dark angel under the night sky

18+ Writing blog for reblogging and creating Fanfics. One shots and ongoing works. Currently writing for Harry Potter. Smut, dark romance, drama. Follow me on Ao3 @roses_r_redd

[4ever-undead]

Blaise Zabini's Head Canon Alphabet

House of Selwyn: Gwead Cyntaf (ongoing)

Young!Tom Riddle x OC, MDNI, 18+, DEAD DOVE

ao3 link Wattpad link

Between Love and Loyalty (ongoing)

bbsf!Blaise Zabini x reader, MDNI, 18+

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

Crawl

Older!Tom Riddle x reader, PIV, rough oral m receiving, MDNI, 18+

lace banner by @strangergraphics

[i-await]

𝓑𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓈𝓮 𝒵𝒶𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒾 - 𝒫𝒾𝓃𝓀

[dreaming-of-epiphanies]

ᢉ𐭩 brother’s best friend!blaise zabini

A/N: this is one of the first times i’ve written for blaise, and the very first time i’m posting something for him.

written for blaise’s banquet. thank you to @i-await for hosting it!!

warnings: mild sexual content

✦ who has always claimed to be driven to the brink of insanity by you. You would never leave him and your brother alone when they made the mistake of coming over with you in the house. You'd always hover near wherever they were hanging out, asking questions and lingering in the background until they were forced to acknowledge your presence. At first Blaise would try to ignore it, but then he would start never leaving you alone. Just to get back at you.

✦ who would surprise you with how sharp-tongued he could be when he wanted, especially since he always seemed more reserved than your brother and his annoyingly loud friends. His well-timed snide remarks effortlessly countered any retort made to him without so much as a glance. With anyone else, you'd find it aggravating, but with him, you were oddly fascinated.

✦ who would start looking for you whenever he visited your house, or when he hung out with your brother in the common room at Hogwarts. It was out of habit more than anything. He'd find excuses to walk by the kitchen, where you might be making tea, or suggesting they go up to see Pansy in the girls' dormitories. Maybe he'd see you.

✦ who never noticed you, not really, until one day you weren't there and he suddenly found himself much more bored and irritated than he had any right to be. His friends noticed his sour mood, but he didn't tell them it was because he hadn't seen you today. You were studying in the library, or so your brother said. He walked by there on the way back to his dorm, just because.

✦ who keeps an eye on you, even when he shouldn't. He's always watching you when you leave for class, and what you do during the day, and what you talk about during dinner. At one point he thinks he has your entire wardrobe memorized because of how often he finds himself staring at you. No one notices, though, not even you or so he thinks.

✦ who is jealous when you talk about your encounters with other boys, even though he doesn't have any reason to be. He hates the way you smile when you say one boy's name, even though you never mention him past Date #2. He wants to be the one you're going to Hogsmeade with. He wants to be the reason you're choosing your shortest skirt despite it being the middle of winter.

✦ who never felt like he could pursue anything at all with you and it makes him furious. Your brother had made it very clear what he thought of his friends dating his sister, so Blaise didn't even want to bother. But he did; he wanted to so badly. Then he started to think you wanted him too, and that made everything so much more dangerous.

✦ who began to leave you little signs in hopes you would see and understand them. A rose slid under your door. The notes you missed from Transfiguration. And— far more daringly— an unsigned note wishing you luck on your Alchemy exam. He was the only one you'd told that you were worried about it.

✦ who realises, suddenly, that you know he's the person behind these strange little gifts. And that you are doing absolutely nothing to dissuade him. If anything, with the knowing looks and sly smiles you're giving him when your brother's back is turned, you are encouraging him.

✦ who cannot, absolutely cannot keep his eyes off your ass when you dare to wear a short skirt one day. He's distracted in the common room when he's talking with his friends. He can't focus during dinner and pretty much forgets to eat when he sees you walking in. He point-blank ignores everyone in the library in favour of looking across the room to where you're sitting, your skirt nearly revealing the curve of your ass and the smooth skin of your inner thighs. Fuck, he's hard.

✦ who finally gives into temptation like he's been dying to for weeks when you come down into the common room in the middle of night. He'd been sitting there, staring at the fading embers of the fire and trying to forget the image in his mind of the curve of your ass as you'd bent down to pick something up earlier in the library. Your voice had pulled him out of his daydream and into what very well might be a dream come true.

✦ who doesn't resist at all when you place a tentative kiss on his lips, and instead hauls you into his lap and kisses you like his life depends on it. To hell with the consequences, he decides, because Merlin knows he can't go a lifetime without your touch now that he's felt it.

✦ who agrees, reluctantly and yet wholeheartedly at the same time, to keep this development a secret. He can't tell your brother, nor can he give you up. Even if that means sneaking around and muffling your moans with his hand when you can't be caught.

✦ who takes fiendish delight in the way he's able to tease you with a slight graze of his hand against your ass or a reassuring hand on the small on your back when leading you into dinner, and watches you fumble for an excuse when your brother concernedly asks what's wrong.

✦ who lets you wear his jumper as long as you promise to give it back before anyone sees you wearing this. You forget, of course, and then have to hastily explain you put it on by accident and didn't know it was his. Your brother is suspicious, and so you and Blaise resolve to be more careful from now on. Naturally, you're not.

✦ who sneaks up to your room every night he can, kissing you breathless and dragging his hands drunkenly down your body because he'd been resisting doing just that all fucking day. You do the same to him.

✦ who eventually decides he doesn't give a damn about what your brother thinks and kisses you in front of all his friends.

general taglist: @viperify @xgloomy-kittenx @sea-lit-stars @kenobi-baby @rvvencrux @beelzebzb @m-mally @h0eforjp @s00ty-feet @sophiadauno @cherrytintedlens @lunxrstellx @peony-haze @mintydew @voldemortcest @coryoslut @inlovewithallmusic

[mistress-riddle]

tom riddle did not like to be babied, absolutely not. so what he enjoys it when you brush his hair out of his face? or when you ask him if he’s eaten and offer to make him his favourite meal? or when you scratch his scalp with your long nails while he rests on either your chest or your lap? these are all normal!

tom is a grown man, he absolutely doesn’t need you cooing over him when he catches the flu or when he gets stressed out of his mind due to a list of responsibilities… but just because he doesn’t need it doesn’t mean he’s going to reject it, he could never be so cruel duh. so maybe he does let you smush his cheeks between your hands and peck his lips and he might also let you sit on his lap and groom his eyebrows/shave his stubble but there are very practical reasons behind this, just hear him out—

© 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒-𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 —all content rights belong to mistress-riddle. do not plagiarize any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.

[4ever-undead]

𝔅𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔏𝔬𝔶𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔶

Pt. 2 of a 7 Part mini-series // bbf!Blaise Zabini x Nott!reader

Summary: Blaise forces you to go to the Ministry of Deeds to see what can be done about the state of your inheritance only to discover things may be worse than you anticipated. Now the game has changed, you don't just need a really good lawyer, you need a husband! STAT!

Chapter 2: Disinherited

Tags: brother’s best friend, romance, eventual smut, angst, drama, pureblood politics, hurt/comfort. Somehow this also turned into a lovers to enemies to lovers/second chance fic as well??

Warnings: Smut, PIV, MDNI, 18+

Words: 4.5k

Notes: MASSIVE shoutout to @i-await for reading this over and practically doing the editing for me. And to @nottendo for helping me brainstorm this idea in the first place. I'm so thankful for all your help <3.

Part 1

Honied light bled in hazy and golden through steamy panes of glass in the greenhouse of Nott Manor. Between the lush, wide leaved palms and curling vines within, you found yourself tangled tightly to Blaise Zabini. His chest heaved at your back, pressing you so hard against the glass, you were worried it might shatter. Slick, sweat soaked skin strained against the glass, now warmed through with your combined body heat, denying your pebbled nipples the friction they so desperately craved as you slipped further across the surface with every thrust. Behind you, Blaise worked tirelessly in the heat of this secret sanctuary, made only more intense by the unforgiving August sun radiating down from a cloudless blue sky outside. Despite the sweat, despite the frantic, maddening desire that had found you trembling and throwing yourself back into him, the bruising grip he had on your hips did not falter. He pushed into you slower each time you struggled like this, unwilling to let you steal even a fraction of control. You wanted to beg him to go faster, harder, to tear into you with the same unforgiving brutality you would have exerted were you strong enough to flip the tables in your favor. However, fate had you stuck between a rock and a hard place. Or rather, between leaded glass and six foot-three of sculpted, merciless muscle. But every time you opened your mouth to beg, to plead, to pray, the heavy feeling of him sliding back into you, of him splitting you apart from within, opening you up around that impossible length of his, had you babbling instead. Broken, feeble whines that couldn’t be counted as proper words spilled out against the glass with each pass, pressed out as if there wasn’t enough space inside you for sense and Blaise Zabini both. “So sweet.” Blaise breathed heavily against the top of your head, too controlled even now to let himself stoop to something as uncouth as panting. “Letting me stuff this tight little cunt of yours.” If you could speak, you’d have moaned at the way his words made your pussy pulse greedily around the thick cock already stretching you to your very limits. But your mind had lost all formal thinking ability. It was now reduced to a wet, sloppy mess of rapidly firing nerve signals and unruly hormones. Beneath you, your damp thighs trembled with exertion, muscles strained from how he had you precariously positioned on the iron ledge skirting the greenhouse’s perimiter; an effort to compensate for the difference in height. Blaise pulled back. Unrushed. Almost lazy. You canted your own hips back as well in an effort to chase, but his hold was steel, keeping you right where he wanted you as he drew out nearly to the tip. It was painful, the emptiness, but not nearly as torturous as the slow drag of him against your soaked, clinging walls as he oh so carefully pushed back in. He was evil, treating you like this, but Blaise was nothing if not thorough; he wanted you to feel every ridge, every vein, every beautiful, disastrous inch. Tears slipped down your cheeks as he took his time with you, not stopping but not bothering to give you what you wanted either. He knew better. Besides, what were you going to do? Stop him? You just didn’t know what was good for you. But you needn’t worry. Blaise would show you. What was the saying? Slow and steady wins the race? “Shh, don’t cry.” Blaise’s voice was deep and soothing, almost a croon. You felt him fill you, the tip of his cock kissing the innermost part of your cunt. But the pressure of it grew as he pressed deeper into you, past what you could safely offer, stretching you tenderly until the boundary of your bodies blurred and burned. “...doing so good for me, Angel,” he murmured, voice drifting as he lingered in the deepest parts of your warmth. “...always so fucking... good.”

The memory dissolved into bursts of softened sunlight filtered through your eyelids. You woke up hot and disoriented, your funeral robes tangled around you uncomfortably as you slowly peeled yourself off of sweaty silk sheets.

You sat up in your too-large bed, the pale fabric of your canopy swaying gently in a breeze drifting in through open windows. In the distance, birds chirped, leaves rustled. For one brilliant moment, with sleep still heavy in your limbs and the memory of Blaise’s warmth still coiled around you, the world was beautiful again. Full. Worth enduring.

But then the silence of Nott Manor pressed in as you fell back into consciousness.

There was only you here now. Well, you and Pepper.

The hollowness here had a shape only Theo had been able to fill. He had been good at filling in gaps, planting seeds in old spaces for new things to grow. When your mother passed, you were still a young child. Her memory was confined to old perfume bottles and the idea of an Italian lullaby you couldn’t quite remember the words to. But with Theo there to shield you from the weight of her absence, it had never hurt as bad as it should have. He had cared for you in every way a brother ought and then some. Forgiving when you deserved punishment, protective when you needed independence. But always there. Always reliable. Always loving.

Now what?

You forced yourself from the bed, not because you necessarily planned on attending to the endless list of tasks a suddenly sole inheritor to an estate had, but because the scent of sweat clinging to your sheets reminded you too much of your dream. Well, memory you supposed was a more appropriate description, but it had replayed through your sleeping mind last evening in that ethereal, unfocused quality dreams tend to take. The visuals were not as strong as the physical memories for you, and now the sins of an illicit summer that existed before the war crawled over your skin in a tacky film.

You needed to shower. You needed to pretend that was enough to forget what it felt like to have Blaise Zabini inside you.

You stripped carelessly as you crossed the room to the attached en-suite and took a begrudgingly cold shower. With both Theo and your father dead, yes, you were the heir to Nott Manor (and every other messy asset the Ministry sought to strip you of), but that was in name only. The wards that bound the property had not yet been fully transferred and thus the charms that maintained the manor were beginning to crumble. Cooling charms weren’t sticking to rooms, heating charms were drying up in the pipes, and the garden, once a point of pride, was shriveling up into browning, dying vegetation. The family attorney would usually have helped you sort this out, but he had disappeared the moment his retainer collapsed following the freezing of the Nott Vaults.

There were so many traditions about mourning in your world, yet they did not matter when it came to matters of money or bureaucracy. The world spun on impossibly fast without a care that your entire life had been upended, but it was hard to even care about that when the weight of grief felt like having to traverse the world through a thick layer of molasses. Everything was muffled and sticky and unpleasant now. And it felt as if it might always be that way.

When you returned after the least soothing shower possible, you changed into more casual, thinner black robes. In your room, you did not find the usual breakfast platter Pepper would prepare waiting for you on the receiving table by the sette. Instead, Pepper stood awkwardly in her black mourning pillow case, weathering the soft material in her spindly fingers.

“Miss," she squeaked. "Your guest has asked Pepper to fetch you once you wake."

"Guest?" You turned on Pepper, face already bent into a scowl. "You let a guest in while I was sleeping?

"Pepper did not!" The house elf objected, her grey eyes rounding in alarm, "Mr. Zabini would not leave after Master Theo's funeral! No matter how much Pepper begged!"

"Ugh, it's fine." You pinched the bridge of your nose in irritation and swept past the house elf, Pepper scampering to follow at your heels. Only someone as rude and obtuse as Blaise Zabini would assume he could stay the night in your house without invitation. Of course if Theo had been around that would be one thing, but Blaise Zabini had absolutely no right now that Theo was gone. Not after a year of unanswered owls and ignored attempts at civility.

"I'll take care of it," you told Pepper sternly, already guessing where your dead brother's best friend was most likely making himself far too comfortable.

You drew the sash of your robes around yourself tighter before storming down the stairs, past the formal dining room, through the library to your late father's study. There, you threw open the doors with zero decorum to find the familiar outline of Blaise Zabini, sitting in your father's chair. Countless rolls of parchment and stacked ledgers littered the desk in front of him. The sight was jarring, causing the edges of the moment and the face of the man in front of you to blur. How many times had you burst into the study to find your father in the same exact position, looking up at you with an identical visage of vague annoyance and indifference?

"You're imposing on my hospitality," you told Blaise shortly, not daring to go closer than the pair of leather armchairs situated in front of the heavy mahogany desk allowed.

Behind him, warm sunlight bled in through the tall window, but none of it reached the cool darkness of his eyes as they locked with yours. You tried to hold the contact but collapsed under the weight and averted your gaze to the pictures decorating the mantle instead. You turned to them, straightening the frames just for something to do as you tried to gather yourself. Seeing Blaise like this, here, after such a vivid dream felt like a punch in the gut, disorienting you even further in a world that already felt like it was doing its best to shake you off.

Blaise fixed the black-feathered quill down into the pewter holder in a quick, practiced motion before he folded long slender fingers over his stomach and fixed you with a raised brow. He was getting ready to argue, you realized.

"You told me last evening to take a look for myself," he reminded you calmly, as if the fact he refused to let his feelings show added to his credibility. Merlin, he was infuriating.

"I also told you to go home, if I remember correctly," you reminded him, letting every word carry a note of scathing. But if Blaise picked up on it, he—of course—did not let it show. His expression remained the same, his eyes locked on the side of your face as if he had any right to disrupt your grieving.

"Yes, but that was before you told me to look at the documents," Blaise refuted.

"Must be convenient getting to pick and choose which rules apply to you," you sniffed, peering at him through your peripheral.

"I'm not arguing semantics with you."

"As if you aren't the unwelcome one here."

"I'm trying to help you," Blaise's voice finally gained an edge. Not the type that came with volume but with how slowly and sharply he pronounced every syllable in his words. Something close to victory began to burn low in your stomach.

"I don't need your help," you denied sharply, turning on him now, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Blaise only laughed at this; cold, dry, and tiny, but a laugh nonetheless. How dare he laugh at you, in your own home, as if he had any right to be here? You clenched your fists so hard you could feel what hadn't been gnawed away of your nails bite into your palms.

"Yes, you do." He picked up the quill again and unfurled another scroll of parchment; a silent dismissal. That truly sent your blood boiling. Despite yourself, you closed the distance, hands slamming down on the desk top, sending parchment flying.

"I. Do. Not. Want. You. Here." You made sure to hiss each word one at a time, imagining each one stabbing into him. But Blaise didn't flinch. He didn't even make to move or sigh or roll his eyes. Instead, he met your gaze evenly and announced with a firm voice,

"This is not about you."

And then it clicked. Why he was here, why he had broken the year of no contact between the two of you, why he was doing this at all. It was that same reason it always had been; Theo. Blaise wasn't here for you, or even his own sense of guilt over how things had resolved between the two of you; rather, he was here as a favor to a friend. Why did that hurt just a little? You thinned your lips and backed off the desk, trying to ignore the nagging ache that had splintered in your chest. How annoying. It wasn't like you had expected anything less.

"I would never assume you'd do anything for me, Blaise," you assured him, "But in case you haven't realized, Theo's dead."

"I know that. Do you?" Nearly no inflection, yet his words still felt like the skate of a blade across your skin. "Because you've been acting like he's about to reappear and take care of this mess for you. Just like he has every other you've found yourself in."

"How dare you!" you snapped, wishing there wasn't a desk between you so you could smack that blank expression off his too-perfect face. "Don't you come into my house and tell me how to mourn my brother."

"Don't tell me how to mourn my best friend," Blaise replied just as quickly, his words so fast they nearly betrayed an ounce of sentiment. You recognized the clench of his jaw, the flex of his neck as he swallowed down whatever it was he wasn't willing to let spill out.

"I just want to make sure you inherit what you're owed," Blaise continued after a moment taken to reaffirm the sturdiness of his mask. "…It's what Theo would have wanted."

"Funny, I don't remember you always caring that deeply." You couldn't help yourself from reminding Blaise of how he had so callously pushed you aside the moment it didn't suit his needs anymore.

"Then you remember incorrectly."

Oh, how you wish you did.

"If only I was that lucky."

"Don't start." Blaise finally raised a hand, seemingly in exasperation. "I'm going to take care of the inheritance issues for you. After, we can go our separate ways. You'll never be forced to suffer me again. Then you can go back to pretending you don't have an ounce of responsibility for anything as usual. Or whatever it is you do all day."

"And if I refuse," you scoff.

"That's not an option. Your lawyer is off retainer and you don't know inheritance law," Blaise pointed out.

"Oh and you do?"

He's a quiet for a moment before his brow raises at you as if to say, 'are you really asking me that?'.

"Obviously."

"Well, I expect an apology first," you insist, half because you know it will send his blood pressure through the roof and half because you feel like it's owed to you. Like you need it before either of you can work together in any capacity.

"Excuse me?" The surprise in Blaise's voice, the roundness of his eyes is the most emotion you've seen on his face since before Theo passed.

"You heard me. Apologize to me for going no contact with me out of the blue instead of breaking up with me properly."

"You are not making this about that." Blaise stood suddenly from the desk so fast the breeze ruffled the papers at his thighs, sending one scroll floating to the ground. He braced the tips of his fingers against the desk top, as if to ground himself. "I'm helping you inherit, I'm not rehashing some fling from our school days."

"I'm not type to beat a dead horse," you continued, only feeling more conviction now that he owed you an apology. "I just want you acknowledge how you ended things was shitty."

"I did what I had to," Blaise insisted, "I don't expect you to understand that."

Ugh! The nerve of this guy! It made you want to scream, to argue, to push him until you saw something resembling human emotion on his face. You opened your mouth to refute but Blaise silenced you with a scathing look, the intensity of which took you aback.

"I'm honoring your brother's wishes. That's the only reason I'm here. We are going to the Ministry for a ten o' clock appointment with the Minister of Deeds. If you aren't ready by nine-thirty, I'm summoning them here." Blaise relayed coldly.

"Fuck you."

"We don't do that anymore."

A fissure shot through the glass of the window in an angry outburst of unfixed magic. Again, Blaise didn't flinch. Instead he met your glare with narrowed eyes, daring you to try something worthwhile.

"Ungrateful brat."

"Asshole."

"Go put something on that's not pajamas." Blaise sniffed and lowered back into Father's chair.

"What?" You gasped, affronted. "Th-these aren't pajamas!"

Blaise gave you a once over and scoffed.

"Oh."

Insufferable twat.

"That went worse than expected."

"No shit."

Blaise currently sat beside you on a bench outside the Ministry, the stench of defeat strong between the two of you. You had just come from the meeting with the Minister to see about the state of your inheritance amidst the seizures and freezings, and though the meeting started grimly, it had begun to not look so bleak towards the middle when the Minister discovered a loop hole. However, that little seed of hope you dared to allow take root in your chest for just the briefest part of a moment had gotten flushed out only minutes later.

"A marriage clause for female heirs," you groaned into your hands where you were doubled over on the bench. "I should have expected something this ignorant from the lot of misogynists."

"A lot of inheritance wards have clauses like that, meant to ensure future heirs even in the event the main bloodline dies off," Blaise reminded you, but there was no comfort in the honesty, as there rarely was. "It's the fact your assets will be seized unless signed over to someone with offshore accounts that's concerning."

"Not that it matters," you huffed with a frown, pulling a frustrated hand through your hair before you leaned back against the bench in defeat.

"Do you think the Flints knew this?" you asked, although you weren't sure you wanted to know.

"It would make sense why they rescinded the engagement," Blaise admitted, "Disgraced name aside, you had a considerable dowry and inheritance rites. Ones that would only increase with you as the sole Nott heir. I can't imagine any family turning that type of wealth down unless they knew it was going to be taken away from them."

"Fuck." You sighed, closing your eyes and letting your head tip back over the bench backing. The London air was muggy and uncomfortably warm, stinking with stench of unwashed rubbish bins and crowded streets left to bake under the August sun.

"What am I going to do? I don't even have any N.E.W.T.s because of Voldemort's stupid war." How were you going to get a job? Make a living for yourself? Everything was under audit according to this Minister, meaning you couldn't even sell anything from Nott Manor to get by after your dissolution money ran out. Somehow, the world begun to spin even faster. Somehow, the crushing ache of being alone without your brother intensified. Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away determinedly. Like hell were you going to cry in front of Blaise Zabini of all people.

"You need a husband."

"I absolutely do not!" you refuted, the thought of enduring another arrogant egotistical male already causing a cluster headache at your temples. You couldn't even just marry a random either, according to the clause—

"Someone pureblooded. Someone with assets registered with a foreign ministry," Blaise detailed thoughtfully, more to himself than to you, as if running through some sort of mental catalogue of potential husbands he just kept on hand. This guy was exhausting.

"Blaise," you sighed, already feeling the choking hand of hopelessness, "You're forgetting the most important part; they need to be willing to marry me, disgraced name and all."

"I'm sure we will find someone if we look. The old families have been ravaged by this war. They are looking to rebuild." But even Blaise's voice had lost some of its certainty. There were only a handful of people you could think of that were on the Sacred Twenty-Eight and maintained foreign interests;

The Malfoys, whose heir was spoken for.

The Shafiqs, who had cleared out of the Isles as soon as Harry claimed Voldemort had returned during the Triwizard Tournament.

The Rosiers, who had lost their male heirs to the war.

And of course, almost cruelly, the Zabini's, whose heir now stood beside you but had already had his fun with you and decided he'd grown bored with it.

"Malfoy's engagement party is next month. We should attend, it will be enough time for you to start attending society events again and we can find you a husband." Blaise suggested it with the same cold logic he'd use to talk about the weather, and it caught the fuse of your anger like tissue to a flame.

"Be serious," you scoffed dismissively, "It's all the same people we've been playing dress up with our entire lives."

"The Malfoys are also a disgraced family, Nott." Blaise reminded you, fishing for something in his pocket. Your eyes widened in surprise as he extracted a cigarette from an engraved gold case. Since when did he start smoking?

"You want one?" Blaise held the case out towards you in offering. You hesitated, heart clenching as you thought of Theo. You had always hated that he smoked, but only because he never let you. Was that your fate forever then? To see him in every shadow of every mundane activity you once observed him partake in?

"They're his brand," Blaise confirmed, able to read in your face the nature of your thoughts.

"You enjoy torturing yourself then?" you asked back, accepting one of the cigarettes. You wish it had sounded sharper and less vulnerable. You wished you could read Blaise half as well as he could read you.

"No," Blaise answered, pulling out a lighter. "It makes me feel closer to him."

The weight of his words pressed against your skin and dulled your tongue. Blaise didn't raise his voice or cry or lash out when he felt, you realized. Instead, it appeared he spread out his grieving, wove it into ritual and habit and duty so that every time it pricked him it stung, but it didn't stab. He wouldn't let it pull him apart the way it did you. Instead, he repurposed the emotion into something only he could recognize unless, like now, he purposefully drew attention to it. You couldn't tell if that was healthy or not, to covet one's own pain so miserly. He may not understand you or how you process grief, but he understood the pain of it, the ache, what it felt like to love and lose Theodore Nott.

"Blaise…" His name fell from your mouth softer than he had heard it from you in well over a year. Something reminiscent of warmth passed through his gaze, but it was gone in instant. Perhaps just a trick of the light.

You wanted to ask him then a million things; Why did he abandon you? Why did his promise to a dead man matter so much? And why, most pressingly of all, if he really cared that much, did he not offer himself for you to marry? It wasn't like either of you understood marriage in your shared world to be anything more than a contractual agreement; a forever booty-call confined to the space between obligation and various affairs. It wasn't like you hadn't already slept together either, so when the time came for heirs, it could be easily arranged. So why…

"Need a light?" Blaise filled in the silence, forced order where you felt only confusion. He held the lighter out for you, one hand shielding the orange flame from the thick London breeze as his own cigarette dangled at his lips. You leaned forward, sparked, and then swallowed your questions with the smoke. The smoke burned, the nicotine buzzing in your head, behind your eyes, down your limbs, but not before it made you choke. You coughed as suddenly all you could taste and smell were Theo's cigarettes. It was like being inside his jacket, or his school robes, or his favorite arm chair in the family library. It was summer nights spent in chic italian wine bars, it was family vacations on the deck of a sailboat, the scent of bad habits and guiding hands and everything you would never have again.

Your lip trembled, your jaw locked, and Blaise was now looking at you apprehensively, hands raised like he was approaching a wild animal.

It only took your name falling from his mouth gently, concerned, for the damn to break. You choked out a sob and cracked open completely. You dropped your head into your hands, shoulders shaking as you began to cry into your palms. Embarrassment at your lack of control twisted indiscriminately into the pain of loss, flushing your cheeks and chasing you into Blaise's side. You felt his body practically seize as you ruined the cashmere of his knit polo with snot and tears, the cigarette he gave you hardly smoked and already abandoned on the pavement. Part of you expected Blaise to push you off him, or to at least insult you until the point you were forced to gather yourself if he was feeling chivalrous.

But he didn't do either of those things. No, instead Blaise remained painfully still as you cried into his chest for too long. Minutes, seconds, hours, you weren't sure, but eventually something shifted, enough to force Blaise into motion. A strong arm came around you, urging you closer, shielding you from the world as you felt his cheek press against the top of your head. He didn't say anything, just held you, just let you cry, just remained at your side. The familiar comfort of his arms didn't change what had happened between you. The calming effect of his signature cologne didn't ease the ache in your heart your brother's death had left behind. But as you unraveled on that bench outside the ministry you felt for the first time in a long time like you weren't alone.

And you wished that was enough.

Divider by @strangergraphics

[nottendo]

My Dear - Blaise Zabini (royalty/bridgerton au) this work is a part of the #blaiseappreciationevent thank you to @i-await for hosting.

You know better than to let a Zabini of all gentlemen court you.

Every girl does. It’s just not Slytherin.

The servants of the manor fall silent whenever his name is mentioned in conversation. Your mother watches him with poorly concealed suspicion over the rim of her teacup whenever he is present. The women in town speak of him in riddles the way sailors whisper of storms – beautiful from a distance and deadly close up.

Yet still, every evening; you wait for the sound of his carriage upon the gravel outside of home. It’s the sound of always - it’s the sound of your forever.

Blaise courts you like a gentleman from one of those tragic novels you once read as a teen and left forgotten on your bedside table because the real thing was better than a fictional dream.

He arrives in all black; accented by leather. He stopped bringing flowers because he remembers you once saying you disliked watching blooms die so instead brings tokens you can appreciate. Rare books, gold spun haircombs, hand written notes that are slipped into your hand with still wet ink that simply read about how thinking of you became inconvenient for him a lifetime ago.

He isn’t loud with his affections or intentions. Blaise isn’t someone who is ever careless.

You wish he was though, because that means resisting him would be easier.

Not imposing; he stands close enough for you to smell the cedar and smoke on his coat when he fastens your cloak and walks with you, side by side to the moors. He presses his hand to the small of your back to guide you through crowds and watches you speak - eyes trained on your lips as if every word that slips from them deserves to be preserve.

The worst part of it all? He looks at you like he’s already decided that you belong to him. Then, now and in every timeline.

“You shouldn’t be staring at me, Master Zabini”, you whisper one night as thunder rattles against the manor windows. Blaise is behind you - lounging beside the fireplace as the embers reflect in his dark eyes like ice melting into whiskey.

“Like what?”, he drawls with a voice as rich as honey. His eyes never tiring from gazing tenderly at you.

“Like you mean to ruin me.”

Your words hit that spot. The one on the left side of his chest just below his heart. A smile appears slowly across his lips. It’s subtle, but dangerous. You notice it in the windows reflection.

The kind of smile that he only has and shows for you.

“My dear..”, Blaise responds softly; standing up and wandering over, reaching for your hand to lift it up to his lips before brushing them gently over your knuckles like a surrender to sin, “…if I meant to ruin you – would would already know.”

[4ever-undead]

This itched a scratched I didn't know I had. I need sixteen more ASAP. The imagery was so sincere and effective ughh!!

[viperify]

oneshots | ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱᴏʀ!ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

KEEP TALKING, PROFESSOR!

SUMMARY: sucking off Professor Riddle while he's talking to a student. that's the summary. have fun. ;)

WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. nasty nasty stuff. messy blowjob. exhibitionism, rough oral m!receiving, teasing, slight dumbification, he watches you in the mirror, choking on it, MESSY blowjob again bc I MEAN it, wtf is wrong with me genuinely, reader LOVES gagging on it, cumming in mouth, face slapping, cockwarming

AUTHOR'S NOTE: sometimes I question my sanity while writing these. then I get horny. then I remember yall love me. then, I hit the post button.

wordcount: 3,1k

Your knees ache, dark bruises blooming beneath the thin skin above your joints as you scrape against the rough, worn-down wooden panels of his study. You`ve been here for no more than twenty minutes—not wasting time with unnecessary talking before you sank to your knees and crawled underneath his desk, eager fingers fumbling with the metal of his belt.

Whatever this is between you two—it has shifted into something more than originally intended.

Just once, he said. One time, to improve your grade—he'd sworn to it. To himself more than to you. But one time didn't just stay one time. After two weeks of trying to convince himself he didn't crave you as much as you craved him, his resolve finally shattered.

That very day, he ordered you to stay behind after class ended, and not two minutes later, you were bent over his desk at the front of the classroom, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a bruising grip as his cock slid inside you with one ruthless thrust.

Since that moment, visits in his study have become rather routine than exception—at first, every two weeks. Now, you visit him nearly every day—late at night, when the girls in your dorm are soundly asleep, you slip from beneath the soft warmth of your duvet, cover your pyjamas with your robes, and hurry down the dark, eerily quiet corridors until you reach his study.

Just one issue today—you've been invited to a birthday party of one of your friends after dinner, and you couldn't possibly miss out on that just for the sake of your secret rendezvous with your professor.

However, after seeing him in class earlier today, his new suit fit his beautifully sculptured body to perfection—you couldn't resist. Your thighs pressed together beneath the surface of your desk, and for the rest of your lesson, the only thing on your mind was his pretty cock stuffing you full.

Needless to say, you've been aching for him the rest of the day, and when classes finally ended, you did not even bother returning to your own dorm. Instead, you looked to your left and right before taking the corner leading to the professor's residences and, with four brief knocks—as you agreed upon—announced your presence.

The door flung open with the help of a wandless spell muttered by him, not bothering to interrupt his work for your sake.

Tom knew what you came here for. Knew it the second your gaze lingered on him for too long during class, watched as your thighs clenched together whenever he so much as looked in your direction.

Needy girl.

For you to come here earlier than usual was no surprise. For you to sink to your knees before even speaking a single word wasn't either. So, he lets you do as you please without speaking a word as he continues correcting essays.

The first sound you earn from him is when you work his zipper open and free his already semi-hard cock from the confinement of his trousers, eagerly wrapping your hand around his girthy length—a low growl reverberating from the depths of his chest, dick pulsing to life in your hand.

Professor Riddle isn't a man you can impress easily. Not with outstanding performances in class, and certainly not by being bold and loud—but you, you have found a way.

An incredibly filthy one.

It was your idea to place a mirror opposite his work desk. Your idea to only wear your tiniest skirts and thongs when paying him a visit.

And Tom—he's quickly grown quite fond of your proposition for various reasons.

While he still pretended to focus on the paper in front of him when you entered, as soon as you sank to your knees, he straightened his gaze, watching as you crawled underneath the table on all fours. Your skirt slipped up far enough for him to see it—the red lace thong he left in a box beneath your duvet as a present now slick and soaked with your want for him.

This is the exact reason why he loves this goddamn mirror so much.

Beneath the table, you begin stroking him softly—not tightly enough for it to feel good, but enough to get him hard for you. His cock twitches in your hand, a pearly bead of precum rolling down his flushed tip.

From the corner of your vision, you see his arms still, the faint sound of his fountain pen adding corrections to the essay in front of him fading into silence. That's when you know you've got his full attention on you—on the feeling of your hand pleasuring him, on your reflection in the mirror as you wriggle your ass for him.

"Concentrate, professor." you murmur, collecting the wetness on the head of his cock with the tip of your tongue, humming in approval at the familiar taste. "Wouldn't want you to make a mistake, hm?"

"Quiet," he replies almost instantly, voice raspy, his cock now pulsing and rock-hard in your palm. "Finish what you've started, brat."

His left hand drops to his lap, finds your hair, and pulls you closer—an unspoken warning not to get too brave with him. At the same time, he flips up your skirt with his fine leather shoes again, which slipped down the curve of your ass.

"Now, arch your back and get to work. Want to watch how wet you get just from sucking me."

You do as he says, of course, one hand on his thigh, the other tightly wrapped around his base as you guide the first few inches of him past your glossed lips. He groans lowly when he feels your wet, hot tongue circle the sensitive head of his cock, relaxing back against his chair, his pen slipping from his hand, eyes fluttering closed.

God, he needs this after today.

You take him deeper then—eager to taste his hot cum on your tongue.

But then—just as you're about to choke around him for the first time that evening—two sharp knocks echo from the door to his study.

He tenses instantly, and you draw back in surprise. If anyone sees you two like this, you are in trouble. Big trouble. You inch closer to him beneath the desk, sitting in between his legs in order to make as little of you visible as you can—but clearly Tom isn't satisfied with that solution.

"Hide yourself in the closet," he hisses beneath his breath, watching the door handle as the person knocks another time. "Now!"

You roll your eyes at that, because the closet in his study is fucking tiny—but you decide to listen for once. Or at least, you want to listen for once—however, before you get to do so, the door flies open, and an exasperated student of the second year bursts inside, losing a few papers on the way, stopping right before his desk.

"Professor Riddle, I have something urgent to discuss!"

You sit back down, breathing out a relieved breath. He didn't see you at first glance, thank Merlin and thank whatever gods Muggles believe in.

Tom must be equally relieved, easing the tension in his muscles slightly. He clears his throat before he speaks. "What is it, Mr. Flewett?"

The younger student goes on to explain said urgent matter—and you have to keep yourself from giggling and subsequently getting yourself caught. His very urgent matter is the project due in two days. He's asking—begging—Tom for an extension.

The student must be new here. No one else would dare even think of asking Riddle this—or bursting into his study without permission.

He's talking on and on, without a single break. Trying to explain how busy he's been, that he hasn't yet started with the preparation. Making it worse for him without even meaning to do so.

This is good, you think—he's so caught up in his own problem, in his nervousness, that he doesn't notice you at all, neither as a soft laugh escapes your lips when Tom relaxes fully, and you can clearly imagine the disinterested look that must be etched into his features currently.

His hand finds your hair again then—tugging at the roots gently, shutting you up.

The student is still talking.

And your professor's cock? Twitching right before your lips and so fucking hard, his tip is glistening with precum.

What a terrible waste.

An idea comes to your mind then—lips curving into an evil little smile. This will be fun.

You arch your back again—skirt still bunched around your waist, lace of your panties damp with arousal. The sight of it earns you a low growl from him, shifting slightly in his seat.

The student stumbles over his next words, but keeps talking, explaining, apologising.

Poor Tom—he must be so damn bored. So why not spice it up a little?

Your fingers hook into the lace of your panties, slowly, teasingly easing them down your thighs until they're just above your knees, where they're bent on the floor—your soaked pussy now perfectly angled towards the mirror.

Because you know his eyes are on your reflection in his mirror, not on the student pleading with him to grant him extra time for his project. Riddle stills completely at the sight right before his eyes—but he keeps his composure. For now.

With a relaxed, bored voice, he answers his student that it's not possible to extend the due date. That this is his own fault, a missed chance for a good grade when he is already failing his class.

Tom is so good at this. So awfully talented at keeping his voice steady, his expression neutral and strict, even when his cock is leaking precum, the thick vein on the underside pulsing, practically begging for your lips and mouth. So good at answering nonchalantly, while every hidden part of his body is telling an entirely different story—hand in your hair tightening to a level that's bordering painful, thigh muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Another pearl of precum forms on top of his pretty cock, and this time—this time, you can't resist.

Your face is mere centimetres from his dick, and you close the distance within less than a second, swiping your tongue over the wet, reddened head of his cock, letting the taste of him flood your senses, thighs clenching.

Tom hisses, his hips barely staying seated with much effort on his side. He fucking hisses, not quietly either—shutting the student's rambles up effectively.

His fingers stay buried in your hair—but he doesn't make a move to push you away, instead, he keeps you right there.

"A-Are you alright, Mr. Riddle?" the younger student manages, voice trembling, as do his legs not a metre away from you.

Tom takes his sweet time to respond to that. Moments that must feel like hours to the guy pleading with him, probably already realising his mistake. In the meanwhile, your tongue darts out again, brushing over his tip with short kitten licks, essentially having his hips buck into your touch.

"Yes, yes, I am." Tom grits out, eyes focused on the mirror behind the student, watching you tease him. "We will speak about this matter later—you're dismissed."

From the periphery of your vision, you catch the blonde guy shake his head. "But professor, this is urgent… I—"

You decide it's a good time to wrap your lips around the aching head of his cock, suckling gently, one hand wrapped around his thick, throbbing base—slick with your spit and precum—the second cupping his balls, massaging gently.

"Later," I said." Tom responds, voice shaky. The student gulps, taking a cautious step backwards. "Can you not see I am quite occupied?"

Poor guy. Probably thinking this is because of him.

He nods then, retreating towards the door. "Yes sir, my deepest apologies."

When Tom doesn't spare him more than a strict glance, he leaves in a haste, the door falling shut behind him.

Tom pulls you off his cock with a wet sound the second the lock clicks.

"Dumb little girl," he murmurs, glaring down at the innocent eyes you're offering him. "I expect you to make this up to me later—now, finish what you've started. And show me, with extra effort, just how sorry you are."

"I am not sorry, though." You say decidedly before you spit on his cock, watching it cascade down the side before taking him back in your mouth.

He pretends he didn't hear you. For your sake.

The thing is, you like it messy—and Tom, Tom loves it messy. He adores how filthy you sound with him stuffing your mouth full, when you drool around him and soak him with your spit. Undoubtedly though, his favourite part is when you let his cum dribble back onto his cock and watch it drip down to his balls, mixing with your saliva before you suck it back in and swallow the mess you've created.

He fucking loves how nasty you are for him.

Right now, he's observing you bob your head up and down his length, gagging around him each time his tip hits the back of your throat—the vibrations having his fingers fist your hair more roughly, groaning lowly.

"Mmm, y’ taste so good," you mumble around his cock denting your cheek, sucking eagerly. He twitches inside you at that, hissing when your hot tongue swipes over the crown of him.

"You have a filthy mouth on you, darling." Tom replies, guiding your head down on his length until you choke—keeping you there for a little longer before he lets you catch your breath.

You smile up at him, then. "You love it, professor. Don't pretend it's any different."

The next few minutes, you gradually increase your pace—keep him lodged in your throat for longer, spluttering around him before you withdraw and wet his cock with your spit, licking it back up before your lips close around him again, and you repeat the process.

Your hand leaves his thigh, wandering between your own instead—gently rubbing circles around your neglected, puffy clit, spreading your folds as you run two fingers down your slick slit.

"Fuck," Tom's head dips back at that view. Your glistening, slick-coated pussy on display for him while you make the filthiest sounds sucking him off, gagging and moaning around him.

He is embarrassingly close. Already.

The things you are doing to him…

…And the things he will do to you in return…

"Should have you write an essay on how to pleasure a man," he rasps, hips jerking upwards when you choke around him again, allowing him to feel the vibrations of your muscles. He hisses lowly, wetting his lips at the slick sounds your fingers are drawing from your cunt.

You ease off of him for a second then, blinking up at him innocently.

"Would you let me pass—," you ask him, licking a thick stripe up the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, holding eye contact while you do so. "—professor?"

"Fuck—" he responds, groaning in pleasure when you suck him back into your warm mouth. "With an Outstanding, even."

Professor Riddle has never once given anyone the highest mark—claiming that no work can ever be perfect. It simply doesn't exist for him. Never has.

"Mmmmh," you purr, suckling on his oversensitive tip, purposely keeping him right on that blissful edge he's currently teetering on. "Generous."

He shakes his head, cock throbbing inside your mouth, your head sinking down on him until your nose is pressed against his lower abdomen. "No. Well deserved."

You quicken your pace at that, and he growls, gritting his teeth, jaw clenched tightly—he is going to come. He is going to fucking come so hard, you'll fucking struggle with it.

When both of his hands fist your hair, pushing you down on his pulsing length, you know he is going to spill down your throat any second—and when your throat closes around the invasion, and you struggle against his grip, he finally does.

Accompanied by a string of mumbled curses, he empties himself deep inside your mouth with thick, hot ropes of white cum, making you swallow around him eagerly before he lets you go.

You pull off him, sucking in deep breaths as you cough violently, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his flushed tip.

When your breathing slows down, an eager grin spreads on your lips. You dive back in—tongue cleaning your thick spit and the remnants of his cum off his cock, making nasty, slick sounds.

"Come here," he grunts, chair screeching against the wooden planks of his floor as he lifts you onto his lap, kissing your lips and wiping the drool from your chin. "You are a nasty fucking girl. Y'know that?"

Your head dips to press a kiss to his tense jaw. "Only for my favourite professor. With the others I am good. Mostly."

SMACK!

Your head whips to the side at the sharp impact his palm makes with your cheek, leaving behind a blissful sting, coaxing a moan from your lips.

"Sit down on it," he orders, dark brown eyes leaving no room for argument as they flick from your own to his hardening cock mere inches from your slick pussy. "I don't want to hear another word from that filthy mouth until I am done correcting these essays."

Your head turns to find a huge pile of papers on his desk.

No fucking way.

"But I am invited to a birthday party," you pout, fighting the hold he has on you—without success.

He huffs a laugh, lifts your hips, and sinks into your weeping, pulsing hole with one single, vicious thrust—then, lodged deep in your warm, velvety walls, he averts his attention back to the paper he left abandoned on his desk around half an hour ago.

"You will not move a single inch until I am done here with you, sweetheart. Even dumb little girls like you have to learn that every action comes with its consequences."

little funfact: I rushed through writing this as I am currently at a birthday party posting this. yep. you heard that right.

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own

𑁤 general taglist:

@glowingatdawn @whimpurrin @cb97s-babyygirl @cexoria @yuunarii-arii @kzylvr @eleventhboi @melodymoo2 @venomous0 @dreaming-of-epiphanies @simplyastra

[4ever-undead]

A choking, messy, mean blowjob you say?

[4ever-undead]

Blaise Zabini loved his mother.

She had treated him like a prince since the moment he was born, showering him with affection and carefully curated designer since the moment he was placed in her arms.

But with the crown comes the responsibility of the kingdom.

He had been the man of the house since he was three and carried that with him to his death. He had the final say, he made the important decisions. Not because you or his mother couldn't, but because he must. That was the nature, his purpose, far before he realized it ought not to be. That was what it meant to be a man.

There were his mother's husbands of course who always tried for his crown, one after another. Each one was less remarkable, less useful to Blaise than the last.

They all came to Blaise when they felt they were owed permeance, asking for his mother's hand with brooms, or toys, or lavish vacations not understanding that Blaise had never spoke the language of liquid assets.

Blaise was not the nosey type, he didn't go prying. Nor was he the emotional type, so he wouldn't act like he understood why his mother kept trying and failing to recreate a love long buried six feet under. Six failed imitations. Yet they all end up in the ground anyway. All men do.

Blaise Zabini loved his mother, But he never understood her.

[the-bar-sinister]

"The idea made me horny" is a good enough reason to write anything.

[yesluuh]

Blaise Zabini Aesthetic Moodboard

[i-await]

𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝒵𝒶𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒾 - 𝓨𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀

[voidofsunlight]

Beach Day with Blaise

A beach day with Blaise feels like this.

You arrive early afternoon, sun warm on your skin. He helps you out of your clothes, eyes dragging over you as he lets out a low whistle. “Look at you… damn, my love. How am I supposed to behave myself all day?” He smirks at you as he peels off his own shirt and throws it onto your bag, standing there in his swim trunks looking far too good.

The water is perfect. You swim for hours. He lifts you onto his shoulders just to launch you back into the sea, laughing at your squeals. You play shark, chasing each other until he or you catch the other, he can't help pulling you close for a wet, salty kiss before dunking you under water. Every soft hug turns into playful chaos, hands always on you, making sure you come up laughing and breathless.

He insists on playing mermaids “I’m a very serious mermaid, don’t laugh”, shows off his dive moves, and keeps finding new ways to make you smile.

Eventually you return to the towels. While you hunt for seashells, he grabs his camera and starts snapping pictures, hyping you up the whole time. When he catches the shot of you, his face lights up.

He stares at the screen, dramatically clutching his chest. “No no no, you don’t understand. This is it. I need this picture tattooed behind my eyelids. In my brain. In my heart. You’re perfect.”

Your cheeks burn, but he just shakes his head, completely serious. “I’m setting this as my background everywhere. I need everyone to see my girl.”

The rest of the afternoon melts away, sharing snacks and ice cream, headphones in as you listen to music together. The sun slowly sinks while you stay tangled up on the towel, sandy, and stupidly happy.

this is BLUE

Created by Bug 𓆣 | @voidofsunlight Please do not translate, copy, or repost my work.

[nottendo]

you never know whether blaise is flirting with you or studying you. like... that’s the dangerous part. he listens too closely, notices too much,and speaks like every sentence has already been edited in his head three times before reaching you. with him romance is never careless: it’s precise, restrained almost strategic, to a point. he’ll brush his thumb over your wrist while discussing wizarding politics, buy you expensive wine just to see if you know the difference for your anniversary and look at you like he’s waiting for you to prove something although he doesn't expect anything at all. others assume he’s heartless because he hides affection behind composure but as you quickly learn, the quieter he becomes around you; the deeper you’ve gotten under his skin and a gentleman like blaise zabini wouldn't change that for the world.

[thatdammchickennugget]

Whisker Me Away

pairing -theodore nott x fem!reader

warnings - non-compliance with restaurant hygiene standards, remi the rat, minor confrontation, smut, unprotected smut, semi public, this is just a silly little joke pls don't take anything I post serious, MINORS DNI

a/n - was inspired by @machiavellli sharing her böötigel blurb and decided I'm finally brave enough to share this. based on this silly request @finalgirllx got, thank you for giving me permission to write it. credit for the final line of dialogue goes to the amazing @fuckaperioddrama

request - Hiya!!!!!! Can i request a theo oneshot where he’s the head chef at a restaurant and you complain that the spaghetti and meatballs are cold and theo says he’ll come out to talk to you but you’re already shoving your way to the back and then you see him take ratatouille out of his hat and then it ends in smut? Thanksies! xx

wordcount - 1.8k

You sit at a small, candle-lit table in the corner of one of the trendiest new restaurants in Diagon Alley, frowning at your plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The atmosphere is perfect, with soft jazz playing in the background and twinkling fairy lights casting a warm glow. Everything is ideal—except your food.

You pick up your fork and take another bite, but the cold noodles and tepid meatballs only deepen your disappointment. With a sigh, you wave over the nearest server.

"Excuse me, but my spaghetti is cold," you say, trying to keep your voice polite despite your growing frustration.

The server's eyes widen, and she nods quickly. "I'm so sorry about that. I'll let the chef know right away."

You watch her scurry off toward the kitchen, and a few moments later, she returns with an apologetic smile. "Chef Nott would like to speak with you about your dish. He insists on addressing these matters personally."

You nod, but before she can finish her sentence, you’re already out of your seat, determination driving you toward the kitchen doors. If the chef wants to talk, then you'll give him a piece of your mind face-to-face.

Pushing through the swinging doors, you enter the bustling kitchen, filled with the clatter of pots and pans and the sizzle of various dishes being prepared. You scan the room, your eyes finally landing on a tall figure in a crisp white chef's coat and a tall hat. Theodore Nott.

You’ve heard about him—how he’s revolutionized wizarding cuisine with his inventive dishes and meticulous attention to detail. But right now, all you care about is the subpar spaghetti on your table.

"Chef Nott?" you call out, striding forward with purpose.

He turns to face you, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise. He’s even more striking up close, with sharp features softened slightly by a dusting of stubble and intense, deep-set eyes that seem to see right through you.

"Yes, that’s me," he replies, his voice calm and measured. "You must be the customer with the cold spaghetti."

You nod, folding your arms across your chest. "I just wanted a nice dinner, but my food is ice-cold. I hope you have an explanation for that."

The chef's lips twitch into a slight smile, and he reaches up to adjust his hat. "I do apologize for that. Let me make it up to you."

Before you can respond, his chef hat is being lifted up just a tad, and to your utter astonishment, a small rat pokes its head out. You blink, wondering if you’ve somehow wandered into a bizarre dream.

"Oh, this is Remy," Theo says, his tone casual as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. "He's quite the expert in flavors."

You gape at him, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. "Is this a joke?" you manage to ask.

Theo chuckles, the sound warm and rich. "Not at all. Remy here has a unique talent for finding the perfect balance of flavors. Let me reheat your dish and make sure it's exactly as it should be."

You watch, dumbfounded, as Remy the rat crawls out from under the hat and down the chef’s arm. The rat grabs a stirring spoon, hops over to the boiling pot on the stove and sets to work.

Chef Nott catches your wide-eyed look and grins. "I know it seems strange, but trust me, you'll love the result."

Despite your initial shock, you can’t help but be intrigued. You’ve never seen anything like this before, and the sheer oddity of it all piques your curiosity. You lean against a nearby counter, watching as man and rat move in sync to enhance your dish.

Within minutes, the tantalizing aroma of fresh herbs and perfectly cooked pasta fills the kitchen. Your stomach growls, reminding you of your hunger. The chef plates the dish with a flourish, then hands it to you with a proud smile.

"Here you go, fresh and hot. Try it now," he says, his eyes sparkling with confidence.

You take the plate and head back to your table, aware of him watching you from the door leading into the kitchen as you sit down. The first bite is a revelation—the spaghetti is perfectly al dente, the sauce rich and flavorful, and the meatballs tender and savory. It’s like tasting a masterpiece.

You glance back at the kitchen, meeting his gaze. Unable to resist, you wave him over. He approaches, his expression curious and slightly amused.

"I have to admit," you say as he stands beside your table, "this is the best spaghetti and meatballs I've ever had."

Chef Nott’s smile widens, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "I’m glad you think so. Remy and I make a good team."

You laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting you. "I never thought I'd say this, but a rat might be my new favorite chef."

He chuckles, and the sound sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. "Remy has that effect on people. But I'm glad we could turn your evening around."

You find yourself caught in his gaze, the connection between you electric. There’s something about his presence—his confidence, his passion—that draws you in.

"Thank you," you say softly, not just for the food but for the entire experience.

He steps closer and leans down to meet your gaze, his eyes darkening with an intensity that makes your heart race. "You're welcome," he murmurs, his voice low and husky.

Before you can think, you’re both leaning in, the space between you shrinking. Your breath catches as his lips brush yours, the kiss tentative at first but quickly deepening. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you melt into him, the warmth of his body against yours igniting a fire inside you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. His eyes are dark with desire, and you know yours must mirror his.

"How about dessert?" he whispers, his lips grazing your ear.

You feel a thrilling tingle spread from where his breath tickles your skin, down to your toes. Your voice is barely more than a whisper as you reply, “I think I’d like that.”

His eyes flicker with a mix of amusement and something deeper, more intense. He takes your hand, guiding you through the kitchen, weaving expertly between bustling chefs and simmering pots. You can feel the eyes of the staff on you, but it only adds to the heady rush of the moment.

He leads you to a door at the back, pushing it open to reveal a small, dimly lit storage room. Shelves lined with jars of spices, bottles of oils, and boxes of fresh ingredients surround you. The door clicks shut behind you, and the room is filled with the intoxicating scent of the kitchen mingled with something else—something distinctly him.

Theodore turns to you, his gaze locking onto yours with a fierce intensity. Before you can say anything, he steps forward, gently but firmly pushing you back against one of the shelves. The cool metal against your back contrasts with the heat radiating from his body as he presses against you.

His lips find yours again, and this time, the kiss is anything but tentative. It’s urgent, hungry, filled with a need that matches your own. His hands roam, one tangling in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you even closer.

As Theodore's hands explore the curves of your body, you feel a surge of desire wash over you, igniting a fire within. The shelves creak slightly under the weight of your entwined bodies as he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He carries you to the nearby countertop and with a deft movement, he pushes aside the pots and pans, making room for the both of you. You tear at his chef's apron, not caring about the buttons flying around the room as your hands roam freely over his sculpted chest, feeling the rhythm of his racing heartbeat beneath your touch.

His lips find yours once more, the kiss deepening as your bodies meld together in a primal dance of passion. Clothes become nothing more than hindrances as they are shed with urgency, revealing the raw desire that simmers between you.

With a gasp, you feel Theodore push down your panties in one swift movement, leaving you exposed completely. Your thighs tremble in anticipation of the next onslaught of pleasure. You throw your head back with a moan when his finger finally finds your sensitive clit, pushing down in gentle circles as he takes the opportunity to claim your neck with his mouth.

Your nails scrape across his scalp, his mouth sucking hard on your flesh, causing a sharp intake of air to burst past your clenched teeth. His free hand slides up to cup one of your breasts, his other now pressing insistently against your entrance, urging you to ride his finger deeper and harder. With your legs wrapped tightly around his hips and your body arching off the counter, you’re helplessly lost in the bliss, unable to hold back another soft moan.

A second finger is added, and you let out a cry, riding it out as your orgasm hits hard and fast. You only take a moment to ride out your high before your hands slide back to his chest and then further down, scrambling to rid him of his boxers.  You don't miss the hitch in his breathing as you tug the fabric of his boxers over his hips and away.

He watches you, eyes half lidded, with a slight smirk on his face. His erection springs free, and you lick your lips, eyes burning with lust and desire. He doesn't waste another second, his hold tight on your hips as he pushes himself into you.

You gasp at the sudden intrusion, a delicious shiver running down your body as he fills you to the brim. After a few moments of slow thrusting, you can no longer stand it; you need him now, you crave to have his cock buried deep inside of you, to feel that glorious tension as he explodes into you. So you grab his shoulders and pull him roughly against your breasts, your cries loud enough to be heard outside in the kitchen.

He grunts in response, his movements growing faster, rougher as he thrusts into you harder, deeper. Finally, his climax hits, and you feel him shudder against your core, his release shooting hot streaks of sensation throughout your body.

You both fall apart, gasping for breath and exhausted, panting for air. Theo lets out a deep breath, leaning back against the shelf as he watches you pick your clothing off the floor with a smirk before he says, “You can come back to rata this touille anytime.”

[luckieangel]

if you get horny out of the blue it’s because you and that fictional man are fucking in his universe btw

[theunfortunate-author]

[voidofsunlight]

Hotel and Luxure with Blaise (sfw but with some suggestive touches)

Being loved by Blaise feels like this.

He doesn’t need to rush. He never does. After the restaurant and the quiet shopping spree where his hand never left your lower back, he brings you to the suite he booked just for the two of you. No reason. No occasion. Just because he can, and because he likes spoiling you.

The room is bathed in soft lights. Deep colored roses. He runs you a bath, pouring in your favorite scented bubbles and favorite oils, then fills two glasses with rich Bordeaux wine. While you soak, he sits on the edge, shirtless, slowly dragging his big hands across your shoulders, pressing soft kisses along the curve of your neck.

No demands. Just devotion in the form of touch.

Later, he carries you to the bed still damp and glowing. The sheets are expensive, the candles still flickering. He lowers you gently and guides you so he can massages the tension from where your body aches, long, slow strokes, gentle pressure. Every now and then pampering kisses and tender bites on your spine letting his palms get a handful of your hips at times cause he can't help himself,.

You fall asleep under his hands, safe, spoiled, and completely loved.

This is RED

Created by Bug 𓆣 | @voidofsunlight

Please do not translate, copy, or repost my work.