mriddle-me-this

[mriddle-me-this]

walk him like a dog (s.o.b.)

Pairing: Sirius Orion Black x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Sirius Black has always been a dog—but the thing about dogs? They're loyal to only one person: Their owner

A/N: um this whole fic is just me calling sirius a dog so be prepared for that

credits to @cursed-carmine for the divider

The locker room buzzed with low voices and nervous energy. Players paced, adjusted gloves, tightened goggles, cracked knuckles. The scent of polish, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air. Green and silver glinted off every surface, and somewhere above, the distant roar of the crowd was beginning to rise.

You stood in front of your team, arms crossed over your chest, chin held high, calm as ever.

And when you spoke, the room snapped to attention.

"Alright. Listen up."

Voices cut off immediately. All eyes turned to you.

“You hit hard. You fly clean. No stunts unless I call them. You’ve worked your asses off for weeks—rain, snow, bruises, broken brooms—and today, it pays off.”

You paced slowly, gaze locking with your Beaters, your Chasers, your Keeper. One by one. Like loading a weapon.

“We’re going to show them—without a single inch of doubt—who’s taking the Quidditch Cup home this year.”

You let that hang, the tension curling in your teammates’ shoulders like springs wound tight.

Then your voice dropped, sharp and cutting:

"We're going to send those bleeding badgers crying back to their mummies."

That broke the tension. Laughter and jeers rippled through the room, players bumping shoulders, fists meeting palms with dull thuds of anticipation.

You smirked.

Held out your hand.

“Let’s turn those badgers black and blue.”

One by one, gloves slammed down over yours.

“Slytherin!”

You were carried into the infirmary without protest by Mulciber, allowing him to gently lower you onto the bed. Without saying much else, you interlaced your fingers neatly over your lap, settling in as you waited for Madam Pomfrey to arrive.

She seemed preoccupied with the other beds, where four more occupants were already receiving care.

“Nasty fall, (L/N)?” Potter’s voice broke through the quiet, a teasing edge to it, “Would hate for you to miss out on Quidditch for the rest of the season.”

You smirked, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter? But sadly, no—just caught a nasty Bludger to the side when I grabbed the Snitch. So, I guess you Lions have no choice but to lose to us eventually.”

Your eyes flicked past him to the bed beside where Remus Lupin lay, looking far worse off than the rest of the Marauders—pale and sweaty, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Without realizing, your lips pouted, curiosity flickering as you wondered what had gone wrong to land all four of them in the hospital wing.

Before you could study his wounds more closely, your line of sight was blocked by another presence.

Black.

Compared to the others, he looked almost unharmed, hands on his hips as he stared down at you with a cocky smirk.

“You haven’t given me an ounce of your attention, princess,” He said, voice dripping with amusement, “Only bantering with my best mate and mooning at Moony. Should I be offended?”

“Wasn’t aware I owed you my attention, Black.”

His grin widened. Typical.

It wasn’t the first time your sharp tongue had reeled him in like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sirius Black didn’t know how to leave well enough alone—and you had no intention of making it easy for him.

Merlin, he lived for it.

Before he could come up with something clever in return, Madam Pomfrey appeared at your side with a soft cluck of her tongue and a no-nonsense look in her eyes.

“Caught a Bludger, did you?” She muttered, her tone clipped as she summoned a vial and some bandages from a nearby shelf, “You lot play like it’s war.”

“I think anyone can admire the dedication to the game, Madam Pomfrey.” You replied mildly.

“Not when it might break your ribs, Miss (L/N).” She snapped.

Then, more gently, “Lift your shirt. Let’s see the damage.”

You didn’t hesitate—casually unbuttoning the lower half of your Quidditch jersey and lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the mottled bruise blooming along your side. It was ugly—deep and dark with angry purple edges, already beginning to swell.

His eyes darted instinctively toward the injury, then immediately away—head turning sharply to the side, jaw tight. His entire body went rigid, as if even the suggestion of your bare skin had turned his brain to static.

You smirked, voice syrup-sweet, “What’s the matter, Black? Shy?”

“I’m many things,” He muttered, ears tinged faintly red, “but I am trying to be respectful. For once.”

Your eyes flicked to him just once. He was still looking away—but his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could feel the heat of his focus even if it wasn’t on your bare skin anymore.

When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron and nodded, “You’ll bruise badly, but the swelling will ease by morning. Try not to exacerbate it for the time being."

"Understood. Thank you." You replied, voice even.

You slid off the edge of the bed with fluid grace, smoothing your jersey back into place with a flick of your fingers.

You nodded once toward her retreating form in quiet thanks, then turned to go.

You were hardly surprised when Sirius followed you out.

After weeks of this little push and pull—this dangerous game you’d both been playing—you weren’t even remotely surprised that he’d finally snapped the leash you’d had so delicately wrapped around his neck.

So now, here you were. Back pressed to the cold, rough stone of a quiet Hogwarts corridor, Sirius’s arms caging you in like he was the predator in this scenario.

But the truth was clear.

You were the one in control.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. You just blinked at him—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. And though your expression was frustratingly unreadable, there was something ghosting over your lips that drove him mad. A smirk that wasn’t a smirk. A glimmer of smugness that you refused to make obvious. It was maddening. Intoxicating.

Had it been anyone else he’d backed into a wall like this, they’d have giggled, blushed, reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair with wide eyes and parted lips.

But not you.

Your hands were tucked neatly behind your back like you were entertaining a child’s tantrum, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Always poised. Always untouchable. Always in control.

And God, it was driving him insane.

What he wouldn’t give to be caught in the eye of your storm—while the world bent and broke around you, you’d remain untouched, divine. He wanted to be yours. Completely. Worshipfully. Pathetically.

“What do you say we stop pussyfooting around and go on a date, (L/N)?” He asked, his voice low and rough with the effort it took to sound casual.

At that, you smiled—finally, a real smile, sly and slow like honey sliding down a knife.

“Sorry, Black,” You said, tone sweet as poison, “I don’t think I’d be interested.”

His brow twitched. “That’s not what you’ve been signalling these past few weeks.” He muttered, leaning in—just enough to try and catch your lips with his. Only to feel your finger press firmly to his mouth, stopping him dead.

He stared at you, lips brushing your fingertip, pupils blown. His breath caught, chest rising sharply. His eyes dropped to your mouth again and he clenched his jaw tight enough to ache—because if he didn’t, he might actually whine. Might beg.

“Why not?” He asked, voice hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper now.

You tilted your head, your smile that of a cat watching a bird flutter too close to the ground.

“I’m a very jealous woman, Sirius,” You said, voice light, playful—deadly, “And I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have you embarrassing me with all your… side chicks.”

He swallowed hard. The words hit like a slap and a caress. His brain fogged. The rush of blood thundered in his ears, and the air between you crackled.

You pouted suddenly, lips pursed in a way that made his knees threaten to buckle. And then—casually, cruelly—you reached up and gave his cheek a light pat.

“Sorry, puppy.”

And with that, you slipped out from under his arm like water through fingers, walking away without looking back.

Sirius stood frozen, throat dry, staring as your hips swayed down the corridor.

Utterly wrecked.

Something changed after that night in the corridor.

Well—he did.

Not immediately, of course. First, he sulked. Dramatically. Unproductively. For a good day and a half.

He spent most of it brooding in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him, ignoring three different girls who tried to sidle up beside him and ask what was wrong. (The fourth didn’t bother asking—just sat herself on his lap. That earned her a single-word dismissal and a truly withering look.)

But after that?

He changed.

The flirting stopped. The lingering touches in alcoves, the smug little smirks in the corridors, the midnight broom closet rendezvous—all gone. He stopped accepting folded notes spritzed with cheap perfume and sealed with lipstick kisses. Stopped tossing winks like knuts. Stopped acting like every hallway was a catwalk and every girl in Hogwarts his audience.

The last girl he even entertained—a sweet, overeager Hufflepuff fifth-year who tried to earn his attention by helping him with Transfiguration homework—had burst into tears when someone joked that she must have “turned him gay.”

He just wasn’t interested anymore.

Because for once in his life, Sirius Black didn’t want meaningless sex.

He wanted you.

And the castle knew it.

Even though you hadn’t spared him so much as a glance since that night in the corridor. Even though you walked past him in the Great Hall like he was furniture.

Everyone still knew.

Which meant, of course, all eyes had turned to you.

Wondering when you’d notice.

Wondering when you’d give in.

Or whether, as Sirius feared most of all…

You never would.

You loved partying.

Loved the bass so loud it rattled your ribs, the way lights flickered like spells mid-duel, the sway of bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You loved shaking ass with your friends, loved the wild screams and clinks of raised glasses. Loved the moments where you stepped back, drink in hand, watching it all unfold—cataloguing the gossip in real time. Who was kissing who. Who shouldn't be. Who’d be crying in the bathroom by midnight.

But there was a distinct difference when the party was thrown in your honor.

The moment you stepped into the Slytherin common room, the room erupted. Cheers ricocheted off the walls, your little black dress catching the green and silver lights just right, and your open jersey—your surname stitched in bold—billowed like a cape.

You’d never been prouder of that name.

Not until Remus’s voice boomed over the speakers earlier that day, full of awe:

“(L/N) has made the miraculous catch of the Snitch—Slytherin wins!”

The memory played over and over in your head as your teammates lifted you onto their shoulders, parading you through the room like the queen you were. You laughed, kissed the golden Snitch in your hand, and smudged your lipstick across it with zero shame.

The party moved on around you, wild and electric, and you eventually found yourself perched on a velvet ottoman, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold with your usual sharpened gaze—until the Marauders appeared.

“Good game, (L/N),” James grinned, raising his cup, “That was some mighty flying. Looking forward to beating you in the finals.”

You scoffed, but smiled, “Thanks, Potter. Though I can’t see you being this cordial when Slytherin mops the floor with you.”

Then your gaze slid to Sirius, who hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come over tonight, Black,” You purred, circling your finger around the rim of your glass lazily.

He grinned, wolfish and easy, “Didn’t want to be just another forgettable face in a crowd of nobodies.”

You chuckled, “Sure you didn’t just forget about me? Busy fending off your admirers, I’m sure.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that drove you mad, “Sweetheart, everyone here knows there’s only one person I have eyes for.”

You were about to volley something back—something sharp and slick and just flirtatious enough to make him twitch—when the atmosphere cracked with a loud crash and an even louder voice.

“IT WAS A FLOP!”

Across the room, Ravenclaw’s captain, Muccullen—clearly drunk and still stinging from his loss today—was making an embarrassing scene.

“I would’ve caught that damn Snitch if the snakes didn’t play dirty!” He barked, sloshing firewhisky onto the carpet.

You barely blinked. Just raised a brow, unimpressed, letting his tantrum unfold like a child kicking their legs in a supermarket.

“(L/N) thinks she’s all that,” He continued, voice rising, “but that stupid bitch just got lucky!”

Now that made your brow twitch.

You weren’t planning to dignify it with a response. But then Sirius was suddenly in front of you, jaw tight, a quiet fury radiating off him like a pulse.

“Watch your mouth.”

Muccullen blinked slowly, swaying. “If it isn’t her mangy mutt,” He slurred, sneering, “You’re just as pathetic, Black. Chasing after her like a dog when she doesn’t even want you. Face it—the only reason she gets anywhere in life or on that bloody broom is ’cause that slag keeps guys like you wrapped around her finger.”

That much was true. Sirius was so tightly wrapped around your finger you could flick it and he’d bark.

Which is why Muccullen shouldn’t have been surprised when Sirius grabbed him by the collar.

You stepped forward then, calm and unbothered, resting a single hand on Sirius’s arm.

“Down, boy.”

His grip loosened—just barely. But it was enough.

You turned your gaze on Muccullen, voice cool and dangerous.

“You really know how to ruin a party, don’t you, Muccullen?” You said smoothly, “I won today because I was faster. Simple as that. You don’t want to get pummeled by Bludgers while chasing the Snitch? That’s a conversation to have with your Beaters. Go sober up. Losing on the Quidditch pitch is one thing. This? This is just pathetic.”

Sirius shoved him back as he let go, and Muccullen stumbled off with the grace of a wounded troll.

You exhaled, turning to Sirius.

And yeah… he looked hot.

Leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a bit mussed. Breathing heavy like he wanted someone to give him an excuse to finish the fight. All for you.

He looked good defending your honor. Too good.

You sipped your drink with finality, “Well. On that note, I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

Sirius visibly deflated, like a puppy who’d been told no to a treat.

“Yeah, my roommates are gonna be partying all night,” You added, giving a theatrical sigh, “Figured I might enjoy the empty dorm for once.”

You nodded to Remus and James—who were both looking equally exhausted and wildly entertained—and started walking toward the staircase.

But you didn’t make it far before glancing over your shoulder.

Sure enough, Sirius was already staring.

You smirked. Winked. And then you lifted your hand, curled a single finger.

Come.

His face lit up. Like Christmas and fireworks and every wish he’d never said out loud just came true.

Behind him, James cackled. Remus shook his head, amused.

“Go on, lover boy!” James shouted, slapping him on the back.

And Sirius? He sprinted.

By the time he caught up, you were outside your dorm, and his arms were already curling around your waist as you let out a soft giggle.

He buried his face in your neck, breath hot, lips brushing your skin.

“You better take me out on a date tomorrow.” You murmured.

He smiled against your throat, “Anywhere. Anytime. Just say the word.”

Bonus:

If anyone had ever been afraid of the Marauders—afraid of Sirius Black, the uncollared dog of Gryffindor House, heir to the House of Black, all sharp teeth and dangerous smirks—all they had to do was witness how he behaved with his girlfriend.

The only girl who’d ever managed to train him.

It was almost comical, the way Sirius’s entire face lit up the second he spotted you in the Gryffindor common room. His smirk melted into a wide, boyish grin, wild grey eyes softening like morning light breaking through fog.

“Baby!” He practically shouted, immediately abandoning James mid-sentence and sprinting across the room like a man possessed.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before your armchair, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your lap like it was the safest place in the world.

You giggled—an uncharacteristic sound, at least to everyone else. But for Sirius, it was as familiar as his own heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his thick dark hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp, and Sirius all but purred, sighing into the space between your thighs like the tension had been holding him hostage all day.

“What are you doing here?” He mumbled, voice muffled against your legs.

“Class ended early,” You replied smoothly, a smile tugging at your lips, “and I wanted to see my favourite boy.”

Sirius groaned dramatically, turning his head to press soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your wrist, right against your fluttering pulse. Like he was grounding himself with the feel of your blood beneath his lips.

Across from you, James flopped onto the couch with a snort, “Merlin, (L/N), you’ve got him trained better than a show dog.”

You didn’t even look up from Sirius as you smiled, sharp and slow.

“Oh, she knows.” Remus added from his spot by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book with a smirk.

Sirius hummed, clinging tighter to your waist like he couldn’t stand to be even a millimeter away.

You leaned back in the armchair, letting him sprawl across your lap like a pampered prince, fingers carding through his hair as if you had all the time in the world.

“You’re clingy today.” You murmured, not unkindly.

“Missed you.” Sirius said simply, lifting his head just enough to look at you—like you hung the bloody moon.

You raised an eyebrow, tapping your nails against his jaw, “Did something happen?”

He pulled one of your hands to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to each knuckle like it was sacred ritual, “Nah. Just tired of pretending not to be obsessed with you.”

“Well, you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.” James snarked.

“I know.” He replied, unapologetic.

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[mriddle-me-this]

lazy morning time with matty! just staying in and cuddling 🥺

you know it’s coming as soon as you attempt to stretch out a leg from the heavy weight champion that is mattheos body.

his arms tighten at any sudden movement, pulling your back into his chest caging you in his trap. it’s cozy, his body heating you like a cup of hot cocoa warm in your stomach, nose nudging persistently tickling your neck.

“why don’t you love me” he whines in your ear.

you huff a laugh, “I do love you!”

it’s his go to phrase to jokingly guilt you. he means no harm course, he knows you love him. but he find it all too hilarious when you giggle and plead your case of love to him.

“you wouldn’t be leaving the bed if you did” he reasons another grumble exaggeratedly. pressing his nose further into your skin, inhaling and then sticking out to lightly lick you, relishing in you squirming.

“Mattheo! I have to pee and I’ll still be loving you from the toilet” you protest, happy spurts of laughs escaping as you talk.

untangling yourself from him you manage to escape and dash out of the bed. watching with amusement as he rolls on his back, releasing the most overdramatic groan, his arms flop over his eyes.

“I’m so alone.” He wallows out to the empty room. Mabel your shared cat wastes no time alerting her presence with a strangled whine just like his. “yeah, quit your whining” he mutters, offering affectionate pats.

“sounds like someone I know!” You call out.

mattheo rolls his eyes, pouting petulantly upon your return. you match his expression, “you’re so dramatic.” but there’s a fond grin already lighting your face.

his arms spread, inviting you in for his much requested cuddles. and when you finally accept, he grins squeezing you tightly, “you love it; and I guess you love me too.”

[mriddle-me-this]

ˋ°•*⁀➷ just a little drabble about slightly jealous & possessive mattheo

Mattheo’s fingers traced warm lazy circles over your thigh, the feeling of which when combined with the stifling air in the classroom, heavy in post-lunch haze, and the drone of Professor McGonagall’s voice made you want to curl into his lap and fall asleep.

You offered him a slow smile as you leaned your cheek on your palm and he offered one back, his perfect lips curling as he looked at you in a way you knew was reserved only for you.

McGonagall said something that garnered mutters and groans but to be fair a werewolf could have walked into the classroom and you would have missed it, lost in Mattheo’s brown eyes.

His head inclined slightly towards the front of the room, and his brow furrowed as you heard the words “project” and “random partner assignment”. His fingers squeezed your thigh as she started reading out the names.

"Mr. Crabbe and Ms. Brown"

"Ms. Parkinson and Ms. Patil"

"Ms. YLN and Mr. Potter"

Mattheo sat up straight to his full height in attention, his back rigid, his eyes dark and narrowed at McGonagall as his fingers squeezed your leg tighter, teetering on the edge of discomfort as he ignored that he’d gotten paired with his own random Gryffindor.

You placed your hand over his and only that touch seemed to bring him back to earth.

“It's alright” you said quietly, just louder than a whisper. “It’s just a project.”

“You’re not spending a second in his airspace” he muttered, his voice gravelly, angry.

“Mattheo—”

“—Put aside the fact that he’s an egotistical self-impressed fuck who thinks he’s Godric’s gift to the world, he always pays you too much fucking attention.”

You tilted your head at that because when did you ever spend enough time around Potter for that to be the case, let alone for Mattheo to notice it?

Mattheo clocked the confused look on your face.

“Darling, I’m telling you, I see the way he looks at you—”

“—Mattheo” you said gently, smiling. Your heart swelled at his concern for you, even if you felt like it was misplaced.

But as the class dismissed, he stood and moved smooth and purposefully to the front of the room as you rushed to grab your books and follow him.

“Professor?” he said, his tone level and calm, suave and persuasive as he flashed a thousand-watt smile at her. “I’d like to request a change in partners. Ms. YLN and I have the same schedule, and as members of the same house it would be much more advantageous for our focus and our ability to master this material if we worked together, especially with the quidditch finals coming up, as I’m sure you’d agree?”

She stared sternly at him over the rim of her glasses, her lips in a firm line.

“If this assignment is too much for you on top of your quidditch responsibilities, I’ll be sure to let Professor Snape know so you can devote more time to your studies?”

His smile dropped to a scowl so quickly you could feel a chill in the air.

“My answer is final” she said when he didn't move.

You watched his fist curl at his side, out of her sight.

“Very well, professor” he said.

Mattheo was a bit a cloudy after that, though not with you, never with you. If anything, he was softer and even more affectionate, touchy, possessive.

He pressed soft kisses to your cheek at dinner, murmuring against your ear, “I can talk to Snape you know, get the assignments changed, I’m sure.”

“It’s fine, really, we’ll split the work, power through and move on” you said assuredly, much less concerned about the situation than he was. “You know…” you said, turning your head so your noses brushed, “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, I know” he said, smiling cockily, his lips lingering over yours. “My fucking girl” he nearly growled and goosebumps spread up your arm, your body alight to his response. “Just as long as everyone else remembers it. I’m not jealous, love. Jealous is when you want something that isn’t yours” he said as he brushed his knuckles against your jaw. Territorial is protecting what you already have.”

You agreed to meet Harry in the library the following week in a quick and courteous exchange with every intention of spending as little time together as possible.

As you sat across from him you fixed your focus on your textbook and notes and only lifted your head when you felt his gaze on you as he sat unmoving in his chair.

“That’s… a nice sweater, you look nice today” he said, smiling shyly.

You offered a barely-there smile in return.

“You know I wish we’d talk more, get to know each other, but Mattheo…” he let the name drift off like a spell as a blush rose on his cheeks and he fiddled nervously with his quill.

And all you could think was fuck Mattheo had been right.

“Let’s just focus on the project” you tried.

“—He’s a bit intense, no? Mattheo?” Harry blurted.

You cocked your eyebrow at him. He couldn’t be serious.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just looking out for you YN, guys like that—” but what exactly he might have wanted to say died on his lips as his eyes blew wide and wandered over your shoulder.

You knew before you turned around; you could sense him like your own shadow even if Harry’s vividly fearful look wasn’t giving it away.

“Darrrlinng” his voice purred, curling around you like wisps of smoke as he leaned over the back of your chair and placed a large coffee there, pausing just long enough to stare at Potter who looked three sizes smaller as he shrank into his seat.

You saw Mattheo reach for his pocket out of the corner of your eye and watched as Harry’s hand twitched towards his robe, but Mattheo pulled something small and shiny out, your eyes dancing over it as he reached for your wrist, which felt small and fragile in his large hands.

He gently clasped it there and you realized it was a gold and diamond tennis bracelet, with a small ‘M’ charm that dangled and danced in the low library light.

You smiled and could feel your heartbeat thrumming in your body.

“Mattheo” you whispered, turning to face him where he loomed, still leaning over the back of your chair, his head beside yours.

He turned to you granting you that perfect smile before curling a finger under your chin, then grasping it firmly in his hand as he kissed you with immediate passion, like he was leaving for war, bruising at first, and then deep, languid, unforgiving and unashamed.

You couldn’t help how hot your blood ran as you grasped at the front of his robes and then all too soon he pulled away, pressing one more firm kiss to your lips, then your nose before letting you go and pulling back with another look at Potter before he walked away wordlessly.

Your chest was heaving as you tried to catch your breath and your cheeks were red from the adrenaline, from the grasp of his hands.

Your ran your fingers over your lips absentmindedly noting that they felt swollen from his kiss as you swiped at the errant lipgloss that he’d smeared there. And then you realized with a knowing smile that now there wasn’t a place Potter could look at you from your mussed hair, to your wet lips and the diamonds on your wrist that glittered as you grabbed your quill without a singular reminder of who you were and whose you were.

His eyes were averted for the rest of the afternoon, commenting only when needed, and very quietly at that, on the project.

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[mriddle-me-this]

my girl

sirius black x fem!reader

summary: in which you overhear sirius calling you his girl, like it’s the simplest truth he’s ever known. thus, a lovesick and kiss-drunk sirius makes it his mission to say it again, and again, until you finally believe it.

warnings: fluff, excessive affection, pet names, public displays of affection, mild teasing, soft!sirius who’s so in love, overwhelming sweetness, lovesick behavior, lots of kissing, tooth rotting fluff

word count: 3.1k

masterlist

The thing about dating Sirius Black is that it never quite feels real.

Not in the way people describe disbelief, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in that strange, dreamy sense of stumbling into a story someone else might’ve written—some fairytale stitched with mischief and the kind of heat that lingers in the spaces between words.

It has been a few months now.

Enough time for your friends to stop blinking in surprise every time they catch you smiling at him, enough time for the rumors to die down and the whispers in the halls to quiet to a low murmur—though they never go away entirely when it comes to Sirius. 

He is, after all, Sirius Black: loud-mouthed and sharp-eyed, honey-voiced and maddeningly beautiful.

And yet, somehow, he chose you. Or maybe you chose each other, slowly, stupidly,and  sweetly.

You know what people must think. That you temper him. That he ignites you. That your silences fill in the blanks he never bothers to pause for. That he, for all his recklessness, somehow found something steady in you.

Which is why you’re heading to meet him now outside of class. Sirius had promised to spend the entire day with you today, as he was lately busy with studying.

You’re almost there when you hear his voice.

It’s not unusual—he talks loudly, as though the air is something that belongs to him, like even his words are allergic to restraint. But it’s the way he says something now that makes your steps falter. 

You’re still around the corner, concealed by the stone archway. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. 

“Sirius!” James Potter’s voice cuts through the corridor, warm and familiar, and it’s easy to picture his wide grin as he strides up to him. 

“Come on, padfoot. We’ve got a pitch slot and I need someone to test my latest throw. You still owe me from last week when you ditched.”

Sirius laughs, the sound low and raspy in the way you’ve come to know too well. “Didn’t ditch,” he says. 

“Oh, piss off,” James retorts. “You coming or not?”

There’s a pause. You imagine Sirius running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s pretending to think, when in reality he’s already made up his mind and just wants to seem dramatic.

“Can’t,” Sirius says finally, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic. “I’ve got a packed schedule today.”

James scoffs, exaggerated. “What, you’ve started revising now? What exactly are you busy with?”

“No,” Sirius replies, too casual, too breezy. And then, with no warning at all, he adds, “I’m spending the day with my girl.”

It hits you like a whispered spell.

Not “my girlfriend,” not your name, not even some half-serious nickname. Just that. My girl.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the way your heart is thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape your chest, of the heat crawling up the back of your neck, of the way your fingers have curled slightly into your sleeves like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. 

You’ve never been someone who takes up space easily, and right now, the sound of those two words fills every corner of your body, makes you feel almost... lit up.

It’s not the fact that he said it. You know you're his girl. He’s told you in the way he tucks his fingers into the loops of your jeans just to pull you closer in the quiet corners of the library. 

In the way he lights up when he sees you walk into the common room, mid-sentence with Remus, stopping only to grin like you’ve rewired the gravity in the room. 

In the way he sits behind you during study sessions just to braid strands of your hair and mutter things like “beautiful,” and “gorgeous.”

But still—my girl.

You’re fairly certain you and James both made the same face at the same time. That vaguely unhinged, utterly stunned, slack-jawed expression that usually precedes a dramatic spill or a burst of inappropriate laughter in the Great Hall.

Somewhere in your brain, a single electrical wire sparked, and then everything short-circuited.

You could practically see James’s eyebrows lifting halfway to the ceiling, and it’s almost hilarious, almost.

Because you would have laughed—if you weren’t frozen, rooted to your spot like some enchanted statue.

Then came Sirius’s voice again, casual and clear, carrying from inside the classroom, smug in the way only Sirius Black can be when he knows exactly where he’s headed.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “She’s probably already out there waiting for me.”

James groans dramatically. “Tell your girl I’m filing for abandonment.”

“See you later, prongs,” Sirius calls back, followed by the scraping sound of a chair and the creak of hinges swinging open.

Panic sparks in your chest.

You leap back from the wall like you’ve just been caught with your ear pressed to the keyhole—because, well, you have, essentially—and immediately fumble with your bag, turning slightly so it looks like you’ve just arrived. 

And then there he is.

Leaning against the doorframe like it’s something he was born to do. Hair half-tucked behind his ears, tie loose, expression bright and unreasonably happy for someone who got an earful from Slughorn not two days ago. 

His eyes find you instantly, like he was already reaching for the sight of you before he even walked out.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice soft and amused and utterly at home in the syllables.

“Hi!,” you reply, a little too fast.

His brow lifts slightly. “Hi.”

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out the kind of laugh that sounds like it comes from his chest. The kind of laugh that should probably be bottled and sold as some form of antidote in your humble opinion.

“You look a little too happy for a Monday, baby,” he says, stepping closer, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted as he studies you. “What’s happening?”

You shrug with deliberate nonchalance, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Can’t I be happy?”

He grins like you’ve just said something precious. “Of course you can,” he says, reaching out to squish your cheeks between his hands so your words are suddenly a little garbled.

“Just wanna know what’s got you extra happy today.”

You mumble something unintelligible, eyes darting away, and he narrows his own suspiciously.

“Hmm?”

You free your face from his fingers and try not to giggle. “It’s nothing.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense. “You don’t get to smile like that and then say ‘nothing.’ Come on, tell me.”

You hesitate, toeing the stone floor with your shoe. “I, um. I heard you.”

Sirius blinks. “You heard me?”

“In class,” you clarify, shifting your weight to the other foot and feeling heat crawl up your neck. “When you were talking to James.”

He tilts his head again. “You get happy when I talk to James? That’s new,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles softly across your cheek—his touch featherlight.

His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, are softened now, warm and brimming with a quiet kind of awe.

You swat at his chest lightly. “No, Sirius.”

He laughs again, utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, sorry. What did I say?”

You bite your lip and look away. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Now I need to know.”

You shake your head stubbornly, lips pursed, trying not to smile, but Sirius isn’t fooled.

He takes a slow step closer, tall enough that his shadow stretches over you, the scent of him curling into your breath. The air between you tightens.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, voice pitched low with amusement, grin sharpening like he’s just solved a riddle he’s been working on since breakfast, “Was it when I called you my girl?”

Your face gives you away in an instant.

Your eyes widen, the way they always do when you’re caught off guard, as if your thoughts have leapt too fast for your expression to catch up. Heat blooms high in your cheeks, blooming pink and soft across your skin like sunrise, betraying every effort to stay composed.

“Oh my god,” he says, actually laughing now, hands braced on his hips as if the revelation physically knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what got you all smiley?”

You narrow your eyes, cheeks blazing. “Stop laughing!”

He tries, he really does, but the laughter keeps bubbling out of him, shameless and golden. 

You huff and turn on your heel, nose in the air like you’ve just declared a personal war against him.

But you don’t get far.

Before you can take a single step away, he moves—quick and fluid, one long stride and he’s behind you.

His fingers find your waist with ease, curling firmly around your sides, and in one seamless motion, he pulls you back—hard enough to make you stumble slightly—until you're flush against his chest.

He holds you close. So close it feels like you’re standing inside the space between seconds.

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, brushing against your skin like silk. His arms slip around you fully, drawing you in again, and this time, you don’t resist.

“Why so shy, baby?” he whispers, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness all tangled together.

You pout instinctively, your fingers resting lightly against his chest. “Nothing.”

His brows lift. “No, no. No hiding. What is it?” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You are my girl though, right?”

You glare up at him, but your heart is not cooperating.

“You just... never called me that before,” you say, quiet, soft enough that it barely survives the space between you.

Sirius exhales, and pulls you even closer, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.

“Well,” he says into your hair, “You should start getting used to it.”

You don’t even get a moment to tease him back before he’s wrapping his arms around you again, tugging you flush against his chest like holding you is as instinctive as breathing.

He rocks you gently side to side, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and you can feel the quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.

“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for your ears.

He says it again, and again. Each repetition comes between a kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin with unbearable fondness, his long hair tickling across your jaw like satin.

“My girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your cheekbone.

Another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty girl.”

You giggle, trying and failing to turn your face away as warmth floods your cheeks. “Sirius, your hair’s tickling me—”

He just smiles into your skin, clearly unbothered. Another kiss, this one slower, more lingering, pressed just beneath your ear. “My favorite person.”

You squirm in his arms, laughing harder now, your hands curled into his shirt as you try to wriggle away, but he only holds you tighter.

“My most favourite girl.”

Each word hums against your skin like a spell.

And you, useless and smitten thing that you are, melt for him completely.

A quiet giggle escapes you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his chest to hide the way your cheeks are burning. 

You try to squirm away, overwhelmed and giddy, but his grip tightens gently and he tilts your chin up with two fingers, catching your gaze with a look so full of open affection it robs the breath from your lungs.

He holds your face like it’s something precious, like he’s afraid to let it go. His thumb brushes just beneath your cheekbone, featherlight and impossibly gentle, and then he says—quietly, sincerely—

“Can I get a kiss?”

The way he looks at you in that moment, like you’re his whole damn universe, is almost too much. 

His long black hair falls into his eyes, the ends brushing his cheekbones, his mouth barely parted.

His eyes are shining, glassy with something deeper than a smile, and he’s smiling anyway, soft and crooked like the words he wants to say are too big to fit in his throat.

There’s a trembling silence where you don’t know how to speak.

Because this is the part no one sees.

This is Sirius Black in love. Not loud, not cocky, not showy or flirtatious. But bare, unshielded, and tender to the point of devastation.

And somehow, it still surprises you—how much he feels.

Because he plays it smooth, always, with his smirks and his swagger and his stupidly charming quips.

But deep down, Sirius is just as flustered to be around you as you are around him. Maybe even more.

He still hasn’t gotten used to saying your name out loud without his heart stammering. Still can’t look at you some days without wondering if you’re a dream made flesh. Still marvels at the fact that when you walk into a room, you’re walking toward him.

He calls you his girl like it’s nothing. But to him, it means everything.

Because you’re not just his girl. You’re his world.

You lean up slowly, your hands resting against his chest like he might vanish if you touch him too fast. Then you press your lips to his, soft and sweet.

He smiles against your mouth before pulling back slightly, his eyes still closed, like he’s trying to savor the moment just a little longer. A beat passes. Then—

“Can I get another one?” he whispers, one eyebrow lifting, that same mischievous edge bleeding back into his voice.

You blink at him. “You’re so—”

But you don’t get to finish.

Because he kisses you again—harder this time. His hand cups the back of your neck, his other arm firm around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid the world might steal you away if he lets go.

And when he kisses you like that—like you’re his first and last prayer—there’s no doubt left.

Sirius Black is utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love with you.

And even if you don’t quite realize it yet — he’s been yours all along.

His lips are still brushing against yours when he pulls back the slightest inch, gaze hazy and wonderstruck, as though he’s only just now realizing that you’re real. 

His thumb is tracing absent shapes at your waist, his breath slow and uneven like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your mouth by air alone.

His eyes, dark and warm and barely blinking, drink you in like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of whatever this is.

And then, of course, he leans in again for a third kiss. 

You stop him with a hand on his chest and a breathless little laugh. “Sirius,” you whisper, dragging out the syllables. “You can’t keep kissing me, we have a whole day ahead of us, and we’re still in the bloody hallway.”

He leans his forehead against yours with a groan, dramatic and wounded, as if you’ve just denied him water in a desert.

“But I thought you were my girl,” he says, pout in full effect, lips parted and brow creased with the exaggerated tragedy of it all.

“My girl doesn’t let me kiss her as much as I want? This is unfair.”

You burst out laughing, fully this time, and the sound of it sends a visible shiver through him.

He never gets tired of hearing it, probably never will.

“Come on, Black,” you tease, grabbing his hand and turning on your heel to pull him down the corridor behind you, your fingers threading easily through his.

“I need someone to help me carry the books I ordered.”

At that, Sirius lights up like someone’s handed him a trophy. “Books?” he says, perking up.

“You ordered books and didn’t tell me? That’s a violation of trust. But don’t worry, love—I’ll carry them, all of them. You won’t lift a single bloody finger.”

You glance back at him with a smirk. “Wow, look at you,” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“All manly now, huh? Sirius Black, the knight in shining armor, savior of poor girls with heavy textbooks.”

“I am manly,” he insists, puffing his chest out like an idiot and giving your joined hands a little swing. “And chivalrous and noble and handsome and criminally underappreciated and—.”

You snort. “Okay, I get it!”

But just as you’re rounding the next corridor, Sirius glances down and suddenly stops short, yanking you to a halt beside him.

“Wait—you’re carrying your bag?”

You blink, confused. “Um... yes?”

He gasps so dramatically you’re worried for a moment he might start clutching his chest. “What a horrible boyfriend I am,” he cries.

“Carrying nothing. Letting my girl do the heavy lifting like some kind of untrained baboon.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as he makes a scene of freeing your bag from your shoulder.

“Give me that. No, seriously, give it. I was raised better than this. Even my horrible, bloody mother would’ve scolded me for letting you carry your own things.” – He takes the bag from you with exaggerated care, slinging it over his shoulder – “Granted, she’d probably scold me just for being in public with you, but the point stands.”

You giggle again, unable to stop smiling, as he then reaches for your hand once more, the two of you falling into step like you were made to.

Your hands swing gently between you, fingers warm and safe in his.

And from that moment on, he never stopped.

Sirius Black referred to you as his girl in every corner of the castle, whether you were there to hear it or not.

He’d say it proudly, like the words alone lit something inside him.

And when you weren’t around, you’d better believe he was still talking, still rambling, and surely still flustered.

Cheeks tinted a soft, unmistakable pink, he'd go on and on to anyone who’d listen—usually James—about how smart you were, how good you smelled, how pretty you looked with your nose buried in a book or your hair tied back or when you laughed with your whole body like you did when he tickled your sides.

James, for his part, teased him relentlessly. But Sirius didn’t mind. Not even a little.

You were his girl after all, and he wanted the whole world to know it.

[mriddle-me-this]

the mixup - mattheo riddle

summary: one of the house elves makes a mistake with the laundry. or, the time you left four friends speechless and your best friend drooling. word count: 1.3k warnings: this is very suggestive, probably 18+ish, please read responsibly my dears. a/n: just something silly and fun that made me blush and giggle. i love these boys!!!! soundtrack: levii's jeans - beyonce & post malone

"Make it quick, Riddle, we're not going to wait for you" Draco grumbled as he pushed past him

"Alright, just give me a minute, will you?" Mattheo muttered in reply as he dragged his laundry bag into the dormitory behind him.

His hair was still wet from the shower he'd raced through after quidditch practice ran late and each of the boys was rushing to get their weekend started, their room a chaotic mess of clothes, cologne and a handle of firewhiskey that was making its way between them.

Mattheo swiped the bottle from Lorenzo, grinning and ducking out of his grasp as he took a hefty gulp before it was stolen away again, leaving his lips burning from the liquor as he wiped them with the back of his hand.

In truth he was just as eager for tonight, maybe even moreso than his friends, though for a much different reason; he didn't care about getting wasted, or snagging the best table at the Three Broomsticks to watch the quidditch finals, he was just looking forward to seeing you.

Though if anyone would have asked him, he would have vehemently denied it.

Because you were friends... just friends. Friends like he was friends with Pansy or Astoria... Except that he didn't have endless thoughts about the feeling of their skin under his fingers, didn't smell the lingering scent of their shampoo in the Amortentia he'd brewed last term, didn't study every detail about them from their favorite food, to the color they painted their nails, didn't fantasize about them like he did about you: that one day you'd want him the way he wanted you. Because even though you were inseparable, even though you orbited around each other, even though he swore sometimes he caught you looking at him, your gaze always dissolved into something sweet and friendly and he'd have to remind himself that even though he could confidently have any girl in the school, and had proven as much, you were both the only one he genuinely wanted and the only one that seemed immune to him.

The boys continued in their cacophony of shouting over one another as Mattheo lugged his laundry to his bed and overturned it unceremoniously and Enzo turned on his favorite muggle pop playlist.

"You can't be serious" Blake commented the second it started.

"Enz, turn this shit off" Mattheo agreed. "Your taste in music is worst than..." he started before fading off.

"...Than what, Riddle? I'm sorry we don't all listen to edgy alternative depressing shit" Enzo chirped to no response. He finished pulling his shirt over his head and then peered around his four-poster to see Mattheo staring silently at the pile of clothes in front of him.

“What’s?—” Enzo started to say as he wandered over until he saw what had captivated Mattheo's attention. "No fucking way" he laughed as he stepped closer and stood beside him.

The emerald comforter of the bed was covered almost entirely in lingerie, soft cottons, delicate lace, bralettes, thongs, floral sets, petal pinks and curve-hugging boy shorts. Enzo bit his fist.

"Fucking hell" he breathed as he reached reverently for a transparent pink bralette before holding it up for the others to see, each immediately stopping what they were doing and making their way over, drawn to it.

"Who's is it?" Blaise muttered, reaching for the laundry bag and turning it over in his hands. "S'got your name on it..."

"You holding out on his, amico?" Theo smirked as he nudged Mattheo's shoulder. "A little amorina on the side?"

"I wish" Mattheo said, his eyes locking on a rosy thong that had him swallowing.

He was completely transfixed, unable to tear his gaze from the pile of pink in front of him, certain that not a single classmate he knew could be wearing stuff like this because surely he'd know, surely one of them would know... right? But something about the colors, the style tickled something in the back of his mind and made him want to tell his friends to keep their hands off of it.

"Theo, you're telling me even you have no idea whose this is?" Lorenzo confirmed.

"Nooo" he drawled. "Trust. I would not forget this" he said, picking out a peach thong that was barely more than a string as Draco let out a low whistle.

And then they heard voices in the hallway, a murmur and the high-pitched squeak of a house elf.

"Penny is so very sorry, Miss. Penny must have switched the bags. Penny will make it right, Miss."

And with a soft knock you pushed the door open to see all of your guy friends standing around a pile of your lingerie, your bra in Enzo's hands, your thong between Theo's fingers, each of them looking genuinely guilty and completely shocked at the sight of you; Draco's mouth hung open and Mattheo's eyes were as wide as galleons. Enzo and Theo slowly lowered the pieces back to the bed and you swore you could hear the fabric hit the comforter for how quiet it had become.

"Awww, thanks, boys!" you said, completely unphased as you dropped the laundry bag you’d been holding and strode towards them.

Five sets of eyebrows hit the ceiling.

Draco mutely picked up the bag with Mattheo’s name mistakenly printed on it and held it out, his eyes never leaving you.

You accepted it and began grabbing handfuls of your delicates, stuffing them back in the bag. With a muffled cough and a murmur, the boys shuffled away leaving you with Mattheo who was physically incapable of moving as he watched you grab fistfuls of your underwear off his bed. It was without a doubt the hottest shit he'd ever seen and would never ever unsee, in the outline of your fitted t-shirts, in your leggings, beneath your oversized sweaters that tended to slip off your shoulder.

"Sorry for the mixup" you said, your eyes focused as you stuffed the last of it into the bag, “I brought yours back, it’s over there” you nodded towards the door.

"Y-yeah s'no problem" he muttered, tearing his gaze away for a second, his voice sounding alien to his own ears.

And then the bed was clear and you were standing in front of him, the bag against your hip, smiling up at him as if your thongs hadn't just touched his sheets.

"See you in a few?" you asked.

He swallowed.

"...Yeah..." he mumbled as he watched you leave, your hips swinging as five heads turned to watched you go.

That night Mattheo tossed and turned, unable to stop thinking about it, about you, about the lace and the cotton and the way they'd sit against your skin, about how the entire night he wondered what was under your dress and how he was sure your perfume lingered against his sheets even though you hadn't been here for hours.

He buried his head into his pillow and moved to hug it when his fingers brushed something beneath it. He grasped it and pulled it towards him to see a baby pink lace thong. But how could it possibly have gotten under his pillow?

Unless...

Had you...?

He didn't get a wink of sleep.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

The following morning he wandered, exhausted, into the Great Hall to see you wearing one of his hoodies, his favorite hoodie, in fact, engulfing you so perfectly that it made his heart dip and swoon so fast he bumped into the Ravenclaw in front of him.

He shook his head and pushed them out of the way as he righted himself and strode confidently to the Slytherin table and slid in beside you.

You turned to him and your eyes fluttered under your long lashes as you searched his face; you could see faint bags beneath his eyes and a darkness in their amber depths that tangled with a warmth you were well familiar with.

"Hope you don't mind...." you said as you rolled your bottom lip into your mouth and bit it gently.

His eyes tracked every movement.

"...Looked too comfy to give up" you smiled.

"Not at all" he conceded, breaking your gaze to reach for the coffee, which he poured and took a long sip from before he leaned over to you, his lips lingering against your ear in a way that had goosebumps running up your arm.

"But if you get to keep that, then I get to keep what you left me."

You flushed beneath the fabric of his sweatshirt, beneath his gaze, beneath the feeling of his breath on your cheek even as he pulled back, though not far, your noses nearly touching.

"Or" you whispered as you rested your hand on his thigh that flexed in response. "Maybe I could come by later tonight and trade you for the pair I have on?"

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried, @girllblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen, @loverliner, @smut-anarchy, @locknco, @wybieivy, @itznotsophia, @cipheress-to-k-pop, @aur0ral1ghts, @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him

[mriddle-me-this]

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Boyfriend!Enzo!

Boyfriend!Enzo! He treats you like his favorite sin and his only salvation. He'll kiss you like it's a crime, but hold your hand like it's religion. His friends make fun of him for being so whipped—until he slams a guy into the wall for looking at you wrong. "Touch her again and you'll lose your hand."

Boyfriend!Enzo! He's the definition of of soft possessiveness. You're always in one of his jackets. His rings are on your fingers. His cigarette pack is in your bag. You're in his lap at every party, thighs spread slightly under a too—short skirt—and he dares anyone to look."Yeah, she's mine. You got a fucking problem with that?"

Boyfriend!Enzo! He gets mean when he's jealous—but only in private. You smile too sweet at someone else and he's dragging you both into the bathroom, hand over your mouth, fingers already inside you. "You want attention, baby?" Say it. Beg me while you ride my fingers like a desperate little slut." And afterward, he kisses your forehead like he didn't just ruin you in a locked stall. 

Boyfriend!Enzo! He's secretly obsessed with making you feel safe. He checks your potions before you drink them. He walks you back to your dorm every night. He always stands between you and any chaos. He won't say it out loud, but the truth slips in moments like: "If anything happened to you... I'd burn this fucking castle down."

Boyfriend!Enzo! He talks you through every orgasm like it's a prayer. "That's it, baby. Just like that. So fucking pretty when you fall apart for me..." He goes slow when he wants to. Kisses every inch of you. Worships your body like he's memorizing it—like he's scared it'll be taken from him.

Boyfriend!Enzo! He has a mouth that lives between your thighs. You could be arguing, ignoring him, or studying for hours—and Lorenzo will appear out of nowhere, drag you onto his bed, and sink down until your legs shake. "Keep pretending you don't want me, baby. I'll make you come so hard you forget your name."

Boyfriend!Enzo! He takes photos of you when you're not looking. Messy hair in his shirt. Sunlight on your thighs. Lips swollen from his kisses. He has a folder hidden under lock charm. He stares at it when he can't sleep. "You don't even know how good you look, do you?"

Boyfriend!Enzo! He buys you lingerie just so he can take it off. Silk. Lace. Straps that frame you perfectly. He'll drag you into a fitting room and whisper how he's going to fuck you in it tonight. "Try it on for me. No bra. Let me see what's mine."

Boyfriend!Enzo! He's emotionally terrible but trying for you. Lorenzo isn't used to softness. He gets overwhelmed by how much he loves you. Sometimes he gets quiet. Moody. Distant. But he always comes back with trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. "Don't leave. I don't know how to do this shit—but I'll learn. For you."

Boyfriend!Enzo! He's thinking about forever—and it terrifies him. He jokes about it at first. "Can't wait to see you pregnant with my kids. You'd look so fucking good." But then he says it more seriously. Half-asleep. After sex. With his hand on your stomach and his heart in your palm. "Don't ever leave me. I couldn't take it."

[mriddle-me-this]

[mriddle-me-this]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏 ˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: hi! can i please request a remus x reader in which the reader has always had a huge crush on him, but thought the feelings were unrequited? she lets the secret slip to lily & marlene and somehow it gets back to remus who finds it very endearing and teases her a bit?

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: shy!reader, playful teasing, the pet name mouse, some suggestive dialogue but nothing explicit. 

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: the reader has always had a huge crush on remus. the girls find out and marlene accidentally lets it get back to remus. 

𝑨/𝑵: thank you for your request, lovely anon! i’ve luckily got a few requests that i’m working on, so thank you all for being patient with me. i also want to say thank you for all of the love on my last post! i was very nervous about my first post and i received so much love and support! requests are still open, and as always feedback is greatly appreciated!

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 4.1k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

        “morning, mouse.”

        there’s a teasing touch to remus’s voice as he slides into the seat beside you. you glance at him out of the side of your eye as you take your potions textbook out of your bag, placing it gently on the table. a huff leaves your lips.

         “are you lot ever gonna let that go?” you frown, crossing your arms as you turn to him. 

         there’s a soft smile playing on his lips, and a chuckle from sirius behind him as he joins the pair of you at the table.

         “never gonna forget the look on mcgonagall’s face when she turned around,” says sirius brightly. you scowl at him, wanting to wipe the stupid amused grin right off of his face. 

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[mriddle-me-this]

can't help myself

Sirius Black x reader who aren't great communicators ✩ 6k words

summary: you and Sirius sleep together for the fun of it. no strings. you decide to call it off when it all becomes too much and the cons outweigh the pros. and maybe you have some feelings.

cw: allusions to sex, friends with benefits with feelings, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, accidental wingman james

“Hello?” you call, letting yourself into the Potter’s house, frowning a little when it seems oddly quiet. James had insisted the first warm day of the year called for a proper get-together—and really, who could say no to seeing all your friends in one place?

You’d pulled on your sweetest summer clothes, ready to soak up the sun and laugh until your stomach hurt.

James’ head pops around a doorway, curls a messy halo around his face, and he grins the moment he sees you—that big, eye-crinkling kind of smile that makes it impossible not to smile back.

“There you are,” he says. “You look very nice.” He nods toward the back door. “Everyone’s in the garden. Want a drink?”

“I’m alright for now, thanks,” you say, walking toward him.

You give him a quick hug—though, he turns it into a full-body squeeze—before he leads you outside.

The garden’s full of chatter and laughter, warm in every way. You give out quick hugs, a few hellos, before settling into a fold-out chair next to Lily.

“God, you look like you're ready to pop,” you say, leaning in to give her forearm a friendly squeeze.

You haven’t seen her and James as much lately, with the baby on the way and everything. It makes these little moments feel even more special. They’re glowing, both of them, like love has settled around them in something soft and golden. It twists at something in your chest—not jealousy, exactly, just a strange ache. Being loved like that, freely and without question, is… unfamiliar.

“I feel like it too,” Lily says with a groan, glaring half-heartedly at her belly. “Still a few months left.”

She lets her head loll back against the sun-warmed chair, eyes fluttering shut as she exhales dramatically. “Swear to God, if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I might hex them.”

You snort, reaching for the lemonade on the little table between you. “You are glowing, though. Like. In a glowy, magic-sunbeam sort of way. Sorry to say, it’s very annoying for the rest of us.”

Lily cracks one eye open, smirking. “You’re just mad I outshine you.”

“Always have,” you agree easily, bumping your knee against hers. The two of you smile at each other for a beat, and it’s one of those soft, warm silences that doesn’t feel like anything needs to be said.

James appears again, this time with two sweating glasses of something stronger in hand. He passes one to Remus and drops into the grass next to Lily with a content sigh, resting his chin on her knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They start whispering lowly to each other, and even though you know them both incredibly well, you still feel like you're intruding. So instead you turn to eye up the buffet spread, covered in cling film, spying what you might like to eat. 

Just as you ready yourself to move, a ring clad hand holding a plate moves into your field of view and suddenly it's being placed in your lap. You look up squinting against the sun, ready to say thank you, but Sirius shifts to solve your squinting problem and the words dry up in your mouth. 

“Eat that, please.”

“I was just about to get up for some.” you say, dumbfounded. 

“Almost like I can read your mind, babe.” He replies, winking at you. “Eat.”

He flops down next to James and they start talking about something you don't care to listen to. When your eyes meet Lily’s, she gives you a knowing look that you choose to ignore, staring down at the food on the plate instead. 

You and Sirius have, for lack of better words, been fucking for a while. It started after a drunken night out and it continued from there. It's fun. Casual. But the more you’ve thought that recently, the more it feels like you're trying to convince yourself. The lines are starting to blur and it doesn’t really feel like two friends shagging for fun anymore. Or it doesn’t to you. You can never tell what's going on in Sirius’ head.

You’re jolted from your thoughts by Sirius gently shaking your knee, his hand warm where it rests. You blink, realizing James and Lily have disappeared. Embarrassment flushes hot in your chest—you hadn’t even noticed.

“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows pulling together with quiet concern.

“Yeah. Yes.” You nod quickly, offering your best smile.

He studies you for a moment, like he’s not entirely convinced, but then relaxes with a little huff of relief.

“You’re coming home with me, yeah?”

You hesitate—just for a second—but you nod again. Of course you do. You can’t help yourself.

-

When you arrive at Sirius’ flat, it's a well rehearsed routine. He offers you a drink or something to eat, because he’s sweet, and when you decline a switch is flipped. Rather quickly, your mouths are moulded together in bruising kisses, tripping over yourselves as you make your way to his bed. Or his couch. Or twice, his kitchen.

Tonight it's his bed.

-

Despite the exhaustion rolling over you, you get up to pilfer one of Sirius’ band T-shirts before crawling back up the bed toward him. It always shocks you how comfortable he is in his nakedness. He lies there like he owns the world, stretched out and unbothered, utterly bare. There's nothing coy about him. He’s the very picture of ease, of indulgence.

He should be that comfortable, you think. He looks like a man sent by the gods to cause your damnation. His tattoos stand stark against his pale skin, and his sharp features are magnetic. He’s beautiful.

When you make your way back to him, he pulls you quickly into his side, intent on closeness. You’re grateful for the small barrier of fabric between you then. It makes it feel less real. He starts talking—properly, about little things that have happened since the last time you saw him. You listen, your head tucked under his chin, fingers idly tracing the lines of the tattoo curling over his ribs. His voice is low and warm, somewhere between storytelling and confession, and you let it wash over you.

It’s a strange thing, how this always happens—how easy it is to fall into this rhythm with him. Just bodies. Just convenience. Just friends.

“I missed this,” he says eventually, like it’s nothing. Like the words don’t lodge somewhere deep in your chest.

You shift, propping your chin on his chest so you can look at him properly. “You missed getting laid? I saw you a week ago,” you tease, your tone playful.

But Sirius just looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment too long. Then he huffs a laugh, brushing a thumb over your shoulder where the shirt has fallen slightly. “That too.”

You laugh, the sound low and comfortable, and brush your hand through his messy hair. "You know, you're impossible," you say, rolling your eyes before resting your head back against his chest. You can hear his heart beating beneath the skin, steady and calm.

He shrugs, his hand drifting down your side, tracing the curve of your waist with lazy circles. “Like you can talk,” he murmurs softly.

You lift your head to retaliate, but his gaze catches you off guard, and the need for space becomes overwhelming.

You pull away from him, sitting up and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “I should go,” you murmur, voice softer now. Your fingers curl around the hem of the shirt, readying yourself to change back into your clothes. Something about leaving feels necessary.

Sirius watches you, his eyes tracing your movements with an unreadable expression. You grab your shoes, your phone, your scattered things, but before you can make it to the door, he speaks again, his voice quieter this time.

“Stay.”

It’s a simple request, a command almost. You hesitate, your hand still on the doorknob, and glance back over your shoulder.

“Why?” you ask, not unkindly. He’s done this a lot recently—asked you to stay when he shouldn’t. Usually, you’d stay without a second thought. It doesn’t help the scrambled thoughts flying through your mind, so you need to know why.

His gaze is intense, his lips parted slightly as if he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I don’t want you to leave,” he admits, the vulnerability creeping into his voice in a way you’re not used to hearing. It catches you off guard.

You could leave. You should leave. But you also know, without a doubt, you want to stay.

The way he said it lingers in your mind, replaying over and over, keeping you awake long into the night. You find yourself staring at Sirius’ sleeping face, running the pros and cons of this arrangement through your head. Quickly, the myriad of negatives outweigh the few positives.

The biggest one is that, despite the closeness of it all, you feel lonelier for it. A deep, gnawing sadness tightens around your chest every time you think about it. There’s doubt too. You wonder if there’s something wrong with you—something wrong for him to want you this way and no other. To know you, and to think that a good fuck is all he’s ever wanted. To know that you’re feelings won't be reciprocated.

-

The morning light creeps in through the blinds, pale and soft, casting a hazy glow over the room. It’s quiet, except for the faint sound of Sirius’ breathing beside you. You try to focus on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, but all you can think about is the conversation you know you need to have.

You try to ease out of his arms without waking him, but his hold tightens around you, instinctual, almost possessive. For a moment, you just lie there, tangled in the sheets with him, eyes closed, wondering what it would feel like to simply stay. To keep pretending this is all fine—that you can keep moving like this: no strings, no complications. But the gnawing feeling in your chest is louder than the silence in the room. It’s impossible to ignore anymore.

Finally, you gently disentangle yourself from him, sliding out of bed and standing still for a moment at the edge, watching him sleep. He looks so peaceful. So at ease. It’s a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

You move quietly to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, taking deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together. When you return, Sirius is awake, blinking sleepily, his messy hair even more disheveled than before. He reaches for you without saying anything, just a simple gesture—a pull toward him.

You hesitate, then sit down at the edge of the bed, wringing your hands together, unsure of where to start. Sirius notices the change in your demeanor immediately, his brow furrowing in concern as he sits up beside you, the sheets falling around his waist.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough from sleep. “What’s up? You okay?”

You want to say something flippant, something easy to brush it off, but it’s not that simple. You can't make this easy for either of you anymore. You exhale slowly, gathering the courage to speak.

“I think we need to talk,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t meet his eyes, staring instead at the floor, suddenly acutely aware of the space between the two of you. It’s too much now. You know what you need to say.

Sirius sits up straighter, his hand instinctively reaching for yours, but you pull back slightly—not enough to be distant, but just enough to let him know this is serious. "What about?" His voice is tinged with uncertainty now, the light teasing that usually lingers in his words gone.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your heartbeat, but it feels like it’s skipping in your chest, pulsing painfully with every word you know you have to say. “I think we need to stop... sleeping together,” you say finally, the words hanging heavy in the air. "I don’t think we should do this anymore, Sirius."

His expression falters, confusion flashing across his face like a wave. He blinks at you, his lips parting as if he’s not sure he heard you right. "Wait, what? Stop? Why?" His voice sounds a little too light, like he’s hoping you’re joking.

Your heart races, and you pull your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your knees for comfort. "I just... I don’t think it’s working for me anymore. This—us. Sleeping together, I mean." You shift uncomfortably, trying to find the right words, but they feel inadequate, incomplete.

He leans back against the headboard, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. His voice drops to a quieter, more serious tone. “I thought we were having fun.”

Your chest tightens at that. Fun. It’s all he ever thought it was, wasn’t it? To him, it was just easy, simple. The word "fun" sits there like a wall between you both.

“We were," you say, your voice softer now. "We are. But I think... I just don’t think I can do it anymore.”

Sirius stays silent for a moment, his eyes watching you with a mixture of confusion and something deeper—something you can’t quite place. The playful charm is gone, and you feel the weight of your words settle between you like a thick fog.

You turn to face him, trying to meet his eyes, but it’s harder than you expected. 

Guilt creeping up your spine. "I just can't keep doing this." you repeat.

Sirius doesn’t respond immediately, but the silence between you thickens. His brow furrows deeper, eyes scanning you as if he's trying to decipher a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. It makes the pit in your stomach grow. You thought you had been clear enough, but the confusion in his gaze says otherwise.

Finally, he speaks, his tone low and edged with frustration. “You’re not making any sense,” he says, his voice rougher than before, as though it’s hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that you’re pulling away.

You want to explain, want to make him understand, but it’s like the words are stuck in your throat. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something, unsure if jumping is the right move, but knowing you can’t stay on the edge forever.

“I just… I can’t keep doing this, Sirius,” you say again, but your voice wavers, and you curse yourself for it. “I can’t keep pretending this is just fun. Because it’s not. I can’t… feel like this, every time, and still act like nothing’s changed.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his face a mixture of confusion and something else—something raw, like he's hurt. The weight of it presses on you, and you wish you could take the words back, or at least make him see how much this hurts you too.

“This is what you want?” he asks softly, leaning forward slightly, still trying to figure it all out.

You nod, though it feels wrong, like your heart’s trying to convince you otherwise. “I think so,” you whisper.

He leans back, running his fingers through his hair again, his lips pressed tight. You can see the frustration building, feel the distance stretching between you, even though you’re sitting right next to each other. His eyes flicker to yours, searching. “I don’t get it. We’ve always been… like this. What’s changed?”

You shake your head, unsure yourself. "Maybe it was always too much. Maybe I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. It’s just—" you falter, trying to put it all together. “I’m not sure what I want, but I know I can’t keep doing this with you. Not like this.”

For a moment, the silence feels endless. He watches you, his face unreadable, his hand still resting on the sheets. Finally, he speaks again, softer this time. "Are we… Are we still friends, then?" The question feels tentative, like he's afraid of the answer, as if that one word—friends—might fall out of his reach.

You take a deep breath, the weight of his words sinking in. You’re not sure how to answer. Your own heart is unsettled, but you know deep down, this isn’t something you want to lose.

"Of course, we are." You manage to force the words out, even as they feel fragile

-

You’ve started to think that you and Sirius don’t know how to be friends without all the extras anymore. Maybe you never were just friends to begin with. You can’t remember. That much is painfully clear in the three weeks you’ve spent avoiding him.

And you've gotten good at it—dodging group plans, slipping away without drawing too much attention. Until Remus catches on in less than five minutes when you meet up for coffee. 

“Are you coming to Lily and James’ this weekend?” he asks, casually sipping his drink.

Another get-together in their garden to celebrate their anniversary. You want to be there—you love your friends, and you love seeing them so happy together—but the thought of facing Sirius for the first time since you called things off feels like swallowing glass.

“I can’t. My cat’s at the vet, y’know how nervous she gets.”

“You used that excuse for the pub quiz on Wednesday,” he replies, blunt as ever. You feel your face flush, caught.

“Yeah, well… she’s very poorly.”

“No, she’s not. You’d be a wreck if she were.”

“How would you know, Lupin?” you shoot back, defensive. He gives you a knowing look, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you deflate under his gaze.

“Fine. She’s not.”

For a brief moment, Remus looks victorious before his expression softens into something more serious.

“Has someone upset you?” he asks, his tone quiet and gentle.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you reply quickly, nodding a little too hard. “I’ll be there.” He doesn’t believe you—he’s too good at reading people for that—but he lets it slide, for now.

That’s how you end up wedged between Remus and Lily on a sofa that’s far too small, trying your best to ignore the weight of Sirius’ gaze from across the room. It’s strange—you're trying so hard not to look at him, but every time you do, your eyes lock. Sirius gives you a shy smile, and you can’t help but return it, even though it stings more than it should.

The party hums along as it always does, the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music in the background. You find yourself slipping into the familiar rhythm of the evening: catching up with friends, teasing James about his terrible taste in music, and joining in on the lighthearted bickering about the best way to cook some dish. For a moment, you almost forget about the ache that has been gnawing at you these past few weeks.

The evening passes quickly, the hours slipping by in a haze of friendly conversation and the occasional awkward silence when your eyes meet Sirius’s across the room. But as the night deepens, you realize you’re starting to feel more comfortable—like maybe you can be around him without everything falling apart. Or at least, you tell yourself you’re starting to.

Lily is standing now, announcing she’s about to make another round of drinks. "Anyone need a refill?" she asks. You wave her off, content with the drink in your hand. You’re already nursing it as much as you can, using it as an excuse to avoid conversation and, more importantly, Sirius.

You take a deep breath, pushing yourself off the sofa, silently grateful for the chance to escape the moment. "I’ll be right back," you murmur, heading toward the bathroom. The warmth of the room suddenly feels too much, and you need a space where you can breathe.

Before you can make it far, James appears in front of you, dragging you by the arm to the nearest unoccupied room.

“Do I need to go get your wife, prongs?” you joke as he shuts the door behind you.

“What's going on with you and Sirius?” The tact that Remus had skirting around the issue is nowhere to be seen in James Potter. To be fair to him, he looks distraught and you can't tell why.

“Nothing, why?” Your brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Come off it, L/N, did you fall out? Have you stopped shagging?” 

“You knew?” you mutter, your confusion only growing. As far as you’re aware neither of you had told anyone you were fucking. But it was never a rule, so you suppose Sirius telling James is probably quite likely. 

“Everyone knows, you’re both bloody obvious. All smiley goo-goo eyes when the other isn't looking.” you can imagine yourself like that, sure, but Sirius? Never. Not over you anyway. 

“Then, yes, we’ve stopped sleeping together.” 

James lights up then, triumphant.

“I knew something was wrong with him, he’s been moping around for weeks. Weeks!” James rambles on, his words so fast you struggle to take them in. “I knew it had something to do with you too since he’d stopped mooning over you. I thought you might’ve just rejected him and it was taking a while to get over all the pining, this makes more sense.”

You’re stunned to silence at that. What does he mean ‘all the pining’? It’s more the other way around surely. When you look back at James’ face he’s got a hand covering his mouth, and regret covering his face. He’s told you something he wasn't supposed to.

"James," you begin, your voice quieter than you'd intended, "What exactly are you talking about?"

James winces, looking incredibly sheepish, as if he realizes the weight of what he’s just let slip. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze.

"Well… I didn’t mean to—shit. You didn’t know, did you?" he mutters, sounding almost guilty

You stare at him, trying to piece everything together. “Why didn’t he tell me?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and your chest tightens uncomfortably.

“I don’t know, but he’s miserable, Y/N,” James says, his voice softer now, like he's trying to be delicate. “He tried to play it off, but I’ve never seen him this down. It’s not just because of the… whatever you want to call it between the two of you. It’s because he really liked you. And I think he thought it was more than just a casual thing.”

The words hang in the air like a cold draft. You swallow thickly, feeling suddenly dizzy. He can't be right. That's exactly why you had ended it, too scared of feeling something more than casual for him. Too scared knowing that he doesn’t want more, not with you. Or at least he didn't.

James freezes, the words hanging in the air for a long moment. His eyes widen slightly, and his mouth opens and closes like he's trying to figure out the best way to proceed. You can see the wheels turning in his mind, weighing his next words carefully.

“Maybe you should speak to Sirius, yeah?” He says softly, pulling you into a steady hug, hand sweeping across your back. 

You nod, pulling away trying for a smile, landing on a grimace. 

“I need to think for a bit, I’m gonna go home.” 

You don’t remember getting home, not really. The rush of thoughts, the confusion, the words James said—they're all spinning in your head in a dizzying circle. You pace your room, your fingers tapping against your phone like you're trying to ward off the silence, but it only amplifies the questions in your mind.

The uncertainty, the back-and-forth, had always been there, but you’d convinced yourself that it was just... something casual. Nothing more. But what if you were wrong? What if everything you thought you knew about Sirius, about what you two had, was actually completely backwards?

You pick up your phone, stare at it for a moment, before unlocking the screen. Taking a breath, fingers hovering over his contact name. It’s late, but what else do you have to lose at this point?

You press the call button before you can talk yourself out of it, your heart hammering in your chest as the phone rings. You count the seconds, but when he picks up, it feels like the world tilts.

“Y/N?” Sirius’s voice is low, groggy, and it makes you pause for a second. “It’s late. What’s up?”

You hesitate, unsure of what exactly you're asking for, but all you know is that you need something. You need to see him.

“Can I come over?” you ask, the words falling out almost too quickly. “Please.”

There’s a long pause, and you hear a faint rustling on the other end of the line. “Uh… I don’t know,” he murmurs, clearly still trying to piece things together, just like you. “It’s late, Y/N. I don’t know what’s going on. What do you want?”

You swallow thickly, the uncertainty creeping back in. But you push it aside, determined. “I need to talk to you.”

He’s quiet for a moment longer. “Alright,” he finally says, voice softer now.

You don’t reply, just hang up and grab your coat, your mind racing faster than your feet as you rush to the door.

When you arrive at his flat, you don’t bother knocking—you simply open the door, your pulse pounding in your ears. He’s standing there, pacing, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. His hair’s messy, his shirt slightly wrinkled, but it's like seeing him in this state makes him look more human, more real.

He glances up when you step inside, his expression unreadable. His lips press together in a tight line, his eyes flicking to the floor for a moment before landing back on you.

“What are you doing here?” His voice cracks slightly. “I thought you didn’t want me—this.”

The question is simple, but it feels like he’s asking something deeper.

You take a step toward him, your throat dry, but your voice is steady. “I never said I didn’t want you, Sirius,” you reply, your words firm but quiet, like you’re testing them as much as you’re saying them.

His eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and he opens his mouth to say something but pauses. The air between you crackles, charged with everything that hasn’t been said.

You swallow, your gaze flickering down to your hands before looking him in the eye again. “James said something this afternoon. And I need to know if it’s true.”

Sirius freezes, a hesitant breath escaping his lips as he shifts on his feet, his brow furrowed. “What did he say?” His voice is almost cautious, like he's afraid of what you might say next.

You take another step closer, your heart beating louder in your chest. “He said… he said you liked me. More than just… whatever it was between us.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy. You can see the muscles in his jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to process your words. His fingers twitch slightly, but he doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t move at all, except for the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.

“I don’t…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to find the right words, but everything feels tangled. “Y/N, I—"

"You don’t have to say anything," you interrupt, your voice quieter this time, softer, even though your insides are a storm of confusion and uncertainty. "I just need to know. I need to know if it’s true."

Sirius looks at you for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are wide, and the way he shifts on his feet makes it clear he’s struggling to find the right words. You can see the conflict in him, the way his mind races through possibilities, each one more tangled than the last. And you can feel the same confusion mirrored in your own chest.

"I—" he starts, his voice rough, but he stops himself. The weight of the question seems to sit heavily between you, like a physical thing pressing on both of you.

“I’m not sure how to explain it," he says finally, the frustration evident in the motion. "It’s not like I set out to fall for you. I didn’t even want to, if I’m being honest.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a second, you don’t know how to react. You want to respond, but it feels like everything inside you is twisting.

Sirius continues, his voice softer now, as if he’s carefully choosing his words. "But I did.”

The honesty in his voice is raw, unexpected. It’s not what you thought you’d hear. And, for the first time in weeks, you feel the tight knot in your chest loosen just a little. Maybe you were wrong.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he admits, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up to meet yours. “I didn’t want to ruin everything we had… I thought if I said something, it’d mess it up. So I kept quiet.”

“You thought I didn’t want you?” The question feels almost ridiculous as it leaves your lips, but the confusion is still fresh. “I—I was scared too, Sirius. Scared of wanting more, scared of what it meant. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I pushed it away. But… I thought it was just me.”

Sirius looks at you, something raw in his eyes, like he's waiting for permission. You see the hesitation in him, but you also see something else. Something familiar, something that makes you take the final step forward, closing the distance between you. Your hand finds his, and for the first time in weeks, it feels right.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse now, his thumb brushing against your hand. “That I made you think all I wanted from you was a fuck. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to make it work.”

You shake your head, feeling the weight of it all finally begin to lift. “We’re both a bit of a mess, aren’t we?” you say, trying to lighten the moment, but your voice trembles just a little.

Sirius chuckles softly, the sound bringing some relief. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You both fall into a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, not really—it’s just… full. Full of everything unsaid, everything finally surfacing, finding its place between the two of you. His thumb keeps brushing over the back of your hand, soft, hesitant, like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. Like he’s afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest, but something inside you is steadier now, like the ground beneath your feet isn’t shifting quite so much. You glance up at him—he’s watching you, eyes dark and unsure, but softer than you’ve seen them in a while.

You take a breath, then another. And then—quietly, almost like you’re afraid of scaring the moment away—you say it.

“Sirius?”

He hums in response, eyes locked on yours. There’s something nervous in the way he looks at you now. Like he knows something’s coming, but doesn’t dare hope for it.

You press your lips together, cheeks warming as your voice dips into something almost shy. “Do you… do you want to be my boyfriend?”

The words hang there between you, fragile and small.

Sirius blinks. Then blinks again. You watch as something shifts in his face—like whatever wall he’s been holding up finally cracks, just a little.

“Are you serious?” he asks, lips twitching like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling too fast, too much.

You nod, heart hammering in your chest. “I mean… yeah. If you want to be.”

And then—finally—he grins.

It’s a real grin, wide and crooked and full of disbelief, like he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’ve just said but doesn’t want to waste another second trying to overthink it.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, pulling you in before you can even blink. His arms wrap around you like they’ve been waiting to do that forever, holding you close. “Yes. Yes, I want to be. I thought you’d never ask.”

You laugh, a bit breathless, as you bury your face in his shoulder. “I almost didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, lucky for me you’re braver than you look,” he teases, but his voice is thick with relief, with something tender. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Your hands are on his chest now, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palms as he holds you there, forehead to forehead, like neither of you knows how to pull away. His grin is lopsided, all teeth and scruffy warmth, and you’re laughing, really laughing, the kind that bubbles up from your chest like champagne, unstoppable and a little giddy.

Sirius pulls back just a little to look at you properly, but he doesn’t let go. His hands stay right where they are—one at your waist, the other brushing along the curve of your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it. “God, you’re really here,” he murmurs, and there’s so much wonder in his voice it makes your breath catch.

“You’re really mine,” he adds, quieter.

That makes your cheeks burn in the best way, and you duck your head a little, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. “I’ve kind of always been yours,” you mumble.

That gets a full-blown, slightly shocked laugh out of him—deep and real—and before you can say another word, he tilts your face up and kisses you.

It’s warm and a little clumsy at first—like he can’t quite believe it’s happening, like he doesn’t know where to start—but then you’re kissing him back, and it clicks into place.

And when you both pull back, a little breathless and a lot smiley, his thumb still brushing lazy circles on your hip, you don’t let go of each other.

“You taste like toothpaste,” you whisper, nose wrinkling in amusement.

“Wow. Rude,” he says, grinning as he bumps his nose against yours. “I brush twice a day like a responsible adult.”

You giggle, the sound escaping before you can stop it, and he just stares at you for a second like he’s completely and totally ruined. “God, I’m so screwed, I always was,” he says with another laugh, and then he’s kissing you again—this time slower, gentler, like he’s savouring it.

And you let yourself melt into it, into him, your fingers curling into his shirt like maybe if you hold on tight enough, this will never end.

There’s laughter between kisses—stupid, breathless laughter when your noses bump or when Sirius makes a ridiculous sound at the back of his throat just to make you snort.

“You’re insufferable,” you murmur against his lips.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he counters, barely pulling away.

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Maybe a little.”

“Good,” he says, pressing another kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then your lips again, like he can’t help himself. “Because I’m definitely obsessed with you.”

You kiss him again, just to shut him up. And he laughs into your mouth.

-

masterlist <3

[mriddle-me-this]

“𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭?”

James Potter x f!reader

Summary: His blue eyes shine behind crooked glasses, an angelic smile plastered on his lips, as if he weren’t the one responsible for the state you’re in now. As if he hadn’t been there, just a few hours ago, with his hot breath against your skin, his hands firmly gripping your waist while the world crumbled around you.

Warnings: husband!James, wife!reader, fluff, suggestive, no use of y/n, muggle au, est. relationship, a james full of teasing about last night

The smell of fresh coffee fills the room even before you open your eyes. The aroma is warm, strong, mixed with the buttery sweetness of something freshly cooked. It’s a comforting smell, a homey smell, the kind that belongs to lazy mornings. But as your body begins to wake up, something else takes over—a heavier, lingering warmth that weighs on your muscles, a vivid memory that makes your face flush before you can even stop it.

You shift under the sheets and feel it.

Your body still soft, deliciously sore in all the right places. A faint, lingering ache that makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

That’s when James walks into the room.

His blue eyes shine behind crooked glasses, an angelic smile plastered on his lips, as if he weren’t the one responsible for the state you’re in now. As if he hadn’t been there, just a few hours ago, with his hot breath against your skin, his hands firmly gripping your waist while the world crumbled around you.

He balances a tray carefully in his hands, walking over to the bed with the expression of someone who’s done nothing wrong.

You narrow your eyes.

“Good morning, love,” he murmurs, his voice low, lazy.

You glance at the clock on the nightstand and blink at the time. “Jamie, it’s late.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, setting the tray aside before leaning in and brushing your hair away from your face with a distracted tenderness. His gaze sweeps over you, attentive, lingering, taking in every detail—the tangled sheets around you, his shirt slipping off one shoulder, the warm flush still burning on your cheeks.

The corner of his mouth curves.

“I know,” he replies simply. “I wanted to let you sleep a little longer.”

Your breath hitches when he leans in even closer, his nose lightly brushing against your temple before he murmurs, low and conspiratorial: “You seemed like you needed it.”

The blush spreads even hotter across your face, and you shift, trying to escape that knowing look. But the movement makes your muscles protest, a sharp, lingering ache running through your body in a shiver that escapes as an involuntary sigh.

James notices.

You feel it when he holds his breath for a second. His gaze, which was soft and attentive before, becomes something else. A darker, deeper blue.

His fingers slide over your exposed thigh under the sheets, a light, lazy touch, as if testing a theory.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone—a mix of genuine tenderness and shameless pride.

You want to kill him.

“Jamie,” you start, but your voice comes out weaker than it should.

He smiles. And it’s a dangerous smile.

The kind of smile that doesn’t match the man who, now, has prepared such a thoughtful breakfast, as if he weren’t the same one who tore you apart with no patience last night. As if he hadn’t pressed his body against yours, his breath ragged in your ear, his fingers digging into your skin, holding you exactly where he wanted.

But now? Now he’s all tenderness.

His thumb traces a lazy circle on your thigh, a touch so delicate it barely tickles. His gaze is absurdly soft, his voice low and warm when he asks, with a genuine concern that would almost be touching, if it weren’t so annoyingly charming:

“Does it hurt a lot?”

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine at the way he watches you—as if he’s memorizing every tiny reaction of yours. As if he’s remembering what he did to leave you like this.

James lets out an almost regretful sigh before leaning in, his lips ghosting over your temple, the touch barely there. “You should’ve told me if I was being too rough, love.”

Your face burns.

Indignation rises in your throat, but it dies on your tongue when he chuckles softly, his fingers squeezing your thigh just a little before pulling away, picking up the breakfast tray as if he hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of your thoughts.

James places the cup between your fingers, blowing on the rim of the porcelain as if to make sure the coffee isn’t too hot for you. Then, he breaks off a piece of croissant, buttering it with a care that makes no sense, before holding it between two fingers and bringing it to your mouth.

You frown. “I can feed myself, Potter.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Can you?” His voice slides into something low and slightly amused. “Because last night it didn’t seem like you could do much on your own.”

Your stomach drops.

His laugh is light, satisfied, but it doesn’t last long—because as much as James likes to tease, he likes taking care of you even more. And that’s why, instead of pushing, he simply brushes your cheek with his knuckles, his gaze sliding from your eyes to your mouth.

“Please, love.” His voice is low, velvety. “Do me this favor?”

You sigh, closing your eyes for a second, and open your mouth.

James doesn’t say anything, but his gaze brightens when you finally bite into the bread. He waits for you to chew, to swallow, to take a sip of coffee, before leaning in a little closer and murmuring, his breath warm against your skin:

“Good girl.”

The heat that shoots up your spine almost makes you drop the cup.

James pulls away slowly, and his smile is dangerously close to smug as he sits back down, taking your free hand just to play with your fingers between his. He presses a quick kiss to your palm before saying, casually:

“Now eat properly, love. You’re going to need to rest.”

Your body relaxes for a brief second.

Until he adds, with an undeniably mischievous glint in his eye:

“…for a few hours.”

[mriddle-me-this]

If possible can we get a part two of the one bed trope with James?

Maybe a smug Sirius when he finds out his plan worked. Maybe even a month after the cabin.

I love your stories so much. You are so talented!!

AND "Hello my love! I am absolutely obsessed with the one bed trope James potter fic you just posted! It’s so lovely :) I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a part two, just the next day where they have a soft, fluffy morning- you know maybe them being a little awkward at first because they’re not sure what to do, but falling into this comfortable intimacy because of the forced proximity? No worries either way but I love your writing!!"

I got two requests for a part two of the one bed trope fic! I'm so glad to see so many of you enjoyed it, I was really proud of it after I struggled with it for a few days haha! I tried to blend these two requests together, and I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. I hope you all enjoy, thanks for requesting <3

(boy)friend!James Potter x fem!reader who get found out ✿ 1.3k words

cw: fem reader, reader and James don't want to admit that Sirius' plan worked, mentions of smut but nothing detailed, Sirius is so dramatic I love him

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

previous part

This morning was decidedly not going the way you had hoped it would.

It started out good. More than good, you would even say wonderful. You’d woken up with James’ head between your legs, which is quite possibly the best way you can imagine waking up in the morning. You’d cuddled for a while, showered together, and you relished in the feeling of being around your boyfriend. Truthfully, things were new. The two of you have only really been together a few weeks. 

But it doesn’t feel new. It feels like two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, that were always meant to find one another. Sirius may have pushed you, but there’s a deep knowing in your gut that things would always have turned out this way. A million lifetimes, a million different paths, and you think that you and James Potter would find your way together. 

The morning after your first kiss with James, you’d woken up in his arms in the cabin. 

 Your eyes flutter open, taking in the sight of James Potter’s sleeping face. For a moment, you’re in utter disbelief until you remember the conversation, and the kiss, from the night before. You find your cheeks heating up, and you press yourself closer to him as your heart pounds. His arms wrap tighter around you, like even subconsciously he wants to be closer to you.

You place a gentle kiss on his chin, and he takes in a long breath before his own eyes open. He smiles at you softly, a hand raising to hold your cheek. There’s a moment where both of you just sit comfortably still, looking at each other in the early morning light. Then James lowers his mouth to yours and despite the morning breath it’s the best kiss you’ve ever had. 

When James finally pulls away, you’re sufficiently dizzy and desperate beneath him. He smirks confidently and climbs off of you, holding out a hand for you to take. 

The two of you eat breakfast together, go on a little walk through the woods and enjoy the beauty of nature and solitude. He kisses you again, then, as you slow dance under the trees in the light of the midday sun, and you know you’ll always think of this moment when you hear birds singing.

“We can’t tell Sirius about this,” James whispers to you with a teasing smile on his face. You chuckle, pulling him just a bit closer as the two of you sway.

“No, we cannot.” You agree, your sweet laugh making James’ heart soar. 

The rest of the weekend is much the same. You have sex for the first time, with James whispering how beautiful you are and how much he adores you. You cuddle in front of the fireplace and James falls asleep with his head in your lap as you read him a book. It’s beautiful, everything you could have ever wanted. And you’re not going to tell Sirius.

And so far, neither you or James had managed to let it slip to Sirius, or anyone else, that your relationship had changed so significantly. You didn’t want to hear Sirius’ smug teasing, endure Remus’ knowing looks, or even Peter’s intrusive questions. The two of you just wanted to be you two just for a little bit longer. 

But, of course, secrets can only stay secret for so long. This morning is when things go wrong.

James washes your hair and then kisses you until the water goes cold. He wraps you in a towel, calls you his ‘angel��, and goes downstairs to make breakfast. 

You’ve just finished drying your hair with James’ towel, wearing one of his shirts and your panties, when you hear the front door open and close. You’re not immediately put off, thinking maybe James stepped outside for the paper or something. 

“Oi, Prongs! Why is there a pair of ladies shoes by your door?” Sirius. 

You freeze, looking down at your lack of clothing, the open bedroom door, the obvious evidence of your nights here scattered around James’ home. 

Sirius’ footsteps echo as he moves into the kitchen. You stand, taking the quietest steps you can possibly manage to lean against the bedroom door, listening. 

“Pads, mate, you have to text me when you want to come over. It’s not like we share a bedroom anymore, is it?” Your boyfriend’s voice gives you butterflies, but it only increases your anxiety, overwhelmed by the situation. You grasp the wood of the bedroom door tightly. 

It’s not really a big deal if Sirius finds out, you know eventually everyone will find out. But you weren’t expecting it. You wanted to tell everyone on your own terms. 

“Well, sorry, but I’m here now.” You hear something scrape across the floor, presumably Sirius sitting down at the dining room table. “There’s a pair of women’s shoes by the door, and you’re making pancakes. I’ve interrupted your morning after, haven’t I?” Sirius laughs boisterously and James seems to shush him. 

“Sirius, please-” If James says anything else, you don’t hear it. There’s only a moment of quiet before Sirius’ voice says the worst possible thing imaginable.

“Jamsie,” Sirius’ voice is high and sing-songy, and even though you can’t see him, you know there’s a bright grin on his face, “Is she who I think she is? Did my plan work?”

“So you admit it!” There’s another scraping sound, you guess James sits at the table by Sirius. You decide to move across the bedroom, losing out on some of the conversation while you put your jeans on. 

Fully clothed now, you tiptoe out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Sirius and James are sitting at the table, as you guessed. You and James meet eyes and he shrugs. Sirius sees this, whipping his head around so fast you think he might injure himself.

“Ah-ha! I knew it!” Sirius stands up, clearly proud of himself and his match-making skills, “You don’t have to thank me, just let me plan your wedding!”

“Sirius!” James’ eyes widen and he looks at you apologetically. But, strangely, you don’t feel upset. In fact, you find yourself starting to laugh, and Sirius does too. James looks between the two of you with a furrowed brow before even he can’t help but join in, chuckling and shaking his head. “You can’t just say that.”

“I can say whatever I want because I was right!” Sirius flips his hair over his shoulder dramatically. “I’m thinking ballroom wedding. Fancy for your parents, Jamsie, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” James shakes his head and you take a seat at the table with two of them. He moves closer, brushing a soothing hand over your knee to apologize for Sirius’ intrusion. 

“Really?” You chime in, surprising both of them, “I would imagine you’d want something extravagant, Jamie.” 

“I do! Well, I mean- If… If you want something extravagant, then I do too! I want to show you off…” Sirius watches the interaction with a smirk, obviously taking notes to tease the both of you later. 

You roll your eyes and smile, lightly shoving at James with your hand, though it doesn’t even move him an inch. “We’ve been together for three weeks, James. I don’t know what kind of wedding I want.” 

“Well, you must have some idea-” James’ voice is cut off by the scrape of the chair again, Sirius standing up and putting his hands on his hips. He does a little bow and you roll your eyes again.

“Well, now I have put the idea into your heads. Ponder it,” He smiles giddily, grabs his bag, and begins making his way back to the front door. “I can’t wait to tell Remus about this. He’ll be glad his allergic reaction wasn’t for nothing!”

“Sirius!”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[mriddle-me-this]

sirius bringing a random stag into the flat thinking it’s james then actual james walks out of the bathroom and they both start screaming

[mriddle-me-this]

Another Man's Treasure | Fred Weasley

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader Summary: You're Cormac McLaggen's girlfriend — but Cormac pays more attention to Quidditch than you. Shame, shame.. Fred just can't let you go to waste.

Warnings & Themes: fluff, NSFW (oral!fem receiving), cheating on partner

When you'd begun dating Cormac, it was different.

He was attentive, sweet, mindful. But now? The man was a complete git. Most days, you sat on the bleachers of the pitch, feeling absolutely bloody dejected and watching him fly around on a broom for hours practicing for a team he was only a reserve on.

It was pathetic, truly. You and him. You sat waiting for a guy who couldn't show less interest in you if he tried — and he absolutely sucked at Quidditch yet continued to ignore a gorgeous girl for it.

It didn’t help that Cormac never introduced you to anyone either. You weren’t “his girl” at Gryffindor parties — just some girl hanging around him until someone asked who you were. You weren’t on his arm, weren’t in his conversations, and apparently weren’t important enough to even walk with to Hogsmeade.

You were Cormac McLaggen’s girlfriend in the way someone might say they “have a cat” and never feed it.

So, yeah, sitting in the stands while he zoomed around like a headless Hippogriff? It was just your Tuesday.

Sighing, you opened a book, frowning at the pages in front of you. You might as well get comfortable. It would be a while.

Below you, Fred and George Weasley stood, getting gear on to begin practicing. It was a gorgeous day and some of the Quidditch players actually had a solid reason to get out and practice.

Because again, only some had a productive spot on the team.

You felt eyes on you. Glancing down, you saw Fred. You rolled your eyes as he waved at you, wiggling his fingers in a flirtatious fashion.

You knew Fred and George. Everyone did. Every girl especially — they were tall, muscular, Quidditch stars, and incredibly easy on the eyes. You felt a warmth spread across your cheeks at his wave, despite how much you tried to ignore it.

You also tried to ignore the girlish excitement you felt. You were spoken for after all. What would you look like entertaining another man? A right slag, that's what. Waving back nonchalantly, you turned back to your book.

Fred sighed, clipping his helmet onto his head.

“Shame,” he addressed George. "That is a right shame. A crime, really."

George cocked a ginger eyebrow as he adjusted his gloves. “What is?”

Fred nodded subtly toward the stands. “Her. All alone. Looking like that. For him.”

George followed his brother’s gaze, lips tugging into a smirk once he spotted you. “McLaggen’s girlfriend?”

Fred glanced back up at you. You were back absorbed into your book, e/c hair blowing in the soft wind. Every once in a while, you glanced gloomily at your boyfriend, who once again didn't spare you a single ounce of his attention.

"She's the fittest girl at Hogwarts. Easily. Why is she with McLaggen?"

George scoffed under his breath. “Because looks clearly aren’t everything. Or maybe she’s got a savior complex.”

Fred frowned.

"He's not even good at Quidditch! He's bloody awful. Look at him," He gestured to the pitch, where Cormac was wobbling about on his broom. "Doesn't even look like he's playing. Looks like he's doing an interpretive broom dance."

George burst out laughing, nearly dropping his bat. “Merlin’s beard, you're not wrong. That’s not flying — that’s flailing with purpose.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “And somehow that is the bloke she waits around for every damn day like he’s the bloody star player.”

George snorted. “You’ve been keeping tabs, then?”

Fred gave him a look. “You telling me you wouldn’t notice her? Sitting there every day, looking like a dream and getting treated like a backup broomstick?”

“She’s not our problem, mate.”

Fred didn’t answer right away. His jaw ticked slightly as he watched you glance up at Cormac again, a flicker of hope in your eyes — one that died almost immediately when he didn’t so much as wave.

“She could be someone’s world,” Fred said quietly. “Instead she’s waiting for scraps.”

George eyed his brother, something more serious settling between them. “You’ve got it bad.”

Fred didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “I’m just saying… if it were me, she wouldn’t be sitting up there alone. She’d be on the broom with me. Or on my shoulders. Or—hell, anywhere but forgotten.”

George paused, then smirked again. “So what’s the plan, Casanova?”

Fred grinned, a familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Easy. Show her the difference between being looked at and being wanted.”

He kicked off the ground again, but this time with a different kind of determination.

He was set to embarrass the shit out of McLaggen. One, for being ungrateful. And two.. He was kind of hoping you'd get the ick.

George cackled as Fred shot into the air, weaving expertly through the sky while McLaggen hovered below like a confused Bludger.

“Oi, McLaggen!” Fred called loud enough for half the pitch to hear, voice full of feigned cheer. “You practicing for the ballet? Thought Quidditch involved a Snitch, not pirouettes.”

A few laughs echoed from the other players. Even George barked a laugh, tossing a Bludger up with a wicked grin.

Cormac scowled from midair, wobbling slightly as he turned toward Fred. “Bugger off, Weasley!”

Fred cupped a hand around his ear. “Sorry — couldn’t hear you over the sound of mediocrity!”

You peeked over the top of your book, startled by the sudden exchange. You tried to hide your amusement, but Fred caught the slight twitch of your lips. His chest swelled with triumph.

Phase One: Humiliate the knob. Phase Two: Make her smile. Phase Three: …Well, he hadn’t figured that bit out yet. But he would.

Fred flew another circle around Cormac, performing an exaggerated, showy dive that ended with a perfect landing — just below the bleachers where you sat.

He pulled off his helmet, glancing up at you with that telltale grin.

“Hope you’re taking notes,” he called, slightly breathless. “In case your boyfriend ever wants to learn how to actually fly.”

Your mouth parted slightly, a laugh escaping before you could catch it. “Are you always this cocky, or is today special?”

Fred’s eyes gleamed. “Only on Tuesdays. And when a pretty girl’s watching.”

He winked, then turned and jogged back onto the field — leaving you flustered, smiling despite yourself, and just a little less devoted to the prat in the air.

You didn’t know it yet, but Fred Weasley had just started rewriting your entire love story.

Of course, Cormac had opted to go over plays in the locker room after the incident at the pitch instead of walking back to the dorms with you. Typical.

You walked back alone, carrying your book and pulling your jacket tighter — the wind had started to get chilly as the day went on. You hummed to yourself as you got closer to the castle.

“Oi! Bookworm!”

You turned, startled, and there he was — Fred Weasley, jogging up beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hair was windblown, his cheeks still pink from the chill, and his smile was… well, unfair, really.

“Didn’t think it was nice to let you walk alone,” he said, matching your pace. “Seems your rogue Bludger of a boyfriend forgot where the castle was.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already smiling. “He’s not my Bludger. He’s just... my boyfriend.”

Fred made a face. “You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, choosing not to respond right away. The path toward the castle was quiet, apart from your footsteps on the gravel and the low whistle of the wind. It felt weirdly intimate — the kind of silence that made you feel seen.

Fred didn’t push. Just walked with you, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“You know,” he said after a moment, glancing sideways at you, “I wasn’t joking earlier.”

“About what?”

“About you being the prettiest girl at Hogwarts.”

Your heart skipped embarrassingly. “That so?”

“Swear on George’s life,” he said solemnly. “And I only say that when I really mean it. He’s very dear to me.”

You laughed again, surprised at how warm it made you feel — not just the compliment, but the effort. The way he noticed you, even in a moment as small as this.

“I’m not used to people saying things like that to me,” you admitted quietly.

Fred slowed his pace slightly, studying you. “Well, get used to it.”

You looked at him, brow raised. “Why?”

He smirked. “Because I’m not done saying them.”

And as the two of you crossed through the castle doors, brushing shoulders, warmth blooming where he accidentally touched your arm — you realized something:

You hadn’t thought of Cormac once since Fred showed up.

"I have a boyfriend, Weasley," you snorted. "I doubt he'd take kindly to you doing this."

Fred just grinned, undeterred. That infuriating, charming grin of his — the kind that made your stomach twist in a way Cormac's never had.

“Doing what?” he asked innocently, all wide eyes and mock-surprise. “Walking you back? Complimenting you? Being decent? Merlin forbid.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You know what I mean.”

Fred leaned in a little, voice lowering — not teasing now, but sincere, softer. “I know. And I know you’re with him. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see what he doesn’t.”

You blinked, startled by the seriousness that slipped into his tone.

“He takes you for granted,” Fred continued, holding your gaze. “Doesn’t mean I have to.”

The hallway was suddenly too quiet. Too warm. You opened your mouth, but you weren’t even sure what you were going to say — luckily, Fred filled the silence with a familiar crooked smile, stepping back and releasing the tension.

“But hey,” he added, casual again, “if he ever stops being the luckiest git alive... I hope I’m first in line.”

Then he winked — not flirty this time, not entirely — and turned toward the Gryffindor staircase like he hadn’t just lobbed a Confundus charm straight into your chest.

And Merlin help you...

You kind of wished he already was first in line.

—

The first Common Room party of the year always hit immediately after the first Gryffindor quidditch win.

Only 6th and 7th years were invited, of course — there was Firewhiskey and other alcholic beverages involved. If the younger students were invited, the festivities may get out to the professors. If that happened, everyone was being hexed by McGonagall and buried in a hole on the quidditch field.

You got ready with Hermione and Ginny Weasley (who you'd just met the same night). Hermione was your closest friend. After you'd confided in her about having a slight crush on Fred, she'd immediately introduced you to the ginger girl.

Hermione curled your hair gently as you giggled, listening to a story about Ron bubble from Ginny's lips.

“…and then Ron actually tried to hex Malfoy with a mouth full of treacle tart,” Ginny said, laughing as she swept some glitter onto her cheekbones. “Honestly, I’ve never seen treacle shoot that far.”

You snorted, barely managing to stay still as Hermione tugged the curling wand through another section of your hair. “Did it even work?”

“Of course not,” Hermione huffed from behind you. “He said ‘slug’ instead of ‘slugulus.’ All he managed to do was make a very sticky mess.”

You grinned into the mirror, cheeks already sore from smiling. There was a lightness in your chest tonight — the kind that hadn’t been there in weeks. You knew why.

Fred.

Even the name fluttered through your chest like a secret. It often switched between feelings of excitement and feelings of guilt.

You glanced down at your outfit — Hermione had loaned you one of her sleeker cardigans and Ginny insisted you wear her black mini skirt (“You’ve got legs, use them”), and your own boots tied it all together. You had to admit… you looked good.

No. You looked better than good. You looked like someone who was not dating Cormac McLaggen anymore — which wasn't true, but you looked it. You knew Cormac wouldn't approve of your outfit. You also knew he might not even pay enough attention to you to care.

Hermione raised a brow at you through the mirror. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m always smiling.”

“Not like that you’re not,” she smirked, handing you a tube of lip gloss. “You’ve got the look of a girl who’s about to fall.”

Ginny tilted her head. “For Fred?”

You rolled your eyes.

"Gals! I have a boyfriend."

Ginny raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, and he’s busy playing Quidditch, while Fred is right here, right in front of you, actually noticing you.”

Hermione shot her a look. “We’re not encouraging this, Ginny.”

You blinked, glancing at your reflection in the mirror again. The truth hit you like a ton of bricks: Fred had been noticing you for days. And you'd been noticing him right back. You'd even caught yourself imagining what it would be like to kiss him, to have someone actually see you instead of just waiting around for scraps.

Your fingers tightened around the lip gloss Hermione handed you, unsure of how to respond. The guilt felt like a heavy cloak you couldn’t quite shake off.

“I have a boyfriend,” you muttered, voice quieter this time. "But—"

“You're not blind," Ginny finished for you, that smirk still in place.

Hermione shot her friend a glance, looking more thoughtful than mischievous. “It’s just... if you’re not happy in a relationship, it’s okay to rethink things. Just don’t rush into anything.”

You met her eyes in the mirror, her voice striking a chord. You weren’t happy. You hadn’t been for a while.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you said, the words feeling heavier than you intended. “But I also don't want to keep pretending everything’s fine.”

Ginny reached out, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to pretend. And besides, if Fred’s interested, you should at least see where it goes.” She raised her glass of pumpkin juice. “No harm in that, right?”

You forced a smile, feeling a weight lift from your chest. “Yeah, I guess. No harm.”

Hermione let out a sigh, but there was no disapproval in her tone. "Just don't make any decisions you aren't ready for. But do what makes you happy, alright?"

"Alright," you nodded, feeling strangely reassured.

As you stepped into the common room, you tried to shake off the heavy thoughts clouding your mind, but they followed you like shadows. Cormac hadn't even noticed you when you walked in, his focus entirely on the latest Quidditch match stats he was bantering about with Seamus. You approached him with your arms crossed, smiling kindly when he finally glanced down at you.

"Hi, love."

He smiled back briefly, leaning down to peck your cheek.

"Hello, darling."

The brief kiss on your cheek didn’t feel like it used to. It was routine now, nothing more than a formality. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a smile, trying to ignore the empty feeling settling in your chest.

“How was the match?” you asked, hoping for some kind of real connection.

Cormac shrugged, already turning his attention back to Seamus, clearly eager to get back to the conversation. “Ah, you know, same old, same old. Quidditch, mate. Nothing to worry about. I’m already focused on the next game.”

You wanted to be nasty. You wanted to be rude.

How would he even know how the match was? The git didn't even play in it. He sat on the bench.

You bit your lip to stop the words from spilling out, but they hovered at the tip of your tongue, demanding to be said. The frustration you’d been holding back for weeks was threatening to pour out like a flood. How could he be so blind? How could he be so wrapped up in his own world that he didn’t even notice how much you were trying?

Instead of lashing out, you forced a tight smile, biting down on your irritation.

“Right,” you said, your voice slightly sharper than you intended. “You’re focused on the next game. Of course.”

He didn’t catch the sarcasm, of course. He was too busy regaling Seamus with more stats, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

You stood there, arms crossed, and felt yourself growing smaller in his shadow. The longer you stayed in his orbit, the more you realized just how little you mattered to him anymore. It wasn’t even about Quidditch anymore — it was about how he couldn’t be bothered to even acknowledge you, let alone make any effort.

You shifted on your feet, suddenly feeling like you couldn’t stand there another second. You could practically hear Fred’s voice in your head — You deserve better than this — and for the first time, it actually felt true.

With a last glance at Cormac, who hadn’t even realized you were still standing there, you walked off, a burst of energy propelling you away from the dullness of him. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere felt better than standing there like an afterthought.

And then you spotted Fred.

Of course, he was watching. He always seemed to be watching.

His lips quirked up when he saw you, and the glint in his eyes was almost enough to make you forget how awful everything had just been. Almost.

“Looks like that went well,” Fred remarked, crossing his arms as you stopped in front of him, feeling the weight of everything on your shoulders.

You almost didn’t know how to respond, but somehow, Fred’s presence made it easier. “Well, he’s still talking about Quidditch,” you said, your tone almost too calm for how you were feeling inside.

Fred laughed, glancing over at your boyfriend.

"Quidditch, yeah? The same Quidditch game I played and won today?" He asked playfully. "That's funny. I don't remember seeing a Cormac McLaggen on the pitch."

You couldn't help but laugh at the way Fred's tone had an edge of mockery, and the way he made Cormac sound so utterly irrelevant. You glanced at your boyfriend again, who was still in his own little world, bragging about his Quidditch expertise. It was honestly pathetic.

"Exactly," you replied, rolling your eyes. "I don't think Cormac would know how to hold a broomstick properly if it bit him."

Fred's grin widened, clearly pleased with your response. "Well, at least one of us appreciates Quidditch the way it was meant to be." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, "And just so you know, I don't mind playing for two."

You met his gaze, a teasing smile curling on your lips. "Two?"

"Yeah, for you." Fred said it with such casual confidence, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, but the way his eyes lingered on yours made your chest tighten in a good way.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying not to let your thoughts run away with you. Cormac was still your boyfriend — kind of. But standing there, in Fred's orbit, you couldn’t ignore the growing pull between you two, a magnetic force you hadn’t expected.

"I don't think Cormac would appreciate you sharing the spotlight," you teased, but even you could hear the lack of real conviction in your words.

Fred chuckled, his voice lowering in that way that made it feel like there was no one else around. "Who says I’m sharing? You’ve got a lot more going for you than just his attention."

For a moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, and everything else — Cormac, the party, the chatter — disappeared. It was just you and Fred, and the undeniable chemistry that had been building since the first time he’d shown up at the pitch.

“Maybe you’re right,” you said softly, unable to pull your eyes away from his.

The party went on. You didn't even waste your time glancing at Cormac anymore. Instead, you took shots with your friends and cast every spare glance at Fred.

As you got drunker, your feelings got stronger. They always did. You sat with Hermione and Ginny, singing a song loudly and giggling. Before you knew it, Fred was back again, smirking.

Fred leaned casually against the table, his smirk never faltering as he watched you and your friends. He crossed his arms, but his eyes were all on you, gleaming with mischief and something else — something that made your pulse race just a little faster.

"Still here?" you teased, a playful challenge in your voice as you looked up at him from where you sat.

"Wouldn’t miss it," he replied smoothly, his tone low, yet dripping with that signature charm. "Besides, I don’t think you’d want to be stuck with Cormac for much longer."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips was undeniable. “I’m fine without him,” you said, feeling the heat of alcohol start to cloud your thoughts, but only in the best way possible. "And maybe I’ve got better company right here.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smirk. "Better company, huh? What a coincidence. I was thinking the same thing."

The tension between you both was electric, palpable. It hung in the air, thick and unspoken, but you could feel it in the way Fred’s gaze never wavered from you.

Ginny, always the observant one, caught the subtle shift in the atmosphere and grinned. "Alright, you two," she said with a knowing look. "You both should just kiss already."

Your heart skipped, and for a split second, Fred’s eyes flickered to yours, his smirk turning into something more sincere, something almost... hungry.

You nearly choked on your drink, laughing in an attempt to mask the sudden heat on your face. "Ginny!" you protested, though it came out breathlessly. "You’re drunk."

Fred chuckled, his voice barely audible above the noise of the party. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”

The moment was interrupted. Cormac cleared his throat, a glare on his face. His friends stood behind him.

The air in the room instantly thickened, the playful energy dissipating as Cormac’s presence loomed over you like a storm cloud. He didn’t even glance at Fred; his eyes were fixed on you, his expression harsh, almost accusing.

“Everything alright here?” Cormac’s voice was low, the kind of tone that suggested he already knew the answer but wanted to make sure you felt the weight of his disapproval.

You shrugged.

"You seemed fine in your corner of the room."

Cormac’s jaw tightened at your response, and his friends shifted uncomfortably behind him, sensing the brewing tension. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, and you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You’re drunk,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the drink in your hand as though it was some kind of proof of your irresponsibility. “And you’re with him.” His eyes shot a pointed glare at Fred, who simply raised an eyebrow and leaned back casually.

“I’m allowed to talk to whoever I want,” you replied, keeping your tone steady, even though your heart was pounding. You could feel the eyes of the entire room on you, but this time, it didn’t bother you as much as it usually did. You were done hiding in Cormac’s shadow.

Fred smirked and took a step back, hands in his pockets as if to give you space, but still within reach should you need him. "Looks like someone needs to get a grip," he said lightly, his voice teasing, but there was an edge to it.

Cormac’s nostrils flared, and he took a step closer, his face reddening. "You think this is funny, Weasley?" His voice was low, threatening. "Stay out of this."

Fred’s grin never wavered. “I think it’s hilarious, actually. But hey, if you want to keep playing the jealous boyfriend role, go ahead.”

You could see Cormac’s hands twitch. He stepped forward. Fred raised an eyebrow, standing from his seat. He was easily a head taller than Cormac, maybe more.

"Stay away from my girlfriend, git. I hear all the whispers around this school. Fred Weasley flirting with my girlfriend. You're flirtin' with a right ass kicking next."

Fred’s eyes darkened slightly, but his smirk remained, though now it was colder, sharper. He stood tall, his posture effortlessly confident, an undeniable contrast to Cormac’s flustered and aggressive stance.

"An arse kicking?" Fred snorted, actually having the guff to laugh in Cormac's face. "Oi, Georgie! Did you hear that right? McLaggen wants to deliver me a 'right arse kicking'."

George, who had been leaning casually against the wall, looked up with a grin that matched Fred’s. He crossed his arms and took a step forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “An arse kicking, bloke?” he echoed, his tone full of sarcasm. “Oh, I do hope you’ve got more than just the threat of bad breath and an overinflated ego, McLaggen.”

The laughter between the twins only served to make Cormac’s face redden further, and you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him. It was clear that the situation was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him, and yet, Fred and George didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

“Yeah, mate,” Fred continued, his voice dripping with amusement. “Not sure you’ve got the goods for that kind of threat. How about you take that bad attitude and go sulk somewhere else before you really embarrass yourself?”

There was a palpable tension in the room as Fred’s eyes locked onto Cormac’s, but despite the threat of violence, Fred seemed completely unfazed. He just stood there, his smirk wide and his posture so relaxed it was as though he was daring Cormac to take the first swing.

Cormac got closer, him and Fred almost nose to nose.

"Stay. Away. From Y/N."

Fred’s smirk didn’t falter, though there was a noticeable shift in the air. His posture didn’t tense, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes now. He leaned forward just slightly, closing the gap between him and Cormac with a confidence that almost made it seem like he had all the time in the world.

“Make me,” Fred said softly, his voice low and almost casual, like the entire confrontation was a minor inconvenience. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, daring Cormac to try something — anything.

Cormac’s face was mere inches from Fred’s, his breath hot and heavy in the silence that had enveloped them. For a moment, it seemed like neither of them would budge, like the tension was going to snap in a violent clash. But then Cormac’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, frustration evident in the sharpness of his jaw. He was seething, but Fred wasn’t backing down, wasn’t giving him an inch.

Finally, the dam broke.

Cormac lunged at Fred, but his friends were too quick, grabbing ahold of him. Your eyes widened.

Fred burst into laughter, his eyebrows raised.

"Oh, my! The froggy did jump. Let him go, boys. Let's see what he can do, yeah?"

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as Fred's challenge hung in the air. Cormac’s friends, clearly unsure, hesitated for a second before releasing him, but there was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He was seething, ready to lash out, but Fred didn’t flinch.

Fred’s laughter rang out, loud and carefree, like he was genuinely enjoying this absurd situation. He stepped back a little, hands in the air as if to say, “Come on then.”

“Go on then, McLaggen,” Fred taunted, his tone light, as though he were merely encouraging a schoolyard squabble. “Show me what you’ve got. But don’t go crying to your mates when it doesn’t work out.”

You could feel the eyes of everyone around you, the whispers and the stares. Some of the students were backing away, not wanting to get caught in the middle of this. Fred’s confidence was unmatched, but you could also see the moment Cormac’s resolve started to crack.

Fred’s posture was still relaxed, his smirk in place, but there was something more now — the challenge had shifted. The onlookers were waiting to see if Cormac would actually follow through.

For a split second, Cormac looked like he was going to make a move. His hand twitched, as if contemplating it, but then he stopped. His chest heaved with anger, but his eyes were calculating now, as if trying to figure out if it was worth throwing the first punch.

Fred raised an eyebrow, mocking him. “What’s wrong, mate? Too scared to even throw a proper punch?”

Cormac’s face was a mask of fury, his pride clearly wounded. He looked like he was about to explode, but after a tense pause, he began to walk away.

"I want you back in the dorm by one, Y/N." He hissed. Then, he left.

The moment Cormac’s voice cut through the tension, it was like a cold splash of water. You were still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest. His words echoed in your mind — the command, the possessiveness. You felt your stomach twist, the anger bubbling up once more.

But Fred, as always, didn’t seem fazed. He leaned against the table casually, his arms crossed over his chest, looking after Cormac with a raised brow. “Is that right?” he muttered under his breath, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

The air was thick with the aftermath, the party resuming its usual hum of conversation, but the dynamic had changed. Everyone could feel it.

Fred turned his gaze back to you, his eyes softening, though the sharpness of the encounter still lingered in the air. “You don’t have to listen to him, you know.”

His words hung there, simple but loaded. You knew it wasn’t just about Cormac anymore. It was about what you wanted, what you were going to do next.

You met Fred’s eyes, trying to steady your racing heart. “I know.”

But even as you said it, part of you felt a strange pull, a sense of responsibility to Cormac’s words. You could feel the control he tried to exert over you, like a tight grip on your very being. It wasn’t right, but the thought of confrontation still made your stomach churn.

Fred didn’t push. He didn’t need to. He stood there, waiting, giving you the space to process.

After a long pause, you finally spoke, your voice quieter now. “I don’t want to go back to the dorm tonight.” It came out almost like a confession, and you immediately regretted it. But Fred’s gaze softened in understanding.

“Then don’t,” he said simply, a warmth creeping into his tone. “You’re not his to command, Y/N.”

His words were a reminder — not just that you were free, but that you deserved more. You deserved to make your own choices, to not be controlled by anyone.

You couldn’t help but feel the weight of that. Fred’s presence had shifted from playful to something deeper, something more protective and genuine.

Without a word, he reached out, offering his hand to you. His gaze didn’t leave yours as he waited, his smirk gone, replaced with something that spoke volumes.

“You’ve got options. You can stay in my dorm, or we can go somewhere else. Your call.”

The offer was simple, yet it felt like the world was in your hands. Cormac’s control, his possessiveness — it felt a lot smaller in comparison to the choice Fred was giving you now.

Ultimately, you decided to go to Fred's upon the promise that he'd sleep on the floor and you could have the bed.

When it was time, you crept up the stairs sneakily, knowing you weren't supposed to be there. Before you'd left, Hermione and Ginny winked at you, mouthing 'use protection'. As usual, you'd used the lame quote you always did.

"I have a boyfriend!"

You stepped into Fred’s dorm with a mix of nerves and curiosity fluttering in your chest. The room had the unmistakable scent of boy — a mix of broom polish, something vaguely like cinnamon, and just a hint of mischief. Quidditch posters were slightly crooked on the walls, a pair of socks hung from the corner of his bedpost, and a few Zonko’s wrappers were scattered on the floor like confetti after a prank well done.

Fred closed the door behind you with a quiet click, then turned, watching your expression closely. “Alright, I know it’s not exactly five-star,” he said, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, “but I promise the bed’s clean-ish. And I’m told the floor builds character.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the corners of your lips twitched up. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know.”

Fred raised a brow. “You’re not about to suggest we share, are you? Because that might make your boyfriend — sorry, our resident caveman — a bit twitchy.”

You laughed, the sound soft and surprising even to your own ears. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Fred said, flopping down on the bed for the moment and tossing a pillow to the floor like it was a throne, “you’re here.”

You stood there for a second longer than necessary, watching him. For all the jokes and smirks, there was something undeniably warm about him — like you were safe in a place you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

“I’m only here to avoid a fight,” you said, not really believing it yourself.

Fred looked at you, unbothered. “Then I hope it was worth sneaking past McGonagall and the protection squad.” He mimicked Ginny and Hermione’s voices with a dramatic flair: “‘Use protection!’ — honestly, I feel like they’re rooting for me.”

You groaned, pulling a pillow over your face. “I hate that I keep using that same excuse. I have a boyfriend… it sounds weaker every time I say it.”

Fred’s voice was quieter now. “Then stop saying it.”

The room fell into a soft silence.

You lifted the pillow just enough to peek at him. “That’s not fair.”

He met your gaze with something softer than a smirk. “Neither is the way he treats you.”

There was nothing flirty in his voice this time — no edge, no teasing. Just truth.

You could feel how close you were. His thighs were resting next to yours, only an inch from touching. You were sad you couldn't share the bed without it being wrong.

Fred must’ve felt it too — the closeness, the tension that wasn’t born from a fight or an argument, but from restraint. The unspoken something that had been hanging between you two for weeks now. Maybe months. Maybe longer.

You could feel the heat radiating from him, his presence like a magnetic pull, and it wasn’t fair. Not because of the situation, or the rumors, or even the rules — but because being near him made you feel calm. Real. Understood. Something you didn’t even realize you’d been starving for.

“I hate this,” you whispered, not even sure if you meant the situation, your relationship with Cormac, or the fact that you couldn’t just... let yourself fall into this moment.

Fred didn’t move, but his voice came low. “What part?”

You hesitated. “The part where I have to keep pretending I don’t want more than this.”

He looked at you then — really looked. All the mischief and bravado faded in a blink. There was something in his eyes that made your breath catch, something heavy with meaning, but gentle too.

“You don’t have to pretend with me. I won't squeal.”

Your eyes softened. You felt yourself almost melting.

Fred leaned forward, almost testing how far you'd let him go.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away.

His hand found the edge of the bed, steadying himself, his knuckles brushing lightly against your knee. It wasn’t bold or pushy — it was cautious, careful, like he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His eyes never left yours, and in them, you didn’t see a boy looking for a joke or a cheap thrill. You saw someone who meant it. Someone who knew exactly what you were risking and was willing to meet you there anyway — with patience, with warmth, with that steady, maddening confidence he always wore so well.

“You sure?” he asked, voice a whisper now, nearly swallowed by the hush of the room. “Because once I know you want this too… I don’t think I can go back to pretending either.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out, fingers barely ghosting over his wrist — and that was all he needed.

Fred closed the space between you, slow and certain, his forehead gently resting against yours. No kiss. Not yet. Just that shared breath, that promise suspended in the air.

"I don't think I've ever felt this way in my life."

Fred let out the softest breath, like the weight of your words had struck something deep inside him — something real. His fingers brushed your knee again, this time more firmly, grounding himself as he searched your eyes.

“Me either,” he admitted, his voice barely audible, like speaking too loud might break the moment.

His thumb skimmed your wrist, tracing slow, reverent circles as he kept his forehead against yours. “It’s not just a crush. Not some passing thing. I feel it — here.” He moved your hand gently, placing it flat over his chest where his heart thudded steadily beneath your palm. “Every time I see you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of every glance, every smirk, every quiet moment you’d shared that hadn’t made sense until now.

Fred leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes again, searching for the final piece of permission. His voice cracked just slightly when he whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

Fuck it.

"Please?" You asked, your voice a quiet whimper.

That was all it took.

Fred closed the distance without hesitation, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek with such care it made your heart ache. His lips met yours gently at first, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the feeling of finally having you this close. It wasn’t rushed — it was reverent. A kiss years in the making, built from tension, longing, and all the moments you’d spent denying it.

But once it started, there was no going back.

The second kiss was deeper, slower but more desperate — his fingers slipping into your hair, your hands clinging to his shirt. It was like something had finally broken free between you, and now that it had, neither of you could stop. The need in the room shifted from hesitant to hungry in an instant.

Fred pulled back only slightly, his forehead pressed against yours again, lips brushing as he spoke. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that — instead I got to watch moments like this wasted on some talentless git."

He kissed you again before you could respond — soft, then firm, like he couldn’t get enough. His voice came in a breathless whisper against your lips: “Say the word and I’ll stop, yeah?”

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you pulled him back in with a grip that left no room for doubt. Your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck as you kissed him harder, need surging like a flood. Fred groaned softly into your mouth — a low, desperate sound that seemed to vibrate right through you — before his hands found your waist, tugging you into his lap like you belonged there.

You did.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, his touch suddenly more urgent, more claiming. His mouth moved along your jaw, down to the edge of your throat, where he lingered with soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath hitch. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, “how mad you make me, every time you call that idiot your boyfriend.”

His hands ran under the hem of your shirt now, slow and reverent even in the heat of it all, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you this way.

Fred's hands paused just beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing your bare skin like he was memorizing the feel of you. His breath was hot against your neck, the restraint in his movements contrasting the intensity of the moment. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push.

“You shouldn’t have to settle for someone who only wants to own you,” he whispered, lips brushing your collarbone. “You deserve to be worshipped.”

Your heart pounded at his words — not because of the heat, but the sincerity behind them. Fred didn’t just want you. He saw you. All of you. Every piece you’d tucked away, every part Cormac had ignored or tried to control — Fred was holding you like none of that scared him.

He pulled back enough to meet your gaze again, thumbs still stroking lazy circles into your hips. “I meant what I said. You call the shots. We stop whenever you say.”

His voice was still low, husky with want — but his eyes held nothing but respect, waiting for your permission, like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

You felt yourself squirm under his touch, the heat between your legs almost becoming uncomfortable. You weren’t even sure if you’d feel guilty for doing this anymore. Fred was the most exquisite thing you’d ever tasted, a forbidden fruit.

Fred noticed the way you moved against him, the quiet, involuntary squirm, and his hands tightened slightly at your hips — not to restrain, but to ground. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze dark and reverent, as if he could already feel the shift in you, the slow unraveling of hesitation.

“I want to take care of you. Will you let me, love?” He asked, his brown eyes darker than ever.

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice — the contrast between his raw need and the reverence in his words made your heart ache. There was no arrogance in the way Fred looked at you now, no teasing or bravado. Just a quiet, aching sincerity. Like this had never been about just desire — it had always been about you.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”

Fred smirked, the hands on your hips lifting only to slide under the waistband of your skirt. “That’s my girl.”

You shuddered as his rough, Quidditch conditioned hands met the skin below your belly button, your e/c eyes glued onto him. The brisk air flooded your hips, thighs, and legs as he pulled the skirt off.

He tossed it to the floor quickly, his eyes raking over your body in awe.

“You’re gorgeous. Absolutely bloody perfect.”

His thick fingers trailed along the waistband of your underwear, toying with the thin fabric. He eyed the wet patch on the front, an amused smile on his lips.

“Betcha Cormac McLaggen never caused this mess, hm?”

You rolled your eyes, attempting to close your legs. He pushed them back open, chuckling.

Quickly, he tugged your panties down your legs too, his eyes darkening even further at the sight of you. Your pussy was perfect, glistening in the dim light of the moon. He ran a finger down the length of it, watching your essence collect onto it.

You exhaled, the cold breath hitting Fred.

“Pretty. So, so pretty.”

Before you knew it, Fred was repositioning himself, his body sliding down the rest of the bed. He positions himself between your thighs, pushing them further apart. His eyes look eagerly up at you, a smirk on his lips.

“Gonna take care of you, yeah? Show you an unselfish bloke, since you’ve never seen one.”

You could’ve cried.

With a firm squeeze on your thigh, he dives in.

He licks a thick stripe up the middle of your heat, eliciting a moan from your lips immediately. You could’ve sworn you heard him chuckle against you — you definitely felt the vibration of it.

He laps at you eagerly, like a dog that just found water in the desert. Your clit gets most of the attention, but he occasionally goes where your essence has collected most, cleaning you up as he works.

“Oh my Merlin—” you gasp, a quiet whimper leaving your lips as your hand trails down to him, threading through his hair without even thinking.

This only pushes him further. He focuses on the most sensitive part of you, the cute little bundle of nerves, until you feel like you could pass out.

All it takes it one more push. He sucks at you, a loud sluuuurp, just enough pressure.

You come undone immediately, a lewd moan leaving your lips. You’d almost be embarrassed at how quick it was if you could even think.

“Fred!”

He doesn’t stop, leading you through your release. Your hips buck as you attempt to push him off, but his broad hand forces your hips down.

All that’s left now is to clean you up. He can’t let you go to waste.

Licking up every drop of cum you’d let slip, he came up off from you. The lower part of his face glistens sinfully.

Your jaw is still wide open in both bliss and disbelief as you look at him, a loud exhale exiting your mouth.

Quickly, as if it was perfectly normal, a typical part of his evening, he wiped your release from his face and sucked it from his fingers, humming gratefully.

He looked down at you with a lazy, satisfied grin, eyes soft but gleaming with something deeper. “See?” he murmured, brushing your hair from your face with the gentlest touch. “That’s what you deserve, love. Not the bloody Quidditch mascot.”

You laughed, breathless and flushed, your brain fuzzy.

“I have a boyfriend.”

Fred let out a dramatic groan and threw his head back against the pillow. “Merlin’s bloody beard, not again.”

You giggled, half buried in his chest, still breathless and dazed. “It’s a reflex at this point.”

He turned his head to look at you, one brow raised and a teasing smirk forming on his lips. “Yeah? Well, reflex or not, love, you really need to update your status. Because your boyfriend didn’t make you sound like that.” His fingers traced lazy circles over your spine. “I did.”

You roll your eyes, pushing yourself closer to him. He wraps his arms around you tightly, curling you into his chest.

“Goodnight, Weasley. You’ve turned me into a sinner.”

Fred chuckled, the sound low and warm against your ear as he buried his face in your hair. “Then I’ll happily be the reason you fall from grace,” he murmured, voice laced with something both teasing and devastatingly sincere.

His arms tightened around you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

The warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, and the fading ache of the night’s confessions lulled you into a peace you hadn’t felt in ages. And for once, you didn’t care about tomorrow — not about guilt, not about consequences.

The next morning, you still felt the same. No guilt. No shame. That’s how you knew for sure that your relationship with Cormac had run its course and that you needed to end it — ASAP.

And after his brutish behavior the other night, what better way was there to break it to him but through the very Weasley that had shown you the greener grass on the other side?

You entered the Great Hall, Fred’s arm thrown around your shoulder.

You didn’t even try to hide the smug satisfaction bubbling beneath your skin.

Fred was relaxed, smirking like he knew exactly the kind of storm you were about to unleash. His arm hung heavy around your shoulders, protective and possessive in a way that was unmistakably deliberate. You leaned into it — not for the drama, but because it felt good. Right.

The hum of morning chatter in the Great Hall dulled the second you walked in. Heads turned. Students smiled, cheered even. And at the Gryffindor table, Cormac McLaggen froze mid-bite, eyes narrowing as they locked onto the two of you.

You gave him a look that was cool, almost bored. “McLaggen,” you said lightly, as though you were passing a stranger on the street.

Fred didn’t stop walking, guiding you toward your usual spot like nothing was amiss. But as you slid onto the bench beside him, his arm stayed firmly in place, and his hand brushed your shoulder with just enough intimacy to make the message clear.

Cormac was already on his feet. “What the hell is this?”

Fred looked up at him with a smile that was too calm to be kind. “This?” He gestured lazily between you. “This is her making a better choice.”

Cormac’s jaw clenched. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” you cut in, voice steady, unfazed. “We’re over, Cormac. As of last night, officially. Your behavior lately? That was the last straw.”

He looked between you and Fred, fuming. “So you’re just gonna — what? Run off with him?”

You didn’t blink. “No, I walked away from you. And he was already standing there.”

Fred leaned back, hands behind his head now, relaxed as ever. “She simply decided she preferred gingers. And blokes that don’t pretend to be good at Quidditch. And blokes that brush their teeth.”

The Gryffindor table burst into scattered laughter, a few muffled snorts and gasps echoing down the line. Even George, two seats away, choked on his pumpkin juice, coughing into his sleeve with a wide-eyed, delighted grin.

Cormac’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his fists clenched at his sides. “You think this is funny?” he snapped, eyes locked on Fred. “You think you can just take her from me and humiliate me in front of everyone?”

Fred didn’t move, his tone still maddeningly casual. “Mate, I didn’t take anything. You lost her all on your own. I just happened to be the better option when the dust settled.”

You saw it — the twitch in Cormac’s jaw, the way his shoulders squared as if ready to swing. But this time, Fred’s eyes sharpened, just a little.

“Don’t,” he warned, his smile fading just enough to let the tension creep in again. “I’d hate to embarrass you twice in one week.”

Cormac turned, glaring.

“Whatever. I deserve better than some stupid slag, anyway.”

Fred was on his feet before anyone else could react.

There was no teasing in his expression now — no witty retorts, no lopsided smirk. Just pure, cold fury. The kind that silenced the whole hall in an instant.

“What are you—”

Fred’s fist connected with Cormac’s jaw before the insult could fully leave his mouth.

The sound was sickening — a sharp crack that echoed through the Great Hall like a thunderclap. Heads turned. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to flicker for a moment, as if the castle itself recoiled from the blow.

Cormac stumbled back, dazed, clutching his face with wide eyes and bleeding pride. He didn’t fall — not quite — but the damage was clear: his lip was split, and his ego shattered.

Fred didn’t follow it up. He stood over Cormac, shoulders heaving, eyes burning. “Long overdue, you absolute waste of space prat,” he growled. “Try that shit again and see what you get next, mate.”

McGonagall’s voice suddenly rang through the hall like a whip. “Mr. Weasley!”

Fred didn’t flinch. He only turned slightly, shielding you behind him again with a hand at your hip. “Sorry, Professor,” he said, still glaring at Cormac. “Slipped.”

—

The tension from the Great Hall carried all the way into detention, where Fred now sat slumped at a desk in an empty classroom, idly tossing a quill from one hand to the other. He looked more annoyed than remorseful — not at the punishment, but at the hour wasted inside instead of with you.

The door creaked open.

He glanced up — and there you were.

McGonagall had given you permission. She was an advocator for women, and you’d explained the entire situation to her. She was slightly reluctant, but ended up letting you enter with a ‘just this once’ slipping from her lips.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said, brow lifting in amused confusion as you shut the door behind you.

“No,” you teased, strolling toward him. “Figured if you’re gonna sit here sulking, I might as well brighten the place up a bit.”

Fred grinned, eyes following your every step as you hopped up to sit on the desk in front of him, legs swinging playfully. He reached towards your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“I can’t believe I can call you my girlfriend now. Never thought I’d see the day you gave up on the bench warmer.”

You smirked, gently nudging Fred with your knee as he leaned forward, resting his chin on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gave up on him the moment I realized I was already in love with the guy who actually showed up for me,” you said, fingers sliding through his hair.

Fred beamed, practically glowing. “So you’re saying I’m your hero? Finally getting the credit I deserve?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the fond smile tugging at your lips. “More like my very chaotic, very ginger hero who got detention for punching my ex.”

Fred looked far too pleased with that title.

“Don’t forget, love. I also devoured his girlfriend in my bed two doors down from him.”

You raised your eyebrows, laughing as you lightly smacked his shoulder. “Fred!”

He grinned shamelessly, that familiar mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “What? Just making sure history remembers me properly.”

You shook your head, but the smile on your face wouldn’t budge. “You’re unbelievable.”

Fred leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, voice dipping to something softer. “And yet… you still chose me.”

You exhaled, heart full. “Yeah. I did.”

And as he kissed you — slow, certain, and impossibly warm — you realized that, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t regret a single thing.

[mriddle-me-this]

“Mine”

Mattheo X reader

“If he looks at you like that again,” Mattheo muttered, low and dangerous, “I’ll hex him into next week.”

You laughed it off—even though you knew Mattheo wasn’t joking.

His eyebrows pulled together as he looked at you.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

It wasn’t a big deal. There was this guy from Ravenclaw who’d occasionally smile or flirt with you. You didn’t mind it.

But for some reason, Mattheo did.

A little too much.

Mattheo’s hand brushed yours as you both walked out of the courtyard—and for a second, he didn’t move it away.

“You like the attention he gives you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but still edged with something darker.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart betrayed you—racing, loud in your ears.

“No,” you whispered. “I like yours.”

“Really?” Mattheo smirked, suddenly stepping in front of you, arms crossed.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “…No.”

But the blush on your cheeks said otherwise.

Mattheo chuckled, brushing a finger gently against your cheek. “You’re a horrible liar, y/n.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lower now.

“I always know when you lie. Your cheeks go pink… and you start biting your lip.”

You took a deep breath and started walking away—only because you knew he’d follow.

Sure enough, you could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Running away from me already?”

You stopped in your tracks, sighing. Doesn’t look like either of you is making it to class anytime soon.

“Fine,” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “I like your attention. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He nodded, his usual cocky expression replaced by something softer. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

He stepped closer, his lips hovering just above yours. So close, you could smell the sharp scent of his cologne. So close, you could see every detail in his eyes.

This is it. You’re going to kiss Mattheo Riddle.

And then—

“…Uh, hey y/n.”

You froze.

Of course. It had to be him. The Ravenclaw boy.

You turned around to face the boy, but you felt Mattheo’s hand slide possessively to your waist.

“Yes?”

The poor boy was a blushing mess.

“Can you please go out wi—”

Mattheo cut him off, his voice low and sharp. Now that you looked up at him, you could practically see the red in his eyes. He was angry. Jealous. Possessive.

“She’s with me. You can go now.”

Everyone knew better than to push Mattheo Riddle when he was like this. It never ended well. The boy didn’t even argue—he just turned and bolted.

You looked up at Mattheo, your voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t you think that was a little mean?”

Mattheo reached up, brushing your hair behind your ear, his tone low and dangerous again—but gentler this time.

“He was being mean. He ruined our moment. And he was messing with what’s mine. I don’t share.”

You blinked, heart stuttering in your chest. Confusion flickered in your eyes. “I’m yours?”

He smirked, eyes soft now as he hummed in response. “Damn right you are.”

Your breath hitched.

He was still so close. Too close.

Then—he leaned in, lips brushing yours, just a whisper of contact. “I’ve been dying to do this.”

This time, nothing interrupted you.

Mattheo kissed you like he meant it—slow at first, like he wanted to memorize every second. One hand cupped your jaw, the other still firm on your waist, pulling you in like you were the only thing that mattered.

You kissed him back—every ounce of tension, frustration, and longing pouring into that one moment.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me, y/n.”

[mriddle-me-this]

𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙨

summary: You hadn't meant for him to see it...

characters: mattheo riddle. shy! reader

warnings: maybe a little bit of mean! matt

word count: 2.1k

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟

It hadn’t started with anything dramatic.

There was no grand gesture, no moment where time stood still. No accidental brush of fingers or shared detention that changed everything. If anything, it started in the background-quiet and unassuming, like the way sunlight slowly creeps across a windowsill.

At first, Mattheo Riddle was just another name. Another student in the halls. Another face you recognized but didn’t really see. You’d heard the rumors, of course-everyone had. He was intense. Sharp around the edges. The kind of boy who looked like he was born with a cigarette in one hand and a secret in the other. He didn’t talk much in class, but when he did, his voice cut through the air like a knife-low, slow, and full of a confidence that made people listen.

You weren’t immune to it. But you weren’t the type to fall for a boy just because everyone else did.

No, your crush didn’t start until much later. Until you caught him in a rare moment-one that nobody else seemed to notice.

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the kind of grey that soaked through your robes and made everything feel just a little heavier. You had arrived early to Charms, slipping into your usual seat at the back of the classroom, half-hoping to be invisible for a while. You’d pulled out your notebook, trying to lose yourself in your doodles-half-formed shapes and crooked stars and your own name written over and over again in soft, looping script.

And then you saw him.

Mattheo, sitting two rows ahead, head bent low over his parchment. Not lounging like he usually did, not smirking or joking or making lazy remarks under his breath. No-he was reading. Really reading, with his fingers pressed lightly to the page like he was trying to hold the words in place.

It was the way his brow furrowed in concentration, how his lips moved just slightly as he whispered something to himself-practicing, maybe. The way his dark curls hung just a little too long over his eyes. The tiny crease in his shirt collar. The ink stain on his thumb.

You didn’t mean to stare. You were just... curious.

And then, like he could feel your gaze, he looked up.

You froze.

For a breathless second, your eyes locked-and something fluttered in your chest, soft and uncertain. You dropped your gaze instantly, cheeks warming, pretending to be absorbed in your notes. But you could feel him looking at you. Not with the smug amusement you expected, but with something softer. Quieter.

That was the first time.

The first time you noticed that he wasn’t always storm clouds and sharp words. That sometimes, he was just a boy-tired, thoughtful, alone in a room full of people.

And after that, it was like you couldn’t stop noticing.

The way he tapped his quill when he was thinking. How he stood just a little closer to his friends than necessary, like he needed to feel they were still there. How his voice lost its edge when he talked to animals-how he lingered outside the Owlery like he didn’t want to go back inside.

You never told anyone.

You didn’t know how to say it out loud. That the boy with the sharp tongue and stormy eyes had become the center of your day. That your stomach fluttered every time he passed you in the hall. That you started carrying your notebook closer to your chest, just in case he might see what was written inside.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a crush.

But it grew, slow and warm like tea steeping on a cold morning-seeping into all the quiet corners of your day.

And you didn’t mean for him to find it.

You’d been scribbling in the margins of your Transfiguration notes, zoning out during one of Professor McGonagall’s more monotonous lectures. Your quill had a mind of its own-curlicues and looping hearts appearing without a second thought, a small cluster of initials tucked between the equations and diagrams. His initials. Yours. Sometimes side by side. Once, definitely with a heart around them.

It wasn’t like you planned it.

You’d just… thought of him. The way his eyes lingered on you in class, the way his hand sometimes brushed yours when you passed parchment back and forth.

And maybe, just maybe, you were a little bit in love with him.

But then, during lunch in the Great Hall, your notebook had slipped from your arms as you reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. You hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Mattheo had already scooped it up, flipping it open casually to see what page you were on.

And then he froze.

You turned back toward him, notebook in his hands, and felt your heart stop.

“No-Mattheo-” you stammered, reaching for it, but he was already grinning.

“What’s this?” he asked innocently, holding it just out of reach as his eyes scanned the doodles.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “It’s just-I was bored-it doesn’t mean anything-”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping the corner of the page where a large heart wrapped around the letters M.R. + Y/N. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

You made a desperate grab for it, face on fire, but he stood, holding it over his head with a smirk. “Admit it,” he teased, eyes dancing. “You’ve got it bad for me.”

“I do not,” you mumbled, practically glowing red, burying your face in your hands. “Please give that back…”

Mattheo chuckled, finally handing the notebook over with both hands up like he was surrendering. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’ll let it go…”

You exhaled.

“…For now.”

The rest of the day was merciless.

In Potions, he sat beside you and leaned close, his breath brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You gonna draw more hearts for me, sweetheart?” right as Professor Snape walked by.

In Charms, he passed you a folded note-just your initials drawn next to his in messy ink, with a little heart and a winking face.

You nearly combusted.

And in the corridor between classes, he cornered you by the windows, one arm resting against the stone wall behind you, eyes glinting. “You never answered me,” he said softly, leaning in until you were sure your legs were about to give out. “Do I get to be your boyfriend now, or do I need to earn a few more hearts first?”

You couldn’t even speak-you just squeaked and stared at his lips, completely overwhelmed.

He laughed-soft, fond, not mocking at all-and tilted your chin up gently with two fingers. “You’re adorable,” he murmured. “Seriously.”

And just when you thought he’d kiss you-just when your breath caught and your eyes fluttered shut-

He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, hands in his pockets, grinning like a menace. “Better start doodling, love. I want to see stars next to my name next time.”

And he walked off-leaving you stunned, flustered, and completely ruined for the rest of the day.

You stared after him, notebook clutched to your chest, and realized something very dangerous:

Mattheo Riddle had found your secret crush.

And he was never going to let you live it down.

The days that followed the notebook incident were torture-sweet, funny torture, but torture nonetheless. Mattheo had turned his teasing into an art form, and you, shy and utterly flustered, were his willing target.

It didn’t help that you couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d looked when he found your doodles-the way his lips curved into a mischievous grin, the teasing sparkle in his eyes, the way his voice softened just a little when he almost kissed you in the corridor. It wasn’t just the way he made fun of you that got to you; it was the way he made you feel-like you were the only person in the room.

That night, you found yourself in the library, your notebook open on the desk, fingers hovering over the page but not quite able to put pen to paper. You tried to focus on your notes, but it was impossible. All you could think about were the words Mattheo had whispered to you, his voice so close, his breath warm against your skin.

You sighed, resting your forehead against the cool wood of the desk. Why did you have to be so obvious?

"You know," a voice said from beside you, low and teasing. "If you stare at your notebook any longer, you’re going to wear a hole through it."

You looked up, heart jumping into your throat at the sight of Mattheo leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes glinted with that familiar mischievous spark as he glanced at the open notebook on the desk.

“I—uh, I wasn’t staring,” you said quickly, suddenly feeling like your whole face was on fire. “I was just thinking-”

“About how badly you want to write more hearts with my initials in them?” he cut in, voice so smooth it was almost dangerous.

You choked on a laugh, your hand darting to cover your face in embarrassment. “Mattheo, stop.”

But he didn’t. He came closer, until he was standing beside you, looking down at the notebook with that same teasing smile. “It’s cute, you know?” he said, tapping the page lightly with his finger. “I never thought you’d be into me.”

“I’m not,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. “I mean-I’m not into you like that, I’m just... just doodling. For fun. That’s all.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

Before you could answer, he grabbed a quill, dipped it into the ink bottle, and began writing-his handwriting neat and precise-right next to your scribbles.

Mattheo Riddle + Y/N. Forever.

You froze. “Mattheo, don’t-”

“It’s already done.” He grinned, dropping the quill back into the ink bottle with a clink. He was so close now, standing just beside you, and you could feel his warmth seeping into your side.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, biting your lip, feeling both incredibly flustered and completely weak in the knees.

“Am I?” he asked, the smirk on his lips slowly fading into something more sincere. “Or maybe you just like it when I’m impossible?”

You tried to hold his gaze but failed miserably, quickly looking away as your heart hammered in your chest. “I don’t... know what you’re talking about.”

Mattheo’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something teasing again. But instead, his voice dropped to a quieter, more serious tone. “You don’t have to hide it, you know.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Hide what?”

“Your crush,” he said, leaning down slightly, as if he were telling you a secret. “I can see it in the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Your face felt like it was on fire, and you could barely meet his gaze. “I don’t-I don’t look at you like that.”

“You do,” he insisted softly. “And I like it. I like how you get all shy and flustered, how you bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. How could you argue with him when he was looking at you like that-when it felt like everything in your chest was tightening and blooming all at once?

He took a step closer, his face inches from yours now. “So, what do you say, sweetheart? Think we could make those hearts real?”

You stared at him, heart thudding in your chest, feeling like every word was caught in your throat. He wasn’t making fun of you anymore-no, this was different. There was something real in his eyes, something soft and warm that made you feel seen.

“I-I don’t know,” you whispered, so quietly you weren’t sure he’d even heard you.

Mattheo’s lips twitched upward in a smile, and his gaze softened even further. He reached out, gently brushing your hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “You don’t have to say anything, Y/N. I already know.”

And with that, he kissed you-softly, tenderly-his lips lingering on yours for just a moment longer than you expected. When he pulled back, your entire world was spinning, and you could feel your heart racing like it was about to jump out of your chest.

“You’re adorable,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and affectionate. “But next time, maybe just give me a little more credit, yeah?”

You nodded, speechless, your mind still whirling from the kiss. It was so much more than you’d ever dreamed, and yet it felt so... natural.

For the first time, you realized-maybe Mattheo had known all along. Maybe he’d been waiting for you to catch up.

[mriddle-me-this]

⟡ ݁₊ .Boyfriend’s Enemy!Theo watching you makeout with Cedric

a/n: bless the anon who sent me so many ideas<3 still no smut(sorry)& a tag list for this au is now available

Navigation; m.list; r.r; bf's enemy!theo au;

He hadn't meant to stop.

He really hadn't.

Theo had just been walking through the corridor, quiet and empty at this hour, hoping to avoid people. But then he heard it-the soft sound of laughter, a low voice, a breathy sigh. And instinct made him pause, melt into shadow.

That's when he saw you.

Back arched gently against the stone wall, lips parted as Cedric pressed kisses down your neck. Your jumper was rumpled at the waist, his hands lost somewhere beneath it.

"You're so pretty like this," Cedric murmured, voice thick and low, almost reverent.

You smiled faintly, letting your fingers slide into the hair at the back of his neck as he leaned in again. His lips moved against yours, deepening the kiss with the kind of tenderness that made your heart clench-and your hips shift slightly beneath his touch.

“I want you, baby” he whispered, voice thick with want. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

But just as you were about to melt into the moment completely, you felt the shift in the air.

A heat. A prickle on the back of your neck.

Your eyes opened slowly, and there he was. Theodore staring right at you.

Standing just a few feet away, tucked into the shadows of the corridor, leaning against the archway like he hadn't just stumbled onto something he shouldn't be seeing.

Only... he wasn't leaving.

He was watching.

Your lips parted against Cedric's.

He didn't see him. He was too focused on you, his hand now skimming under the edge of your jumper, his thumb brushing the bare skin at your waist in that way that usually made your heart stutter. But now all you could feel was Theo's gaze. It burned hotter than Cedric's hands.

You felt frozen and electrified all at once. Heat surged through you-and not because of the boy kissing you. It was knowing that someone else, someone you shouldn't care about, was seeing all of this.

You should've pulled away. Should've felt embarrassed, even. But something in you shifted.

So you didn't stop.

You tilted your head a little, let Cedric's kisses trail down your neck. Your breath hitched, louder than it needed to be. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him closer, and rolling your hips up just slightly so Theo could see the way you responded.

You let your head fall back, exposing more of your neck for Cedric to kiss-and kept your eyes on Theo as you moaned

"Cedric." your boyfriends name left your soft lips, a breathy moan. Almost like a whimper.

Deliberate. You felt Cedric shudder against you. He groaned like it undid him.

But it was Theo's reaction you were waiting for.

Theo's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, slow and sinful. His head tilted just a bit more, eyes practically glowing now in the low light.

He didn't look jealous.

He looked hungry

And the worst part?

You liked it.

Cedric whispered your name, sweet and unaware, grounding you for a second. You made a soft sound in reply, still keeping Theo in your peripheral vision.

But when you looked again-he was gone.

Vanished as silently as he'd appeared.

But your body still burned. Not from Cedric's kisses.

From Theo's eyes.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own

taglist: @shyamanuensis @lorenzozurzolocanruinmylife @nottinmyheart @wannagetnoodles

[mriddle-me-this]

the fluffy hair? the stubble? the slutty chain? i'm on the verge of crashing the fuck out because I can't have this man ☹