stingingly wintry day, enough to have Jon fixing another layer of clothes on his body. He could see his breath in the air as he walked across the courtyard to the weaponsmith, where they were standing, huddled close to generate heat while they waiting for the weapon smith to sharpen their swords.

"Jon, nice day isn't it?" Robb said, greeting his brother with a chapped lip smile that made Jon lick his own. He nuzzled his nose deeper into his fur lined cloak and shrugged with a groan, "it's quite cold today—colder than usual."

Jon could see the pain in Theon's face as he turned towards the Snow and scoffed, "just think how I'm feeling! I'm still not used to this bullshit!"

"Bet you can feel your balls freezing off, huh Greyjoy?" Robb said with a shiver and Jon chuckled, "if he even has any." Robb let out a loud laugh, head thrown back to the sky and Theon flipped the two of them off and rolled his eyes, cheeks cherry red.

"The both of you are dicks!"

As the weaponsmith approached with their swords, Theon spoke up again, "but you know what can keep me warm? A whore with big tits." Robb scoffed at Theon, "I'm surprised those women even let you below their waist."

Jon listened silently, eyes cast towards the horizon, willing the sun to warm him up a bit.

"They have zero morals, Robb! They're sluts and whores, the lot of them. Just trying to make a bit of money."

"And who says you're any better, Greyjoy," said Jon suddenly, and Theon sneered at the Snow, "you shouldn't be saying anything, bastard! The last time I checked, the last part of a woman you've ever saw was her fucking ankle!"

Robb snickered, avoiding his brothers eyes with a stiff nod, "Is Theon right, Jon? Have you fucked a woman before?" Jon's cheeks were so red he could feel the heat radiating from them as he spun around.

"Of course I've—fu—slept with a woman!"

Despite his shy tone it was true, but pathetically so. He was a bit young when he had sex for the first time, freshly eighteen and with a girl who'd been visiting from the South to be under Catelyn's wing. She knew not of Jon's status as the Stark bastard, but the event was so short-lived that Jon barely got inside her before she was begging him to stop because it hurt.

Of course he listened to her, but he was disappointed. He'd done a few other things with girls around Winterfell, like shared kisses in the dark of night and hands down each others pants, but nothing worthy of bragging to Theon or Robb about.

So he simply said nothing at all, which led them to think he was still fresh as a pubescent boy.

Jon stomped away, cold with a bruised ego, but with an idea in his mind. What if he did go to the brothel? If it was as easy as Theon said to get a woman there, why doesn't he go for himself? Perhaps he could build his reputation up there so they had nothing else to tease him about.

Besides, he was already better than both of them in his swordsmanship, this would just be another thing he had to overcome to get their approval.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

You'd grown up in the North, so the cold wasn't new to you. You spent your time huddled under blankets full of holes, begging for coin with your mother, watching people go out of their way to spit at you and steal whatever you had.

You stole whatever you could get your hands on—jewelry, clothing, fruit, bread, coins, anything to get enough for an inn to stay the night in.

You didn't mean to work in a brothel either. You just wanted to make money to support yourself, and you thought you could escape once you got what you needed, but it was a soul sucking business.

Admittedly, you liked the pleasure, but it was rare where you could just simply be taken care of without strings attached. Men often wanted more, more than you were willing to give.

"Do you think we're done for the day," a woman you worked with said, and you shrugged in response, your body achingly tired from the day. If you weren't fucking men, you were cleaning up or managing the other women you worked with, and if it wasn't that, it was dealing with the owner.

He was an exhausting man by the name of Lawrence who was money hungry by all means necessary. You quickly rose as dependable in his brothel so that meant he counted on you for plenty of things. It was good in the sense that you weren't taking customers as much, but you still had to deal with his constant scrutiny.

Some days it was you need to eat less or wear less clothes or such violent language that it had you and the other women cowering just so he wouldn't explode.

Not to mention the drinking. That made it a hundred times worse.

The brothel was practically empty this time of night. It was deep in the night, when the streets of Winterfell were quiet and the cold had seeped into everyones bones, meaning it was time for rest.

You were busy straightening up the brothel house, stepping over and avoiding women as they rested on the chaises, half naked and still smelling of sex and sweat, but you'd gotten used to it long ago.

You could feel the tiredness in your body, your muscles tight and tense, unremovable cricks in your neck that you'd gotten used to long ago.

Just as you turned to leave the main room and creep up the wooden stairs in the building, you heard the familiar ring of the bell as someone stepped through the doors. The women around you seemed to all curl in on themselves as their eyes followed whoever was approaching.

You stopped in your steps and spun around, cursing yourself for not ignoring whoever it was to just collapse in bed, but when you saw him, surprise covered your face.

"I've got him." You called, and the bastard man turned towards you, his face irreversibly full of curiosity and slight horror as he glanced around.

"Jon Snow, isn't it?" You wondered, stepping up to him, your chin raised to meet his eyes, the sheerness of your dress outlining the curves of your figure.

He nodded, eyes drifting down to your tits, but then he blushed violently and cleared his throat, "yes, uhm, I would like a service—" you chuckled, hand propped on your hip, "a service is anything, sweetheart. I've got plenty to offer: oral, vanilla, slow, or rough, just hands perhaps?"

You were heavily amused at his face—so red he looked like a cherry, but then you placed your gentle hand against his arm and tugged him towards the private room in the back, "I'm just messing with you, Snow, anything you want I'll fulfill."

Jon followed you without any complaints, his eyes glued to your backside, but every few seconds he would cough awkwardly.

"Your name, milady?" You paused as you approached the room, a light grin on your face, "never been called a milady before," you gave him your name politely, arm slipping through his as you tugged him inside.

Once you closed the door behind yourself and pulled the curtains, Jon sat on the bed in the center of the room and simply watched you. He watched you spray perfume on yourself and fix up your hair in the mirror.

By now, you would've been jumped on, but he was somewhat different.

You glanced at him in the mirror as you applied cream to your body, "have you ever been to a brothel before?"

He shook his head, swallowing roughly, hands reaching up to remove his cloak, "you must can tell." He chuckled at himself with a shake of his head, "it's weird to see women like—that."

You looked away from him, watching yourself in the mirror, "we are only objects in this world, so I'm sure you're the only man who I've ever heard say that." You slithered towards him like a seductress, your fingers trailing across his arms and down his chest as you sat beside him.

Jon shivered as he looked over at you, his eyes big and brown, mouth open. You could see his fingers inching towards you, but he paused, "do you enjoy being a brothel worker?"

You let out a humorless laugh, "do I enjoy being a whore? No." You said it simply, like he was a child, new to the horrors of the world, and Jon pursed his lips, "then why do it?"

He was so naive it was ridiculous, so much so that you were getting upset. "Do you want me to fuck you, or is this a questionnaire?" Jon shook his head, eyebrows furrowed at your tone as you slipped the straps of your dress down, revealing the shiny slopes of your shoulders.

You threw your leg over Jon's lap and straddled him, hands pressed firmly against his chest as you pushed him back against the bed. Jon watched you intently as you undressed, staring at the valley of your breasts and the hardness of your nipples.

His fingers ran over the sides of your torso, his fingers cold, eliciting a shiver from you. You pressed your cunt against the hardness in his pants and the both of you moaned, Jon's eyes falling shut as you leaned down, grabbing his hand and pressing it against your ass.

Your lips were delicate against his, and he tasted tart and smelt like smoke and fresh dew on grass. Jon groped your ass and you ran your fingers through his hair, loosening the ponytail, while Jon explored your body like it was new territory.

He was eager, but delicate, which was new to you, and you admit it felt good to be worshipped like a princess. He didn't touch you where you hadn't offered, and you could feel his dick growing harder and harder.

"Get your clothes off, Snow." You muttered, rolling off of him to lie on your back, watching Jon pull himself up and struggle to get his shirt off. He was going so quick his shirt got caught, and you chuckled standing, "someone's excited."

"You're beautiful, that's why." You grasped onto the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head, pushing onto your tiptoes then throwing it aside when you were done. Jon immediately grabbed you again, his hands heavy against your waist as he kissed you.

His tongue tangled with yours, while you worked at the buttons of his pants, sweat gleaming against your skin, your thighs pressing together to create tension.

When Jon was fully naked, you grabbed his dick and stroked it gently, chuckling when Jon pulled out of the kiss to throw his head back and moan, his eyes were pressed tightly shut as he tensed.

"Does that feel good?" You wondered and Jon nodded, "feels amazing." You dipped to your knees and pressed a solid kiss against the tip of him, your tongue lolling out to lick a long stripe up his dick.

Jon's hands tangled into your hair, but he didn't shove you against him, his other hand squeezed into a tight fist, "fuck," he murmured when you engulfed him into your mouth, bobbing up and down slowly while you massaged his balls.

Jon let out a long moan as you sped up, cheeks popping as you sucked him off, your cunt dripping with arousal as you reached down to massage yourself.

As Jon's balls tightened and his abdomen tensed, he cursed, his spend splattering into your mouth as he moaned, "fuck, I'm coming!"

When you were done, Jon pulled you up by your hands and kissed you, hard and firm, your hands wrapped around his neck, "lie down," he muttered, lips vibrating against yours and your eyebrows furrowed.

"Lie down?" He nodded, cheek pressed against yours. You did as he asked, climbing onto the bed and collapsing onto your back, your head buried in the pillows.

Jon smirked at your confused face as he joined you, grabbing your knees to spread your legs. "What are you doing?" You muttered, and Jon didn't answer, his tongue licking up your cunt.

Your body shivered as he did, eyes immediately closing as Jon's lips locked around your cunt, his fingers teasing your entrance. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Snow."

Jon chuckled against you, lips sucking against your cunt like his life depended on it, nose buried and chin covered in your arousal. He delved a finger inside of you, thrusting in and out, deep and sure.

Your legs trembled with pleasure, hands shoving him farther against you, whining as your orgasm approached like a looming storm cloud. Jon squeezed your thigh tight as you inhaled deeply, letting out a long and loud moan as you came, fingers curled into fists, body sweaty and spent from the day.

As your body relaxed, Jon climbed beside you and stared at the ceiling, his arm resting across your body lazily, "that was good, right?"

You turned to him with a fake glare, "you didn't mention you could eat pussy so well." Jon blushed at your words, letting out a relieved sigh. You turned on your side and grabbed his arm, tugging it around you, "not done yet, are you?"

He shook his head, lips against your shoulder as he lifted your leg and pressed himself against you, rubbing up and down your cunt until you moaned. He pushed into you gently, and paused when you winced at the tight fit, "want me to stop?"

You shook your head, pressing his hand to your tit, "you're bigger than most men than come in."

When he was fully in, he started thrusting, slowly and gently, fingers twisting at your nipples while he muffled your moans with kisses, skin sticky against yours.

The sex was slow and passionate, something you'd never experienced in the brothel. It was always quick or painful or simply disappointing, and you weren't too surprised considering it was your job, but Jon Snow was different.

He made you come more times than he did, focused on the sweet spots of your body, whispered honeying words into your ears that made you want to melt.

So when it was finally over and Jon was putting his clothes back on, you couldn't admit that you wanted him to stay.

But you knew what was best.

"Don't come back." You said, eyes closed as you rested underneath the covers of the bed. Jon sat on the edge near you, "why not? I thought you liked—"

"I did, but you can't come back. What'll people think when the Bastard of Winterfell keeps coming back to fuck a whore? Just because you're a Snow doesn't mean people don't expect a lot from you."

Jon moved a piece of your hair out of your face, his lips pressed tightly shut, eyes blazing with disagreement, "I don't really give a fuck what they think, besides you're wrong. People don't care about me."

"Well then care about yourself! You asked me why I'm a whore, well I have no choice. I don't have a Lord for a Father who can get me the things I need to succeed, I have only what I've been given, which is nothing. You can sit here all day and cry about being a bastard, but you're more fortunate than I, so do something about it!"

You shoved him suddenly, and he barely moved, but he stood and scoffed, "you're ridiculous, you know that?" Jon pulled the door open so hard it slammed against the wall, and you flinched, rolling your eyes, "like I said, don't come back."

⊹ ࣪ ˖

They were jealous. Jon had successful talked Robb and Theon through the events at the brothel, and they were jealous. Theon had a sour look on his face as he and Robb sparred, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks red, "and she was just a simple whore?"

Jon murmured out an answer, still remembering your features and mannerisms, his personal description of you far from a whore. You were beautiful in a way many women weren't. You were rough around the edges with thick curly hair and soft eyes full of a dirty past.

You weren't perfect and Jon could tell, which made you all the more intriguing to him. He'd kept away for an entire moon now—he hadn't even gone to that side of Winterfell, too busy with tasks his father was giving him.

"What does she look like, Jon? Perhaps I can get a go with her." Robb said with a large huff as he hit Theon's sword from his hands. Theon sat heavily against the bench nearby Jon, watching the bastard sharpen his sword.

Jon couldn't deny the sliver of jealousy in his mind at his brothers words. It was ironic that he wanted you all to himself, despite your career title. He wanted to be the only one to touch you, the only one to have deep conversations with you. He even wanted to spend time with you outside the brothel, and although that was completely unlikely, he still desired it.

So he made someone up.

"She's got long dirty blonde hair, a bit greasy at the roots and she smells like ripe strawberries."

Robb hummed at Jon's words, plopping down next to his brother, "is she actually good, or were you just lying?" Theon peeked up at the question, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Jon rolled his eyes as he stood, "yes, she was good!"

They followed Jon farther into the courtyard, "did she make your toes curl and your eyes water?"

"I already said she did!" He spat out angrily, pausing which caused the two of them to run into his back, "go find her for yourself—"

"What are you all talking about?" Said Arya as she ran up to them, eyes big and wide with curiosity and innocence. Robb, Jon, and Theon all blushed, shaking their heads as they stuttered.

Robb reached for his sister and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder, "why don't you and I go pester the kitchen for a bit of hot chocolate?"

Jon was relieved for the distraction, but Theon was still questioning him, "give me a name. I think I'll go tonight."

"Sarah, I'm pretty sure. I wasn't too worried about her name."

Theon ran off thereafter with a determined look on his face, and Jon just hoped he didn't figure out he was lying.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Theon Greyjoy was a regular at the brothel. He often came drunk, words slurring with flushed cheeks and wondering hands, so many of the girls traded him off to whoever was willing.

You were one of those women, only because you'd rather not have a man in bed telling you he loved you, breath hot and reeking of ale. So when he walked in, not drunk, but determined, you decided to humor him.

"Are you looking for someone specific?" You questioned, hands tapping absentmindedly against the front desk and Theon nodded, glancing around while barely listening to you.

"Yeah, I'm looking for someone named Sarah? Long dirty blonde hair?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, "uhm, I apologize, but no one named Sarah works here. If you want someone with dirty blonde hair, Nahla is available—" you begin waving the woman over, but Theon interrupted you.

"Well I only ask because Jon Snow—the Stark bastard—came here a while ago and said she was good so..." he trailed off watching you, and your face successfully stayed blank, but your chest rose heavily as you sighed.

Jon fucking Snow, causing trouble.

What was his goal here? Perhaps keep you tied off so no one could fuck you? Or maybe he was jealous? You didn't know, but you definitely didn't appreciate him interfering with your job.

"Did he fucking lie? That dick!" Your mouth opened to reply, but Theon was already stomping away, eyes hard and fists clenched. You shook your head, eyes falling closed as you sighed, "what a dumbass."

Despite your aggravation, you wanted to speak to Jon and tell him that you didn't appreciate his interference. And although you enjoyed your night with him, he was simply just a customer, not your boss, and certainly not your boyfriend.

Just a naive guy who you'd made a sexual impact on.

But as much as you told yourself that, you knew it was more. It was emotional, like that night had caused the two of you to become indefinitely tethered together.

You found yourself eager when the door opened late at night, hoping it was him, just so he could request you and both of you could spend another passionate night together.

But you guess he'd listened to your demands. You already knew he was to type to get emotionally attached, so you were only doing what was best for him.

So when the men slowly trickled out of the brothel and the women were fast asleep, you bundled yourself up in a thick gown and cloak, and slipped out the doors, skin chilly from the cold.

The main castle of Winterfell was a fifteen minute walk, so you kept to the alleys, avoiding the late night walkers and drunkards, fingers clenched around a small blade just for safety.

Your hair was pulled into a low braid, hood covering your head and blocking the cold wind. You knew not where Jon would be at this time of night—perhaps in his bedchamber in the castle, or maybe near the sparring grounds, you'd heard he was a particularly skilled swordsman, but you saw him nowhere.

But you could smell something in the chilly air, dewy grass and smoke. You felt him before you could see him, a heavy, warmth behind you and you froze, pivoting on your heels, exhaling in relief when you saw Jon standing behind you.

His hair was damp and loose, lips pulled into a sort of frown that made your own screw up negatively. His eyebrows were thick and taunt into that same curiously melancholic way.

"What are you doing here? Don't you know it's not safe after dark?" He grabbed your arm, firm but gentle, and tugged you towards a small awning near a pair of wooden benches.

"I can take care of myself, Jon," you grumbled, rolling your eyes, leg pressed against his as the two of you sat. He ignored you and let go of your arm, turning towards you, eyes rolling down your figure before your gazes locked, "I thought you didn't want to see me again."

You noted the heavy bruise on his jaw and you reached up before thinking and pressed a delicate finger against it. Jon flinched and let out a hiss.

"What happened?"

"Theon punched the shit out of me. Barely even saw him before I was on the ground."

You pursed your lips, "did you hit him back at least?"

Jon cleared his throat with a rough shake of his head, "Robb did."

"He came to the brothel earlier, looking for a girl named Sarah—said you liked her." Jon looked away from you shyly, his hand running down his chin, "I didn't want him to touch you."

He said it with shame and that gave you some semblance of comfort that he was at least sorry. "You can't interfere with my work, sweetheart. Before you know it, you've lied to the wrong person and you'll have more than a bruised jaw."

You grabbed his hand and ignored his eyes, "I enjoyed the night we had, too much actually, but you're just a guy and I'm just someone working in a brothel. If you think you and I could ever—in a million moons—be together, you'd be lying to yourself. I have to take care of myself, even if it means being used."

Jon squeezed your hand, chewing on his lip, but he said nothing.

"I'm not your ward, I'm not your girlfriend, and I'm certainly not someone you should be jealous about." You said it with tense sorrow, your eyes locked on a building a few feet away.

Jon pulled his hand from your grip and turned towards you, jaw locked tight with anger, "how do you suppose I just forget?"

"I never said forget, Snow. Maybe find yourself a noble girl, one who's fond of a domestic lifestyle, because I'm surely not her."

You leaned towards him slowly and pressed your lips against his, one hand resting against his thigh while he gripped your waist.

"I'm going to come back anyway." He said suddenly, lips vibrating against yours and you rolled your eyes with a chuckle, "don't say I didn't warn you."

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Jon did in fact come back. A few times every so often, enough for you to pull him into a private room. The two of you never had sex though, it was just simple talks about life and the struggles that came along with it.

You spewed your deepest fears, curled into his arms. He told you his insecurities, your hands tangled into his hair. The two of you laughed so hard you had to shush each other or you spent so long together that the other women had started looking for you.

And it was good, until it wasn't.

Pressure with your boss increased more and more as you became distracted by Jon. You took less customers, cared less about your appearance in front of other men and started slacking off, so much so that the other women had started whispering about you.

You were oblivious to it all though because you were happy and content with your simple friendship with Jon. He was your closet companion and the only person you could wholeheartedly trust with your deepest fears and secrets.

He didn't judge you, even when you were obviously wrong, nor did he push you farther than your limits.

So when your boss exploded on you one day, you were confused to the cause, despite the buildup.

"How much fucking coin have you made?" Lawrence screamed, snatching the money from your hand as he threw it all across the room. The clank of the coin echoed throughout the silent room as you stood in front of him, body tense, face blank, while the other women around you said nothing.

"This is not a free inn! I allow you to stay here because you bring me money. Understood?" Lawrence pulled your face closed to his by your chin, his breath reeking of ale, as he watched you with wide, crazed eyes.

When you didn't reply right away, too busy trying to keep your composure in front of the others, he fisted your hair roughly and threw you aside.

You hit the floor roughly, your head knocking against it and the girls gasped. Janet, a girl you'd known since you first arrived, jumped up, "Lawrence, I think she understands. Right?" She glanced down at you as you pulled yourself onto your knees and Lawrence waved her off.

"Don't let it happen again."

Once he was finally gone, Janet collapsed beside you and pressed the end of her dress against your forehead, soaking up the streaming blood. You felt your chest tighten as tears came to your eyes and the women crowded around you, rubbing at your skin to comfort you, their hands pulling at your hair to straighten it or brush the wrinkles from your gown.

You were powerless against him, it was true, and you didn't have the coin nor the courage to escape the brothel. Where would you even go? He'd surely come looking for you—you were his best girl, or you used to be at least.

"Are you okay?" Janet muttered, hands wrapped around you tightly and you inhaled deeply, sucking up your tears. You pulled your self up, pushing away the stray hands, "I need this room straightened up as quick as possible, I'm sure they'll be a rush soon."

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Jon Snow had stole. He'd done it a few times in his life—just simple measly things like an orange from a food stand or a pair of boots he wanted to use when he sparred with Theon and Robb. All of the things he'd stolen previously were for himself, selfish items he didn't care enough to dwell on, but this—this was a lot.

A full basket full of items. Desserts from the kitchen, stockings from Catelyn's closet, Sansa's forgotten powdered makeup. Arya's old barrets and ribbons she refused to wear. He'd stuffed the basket full of things he'd thought you'd like—girly things he either didn't know the use of or just grabbed whenever he saw it.

It was dark and late, so to ensure you wouldn't get in trouble, he decided to sneak inside the brothel house. He knew where your bedchamber was—thankful you didn't share it with anyone else—so as soon as he pushed the side door of the brothel house open, he peeked around corners and stepped carefully through the house, careful to not wake anyone.

He crept up the wooden steps, pausing over creaking steps, and then finally came upon your bedchamber door and twisted the doorknob slowly, not wishing to startle you or wake you if you were asleep.

It was dim inside, safe for a single candle on your nightstand, and the bed was unmade and empty. Jon's eyebrows furrowed as he placed the basket aside, slipping off his cloak.

He didn't realize you were sitting at your desk until you called his name. You were dressed in a thin and short nightgown, the material silky and lined with white lace. He sat on your bed, "I'm glad you're awake."

"What are you doing here?" You wondered aloud, continuing to scribble in a small journal he realized was your diary. Many nights you'd spent writing in it silently, refusing to allow him to see it.

"I wanted to see you." You smiled faintly, closing the journal and turning to him. When he saw the cut on your forehead, his eyebrows furrowed and he popped up, fingers immediately reaching for your jaw as he examined the wound.

"Gods, what happened?" You shrugged him off of you, standing and rolling your eyes, "nothing serious. What's this?" You grabbed the basket, eyes downcast and avoiding his, your fingers picking through the contents of the basket.

Jon said nothing as he watched you, still wondering how you got the cut, but he decided to leave it for later and he lied on your bed, hand working on the laces of his boots, "just some stuff I found for you. Food, clothes, whatever you may need."

You grabbed one of the pastries and took a large bite from it, moaning low at the taste, "that was very sweet of you, Snow." You squeezed onto the bed beside him, your legs tangled together as your cheek rested against his chest, crumbs falling onto his clothes, but Jon didn't complain, just content in seeing you happy.

His fingers ran through the length of your hair, watching your full cheeks and fluttering eyelashes as you devoured the pastry, your skin delicate against his.

"Did someone hit you," he questioned quietly, careful to upset you. You said nothing as you rolled onto your back and stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling slowly, your hands crossed on your stomach.

"Or was it an accident? Did you just fall?" Jon's voice was soft and delicate, but you could hear the underlying anger as he struggled to keep himself leveled.

"Jon, why do you care about me?" You suddenly asked, sharp eyes angled towards him, and Jon swallowed roughly as he propped himself up on his elbow, hovering over you slightly.

"Because I like you. I think you're darling and interesting, very pretty and smart."

"So you pity me then?"

He scoffed, eyes rolling, "no, I like you, as I said."

You couldn't deny the genuine emotion in his voice, so you simply nodded, "it was Lawrence—just a simple argument. It's happened before—"

"—it's happened before? Are you serious? I know you're smart enough to know that isn't right! Just because you work for him doesn't mean he should put his hands on you."

Jon sat up and ran a rough hand through his hair. You leaned against his back, head on his shoulder, "I don't have a choice, Snow. I can't up and leave because I have no money. All of my coin goes to him in exchange for a bedchamber and food."

It was a concept Jon didn't really understand, so you stayed gentle.

Jon shook his head, "I can help you, you know? I have money, enough to get you your own place, I'll pay off Lawrence so he'll let you go."

Your arms wrapped around Jon's neck gently, your lips ghosting against his cheek, "I'm not your charity, Jon."

Jon shoved away from you, enough for you to fall backwards against the bed, "well you need to be someones! How can you let yourself stay here when I'm giving you an out? I don't understand!" His cheeks were red with indignation and you scoffed.

"Because I don't want your help, Jon! Why don't you get it? If I let you help me, for the rest of my life I'm in your debt, and before you know it, you're asking me for things I can't give."

Jon's face shattered into a deep hurt as he stared at you, eyes watering, but he quickly sucked the tears up as he slipped his feet into his shoes.

"Do you fucking know me at all? I'm not that sort of person! You don't owe me a single thing, and when will you understand that? My devotion for you completely outweighs whatever bullshit you think you owe me!"

Before you could stop him, Jon was already out of your bedchamber and a heavy cloud of regret was weighing over you.

You couldn't help the way you felt though. Your entire life you'd spent in debt to someone. The person who offered you a job, the person who was nice enough to give you a meal, the person who pitied you enough to offer you anything.

And Jon was no different. He was offering you a way out, but your stupid brain wasn't allowing you to think differently of him. The two of you had developed a very passionate relationship that you'd never had before, so you couldn't fathom that he was doing it because he—

Your brain exploded with realization as you gasped,"—he loves me."

⊹ ࣪ ˖

You hadn't seen Jon in a while, and although you missed him, you hadn't had anymore incidents with Lawrence. You were good at your job once more, which meant you were making enough coin to slip extra aside for yourself.

You didn't have enough to leave the brothel yet, but you did buy extra things for the women, enough so they could protect themselves if they needed to.

But not seeing Jon really affected you. You had no one to talk to or cry to, and you missed hearing about his life and struggles. You wished he'd just show up in the middle of the night like he usually did, but many nights of wishing had made you desperate, so you decided to sneak out yourself.

You took the same route you did to the other end of Winterfell, and once the castle came into view, you hoped you could miraculously find him like last time.

When you saw a figure standing near the stables, you exhaled with relief as you approached, your hand poised against his arm, "Jon, look, I want to apologize for what I said—"

He spun around and it wasn't Jon. This guy had similar facial features—a sharp jawline, soft eyes, and wavy brown hair, and when he saw you, his eyebrows furrowed, "Jon?"

You stepped away from him cautiously, but he didn't make any moves towards you as he closed the stable doors and chuckled at you, "I assume you're looking for Jon Snow?"

You hesitantly nodded, your hand inching towards your blade, but the man just crossed his arms as he leaned against the stable gates, "I didn't think you were this pretty. He described you like you were some goddess, and I just thought he was lying."

You hummed in confusion, deciding to humor him, "who are you to Jon?" You said it with polite curiosity, and he took it well, "his brother, Robb."

You nodded in understanding, approaching him and leaning against the stable gates too, your eyes staring at the looming castle, "what else did he say about me?"

You were afraid that it was just superficial things, like how pretty you were.

Robb clicked his tongue, "said you were very gentle and patient. Treated him well and didn't rush at all. Good aftercare too."

Your heart squeezed at his words and you sighed, shaking your head, "I think I love him." Both of you were shocked at your sudden vulnerability, but Robb just nodded, "he loves you too, of course. He thinks we don't know where he sneaks off too. I think he's afraid we're going to judge him."

You picked at your cloak, "well do you?" You knew you were just a whore, and plenty of people had gotten shit for falling in love with whores.

"A little at first. Everyone falls in love with—" he eyed you with a sheepish smile and you rolled your eyes, "with whores, I know."

He continued, "but it's different I think. And it's more than sex which is unique in a relationship that started the way yours did. Why have you come looking for him?"

You groaned and shook your head, "I said some mean things to him and he hasn't come back since. He wants to help me leave the brothel, but I don't know if he should."

Robb stayed silent for a time, just reveling in your words, then he spoke up, "Jon loves you so much we can physically see what you do to him. Our father doesn't know about you, but he suspects there's someone, you know? Jon loves hard, and even though he's been dealt a bad hand, he still manages to be a good person. So when I tell you he's doing this out of the kindness of his heart, I truly mean it. Not because he pities you or any bullshit like that."

After a much longer talk about everything Jon Snow, Robb snuck you inside the castle and to Jon's bedchamber. It was on the farthest side, away from all the Starks, but it was quiet and secluded.

"Good luck," Robb said with a grin, giving you a small thumbs up before he disappeared around the corner, and you inhaled deeply, knocking lightly on Jon's door.

It took a while for Jon to come to the door, but when he did, he froze when he saw you. He was wearing nothing but a pair of drawers, his chest tense with muscle and damp from a recent bath. His curly hair was damp and sticking to his skin, hands fisted against the door when he saw you.

His eyebrows were furrowed, as usual, lips squeezed tightly together, "you need to go home." He attempted to shut the door immediately after, but you stopped him and pushed your way inside, fingers grabbing at his biceps.

"Jon, just listen to me, please!" You begged, but he pushed your hands away, spinning around to move farther inside the room. He kicked shoes and pieces of clothing aside and sat on the bed, elbows against his knees while he glared sharply at you.

"What the fuck is your problem, huh? You just show up here in the middle of the night, like it's safe for you to walk through the streets! Well it's not, so maybe care about your safety for once?"

You scoffed at his words, slipping off your cloak and pulling a chair in front of him. "You can't even pretend you don't care about me." He glanced away at your words, jaw tight, fists clenched, eyes hard.

"Robb helped me get inside."

Jon grumbled, but said nothing.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry—sorry for refusing your help and not realizing that you were just trying to help me because you—you love me."

His head snapped to you and he gaped, eyebrows raised. Jon stood up and cursed underneath his breath, but he didn't deny it.

"And I love you too. So much that it makes me stupid and I wish that I'd knew it sooner. I want to leave the brothel and I want to be with you twenty-four-seven, Snow. Do you believe me?" Your voice was shy as you moved towards him, fingers running up his back gently.

Jon nodded his head softly and spun around, hands firm against your jaw as he kissed you. His leg was notched between yours, hand moving down your body to grab your waist and hold you close. You could feel the water in his hair dripping onto your skin, but you ignored it, arms locking around his neck.

His kisses trailed down your chin to your throat, where he muttered against you, "tomorrow afternoon I'll meet you at the shop near the brothel. I have enough coin to give to Lawrence and I'll get you a room at the inn."

You couldn't deny the bright smile on your face as Jon pulled away, lips raised into a gentle grin.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

You slipped inside the brothel, grateful that no one was awake. You were still giddy from being with Jon and meeting his brother. It made you excited for the future with Jon, but before you could even push the door all the way closed, you were grabbed.

Hands slipped into your hair, a grip hard and painful, and there Lawrence was, glaring at you, "where the fuck have you been? You can't just leave whenever you want to, you little slut! I own you, which means you have no control!"

He dragged you into the main room, and slammed you against the ground, delivering a sharp kick to your ribs. You let out a pained scream, but he was quick to shush you, "shut the fuck up before you wake the others!"

Lawrence pulled you down the hall, fingers bruising against your skin as he punched you in the face to quiet you more. "You won't see the light of day until you learn your lesson, understand?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Jon was waiting for you. His eyes examined every person that entered the building, expecting you to be walking inside, looking for him, but you weren't there. He had a pocket full of money, enough for a room at the inn and to pay off Lawrence, because he was determined the man wouldn't let you go easily.

Robb knew about the entire plan and was waiting for the two of you at a nearby inn, but things weren't going well because where were you?

Eventually Jon got fed up and he was walking out the door and down the street towards the brothel. He could see a few men inside, along with all the women you worked with, so he pushed the door open and expected you to be standing at the desk like you usually were, but it was someone else.

"Hello, I'm Janet, are you looking for someone specific?" The woman had kind eyes and a pretty smile, but Jon kept looking for you. Once he mentioned your name and asked where you were, Janet seemed to freeze.

She gnawed on her fingernail anxiously and stared at Jon, "she is not available at the moment, but I can offer you someone else?" Jon shook his head stiffly, "no, I want her, and her only. So where is she?"

Janet let out an annoyed sigh and grabbed Jon's hand, leading him farther into the building and up the creaking steps, "you're the guy from the other day aren't you? The one that's always stuck in a room with her?"

Jon didn't bother to answer her, pulling his arm from her grip as he sped up the steps towards your bedroom. When he pushed the doors open, and saw you, curled into a tight ball on your bed, he called your name, "you were supposed to meet me hours ago—"

When you heard Jon's voice you turned to look at him and he gasped, eyes wide, "what the fuck happened?" You had bruises all over your arms and a large one on your jaw. You were practically naked, save for you undergarments and Jon walked over to you, his fingers gentle against your skin.

"Lawrence will be back soon." Janet called behind Jon, face worried as she watched him dress you. You winced every time he touched you, "he caught me when I snuck back inside last night. He won't let me leave."

Jon scoffed, "I don't give a fuck! You're coming with me no matter what." He grabbed a stray bag from underneath your bed and started stuffing your belongings in it, all while Janet helped you stand.

"Where will you go?" She questioned and you shook your head, "away from here, and you should too."

After Jon was finished packing your things, he picked you up and exited the room while Janet grabbed your bag, "he;s just down the street, so you have to go quick!"

Jon nodded, ignoring the looks of the other women as he pushed open the brothel doors and carried you out. He walked the few minutes to the inn, where Robb was waiting in the entrance.

"Gods, what the fuck happened?" Jon placed you in the sit next to Robbs and shook his head, "Lawrence, the owner caught her sneaking back in last night."

Robb noted the heavy anger Jon had but said nothing, "are you going to go back?" Jon nodded, "just keep her safe and check her wounds, I don't know if they've been cleaned, and here's her bag."

Janet traveled back to the brothel with Jon, and when they entered, Lawrence was standing in the middle of the room, speaking to one of the women.

When he saw Jon, his eyebrows furrowed, but he didn't move quick enough to block the blow Jon delivered. He man was knocked onto his ass, moaning and nursing his jaw while the women screamed in horror.

"You think you can put your hands on people and have no consequences? Well you're wrong! If I see you putting your hands on any of these women again, this little business you're running will be shut down, understand?"

⊹ ࣪ ˖

"You know how to do makeup really well." Sansa said, sitting next to you at her vanity, her hands picking at your hair as she plaited it into different styles.

"Well, I've had a lot of practice, Sansa." You muttered, brushing rouge onto your lips carefully, your mouth hanging open in concentration. Arya was busy playing with a fake sword and swinging it back and forth against a chair.

Every time she'd strike it, she'd let out a violent scream so loud that your ears would ring, then Sansa was yell at her to stop and it was just a nasty argument until you begged them to stop.

You and Jon now shared a small cottage on the outskirts of Winterfell for the last few moons. He'd put together all of his saved money to buy it, while you started working as a seamstress apprentice at a nearby dress shop.

And once you began to adapt to your new lifestyle with Jon, he'd introduced you to his other siblings and father. Of course there was a bit of animosity between Catelyn and Jon, especially since you were a former brothel worker, but she seemed to warm up to you quick when she realized you were quite determined to a normal life.

You supported Jon through his struggles, got to know his family more, and often times kept in touch with your former co-workers. Many of them had also escaped the brothel and worked around Winterfell, still afraid of Lawrence's violence, but Robb and Jon returned a few more times to make sure he wasn't being violent.

"What are you three doing?" You heard Jon's voice and felt your heart flood with familiarity. When you spun around to greet him, he was already looking at you, a gentle grin on your face and you stood, "you look flustered."

His skin was red and hot to the touch as you pressed his cheek and he shrugged, "sparring with Theon and Robb." You rolled your eyes playfully, "as usual."

He poked your belly playfully, and you chuckled. Arya gagged at you and Jon's intimacy and you stuck your tongue out at her, while Sansa cooed, "I hope I'll be like the two of you one day!"

[kittyminion]

[kittyminion]

the simmer gamer!jinx x f!reader

-jinx makes you and her in the sims 4 -reader has curly hair, fluff, maybe ooc jinx (??), reader and jinx are in relationship

Jinx had been cooped up in her gaming room since the crack of dawn. You could hear the clanking of her fingernails against the keyboard and her muffled hums as she concentrated on whatever she was doing.

The door was cracked slightly, leaving everything to your imagination. You could see the soft hew of her lights as you snuck up to the door, your fingers gentle upon the nob as she pushed it open slowly, careful to not alert her.

Jinx's leg was propped up on her chair as she spun back and forth absentmindedly, red eyes locked on her PC screen with intent while she moved her mouse, one fingernail propped between her teeth. She bobbed her head to low music, large bunny headphones over her ears like fluffy earmuffs, which made you laugh slightly as you paused at the entrance.

Jinx wore nothing but a pair of short cotton shorts and a tanktop, while her hair was free from its braids and hanging over the back of the chair like a flowy blanket of azule.

You on the otherhand were covered in your robe. It was midday and time for lunch, but you wanted to consult with Jinx on what to eat, so that prompted your sneaking—not mentioning your curiosity.

You couldn't see her screen due to her figure in front of it, but you continued inside, noting Jinxs' constant figiting as she continued staring at her screen.

"Fuck! That doesn't look like her at all!" She suddenly shouted, which caused you to flinch and freeze, a few feet away from her. Jinx ran a fustrated hand through her hair and pounded her forehead against her desk.

When you saw her screen, and saw a Sim that looked almost exactly like you, you gasped. Jinx didn't hear you, but you couldn't help but be mesmerized by the Sim. She had your same curly mop of hair, your eyes and your face shape, she even wore your type of clothes.

Before you realized, Jinx sat back up and switched to another Sim, one that had her exact face. The long blue hair, and skinny figure, along with the powder-y tattoos on her arms.

Jinx pulled her headphones off and suddenly turned around. When she saw you, standing there staring, she flinched and let out a terrified scream, jumping a dozen feet in the air.

"You creep, what are you doing?" Jinx said with a stuttered laugh, as she stood and you tlited your head to get a glance at the screen and Jinx sighed, "just ignore that monstrosity."

You shushed her, plopping in her seat as you spun the Jinx Sim around, "she looks exactly like you! Not to mention me..." you turned towards her and chuckled at the blush upon her cheeks.

"You actually like it? I thought I got your porpotions wrong." You shook your head and stood, your hand landing on Jinx's hip lazily, "it's perfect, Jinx. How'd you even get your tattoos in the game?"

She didn't reply as she just stared at you, a little lopsided grin overcoming her features as she pressed a gentle kiss onto your lips, "fuck you're perfect."

[kittyminion]

i think dumbledore was growing weed in the forbidden forest the whole time and that’s why it was forbidden. that’s also why he acts the way he does.

[kittyminion]

this is the ultimate praise 🥹

Harry potter fic recs

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, professor.”

harry potter and the long-lost beach episode

letters beyond the pages

crush @wondernimbus

nsfw alphabet @karaswnee

untitled @murdrdocs

dreaming @cpidstarks

drunken confession @myjealouseyes

untitled @fear-is-truth

when it clicks @kittyminion

concussions and interruptions au @yasministration

what boyfriend? @^^^^

love language @rottenherbs

"on the down low" @birdiewriteslit

say my name and everything just stops @fear-less

11:49pm @milunalupin

failing potions @junezsq

dance practice @^^^^

compliments @^^^^

rainy day cuddles @hermioneslovely

raindrops & reckless hearts @^^^^

stolen kiss between classes @^^^^

heaven help a fool who falls in love @fushic0re

amortentia @hollowdeath

obsession @^^^^

boyfriend hcs @^^^^

whatever fits you best @thestargazerlily

when the sun stood still @graynvmbr

stormy thunderclouds @crescentofthegods

cherry lipstick @wqlfstqr

[kittyminion]

i'd rather you imperfect billy hargrove x f!reader

-ever since the first time you met billy hargrove, you've hated him, but after the two of you understand each other more, your relationship blooms into something one of a kind -(slight) enemies to lovers, violence, arguing, angst, fluff, characters are 18+, domestic abuse, aggression, cursing, flirting, slut shaming, poc reader, reader has curly hair -word count:3.3k

It was an unbelieably hot day, hot enough that you could practically feel your skin on fire. You were covered in sweat, every inch of your body dripping and red from the sun. You wore a simple tanktop and jean shorts, but you'd rather be naked just for a little bit of relief.

The only thing that kept your spirits up in the heat was the excitment of going to a pool party. You couldn't wait to submerge yourself in the chilly chlorine water and feel the relief of coolness.

Your keys were poised in your hand and your bag swung over your shoulder as you pulled your front door closed behind you, slapping the ground as you rushed to get in your car.

Just as you pulled the door open and threw your bag inside, you heard arguing next door. That was enough to get you to pause, your arm leaning against your cars roof before you flinched away at the burning sensation of the metal.

The neighbors next door had just moved in not even a week ago; a young girl, a teenage guy and their parents. They were chaotic as they moved in, and your parents had invited them over for dinner, but they never showed, which immediately created an opinion of them in the neighborhood.

You cared little. The guy—Billy Hargrove—was set to be enrolled at your school next year and he was the typical bad boy: old Mustang, greased up curly hair, leather jackets and the occasional cigarette notched between his lips as he sat in his car, blasting all sorts of music that your parents sneered at.

"What the fuck's your problem?" Billy spat as his father shoved him out the front door of their house, hands heavy against his shoulders. Neil Hargrove and his son were a carbon copy of each other, despite the obvious aging.

You knew noothing about Neil besides his occupation as a security guard at a nearby facility and the fact that he'd just recently re-married, which further created a negative view of him in your seemingly picture-perfect neighborhood.

"Get the fuck out of my house and don't come back!" Billy stumbled down the steps of the porch and skidded onto his hands and knees as he raised his middle finger at his father, "all because I told you to keep your fucking hands off me? What'll you do when I call the police on your dumbass, huh?" Billy stumbled to his feet and flinched when his father rammed towards him.

Neil punched Billy square in the jaw, knocking him to the side, and when Billy was thoroughly quiet, he scoffed, "fucking pussy." Neil slammed the door closed behind himself and you watched with shocked confusion as Billy pulled himself up once again, muttering things underneath his breath.

As soon as he was standing, he glanced in your direction and immediately locked eyes with you. His face skewed up with nasty contempt, "hey, what the fuck are you looking at?"

"I saw absolutely nothing." You called, beginning to step into your car, but Billy was stomping towards you, mussing his sore jaw.

"Fucking liar, I saw you! I bet you saw the entire thing." He crossed his arms while staring at you, eyes filing over your body like you were a piece of meat.

"Pervert!" You spat under your breath, slamming your car door closed, watching Billy flip you off as he crossed the property line and returned to his house. He hesistated to open the door, then he spun on his feet and got into his car then sped off.

⭒˚｡⋆

After that day, Billy Hargrove swore that you were his enemy, and he did everything he possibly could to make your life miserable. He'd blast loud music from his bedroom, throw pebbles at your windshield until little dents appeared, dump out your trash and laugh at you when your parents forced you to pick it up.

That's when you vowed that he was also your enemy.

On the nights where he'd decide to smoke, you'd make the excuse of watering the plants and accidentally spray him. This would illcit violent anger that included the two of you screaming back and forth.

When Billy broke your car window, his father forced him to give you the money to fix it, and from then on, he hated you.

You'd decided to go to the store to grab yourself some candy one day, when Billy coincedentally came out of his house at the same time as you.

He spotted you immediately as you got in your car, and he veered towards you and knocked against your window (the one he'd paid to fix), motioning for you to roll it down.

You almost didn't listen, feeling the irritation settle in your body as you sighed heavily, reaching down to crank the handle. Billy smiled falsley as he saw you, elbow resting against the door as he looked down at your outfit, "a bit slutty don't you think?"

You were wearing a simple pair of shorts and a tank top. You could admit the tanktop was a bit small, and your nipples were peaking through the fabric, but that wasn't a good enough excuse to justify his slut shaming.

Scoffing in response, you flipped him off, pulling your shirt down over your peaking belly as you started up your car and hooked on your seatbelt, "why are you always worried about what I'm wearing, Billy?" You muttered, glancing at him once more, your cheeks flushed from the heat as you squinted.

Billy moved to block the sun from your face, "I'm assuming you don't want unwanted attention from perverts, do you?"

Huffing once more, you shoved him out of your car, "you're the only pervert I see." Billy let out a violent chuckle, watching you pull away with a frown, which seemed to be his only goal.

⭒˚｡⋆

Billy Hargrove was fighting with his father again. It was violent and loud and angry, full of splattered blood on the concrete of their driveway, and the sound of screaming from inside the house.

Billy spent most of his nights in his car, the seat pulled as far back as it would go, the lights out and one of his legs lifted onto the dash as he bobbed his head to low music, being respectful for once in his life.

The first night you'd seen him in his car, you were coming home late from a party—a party that your parents had no idea you went to. So that meant sneaking back up to your second story window by the ladder leaning against the side of the house.

You were a bit tipsy and giggly, and when you passed by your mailbox and saw Billy sitting in his car, blankly watching you, you flinched, almost dropping to your knees before you pressed a heavy hand to your chest.

"What the fuck are you doing?" You spat quietly, moving around his car to the passenger side. You yanked on the doorhandle mutiple times before he finally cursed and unlocked it for you, snatching your purse from your awaiting grip and tossing it in the backseat.

"And what'll you do if I run to your parents and tell them what you've been up to?" He said it with a quiet scorn, barely any threat in his tone, and you rolled your eyes, leaning your seat back as you stared up through the skylight, watching stars glitter in the sky.

The dress you wore was short and tight, and when Billy glanced down at your bare legs he scoffed, "God, when will you fuckin' learn?"

You ignored him, turning on your side to face him properly.

"You can't walk around fucking naked, dumbass! Especially at night." It seemed he was trying to drill a lesson into you, but you were a teenage girl who knew no better and wanted to look cute—besides, you could wear anything you wanted.

"And when will you learn that it has nothing to do with what I'm wearing? I could go out in a hoodie and sweats and I'll still get catcalled. It doesn't matter."

At your words he quieted, sighed heavily as his red eyes rolled closed. "Get out of my car."

You didn't hesitate as you pushed open the door, knowing if you didn't listen the first time, he'd surely pop off—especially because of everything that had been happening this week.

You could feel Billy's gaze as you traveled to the side of your house, lifting yourself up the ladder carefully, still thinking of his tired eyes.

⭒˚｡⋆

Your father had hired Billy to change the oil in your car. He'd seen Billy working on his own car and decided he was a very skilled person, so the next morning, as you walked out your house to check the mail, there he was.

Billy was slung underneath it, chest sweaty and bare, a few meaningless tattoos spread across his abdomen while he wore a pair of stained jeans.

When you saw him you chuckled, "you should cover up, Billy." He rolled out from under your car and rolled his eyes, hands stained as he pulled a pan full of black oil out, "take your own advice."

You were about to swim in your pool so you wore a simple bikini top and jean shorts, your hair pulled into a messy bun while your skin glistened with sunblock.

"Instead of complaining about my outfits, how about you just compliment them?"

He groaned in response, standing up and easily towering over you, slipping beside you to grab a towel that was slung over the mailbox. Your face skewed up in mock disgust as his sweaty chest touched your arm, "you are disgusting."

Suddenly Billy grabbed you, his hands heavy against your waist as he pulled you close, lips against your cheek. You tried and failed to not smile, a scream erupting from your lips as you pushed him away and spun around to run.

"Don't fucking run now!" He shouted from behind you, following you through your gate to your backyard where the pool was. You stopped on the other side of the pool, watching Billy eye you from the opposite side.

"Don't you dare put those sweaty hands on me again." You said with a betraying laugh, moving around the pool as Billy chased you. When he got his hands on you once again, he threw you over his shoulder, laughing when you did, then he threw you in the pool.

You were airborne for a bit, then when you hit the surface, the chilly water surrounded you like a ice cold blanket. As you finally swam back up, you saw Billy near the edge, still chuckling, his soft, puppy eyes a bit red as they watered from his laughter.

"You asshole!" You climbed out the pool and tried to grab him, but he dodged you easily. When you broke off to grab your towel lying on a lounge chair, Billy let out a loud sigh as he sat on the nearby chair, elbows resting against his knees.

"I think you deserved it."

⭒˚｡⋆

Working as a waitress wasn't an easy job, and although you'd had it for a couple of years now, bad days still hit you as hard as they did in the beginning. You'd had a patch of thrown food on your chest, a hurt ego from being cursed and yelled at, and aching muscles from standing majority of the day.

So as soon as you got home, all you wanted to do was lie in your bed and cry the rest of the day away, but as soon as you saw Billy Hargrove step put of his house, keys spinning on his fingers, you already knew you were going to burst—rather in tears or in anger.

As soon as he saw you, he made his way over, watching you get out of your car and completely ignore him as you walked up your driveway. He followed you, "what the fucks your problem?"

When he noticed your parents weren't home, he followed you inside, slamming the door shut behind himself as he watched you slip off your shoes with no words.

"Hello?" He called as you walked up the stairs, following you shortly after when he realized you still weren't responding. He examined your room as he entered, closing the door again, and leaning against it while watching you with furrowed eyebrows.

When you climbed under your covers without another word, he scoffed, sitting at the edge of your bed, staring ahead at himself in your vanity mirror.

"Get out, Billy!" You suddenly shouted, voice muffled with sadness and tears, a whimper slurring your words at the end. When Billy realized you were crying, he hopped up and threw the covers off of you, ignoring your angry eyes as you fought to get the covers back.

Billy held them tight as you pulled and stood, eyes red and tears streaming down your face, your lips pulled into a pout as they shook to keep in a sob.

"Why the fuck are you even in my house anyway?" He ignored you, grip moved from the covers to your forearms as he grabbed you firmly and pulled you, shaking you, "why the fuck are you crying?"

He held you close by the arms, preventing you from moving away, the two of you pressed chest to chest. When you finally gave up and collasped into him, face buried in his shoulder, Billy froze a bit, body like a stiff board as you cried against him.

Your sobs racked through your body as you struggled to breath, and when Billy finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and held you close.

He said nothing the entire time, just stayed oddly silent, rubbing up and down your back while his other hand rested against your lower back.

"God, what the fuck am I doing?" He muttered to himself falling backwards against your bed, your head against his chest as your cries finally subsided and you fell into a deep sleep.

⭒˚｡⋆

When you woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty and groggy, Billy was still there, under you and snoring softly as he slept. You panicked when you realized he was there, wondering if your parents had come home, but either way, they didn't know he was there, so you pulled yourself up slowly, slipping from his tight grip.

And once you were finally free, you pulled your cover over his body, sort of confused, but also accepting.

You took a shower afterwards, realizing your parents weren't home and must've decided to take another day on their trip. You decided to wear a cotton pajama set with mini shorts that barely covered your ass and a long sleeve shirt with a lemon in the center.

When you returned to your room and saw Billy rubbing his eyes as he sat on the side of the bed, you paused in the doorway, curious on how he would react. He'd either curse you out and blame you, or accept it.

"Are you going home?" You questioned and Billy glanced up at you and sighed, his eyes red from sleep and soft as they usually were. He stood and stretched, shirt slipping up to reveal his apollos belt, the muscles there tight.

Billy didn't answer at first as he watched you silently, eyes running down your body, eyes rolling before he shook his head. "I'd rather not see my dickhead of a father right now." His voice was soft and still musky from sleep, his footsteps light as he walked over to you, hand poised against the doorframe as he looked down at you.

You nodded sharply, gaze moving away from his as he continued staring at you, his fingers gripping onto his waistband which revealed a small sliver of his hips.

"My parents won't be home 'till later tomorrow. At least midnight." Bily smirked at your tone, pushing past you gently, his hand brushing against your side, "I need some fuckin' food."

You chuckled softly, spinning around to follow him downstairs.

Billy began snacking on a handfull of grapes as he leaned against the sink, thinking to himself. You on the other hand made a sandwich and sat at your dining table, one of your legs pulled up on the chair so you could rest your chin against it.

When Billy saw you sitting, he joined you, his feet brushing yours, "why were you crying earlier?"

You scoffed at the thought of the reason, "shit day at work. People threw food at me, cursed at me—"

"—nothing I wouldn't do. And you've never cried." You laughed at his words with a nod, while Billy grabbed the crusts of your sandwich and stuffed them into his mouth.

"You've never made me cry."

"I'd never make you cry."

You scoffed playfully, "with all the things you've said to me, I'm surprised I haven't cried already."

Billy frowned at that, "sorry."

You accepted his apology with a nod, standing up to throw away your trash. When you returned to the dining room, Billy was gone, and before you noticed, he was directly behind you, arms slipping around your waist.

"I don't mean to hurt you."

"Liar." You grabbed his wrists, head against his shoulder.

"Fine, I don't want to mean to hurt your feelings anymore. I want to make you happy."

You hummed, "and what changed?"

Billy rocked back and forth with you, like there was music that only the two of you could hear. As his hands trailed down your thighs and he squeezed you, he answered, "when I realized you struggle. You aren't perfect, and perfect people make me sick."

Your eyes fluttered closed as Billy kissed your temple, his scent of cigarette smoke and cologne surrounding you, "no one's perfect."

⭒˚｡⋆

You were lounging in your backyard reading a book when you heard the back gate creak open. Billy had a towel wrapped around his neck, and pair of camoflauge swim shorts on.

"Here to use me for my pool?" You called, glancing up from your book, setting it aside afterwards as Billy sat on the bottom of your lounge chair.

"Yep, definetely here for the pool and not you." Billy scooted closer to you and eyed you as you moved closer to him, his fingers picking at your bikini bottoms.

"Cute." You wore a simple red and white polka dotted suit, the bottoms tied on near your hips while the top was a simple triangle top.

You hummed in response, standing up to put on sunblock, your ass practically in his face, and Billy shamelessly stared, eyes trailing up your back to your neck where he finally stood and grabbed the bottle, beginning to spray it on you.

"Are your parents home?" You shook your head and Billy practically jumped in happiness as he threw the sunblock aside and delivered a sharp slap to your ass that made you screech.

"Billy, you asshole!" He returned to grip your behind, hands firm against you while he grabbed your hand and tugged you closer, eyes heavy with arousal that made you blush and look away.

"Come on, look at me." He said with a drag, arms wrapping around you, lips pressed against your chin as you watched him, your arms against his shoulders.

Billy kissed rough and passionately, his lips pushing against yours like they've always belonged there, his hand reaching up to grip your hair and tugged you backwards so he could get a better angle.

His skin was soft and sticky against yours, your tongue poking out to dance with his as he groaned into the kiss, your hand tucked into the waistband of his pants.

When he bit at your lip, enough to make you moan out, he chuckled, arm hooked around your waist to support you. You pulled away and pressed your forehead to his chest, "why do you bite so hard?"

"I can bite harder if you'd like."

[kittyminion]

𓆗 theodore nott masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

𝜗ৎ forbidden forest, one-shot, fluff -theodore nott x f!reader 𝜗ৎ just a little to break the ice, one-shot, fluff, smut -theo nott x f!reader 𝜗ৎ practice makes perfect, request, fluff, smut -figure skater!theo nott x figure skater!girlfriend 𝜗ৎ picky girlfriend masterlist, fluff, hurt/no comfort -theo nott x picky!girlfriend 𝜗ৎ lucky charm, smut -quidditch player!theo nott x f!reader 𝜗ৎ love at first bite masterlist, smut, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, (unfinished) -vampire!theo nott x black!f!reader 𝜗ৎ done, one-shot, hurt/no comfort -cheater!theo nott x f!reader 𝜗ৎ realize you've lost, one-shot, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort -theo nott x f!reader x mean!matteo riddle

graphics by @dollywons

[kittyminion]

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑ golden trio masterlist ⚯ ͛❾¾

͛ harry potter ᢉ𐭩 when it clicks, one-shot, fluff

͛ ron weasley ᢉ𐭩 mr. i'll take your girl, one-shot, fluff, angst

͛ hermione granger (coming soon)

graphics by @dollywons

[kittyminion]

hers first

jaime lannister x f!reader x cersei lannister

-jaime lannister unintentionally falls for his sister's maid-of-honor, not realizing you're already taken -no jaime/cersei incest, characters are 18+, arguing, angst, fluff, smut, poc reader, reader has curly hair, cersei has no children, power imbalance (reader & cersei), au, hurt/comfort -word count:4.8k

"No, I will not have dinner with you, Ser Jaime." You were busy tidying up Queen Cercei's bedchamber, her dress spread out on her bed with all its adorning jewelry nearby, including her shoes, undergarments and hair accessories.

You didn't forget a single piece of clothing, and that's why Cersei loved you. You had an attention to detail that none of her other ladies-in-waiting had ever had, so it was naturally right that you became the backbone of the Queen so quickly.

You told the kitchens what she wanted for all her meals, you prepared her meetings with Ladies of other Houses, you wrote all her letters, and you were proficient in her signature. Other days you cared for the Queen like she was your babe; bathing and undressing her or even holding her close in bed when she cried about all the things that troubled her in life.

Some days you were simply her bestfriend. The two of you spoke deeply over cups of tea, played chess until the sun was low and dusk fell over her bedchamber.

You were Cersei Lannister's best friend, and everyone knew it, but you were still likened to her maid-of-honor. This is why you continuously rejected her brother. You had the right to court whoever you liked, but the guy that looked almost exactly liked the Queen seemed too coincidental.

He had the same golden hair as she did, the same hard eyes full of secrets, and on rare occasionals, the same sinister smile that made your belly rumble with caution, but your brain yearn nonetheless.

"And why not, my lady? Is it my hair? Too short for your liking, or perhaps my clothing?" Jaime walked further into Cersei's bedchamber, pushing the doors closed behind him as he picked around the room, humming at whatever he found interest in.

"You are my Queen's brother, Ser. It isn't right to have relations with you." You avoided his cocky smirk, continuing to make Cersei's bed, before you disappeared inside her vast closet, picking up her shift and throwing it down the laundering chute.

Jaime followed you inside, examining his sisters' dresses, "it matters not what is wrong, but rather what you desire the most. It is boring to be so good at your job all of the time, perhaps have a little fun with me."

You rolled your eyes, your back towards him as you spun around and attempted to leave the closet, but before you could, Jaime grabbed you, his chilly breath on your neck as he pulled you close by the waist.

Of course, moments like these had happened before and had been for the past few moons. It started after he'd intruded on you dressing yourself. Cersei had plans of going to a tounrey, so you were obligated to join her, so you got dressed in her bedchamber, which she had suggested so the two of you could make it on time.

He saw the glimpses of your breasts and the curves of your body, the smoothness of your skin and the softness of your belly. Once you'd caught him staring at you, you heated up with the worst blusg you'd ever had.

After that day, he'd flirt with you whenever he could—as long as his sister wasn't around. He'd compliment your hair, and impeccable style (which had all to do with the Queen), or he'd talk naughty, saying he wanted you in his bed from now till the end of time.

The first few moments were simply verbal, his gaze glued to your figure like flies on desserts, and you couldn't deny you didn't enjoy it. After spending so much time in the castle, your rarely had time to court, so when Jaime came easily, you had trouble denying his attention, which he seemed to notice.

Recently, his flirting had escalated physically. In the halls as you rushed to Cersei's chambers, he'd brush his fingers along your waist, complimenting your appearance, at social events, Jaime would slide impossibly close to you, lips against your ear to apologize for his lack of boundaries.

But in moments where the two of you were all alone, his fingers would roam, and you could rarely oppose him. "Don't you think you deserve a little pleasure, my lady?" Jaime wondered as he pulled you close, hands groping at your hips and trailing farther downwards until he was at your ass, lips pressed against your temple.

You were sweating, your chest heaving from the thoughts of the future, you stomach fluttering with want, need and the possiblity of bedding Jaime Lannister.

He had a large reputation, so large that you weren't surprised at his immense confidence or cockiness. He'd grown up being praised majority of his life just because of his name, and once he actually started building his legacy up on his own, that only meant more boosts on his ego.

You'd heard plenty maids and staff talk about his abilities in the bed, and that intrigued you. But the bigger question was did you want to listen to your heart or your brain more?

"I deserve any and all pleasure, Jaime. I work for your sister six days out of the week, with the seventh spent sleeping. I have little time for men, and you—" Jaime cut you off as he twisted the two of you around and slammed you against the wall nearest the door, hand gripping your thigh.

"Then why won't you just let me fuck you? I don't understand the constant rejection." He said it gruffly, voice full of some sort of negative emotion that you couldn't pick apart.

Jaime kissed your neck, lips latching onto your skin as he left red love bites all over. Your breath was heavy as you moaned, hand tangling into his golden hair without thought, your other hand sliding up his leg to tuck into his waistband—thankful he wasn't wearing armor.

"Because it won't just be simple fucking, Jaime, and you know it! You'll come back for more and more until I have nothing left to give you, then you'll throw me aside like a whore, which I'm surely not." Once you finally returned to your senses, you pushed him away, fixing your dress as you left the closet and traveled towards the door.

Jaime said nothing in return at your words because he knew you were right. Both of you were aware of his tendencies towards women, you were just one of the smarter ones who rejected him.

But little did he know, it was more than that.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The Queen had been invited to an embroidery session with a few of the noble wives of Kings Landing, and therefore so were you. You sat a little ways away from the Queen, embroidering your own pattern, a cup of tea on a table beside you while your mind ran a million miles per second.

All you could think of was Jaime Lannister. His eyes, his hair, the firmness of his arms—everything that made him so desireable. If it wasn't for his habits he would've surely had a wife by now.

Maybe someone in a noble position—Lannisters rarely went below themselves—someone who was friends with the Queen and fond of the Lannister as a whole. She would give him sons and daughters easily, take care of the household when he was away and faithfully protect their children.

She wouldn't complain when he stepped outside of his vows for pleasure, because she knew what he needed and she knew he'd always return to crawl into her arms to speak about things he'd never talk about with anyone else.

She'd be beautiful and desired across all of Westeros—Houses fighting for her honor and the possiblity of their families being united.

You weren't any of these things, besides one, and being friends with the Queen seemed to make everything a hundred times harder with Jaime. It was like the two of you were constantly sneaking around, and that made you feel guilty.

Just as you glanced up from your project, you locked eyes with the Queen. The two of you were in your own little tense world for a moment before she was dragged away by someone calling her name. Your rapidly beating heart calmed once she looked away, her sharp gaze leaving your skin hot.

You could barely concentrate after that. It was either Cersei pulling your mind or Jaime, and each were about different things. This left your embroidery looking jumbled and knotted, and your hands stinging from constant pricks.

When you poked yourself hard enough that you winced and a pearl of blood sprouted you stood, almost knocking your cup of tea off the table, but you were able to contain yourself as you left the room, finger popped into your mouth to stop the bleeding.

The thought of the Lannisters was making you ordinary and lacking, and neither of those things would help you keep your job. When you'd finally decided to reenter the room, the doors swung open and there she was, cradling a glass of red wine, her face skewed up with contempt as it usually was.

"What is your problem?" She whispered roughly, staring at you with that same disappointment that you hadn't gotten since your first day of work.

"I don't keep you around so you can fuck up and embarrass yourself! I keep you around because you're good at your job, and I don't have to complain like this."

You eyes were stuck to her neck where the diamond necklace you clasped on earlier laid. You could see her chin moving where she talked and the wine swish in her glass as she motioned towards your figure.

"Are you unwell?" She suddenly placed her hand against your forehead and pulled you close by the arm, her slender fingers chilly and firm against your skin.

As her green eyes bore into yours, expecting an answer, you shook your head stiffly, "no, Your Grace. I am well, I've just been struggling with—with the load of work lately."

You could barely look at her as she let go of your arm. And of course you were talking out of your ass, you just needed some excuse so she wouldn't be suspicious of you.

"Bullshit." Your eyes widened at her words as she suddenly grabbed you and tugged you down the hallway. "You've had no problems with the workload for the past twelve moons, and now you want to fucking complain?"

She continued dragging you down the hall, hand still holding the wine as she muttered words under her breath. The braids you'd plaited into her hair were still secured and free of frizz, which made you subtly proud—anything to distract yourself.

Suddenly she stopped, just simply froze in her tracks, grip still on you, her jaw clenched tightly as she stared at you, "are you with child?"

Your eyebrows furrowed and you opened your mouth to argue, but she just scoffed, a certain anger in her face that made you not want to contradict her.

"Your Grace, I'm not pregnant, nor am I sick!"

She sneered ahead of her, hands crossing disdainfully, but she kept silent. You were a bit surprised at her anger. Any normal employer wouldn't have much emotion as she did, if anything she would've simply congradulated you politely. You'd seen her do it with one of her maids.

"I believe you." She muttered, chest rising and falling with a deep breath as she continued to walk, "if you're exhausted with the work load, then I should cut your hours, huh?"

At your quick complaint, she raised a lone eyebrow at you, a silent smirk on her lips.

Once the two of you returned to her bedchamber, you started preparing her bath. It was the usual routine: heat water, pour it into the tub, then help her undress.

Cersei stood in her closet, hands free of the previous wine glass as she waited for you silently. She was a bit taller than you, so you needed a stool to loosen her hair, your fingers gentle, and agile as you brushed through her long strands, admiring the goldeness of them.

The Queen's eyes fluttered closed as she sighed, letting you twist her around so you could start undressing her. You fingers worked at the zipper of her dress. It plopped on the floor and she was left in her corset and petticoat. You placed the petticoat aside after untying it, watching the tension flow from her body as you fingers brushed against her skin delicately.

After Cersei was free of the corset and she could fully exhale, she stepped away from you as she usually did and started unbottoning her chemise without care. When she was left naked, the chemise spread around her feet like a halo, you inhaled deeply.

The Queen cared little if you saw her naked, it seemed she buzzed with energy when she did catch your eyes looking at her—which was often impossible considering you had to bathe her.

Her breasts were full, belly slim and waist angular. Collar bones sharp as she breathed deeply and wholeheartedly, the only sound in the room was the soft patter of her footsteps as she walked into the bathroom, then the dip as she stepped into the tub and exhaled from the warmth of the water.

You took a few seconds to throw her clothes into the chute, and a few extra to gather yourself. After all the times you've undressed her, you could rarely hide the rush of your heart. Your cheeks were flushed—so were hers—your limbs shaking, and words jumbled.

But that was in the beginning. Now you could hide your emotions easily and the only things that gave you away was your blush.

You kneeled next to the tub, fingers grabbing at the cloth as you applied soap, grabbing Cersei's hand gently and starting to bathe her.

"Who could possibly get you pregnant?" She muttered suddenly, causing you to pause then continue.

"Is there a man waiting for you at home?"

"I live here, Your Grace." She hummed in response, eyes fluttering closed as you lifted her leg.

"I've always thought you were—fond of women." You pursed your lips as you blushed, your cheeks warm to the touch, "I am fond of both."

At your words, Cersei opened her eyes, standing when you asked as you continued to wash her, her body covered in suds, skin flush from your firmness.

When you stood to meet her gaze, the cloth scrubbing at her shoulders and between her breasts, she opened her mouth to speak, "do you like seeing me naked?"

You continued washing her like she had never said anything, your fingers brushing over her nipples before you kneeled down to wring out the towel.

Your face was level with her cunt, but you kept your eyes on your hands. Cersei sat back down in the bath, "I'd appreciate an answer." The authority in her tone made you shiver as you glanced at her, fingers gripping at the edges of the tub.

"I do, Your Grace." Cersei was turnt on her side in the bath, hip exposed, the tips of her hair wet, "take off your clothes then." You gaped at her, eyes wide, jaw slack and Cersei ignored you expression, "quickly now before the water turns cold."

You stood, heart beating so hard it hurt, hair gathered into a curly bun at the nape of your neck. Your skin was slick from sweat and the steam of the water.

You removed your dress, flinging it away from you by your foot as it pooled at your feet. Once you were left in just your chemise, Cersei stood, grabbing your hips as she spun you, fingers dragging down your spine slowly, her lips pressed against your earlobe.

"I'd let you do anything to me, all you have to do is ask." She muttered, teeth biting at your earlobe. Once your chemise was gone, Cersei's hands slid between your legs, squeezing at your inner thighs while your head rested against her shoulder, moans of pleasure erupting from your lips.

She felt moist against you and reeked of lavender soap, but she stepped out of the tub, one hand groping at your breast and squeezing your nipple, "were you jealous earlier?" You wondered, spinning around, legs shaking when Cersei's fingers ran up the slit of your cunt.

"Of course I was jealous. To even think of someone else fucking you or seeing you naked is infuriating. I want you to be mine and mine alone."

Cersei guided you over to the bed until the backs of your knees collided with it and you fell backwards. She trailed kisses down your body, starting at your chest, tongue swirling against your nipples, her hair tickling at your skin.

Then she grabbed your legs and spread them, kisses heavy against your belly, her mouth colliding with your clit as she sucked on it heavily, a chuckle vibrating to your core when you moaned, "fuck—" you groaned, fingers scratching at her scalp, your hands fisting the base of her hair.

As your eyes fluttered open, you saw Cersei massaging her own cunt, fingers glistening with the evidence of her pleasure while her tongue pistened in and out of you steadily.

"Does that feel good?" She questioned, voice muffled, her finger teasing your entrance while you nodded, "don't stop, please!" You begged and Cersei obeyed, glancing up at you as your body began to tremble, your muscles tightened like taut rubberbands.

As your breath stuttered out of your body and you gathered Cersei's hair into a ponytail, you let out a long, violent moan that Cersei chuckled pleasingly at, her finger wrenching out of you as she continued flicking her tongue against you.

"I'm almost there!" You called out, eyes squeezed so tightly shut you saw blooms of light beneath your eyes. When your orgasm shot out of your body like a loosened arrow, Cersei removed her tongue from your cunt, sliding up your body as she smoothed your hair back and watched you explode.

"Gods, you're fucking beautiful." She muttered, smirking at you, her fingers still buried in her cunt. When you noticed, you rose and pushed her gently onto the bed, "your turn?"

She nodded with eager agreement, eyes fluttering closed when you crossed your legs with hers, clit pressing against hers with beautiful pressure that made the both of you stutter out moans.

As you rocked your body against hers, hand poised on her breast, Cersei caught the streaming sunlight perfectly and looked like just the goddess you'd ever thought she was.

Her skin was shining, hair glistening like liquid gold, lips curled into a moan as her eyes rolled closed and she gripped your waist. It was the best feeling to make the Queen, say she loved you in bed.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Things had been different now. A good different. Being with Cersei majority of the time made sneaking kisses, gropes, and dirty words all the more simple. The two of you held each other during the late hours of the night, sat curled in eachothers arms in the tub, both sudsy and speaking of all things lovers would.

She made you feel the most pleasure you ever had in your life and you did too, feeling your heart burst when she shook with pleasure muttering words lovers did in bed.

When you did her hair, she'd melt in your arms. Other nights you were the one being treated like a Queen. She'd undress you, fingers heavy against your skin, then she'd bathe you throughly adding extra roaming hands to make you drunk.

She forewent meetings with other Ladies just to spend more time with you, and other days she'd bend you over in shadowed alcoves just so she could taste you.

Not only did you like the attention and company, but you had more advantages being the Queen's maid-of-honor. People treated you like you were worth something, not just a lowly employee of the royal family.

You were as much a Queen as she was, but you always knew it would never be more than a secret relationship with her. Never could she kiss you in public, or hold you close. She couldn't brag about you to other noble women or claim her love for you publicly.

That's what hurt the most.

"You can't just do that in public!" She spat angrily, ripping accessories from her hair and tossing them onto the table without thought.

"I can't simply hold your hand? Gods, women hold hands in public all the time. People don't suspect us at all, Cersei. If they think anything, it's that I'm your closest friend."

She ignored you, eyebrow cocked up like they were when she was annoyed.

You intercepted her as she tried to go into the closet and you grabbed her hands, "you're just paranoid. Besides, everyone already thinks you and Robert have the best relationship possible. All they're waiting on is kids."

She scoffed, pushing past you, "which you forget I have to deliver. I can't keep avoiding his advances. He'll be suspicious, if he already isn't."

"You act as if you want to have his children."

She stayed silent and your eyebrows furrowed, "are you serious?"

Cersei turned around and suddenly kissed you. Her hands were heavy against your waist, dress preventing her from getting closer, "I love you, but I have duties."

Your eyes were clouded with tears as you kissed her once more and moved away, silently beginning to run her bath. When she realized you were done talking, she didn't say much more either, besides hold you close in bed that night before you slipped away.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Jaime Lannister knew something was going on, but he didn't know what. His sister was impossibly quiet these days, keeping busy with the other noble woman and staying by her husbands side when she could.

That was the weirdest part. He knew Cersei disliked her husband. It was one of the many reasons she still wasn't pregnant, not to mention her rants about how disloyal he was.

You were different too. You wholeheartedly rejected his advances, much more firmly than you used to. He couldn't even touch you these days, even if it was simple.

You were quiet and attentive to your work, more animated like you were the perfect little maid-of-honor with no personality. At least you used to bicker with him, now all you did was greet and retreat.

So, he decided that something was wrong and it obviously had something to do with the two of you.

"She different now, more quiet, less interesting." He said to his sister as the two of them sat in her bedchambers. Today was your day off and you were no where to be found. You used to stick around in the castle, but recently, Jaime had been seeing you leave the Red Keep.

"I care little for what my maid-of-honor is doing." Cersei muttered, sipping her wine absentmindedly—which she'd been doing a lot more recently.

Jaime rolled his eyes at his sister, "that woman was the closest thing you had to a damn friend! And now suddenly you don't care about her? Gods, what is going on?" He said to himself, standing up violently, and tucking his sword back in its sheath on his armor.

So that's what led Jaime to follow you out of the Red Keep on your day off. You were on foot, holding a small bag, your body tense with exhaustion while your face was downturned.

Jaime kept a ways away from you, careful to not stir up any suspicioun with the townsfolk of King Landing. He peeked around alley ways to keep an eye on you, traded his shining armor for a dirty cloak—the hood covering his face.

He was surprised at your lack of communication with the people. He never had any reason to wonder where you'd come from, but you surely weren't from the South. You were too cautious, too closed off.

Jaime was surprised when you'd turnt into a brothel. His face was ridden with confusion as he stopped at the entrance watching you speak to the owner before the man referred you to a woman.

She wore nothing but a simple shear dress, her breasts small but peaking against the fabric. When you grabbed her hand, a flirty smile on your face, Jaime chuckled to himself, feeling his own trousers tightened as he watched you tug the woman into a private room.

He didn't want to leave the brothel, so instead Jaime sat on a nearby chaise and simple watched. He watched the numerous men come in and out of the airy building, and the volumptious women throw themselves at whoever entered.

The building was oddly silent for what it was, but he assumed it was due to the juxtaposing loudness in the streets. Hours later when you finally emerged from the room, your face sweaty and red, and your partner huffing like she'd just ran a marathon, Jaime stood up, removing his hood.

The two of you locked gazes immediately, and he saw you freeze before you attempted to leave the brothel, but Jaime was quick to grab your arm and pull you against him.

You attempted to escape, but he held you close, "who would've known you fancied women too?" He said with a soft smirk, lips pressed against your ear as the two of you moved out of the brothel, drowning in a thick crowd of people that had you both pressed against each other tightly.

You rolled your eyes in response, "you should call yourself a stalker, Ser." You did little to fight off his grip as he guided you farther into Kings Landing, picking up fruit from carts along the way, using his face as payment which made you scoff, but accept his offering nonetheless.

"What is happening between you and my sister?" He questioned, sitting on a fountain bench as he pushed into a courtyard, taking a large bite from a green apple, the juices slipping down his chin before he wiped it away thoughtlessly.

You sat beside him, close enough that your thighs touched, your own apple sitting in your lap while you watched a couple of children chase each other nearby.

The thought of Cersei made you melancholic, full of desire for her but also dread at the thought of not being able to actually be with her. You could imagine what a perfect life with her would look like: a small cottage, far away from Kings Landing with no sort of attachments to Robert Baratheon.

You and Cersei could do anything you wanted, with no fears of consequences.

Jaime suddenly knudged you, "hello? You haven't answered." You ignored his words, letting out a loud sigh that made him scoff and roll his eyes.

"Why aren't you married, Jaime?" That caught him off guard as he scoffed at you, turning forward as he stood and starting pacing in front of you, his arms crossed loosely.

"Is it really any of your business? Can I not simply have fun with no strings attached?"

You watched him with raised eyebrows, a small smirk on your lips, "you are way above average marrying age, a decade above actually."

He said nothing as he sat, just huffed and watched the children play. Then finally he turned to you again, "tell me what's happening. She isn't herself."

You were surprised at his heartfelt face; the glistening of his blue eyes a that gods forsaken frown that made you rethink how much he actually cared about other people besides himself.

Jaime placed a hand on your thigh and squeezed it firmly, "she's my twin sister, it's my right to know what's the matter with her."

You hadn't realized the trick until you were done explaining. Jaime laughed, "my sister is in love with you. What a fool." You felt offended at his words, assuming it came from a place of hate, then he let out a sigh and shook his head, "she's a fucking queen. Never in a million years could she be with a woman."

When Jaime saw your rising tears, his grin fell and he grabbed your hands, arms wrapping around you firmly as you cried into his chest. He massaged your scalp and muttered words of comfort in your ear, his scent engulfing you like a breeze of fresh air.

When you finally stopped and wiped your tears, you didn't move away from him, exhaling deeply as you glanced up. Jaime eyes fluttered down to your lips, his hands moving down to your lower back as he squeezed you.

You leaned into him first, your lips delicate against his, eyes squeezed tightly shut while Jaime groaned into the kiss, slipping you onto his lap while your tongues tangled together passionately.

You didn't feel any of the fireworks that you'd felt with Cersei, but you couldn't deny the flutter in your stomach as he pulled you impossibly closer, "I'm just a distraction."

[kittyminion]

friends first robb stark x f!reader

-you are robb's new wife -fluff, arranged marriage, short and sweet

You hadn’t known him for long, just knew he’d needed a wife and heir to secure his title as King of the North. Robb Stark had made a large impression on the North, so that meant men were rushing to claim their loyalties to him.  

Your father happened to be ahead of every other men, and next thing you knew, you were walking down the aisle and binding your soul to Robbs from now to eternity. 

Robb kissed you delicately that day, his eyes staring deep into yours with a certain hardness full of duty. It hurt you to know he thought of you that way, for all your life you’d wanted love, but you couldn’t help but feel the same way for him.  

He was just a Stark man and now that you were his wife, you were responsible for giving him sons.  

As the two of you sat in the banquet hall watching the men and women from your Houses celebrate your ties, you said nothing to him. You ate your meat, drank your mead and flinched everytime Robb accidentally brushed your arm or asked you to pass him something. 

He was loud and tipsy that night, internally begging to be anywhere but here, but his mother kept an eye on him down the table, urging him to quiet down or talk to you with a simple blink of her eyes.  

She complimented your curly hair and your wedding gown, calmed your thoughts on all things marriage while keeping a far enough distance that you wondered if she even liked you for her son.  

You were a quiet woman, rarely talking unless you needed to. You read in your free time and made snarky jokes that people didn’t understand, which made you a bit of an outcast as a child.  

When you were a teenager you kept to yourself, finding small hideouts in the forest and staying there for hours at a time until your father wondered where you’d gone and sent a search party out looking for you.  

Of course, you weren’t the first choice out of your sisters, but you were pretty, rarely complained, and you’d actually liked Robb for what he stood up for. 

“Wife?” Robb suddenly turned to you, his eyes red and low, fingers outstretched towards yours and you pursed your lips and ignored the cheering around you. You’d dreaded the bedding ceremony since the first day you’d learned you would be married, but you knew you couldn’t avoid it.  

Allowing Robb to pull you up, he ushered you out of the banquet hall, his attention loosely on you while he accepted passing drinks from his friends.  

Once the two of you were finally alone in Robb’s bedchambers you sat in an armchair near the window and watched Robb collapse on his bed, lazily removing his shoes while he stared at the silver band on his ring finger.  

He muttered words you couldn’t hear then finally glanced over at you, “you haven’t spoken much today. And the wedding vows don’t count.” 

You sighed and shook your head, “I think you’ve been avoiding me this entire night. Why bother speaking to someone who clearly doesn’t want to be bothered.” Robb sat up and unbuttoned his cloak, tossing it across the room soon after.  

“Who said I didn’t want to be bothered?” Robb stood and came over to you, fingers reaching up to remove his shirt.  

You stood as well, reaching behind yourself to remove your dress, revealing your undergarments. When you didn’t answer Robb's question, he grabbed your wrists and started helping you undress.  

“You are a stranger to me. I have to get to know you.” When your undergarments fell and you were left naked, Robb kept his eyes on yours as he pulled off the rest of his clothing.  

The room was filled with warm candle light as Robb tugged you over to the bed. “Let us become friends.” 

𐙚 

Through all your talking, you didn’t realize the sun had come up until there was knocking on the door. Robb stumbled out of bed, mussing up his curly hair and throwing on a pair of pants as he walked over to the door and pulled it open.  

When the chamber maid saw you, naked, lying in bed and Robbs bare chest, she blushed, “I’ve come to check for bleeding.”  

Robb glanced over at you, a light smirk on his lips when you sunk into the bed, “another maid came to check late last night, she’s already laundered the bedding.” The maid nodded sporadically and dipped into a short curtesy, “thank you, Your Grace.” 

As soon as the door shut and Robb turned to you, the both of you chuckled and he slipped back into bed next to you, “I shall get ready soon, I have to meet with a few banner men.” You nodded, flipping onto your back and staring up at the ceiling, “they’ll get suspicious if we don’t, Robb.” 

Robb huffed, fingers reaching up to twirl a piece of your hair, “we’ll have dinner tonight, just the two of us, in the courtyard?” 

After Robb got dressed and left the bedchambers, your maid came to pour you a hot bath and dress you. The dress she prepared was heavy, padded against the cold Northern weather and hard to walk in, but you walked around the castle Robbs men were in temporarily, read the books in the dilapidated library, and cross stitched with Catelyn.  

“Is my son treating you well?” She questioned delicately, eyes focused on her needlework, and you nodded slowly, “yes, he is very gentle.” Catelyn smiled, “he’s always been that way. My other children though...,” her humorous laughter rang out and you chuckled as well.  

[kittyminion]

mr. i'll take your girl ron weasley x f!reader

-ron weasley has liked you for as long as he's been at hogwarts, and when he gets the chance to free you from your toxic relationship with draco malfoy, he gladly takes his place by your side -characters are 18+, fluff, angst, violence, toxic relationship, toxic!draco malfoy, flirting, comfort, verbal abuse, black reader, reader has curly hair, physical abuse, manhandling, gryffindor!reader -word count: 3.2k

Ron Weasley didn't think Draco Malfoy deserved you.

Plenty of times throughout your relationship Ron saw you cry. He saw you and Draco tucked around corners shouting at each other, tears streaming down your face as you tried to plead innocence for whatever Draco had accused you of.

He'd seen the rough manhandling Draco used with you, grabbing you just a bit too hard when Draco caught you outside the Hogwarts grounds without him. Or the bruise marks on your arms from rough shoving, your skin blooming with plum that you hid behind long sleeves.

Other days, Ron saw the two of you laughing together as if he didn't just spend the last few days spreading disgusting rumors about you that made him want to rip out his eardrums.

When Ron brought these things up to Harry and Hermione, neither of them had the same want to help you as he did. "You shouldn't get involved, Ron. It's clear they are too intertwined to break up now," Hermione said with a lazy glance at Ron, her legs tucked under her on the love seat of the Gryffindor common room.

Harry was busy staring at the Mauraders map, planning some sort of conquest to Snape's classroom later tonight that included stealing things. "Hermione's right, Ron. Besides, have you ever had a full conversation with her before?"

Ron rolled his eyes with a huff, "of course I fucking have!"

It was true. The two of you shared majority of your classes together (like most people did in the same year), but he was lucky enough to sit beside you in Charms and Herbology class. Most of these sessions included sharing notes, asking inquiries about upcoming assignments and the occasional joking, which resulted in repremands from professors.

That's when Ron realized he'd liked you. It was a few months before you became involved with Draco, but he was a bit too shy and in his own head to ask you out, so the two of you just had flirtatious eye contact underlying with bashfulness and the occasional brush of fingers.

"Did you finish this paper?" Ron had questioned one day, leaning towards you, his ginger hair brushing the tips of his ears and covering the tops of his eyebrows.

You hummed in response, busy taking your quill out of your bag. Once you set it on the table, you turned to him, a little smile on your face when you caught Ron staring at you, but you didn't complain.

"Finished it late last night actually. I feel like it's a bit thrown together though." You pushed your curly hair out of your eyes and grabbed Ron's paper from his folder, lifting it so your eyes could skim over its contents.

Ron's knee was brushing yours, his leg stretched out into your area of the desk, but you didn't seem to mind as you nodded absentmindedly, resting the paper against your lips as you eyed him playfully, "Ron, this is really good."

The two of you chuckled and you handed the paper back to him, your shoulder knocking into his as you turned foreward, handing him your paper so he could read it.

After he complimented your paper, the two of you were silent as you listened to Professor Flitwick, but before Ron knew it, you were scooting closer to him, your thighs touching as your foreheads touched haphhazardly, "there's a spider near Lavender's shoe."

Ron looked where you were pointing, his arms leaning against the desk, "Merlin, she's going to freak out."

You nodded eagerly with a small chuckle, "I think Luna will notice first, though. She'll pick it up without a word and slip it out the open window."

"Hm, you're pretty observant, aren't you?" Ron turned towards you, his blue eyes examining your face like you were the most fascinating specimen known to man. When his gaze slipped down to your lips, your eyes widened as your cheeks reddened as you turned away, your hair shoved into his face causing him to get a whiff of your shampoo.

He subconsiously inhaled deeply, but you turned around again and inhaled heavily, avoiding his eyes, but not making a move to scoot away. Your face was placcid as you watched the Professor, ignoring Ron's curious eyes on you, but once he looked away, you ripped a piece of parchment out of your notebook and started scribbling on it quickly.

When your fingers slipped into Ron's pocket, he said nothing, just smirked to himself, heart hammering, and skin on fire. Once he left that class that day and looked at the note, he jumped up and down like a fool, excited to meet you at the library on Friday at seven p.m.

As that day rolled around and he sat at a small table in the library, his eyes on the door watching for you, he was wholeheartedly excited. He'd told Hermione and Harry of the interaction and at the time they were both happy for him, knowing you as a nice, smart girl who plenty of people had good things to say about.

When Ron saw you walk into the library, your eyes searching, he was about to stand up to get your attention, but before he could, Draco Malfoy suddenly appeared, pushing through the doors and running straight into you.

All your belonings clattered to the ground and Draco gave you a simple scoff and continued walking, causing you to call him a "wanker." When Draco froze and spun around, Ron started making his way over, expecting a scene, but he was surprised as Draco just laughed, saying something to you, which made you blush and roll your eyes at him.

It seemed you'd completely forgotten about Ron and you and Draco engulfed into a long, bickering sort of conversation that ended with the two of you leaving and never coming back.

That was the start of emotional torture for Ron.

｡𖦹°‧

Ron hadn't spoke many words to you in the past few weeks. He'd completely pulled away from you, rarely responding when you tried to start up conversation in Charms. But it seemed like Draco was always lingering nearby these days.

If the two of you spoke, Draco would suddenly appear, sliding next to you and distracting you, his eyes sneering at Ron. So Ron stopped trying. He chose a different partner in Charms class, started to ingore you entirely, even if the lingering glances didn't stop.

It hurt his heart to see your face of confusion and hurt when you saw him, your mouth opening to speak, but Ron would walk away too quickly for you to say anything other than a Ron?, some days, it was just the two of you late at night in the common room.

Ron was sitting at a small table attempting to study, while you'd just entered, bundled up in a fluffy blanket, your hair contained in a leopard print bonnet while you wore glasses, your skin bare of any makeup and slightly red from manipulation.

When you saw Ron, you opened your mouth to apologize, about to retreat, but he shook his head, "no, you stay, it's fine." You listened, sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, rubbing your hands absentmindedly.

Ron wanted to leave, especially as the room became tense and uncomfortable, but he stayed glued to his seat, reading the same sentence over and over in his textbook. When he finally sighed and slammed the book closed, you turned back to glance at him curiously, "Ron, how have you been?"

Ron sighed, knowing he couldn't avoid you forever as he stood and sat beside you, arm leaning against the rest on the far side of you. "Good enough as I can be, despite all the fucking quizzes they've been giving us recently."

You let out a small chuckle, nodding, you legs pulled up to your chest while you tapped against your knees, "I know Draco and I are together, but you and I can still—"

"—still flirt with each other? Absolutely not. Draco would surely kill me if he knew his girlfriend was cheating with a Weasley of all people." Your eyebrows furrowed as you shook your head, "that's not what I was going to say, Ronald."

His heart spiked at the use of his full name, but he stayed still nonetheless, running a hand through his hair.

"You and I can still be friends. A few months ago when I invited you to the library, I didn't mean to stand you up, it wasn't my intention at all, but it just happened and I'm sorry."

"It seemed Draco got to you first that day, huh?" You ignored Ron's bitterness with a sigh, "I don't want this to affect us in class. We should still be able to partner up, like we used to."

Ron rolled his eyes, "you know what's crazy? The fact that you stood me up for Draco Malfoy! Do you understand how humiliting that is? He's a no good bastard!"

"Merlin, Ron what the hell is your problem today? I didn't ask your opinion on my relationship, nor do I care what you think about my boyfriend!" You stood up suddenly, huffing, "maybe if you stop being so insecure about yourself, you'll realize there's plenty of pretty girls who like you!"

Ron had never seen you so angry before—not at him at least—but after that, you stopped trying as hard as you did. You didn't look, speak or mention him at all anymore, to the point where Hermione and Harry started wondering what had happened.

Ron was too embarrassed to tell them, so he kept quiet. He continued to watch you be somewhat happy with Draco, but once things started going downhill, he wanted to get involved, but he didn't know how.

｡𖦹°‧

The first big argument happened six months into you and Draco's relationship. You were in the Great Hall, sitting with Lavender, Luna and Seamus, you hand against the boy's thigh absentmindedly as the three of you laughed about the latest Quidditch game.

Draco was eyeing you from the Slytherin table, eyes blazing with anger as he spoke quietly to his friends. Before anyone could stop him, Draco had shot out his seat and was stomping towards you, and then Seamus was moaning and groaning on the floor, hands clutching his leaking nose.

It happened so fast that barely anyone reacted before all the Professors had shot out of their seats and started restraining Draco from Seamus, who was the victim of blind attacks that he could barely stop.

You were screaming for Draco to stop, hands pulling at his body, but he suddenly shot out an elbow and knocked you onto your ass so hard that everyone gasped.

Ron was the first one at your side then, his hand against your split cheek as you cried, barely able to breath while Hermione helped Ron pull you onto your feet and out of the Great Hall.

"What the fuck was that?" Harry said following the three of you as you made your way towards the infirmary, still hearing Draco raging in the Great Hall.

"He just attacked Seamus for no reason!" Hermione said with wide eyes, busy pulling your hair out of your face and wiping your tears, while Ron pressed a napkin against your cheek to stop the bleeding.

"Well he's lost his fucking mind," Ron muttered, pushing open the infirmary doors, and you stayed quiet, trying to collect your barrings because you were still dizzy and hurting.

A week or two after the incident, rumors had started spreading that Draco was simply jealous over your friendship with Seamus and he took his anger out in the form of violence.

You didn't speak to Draco for a while, and it seemed your entirely personality had changed. Of course Ron tried to get more information about it all from Lavender, Luna and your other friends, but they kept your secrets locked up tightly.

｡𖦹°‧

It was a normal Friday when everything changed. Ron had just finished serving detention for something stupid Fred and George had dragged him into when he heard faint arguing.

Ron threw his bag over his shoulder, knawing at his finger nails absentmindedly as he continued on his way towards Gryffindor Tower, wanting to go with Harry and Hermione to Hogsmeade for butter beer, his eyes scanning the area for the arguing.

As it became louder and louder as he approached, Ron froze, footfalls light as he came up on a secret alcove in a dark corner near a pair of stairs. Once he recognized you and Draco's voice, he paused, deciding to listen in before he intervened.

"You think you're so fucking smart don't you? Think you can sneak around behind my back and fuck guys left and right, huh?"

Your voice was shaking as you spoke up, "I'm not fucking anyone but you Draco and you know it. I barely speak to any other guys because you'll beat them up if I do!"

Draco scoffed and you gasped in suprise as Draco seemingly grabbed you, "I can smell them on you! You can't lie to get out of everything."

It sounded like you were choking, like you couldn't breath.

Ron shot out from his hiding spot and immediatly grabbed Draco, wand poised at his face as he shoved him against the wall. Your breath rushed into your lungs as Draco was pulled away, "Ron," you said with relief.

"You think you can put your fucking hands on her, Malfoy? Well think again, and if you touch her again, I will kill you. Understand?" That was the thing about Draco, he could put up this facade of being strong and fearless, but as soon as someone bigger than him put him into his place, he was like a scared little puppy.

Draco nodded quickly, face horrified and red and Ron pushed away from him and grabbed your hand gently, leading you out of the alcove.

｡𖦹°‧

"How long has he been speaking to you like that?" Ron questioned, sitting in the library with you that night, a bunch of candy on the table that Fred and George provided when they heard what had happened.

"A month or two now. At first it was little things, like accusing me of leaving my dormitory at night, then he'd assume I was cheating on him. That's when he started being too rough."

Ron nodded stiffly, shoving a dragon claw candy in his mouth, one of his legs propped ontop of the table, his eyes low and hateful as he stared blankly.

"He'd grab me too hard, hug me too hard, and when we would... be intimate," you covered your face with embarrassment, "he was too rough."

It seemed like Ron was shaking with anger as he groaned out a sigh, throwing another dragon claw wrapper onto the table and shoving the candy into his mouth.

His hair had grown out now, just barely touching his shoulders. Ron ran his fingers through it with fustration, his foot landing on the ground as he turned to you.

"Why didn't you say anything?" He grabbed your hands and squeezed them firmly and you shrugged, "I was scared! What if he hurt my friends or blackmailed me? I didn't know what to do."

"You could've told me!" Ron wished you'd trusted him enough to tell him because he could've stopped it as soon as it started, but the truth was it was his own fault. He'd harmed your relationship with his insecurity and selfishness.

｡𖦹°‧

For the next few weeks after that, you stuck to your friends' sides, not straying to far when you weren't in class. All your friends made a large effort to keep you far from Draco, steering clear of him in the castle whenever they could, and when they couldn't, Draco didn't bother you, Ron's words lingering in the back of his mind.

You spent much more time with Ron, the two of you studying together, sitting in Charms together, or simply hanging out whenever you could.

You were your old self now, laughing and joking with him like the past two years had never happened. Of course Ron wanted to give you space, for Merlin's sake you'd just got out of an abusive relationship, but it seemed you didn't want that.

You were glued to his side. Maybe it was because he was the one that was there to save you at the end of it all, but he didn't complain. Besides, you were a pretty girl with an even prettier personality.

After another few months went by and Christmas break came, the two of you traded letters back and forth the entire time, sharing all of your stories of what you were doing.

So when the break was over, it was obvious things were changed.

The first time Ron seen you after the term had started was in the courtyard. You'd just stepped through the gates of Hogwarts, your arm linked with Luna's as the two of you rambled about things Ron didn't care to wonder about.

"Merlin, Ronald, this is ridiculous!" Hermione spat, her hands raising to her forehead as she shook her head, "just speak to her! I'm sure she'll come looking for you anyways."

Harry nodded in agreement, a smirk on his lips as he shoved his friend, "she definetely likes you."

Ron raised his eyebrow at his best friend, crossing his arms stubbornly, "and how do you know that?"

Harry was quiet for a second, "because I read the letters." Harry was quick to run away afterwards and Ron didn't bother to chase him, because he could feel a heavy gaze on his face, so when he turned back in your direction and saw you staring, he flinched, his eyes wide.

Hermione laughed, "go talk to her you, tosser."

He finally listened, walking towards you as Luna said goodbye to you and walked away. He was surprised at your eager face, a soft smile on your lips and the two of you finally met.

When you pulled him into a hug, Ron hummed to himself in surprise, returning it easily, his hands wrapped around you waist loosely before you pulled away, delivering a swift kiss to his cheek in the process.

"How have you been, Ron?" Of course you already knew the answer, because you'd been speaking to him nonstop, but he answered nonetheless, "nothing much. I've been the butt of my brothers' pranks, which sucks."

You chuckled, your arm linked through his as the two of you walked inside the castle, him steadying you as you almost slipped on the icy concrete in the courtyard.

"I've missed you." You muttered, stopping in your tracks to turn to him and Ron grinned wolfishly, "I missed you too." The two of you stared at each other then laughed.

"Do you want to walk to class with me on Monday?" Ron wondered quietly, his long hair impeding on his eyes, and you reached up with a nod, pushing his hair out of his face, lifting onto your tiptoes.

Before you knew it, Ron had pulled you close by your waist and kissed you. He had a comforting sort of gentleness to him, his lips locking onto yours softly as you pressed your fingers to his jaw, chuckling in the kiss and Ron squeezed your waist.

You could barely get enough of him, the kiss continuing into a make out session that left your lips swollen and his face red like a tomato. When Ron pulled away, he kissed your cheek, smiling so hard you snorted and pulled him into a hug, "you're such a fool, Ronald."

[kittyminion]

your harry potter fic are soooo cute, thanks for representing the blk girls who love some HP!!!

ps: pls make moreee

oh my gosh this asolutely made my day and im glad that other people appreciate seeing themselves being represented in something as simple as fanfiction. i really enjoy writing for blk women, and other woman of color too, and sometimes it is disappointing to not find something that i can relate with. feel free to request anything <33

[kittyminion]

realize you've lost mattheo riddle x f!reader x theodore nott

-you have a huge crush on Mattheo and have for a while, but after he crushes your heart by violently rejecting you, you realize how horrible he is and theo nott is there to save the day -characters are 18+, reader is crushing hard, mean!mattheo, rudeness, strong feelings, embarrassment, humiliation, theodore comes to save the day, bullying

Having a crush on someone was possibly the best and worst parts of being human. The little delusional stares or the feeling as your heart spiked to unnatural levels just because he looked at you. Or if something completely normal happened, like brushing fingers as you handed him his fallen quill.

Moments like these kept you fed, but also kept you caged up in a small box that you wish you could break free from, if all you did was speak your thoughts and feelings to a boy that damn sure didn't deserve you—you just didn't know it at the time.

On the upside of having a crush, you giggled to your friends about him, ignoring their lingering wary glances at each other, mumbling under their breaths that Mattheo Riddle wasn't known for his kindess, but for the complete opposite.

You wrote in your journal most days about times where he'd glanced at you unconciously or where he did something you thought was super hot, to which he probably wasn't looking at all. Other days you knawed your lips to pieces after seeing him with other girls or if he ignored you without even realizing it (because you were no one to him).

On the nights you dreamt of him were the best. You went to sleep imagining his ink black eyes and the curls that were always frizzy and messy, wishing you could run your fingers over his smooth, mole-ridden skin—pressing your lips against his while wrapped in his arms.

In your dreams, it was much more intimate, full of pleasure which had you waking up embarrassed and avoiding your dormmates eyes.

Most times, your friends told you green and yellow didn't go together.

"He's far to harsh for you. Too mean, that's why all the girls he's dated want to kill him or kill for him," said Hannah Abbot, stuffing her face with pastries at dinner, eyes boring into yours lazily.

You scoffed in response, glancing over at the Slytherin table where the Draco Malfoy gang sat. The boy in question was munching on an apple, looking particularly tired and thrown together like he'd stumbled out of bed this morning and not even brushed his teeth.

He still looked exceptionally good on the eyes though, which made you smirk to yourself as you glanced away, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Just before you could ramble about his attractiveness, Hermione had slithered beside you, a few textbooks tucked under her arm before she slammed them against the table with a large huff, turning to you with a sheepish smile, "are you going on and on about Mattheo Riddle again?"

Zacharius Smith spoke up for you, nodding obnoxiously, "you should shut her up for once, it's becoming insufferable."

Hermione let out a sigh and tapped her fingers against the table, "why don't you put all that energy into liking Cedric Diggory? Besides, he's cute, respectful and I'm sure you could get a few perks since he's a prefect."

You glanced down the table at Diggory, who had just exploded with laughter at something his friend had said. You couldn't deny Hermione's words though—Cedric was cute, in a respectful sort of way that your parents would like. He didn't get into trouble, he was exceptionally smart, and best of all, he had a nice smile that had made plenty of girls swoon.

You just weren't one of them.

You liked the hint of sin that Mattheo Riddle had presented eversince he'd been at Hogwarts. You liked how mysterious he was, and the lover girl in you wanted to be the one to open his heart up and find out everything there was to know.

"You should take your own advice." You mutter, pressing your shoulder against Hermiones as you turned to look at Mattheo again, who was busy roughhousing with Blaise, before Snape intervened with a swift eyebrow raise that had them groaning and sitting.

Hermione hummed, "I don't need a crush right now. I have to focus on my studies and—"

"—and be the top of our class, blah, blah, I know. Let's not pretend like you and Ron haven't been trading looks for the past few weeks." You said with an eyeroll, pushing your empty plate away as you gathered your belongings, preparing to leave the Great Hall.

Hermione conviently became quiet as she stood, a frown tainting her features while a contradicting blush made her cheeks pink. You chuckled in response, "maybe he'd loosen your stress a little."

At your smug smirk, Hermione stuck her middle finger at you and bounded towards the Gryffindor table while you said goodbyes to your friends and continued out of the Great Hall, wishing to spare a look at Mattheo once more, but you wanted to remain subtle—or as subtle as you could manage, which wasn't much.

Little did you know, he had been watching you the entire time.

୨ৎ

Mattheo didn't even know your name.

He'd saw you plenty times in class, his eyes gliding right over your figure to focus on something else, something worth looking at like the Ravenclaw girl that sat beside you who'd started wearing a pushup bra and was obviously shoving it in his face.

Of course, Mattheo had realized your lingering stares on him though. He chalked it up to simple curiosity, besides, he was the son of he who shall not be named, and that made him a target of plenty things, including bad and good.

The first day the two of you locked eyes, Mattheo ignored it. And the second time, his face skewed up before he shook his head and ignored you once more. That's when he started avoiding you entirely, opting to not look in your direction at all because he thought it was some sort of weird obsession that including staring.

But as he sat in the Great Hall, watching you continuously turn around to stare, he sneered and knudged Theodore, who sat beside him meddling with a Rubix cube.

"Nott, who the hell is that girl? She's been staring at me for weeks now." Theodore ignored Mattheo at first, tongue peaking out of his lips as he solved a Rubix cube, sighing disappointedly once he stopped his timer and realized he'd barely overcame his last time.

"Uh, what girl?" He finally looked up, looking in the direction that Mattheo nodded, eyebrows skewed up trying to find who Mattheo was actually referring to, but one you turned around again to stare, Theodore hummed in recognition.

"Oh, that's your little admirer. She's liked you for a while I think, but you've never realized."

"She likes me? Weird way of showing it." Mattheo chewed on his thumbnail, thinking to himself as Theodore started solving his cube again.

"Well, she's pretty shy I think, not surprising considering she's a Hufflepuff."

Of course Mattheo wanted to say something. He wasn't shy and he didn't mind speaking up even if it meant hurting your feelings. Besides, you were just a random girl who had a meaningless crush, but that's when he started disliking it more.

Before he knew it you could start harming his flings. Surely other people had caught on to your little crush, and the sort of girls that liked Mattheo were the ones who were possessive and territorial.

Theodore saw the look on Mattheo's face and shook his head with a soft chuckle, slapping his friend on the arm, "you bastard, you'll crush her little world if you say anything."

Mattheo rolled his eyes with a scoff, "I don't give a fuck, besides it's a bit weird, innit? It's like she's obsessed or something."

Theodore grumbled and shook his head, "you're impossible. And don't pretend like you don't enjoy a pretty girl fawning over you like a little impressionable puppy."

Mattheo tilted his head back and forth with a cocky smirk, "it does feel nice, I guess. Still doesn't change the fact though."

୨ৎ

You'd been wanting to ask Mattheo out for a while now. It was a little shadow looming in the back of your mind, and you couldn't go much longer yearning without acting on your feelings.

Besides, you knew you were pretty. Pretty enough that other boys had liked you in the past, but you were always too shy to go very far with them. They moved too quickly, and you wanted to do the complete opposite.

You wanted the cute dates and lingering hands that eventually led into gentle kisses and gentle sex that you could tell your friends all about without being ashamed.

Of course you didn't get that for your first time, but it was nice to dream.

So when you started plotting on how you would confess your feelings to Mattheo, it was a shit show. Your friend's warned you away from it, steered you clear of Mattheo whenever they could, and tried to focus your attention on other boys, like Theodore Nott, who they thought were perfect.

He had that mysteriousness that Mattheo had, and he was a Slytherin, which seemed to excite you the most. But you were having none of it.

The moment you got away from them, you'd made your way towards the Slytherin table, heart hammering in your chest, fingers shaking like you were a leaf, and sweat piling on your skin like you'd been dipped in a pool.

You had no large way to confess, you just wanted to get your words out and see what would happen.

Once you made it over, it seemed all of Draco's gang had saw you besides Mattheo, and they all held different facial expressions. Pansy looked smug and excited for something, Draco was bored, and Blaise was just placcid, like he was expecting something, but didn't know what.

Theodore Nott on the other hand avoided your eyes, fingers clenching his quill tightly as he scribbled random, imperceivable words in a thick journal.

"Mattheo?" You said quietly, tapping his shoulder gently, your hands tugging on the bottom of your shirt nervously, the hairs on your neck damp from sweat.

You had to tap him again to get his attention, "what?" He said lazily, spinning around on the bench to look at you, and when he saw you, he just about groaned.

"Can't stay away can you?" He muttered to himself, watching you pull something out of your pocket and fiddle with it, your chest rising heavily as your eyebrows skewed up in confusion at his tone.

"I wanted to invite you to—" suddenly he snatched the paper from your hands, ignoring Pansy's chuckles, her gaze stinging against your skin like every other pair of eyes were as they begin to glue to you curiously.

You stepped backwards as your eyes began to cloud with tears—fustrated tears that you sucked up as Mattheo's eyes slide over the note and he leaned back against the table and smirked at you, "you want to know something, Hufflepuff? You're weird. I don't fancy these little looks you've been given me and frankly, I should've reported you a long time ago."

As Mattheo gave you the note back, Theodore turned to look at his friend, jaw clenched tightly as he sneered, but said nothing.

It felt like your skin was on fire as you stood there, frozen, hearing people laugh at you as Mattheo insulted you in a thousand ways that made you want to either punch him in the face or disappear indefinetely.

"People don't expect the girls to be creeps, but you're the best example—"

"Merlin, Mattheo, just fucking stop! You sit here and insult the girl like she's trash, but she's been nothing but fucking nice!" Theodore seemed to explode like a ticking time bomb, his fingers running over his face in exhaustion as he stood.

"She had a simple crush and you're bullying her for it. You're such a fucking dick, and you didn't listen when I told you not to humiliate her!"

Theodore turned towards you, but you were gone, the Great Hall doors slamming closed behing you. When Mattheo simple laughed and picked up his forgotten plate of food, Theodore slapped it from his grip and flipped him off, gathering his belongings as he ran to catch up with you.

"You fucking suck, Theo!" Mattheo shouted, but Theodore ignored him, eyes searching for you, but he didn't see you.

Honestly, his heart hurt for you. He wished he could've stopped it before it started, but he told himself to not get involved.

He didn't know you much, but he'd shared a few words with you in the past when the two of you were paired for projects or if the two of you traded notes for studying.

He'd completmented you on your effortless organization and you'd done the same, relating on plenty niche things, like the fact that both of you enjoyed origami or badly made movies.

As soon as Theodore heard sniffing near a small nook behind a pair of rear stairs, he let out a breath of relief and peaked around the corner. When he saw your figure curled in on itself in the windowsill, crying so hard you could barely breath, he cleared his throat softly, and you flinched, rushing to wipe your tears as you turned to him.

"Theodore? What are you doing here? I'd assume you'd be laughing at me with your devilish friend." Theodore shook his head silently and sat beside you in the sill, placing his bag on the floor near his feet as he let out a deep sigh and turned to you.

"Everything he said was bullshit. He was just trying to embarrass you—"

"—he did a great fucking job!" Theodore laughed humorlessly and picked at the beaded bracelet on his wrist, "you know it's normal to have a crush—normal to stare at your crush. It's not weird or obsessive, it's normal."

You'd stopped crying, which was Theodore's goal, but now you were busy staring blankly at your hands, "I should've listened to my friends when they said choose you."

Theodore hummed in surprise, reaching up to scratch his neck, his hair messy against his forehead, "choose me? What do you mean?"

You smiled and inhaled deeply, shaking your head, "they told me Mattheo was horrible, so they said choose you—someone nice and soft and loving, who I actually knew and got along with, but I was too stupid and caught up to even realize."

There was a tense sort of silence between the two of you after your words. Like uncovered feelings had just been released to the surface, but neither of you wanted to bring light to it.

You wholeheartedly felt stupid and embarrassed, but Theodore was buzzing with a weird excitement that made him grin to himself, "what was on the paper?"

You hummed, avoiding his eyes because you knew yours were puffy and red, "it was an address to a tea shop in Hogsmeade." You pulled the note from your pocket and handed it to Theodore, "I was going to invite Mattheo there, but—"

"I'll go." You gasped lowly in surprise, eyes locking onto his as Theodore shoved the note in his pocket and stood, "saturday at noon, I'll meet you there."

Your body was frozen with surorise, but then you nodded—eagerly—"yes, that's perfect."

It was like you'd never liked Mattheo in the first place. Now all you could see was tea with Theodore Nott at night at noon.

[kittyminion]

when it clicks harry potter x f!reader

-youve heard his name and all the stories about him, but you dont actually see harry potter until a game of seven minutes in heaven at a gryffindor party -characters 18+, fluff, kissing, poc reader, reader has curly hair, blooming romance

Right before Christmas break was the prime time for the Houses of Hogwarts to throw their end of term parties. These parties were kept secret from professors of course, but each year—for as long as you'd been at Hogwarts—they were always a big deal.

Firewhisky was piled up in the Gryffindor common room along with the Weasley twins' treats and tricks that had students giggling away and begging for more. Crimson and gold streamers and confetti covered all the walls and floors, red solo cups floating through the air in piles towards trash cans and chaotic dancing all around the room as music blasted from speakers.

The walls glittered with the evidence of a Silencing charm conjured by the seventh year students, powerful enough to keep it up all night so the professors wouldn't suspect a thing.

You were holed up in Ron Weasley's dormitory with seven other students from your year, an empty bottle of alcohol in the center which loomed over all of your heads like a curse or a blessing.

It was clear Neville was excited for whatever was coming, his eyes lingering on Hannah Abbott who was busy blushing to herself while wringing her fingers bashfully.

"Who shall go first?" Ron questioned, a mischevious smirk on his lips when no one said anything. When he pointed suddenly at Cho Chang, she flinched and chuckled nervously, moving towards the bottle, her lip notched between her teeth.

You could see her watching Harry Potter expectantly, which made you grin to yourself, wondering if the two of them had anything going on. You rarely paid any mind to Harry Potter or the stories surrounding him—you just knew him as the guy who sat beside you in Charms.

The two of you rarely spoke unless it was him asking if you had an extra quill. Some days the two of you shared a textbook, depending on how late Harry showed up to class, but majority of the time it was typical aquantanceship.

This was a bit odd to you though considering how close you were to Hermione who was one of your doormates, and occasionally you had conversation about nonsense with Ron.

As Cho spun the bottle, she gave a smile to Harry, who returned it politely, his fingers twirling his wand absentmindedly. As Ron leaned towards his friend and whispered unpercievable words, the bottle landed on Dean Thomas, who pursed his lips in surprise and ignored the disappointed look on Cho's face.

As the two of them holed up in the closet nearby, Hermione leaned towards you, "who do you want your bottle to land on?" She whispered, and you shrugged, looking around the room. You had a certain preference towards the students a year above you, but you rarely gave any mind to Ron, Harry, Neville or any others.

"I thought Dean was cute." Hermione scoffed at your words, "you are lying! You don't like a single person in this room do you?" You smiled at her words, rolling your eyes, "not true."

When Dean and Cho returned, equally looking disappointed, you realized it was now your turn to spin the bottle. You ignored Hermione's looks and spun it, watching it speed up before it eventually slowed down and landed on Harry Potter.

The two of you seemed to look at each other at the same time, your eyes pulling together like magnets as Ron cheered, telling the both of you to not be awkward.

It seemed for the first time you felt the possibly of something else with Harry. Not just a simple notes trade or the borrowing of a quill, but instead the thought of some sort of intimacy.

When the two of you were finally closed inside the dimly lit closet, there was a tense, uncomfortable silence that hurt to let linger, so you ended it, "will you be staying for Christmas?"

Harry's eyes widened at the random question as he nodded slowly, eyes trailing over every inch of your face, his lips slightly parted while he fixed his glasses on his face.

"I do most of the time."

He was leaning over you slightly, his back curled towards you from the lack of space in the closet, fingers resting by your head against the wall while you were leaning backwards, feet poised between his.

The two of you had no choice but to be close.

When he glanced down at your cleavage and blushed, you chuckled, muffling your laughs with your hands while a shy smile rose on his face, "boys will be boys, huh? No matter how different they seem."

Harry tilted his head at your words, cheeks still stretched with a smile as he clenched his jaw, eyes low as he watched you curiously, "do I seem different?"

"Absolutely. Your life is a story, I'd be surprised if you weren't different."

"I could say the same for you."

"Three more minutes!" Ron called from outside and you licked your lips as you stared at Harry, "what makes me seem different?"

"Constant melancholy." No one had ever told you that before, but you supposed it was true. You'd felt gloominess for most of your life and never had a specific cause for it, but you definetly had no way to break free of it.

Your arm brushed Harry's as he dropped it from the wall, the hair on his arms sticking straight up as you lifted to your tippy toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His eyes closed as you kissed the other side of his mouth, his fingers raising to your hips as you finally kissed him on the lips, your arms wrapping around his neck.

Harry seemed to lift you a little as he pulled you closer, mouth devouring your own like his life depended on it. As his hand slipped under your shirt and he gripped you tighter, little moans of pleasure echoed from your throat as you pulled out of the kiss, the tips of your noises brushing while Harry watched you.

When you blushed and laughed, he chuckled, pulling you into a tight embrace, his cheek pressed against yours.

Before you knew it, the door to the closet had been ripped open and your classmates were oohing at you and Harry. He pulled away with a shy face, turning around to leave his fingers still squeezing yours, but he let go, eventually sitting back in his spot as you did too.

Hermione knudged you, barely able to get your attention as you stared at Harry like your life depended on it, your skin chilly and textured from goosebumps.

"Merlin! You said you didn't like anyone!" You turned to her finally and shrugged, smiling to yourself, "obviously I was wrong."

ᥫ᭡

As the weeks of Christmas break went by, you couldn't stop thinking of Harry. Even as you opened gifts with your family or ate dinner. You woke up thinking of him—of his dark hair and perfect eyebrows and those blue eyes that held so many secrets.

As you sat in your bedroom one day, packing your clothes for the next term at Hogwarts, your owl delivered a parcel to you. It was a small box addressed to you, but it had no other name on it.

You unwrapped the box gently, curious to who sent it to you, but as soon as you reached into the box and pulled out a letter, you were even more confused.

It read:

I'm sure you weren't expecting this. I'm just a mere stranger to you. This is how I thought of you as well, just a pretty girl I sit beside in charms. But after that night, I realize you're more than that. I realize you aren't perfect and you don't try to be, I realize I can't stop thinking about you and don't want to anyway. I realize there's some sort of yearning in my heart for you that I hope you feel too. So if you feel the same, please write me back, because I can't bare going another week without hearing from you.

Sincerely, Harry James Potter

And of course you wrote him back.

[kittyminion]

the end of oblivion george weasley x f!reader

-after getting stood up by your date to the yule ball, george weasley cheers you up by invitiing you to dance -fluff, sadness, all characters 18+, poc reader, reader has curly hair

The air outside was crisp and cold as you sat on the stone steps outside the ball, your face skewed up in disdain at the sound of the music inside the snowy building. As you picked at the fabric of your icy blue dress, you cursed your supposed date out in your head.

He was a recent transfer from another wizarding school and the first time you saw him you thought he was the prettiest boy you'd ever seen. He had sweet eyes and curly hair (which was something the two of you bonded over), perfectly straight teeth save for a gap in the middle of his incisors.

With all his prettiness, you overlooked his flaws—his constant days of silence and lack of communication with you, his rush for intimacy, which you'd shut down after the first grope.

Maybe that was why he stood you up: because you didn't give your body up to him in the first place. That made you curl in on yourself as you watched the snow fall on Hogwarts, your eyes closing as the wind burned at your tears.

You had no idea where your date could possibly be, maybe he snuck into the building with another girl before you arrived—you definetely didn'y have the courage to walk in alone. Or possibly he was sick; you shook your head at the thought, knowing any decent person wouldn't have stayed silent in a situation like that.

You were angry at yourself for feeling anything other than simple annoyance, but it hurt, and you couldn't deny your feelings, especially since you actually had started to like him.

Before you knew it, a pair had stumbled out the doors behind you, giggling to themselves through heated kisses. As they stepped down the steps, you saw that familiar black curly hair and gappy smile and you felt your skin burn and your eyes fill with tears as you inhaled to say something.

As you stood up to confront him, you felt a jacket lay upon your shoulders and when you turned to the owner of the jacket, you saw George looking at you, a little smile on his lips.

Your body sagged as you let the couple leave and you sat next to George on the steps, "why aren't you inside with your date?" Your voice was wobbly and uneven, your body tight like a rubberband to keep your overflowing emotions inside.

George's fingers tightened the suit jacket around your body as he spread his legs out and stared ahead, "don't have one." You chuckled, a mascara stained tear slipping down your face, "you don't have a date, Weasley?"

He rolled his eyes at you, his tone soft and gentle as he glanced at you, "and what's that supposed to mean? A lad can't go to a ball on his own?" He shoved you in the arm, shoulder brushing yours, his breath puffing out in front of him.

By his shiver, you knew he was cold, so you scooted closer, allowing him to wrap one side of the jacket around his shoulder. Of course, it barely covered the two of you, but he didn't seem to mind.

"There were plenty girls asking for your hand, if I recall correctly. Angelina seemed like she'd won you over, but I saw her enter with someone else earlier."

George shook his head, "nope. I had someone else on my mind." You looked at him in surprise, inhaling as George reached up to clean your face of tears, his thumb padding at your cheeks ro fix the streaks in your makeup.

"Who's this someone else?" You whispered it shyly, your fingers picking at curls at the nape of your neck, the bun atop of your head heavy, but still put together.

George didn't answer instantly, his eyes still on your face, his little grin rising into its infamous smile that made you want to join him. A laugh rose out of you, your forehead pressing against his as the two of you giggled.

George's fingers pressed against your waist underneath the jacket then wrapped around your torso, "you, of course." At that moment a large sense of guilt overtook you as you watched him with disbelief, your eyes large and glistening.

"Me?" He nodded, smile quieting into a bit of a smirk, "five years. Five whole years of my life I spent yearning for you. I don't think you've ever noticed though."

You felt wholly bad for it. You always had your eye on someone else; someone more forward, someone who you had to chase and not the other way around.

But as you thought about it, George was always there. Sitting beside you at breakfast, lunch and dinner, studying with you in the library, playing dumb games with you in the common room, saving treats for you—slipping jokes to you in class.

When George saw the recognition pass over your face, he chuckled, shaking his head gently as he turned forward to stare at the peaks of Hogwarts.

You could see the sadness in his face, and that's what hurt you the most—knowing you were the cause. "I'm sorry. I've always looked at other people and I'm so sorry for it. You're by far the best of them all, and I wish I'd known it sooner."

You arm wrapped around his as you pulled him close, your cheek against his arm as you inhaled his scent.

"My brother says I should speak up more, perhaps I could've had you sooner if I did." He ran his hand through his ginger hair and turned to you when you shook your head.

"It's not your fault," you muttered.

George inhaled deeply, "to make up for it all, how about we go dance?" A bashful smile covered your face as you nodded and George's eyes lit up as he stood, pulling you with him.

His hand gripped yours firmly as he told you a joke to make you laugh. As soon as you touched the dance floor, he had one hand on your waist and the other in yours, the two of you tightly wound together like you were one.

It seemed like your night had done a complete switch because you hardly remembered the reason you were upset before. You laughed so hard tears came to your eyes and your stomach hurt, and when dancing became too much of a chore, the two of you sat at a small table in the ballroom, drinking punch and talking about any and everything.

One of your legs was resting atop his while he ran his fingers up and down your shin, fingers delicate and warm to the touch, enough to make your stomach flutter and your cheeks redden indefinetly.

"It was not small, George! It was huge, like the size of my palm large!" You said with a laugh, eyes glued to his and George rolled his eyes playfully, "dramatic, you are. It was barely the size of a bottle cap, and I'm surprised you woke me up for it. Matter of fact, most of you girls were scared about it."

"Besides Luna—she wanted to take it outside." George nodded in agreement, elbow resting against the back of your chair while he looked at the dance floor, watching Fred goof around with his date. When he saw Hermione, Harry, and Ron arguing near the entrance, he rolled his eyes, turning back to you.

The silence between you two was comfortable as you watched each other, erupting in laughs when the looks became foolish.

Before you knew it, George had cupped your jaw and kissed you. Your stomach burst with surprise as you gasped against his lips, but you welcomed him happily as George's hand trailed down you neck and he squeezed your waist, lips pulling away to kiss singularly at your cheek.

When he heard his brother cheering from across the room while calling the two of your names, he hid against you, face tucked into your neck, his laughter vibrating against your skin, while you ran your fingers through his hair.

"I like your reserve, George." You muttered, lifting his chin to kiss him once more, your hands pressed against his thighs to steady yourself while George squeezed your wrists, muttering a small thank you.

[kittyminion]

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

*

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

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Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

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