mediocre--writing

[mediocre--writing]

hi!! i love love love your concussions and interruptions au and i was wondering if you could do one with james and lily doing parent stuff with reader and basically adopting her into their family bc hers sucks. i loved the latest installment where lily was helping her with her dress and i would love to see more of stuff like that ❤️❤️❤️

pass the wrench - harry potter

summary: when james comes can't find harry to help him fix something, he decides you're fit to help with the job. after all, you're practically already his daughter in law. wc: 1.6k+ cw: like one suggestive comment (james tells harry to use protection)

When James Potter walked into his living room, he was sweaty, a slight frown on his face as his brows tugged into a furrow. His hands were on his hips, scanning the living room as he looked for his son. Harry was nowhere in sight as you sipped at your tea with Lily, easy smiles on both your faces as you conversed.

“Is Harry around?” James asked, wiping a hand on his forehead, words targeted towards his wife. “In the shower.” She responded, bringing the mug up to her lips to take a long sip of her warm drink. James nodded, patting his greasy hands on his trousers. “Alright then, you’re up, kid.” He said, gesturing towards you with a jerk of his chin. Lily shot James an unimpressed look, tilting her head to the side. But you were elated, a wide smile gracing your face as you placed your cup of tea on the table, hopping up to your feet.

“Yeah, I can help!” Lily shut her mouth at the happy tone of your voice, rushing over to James, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise at your enthusiasm. “Bring your wand.” James instructed as he returned to the garage with you right on his heels. You waited for his instruction silently, watching with curious eyes as he began tinkering with something.

“What’s that?” You asked, inching closer to your boyfriend’s dad, taking in the vast object in front of you. “A car. Muggles use them for transportation.”

“Why do you have one?”

James glanced up from where he was ducked over the open hood of the car, his curls falling into his face. He grinned, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” You laughed, eyes scanning the lifted hood of the car, trailing down to the metal components James was fixing. Or, attempting to fix. “Could I get some light here?”

You nodded, muttering ‘lumos’ and pointing your wand towards the area James was toying with. Chewing on your bottom lip, you leaned towards him, trying to see what he was doing. “Pass the wrench, would you?” You froze, turning your head towards the table near the car, tools laid out on its surface.

Swallowing thickly, you reached out towards the table, hands curling around the orange silicone handle of the tool you guessed to be the wrench. You placed it in Mr. Potter’s extended hand, and he brought it up to the car, freezing when he got a good look at it. James chuckled, turning to look at you, and you instantly knew you had guessed incorrectly.

“These are pliers,” He informed you, waving them around in the air. “Take another guess.” You huffed, shoulders sagging. “You know I got it wrong and you’re still gonna make me guess?”

James turned around, leaning his hips against the car and crossing his arms over his chest. Under his amused gaze, you stared at the table again, determined to get it right. “A wrench.” You whispered to yourself, ignoring James’s amused chuckle. You lifted another tool off the table, testing its weight in your hand. Humming, you placed it back on the table, unconvinced. You reached for another metal tool, simple looking, and yet you had no idea what it did.

You proudly presented the tool to Mr. Potter, grinning at him proudly. His eyes widened in shock and he nodded his head quickly, taking it from your hands and turning back to face the car. You giggled in satisfaction, pointing your wand towards the car again.

“Proud of yourself, are you?”

“Yeah, I am, actually.”

“Great, now pass me the screwdriver.”

You cursed under your breath, pulling your wand away from the car to spin towards the table again. “Wand!” He called, and you squeaked, pointing it in place again. You reached for the table, rolling a tool towards you and handing it to him. James hummed when he saw the screwdriver in your hand, taking it from you with an encouraging nod. “Is that right?” James responded with another nod, and you immediately asked “Okay, what next?”

“Um, next I think we see if it turns on.”

“Oh. How do we do that?”

James grinned, straightening up. He dug in his pocket for the keys, tossing them over to you. “Get in front of the wheel.” You nodded, rounding the car to open the door to the driver’s seat, settling down with a giggle. James closed the hood, then came over to your side of the car, where you had the door still open. He rolled the window down, then closed the door with a grin, seeing the joyful look on your face. He leaned against the open window, pointing towards the key hole.

“Put the key in there.” He instructed. You followed his command, glancing up at him expectantly after you’d done so. James made a twisting motion with his hand, and you mimicked it, furrowing your eyebrows when nothing happened. “Try again.” James mumbled, huffing when there was no result. He sped over to the front of the car, lifting the hood again.

You shrugged to yourself, glancing backwards and scanning the insides of the car. You squirmed, making yourself comfortable in the seat. Jumping slightly when the hood slammed shut, you met your boyfriends’s father’s eyes. He shot you a thumbs up, and you twisted the key again, eyes lighting up when the engine roared with life. “Woah!” You cried, looking up to meet James’s eyes. He jumped up with a loud cry, punching the air to celebrate his success.

“Did it work!?” You asked with a laugh. “It worked! Do you want to go for a drive?” You nodded at his words, and James hopped into the passenger’s seat, rolling down his window and putting on his seatbelt. You observed his movements, glancing back to find your own seatbelt and putting it on, locking it in the clasp. “Wait, I’m driving it?” James nodded, shrugging his shoulders. “Yeah, like riding a bike.”

You froze at his comment, furrowing your eyebrows and turning to look at him. “I’ve never seen a bike like this.”

And at that very moment, the door to the garage opened once more and Lily Potter walked in, carrying a tray with two large cups of lemonade, the icy drink creating a layer of condensation on the glass. “For my mechanic and his little helper.” She said, sticking the tray into James’s side of the car. He lifted both cups at the same time, offering you one. You thanked Mrs. Potter, but she didn’t answer, squinting her eyes suspiciously at you both.

“Absolutely not.”

She finally said, putting the tray aside and crossing her arms. Her warning glare almost broke at the matching innocent looks on your and James’s faces, eyes wide and smiles sheepish. “What?” James asked, shrugging his shoulders. Lily let out an exasperated sigh, and she shook her head, reaching for James’s now empty cup. He handed it to her, and as he turned around to take your cup, you chugged the rest of your drink to follow. He laughed as lemonade seeped from the corners of your lips, taking the cup from you as you wiped away the liquid from your face.

It was only then that you realised how sweaty you had become in the humid space, your clothes sticking to you uncomfortably. You tugged at your shirt, pulling it off your slick skin, and you laughed nervously as Lily ordered “Both of you out of the car.” James grumbled under his breath and you twisted the key to turn the car off, pulling it out of its place. You opened the door, trying to get up, but you were forced against the back of your seat due to the seatbelt still strapped across your chest.

You tugged at the seatbelt, trying to pull it out of the buckle. You desperately looked over to Harry’s parents, meeting their amused gazes. “I’m stuck.” You mumbled helplessly, and Lily smiled softly as James broke down into fits of laughter.

“Hey.” Your head shot back towards the garage door, and you sighed in relief as Harry walked in, hair wet, skin gleaming. “What’s going on?”

“Fixed the car with my helper.”

“I thought I was your helper.”

“You can be his helper,” You announced, leaning forward so you could see him behind the car’s thick metallic structure. “But I learned what a plier and a wrench is!” Harry stuck his head in the opposite window, a smile on his face. “I’m proud of you, love.” You grinned, fingers curling around the seatbelt strap. “What are you doing in there?” He asked, and you heard James chuckle again.

“I’m stuck.” Harry glanced back towards his dad, shaking his head before walking over to your side of the car. He leaned over you, one hand resting on the car seat next to your head, and unlatched the clasp. You gasped as the belt flew back into its place, blinking rapidly.

“Oh.”

Harry laughed, offering you a hand. You took it, letting him guide you out of the car and towards the garage door, leading you back to the house. “Thanks for letting me help, Mr. Potter!” You cried as Harry encouraged you through the doorway. “No worries!” His voice echoed back. And then, “Use protection!”

“Dad, I just got out of the shower, we’re not going to have sex.”

“Oh, speaking of,” You added, turning towards him, just having entered the house. “Can I use your shower?”

“Yeah, of course. You’re-you’re going to shower?”

“Mhmm, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t mind at all. Of course not.” He mumbled, running a hand through his soaking hair. His eyes ran down your sweaty figure, hair slightly tousled, a couple of strands sticking to the sides of your face. You looked nice like this, he decided.

“Use protection!” James called out again, and this time, as Harry reached down for your hand, spotting the wide, teasing smile on your face at the expression he had, replied with “Okay.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @xmatcha-kitty13, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @potterheadlovespotter, @lovelyygirl8, @matcha-kitty13, @dlljdhsh, @yegrnn, @thenasoneshots, @marauder-era6779, @xadenswhore, @5sospenguinqueen, @esposadomd, @paytonluvxx

[mediocre--writing]

The Black Sisters

[mediocre--writing]

oh my god.

[mediocre--writing]

huge shout out to this little kid for writing my favorite poem

[mediocre--writing]

the talk - harry potter

concussions and interruptions au! summary: when james potter catches you and his son making out in his bedroom, he excitedly goes to tell his wife. but he isn't expecting her to call you both down for a talk no one can take seriously. wc: 1.7k+ a/n: this was a request!! tried finding the og post, but this is the fic we've all been counting down (the talk anon, reveal yourself)

In your defense, you thought Harry had locked the door.

But he hadn’t, and now you were forced to deal with the consequences of your actions. What actions? Well, you’d been giggling with Harry under the covers, the open window in his room letting the cold breeze send chills up your arms. Harry had pulled you closer to him, knees touching under the blankets, noses almost touching as you finished telling him a story. When a comfortable silence settled over you, Harry smiled softly, dipping his head down to press his lips to yours in a gentle kiss.

Sighing in satisfaction, you withdrew a hand from underneath the cozy shield of the blankets, snaking it into Harry’s soft hair. Harry grinned, kissing you shortly again, letting you feel the smile on his lips as he did so. You mumbled your boyfriend’s name, pulling him in closer to deepen the kiss. The smile fled from Harry’s face as he melted into your touch, fingers finding home on the curve of your hips. Harry parted his lips, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your lips, tongue gliding against your soft lips.

Humming, you opened your mouth, moaning softly as Harry’s tongue met yours, drifting into your mouth to taste you. He squeezed your hips at the sound, shifting his body to hover above you, lowering his hips to roll against yours. You wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him closer to you as your legs fell open, giving him more space to settle his torso. With a wet noise, Harry’s lips separated from yours so he could stare at you for a moment, unmistakable love in his eyes. Smiling adoringly at him, you moved your arm from Harry’s shoulders to trail down his front, snaking up under his jumper to press a hand to his abdomen. He shivered, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as you massaged your nails onto his scalp with your other hand, his forehead resting against yours.

You slipped your hand out from under his jumper, instead curling around the soft, cottony fabric and forcing him closer to you, lips violently meeting as Harry lurched forward, a muffled sound leaving his lips. Harry pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, lips tugging upwards into a grin, a pleasantly surprised expression on his face.

“What happened to you?”

“Take this off.” Harry playfully rolled his eyes at the way you blatantly ignored his question, but he obliged nonetheless, abs flexing as he reached behind his neck to tug his jumper off. “Happy?” He asked, and you nodded eagerly, both hands cupping his cheeks to pull his face closer, pressing a short kiss to his lips. Harry snaked a hand to the nape of your neck, holding you close to him as you kissed, experimentally grinding his hips into your core. You whimpered, and Harry broke the kiss to look at you, his free hand coming up to stroke your cheek before connecting his lips to yours again, tongue immediately delving into your mouth to taste you, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as much as possible.

Then, of course, the door squeaked open.

You immediately knew who had interrupted the moment. If Harry’s mother were the one to come up, she would knock her fist against the door twice, waiting patiently for a call to come in. So of course, you well aware when Harry tore away from you, both your heads snapping to the door, you would find his dad standing there.

James Potter was at a loss for words, his mouth wide open in shock, the corners of his lips tugging up in amusement as Harry cried “Dad!” You sunk into the pillow behind you, a look of terror on your face as you slowly brought a hand up over your mouth, a horrified mumble of “Oh my god.” leaving your lips as your face began heating up in humiliation. This was so much worse than when Harry kissed you in front of his parents you’d never met at the time. Even worse than Professor Lupin catching you making out after curfew. God, it was even worse than him telling Harry’s parents too.

Harry’s dad retreated from the doorway, leaving the door wide open as the sound of his footsteps retreated. You and Harry both stared at the empty space James occupied seconds ago, and you tightly gripped the duvet, bringing it over your face as you groaned in embarrassment. “Oh my god!” You repeated, louder now.

Then, as though the situation wasn’t bad enough, a cautious call of “Harry, love? Can you and y/n come down for a minute?” came from Lily Potter’s familiar voice. “Oh my god.” You shot up from under the covers, all blood draining from your face as you realised what was about to happen. “This is the most humiliating moment of my entire life.”

Harry sat frozen, not answering his mum, too busy trying to urge the blush off his face. With shaky fingers, he pulled his jumper back on, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I can never show my face here ever again.”

“It’s okay, it’s-”

“Harry?”

Harry gulped thickly as his mother called for him again. He offered you a hand as he stood up from the bed, but you stubbornly shook your head, staring down at your feet as you followed him out of his room. You smoothed your hands down on your hair, cheeks embarrassingly hot as you tip toed down the stairs. Harry reached behind him to curl his fingers around your hand, guiding you towards the couch.

Glancing up momentarily, your eyes went wide as you spotted his godfathers, Sirius and Remus sitting on the next couch over. “Oh my god, this couldn’t get worse.” You whispered — more to yourself than anyone — but Professor Lupin heard, chuckling quietly as Harry huffed to his father “I can’t believe you tattled.”

Lily smiled sympathetically, tilting her head to the side, trying to meet your eyes. “You’re not in trouble.” You dug your face into your hands, refusing to look at anyone as you whined “This would be so much easier if we were in trouble.”

“We just didn’t realise you guys were already at the stage of - and we know your parents won’t have this talk with you-”

“Oh my god, we’re getting the talk?” Harry cried in horror, jaw going slack as he met his mother’s eyes. Removing your hands from your face, you turned to look at Harry with an incredulous look on your face as you gestured your arms outwardly. “What did you think this was?”

“Harry, I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. Quite frankly, I’m proud of-”

“James.”

“Sorry, love. But look at him-”

“James.”

You took advantage of the little interlude, turning your face to directly tell Harry “I hate you for this.”

“For what?”

“For seducing me.” You whispered, watching as Harry’s embarrassed face was replied with an arrogant smile. “I barely seduced you, you just pounced on me.”

“Can I just say, I told you guys about what happened past curfew, and that was months ago, so I don’t know what you expected.” Remus shrugged, slinging an arm over Sirius’s shoulder. You groaned, falling back into the cushions and crossing your arms over your chest, bracing yourself for the awkward conversation. Inhaling deeply, you nodded at Harry's mum. “Okay, I’m ready. Just do it.”

“Honey, you’re acting like she’s about to pull the trigger on you. It’s just the sex talk.” Added Sirius, reaching over to fist bump a laughing James. “What’s your issue?” Lily snapped quietly, mumbling “She’s already embarrassed enough.” “And you’re making this worse by dragging it out.” Pointed out Remus to his best friend. Lily sighed, turning to face you, a pitiful smile on her face. She almost felt bad that you were so embarrassed, but the conversation needed to happen. She observed the way Harry tried putting a hand on your thigh, which you quickly slapped away, causing Harry to pout.

“Oh, he’s not getting any for a month.” Joked Sirius, and Harry turned to you with a panicked, almost pleading face. He would cry if you decided to turn him celibate for a month.

“Okay, you two,” Started Lily in a motherly voice. “We all count on the fact that you trust and love each other very much,” She glanced sideways, catching her husband’s proud grin. “And we know you wouldn’t have, well, relations if that wasn’t the case. But, you know, me and James had Harry very young-”

“Yeah we did.”

“James. And that can happen if you’re not very careful.”

You decided now was the time to die, making the mistake of looking away from Mrs. Potter to her husband, who couldn’t hide the delight from his face if he tried.

“So, please be sure to use protection-” “I’m gonna throw up.” Mrs. Potter ignored your comment and the way you moved a hand to shield your eyes, but unfortunately, it got a laugh from Harry’s dad and his friends, none of whom were taking the situation seriously. “Unless you want to get pregnant.”

“Speaking of, do you ever want to have kids?”

“I need to go touch some grass.”

You couldn’t even separate the three adults’ laughs anymore, all of them crying out with amusement. You felt your legs shake as you stood up from the couch, beelining for the door in the living room leading to the Potters’ backyard. A confused call of your name was blatantly ignored with a shake of your head. You stepped out into the night, huffing as the cold breeze overtook you. Groaning as two strong arms wrapped around you, you turned around in Harry’s arms to dig your head into his chest.

“That was the worse hour of my life.”

“Darling, that was maximum fifteen minutes.”

“An hour.”

“And I’ll sit through it a hundred more times if it means spending time with you.”

“Harry, you’re such a sap.” Harry lifted your chin up, making eye contact for you. “I’m sorry if it was really horrible for you.” You shook your head, pressing yourself on your tip toes to kiss him briefly.

“See? Barely need to seduce you.”

“Shut up.” But despite the embarrassment you felt, you were smiling, and Harry was too, leaning down to properly kiss you. “Should we go back upstairs?” He asked in a quiet whisper when he pulled away, eyes twinkling with mischief. You nodded, looking back into the house, where James was staring directly at you and Harry. He waved boyishly.

“We can go up through the window.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @xmatcha-kitty13, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @potterheadlovespotter

[mediocre--writing]

My kink is getting some fuckin sleep

[mediocre--writing]

party on you, part of you knew (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 8k

Summary: Mattheo had been losing his belongings, forgetting things, and feeling uneasy about that random girl who was always staring at him. His solution? Blame Theodore. It's always that damn astronomy tower.

A/N: I'm so ass at summaries 😭 lowkey i kinda hate this

When Mattheo woke up, he was unbearably groggy—dragging himself around the dorm with zero fucks to give while his friends hooted and hollered with far too much morning energy.

He sighed, heavy with the weight of a dream he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it started happy—blissfully, achingly so—but by the time he opened his eyes, he felt hollow. The fog in his head made it impossible to grasp.

He barely managed to throw on his shirt, only half-buttoned, his tie dangling uselessly around his neck as he stumbled around looking for his belt. He ruffled through his drawer, groaning when he pulled something unexpected from the back.

With a frustrated grunt, he hurled a cheap bottle of perfume across the room.

It smacked Theo in the back of the head.

“For fuck’s sake, Nott,” Mattheo growled, “Tell your useless fucks to stop leaving their shit in my drawer. My boxers smell like Victoria’s Secret now. What are they, perverts?”

Theo only laughed, ducking Mattheo’s middle finger with the practiced ease of someone far too used to this scenario. It wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

To be fair, it really was on Theo for being a shameless pervert who’d flirt his way into any skirt with a pulse. Mattheo wasn’t a stranger to finding souvenirs left behind after Theo’s conquests—underwear, school ties, even flowers that Theo had given them. Gifts Theo handed out to play the nice guy before inevitably ruining their lives.

Asshole.

But Theo was completely unbothered.

He ruffled Mattheo’s already-messy hair before yanking him into a headlock and dragging him out of the dorm toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Maybe, just maybe, after some tea and food, Mattheo would start feeling like a functional human being again.

Mattheo doubted it.

Still, he knew better than to show up to McGonagall’s first thing in the morning on an empty stomach—unless he wanted to snap and earn himself a detention for cussing someone out. Which, on mornings like this, was always a strong possibility.

He walked into the Great Hall like a stormcloud, shoulders tense, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Without saying a word to anyone, he dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table.

Your eyes followed him the moment he entered.

He looked... wrecked. Moving sluggishly, like he hadn’t slept a wink. His mood practically radiated off him. Still, you watched as he poured himself a cup of tea—black, no milk, no sugar—and sipped it with his whole hand clutched around the rim, like the warmth might anchor him. A stark contrast to his polished friends, who had all been raised to drink tea like little lords—fingers lifted, saucers in hand, painfully dainty.

But Mattheo drank tea like a man dragged out of war.

You weren’t one to fall for toxic masculinity tropes, but Merlin help you—there was something a little charming about his ruggedness.

“(Y/N)? Hello?” Your friend whispered, snapping her fingers near your face. You blinked, startled, not realizing how long you’d been staring. She arched a brow, her expression tilting toward concern, “You good?”

Your gaze flicked back to Mattheo instinctively, just as he brought the mug to his lips again, the shadows beneath his eyes catching in the candlelight.

Your friend leaned in and hissed, “Don’t tell me you have a crush on Mattheo Riddle.”

Thank Merlin she had the sense to whisper. If Lavender—just two seats down—had heard, the entire castle would’ve known by lunch.

You gave a quiet huff and a crooked smile, “Me? Like Mattheo Riddle?”

But even as you said it, your eyes drifted back to him—just in time to see a Ravenclaw girl saunter up to his side. Her tone was too soft, her smile too wide, and Mattheo... smirked.

You couldn’t hear what she said, but whatever it was, it worked. She returned to her table tittering like a first-year after her first Butterbeer, and Mattheo’s friends clapped him on the back like frat boys cheering over a win.

Your stomach twisted.

“Fat chance.” You muttered under your breath.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

***

Mattheo slumped into his usual seat at the back of Transfiguration, his head pounding like someone had hexed a war drum into his skull. The classroom was too bright. Too loud. The voices around him felt like nails against his already frayed nerves.

All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep through the day. But McGonagall had already given him a formal warning for skipping too many classes, and he had no desire to sit through another one of her lectures about wasted potential and “throwing your life away, Mr. Riddle.”

So here he was. Half-awake. Half-dressed. Fully over it.

He sprawled in his chair like he hadn’t been raised to sit like a human being. The boys were already talking shit around him. Something about some girl. Someone’s sister. Or cousin. Or ex. Mattheo couldn’t be arsed to care.

And then—

Eyes.

He felt it before he saw it.

A stare. Steady. Intent. Not curious like the usual ones. Not flirty or appraising. This was something else.

He tilted his head lazily, scanning the classroom, and there you were.

Sitting with your friends at the front of the room, quill dangling from your fingers, your books open in front of you but untouched. You weren’t focused on your parchment or your notes or even your friends.

You were watching him.

And not like most girls did. Not like he was a prize or a challenge.

There was something in your eyes. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

For a second, Mattheo just stared back, caught in the intensity of your gaze.

Then:

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo leaned over with a grin far too smug for this early in the morning and jabbed him in the arm with his wand, “You’ve got a fan.”

Mattheo blinked, the moment snapping. His friends were all looking now, following Theo’s nod toward the front row.

“Who is she?” Blaise asked, already smirking.

Mattheo shrugged, leaning back in his chair with practiced indifference, “No clue.”

“You sure?” Draco drawled, giving him a pointed look, “She’s staring at you like you broke her heart.”

“Probably did,” Theo snorted, “Another one of Riddle’s charm-and-ditch girls. What’s this—lucky number fifty?”

Mattheo let a crooked grin spread across his face, “I don’t count past three. After that, it’s just a blur of names and disappointment.”

Lorenzo chuckled, “You’re sick.”

“Don’t blame me,” Mattheo said, “If they confuse good dick with love, that’s on them.”

The boys howled, loud enough to earn a sharp look from a Ravenclaw at the next table over.

Mattheo smirked, brushing his fingers back through his mess of curls. He let his gaze drift back to you again—just for a second.

But this time, your attention had turned. You were laughing at something your friend whispered to you, cheeks flushed, head bowed. The look from earlier was gone. And whatever he thought he saw? It probably never existed to begin with.

Good.

***

It wasn’t rare for Mattheo Riddle to wake up in the middle of the night—heart racing, skin clammy, breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls like he was drowning in his own lungs.

What was rare was not being able to go back to sleep after.

His chest burned. His head was spinning. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs like a vice. He needed a cigarette. Now.

He reached for the pack tucked in his blazer, fingers trembling as he searched the pockets for his lighter—his lighter, the scratched metal Zippo with the chipped corner and the warm, familiar clink that grounded him.

Nothing.

“God-fucking-dammit, Theo.” He hissed, dragging his drawer open with a harsh scrape. No lighter. Of course. His roommate probably nicked it—again—for one of his stress-smoking episodes. Mattheo could’ve used his wand, sure, but that lighter was his. That sharp click when it flipped open was the only thing that made his fidgeting tolerable.

He scratched roughly at his wrist, fingers twitching for something to hold as he climbed the stairs to his usual spot. The cigarette was already between his lips before he’d even reached the top, wand-lighting it with a muttered “Incendio.” He took the first drag, feeling the smoke scrape down his throat and spread like static in his chest.

The cold air helped. A little.

Until he realized he wasn’t alone.

His eyes narrowed when they landed on you, sitting at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling over the stone ledge like it was nothing. You were leaning lazily against the railing, illuminated by moonlight—and you looked just as surprised to see him.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped, accusatory.

You blinked at him, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Mattheo scoffed, taking another long drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out through his nose like a warning sign.

Great.

“Night terrors, huh?” You asked quietly.

He froze mid-drag, lips parting, “…How did you know that?”

“I get them too.”

That shut him up.

It went quiet. For a while, neither of you spoke. He leaned against the opposite railing, cigarette burning slowly to the filter, eyes fixed on the moonlit sky while the silence thickened.

Then he noticed your hands.

You were holding something—clutching it, almost. A stem of small, blue flowers. Mattheo stared, trying to place them. He knew he’d seen them somewhere before, probably in Herbology, but the name wouldn’t come to him.

He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like being watched, not when he was like this. Raw. Frayed. Sleepless. Unmasked.

“…Can you stop fucking staring at me?” He muttered, side-eyeing you.

Your cheeks flushed. You dropped your gaze quickly, fingers curling protectively around the petals.

Mattheo exhaled sharply, hating the stab of guilt that followed.

He felt bad. For you.

How Hufflepuff of him.

Mattheo threw the cigarette down with more force than necessary, the end flaring before he crushed it beneath his shoe, muttering another curse under his breath.

He didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t look back.

Just turned, hands once again scratching at his wrist for something to play with, jaw clenched like he was holding something back—words, or maybe the scream in his chest—and disappeared down the stairs.

Leaving you alone again.

The cold crept in as soon as he left, biting at your skin and wrapping around your ribs like a hollow ache.

You stared at the spot where he'd been, at the faint trail of smoke still curling from the squashed cigarette. Then, slowly, your gaze dropped back to the Forget-Me-Not's in your lap.

You sighed.

***

Mattheo was pissed off again.

Theo swore up and down that he hadn’t taken the lighter, which only made Mattheo tear through the dorm in a fury—rummaging through drawers, knocking over books, slamming open cabinets like the thing he was looking for might vanish if he didn’t get to it fast enough.

His wrist was already red and irritated, covered in faint scratches from how often he scratched at it now. Some nervous habit that had crept in without him noticing. It didn’t help. It never helped. Every time his fingers twitched toward that spot on his skin, it felt like he was supposed to find something there. Like something used to be there. Something that mattered.

But it was always nothing.

He yanked open his nightstand drawer again, rifling through clutter and broken quills and the chaos of his own impatience—and paused.

There, wedged between a tattered book and a scrap of parchment, was a small, flattened flower.

A faded blue. Edges browned and curled. Limp, like it had been forgotten for ages.

Mattheo blinked at it, confusion flickering briefly across his features—before his expression twisted into irritation.

“Bloody hell, Theo,” He muttered, snatching it up, “Tell your latest girl to keep her sappy crap out of my things.”

He didn’t know why it made him so angry. Maybe it was the idea of someone else’s sentimental leftovers tucked between his stuff. Maybe it was how… familiar it looked. But that only annoyed him more.

He crushed the flower in his fist and stormed over to the trash, dropping it in without ceremony. Wiped his hand on his trousers like it’d left something behind.

And that should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

Hours later, he was still restless. Still scratching at his wrist. Still glancing, without meaning to, toward the drawer where it had come from. Toward the bin where it lay now.

The feeling wouldn’t go away. The unease stayed curled around his ribs like a secret. That damn flower—it was nothing. So why did it feel like everything?

He stood up.

Crossed the room.

And dug through the bin.

There it was—crumpled, soft, and broken now. He lifted it carefully, petals cracking under his fingers.

Something inside him shifted. Just slightly. Like a door creaking open somewhere in the distance.

But nothing came through.

No memory. No explanation.

Only that feeling.

He shoved the flower back into the drawer, slammed it shut like it could bury whatever was clawing at the edge of his mind.

But it lingered.

Gnawing. Heavy. A strange, aching knowing:

He was missing something.

Something important.

***

The dorm was loud when they got back from Hogsmeade—Theo and Draco bickering over whether Honeydukes or Zonko’s was the superior stop, Blaise tossing his coat onto Mattheo’s bed without a care, and Lorenzo humming some obnoxious tune he must’ve picked up at the Three Broomsticks.

Mattheo didn’t say much.

He was still on edge—still fidgeting, still scratching at the inside of his wrist like his skin could give him answers. The chill in his bones hadn’t faded, and neither had the strange weight that had settled in his chest days ago.

Ever since that flower.

Ever since he lost his lighter.

He dropped his bag onto the bed and started to unpack: Chocolate Frogs. Licorice Wands. Cockroach Clusters—Theo’s, obviously. A new pack of cigarettes.

And then—

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo called from across the room, “Since when do you eat Sugar Quills?”

Mattheo frowned, “I don’t.”

Theo held up the pink-and-blue striped box like he was unveiling a crime scene, “Then what’s this doing in your bag?”

The moment Mattheo laid eyes on it, something echoed in his head. You’ll like it eventually.

He blinked.

Crossing the room, he took the box, turning it over in his hands like maybe it would offer some kind of explanation.

“I didn’t buy this.” He said, voice firm.

“You sure?” Blaise asked, brows raised, “You didn’t go into Honeydukes and black out in a sugar trance, you big back? You’ve got, like, twelve of these. Mate, what the hell—you’re gonna get diabetes.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, “I’d never buy these. I hate them. Too sweet. They make my teeth feel like they’re rotting out of my skull.”

Draco smirked, “Aww, are the cigarettes finally rotting your brain too?”

Mattheo didn’t laugh.

He just stared at the box.

He didn’t remember buying it.

But his hands did.

The same way they reached for his wrist like something used to be there.

Like someone used to be there.

He sat down heavily on his bed, still holding the sweets.

His jaw clenched.

“I didn’t buy this.” He repeated, quieter this time. Almost like he was trying to convince himself.

But deep down, he wasn’t sure anymore.

***

He hadn’t meant to go up to the Astronomy Tower.

Not really.

His legs just carried him there, like they always fucking did lately. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like his body was trying to remember something his mind couldn’t.

He kept doing things he didn’t mean to do—walking into places without knowing why, reaching for things he didn’t remember losing. It felt like his own body was betraying him. His mind was slipping, fading at the edges, and it was starting to scare him.

He couldn’t remember things.

He scratched at his wrist until it burned—red, raw, relentless. He felt wrong every night when he lay down to sleep, like he was somewhere he didn’t belong. And every morning he woke up with a hollow in his chest, like he’d just lost something—someone—in a dream he could never quite remember.

And this tower.

This fucking tower.

It made his skin itch. Made his hands shake. Made him want to scream and break things and disappear into its stone walls, all at once. It offered a kind of comfort he didn’t understand—a familiarity he couldn’t explain—which angered him more.

But tonight—it was different.

Because when he stepped onto the final stair, he saw you.

And the air was punched from his lungs.

You were sitting cross-legged in your usual spot, the stars painting silver on your skin, your hair spilling down your back like ink across parchment. You didn’t see him. You were too focused on something resting in your hands.

Then it clicked.

Flick. Clink.

That sound.

He stopped cold.

The lighter.

His lighter.

You were flipping it open and closed, spinning it through your fingers with a rhythm that was too natural—like it was yours. Like it had always been yours.

Mattheo’s stomach twisted hard.

He couldn’t breathe.

He knew that lighter. He’d turned the entire dorm upside down searching for it. Tore open every drawer, snapped at Theo, cursed until his throat was raw. He scratched at his wrist for weeks—like something had been ripped from it.

And there it was.

Right there.

In your hands.

And then—everything hit him.

.

“You’ll like it eventually.” You giggled, chewing on the Sugar Quill Mattheo had reluctantly picked up for you at Honeydukes earlier that day.

He grimaced, visibly cringing as you crunched through the overly sweet treat. The sound alone made his teeth hurt. He could practically feel the sugar coating his molars just by watching you. It was going to get stuck between your teeth—he knew it—and while he wasn’t exactly a stickler for dental hygiene like Granger (he smoked, for Merlin’s sake), Sugar Quills were where he drew the line.

Still, you tore into the next package with such delight, he couldn’t find it in himself to berate you. He simply gagged—dramatically, of course—when you offered him a bite.

“I’m gonna Pavlov you into liking these.” You teased, that mischievous glint sparking in your eyes.

Mattheo’s brows furrowed, “What’s tha—?”

He didn’t get to finish.

You grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him—open-mouthed, unrelenting, sweet as sin. He froze for half a second before melting into it, letting your sugar-coated tongue slip past his defenses and press the sickeningly sweet taste right onto his own.

When you pulled away, his lips were sticky, glistening with syrup.

He swallowed, stunned.

“So?” You asked, clearly too pleased with yourself.

Mattheo blinked, then licked his lips, “They’re... not that bad.”

You laughed—bright, triumphant, and a little breathless.

.

It was another late night at the Astronomy Tower.

The stars were out, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled glitter over velvet, and the air had that sharp, biting chill that clung to your skin no matter how many layers you wore.

Mattheo leaned against the metal railing, eyes half-lidded, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You want one?” He asked, offering it to you with a lazy smirk, smoke curling from his lips.

You wrinkled your nose, “I'm not kissing you if you smoke that.”

He chuckled, teeth flashing, “Is that a challenge?”

You shot him a look and snatched the lighter from his hand instead—silver, scratched, familiar. It was always warm, always had just the right amount of heft to it.

“Oi,” He said, eyebrows lifting, “That’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” You replied, holding it up like a trophy, “Finders, keepers.”

Mattheo pushed off the rail, slow and predatory, “You think stealing my lighter’s gonna get me to stop?”

“No,” You said innocently, slipping it into your robes, the metal cool against your chest, “Just… now I have something that reminds me of you.”

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, “You really need a souvenir to remember me by?”

You tried to sound casual, breezy, unaffected—even though your heart was thudding like mad, “Maybe I just like collecting little pieces of you.”

His smirk softened into something quieter. Gentler.

His fingers brushed your jaw, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing just under your eye. “You already have me,” He said, voice low. “Completely.”

You swallowed hard.

“I know,” You whispered.

And you did.

But you still kept the lighter.

Just in case.

.

One evening, he pulled a fast one on you.

You were sitting alone in the library, curled into the corner of your favorite window seat with a book in your lap, half-lost in the pages. Your hair was pulled back loosely, strands a bit wild from the wind that afternoon, but held together by your trusty hair tie.

Mattheo had been there a moment ago—pretending to study, but mostly just watching you with that unreadable expression he wore when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

And then suddenly— Fingers. Gentle and quick.

He slipped behind you like a shadow, and before you could even register his presence, he plucked the hair tie from your ponytail in one smooth, practiced motion.

Your hair tumbled down around your shoulders, soft waves cascading freely as you gasped and whipped around.

But he was already gone.

All that remained was the faint sound of his laughter disappearing down the corridor.

You found him two floors down, strolling like he hadn’t just committed a crime of war against your scalp.

“Mattheo!” You called, breathless and irritated—more flustered than anything else.

He spun around with that devilish grin that made you want to slap and kiss him all at once. “What?” He said, all faux innocence, “I’m sentimental.”

You shot him a look—equal parts annoyance and barely hidden affection—that made his heart stutter. It was the kind of look that made him want to drop to his knees just to hear you laugh.

“You’re a kleptomaniac.” You said, marching up to him.

Mattheo held up the hair tie, lazily looping it around his fingers before slipping it around his wrist like a bracelet. “It’s not stealing if it’s love,” He quipped, “Now I’ve got something of yours, too.”

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed, “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” He murmured, stepping close enough for his breath to tickle your skin, “You still love me.”

You rolled your eyes but let him steal a quick kiss anyway. Just a brush of his lips against yours. Then you turned on your heel and walked away before he could get even more smug.

But later, at breakfast, you noticed.

He sat with his chin resting in his hand, pretending to listen to Theo ramble about god-knows-what, while the fingers of his other hand fidgeted absently with your black hair tie. Twisting it. Letting it snap against his wrist like a grounding tether.

You saw how he kept it during exams. How he twisted it when he was anxious. How his shoulders always relaxed a little more with it there.

You never asked for it back.

.

It was early spring, the air fresh with promise and the world just beginning to wake. You and Mattheo had slipped away from the noisy halls of Hogwarts, finding a quiet spot near the edge of the Forbidden Forest where wildflowers grew in soft clusters.

You spotted the tiny blue blossoms first—forget-me-nots, fragile and delicate, like little pieces of the sky nestled in the grass. Their soft petals seemed to glow faintly in the dappled sunlight.

Without a word, you bent down and carefully picked one, holding it between your fingers like a secret—its slender stem cool against your skin.

Mattheo watched you with that rare softness in his eyes, his usual guarded expression melting away just enough to let you see the boy beneath the bravado.

You stepped closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the dark curls at his temple as you tucked the forget-me-not behind his ear. The vivid blue popped beautifully against the deep shade of his hair.

“You look pretty good in blue, Matty,” You teased, voice warm and a little breathless, “Pity you weren’t smart enough to get into Ravenclaw.”

He smirked, one brow arching, “Smart enough to land you, thank you very much. Besides, I prefer being underestimated.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up like a melody he wanted to bottle and carry with him forever, “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

And then, to your surprise, he didn’t brush the flower away. He just stood there, letting you lean in again—tucking more blossoms into his hair, weaving them gently between his curls. Blue and lavender and a soft yellow bloom, until he looked like something half-wild, half-divine. He only rolled his eyes once, but never told you to stop.

“They’ll think I’ve gone soft.” He muttered, not bothering to hide the fond smile twitching at his lips.

You tilted your head, mock-serious, “They’ll think you’ve finally gotten taste.”

He didn’t take the flowers down. Not when you walked back together. Not when you kissed him goodbye just outside the castle, fingers brushing over his hand like you didn’t want to let go.

But as the stone walls of Hogwarts came back into view, and the sounds of students filtered into the air again, reality sank in.

Your relationship was still a secret — something held in the quiet, in shadows and stolen spaces. Not because you were ashamed, but because the world wouldn’t understand. Because in the daylight, things were louder, crueler, more complicated.

So Mattheo paused, just before you stepped into view of the courtyard. His fingers reached up slowly, brushing through his curls, dislodging the little blooms one by one.

He didn’t look at you as he did it — maybe because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

By the time you reached the castle steps, his hair was bare again. No trace of the wildflowers you’d threaded there with so much affection. Just the same dark, unruly curls — and the carefully unreadable expression he wore so well.

But the forget-me-not? That one he kept. The first one you tucked behind his ear — soft, sky-blue, and still warm from your touch.

He palmed it quietly, slipping it into his jacket pocket like something far more precious than it looked.

Later that night, once the castle had gone quiet and his dorm was dark, he pulled it out again. Held it in the moonlight. Turned it gently between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.

Then, like a secret he meant to keep safe forever, he slid it between the pages of a book and tucked it into the drawer beside his bed.

.

The first time you knew something was wrong, Mattheo flinched when you touched his arm.

It was late — one of your usual hidden meetups by the Black Lake. The sky was an ink spill overhead, stars scattered and silent. He’d been jittery the entire night. Pacing. Checking behind trees. Lighting a cigarette only to toss it into the water before even taking a drag.

You reached for him, “Mattheo, what’s going on?”

He looked at you like he wasn’t really seeing you — his eyes wide and distant, jaw clenched like he was holding something in his mouth that tasted like blood.

“My father’s coming to Hogwarts,” He said quietly, “Not officially. But… he’s been asking questions.”

You felt the cold seep into your chest like water through fabric.

“About you?” You asked, voice hollow, “About us?”

Mattheo hesitated — just long enough to make the answer obvious.

“He can’t know anything,” He said, “But he’s… suspicious. He doesn’t like when I get distracted. When I get soft.”

Your breath hitched, “You’re not soft, Mattheo. You’re—”

“I am with you,” He said, voice breaking, “And that’s the problem.”

After that, things changed.

He didn’t say he was pulling away — he just did. His touches grew shorter, his presence tighter, like he was wound up and couldn’t afford to unravel. He still showed up, but his eyes darted constantly — over your shoulder, into the shadows, like he was always expecting someone else to be there.

Then one night, he didn’t come at all.

You waited at your usual place for over two hours, fingers frozen and heart pacing.

When he finally appeared, it was nearly morning. You were curled on the stone steps of the Owlery, eyes red from cold and fear and something worse.

“You can’t just vanish on me.” You hissed, standing up the moment you saw him.

“I was in detention—”

“You’re lying.”

And his silence confirmed it.

Then, suddenly — he did something he hadn’t done in weeks.

He stepped forward, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last time. Like the world was ending and you were the only thing left worth saving. It was desperate, deep, a confession poured through parted lips.

When he pulled away, his shoulders were shaking.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“No,” You said immediately, because your heart already knew where this was going, “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Please,” He whispered, “You’re the only person I trust. The only one I—”

He stopped himself. Swallowed. Opened his eyes again — and this time, you saw it. Pure terror.

You backed away, “So your solution is to make me forget?”

“Not you,” He said quickly, desperate, “Me.”

You stared at him, stunned, “Mattheo—”

“If my father reads my mind—if he sees you—he’ll come for you. He won’t ask questions. He won’t give you time. He’ll just… take you.”

Your voice cracked, “You know how to protect your mind—Occlumency, you’ve been practicing—”

“It’s not enough,” He said, quietly, “Not against him. Not forever.”

“You know how to do it,” He added, “You’re brilliant. You always have been.”

“That’s not the point!” You cried, “You won’t remember me. Us. Anything.”

“I’d rather forget you than bury you.” He said.

And that was when the tears came.

“I don’t want to,” He choked, “But it’s the only way. You know it is.”

And deep down… you did.

You waited. Waited for him to change his mind. To reach for you and say never mind, say run away with me, say I’ll figure it out.

But he didn’t.

He just closed his eyes.

And nodded.

Your wand trembled in your hand.

He reached forward, gently brushing your hair back behind your ear — his touch unbearably tender.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “If things were different—”

“Don’t,” You said, stepping back, your voice a broken whisper, “Please don’t.”

And with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, with your throat tight and your chest split open, you raised your wand.

You didn’t even need to say it loud.

“Obliviate.”

The moment the light faded, you knew you’d made the wrong choice.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

And then… his eyes didn’t settle on you. They moved right past you, like you weren’t even there. Like you were just another shadow in the morning fog, barely even looking at you as he walked away, not saying another word to you.

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

You dropped your wand and cupped a hand over your mouth, falling to your knees before your legs could even register it. The sob tore out of you like a wound — raw and keening and endless.

Why had you listened to him?

Why hadn’t you fought harder?

Why hadn’t you told him you loved him one last time?

Why hadn’t you heard him out — really heard him — when he tried to tell you about his dreams of a different life?

Now you were all alone, doubled over on the stone floor, sobbing into the fabric of your robes, fingers clutching the last thing you had left of him—

His lighter.

Still warm from his pocket.

Still heavy with everything he forgot.

.

Mattheo staggered back a step, like he’d been hit.

You looked up at him, panic flaring in your eyes as you noticed the way he stared — wide-eyed, horrified, stunned. You immediately closed the lighter in your palm, like the damage hadn’t already been done.

"Mattheo..." You whispered, voice barely audible.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might stop entirely.

"You," He said, voice cracking, trembling with something raw, "You—"

You stood quickly, as if trying to close the space between you might somehow take it all back, “It’s not what you think—”

"Don’t," He cut you off sharply, eyes bright with something too painful to name, “Don’t lie to me right now. Please.”

You glanced down at the lighter still clutched in your hand — tarnished silver, the initials worn smooth, familiar in a way you could never explain away. Your throat burned. Your heart twisted. The thought of letting it go felt like tearing your soul from your body.

But your fingers moved anyway.

You held it out to him, your hand shaking slightly, silently begging — don’t take it. Don’t make me give this up.

"I found it in one of the classrooms," You said softly, voice paper-thin, not meeting his eyes, "If it’s yours... you can have it back."

Mattheo’s expression crumpled. His gaze flicked from the lighter to your face — and stayed there.

Something cracked inside him.

Because now that he really looked at you—he saw everything. The faint glassiness in your eyes. The twitch of your mouth as you tried to keep it from trembling. The hollowness in your expression that matched the ache inside his chest.

Salazar. How had he not seen you?

He'd looked right past you in that classroom. Days ago. Sat barely feet away and missed the way you blinked too fast. Missed the way your shoulders curled inward like you were trying not to fall apart. Missed every detail of the face he used to know better than his own.

How the fuck could he have forgotten you?

The realization hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Had he really let you go without a fight?

Now you were standing here, holding his lighter out like it weighed more than it should, like giving it up might tear you in half. And he could see the way your other hand was clenched behind your back, knuckles white, like you were physically holding yourself back from something—from reaching for him, maybe, or from falling to pieces.

He didn’t take the lighter.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

“I want it back.” He said quietly, voice cracking.

Your hand flinched.

But he wasn’t looking at the lighter anymore.

His eyes dropped to his wrist. Empty.

He remembered now. The hair tie. Black and fraying from how often he used to play with it.

“I want the hair tie back.” He whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mattheo took a step forward. Slowly, carefully, like you might disappear again.

And your hand began to shake.

Your eyes flickered all over his face—his brows, his lips, the curve of his jaw—as if searching for proof, for something to hold onto. And when you finally found it, that flicker of recognition in his eyes, your breath hitched. Your heart began to thump wildly against your ribcage, like it knew what was coming before your mind could catch up.

“Y-You… do you remember—?” Your voice cracked, brittle with hope and fear.

Mattheo's eyes didn’t waver.

“Remember that I’m in love with you?” He said softly, “I could never forget that.”

Your lips parted in a soundless gasp as the words landed. Your eyes filled with tears so fast they spilled over before you could stop them, hot and stinging as they traced down your cheeks. A sob escaped your throat as you closed the distance and threw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder like the world might fall away if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

And then your fist hit his back. Not hard—but enough to make him feel it. Again. And again.

“You horrible man,” You choked out between sobs, “You awful man. You left me alone for so long. You left me alone with all the memories of you. You let me watch as you moved past me without even acknowledging me—while I waited and prayed and begged for you to look at me just once.”

Mattheo clutched you tighter, his own throat thick with emotion, his arms trembling around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “I’m so sorry.”

And he meant it—meant it with everything he was. Because now he could feel what he’d been missing all this time. Not just the memories. Not just the pain. But you—your arms, your scent, the way your voice broke when you cried, the weight of everything you’d carried alone.

Mattheo clutched you tighter like he was scared you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. His voice trembled as the dam inside him cracked open, everything he’d locked away pouring out with it.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m so—so sorry,” He murmured against your hair, the words shaky and breathless, “I’m sorry for leaving you alone. For making you carry it all by yourself.”

You hiccuped through another sob, your hands bunching the fabric of his shirt, your face still buried in his shoulder as if you were terrified this moment might end.

“I never could forget you,” He continued, voice raw, “Even when I didn’t remember… it was like the essence of you had been interwoven with the very fabric of my soul.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, jaw tight like he was barely holding himself together.

“I was looking for you, even when I didn’t know who I was looking for,” He said, “I saw you in my dreams, I heard your voice in the empty echoes of a room—I felt you there with me. Like my heart remembered you even when my mind couldn’t.”

Your tears came harder at that—relief, grief, love, and anger colliding inside your chest so violently it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

“I thought I was losing my mind,” He whispered, cupping your face like you were the most delicate, precious thing in the world, “Because everything felt wrong without you. Everything.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear.

You were trembling, sobbing quietly as you leaned into his touch, hands clutching his wrists now like you needed to anchor yourself to him.

"Tell me." You whispered, voice trembling, raw. Vulnerable.

Mattheo paused, his breath catching in his throat.

"Tell me what you would do if things were different," You continued, "I asked you to stop that day... but I’ve regretted nothing more."

His features softened—pain flickering across his expression like a ghost. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering there, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“If things were different,” He said, voice hoarse, “I’d announce to the entire world that I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.”

Your breath hitched as his thumb grazed your skin again, so gently it made you ache.

“I’d tie myself to you with an unbreakable vow without a second thought,” He added, his throat tightening painfully around the words, “I wouldn’t hesitate—not for a single second.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely. Hot streaks down your cheeks. But Mattheo was already there, wiping them away as fast as they came, like he could undo the hurt if he just tried hard enough.

“We’d graduate together,” He murmured, “and move into some tiny flat close to your work—something small, maybe a little messy, but cozy. Ours.”

You laughed softly through the tears, already imagining it. He smiled faintly too, the kind of smile that was equal parts love and heartbreak.

“And we’d argue about furniture,” He added, eyes glinting, “Because obviously I’d want dark wood—rich and elegant, fits the whole brooding Slytherin vibe—”

“—and I’d want something light,” You interrupted, a wobbly grin forming, “Warm and soft. Welcoming.”

“Exactly,” He said, voice thick but fond, “We’d compromise. Or maybe I’d just let you win, because seeing you happy would be worth more than being right.”

You let out a shaky breath, and he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’d support you completely as you started your career,” He whispered, “being the househusband of your dreams—your very own doting malewife.”

You laughed again, really laughed this time, and his heart nearly cracked open at the sound. He cupped your face, eyes shining with unshed tears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I’d keep the place spotless, cook you dinner, be there every night when you got home—just to hug you and tell you how proud I am.”

You were crying again. He didn’t try to stop you this time.

“Then once you were settled, really settled... I’d ask you to marry me,” He whispered, “And you’d say yes.”

Your breath caught, and he leaned in closer.

“We’d move far away from here. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere by the sea. And we’d build a life—peaceful, messy, ours.”

He paused, his voice faltering with emotion.

“Maybe we’d have a kid. Or two,” He said, his hand moving to rest gently over your heart, “And we’d raise them right. With kindness. With patience. With love.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking fast.

“We’d give them everything we never had,” He whispered, “We’d give them a home. A real one. One where they never have to question if they’re wanted. Or loved.”

Silence stretched between you—thick with longing and mourning and love that had never really gone away.

And in that quiet, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his once more, tears mixing with his.

“I love you, Mattheo.”

The silence that followed was soft, reverent—like the universe had paused just long enough to let the words sink into the spaces they belonged. Mattheo’s chest rose and fell, his jaw trembling as he took your face in both hands.

“I love you, (Y/N).” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was raw, certain, “More than I can express. More than even I understand.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your eyes searching his. “What now?” You whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment—his gaze steady, intense, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of your face all over again. Then he shook his head with a small, breathless laugh that sounded half broken, half amazed.

“I don’t know,” He admitted honestly, his eyes searching yours, “I really don’t. I thought this plan of mine was foolproof. Now I realize that no magic on Earth could keep me from you.”

His thumb brushed softly along your cheekbone, grounding you in the moment, like he needed you to feel every word.

“But we’ll figure it out,” He murmured, “Together.”

His voice dropped, fierce and tender all at once, “There’s no way I’m ever leaving you alone again.”

And you believed him.

The silence between you was thick with everything unsaid, everything still fragile and aching and hopeful.

You sniffled, tears drying on your cheeks as your lips curled into the ghost of a smile, “You really didn’t get sorted into Ravenclaw, huh?”

He blinked, “What?”

“If you had just thought of all this months ago, we could’ve avoided… well, all of this.”

Mattheo let out a breath of laughter, warm and hoarse. His eyes shone—not just with relief, but with something softer, something that looked a lot like joy. “Brilliant timing’s never been my strong suit,” He said, cupping the back of your head and pulling you gently toward him.

“And yet,” He added, brushing his forehead to yours, “You still love me.”

Then he kissed you—slow and reverent, like a promise being made without words. And you kissed him back, like a vow being answered.

Not perfect. Not finished.

But finally, finally starting again.

***

Bonus (3 years later):

It had taken them months.

Theo had stormed through libraries and pubs, interrogated shopkeepers and old Hogwarts portraits. Draco had used every Ministry connection he had, even bribed a goblin or two. Enzo swore up and down he’d seen Mattheo in Paris (he hadn’t). Blaise exhausted every last connection in his effort to find him.

They were chasing a ghost.

Mattheo had vanished the moment he turned seventeen. No note. No warning. Just gone.

You stayed behind. Finished the year. Graduated. And then disappeared too, vanishing without a trace.

Now, with the war finally over—Voldemort gone, the dust settled—they were left sorting through the wreckage. And only now had the truth surfaced. Mattheo Riddle, the Dark Lord’s son, had been funneling secrets to Dumbledore the entire time. A double agent. A traitor to his bloodline. A hero, some dared to say.

But no one had seen him since.

Until now.

After following a trail of half-clues and rumors, here they were—standing in front of a sun-washed cottage perched on a cliffside in Greece, the Aegean sparkling behind them like a dream.

Theo knocked.

Draco crossed his arms.

“This is ridiculous,” Enzo muttered, “We should still be checking those shady pubs in Transylvania. That prat always wanted to go drag racing there.”

The door creaked open—and there you were.

Their jaws collectively dropped.

“Hi,” You said, startled but steady. A little older, a little different—but still unmistakably you, “Can I help you?”

“I know you,” Draco said, snapping his fingers, “You’re that Gryffindor girl—the one who used to creepily stare at Riddle.”

Your mouth fell open. Creepily? Really?

Then, from deeper inside the house:

“Love? Who’s at the door?”

Mattheo’s voice.

Their hearts stopped.

Before anyone could react, he stepped into view—shirtless, barefoot, hair messy and eyes half-lidded from sleep. He froze when he saw them.

Theo blinked like his brain wasn’t catching up. Blaise muttered something about hallucinations. Draco looked ready to demand blood. Enzo just pointed, wide-eyed.

“Mate,” He said slowly, “what the actual fuck.”

Mattheo ran a hand through his hair and exhaled like he’d just been hit by a Bludger, “Wow. Okay. This is... unexpected.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” You whispered, nudging him, “Invite them in!”

“…Right. Uh—come in. I guess.”

The four of them stepped inside cautiously, like crossing the threshold of something sacred. The living room was cozy and sunlit, scattered with books, candles, and—

“Hold up,” Enzo blurted, pointing at a pastel blue baby onesie draped over the arm of the couch, “What the hell is that?!”

Mattheo’s mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again.

Before he could say anything—

A soft, high-pitched wail echoed down the hallway.

And it hit them all like a Bludger to the head.

Theo staggered back. Blaise grabbed the bookshelf for support. Enzo looked like he was about to pass out. Draco let out a strangled “No fucking way.”

You sighed, unfazed, and brushed past them all toward the hallway, “I’ve got him, don’t worry.”

Mattheo watched you go, rubbing the back of his neck, caught somewhere between pride and panic.

The room was silent for a beat before Theo finally broke it, voice rough:

“Mattheo. Riddle.”

He turned slowly, lips twitching with a smirk.

“You have a baby?!”

“HOW?!” Enzo yelled.

Mattheo deadpanned, “Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Draco and Blaise snapped in perfect unison.

Before anyone could add another word, you reappeared—cradling a sleepy, blinking infant in your arms.

His dark curls were mussed from sleep, one tiny fist clutched near his face, eyes fluttering as he took in the unfamiliar faces. He had Mattheo’s wild hair, the same furrowed brow, and—when his lashes finally lifted—the same stormy, soul-piercing eyes as his father.

“This is Leo.” You said gently.

Draco went rigid, color draining from his face. He pointed an unsteady finger between you and Mattheo.

“I think—I’m—oh Merlin—I think I’m having a heart attack. I need to sit down.”

Blaise put his head in his hands and groaned, “I can’t believe I crossed international borders for this.”

***

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[mediocre--writing]

veritaserum - mattheo riddle

summary: when mattheo drinks veritaserum on a bet, he's confident he doesn't have anything to hide... until you show up.

word count: 3.1k

a/n: gosh i love this messy boy. just a little something sweet + fun!

"I don't know... shouldn't we save it for something... important?"

"Like, what Blaise?" Malfoy responded, exasperated.

"Yeah, got any plans you want to share?" Theo asked.

"All ears, bud" Mattheo joined in.

Blaise threw his hands up. "Fine, fuck it, do what you want with it" he said, resigned, referring to the small vial in Malfoy's hand that had the group's rapt attention as they huddled in the corner of their dormitory like they were first years at a sleepover.

"We should put it in somebody's goblet at dinner."

"We should slip it into Dumbledore's cup, Merlin knows what the geezer would say."

Theo got a wicked look on his face, "I'll give any of you lot 100 galleons to drink it."

Eyes widened around their circle at that.

"You're joking."

"Piss off."

"No, listen to me, we think we know everything about each other, don't we?" Theo continued, letting the sentiment linger "Which means the things we don't know are deep."

He grabbed the vial from Malfoy and dangled it in front of them; Veritaserum, the most powerful truth serum in the wizarding world, even having it in their possession was breaking about 15 Ministry laws.

Members of the group stared shiftily at one another, but Theo found Mattheo's gaze staring boldly at him as he leaned casually against his four-poster, a smirk on his face.

"Make it 200 and you've got yourself a deal" Mattheo grinned.

Snickers of laughter took the group as they punched one another in amusement and excitement.

"Bottoms up" Theo said, tossing the vial at him.

"I've got nothing to hide" Mattheo replied with an air of emblazoned confidence as he deftly popped the cork and threw the liquid back like a shot of firewhiskey before anyone could stop him.

It didn't taste like anything other than water, and for a moment Mattheo thought this was the easiest 200 galleons he'd ever make, but then he felt a sort of bubbling in his chest, like every feeling, every sentence he'd ever held back wanted to burst forth.

"...Well?" asked Malfoy, cautiously, leaning in, "How do you feel?"

"Bloody weird" Mattheo said, looking down at the empty vial in his hand. "And apprehensive, like I definitely don't want you to ask me things." His eyes widened at the words that had come so truthfully and vulnerably out of his mouth before he could stop them, suddenly realizing that he'd made a horrible mistake.

Theo was howling with laughter, leaning in and rubbing his hands together as he got ready to obliterate his best friend for being so cocky; he was going to make every galleon worth it.

"Did you take Blaise's Chudley Cannons scarf last term?" he asked.

"Yup, sold it to a fifth year for a bag of weed— SHIT" Mattheo said quickly, eyes wide before slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Mate, what the fuck?—" Blaise started, but Theo was on a tear.

"—Did you cheat off of Lorenzo's potions exam this week?"

"Of course" Mattheo admitted, the words blasting by his hand, "I've been doing it since fourth year, his handwritings the size of my fist, thanks for that by the way" he said, looking at Enzo.

"Prego, amico" Lorenzo said smiling and shrugging, "happy to help."

"Alright then" Blaise said, the anger and frustration clear in his voice as he eyed Mattheo, "better own up, didn't you slip McLaggen a galleon to let Theo score on him last match?"

"Yeah, fuck, and I'm not sorry about it. I'm tired of hearing Theo piss and complain about losing when he barely shows up to practice and lets the rest of us down."

"OOHHH!" shouted several of the guys.

"Fucking harsh mate!!"

"What the fuck?!?" Theo shouted angrily as he lunged for Mattheo and the others tried to hold him back.

Amidst the shouting and commotion, they didn't hear you knock on the door.

"Guys?" you asked, raising your voice to be heard.

Five heads turned your way as they stopped mid-brawl and began to stand up and right themselves, adjusting their ties and smoothing their robes. For his part, Mattheo's heart nearly shot out of his chest. No, no no no not right now he thought as you pushed your way into their room. On any other occasion he'd be thrilled to see you, but now the bubbling in his chest was reaching its peak at the sight of his deepest, most tightly held secret: you, and every single thing he felt about you.

He took in your amused smile, the light laughter on your lips, the way it made your eyes sparkle and he felt his palms tingle with sweat as he grasped them into fists and swallowed deeply, like he could ingest his own thoughts. You were his best friend, had been since the moment he met you on his first train ride to Hogwarts and he had no illusions about ruining your friendship by trying for anything else; girls like you didn't end up with guys like him.

"Are you alright?" you asked, looking at him strangely before his friends chimed in for him.

"S'fine!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

"Never better!"

"What do you need, love?"

"I am NOT fine!" Mattheo said boldly and rather loudly before he could stop himself and your eyes shot to him with concern.

"Wait, what's wrong Matty?" you asked, using the nickname he only tolerated coming from you.

He pursed his lips tightly and shook his head, averting his eyes to the floor, physically warring with the words that were flooding his subconscious.

What's wrong? A lot of things are wrong, YN. For starters, I love you. I love you so much it physically pains me to spend as much time as we do together and not to grab your hand, to pull you onto my lap, to nuzzle into your neck, to kiss you; I have a list of things I want to do to you every time I see you. Especially in that godsdamn skirt you're wearing. It's my favorite. You should know that. And I wish you would stop wearing it, you have no idea the ways guys look at you. I wish you'd wear it only for me. I wish you'd want me the way I want you, because I want you so badly. I wish you were mine, but I'm scared, no, fucking terrified of the way I feel about you because love is vulnerability and vulnerability is weakness and I can't tell you any of this so please, please don't ask me anything and please, please stop looking at me like that.

"Matty?" you asked again, now thoroughly concerned as your best friend slammed his hands over his ears as you walked towards him.

Theo was burning hot with anger, stewing over what Mattheo had said about him, he wanted to take him down a notch, to embarrass him in return. "Admit it" he interrupted, staring at Mattheo "you have a thing for Pansy and you've tried to make a move on her even though she's with Draco."

You stopped short of approaching Mattheo and stared at Theo.

"What?" you whispered, feeling physically ill, jealous and hurt even though you had no such right.

Mattheo straightened up and glared at Theo.

"What the fuck did you just say?!" Draco said, brushing past you as he came for Mattheo.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Theo pushed further, so smug, so certain he was right.

"No you fucking prat" Mattheo spat at him.

Draco grabbed Mattheo by the front of his robes. "You swear it, you haven't made a move on her?"

"I swear it."

"Not even before we were dating?" Malfoy pressed.

"Not even before you were dating" Mattheo confirmed.

"What the fuck is going on?" you said, exasperated, almost to yourself as you tried to calm down.

"Veritaserum" Blaise said by way of explanation as he leaned in to be heard over the continued shouting of your friends. "Theo bet one of us to drink it and, well..." he said, gesturing his hand by way of explanation at the calamity in front of you.

Malfoy was shouting questions at Mattheo who looked genuinely surprised if not annoyed, and Enzo was looking back and forth at them like it was a tennis match. Theo had a deeply skeptical look on his face as he listened on, "No, you're always weird around Pansy and YN though, I thought..." then, like a lightbulb went off, Theo looked at you, to Mattheo and back again.

"Do you think Pansy's hot?" Malfoy continued.

"Bro, give it up" Blaise said finally, stepping to pull him back, "I think you're in the clear."

"I mean yeah she's hot, but she's not my type. FUCK!" Mattheo replied, rubbing a hand over his face at the admission.

"She's not, but YN is" Theo said finally.

Mattheo bit his bottom lip and stared at the floor, concentrating very hard on the tassels of the rug beneath his feet as he shook his head, a grimace on his face.

Your heart trilled in your chest, which was literally rising and falling in both panic and excitement. Mattheo was shaking his head no, but his whole body was fighting something, there was something he didn't want to say... about you.

"So, she's not your type? Not attractive to you at all?" Theo pushed.

Mattheo's face was turning a dark shade of red as pursed his lips closed and shook his head vehemently, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, his own nearly watering with the exertion of fighting the potion within him.

"Totally platonic? Didn't give a shit when Seamus Finnegan asked her out last term?"

Mattheo glanced at Theo, gathering himself, as he tried desperately to say the only truth he wanted to share. "He's a prick, no secret I didn't think it was a good idea—"

"—You never told me that" you said quietly, confused, and not a little bit angry. "But you avoided me for a few weeks after, I remember..." you said, trailing off as you stepped closer to him, and Mattheo's looked genuinely afraid, outstretching his hands to stop you from coming any closer.

"What don't you want to say?—"

"—I don't want you here right now!" he said loudly.

You physically reared back at the harshness of his words. You caught his eye, trying to communicate the way you often did with one another, to ask things that could only be said without words, but you got nothing in response.

"R-Right" you said, your voice wobbling as you turned to leave, thoroughly embarassed.

And the sound of it nearly broke Mattheo's heart.

"Wait, wait, I didn't meant it like that, I don't want you to be upset, please don't be upset" he said, moving to reach for your hand urgently, the unmasked care and compassion in his voice making you turn and making Draco and Blaise bat at each other's arms in excitement like school girls at the scene unfolding in front of them.

"I don't want you to hear my truth" Mattheo said quietly, and just like that it was just the two of you, you who knew more than any of these idiots, you knew about Blaise's scarf (you had told him not to sell it), about him cheating in potions and paying off McLaggen, but even you didn't know his most deeply held secret and this isn't how he wanted it to come out.

"Please" he begged, in way none of his friends had ever heard him speak before.

"I just... I thought I knew all of your truths?" you said vulnerably, your chin wobbling, saddened at the idea that there was a part of him you didn't know.

"You don't. I'm sorry" he said simply.

"But they get to hear them?" you said, gesturing towards your friends.

"No, they don't know them either."

"What would be so bad that you wouldn't want anyone in your life to know, Matty?"

He bit his tongue as he tilted his head. "It isn't bad. I didn't say it was bad" he said.

You could tell he was playing with you, selectively choosing his words. Your curiosity piqued as you turned to face him fully with your arms crossed.

"What don't you want us to know?" you asked.

"How I — FUCK — feel — mmhmm" he tried to physically shove the words back into his mouth, clapping his hands over his mouth again as his body betrayed him.

Theo stepped forward, trying to pry his hands back. "Say it!" he said.

Mattheo tried to wiggle out of his grasp, the two of them thrashing back and forth.

"C'mon mate, time to earn those galleons! Cough it up! How you feel about what?" and Theo yanked Mattheo's hands away from his mouth just long enough for Mattheo to all but shout:

"HER!" he said, loudly, pointing to you. "About YN. I — FUCK — fucking love her."

You could have heard an owl feather hit the floor.

"Oh shit" Malfoy whispered.

Theo took a step back as he realized the enormity of what he'd just done. He'd thought Mattheo had a little crush on you, I mean, didn't they all? He thought it was just a bit of fun. But love? He'd know Mattheo for 7 years and he never so much as heard him say the word, let alone direct it at another person, in fact he knew just how much the concept had been beaten out of him as a child.

"Mate, I'm—" he started.

Mattheo glared at him in way that reminded you for a moment about the family he came from, and it was the first time you'd ever seen Theo genuinely afraid as the smile dropped from his lips and he took an unconscious step back.

"Fuck you" Mattheo said, stepping towards him, the measured control in his voice somehow more frightening than the alternative. "You always take shit too far, you know that? That's why—"

"—Matty?" you said, your quiet whisper and the questions that lingered behind it tugging at his heart and pulling his attention back to you.

He met your eyes and the fury he felt at Theo dissolved in an instant, like it had apparated from the room, because the way you were looking at him was an expression he'd only seen in his dreams. You didn't look angry or confused, you weren't laughing or embarrassed, the sparkle in your eye was back and a soft smile rested on your lips, your eyes were blown wide, hopeful even, with a hint of something else underneath that had a sensation like melted honey spreading throughout his entire body.

"Can we maybe talk... outside...?" you asked.

"Yes, for the love of the gods" he said, walking quickly to your side, letting his hand rest gently at your back, the intimate gesture not lost on anybody as your friends wolf-whistled and snickered and he flipped them the finger over his head.

Now that the truth was out, there was nothing stopping the words that flew out of Mattheo's mouth as you led him to a nearby secluded corridor.

"I really want to talk to you about this" he said, the moment you were outside of the dormitory, "I am so embarrassed that it came out that way, that's not at all how I wanted to tell you, well, I didn't want to tell you at all, I was terrified actually. I've liked you for a long time, really since the first day we met, do you remember? On the train? You were wearing that blue jumper, you smelled like cinnamon and vanilla... You always smell so fucking good—"

You laughed as you pulled him with greater urgency by the hand away from prying eyes as he continued to ramble on, the truth serum creating a veritable waterfall of words out of his mouth.

"—You're so fucking beautiful, I love your hair, your eyes, your smile, your nose... that sounds weird, but it's true, it's so fucking cute—"

"—Mattheo" you said, as you stopped, placing your hands on his chest and pressing him gently against the stone wall to get him to slow down. "Breathe."

He shook his head.

"No, it's out now, and I don't know how long this shit lasts and if I don't say this stuff now, I'm not sure I'll ever have the balls to say it to your face, I've held onto this for 7 years YN."

Your lips curled into a small pout at how sweet he was being, at the idea that your best friend had been pining for you since you were 11 years old.

"I love you" he continued breathlessly, "and not like a little bit. Like, a lot. I don't know..." he said, carding his hand through his brown curls, "I've never felt this way about anyone, anything. I'm all consumed with you. You're the only thing I think about, the only girl I want, I'd do anything for you. And I'm sorry if this is going to totally wreck our friendship, if you want things to stay the way they are, I will try my level best—"

But his words were cut short as you pressed your lips to his, capturing his truth, letting it wash over you, every word you had been desperate to hear, every thought you'd shared the same. It surprised him for only a second before his hands grasped your face and he pulled you further into him.

"You're fucking perfect" he whispered after a moment, his eyes dancing over your features.

"Remind me again why I didn't give you veritaserum like years ago?" you said, smiling against his lips.

"It's a felony?" he said, laughing.

"...Right" you said, laughing back.

You were only gone a few minutes, but as you scurried back to the dormitory you tried to fix your hair, and wipe the lipgloss off of Mattheo's face as he smiled down at you with puppy dog eyes.

"They're going to lose their mind" you said quietly just outside the door, "let's just play it cool, alright?"

And before he could respond that there was no way on earth he could possibly do that, you pushed the door open and all conversation stopped.

"...Alright?" Theo asked, turning to face you both, nervous at the potential mess he may have caused.

"Fine, we were just talking—"

"—She macked me!!" Mattheo shouted truthfully with a huge grin on his face as he wrapped his arm around you.

You gasped and swatted at him playfully, your cheeks blushing a rosy pink as your friends erupted into cheers, hoot and hollers, descending on you both as Mattheo looked down at you, glowing, happier than you could ever remember seeing him.

taglist: @girllblogging777, @iamdnb, @bookworm124, @zatannasrealgf, @r-a-c-h-e-l

[mediocre--writing]

concussions and interruptions au m.list

ˋ°•*⁀➷ navigation

꩜ smut ❀ fluff 𖤓 angsty/angry 𖤐 funny

synopsis: when you accidentally meet harry's parents for the first time, they quickly learn that you're a very sweet girl, but you have a very complicated family. slytherin!reader

✩ concussions and interruptions - You aren’t expecting to meet Harry’s parents for the first time while you share an intimate moment in the hospital wing after he sustains another quidditch injury (❀𖤐)

✩ after curfew - you and harry seem to forget his godfather is doing rounds when you sneak out after curfew (❀𖤐)

✩ it's a date - when harry and his parents see you in diagon alley, they are surprised to see the sudden change in behaviour you have at your parents' presence. but that won't stop harry from getting his kiss.

✩ heavy dresses, tight corsets - in the guise of having a sleepover with daphne, you go over to harry's house, where you can finally take this stupid dress off.

✩ people are watching - it seems that you begin to care less and less who gets to see the true side of your parents. and apparently, so do they. COMING SOON!

✩ the talk - when james potter catches you and his son making out in his bedroom, he excitedly goes to tell his wife. but he isn't expecting her to call you both down for a talk no one can take seriously. COMING SOON

[mediocre--writing]

✶ 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝: 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

poly!wolfstar x fem crouch!reader.

tags: slight nuances to lovers. angst and fluff

content warnings: violence, blood and death mentions. traumatic childhoods and abusive parents are major plot points as well as smoking.

series moodboard

𖦹 one — warfare: When Dumbledore calls for an emergency order meeting, everyone gathers expecting bad news, what they encounter is far more surprising. 

𖦹 two — missions: When Dumbledore personally assigns one of the Crouch twins to help Remus and Sirius destroy one of the horcruxes, they expect the task to be nearly impossible to accomplish. What actually happens is much more complicated. 

𖦹 three — feelings: A side quest between you and your brother uncovers new information for the Order, and the mixed feelings you had been harboring in secret come to the surface after a long night

𖦹 four — arrangement: The Order takes radical measurements to ensure your safety. The solution? Dividing you and Barty in different safe houses. The problem? You now have to live under the same roof as Sirius and Remus.

𖦹 five — plans: Amidst a close fall out between the Crouch twins and preparations for one last mission to end the war, Sirius and Remus find themselves growing more attached to you.

𖦹 six — change of heart: The full-moon brings a change of heart for you, Remus and Sirius. But not every realization comes with happy endings.

𖦹 seven — conversations: In the wake of your arrest, the Order must scramble to come up with a plan to free you from the claws of your father. Meanwhile, chaos ensues at the Ministry.

𖦹 eight — revelations: On the day of your trial, threats are thrown left and right, plans are set and dark secrets are revealed. Now you’re left behind to pick up the remaining pieces of yourself and your heart.

𖦹 nine — doesn’t always mean broken: With your trial over, the consequences of your actions come to hurt you time and time again. But after weeks of waiting for you, Sirius and Remus finally decide to put an end to all your suffering.

✶ 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𖦹 complicated debrief (includes lots of kissing)

𖦹 complicated births (and newfound titles)

more drabbles coming soon !

[mediocre--writing]

Undeniably and Secretly Yours

navigation | main masterlist | rules

James Potter x Slytherin!reader

synopsis: James Potter is in a secret relationship with Y/N, but things spiral when someone mistakes Regulus Black for Y/N’s boyfriend and spreads the rumor around Hogwarts. How far will he go before he can’t take it anymore?

wordcount: 1,663

note: 16+ fluff. will probably do one last part. comment if you want to be tagged <3

part I. part III.

Regulus Black was cornered, and he absolutely hated it.

Literally— his back was pressed against the cold stone wall near the dungeons, arms crossed as he glared at the four boys in front of him: Sirius, Remus, Peter, and... James, who was staring at him with a murderous stare that made Regulus wonder if he ever did something to him.

"How exactly did you find me here?" Regulus deadpanned.

Sirius smirked, tapping his temple with his forefinger. "Great instincts, brother. I'm basically a prophet."

Peter awkwardly cleared his throat, trying to suppress a laugh. Remus, awkwardly standing beside him, scratched his head with the same hand that was holding the Marauder's Map.

"What's that?" Regulus pointed at it.

"Nothing." Remus smiled at him.

"Looks suspicious."

"It's just... homework." Remus hummed.

Sirius clapped his hands together. "Anyway—! Regulus, my dear, weird little brother... tell me something. Are you dating Y/n?"

Regulus blinked at him. "What?"

"You heard me. Are you dating Y/n Y/l/n?" He stepped closer.

"Dating? Where did you even—?"

James's jaw clenched, and his grip on his wand tightened.

"You're lying." Sirius pointed an accusatory finger at Regulus's nose. "You're lying through your teeth. You're probably snogging her behind the dungeons, don't you?"

Regulus gave him a disgusted look. "Why would I snog someone in the dungeons? That's unsanitary."

Peter snickered under his breath. James still hadn't moved or spoken— he just kept...staring. His left eye was twitching a little.

"Come on," Sirius whined. "Are you two or aren't you? Spill, Reg."

"If you're insinuating that we're together, then you're delusional."

Sirius gasped dramatically.

"We're just close. Is it so unbelievable that I have friends? Do you need me to draw a diagram?" Regulus shot back, clearly irritated.

Sirius, undeterred, leaned in again. "So, is she single?"

James's head snapped to look at him with a deep frown.

"I suppose?" Regulus sighed deeply.

"And you're going to ask her out to Hogsmeade this weekend? Valentine's Day is coming up, you know."

Regulus shrugged. "Probably."

PROBABLY?!

Regulus's voice echoed through James's mind like a death toll.

That stupid, little casual shrug haunted him, and he was absolutely losing his mind. He was pacing back and forth in his dorm room, whilst his friends were staring at him. His hair was messy— messier than usual, and he looked like one bad thought away from throwing himself out of the Gryffindor tower.

"Prongs, you gotta tell us what's wrong or else we can't help you solve your problem," Sirius said from where he was sprawled on James's bed, munching on a chocolate frog.

Remus, perched in an armchair, sipped his cup of tea. He hummed thoughtfully while eyeing his friend. He had his suspicions— had them for a while now— but after Sirius's interrogation with Regulus, he connected the dots.

James threw his hands in the air. "I can't!"

"Why not?" Peter piped from the floor.

"Because I just— I just can't!"

"Since when do we keep secrets from each other, huh?" Sirius sat on the bed dramatically. "We're brothers! We solemnly swore and everything!"

"Maybe Prongs isn't ready yet." Remus shot James a knowing look.

"...You cheated on your NEWTs again?" Peter's eyes squinted at James.

"What? No!" James snapped.

There was a beat of silence.

"...You gay?" Peter tried again, dead serious.

"NO!" James cried, absolutely losing his mind because his friends were definitely not helping right now. He let out a wounded groan and flopped onto the couch dramatically. "I'm doomed." He muttered through the cushions.

Meanwhile, in his head, a horrible scene was playing on the loop: Regulus, all intimidating and handsome, cornering you somewhere dark and romantic (and stupid)— asking you to be his date on Hogsmeade on Valentine's Day. You, smiling shyly, will accept it. Regulus will buy you chocolates, give you a plush teddy bear, and kiss your hand like some male lead in a romantic muggle movie.

James almost sobbed at the thought.

"Prongs, you're spiraling." Sirius exchanged glances with Peter.

"We have to do something," Peter whispered.

"What? Like an exorcism?" Sirius whispered back.

"Oh, Merlin, it's like the Evans fiasco over again." Peter shook his head, looking at him with pity.

"It's not." Remus walked over to where they were.

"How do you know, dear Moony?" Sirius lightly nudged him in the shoulder.

Remus leaned on the bedpost, looking more smug than usual. "Because, dear friends, I am basically... a prophet."

"Hey, only I get to claim divine intervention around here!" Sirius frowned.

James groaned again from the couch, not lifting his head. "Kill me now."

The library was quiet— eerily quiet— except for the soft flipping of books and quiet murmurs. You and Regulus were tucked away in the far corner of the library, the one spot where the sun hits perfectly, and where Madam Pince rarely bothered anyone.

Regulus sat across from you, flipping a book open, but clearly not reading. "Sirius cornered me last night."

You blinked at him. "...What"

"Near the dungeons. Him, Lupin, Pettigrew, and Potter."

Your heart stopped at the mention of James's last name, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you leaned back in your chair. "What did he want now?"

"He interrogated me."

"About?"

"You," He answered flatly. "Apparently, everyone thinks we were dating."

You froze.

Well, that was... unexpected— or expected— given the way people had been whispering lately. But still, James must've heard that, right? You immediately imagined his reaction—probably furrowing his brows so hard it created a crease in the middle of his forehead, pacing around his dorm room, and tearing at his impossibly messy hair.

Sure, teasing him had been fun— I mean, he had the cutest pout. And it wasn't every day James Potter got jealous. Usually, you were the one watching him get tackled by his bunch of admirers, especially after Quidditch matches, while you try not to hex them to oblivion.

But even if it was mildly entertaining, the thought of James— your James— feeling insecure made your heart pinch. James was the most confident, brilliant, and the most adorable human being you'd ever met.

You frowned, lost in thought, until Regulus added something.

"...But then Sirius asked if you were single and if I'd be asking you out on a date."

THUD.

Both of your heads whipped around just in time to see a very disheveled, very pouty James Potter emerging from behind the bookshelf.

"Oh, hello," He said in the fakest, innocent voice he could muster. "Didn't see you two there."

You offered him a small smile when Regulus wasn't looking at you. "Looking for a specific book, Potter?"

"Mhm." James nodded, stepping into your little study area. He stood near you, still indulging himself with the books he couldn't care less about. "Just browsing. Loads of Slytherin energy here, though."

Regulus's eyes narrowed. "Are you following me?"

James blinked. "What? No. I came here for—" He grabbed the nearest book he could find. "—The Joy of Magical Fungus."

A pause.

"Fascinating stuff, really," James added.

Regulus frowned. "...Right."

James waved a dismissive hand. "Don't mind me here... just continue with... whatever you two were doing..."

Regulus turned to you. "Anyway, as I was saying—"

James loudly cleared his throat.

Both of you turned to look at him.

"Itchy throat." James chuckled and cleared his throat once again— this time, more obnoxiously.

"I was saying," Regulus gave a pointed glare at James. "Before I get interrupted—"

"Ahem."

"—Interrupted again, I was going to say I hadn't really considered asking you out, but maybe—"

James took a step closer beside you. This time, he was looming over the two of you. You scratched the back of your neck, trying to suppress the secondhand embarrassment creeping up your spine.

"Do you mind?" Regulus asked, clearly annoyed.

"Not at all," James replied.

"Do you live in the library now, Potter?"

"No. But I do believe in broadening my... intelligence."

Regulus scowled. "You're literally holding that book upside down."

"Am I?" James turned to look at his book.

Regulus opened his mouth to say something, but sighed instead, glancing at his wrist watch. "Whatever. I have class."

You offered him a tight-lipped smile. "Bye, Reg."

As Regulus turned to leave with a confused shake in the head, James casually slipped into the seat next to you.

You raised an amused brow. "The Joy of Magical Fungus?"

"Good stuff," James mumbled. "He was about to ask you out, wasn't he?"

You giggled and went to cup his face. "Hey."

"Hmm?"

"You're so obvious."

James's bottom lip jutted even more. "They all think you're single."

You kissed his pout.

"And worse, they think you're dating Regulus freaking Black."

You kissed the other side of his pout.

"He's not even funny."

Another kiss.

"Or beefy."

One more kiss on the nose. "You done?"

James sighed deeply and finally melted into your arms like a dramatic little spoon. “...Maybe.”

You ran your fingers through his hair gently, the one thing guaranteed to make him stop spiraling.

“Listen to me,” you whispered. “I’m your girlfriend. I like you. I love you when you're pouting, jealous, and dramatic. But also when you're smug and sweet and a bit of a show-off. No one, especially not Regulus, is going to change that.”

James peeked up at you, cheeks pink. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“And maybe,” He added, voice muffled against your sweater, “We could tell people soon. So no one else tries to steal you.”

You smiled. “I thought you wanted it secret for now.”

“I changed my mind,” he huffed. “I’m claiming my territory.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m in love,” James corrected. “It’s worse.”

James's hand tightened around your waist, almost pulling you into his lap. He doesn't even care if people find out about you two right now. He doesn't even care one bit if Regulus walked in on you two suddenly.

Because Regulus couldn't make you feel everything he did.

Not today. Not ever.

©kjhbsies

taglist: @dearmy-diary @kmhbygss @ladycaramelswirl @mao-nuwang

[mediocre--writing]

Rumor Has It

navigation | main masterlist | rules

James Potter x Slytherin!reader

synopsis: James Potter is in a secret relationship with Y/N, but things spiral when someone mistakes Regulus Black for Y/N’s boyfriend and spreads the rumor around Hogwarts. How far will he go before he can’t take it anymore?

wordcount: 2, 376

note: 16+ fluff.

part II. part III.

He was in Gryffindor— the golden boy, Quidditch captain, and this year's Head Boy. She was a Slytherin— sharp-tongued, keen, and entirely off-limits.

James Potter had a reputation to maintain, and people finding out that you and him were dating would spark nasty rumors, ones that could damage both of your standings. So, one night, hidden in the shadows behind one of the castle's staircases, he proposed that you two keep your relationship a secret.

You immediately agreed. You'd never hear the end of it if someone knew, anyway.

But right now, you were perched on James's lap, your back pressed against the cold walls of an unused classroom. The boy kissed you with hunger, like he hadn't seen you for months.

"Missed you so much, love." He murmured against your lips, hands snaking at the nape of your neck, pulling you impossibly close.

You smiled into the kiss, fingers tangling on his messy curls. "We were just in the same class not an hour ago."

"Details, details," He hummed, fingers creeping dangerously close to the hem of your skirt.

Sure, the two of you shared classes. But between the rift of the two houses— Gryffindor and Slytherin— you two were only reduced to stolen glances, shared smirks behind textbooks, fleeting brushes of fingers as you two passed by each other. Moments that meant everything, but looked like nothing, especially under the watchful eyes of his rowdy friends.

The same group that made a habit of declaring an absolute hatred for your house. Who never missed a chance to sneer at Lucius Malfoy or mock Severus Snape. Who would lose their minds if they found out that James Potter, of all people, was sneaking around with a Slytherin girl.

It all happened at last year's Yule Ball after party. Everyone was beet drunk, sneaking in a couple of firewhiskey and muggle beers and alcohols. You found James pissed drunk, staggering through the rose bush before puking out.

You were just trying to get some fresh air, having been suffocated in a room full of intoxicated young adults. You found him slumped against the stone bench, suit disheveled, crown of the night askew.

"Such an unexpected act from a Slytherin like you," James threw a lopsided smirk when you handed him a bottle of water that you just conjured.

"And such an expected act from a Gryffindor like you. So reckless and annoying." You muttered, rolling your eyes at him.

You expected him to leave you alone after that. Act like nothing happened.

But he didn't.

After that night, James couldn't stop seeing you— even when you weren't looking his way. Couldn't help noticing the twist of your mouth when you read, or how you sat in the far corner of the library where the sun always hit the table just right.

You knew who he was. Everyone did. The James Potter. The boy who pined after Lily Evans for six years. So, yes, you were skeptical. You thought it was a prank. A bet. Some stupid Gryffindor game orchestrated by his infamous friends.

But then weeks passed. Months. And he kept showing up. With books. With sweets. With flushed cheeks and sincere eyes. He started learning the little things about you— like how you tie your shoelace twice, or how you hummed when you were stressed.

And eventually, you gave in.

Honestly, your dating life was surprisingly good. Shocking, even. James turned out to be nothing like what you'd expected. He was thoughtful, passionate, and stupidly charming. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. The problem was... well, it was a secret.

You weren't famous, per se. Sure, many people knew of you— top of your year, Slug Club regular, often praised by professors. But your name didn't echo towards the halls— not in a way that James's did. Which was fine. You liked it that way.

Most people would never expect you to be James Potter's secret lover. And that was fine, too. You were secure in yourself. Let them think what they want.

But the thing that pisses you off the most was when everyone still kept teasing James with Lily. It was relentless, to say the least. You've heard about the comments. Even his friends laughed about it, like it was some unshakeable part of his identity. You knew they meant no harm— that it was all good and fun— but Merlin, it gets exhausting. Especially now that both of them were Head Students. The school seemed obsessed with watching their every move.

Still, James never made you feel less. Never made you feel like you're the second best. And you were extremely grateful for that.

Sirius Black, for all his charms and recklessness, has an absolute talent for unknowingly stirring the pot.

"Do you reckon Y/n has a boyfriend?" He whispered during Flitwick's lecture, nudging James with his elbow.

James's head snapped toward him so fast. "What?"

Sirius smirked, "I mean, I know we said not to involve ourselves with Slytherins, but I could turn a blind eye. For her, I'd even forgive Malfoy."

James blinked. He felt his left eye twitch. His internal monologue was screaming.

Over my dead, hexed, and dismembered body.

"Who are you talking about?" Peter leaned in.

"Y/n Y/l/n." Sirius said without missing a beat, eyes still glued to where you sat a few rows ahead, effortlessly answering Flitwick's question. "Slytherin's babe."

James's hand gripped his quill so hard that it snapped in two. Sirius didn't even notice.

Peter let out a snort. "Oh, you're too late."

Sirius and James both turned to him, twin expressions of horror and confusion.

"Word is, your brother beat you to it."

Silence.

"What?" James whispered, his voice unnaturally high, which earned looks from Remus, who had been listening quietly.

"Yeah. Regulus. Everyone's basically saying they're a thing now." Peter shrugged.

James's jaw dropped.

"What? Since when? How did that happen?" Sirius asked.

"I don't know, mate. Probably because he has the same face as yours but isn't annoying?"

Sirius scoffed. "Rude."

James's ears almost turned into a violent shade of red. Regulus? REGULUS?!

Remus finally cut in, trying to hush them when he caught Flitwick casting a suspicious glare at them. He nudged Peter with his foot under the desk.

But James was already spiraling. He barely heard a word of the lesson after that. He just stared straight ahead, occasionally throwing a glance your way.

After class, he wanted to march straight up to you and ask you about this Regulus nonsense. But he couldn't. Not with Sirius bouncing beside him, talking about dinner plans, and not with Peter listing why Regulus "would totally pull."

And definitely not with Andromeda swinging her arm around your shoulder, chatting your ear off, pulling you toward the dungeons with the ease of someone who doesn't have a secret boyfriend fuming five feet away.

James and you just quietly exchanged glances before parting in different ways.

"So, what do you mean by Y/n and Regulus?" James asked once they were in the Gryffindor common room. He tried to sound disinterested, like he was just trying to gossip. "He's a year younger than her."

"So?" Remus sat across from him. "Age doesn't matter. They're both adults."

"W-well, yeah, but—" James tried to explain something, but failed to do so.

"Reg doesn't even have game." Sirius still looked bothered by the thought of his own brother having a romantic interest.

Peter leaned back in the chair. "Maybe he doesn't. But he has the face. Mysterious, brooding, those dark, haunted eyes. He looks like a bloody romance lead in a gothic novel, and Y/n's the artsy type. They probably sit in the library and bond over tragedies."

"Yeah, I'm not gonna lie... they do look good together," Remus added.

James looked at him and frowned. "What do you mean they look good together?"

Remus shrugged, "She looks like the kind of girl who'd fall for someone like him— quiet, witty, and handsome."

WRONG. WRONG. WRONG. WRONG. YOU'RE ALL WRONG. BECAUSE I'M DATING HER, YOU TWATS. James sat there, stewing in silence while his friends continued chatting. He barely said a word that night. Sirius assumed he was just sleepy, and Peter thought it was because of his Head Boy duties. But Remus?

Oh, Remus knew.

Later, when only the two of them were left behind, Remus caught up to James just before he went inside his separate Head Boy dorm.

"Hey," He called. "You dating someone?"

James froze.

"W-what?" He squeaked, trying to laugh it off,

Remus smiled, eyes too knowing. "Just asking. Valentine's day is coming up, after all. Lily might be expecting flowers from you. You know her type."

He winked and turned ahead towards the boys' dormitory, leaving James standing alone.

The next evening, James pulled you from the Great Hall after dinner and dragged you into his dorm, leaving no room for protest. His arm was slung over your shoulder like a possessive man, and now, you were on his bed— more accurately, you were pinned under him while he refused to let you go.

You'd barely managed to shuffle into his oversized Gryffindor Quidditch hoodie before he was already throwing himself at you like a starved dog.

He was quiet, oddly so, his arms wrapped around your waist firmly, his face buried into the crook of your neck. Ocassionally, you can hear him sniff you. He was literally inhaling your existence.

"...James?"

"Hmm..?"

Your brows furrowed slightly, fingers weaving through his dark curls— a trick you knew that would either soothe him or get him to talk. Hopefully both.

"You okay, love?" You asked, concern creeping into your voice. "You've been extra clingy tonight. More than usual. You've been practically attached to my hip like a koala."

He let out a muffled whimper against your neck, something between a grunt and a groan. Then, finally, he lifted his head and looked at you— brown, doe eyes, full pout in swing, and hair flopping boyishly on his head.

"Can I ask you something?" He said, very seriously.

Your fingers paused in his hair. "Of course."

"...Is there something going on with you and Regulus?"

Silence.

You blinked. "Regulus Black?"

James nodded miserably before burrowing his head into your lap.

"Love, what?" You asked, stunned and exasperated.

"I'm just asking." He mumbled. "People are saying things."

You laughed softly. "Okay, well, no. Nothing's going on with us. We're just friends. You know that."

James sat up. "Then why does everyone think you're dating him?"

You blinked again, trying to keep up with the sudden tempo change. His arms were crossed now, cheeks puffed out slightly, and brows drawn together like the cutest angry bear.

You bit back a smile. "I mean... maybe because we're friends and we do study together?"

"But I'm dating you!" He whispered-shouted, pointing at himself. "We've been together for months! Why is he the one everyone thinks you're snogging?"

"Probably because we're hiding this, James." You gestured at the two of you. "Like it's the crown jewels."

He flopped onto the bed with a dramatic groan. "Wormy heard the rumors. And you know he remembers everything and says it out loud like he's reading the newspaper headlines."

You lay down beside him and propped your head on your hand. "Okay... and what did he say?"

"That you and Regulus make sense. That you're both dark, mysterious, and brilliant, and pretty—"

You chuckled.

James glared at you. "And Moony agreed! He said you probably like quiet boys who look like they cry reading Wuthering Heights under the candlelight. What does that even mean?!"

You were full-on laughing now. "That does sound like Regulus."

James groaned again, rolling to his side so he could look at you. "And then Pads said you're pretty. And I almost popped a vein right there and then."

You gasped feigningly. "Sirius thinks I'm pretty? I must elope with him now."

"Don't joke like that!" He whined again.

You giggled, poking his chest. "I told you before, Regulus was just my friend. I help him with Potions, and he helps me with Charms. That's it. That's all."

James narrowed his eyes, still not convinced. "Are you sure you don't secretly like guys who brood?"

You booped his nose. "I only like you, Potter."

He huffed, a blush slowly creeping to his cheek. "...Really?"

"Yes. My sunshine, loud, chaotic boy."

James looked at you lovingly. But then, he tried to rally again, sitting up slightly. "I'm not jealous, by the way."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." He hummed. "I'm just saying. Regulus is all... poetic and quiet and mysterious and you like books and art and moody stuff—"

You raised a brow. "So... you are jealous."

"I am not!"

"You totally are." You sing-sung.

"Am not!"

"Then why are you pouting?" You teased, reaching over to squish his cheeks.

"I always pout." He grumbled, but didn't resist the affection.

"And why'd you drag me to your bed like a clingy boyfriend who lost his teddy bear?"

"Because I am your clingy boyfriend who lost his teddy bear."

"Aww," You cooed, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "My poor jelly baby."

"I'm not jelly," He said with a pout.

You peppered his face with kisses until he stopped sulking, which only took about eight seconds. You were now situated on his lap, hands cupping both of his cheeks, while his hands were on your waist, pulling you close.

"I like you, James Potter. Not my poetic, sad-boy friend. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Not Peter— although he is very entertaining."

"Thank Merlin." James sighed. "I don't think I could survive if I ever lost you to Regulus. I would become a monk."

"You? A monk? You couldn't go twelve hours without touching me."

He grinned, face buried in your shoulder. "You know me so well."

“I do. So trust me when I say you’re my favorite boy. The loudest, sweetest, most golden-hearted one of all.”

“Even if I don’t read Wuthering Heights?”

“Especially because you don’t read Wuthering Heights.”

James grinned.

And if you caught him muttering mine mine mine mine into your neck while you both fell asleep, you didn’t say anything.

But you definitely smiled the whole time.

©kjhbsies

taglist: @tamprongsobsessor

[mediocre--writing]

“nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”

damn you must suck at cooking. check out some youtube tutorials man. i believe in you.

[mediocre--writing]

need frank to bark at me

SAME. Like sometimes I REQUIRE it. Because sometimes I'm too whiney and like I NEED a fight to just break the flood gates or something.

So if you'd be crabby all day- just picking, picking, picking at any old thing, he'd eventually come at you with "Alright, cut the attitude understand sweetheart?" And not even because it annoyed him, he could tolerate the most. But he knew you were miserable! He knew it was hours of it bubbling up and you wanting to just scream but it was like you needed permission to do it. So Frank would give you that permission.

"I wasn't--" you start, lying through your teeth. You were being insufferable.

"Don't gimme that shit alright? You need to scream, g'head and scream. Stomp your feet. Throw shit for all I care alright? But cut the attitude doll" he replies, his tone direct and firm.

Oooooorrrr there's times when Frank lays on the barking when he's got zero tolerance for some sort of threat or danger.

If you've got one foot on the counter, moments from hoisting your whole body up to reach the baking pan, Frank is bellowing from the other room when he spots you, "HEY HEY!" as he's charging into the kitchen, "Get your ass down from there!"

He's plucking you from the counter before you have a chance to extricate yourself, adding "Go SIT," jamming his finger at the kitchen table and scoffing at you.

[mediocre--writing]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[mediocre--writing]

they invented yearning

[mediocre--writing]

hashtag never killing myself