angel

18⨾ archived.

[hauntingoldhouses]

I know your wife, and she wouldn't mind🍾

[viperify]

oneshots | ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱᴏʀ!ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆˙⟡ BEHAVE.

SUMMARY: bad girls don't get to come. they get treated the way they deserve—inspected, teased, and denied. congratulations, you successfully pissed off Professor Riddle. now, live with the consequences. ;)

WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. hole inspection. nasty, nasty stuff. teasing, oral f!receiving, punishment, spanking, spitting, tongue fucking, he quite literally makes a mess of our pussy, edging, fingering, clit play, he uses you as his personal cum dump, praise, Tom is FREAKY here, idk what the fuck is wrong with me, help, sos, uhhh im so feral rn im boutta combust, if u see this pls come fuck me Tom. :(

AUTHOR'S NOTE: guys im sorry this is so freaking nasty but I AM SO FUCKING horny. excuse me while I whither away in the corner of my bedroom. also, this was supposed to be a drabble.

wordcount: 2,1k

If you’re honest with yourself, you deserve this. You deserve to be spread out on his lap, facing the mirror built into his wardrobe while he lazily plays with the lace of your cotton panties. He brought you to his bedchambers a while ago, after dissolving a “late-night gathering” of students in the Slytherin common room, or, as referred to by him, a prohibited party. 

“What were you hoping to achieve with this?” he asks, circling your entrance over the soaked fabric of your panties with the tip of his finger. “Attending these kinds of parties with the tiniest clothes you could find?”

You mewl in response, rolling your hips into his touch, not bothering to pay his question any attention. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't—he's been keeping you on edge for what must be more than an hour now, and alone the softest of touches has your mind blank.

It comes to your favour that he, of course, very well knows what you were aiming for. You wanted to provoke a reaction, and that, you have. Now, it's his turn to show you just what that'll mean for you.

"You knew what you were doing. Testing me. Wanted to see just how far," he moves your panties to the side and exhales sharply at the sight of your glistening pussy on display right in front of him. "fuck— just how far I'd go, is that it?"

The truth is, you didn't exactly intend on going there that night. Sure, these parties were especially fun to attend due to the risk they brought—but after a long week you were exhausted, and getting out of bed seemed a task nearly impossible. 

Just when you’d abandoned the thought of joining your friends, you remembered a rather important detail you’d nearly forgotten. 

It's Professor Riddle who’ll be patrolling the corridors that day alongside the prefects—and he's never been kind enough to let students enjoy themselves as other professors might after the exam season. 

Now, knowing this, you could’ve warned the others in time and prevented them from getting caught—but you didn’t. 

Instead, you put on the tiniest skirt you could find in your wardrobe alongside a low-cut crop top and snuck your way along the dark corridors towards the Slytherin common room.

Looking back, it was a petty thing to do. You knew that, if he were to see you amongst the others, he'd not just let you off with a meagre detention slip the others would receive. No, you would be spending the night in his bedroom and pay for your sins in a different way.

You'd take whatever he gave you—just like you had countless times.

・・・

“Look at you. All wet, and I haven’t even touched you properly—fucking pathetic.”

You whimper at his tone—cold and detached, like he speaks with everyone else—and try your best not to grind your clit against the solid outline of his cock, which has formed beneath his fine, hand-tailored dress pants.

You shut your eyes when the memory of making a mess on one of his most treasured pairs comes to your mind—or rather, the memory of how he made you apologise for it.

One of his digits dips between your folds, trailing along the length of your slit until he reaches your entrance, but he doesn't give you what you were hoping for—he keeps it there, the very tip of his finger applying just enough pressure to make you squirm, but not to push inside your slick, wanting pussy.

"Greedy fucking girl, and so damn wet. All for me, isn't it?" he murmurs, groaning when your tight walls practically try to suck him inside, and he pumps his finger a few times into the warmth of your pussy. "Or did you walk around like this, fancying someone else?"

His finger withdraws again, and you whine in protest. "No, no, I didn't— please, it's all for you. Only you."

Tom drags you backwards by your hips, far enough that his face is a mere breath away from your flushed pussy—and then, he circles your entrance with his thumb a couple times before he leans in, the low rumble of his voice sending vibrations through your entire body.

"Good, because this hole right here is mine, and mine alone."

Before you even get to react to his words, his index and middle finger spread to form a V-shape on your pussy, coaxing your sticky folds open. Tom murmurs something under his breath, adjusting his hips beneath you just so his bulge rubs against your upper stomach—way too far from where you want him.

Then, without warning, his hot tongue swipes through the mess he's made of your pussy, gathering your arousal and shoving it, alongside his tongue, back inside your drooling hole.

A pornographic moan leaves your lips, and your pussy clenches in pleasure—Tom though tsks behind you, his flat palm connecting with the curve of your ass with a mean slap!

"So sensitive," he purrs, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. "Missed me?"

Fuck you, you want to say—but you know better than to ruin your already minimal chances for release tonight.

"So much! Please, I need you, Tommy." You squeal when his hand strikes you again, more harshly this time.

"That's not my name, darling. You can do better than that."

"I— I need you. Please, sir," you mumble, watching the first tears roll over your cheeks in the mirror in front of you. You are so fucking frustrated, aware he won't give you what you're begging for any time soon.

He chuckles lowly in response, his arms circling around the front of your upper thighs to keep you anchored to him, his mouth back on your cunt, salvaging your taste before he fucks you with just the tip of his wet tongue, drawing frustrated moans from your bite-swollen lips.

"Too bad, sweetheart. Bad girls don't get what they want, let alone the pleasure they crave."

He unbuckles his belt, discards it on the floor without much care, and frees his aching cock from the confinement of his trousers—wrapping his right hand around it tightly, pumping himself at the sight of your puffy, drooling pussy, imagining just how good it'd feel to arch your back, shove your head into the pillows, and wreck you—as he has done so often, you both have lost count.

After a bad grade? Definitely. In the broom closet? Yeppp. In his classroom with unlocked doors when everyone else was watching the Quidditch championship finale? Fuck, yes. Summer holidays? Too fucking long, he'll teach you apparition before any of his other students just to take you on the creaking bed of his London apartment.

But this, this isn't about him today. This is supposed to be a punishment, a reminder of who's in charge—and who gets to tease whom.

Tom jerks himself slowly while his lips work on your clit, his tongue playing with the slick arousal now coating everything up to your inner thighs. When he senses you trembling, moans growing louder, hips greedier with the way they chase his touch—he takes one last glance at your pretty cunt, and then, as if you weren't sensitive and aroused enough, he spits onto the sticky mess between your folds, making you gasp.

With that, he shoves you further down the bed again, closer to the mirror placed so conveniently, you are able to see your mascara stain your cheeks.

"Now, I want you to look at yourself. Watch yourself in the mirror while I use your greedy pussy for my pleasure—and don't you fucking dare look away."

You cry out when he smacks the familiar, veiny length of his cock onto your swollen folds, and you're waiting—praying—for that heavenly feeling of being stretched wide around him, but it never comes.

Instead, he uses both of his thumbs to pry your folds open once more and guides his cock along your slickness, enough to coat his entire cock with your arousal in just a few thrusts.

"Tom— sir, please— please fuck me," you sob, at both the feeling of him pleasuring himself without giving you anything in return and the way a wrecked version of yourself reflects back at you as you stare into the mirror.

But Tom—Tom doesn't pay your pleas any attention. He's too focused on the way your drooling hole clenches every time he so much as comes close to it, how fucking wet you've gotten his cock with just a few slow thrusts between your folds.

His thumb curls over his length then, helping him not to slip from the warm embrace of your cunt as he increases his pace, slick squelching sounds filling the room, the air around you heavy with the scent of your combined arousal.

"So pretty, don't you think?" he rasps, not shifting his eyes to the mirror, keeping his gaze fixed on the way your pussy tries sucking him in with every shallow bump against your entrance. "The both of you, I mean."

"Please— I want, I need— inside, inside me, please," you babble, your head dipping forwards, wiping your tears on his sheets.

"No," Tom replies, urging you up again with his fingers curled into your hair, making you study your reflection again. "Keep watching, pretty girl. Watch as I make a mess of you."

You swallow tightly, nodding. Maybe if you behave now—

His hips slam against yours from below, and soon enough groans start spilling from his lips, losing himself in the pleasant, slick warmth your cunt is providing him. Never would he have thought fucking you like this—just having your sweet wet pussy pleasure him, not slamming into your tight walls—would feel this good.

But it does, and each time his cock, slick with his precum, spit, and your own arousal glides along your slit, nearly slipping inside your pulsing hole—he thinks he might as well fuck you like this every time you're deserving of some discipline.

No more deep, rough thrusts that have you screaming his name. No—he'd keep denying you, barely missing your clit each time he thrust between your sticky folds.

The mere thought of your frustrated tears pushes him closer to the edge, and after a few more thrusts of his hips, he abruptly stops—shoving you off of him completely, having you lie flat on the mattress.

You're confused for the split second between him eagerly thrusting up your folds and feeling his weight sink down on your thighs as he snaps his hips forwards, burying the entire length of his cock in your tight, wet walls with one single thrust.

You moan in relief—but Tom, he stays there, unmoving, watching your hole stretch around his base, feeling you pulse and clench around him.

Poor girl, thinking he'll finally give you what you've been begging for.

No.

One more slight flutter of your snug walls is all it takes to make him lose his composure, let him break.

"Fuck— good fucking girl, always so good to me—" he growls, his arm wrapping around your throat as his cock twitches and he spills himself inside you, coating your walls with his seed.

Your eyes roll back at the sensation of his hot cum flooding your pussy, but the mind-numbing sensation leaves you as quickly as it washed over you when he withdraws from your oversensitive walls, leaving you aching for more as he disappears in the bathroom and reemerges a few minutes later.

You turn your head towards him when his footsteps near the bed, scrunching your brows in annoyance. "Tom? Don't tell me—"

His lips curl into a mean grin, and he scoops you up, covering the both of you with his duvet, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I told you. Bad girls don't get to come. Learn your lesson, and I'll fuck you properly next time."

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches effortlessly, and turn to the side. "I hate you."

His hand dips between your thighs underneath the covers, dragging his middle finger down the length of your slit. "Sure you do, sweetheart. But this pussy—this wet fucking pussy—she loves me more than anything."

He doesn't let you clean yourself that night—you fall asleep with two of his fingers buried deep inside your painfully aroused cunt, keeping you plugged up, slick with your combined release.

And the next time you fuck—you have him tied up on a chair, humping his cock as though it were a mere toy.

Of course you don't let him cum—he's been a bad boy, after all.

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 @cecilune

[nottendo]

you're perched up in his lap; close - soft. a trickle of your laughter skims against his throat, your fingers tracing lazy circles across his collar as you grind away against his thigh; clit catching in your panties against theo's jeans as you whimper like a broken doll pathetically.

he's got his eyes fixed on the tv over your shoulder; playing some muggle game you got him for his birthday last week that he's been absolutely obsessed with and you're trying as hard as ever to get just a slither of his attention.

"baby?"

your voice cracks as you pant, eyes rolling back into your head, heart racing as your thighs begin to heat up, hips rocking recklessly. theo loops an arm around the back of your waist still holding the controller; pauses the game, lifts his free hand up to grab at your chin and tilts your head towards him - forcing you to make eye contact as you stutter and splutter and try to lean in for a kiss that he doesn't quite let you have.

"keep going."

he asks. you do. that's the way your relationship has always been. he holds control. you're just the pretty little play thing he gets to toy with. he shifts his legs - you almost convulse at the friction. he catches your bottom lip between his teeth - you groan with a quiver as a small spot on his jeans goes damp.

his gorgeous baby blues drag down to your mouth as he smirks. knowing. cocky. you continue to riding his thigh; whispering half attempts at saying his name along with 'please', but theo just shakes his head and drops the controller, bringing both hands to your hips. he guides your thrusts, wanting you to keep going; wanting to watch you enter your own ruin until you can't say a word, have your face buried into the crook of his neck and are willing to both scream and whimper for more.

[fatguarddog]

"Yeah I get really turned on when people are kinda forward about wanting me" - person who struggles to feel desirable

[sinsandlemonade]

morning sex with theo. mdni.

Theo’s calloused hands are soft at your hips – tracing over the bruises he left last night as the head of his cock nudges past your thighs; mushroom rip already beading with precum as it teases your folds and softly slips in. You groan first thing, body shifting as your head tilts back poetically and his lips find that sensitive spot on your neck a half inch above your pulse. His teeth nip gently at the skin as he murmurs your name in a whisper along with a groggy and mumbled ‘good morning’ which also greets the sun that’s barely come above the horizon to play – rays of dawn filtering through the windows of your dorm; cascading warm shades of gold and bronze across your bare skin.

His breathing hitches against your throat as he sinks in deeper; inch by deliberate inch, stretching you with that familiar burn that borders on both ache and bliss. Your hands reach out, one tangling into the sheets; knuckles whitening as the other reaches back and cards lazily through his hair; but it’s the way Theo pauses – half buried, hips flush against your ass that makes you whimper to the point where you’re almost pleading. His oddly patient in the mornings – fuelled by a lazy hunger which allows you to adjust to the thick heat of him while his hands trace up your sides – thumb brushing the underside of your breast with a sluggish swipe that draws up to circle your nipple with a tease.

“I missed this”, he rasps; voice still gravelly from sleep as his lips trail down to your shoulder and settle on your collarbone. The words vibrate across your skin; pulling from you a cry as your back arches, chasing the affection a little more. He chuckles; knowing that he has you right where he wants you as he presses his chest up against your spine and reads between into the tense silence between you to oblige – thrusting slow and deep, once, twice, thrice until your cunt clenches around him and the wet slide of skin against skin echoes softly in the quiet room; a counterpoint to the distant hum of the castle waking up outside.

You turn your head, mouth seeking his own and he meets you half way – the kiss sloppy and deep; tongues tangling in a dance as the hand which was playing with your breasts dips down between your thighs, fingers finding your clit still swollen and sensitive from last night, drawing tiny heart shapes across it of just enough pressure that stars begin to burst behind your eyes. That dawn light from earlier begins to glow shades of violet and fuchsia; of lavender and mauve and they start to catch the sweat which beads across his shoulder and brow as you break the kiss to gasp for both air and his name; hips bucking erratically now, urging him faster.

“Baby please?” Your words are met with a murmur of “not yet, Principessa”, as he nips at your ear lobe; trying to keep calm but his control is clearly fraying – thrusts picking up in rhythm, hips snapping with a quiet urgency that denies the tenderness and lust in his eyes when you lock your glance with them. The bruises on your hips begin to further bloom beneath his grip; the map of last nights fervour artistically draping your skin and he soothes his touch with a kiss into your messy hair as he thrusts in harder, drives in higher; the coil in your stomach and the warmth between your thighs tightening and heating up like a spring wound too far.

The worlds narrows. His scent of musk and smoke and faded cologne accompanies the creak of the mattress to perfection. He whispers praises into your ear. “So fucking perfect, taking me like this baby girl”, which have you trembling; which push you to the edge; which have you further seeing stars and ready to shatter with the first full blush of sunrise. Ecstasy hits. You quiver. He cums. You catch your breath which he chases.

Life is perfect. For a moment at least. If only it could stay like this.

[pishifuzul]

it's not problematic if she likes that you're violently possessive of her

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

Normal bf x horny as fuck gf. He's so chill and never pushes for sex, but you are constantly craving it and he loves it sooooo much. Every movie night turns into you playing with his cock before he fucks you nasty the way you like it. You buy cute sexy little outfits to wear just for him. You have a plethora of toys that he uses on you almost every night bc he just loves how you get when you're drunk from your orgasms and so whiny and needy. Just a sweet chill guy and his nymphomaniac gf

[eliza1234566]

MonetLilly, you were big. (18+)

You started a few weeks ago and you were the biggest human star on there. You posted videos and pictures of you for money. The monsters on there loved you. They always commented on how soft you were, how beautiful. They loved your piercings, humans were so decorative. Always adding fun little jewelry to their faces, and your nipples.

You let them request outfits, jewelry, different scenarios. A lot of the bigger monsters order special toys for you, make you send them a video of you trying to mount it. Dragons, werewolf knots, shadow monsters, all wanting to see your sweet, chubby pussy trying to take their molded cocks.

You get a new request for a livestream, all pretty in a an all pink outfit. You stay and entertain the few hundred people who were watching when you get a donation with a request.

(WerewolfDilf45) Donated- 600$

Show off the cock I got you, I want to show these other monsters how good you look riding my dick.

He was one of your long time fans, even had a few private sessions you gave out to him for free. Why not? He was sexy and he gave you so much, you thought they deserved the little treats you gave your favorite fans. You pull out his mold with his name on the bottom with gold lettering. You put on the lube for his cock and rub your chubby pussy against the tip, teasing the viewers with your moans.

You pressed him inside, he was so girthy you had to adjust in small doses, working his cock inside of you with tears in your eyes. The monsters love watching you cry and whimper as you cum on their large cocks. You cum twice before you can even work your way down the cock, your outfit now messed up from your squirming. Your top falls down, exposing the glittery, pink heart nipple piercings. They always tip extra for the cute sets you put on.

Maybe one day you’ll let one of them have you..they just had to wait and see..

[eliza1234566]

Werewolf boyfriend who will let you ride his cock during his heat. He loves seeing your plush thighs squish his waist while you try to mount his cock. You whimper as he pinches your nipple piercings. He loves teasing you, even if it’s a little mean.

If your hips start to stutter, he’ll grab your love handles and push you down on his cock. He howls and groans as he mercilessly slams his hips into yours. “Come on bunny, you love to hop until I knot you. You can’t handle it? Come on hops, you can do it. My sweet little mate can take my puppies, all my cum.” He growls and pulls you into his chest as he thrust up into you. His knot grows as he gets closer, making you call out his name as he rubs circles into your clit. He forces an orgasm out of your body before filling you up with his cum.

Your tummy was visibly swollen, his knot keeping you completely full as he pulls your body into his as he curls around you. You can hear his breath even out as he falls asleep, keeping you close to him.

[nottswitch]

꒰ you give cult leader!theo a blowjob during a sermon ꒱

cw: 18+ mdni, cult dynamics (duh), power imbalance, religious terminology, public blowjob, mentions of gagging, praise

a/n: hello, hi. here i am, with probably my favourite and the most challenging to write au. hoping that y’all will match my freak with this one.

⋆˚꩜｡

the whole main area of the temple is taut with anticipation as soon as teacher theodore walks onto his podium. he sits down onto his black leather chair, raising his hand to silence everyone, although it’s already pretty quiet – but now even the smallest of whispers die down. his calm gaze slowly drifts over the room, making every single one of your fellow believers shiver, and you’re no exception. you watch with awe as the man scans the room, and eventually, his fascinating blue eyes land on you.

"you, my dear," he drawls, his voice enveloping you like the warmest blanket and simultaneously igniting a fire inside your body that not a single soul can put out except for him. "come here."

excitement nearly bubbles over in your stomach as you stand up from the floor, trying to keep your legs from trembling – you have to show him that his choice tonight is worth it, that you’re worth the grace he’s shown you. as you approach him, you can feel the stares of others burning into your back, but you don’t mind them, you barely even notice – your entire being is filled with theodore, him, him, him.

your reverent eyes never leave his face as you kneel between his spread legs and kiss the back of his hand, your hands obediently resting on your thighs as you wait for your cue. you can’t help clutching the fabric of your white robe just a little as you feel the heat starting to spread in your stomach – but it’s all about him right now, and it always is.

theodore looks down at you, his gaze lingering on your awestruck face, and nods. giving your best to staying collected, you nod in return and lift your hands up to unbuckle the belt of his trousers. theodore watches you for a moment longer, and then his attention shifts to the room filled with the rest of the disciples. his soothing voice begins to waft through the air like silk and honey combined, and you try not to get completely lost in it. you have to focus. you have a task.

as quietly as you can, you pull the zipper down, then his trousers and briefs. his cock is already half-hard, which makes you simultaneously salivate, and your chest fill with pride – usually, the other girls and guys have to work a bit to get him to this state. you don’t know if it’s your luck, but you wouldn’t dream of questioning it; it’s your first time being picked for the pleasure purpose, and you’re determined to make a good impression in hopes of becoming a new favourite.

you lean in, your breath ghosting over theodore’s skin, and notice his cock twitch at the sensation. even the smallest movement makes you preen, but you try not to get lost to your selfishness. your hand comes up to grab him at the base, and you feel him harden more, his cock now standing straight in your hold. he’s so big – you’ve been dying to get a taste ever since you first saw it, but have been patiently waiting for your turn until now.

your tongue sticks out to lick a wet stripe up to the tip, where your lips wrap around it. you give an almost tentative swirl, knowing that you can’t rush – the sermon can last up to an hour, and you have to draw it out until the very end. you don’t want to disappoint the teacher. you starts sucking in the tip, and your mind fills with the overwhelming sense of adoration – you still can’t believe that you’re the one given the honor of pleasing theodore tonight.

you fail to register the words he’s saying, which makes your cheeks heat up with shame – just because you’ve been chosen doesn’t excuse you from taking in the preachings. yet you can’t help yourself – his cock fits too good in your mouth, like it was made to slide right in and out. as you take him deeper, the tip hot and pulsating against the roof of your mouth, a wave of tingles washes over your belly. your hand itches to drop down between your legs, but you’re fully aware it’s not allowed. if you’re good and lucky enough, teacher theodore will give you release after the sermon is over. until then, he’s the center of your world.

as the minutes pass, your jaw starts to hurt a little from being stretched to its absolute limit around theodore’s thickness. your head slowly bobs up and down, the slick sounds of your saliva coating his cock quiet enough not to disturb the sermon, yet you’re sure the entire temple can hear them. this knowledge makes you proud of yourself yet again – they know, they should know that you’re the one making theodore feel good at this moment. you know you shouldn’t feel possessive of your teacher, yet you allow yourself the weakness, even if only deep inside your soul.

when theodore’s hand lands on the top of your head, you know it’s a sign. the sermon is close to an end, which means you have to speed up. a bit too excited, you take him in fully, making the tip of his cock suddenly hit the back of your throat. you gag, immediately knowing that you shouldn’t have – your eyes flicker up, meeting theodore’s ocean blue ones, and his eyebrow is raised. you’re unsure if it’s a sign of disapproval or amusement, for his expression is usually hard to read. you can’t apologize – you’re filled with him to the brim, but when his attention shifts back to the crowd behind you, you take it as a sign to continue.

you taste the saltiness of precum soon enough, and you can only hope that the timing is right. theodore’s hand tightens a bit in your hair, signifying the fact that he’s close – and he doesn’t stop you, meaning you’re doing a good job. your pace picks up, saliva dripping out of the corners of your mouth as his length disappears into the tightness of your mouth over and over again. you gag again, yet at this point it doesn’t really matter – theodore’s cock starts throbbing, and the warmth of his seed coats the walls of your throat. his voice never falters above you, but you can feel the way his fingers dig into your scalp, and it’s the most pleasant sting you have ever felt on your body.

as you lick him through the orgasm, throughly cleaning him up, theodore closes the sermon, dismissing everyone with a wave of his hand. you don’t dare to pull away until he tugs at your hair, his other hand softly caressing your chin, lifting up your face. you look up, your eyes filled with endless devotion. theodore takes in the sight of your swollen lips, your jaw which hangs slack due to being open for so long, your glassy eyes that are nearly tearing up, and his gaze softens.

"you did well, darling. very well," he murmurs, and your heart grows a few sizes too big for your chest. you did well. his praise is all you could ask for yet could never dream of.

"meet me in my room in ten minutes. you deserve a reward, my dear."

if you weren’t on your knees already, they would surely buckle. you nod, accepting his invitation for what it is; you know the others will notice you heading to his house on the grounds later, and it fills you with a sense of accomplishment. it’s rare to earn yourself an honor of getting a reward from the teacher, and it certainly feels like a win. maybe, just maybe you could become a new favourite, after all.

au. more.

[lumosflairr]

INK-STAINED OBSESSION - THEODORE NOTT

warning: minors dni! tattoo kink, hair pulling, degradation, dirty talk, dom!Theo, mean!Theo, spit kink, finger fucking, reader is a female.

Summary: You just wanna lick Theo’s tattoos, is that such a bad thing?

You weren’t doing it on purpose.

…Okay, maybe just a little.

It was a stupidly hot day at Hogwarts, and you’d taken full advantage of the uniform loopholes. Your tie was undone and loose around your neck, blouse clinging to your skin, one too many buttons undone. The little green-and-black tartan skirt you wore barely covered your ass, swaying a little more with every step you took past where Theo’s table was in the Great Hall.

And Theo was watching. He always watched.

Leaning back lazily in his seat, arms crossed over his tattooed chest, a half-lidded smirk tugging at his lips as he chewed on a toothpick. He didn’t say anything, not with his mouth—but his eyes said it all. Dark. Sharp. Like he already had you pinned to a wall in his head.

“You trying to die wearing that around him?” Daphne muttered under his breath beside you, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, sipping your pumpkin juice with a little grin. “I’m just hot.”

“Yeah, well. So is Theo. And you’re playing with fire.”

You were. But that’s what made it fun.

Later that evening, you wandered into the Slytherin common room, legs bare and curled up on the green velvet couch, flipping lazily through a Quidditch magazine. Theodore was sitting in the armchair across from you, pretending to read—though his gaze was fixated on the inked letters that curled around his forearm. He flexed lazily, rolling the sleeve of his black Henley up just a little further, exposing more of the intricate tattoo sleeve you’d secretly been dying to get your hands on.

Your voice came out light, almost teasing. “Do those tattoos mean anything? Or are you just desperate for attention?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you. His eyes dropped to your thighs—the way the skirt had ridden up from where you sat cross-legged. You suddenly sat up, making your way towards him. He looked at you as your body anchored over him, eyes dark.

“You ever let someone trace them with their tongue?” you added, eyes dancing as you tilted your head at him.

Something in the room changed. It got quiet. Too quiet.

Theo closed his book slowly. Deliberately. And stood.

The smirk was gone.

You took a step back. He took another closer to you. His fingers slid under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“You think that mouth of yours is cute, huh?”

You swallowed. Hard.

Now your cheek is pressed against his pillow, breathless, spine arched as Theo kneels behind you, one hand fisted tightly in your hair and the other dragging down your back, nails scraping lightly over your bare skin like he’s marking territory.

And he is.

“Sai cosa stai facendo, tesoro.” he growls against your ear, yanking your hair back just enough to make your throat stretch.

“Thought you were clever? Hm?” His voice drops, teasing, mocking. “Walking in wearing that little skirt—batting your lashes at me like a dumb little slut.”

A harsh slap lands across your ass, sharp and stinging, and you yelp—body jerking, pussy clenching involuntarily around nothing.

“I bet you were dripping all fucking day just thinking about me bending you over,” he spits, hand sliding down to spread you apart, watching how wet you already are. “Fuck—look at you. So needy, it’s pathetic.”

You whimper. You hate how much his words make you ache.

“No, no,” he tuts, leaning in, tattooed chest pressed to your back. “Say it. Say you like being my pathetic little toy.”

“I—fuck, I do,” you gasp. “I like it.”

He chuckles, low and rough, lips dragging down your neck, biting hard enough to bruise. “Louder, bambina.”

“I like being your pathetic little toy,” you moan, back arching for more. “I fucking love it..”

“That’s what I thought.”

You feel him reach between your thighs, fingers sliding through your slick folds—teasing, never giving you enough. When he finally thrusts two fingers inside you, it’s hard and fast, making you cry out. You grip the sheets, drool staining the pillow under your cheek.

“Merde, you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses, curling his fingers. “This pussy belongs to me, you understand?”

You nod desperately, but he yanks your hair again. “Use your fucking words.”

“It’s yours—Theo, it’s yours,” you moan, thighs trembling.

He pulls his fingers out and spits on your clit, letting it drip between your folds before plunging his fingers back in, the stretch taking your breath away again.

“Such a good little whore,” he groans, his free hand gripping your tits so tightly you’ll bruise. “Taking my fingers so fucking well.”

The sound of his fingers plunging in and out of your cunt was obscene- and so delicious. You threw your head back and moaned at the sound, toes curling in pleasure from just his fingers. His name fell from your mouth like a prayer and a curse.

“You want to trace my tattoos with your tongue?” he snarls, curling his fingers inside you, keeping up his brutal pace. “Then beg for it. Beg like the needy slut you are.”

You’re a mess, body shaking, tears at the corners of your eyes. “Please, Theo—please let me. I’ll do anything.”

“Tell me who owns you.”

“You do,” you whisper. “Only you.”

He grins, dark and feral. “Good girl.”

Your body trembles against his, used and wrung out, but still needy—still aching for him. And he knows it. He watches you with that maddening, hooded gaze like you’re prey he’s not quite finished with yet.

He lets go of your hair and eases his digits our of you slowly, savoring the way you whimper at the emptiness. A smug sound leaves his throat as he brushes a hand down your spine, fingers dragging over your skin, then tapping your chin.

“Turn around.”

You obey immediately, flipping over and sitting up on trembling knees, thighs sticky, cheeks flushed and marked with the heat of everything he’s done to you. He sits back on the edge of the bed now, shirt long gone, chest bare and glistening with sweat—those intricate tattoos on full display across his arms, chest, and neck.

You lick your lips. Your eyes are glued to the black ink wrapping around his biceps and up his throat like fire licking at his skin.

“Go on, bambina,” he purrs, voice low and rough. “You wanted to taste them, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you crawl forward, slow and reverent now, like you’re worshipping him. Your hands settle on his thighs, nails digging in just a little as you lean forward and drag your tongue along the ink winding down his forearm. His breath stutters.

“You’re fucking mine,” he murmurs, hand sliding up into your hair again, gripping tight. Not pulling— just claiming. “Every inch of you. Mine..”

Your lips follow the swirling patterns of black ink over his wrist, up his inner arm. You press kisses against the designs, then trace your tongue slowly along the line curling toward his bicep. Every time your mouth touches him, you hear him breathe harder, feel his grip tighten.

“Filthy little thing,” he mutters, watching you with barely-contained hunger. “So desperate to worship me. Look at you—on your knees, licking my skin like a good girl.”

You let out a soft whimper, tongue sliding across the sharp black design over his shoulder. He tastes like sweat and sex and smoke—him. Your thighs press together again, unsatisfied.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Pathetic,” he chuckles, eyes gleaming. “You’re still fucking needy?”

You nod against his skin, mouth moving across his collarbone, lips brushing over the tattoo that snakes around his throat.

“You’re disgusting,” he growls, grabbing your jaw suddenly and yanking your head back to face him. “And you’re perfect.”

Then he pulls you into his lap, dragging your slick cunt right over his thigh, hands gripping your hips.

“Ride it. While you keep tasting me.”

Your eyes blow wide, yet you obey. You want to be a good girl for him, don’t you? Your mouth returning to the ink sprawled across his chest as you grind against the thick muscle of his leg, whimpering, rutting, all while your tongue keeps tracing the lines of ink like a girl possessed.

He watches you with blown pupils, head tilted back slightly as he groans.

“Trace every inch of me, la mia bellissima ragazza,” he hisses. My beautiful slut. “And maybe—maybe—I’ll let you cum.”

[slytherinsmuse]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Just Friends | Theodore Nott ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Fem! Reader

Warnings: characters are 18+, wizarding war, substances, smut, injuries, mentions of death and grief, its not canon

Summary: Fluff | Smut | Angst | Two survivors, one fateful summer, and a silence heavy with everything left unspoken.

Word count: 18 321

author's note: I had to re-upload this guys aghh sorry. This is looong. I kept writing a bit every night when I felt like it and had time. This is a product of months and its my favourite thing I have written ever. I really really hope you like it.

Theodore Nott and you had always been just friends.

It began in the late bloom of summer, in a garden lined with white roses and wilting lavender, the air thick with the kind of heat that clung to the skin and made time slow. You were only three when your mother’s hand found yours, soft and firm as she guided you across the gravel path of the Nott family’s estate, your new neighbours. Her voice was light, pleasant, perfumed with diplomacy as she greeted the Notts, who stood beneath the ivy-covered trellis like they belonged there.

But you hadn’t cared about greetings or titles or the sharp way Mr. Nott looked at your father. No — your eyes had found him. A little boy with grass-stained trousers, wild hair that refused to be tamed, and pale eyes the color of steel before a storm. He was squatting in the sandpit the groundskeeper had barely finished raking, dragging a stick through the dirt with the focused intensity of a philosopher.

He looked up, squinting.

You stared back.

And without a word, you wobbled off the path, let your newly polished shoes sink into the dusty sand, and dropped beside him like you were meant to be there all along.

You didn’t speak much at all at the time. Not in full sentences, anyway. There were giggles and grunts, soft babble and bright laughter as you fought over a chipped blue bucket and declared war with tiny shovels. He handed you a broken seashell, claiming it was enchanted. You gave him a clump of damp earth, insisting it was a gift. You left with sand in your shoes and a sunburn on your nose, and he left with a bruised shoulder because you’d shoved him for smashing your castle.

From that day forward, he was your best friend — and you were his.

At six, he caught a wasp in a jar and left it on your windowsill “as a pet.” It was a particularly sweltering July afternoon, the kind where the air shimmered above the cobblestones and even the house-elves seemed too hot to scold you for tracking dirt inside. You’d been sulking on the floor of your bedroom, limbs sprawled dramatically across the cool marble tiles, bemoaning the injustice of being forbidden from visiting the lake because “pureblood children do not splash about like Muggles.” You had just begun a truly Oscar-worthy sigh when you heard the soft clink of glass outside your window. Curious, you padded over and peeked out, nose nearly pressed to the pane. There, sitting in the sunbeam on your windowsill, was a glass jam jar—still sticky with remnants of plum preserve. The lid had been punctured with haphazard holes, and inside it buzzed a single, very angry wasp. Pinned to the jar with a scrap of parchment and a glob of melted wax was a note. The handwriting was wobbly, but unmistakably his:

“I got you a pet. His name is Stingy. Don’t let him out. He’s got issues. —Theo”

You shrieked.

Your mother came running, wand drawn, thinking you'd been hexed or worse. But all she found was you, standing at the window with a jar in your trembling hands, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Theodore left what on your windowsill?”

“A wasp,” you squeaked, still unsure whether to be touched or horrified.

A moment later, you saw him down in his estate’s garden — shirt untucked, shorts ripped, dirt smeared across one cheek — grinning up at you like he’d just delivered a bouquet of roses. He waved. The grin widened. You didn’t wave back.

Instead, you brought the jar to dinner with you the next time the Notts visited. You set it in front of his place setting with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster and whispered, “He’s your problem now.” The wasp was long dead, of course. Theo looked at it solemnly for a moment, then leaned toward you and whispered, “You didn’t feed him.” You almost shoved your mashed potatoes in his face.

Just friends.

At nine, he dared you to climb the sycamore tree at the far end of your garden — and then pushed you off the lowest branch to see if you’d bounce. You didn’t. You landed on your left wrist with a sickening crunch that made your vision swim. He stared down at you, pale-faced and trembling, his earlier laughter dying on his lips.

“I didn’t think you’d actually fall,” he muttered, then knelt beside you, arms shaking as he helped you up. He didn’t call for the house-elf. He didn’t yell for help. He carried you the whole way back himself, his breath ragged in your ear, whispering apologies so frantic you couldn’t tell if he was more afraid of your pain than the inevitable scolding from his father that was about to come.

Just friends.

When your Hogwarts letters came, you were ten and inseparable — always found pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on your estate’s library floor, or curled up in window sills arguing about which constellation was the prettiest. You read potion books together, the same moment, eyes wide and breath caught. When September arrived, you sat side by side on the train, legs swinging and nerves burning, watching the countryside blur into dusk. You were sorted into Slytherin together. He smirked at you as you passed through the Sorting Hat, his eyes alight with mischief and something warmer, softer — something unspoken. You sat beside him at the long emerald-draped table that night, heart pounding, and when the noise of the Great Hall swelled too loud and the silverware felt too heavy in your hand, he nudged your knee with his and leaned in with a half-smile. “Don’t pass out. I’ll have to carry you again.” You rolled your eyes. But your fingers twitched beneath the tablecloth, brushing his. 

Just friends.

As the years passed, your friendship grew in quiet ways. It no longer lived in muddy knees and fake wars in the garden. No, it began to settle into something quieter. Something warmer. It was in the way he handed you a quill when yours broke during Transfiguration without needing to be asked. In the way you always remembered how he liked his tea — two sugars, no milk, even though he always insisted he hated sugar. You grew up together, side by side, inch by inch. Until one day, you stopped — stuck at a measly five-foot-two — while he just kept going, shooting past you. Shared detentions became less about mischief and more about the thrill of rebellion — the two of you sneaking out past curfew not to set traps or prank Gryffindors anymore, but to watch the stars from the Astronomy Tower, shoulders brushing, words soft and slow like the night itself. You'd lie on the cold stone floor with your robes draped like blankets and talk about things you were slowly beginning to understand — fear, pressure, family legacies, and what love might look like if it ever found you.

By third year, Theo had learned how to charm chocolate frogs to sing opera in the library. You nearly choked laughing. 

By fourth year, he’d started noticing girls. You noticed, too.

There was a shift in him — subtle, quiet, but impossible to miss when you knew him as well as you did. His eyes lingered a bit longer in the corridors, tracking the swish of skirts, the curve of a smile. Not brash like the other boys. No, Theo’s gaze was different — quiet, calculating, laced with curiosity and something almost wary, like he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be looking for. You tried not to pay attention. But you did. Of course you did. You watched him as he watched them. And you tried not to wonder if he’d ever look at you like that — with interest. With purpose. With anything other than the familiar softness of childhood comfort. You caught him once, staring at a girl from Beauxbatons during the Triwizard Tournament festivities. She had long, shimmering hair and laughter like bells. Theo’s expression had been unreadable, eyes half-lidded and lips pressed together in quiet observation. You didn’t know why it stung. That night, you tossed in your bed long after lights-out, staring at the emerald canopy above you like it might give you answers. It didn’t.

And then there was that Hogsmeade trip.

You remember the chill in the air that morning — how the wind bit at your cheeks as you tugged your scarf tighter, your gloved hand brushing his as you walked side by side down the sloped cobblestone road into the village. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t say anything either. You spent the afternoon as you always did — sharing a butterbeer, elbowing each other in Honeydukes over who got the last Acid Pop, squabbling over which quill looked the most pretentious in Scrivenshaft’s.

And then it happened. A boy from Ravenclaw — tall, with a sharp jaw and easy charm — stepped forward just as you were shifting your books in your arms. You recognized him from Arithmancy, always smiling, always one too-smooth compliment away from detention.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already reaching.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, then handed over the topmost book with a quiet “Thanks.” He grinned. Theo stood to your left, silent. As the boy led the way toward the carriages, chatting easily, your eyes flicked back to Theo, who was walking silently by your side.

He wasn’t looking at the boy. He was looking at you. Expression unreadable. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his long black coat, shoulders drawn slightly in. His jaw was tense — not obviously, but enough that you noticed. Enough that it made your heart stutter.

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. Just walked next to you, watching you as someone else was at your other side. You waited for him to say something on the way back. A comment. A smirk. A jab at Ravenclaws and their “hero complexes.” Anything. But the silence stretched. So you said nothing, either. You didn’t talk about it. You never did.

By fifth year, games turned into dares. Not childish ones like “steal Filch’s keys” or “hex someone’s quill.” These were quieter, more dangerous. “Say nothing if you’re jealous.” “Don’t flinch when I touch you.”

Gentle teasing turned into long, lingering eye contact that made your stomach twist and your cheeks flush for reasons you didn’t care to name. The space between you thinned, became charged, electric — like something unspoken was constantly brushing against your skin.

You stayed up later than you should have. In the common room, on slow-burning nights when the fire had turned to embers and the world outside was dead quiet, you’d sprawl across the green velvet couch with your legs draped over Theo’s lap as you read. Sometimes, he’d pretend to be annoyed. Other times, he’d trace absentminded shapes onto your calf while studying. When he was tired, he’d tilt his head back against the cushions, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, and your foot would press lightly against his — not quite fully touching, but never far.

Your friend group had solidified by then. Blaise, ever the flirt, always had some girl wrapped around his finger — though he swore he was far too handsome to settle for just one. Pansy bounced between gossip and heartbreak, her eyes always darting to Draco even when her lips swore she was “over him.” Daphne played it cool — indifferent and unimpressed, until someone with strong cheekbones and terrible intentions caught her eye. And Draco... well, Draco had begun entertaining the idea of courtships, pureblood expectations trailing behind every glance he offered. They all noticed something between you and Theo.

Blaise would smirk at the way Theo’s hand rested casually on your knee, always just a little too long.  Pansy would make snide remarks like, “God, just kiss already,” and then roll her eyes when you both scoffed. Daphne said it once at breakfast, loud and plain as day: “They act like they’re married and don’t even realize it.” Draco, for the most part, didn’t say anything — just observed, cool and composed, his gaze flickering between the two of you like he was calculating something. Like he knew.

But you didn’t. Or maybe you pretended not to. That was easier, safer. Familiar.

“Are you two—?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“Come on, you practically finish each other’s—”

“We’re just friends.”

You both laughed. Every time. Like it was absurd. Like the very idea was hilarious. Like the thought had never once kept you awake at night. But it had.

Especially when Theo let his hand rest against the back of your neck during study group, warm and idle, like he didn’t realize what he was doing. Especially when you leaned over to show him a passage in your book and felt his breath on your collarbone. Especially when you saw him flirting — real, obvious flirting — with a girl from Ravenclaw at a party, all charm and smirking eyes, and you laughed too loudly at someone else’s joke just to pretend you didn’t notice. The truth lingered there, always — just beneath the surface of your ribcage, waiting to break free. But neither of you spoke it.

Just friends.

By sixth year, things weren’t so funny anymore.

Not when he was now a whole head taller and he never let you forget it, either. At the school library he’d smirk and lean against the nearest shelf while you dragged a ladder over just to reach a book he could easily pluck with one hand.

“Need help, you grumpy gnome?” he’d ask, eyebrow raised, full of mockery and affection.

You’d roll your eyes and scoff. But still, you let him get the book for you every time.

Not when your breath caught in your throat every time his fingers brushed your lower back in a crowded corridor and stayed there for one heartbeat too long. Not when his gaze lingered on your mouth during stupid, pointless arguments — eyes dark, unreadable, like he was daring you to say something. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d lose his restraint if you said the right word. But you never did. Neither of you did. Instead, he dated girls who weren’t you. Pretty ones, loud ones, polished ones with glossy hair and beautiful smiles. You watched them cling to his arm in the hallways, batting their lashes and whispering into his ear. He let them. He even smiled sometimes, soft and small. But the smiles never quite reached his eyes.You told yourself it didn’t bother you. That this was how things were meant to go. That it was normal. Expected from hormonal teens exploring love. So you let yourself fall, too — into half-hearted flings with boys who smelled like cologne and praise. Boys who told you you looked beautiful when you hadn’t tried. Boys who kissed you behind the tapestry near the Prefect’s Bathroom and pressed you up against cold stone walls with eager hands and promises you didn’t believe.

Your first kiss was with a boy named Callum. Warm lips. Too wet. Too fast. You didn’t feel a thing. You remember telling Theo about it — late one night, legs curled beneath you on the common room floor, the fireplace throwing gold across his cheekbones. He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked slowly, nodded once, and reached over to pluck a Chocolate Frog from your stash like it was any other night.

“Did you like it?” he asked after a long pause, voice low and unreadable.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the flames.

“It was... fine.”

When you asked him about his first kiss, he told you it was with a Hufflepuff named Eevee in a broom closet during a game of Truth or Dare. You’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you needed to. Because something in your chest twisted too tight at the image of it. She wasn’t the last. He had girlfriends. Some of them stuck around longer than others. You had boyfriends. Or flings. Or long, drawn-out mistakes. But the pattern was always the same. The stupid teenage love fights. The fading affection. The silence that followed.

And then — always — the comfort.

It was Theo who found you on the Astronomy Tower the night Callum told you that you were “a bit too cold for his taste.” You’d gone there to scream. Or cry. Or disappear. Instead, you found him leaning against the railing like he already knew you’d come. He didn’t ask questions. Just handed you a flask of pumpkin cider and stared up at the stars with you until the burn in your chest eased. It was you who knocked on his door the night Eevee dumped him for a Quidditch captain, claiming Theo was “too emotionally unavailable.” You sat beside him in silence while he drank hot chocolate out of a chipped mug and muttered about how feelings were overrated anyway. You wiped his tears when he didn’t realize he was crying. You held his hand under the table during breakfast the next day, hidden by the edge of the bench. None of your friends ever commented on it anymore. They just knew. That no matter who either of you kissed —No matter whose hand you held, no matter whose name you would mention — It was always Theo who walked you back to the dormitory when your head hurt and your patience wore thin. Always Theo who sat beside you in Potions and handed you your knife before you could even ask. Always Theo who noticed when your laugh wasn’t quite real, and who said nothing — just slid a chocolate bar onto your desk before class and looked the other way. It was him. Always him.

Just friends.

Toward the end of sixth year, things began to shift again — subtly at first, then all at once.

The pressure outside the castle walls was building. Whispers of war and disappearances. You all felt it. The tension in the air. The silence between classes. The way the professors began watching too closely and speaking too softly. The letters from home didn’t help — cryptic, urgent things from your families, warning you of family histories you were still too young to fully understand, but old enough to know you couldn’t ignore. So naturally, your friend group did what young, privileged, reckless and extremely sheltered Slytherin teenagers do when the world starts to feel like it’s cracking at the edges: You partied.

Not the kind of parties that ended with polite kisses and quiet laughter. No — these were wild, clandestine things hidden deep in the castle, behind abandoned classrooms and in forgotten corridors that smelled like dust and danger. The Slytherin common room became a haven after curfew, drenched in contraband Firewhisky, stolen weed, and various shrooms someone always managed to sneak out of Herbology under their robes. You’d sit on the velvet couches with a half-empty bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, your legs swung over Theo’s lap like always — both of you high enough to forget the ache, drunk enough to laugh at things that weren’t funny. It was a new kind of thrill. A way to feel something. Or nothing.

You all craved distraction. And you found it — in drinks that burned too quickly, in spells cast sloppily, in the shadows of darkened rooms and the heat of someone else's hands. You were seventeen. The first time it happened — with someone who wasn’t Theo — it had been at one of those parties. A boy with a charming smile and a crooked jaw, whose name you barely remembered and whose touch never quite settled into your skin the way you thought it would. It was rushed. Clumsy. Forgettable. Afterwards, you sat on the edge of the bed and pulled your skirt back into place while he slept, your head foggy and your heart hollow. You never told Theo. Not really. But he must have known. He always knew.

And him?  He had his own moments. A new girl in Ravenclaw. Then a Hufflepuff with a thing for older boys. He’d return to the common room with his collar wrinkled and his smile sharp — like he was trying to prove something. To himself. To the other boys. To you. Blaise and Draco boasted the loudest, of course. Like it was a competition. Like sex was a rite of passage rather than a sacred, complicated, awkward thing. Theo joined in just enough to keep pace, tossing out smirks and one-liners that didn’t quite sit right in his mouth. You always rolled your eyes at him, your expression unreadable. And when the others talked openly — about who had done what with whom, about what they liked or didn’t — you always brushed it off with a dry smile and a shrug.

“Overrated,” you’d say.

It made them laugh. But not Theo. Theo would watch you quietly when you said things like that. Like he was trying to read between the words. Like he wanted to ask if it had meant anything. He never did. And you never told him how it really felt. How you laid in bed that night, staring at the canopy above you, feeling… nothing. Not dirty. Not broken. Not sad. Just… empty. Because you’d always imagined that moment differently — softer, quieter. With someone who made you laugh until your ribs ached. With someone who knew your favorite constellation and the exact way you took your tea. With someone who handed you chocolate on bad days and never let your silence go unnoticed. With Theo. But it wasn’t him. So you drank. You danced. You smoked. You played your part in the grand distraction of teenage rebellion while the world outside grew darker. The laughter became louder. The nights longer. The dares more dangerous.

But even in the chaos — in the smoke and the spells and the forbidden kisses — it was always Theo who found you when the party quieted and the ache returned. Theo, who tucked your hair behind your ear when your mascara smudged and pretended not to notice. Theo, who held your hair back when you threw up behind the Quidditch stands after too many drinks and handed you a stolen bottle of water with a quiet, “Idiot.” Theo, who helped you sneak back to your dorm and whispered, “You good?” in that low, rasped voice that always meant more than it sounded like.

Just friends.

Late Summer before year Seven. Your house. Empty. Quiet. Haunted.

Your parents were gone — flown off in the dead of night like shadows dissolving into deeper shadow — and so were Theo’s. Both families off to do the things Death Eaters did when they thought their children were old enough to be left behind. Old enough to fend for themselves. Old enough to understand what silence meant. Except you didn’t understand. Neither of you did. No one cared to explain, or no one dared. There were no long goodbyes, no answers — only the tremor in your father’s voice when he kissed your forehead too fast, the way Theo’s mother clutched his hand like she might not get to again. You could hear the fear in them, feel it coiled tight beneath their words, and it left you both too paralyzed not to listen. They gave no return date. Just a hushed goodbye, a stack of protective wards, and an order not to leave the manor grounds. So you didn’t. Neither of you did. For two weeks, it was just you and Theo. Two dark manors. Various dark rooms. Two cigarette boxes steadily emptied under skies that never felt light again.

You never asked why he came over that night. You didn’t have to. He showed up at your gates with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an unlit cigarette between his lips. You let him in without a word, just stepped aside, heart heavy and hands cold. And when night came, and the house began to feel too vast, too hollow, too still — you didn't even consider sleeping in your own bed. The shadows were too deep in your parents' absence. The corners too loud. Even the house-elves had begun moving differently, quieter, with soft, sad eyes that followed you down the halls. You found him on the balcony of the guest room, where the view stretched over moon-drenched gardens and perfectly polished stone. You didn’t speak at first. Just passed him a new cigarette, your fingers brushing his as he took it from your hand and lit it with a flick of his wand. It was your worst habit — something your other friends still did for fun, to look cool. But for you and Theo, it was different. It had become a ritual. A comfort. A shared vice in a world that kept demanding too much.

The smoke curled between your faces, silver ribbons twisting into the thick August night air. You leaned against the railing, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders — school, war, the mark on your forearm that had yet to be carved, but already burned in your blood. Neither of you laughed anymore. Not tonight. The conversation was slow. Muted. War. Obligation. Death. You spoke about the things you didn’t say to anyone else — the shadows you carried, the things that kept you up at night. What you were afraid of. What you couldn’t stop dreaming about. The moment you saw your father with blood on his sleeves and realized it hadn’t come from him. The way he looked at you like he wished you hadn’t seen. The moment Theo overheard something he wasn’t supposed to — whispered names, punishments, plans — and couldn’t forget the sound of someone screaming for mercy, the way it echoed in his ears for days. It wasn’t light conversation. It wasn’t gossip. It was real. Ugly. Twisted. You couldn’t fully grasp what was happening — how could you? Your families did their best to shelter you both from knowing too much. But you weren’t stupid. You weren’t children anymore. You could read between the lines. You could see the cracks in your parents’ facades, the fear beneath the orders. You didn’t know everything, but you knew enough. You knew it was bad.

When the cigarette burned low between his fingers, he flicked it off the balcony, watching as the ember spun through the dark like a dying star before vanishing into the garden below. His hand lingered in the air for a moment… then twitched. Just once. Like it wanted to do something — reach, touch, say what he couldn’t — but didn’t yet dare. And then… he said your name. Soft. Frayed. Like a warning. Or a question. You turned to him slowly. His eyes were tired. Bloodshot. Smoke-kissed. There was something fragile in them — something raw and unspeakable. His hand reached out, tentative, resting at the curve of your hip like it had every right to be there. Like it had always belonged there.

And then he kissed you. No hesitation. No smirk. No snide remark to follow. It was slow — achingly slow. A drag, not a spark. Warm, smoky and quiet. His lips tasted like tobacco and the kind of grief you didn’t talk about in daylight. His hand cupped the side of your jaw, gentle, reverent, like he wasn’t sure you were real. You didn’t pull away. You leaned in. Because this wasn’t like the others. This wasn’t messy or desperate. It wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was honest. The air around you was thick with everything unspoken — years of glances, brushes, laughter turned hollow. All of it igniting between your mouths, breath and fire and need. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. He said nothing. Neither did you. You never spoke of it again. Not the kiss. Not the touch. Not the way your heart had stuttered in your chest like it wanted to break free from your ribs and press itself into his hands.

You stayed friends. Just friends. Because it was easier to stay quiet than to risk the ruin of what little comfort you still had.

Seventh year began.

A painful, unnatural thing — a year painted in false smiles and tight dresses, wild parties and louder laughter, all masking the dread clawing up your throat. You danced like everything was fine. You drank like the world wasn’t ending. You smoked more. Slept less. Your body began showing the signs. By winter, your reflection had thinned. Your long hair was gone, shorn to your shoulders on a whim you couldn’t explain. Something about feeling too heavy. Too soft. You’d watched the strands fall in the bathroom mirror with numb eyes and a blade in your hand. Theo said nothing about it. Not really. Just passed you a cigarette and lit it for you. His eyes lingered, though. Longer than they used to.

Christmas that year was a cold affair. Not in weather — the manor was spell-warmed, the fireplaces roaring, golden flames licking at logs stacked too perfectly. But in every other way, it was frigid. A small gathering — just your family and his. All stiff robes and colder smiles, Death Eaters trying to mimic holiday cheer like they hadn’t spent the past year cloaked in blood and secrets. Laughter sounded wrong. The wine was too red. You sat at the end of the table beside Theo, both of you silent, staring into the candlelight like maybe — just maybe — you could burn away the guilt growing beneath your skin. Your mother had over-baked the dessert. A blackened crust. Filling hardened into something between toffee and tar. She served it anyway, and nobody commented. Not even Theo. No one had the heart to point out the obvious flaw, too busy picking at their plates with quiet detachment, eyes flickering with things they couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t. The air was suffocating — names not mentioned, events not acknowledged. You were both dressed in your finest, but your eyes were tired, your posture slumped. The candlelight only deepened the shadows under your eyes. It felt colder than it should’ve. You felt duller. Like something inside you had hollowed out to make room for fear. For the weight of everything unspoken. You hadn’t heard from some of your cousins in weeks. Your uncle’s name had been whispered in one of those horrible letters that arrived in the dead of night — the kind your parents never read aloud, only burned. Next to you, Theo didn’t touch his food. Just held his glass loosely in one hand, his jaw tight, his eyes even tighter. His thigh pressed lightly against yours under the table, an anchor in a sea of ice. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You were both waiting for the storm to break — and trying, in the quiet between bites, not to shatter first. After dinner, presents were exchanged in a strained attempt to soften the air. Brightly wrapped boxes appeared under the flickering lights of the drawing room — gold foil, emerald ribbons, all perfectly tied. You watched as your mother handed Theo a silver pocket watch engraved with runes, her smile too wide, her hands too pale. His father gifted you a jeweled hairpin, something old and ornate, set with a blood-red stone in darkened silver. Delicate. Sharp. Useless. The gifts were expensive. Carefully selected. Nothing was done halfway in your world — not even in times of looming dread. But they were unnecessary, irrelevant things. Symbols of a normalcy that no longer existed. Still, you and Theo were polite. Practiced. You murmured soft “thank you's” and offered faint smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. He rested his hand on your lower back as you said your thanks and you mirrored the gesture later as he nodded his way through a compliment about the watch’s engraving. It was theater. Every movement rehearsed. Every breath strained. Your families tried. You could give them that. They did their best to pretend, to shield you both with tradition and false warmth, with gifts and crackers and familiar carols playing quietly from the phonograph in the corner. But the cracks were showing. You could feel it — the unraveling. The way your parents glanced toward the windows too often. The way Theo’s mother fidgeted with her rings. The way none of them mentioned what was happening just beyond the wards. As if silence could keep it all at bay. But you and Theo knew better. You accepted the gifts. You smiled, you played along, because it was easier than breaking. Because it was Christmas. And because pretending — even for one night — was all anyone had left.

Later that night, in a house too dark and too quiet, you found yourself in your room. But this time, there was silence. You sat across from each other on the edge of his mattress, shoulders barely touching, shadows flickering from the hearth across his jaw.

“I have something for you,” you said softly, reaching into the folds of your robe and pulling out a small velvet pouch.

Theo raised an eyebrow, but took it without question. When he tipped the contents into his palm, a ring rolled into his fingers — smooth, darkened silver, cool to the touch. His initials were engraved on the outside, delicate and precise.

He turned it slowly between his fingers. “You got me a ring,” he said, voice unreadable.

You shrugged. “I know you always lose things…don’t you dare lose this too.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was warm. He slid it onto his finger without hesitation. “Fits perfectly.”

Your throat tightened. “I measured your finger while you were asleep last month.”

Theo’s smile faltered — just a little. But something gentler took its place in his eyes. “You’re insane.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome.”

A beat of silence. A shift in the air.

Then he stood up, walked across the room, and pulled something from his own discarded robe. A small black box, no ribbon, no card. Just a quiet offering. He held it out to you.

Inside was a silver necklace — a fine chain and a charm shaped like a safety pin. But wrapped tightly around it was a delicate serpent, fangs bared, emerald eyes glinting like secrets.

“It reminded me of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Sharp. Clever. Dangerous when necessary.”

You said nothing — just turned, lifted your hair, and let him clasp it around your neck. His fingers lingered, not just to fasten it, but to feel you. The slope of your neck. The warmth of your skin. The quiet, steady beat of your pulse beneath his touch. His lips hovered there for a second. Then touched. A soft, slow kiss at the base of your throat — not rushed, not greedy, but full of something tender and dangerous and unspoken. You turned to face him and he looked at you like he didn’t know where to begin. Or maybe like he already had began in his mind. You reached for him, pulling him in by the hem of his shirt. He didn’t speak. Just leaned down, laying you gently across the mattress, pressing his lips to yours again — slow, deep, meaningful. The kind of kiss that trembled with everything you were both too afraid to say. Your fingers slid over the warm skin of his back as his shirt hit the floor. Yours was halfway undone, the clasp of your bra slack, the necklace still gleaming between your collarbones. His hands traced your waist. Yours tangled in his hair. Breathing unsteady. Kisses turning more urgent. But you didn’t go further. Not yet — not because you didn’t want to, but because the moment never gave you a chance.

Because just then, voices rose from the corridor beyond the bedroom door. Muffled at first. Then clearer. Sharper. Urgent. Your name. His. Whispers of the unthinkable. Turning you into Death Eaters. Marrying you off to each other. Hiding you away — to protect you, to save face, to give you a chance of survival. They spoke of it like strategy, not lives. Like your bodies were pieces on a board. Two heirs. Two bloodlines. Two names too valuable to risk. The proposal wasn’t romantic. It was cold. Practical. Transactional. There was too much to lose — the shared business, the old money, the ancient reputations so carefully kept intact. If the world crumbled, you had to be kept safe. Together. Away. Somewhere nobody could touch you. Behind the thick oak doors, your mothers argued with your fathers — voices rising, brittle and desperate.

“They deserve to know!” his mother snapped, sharp with grief already blooming beneath her stern voice.

“They’re not ready,” your father bit back, voice low, tight with the kind of fear he never let you see.

“Then make them ready!” your mother had hissed — and it stopped you cold. She never argued with him. Never raised her voice. Not like that.Her words trembled on the edge of panic. “Or do you want the shock to kill them if we don’t make it back?”

A sharp bang followed — Theodore’s father slamming his glass down, his voice rising over all of them.

“Nobody is dying.”

Silence. Sudden. Staggering. As if, all at once, they realized you and Theo could hear everything. As if your names had been spoken too loudly. As if the truth had bled too far. The silence that followed was louder than the shouting had been. A silence that said what none of them would admit out loud: They didn’t expect to survive.

Your body went cold beneath him, every nerve taut. Your fingernails dug into his bare chest as he sat frozen above you, his jaw clenched, his muscular arms flexing with either fury, fear — or both.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

The rest of the night was silent. The air too still. The fire burned low in the hearth, the shadows long and unforgiving. You curled into his side, shivering despite the heat of his skin. He held you. Kept his arms wrapped tightly around you as you cried into his chest — quietly, steadily, until sleep took you both like a mercy. From that night on, you never spoke of it. But he always wore the ring you gave him, like it anchored him to something. And you — you never took off that necklace. Like it might protect you from a world that had stopped making sense. Like it might remind you that for one moment in time… you were his.

Just friends.

March. Your eighteenth birthday.

A blur of green lighting, music thumping through the common room walls, and Firewhisky burning a path down your throat like it was trying to cauterize the ache in your chest. Everyone was there — Blaise with some girl on his lap, Pansy dancing barefoot on a table, Draco brooding with a drink in one hand and a sharp grin on his face. Theo didn’t leave your side all night. He watched you with unreadable eyes as you laughed too loud, danced too close, leaned into someone else's touch just long enough to make him angry. When the party finally thinned, and the halls emptied of smoke and song, you pulled him into your room without a word. And this time— This time you didn’t stop.

You kissed him hard, your hands yanking him toward you like you were starved. His shirt was gone in seconds. Yours followed. Your back hit the mattress with a thud, and the rest was heat and whispered curses. Raw. Lust-filled. Unapologetic. His name fell from your lips like a sin. Yours left his like a promise he never got to keep. It was the kind of night that could've changed everything. But it didn’t. Because the next morning, you woke up tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, and he was already pulling his shirt back over his head. Already avoiding your eyes. Already retreating behind that same careful silence.

Your friends teased, of course.

“Oh, they’re at it again.”

“Just make it official already.”

You both laughed it off. He smirked like he wasn’t dying. You rolled your eyes like you didn’t care.

Just friends.

But by the time the final term rolled around, everyone knew what you were. A twisted kind of constant. A pattern. A secret with no secrecy left.

Oh, they just fuck.

That’s what they said now. Not with venom. Not with judgment. Just... with a shrug. As if that explained all the nights you spent in his bed, half-clothed and quiet. As if that explained the way his hands found your hips like they belonged there. As if that explained why neither of you could look at each other for too long in the daylight. Just sex. Just lust fueled from fear and frustration. Just friends. And yet, sometimes — when your lips met his in the dark, and your hands clutched the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you secure — it felt like something more. Something that could wreck you. But you never said it. Neither did he. As if speaking it would make it too real. As if the fragile, unspoken thing between you would shatter under the weight of honesty. Because that was the one rule you never broke. Don’t call it love. Don’t make it love. As if you were afraid — terrified — of ruining what had always kept you tethered. The friendship. The shared childhood. The years of unfiltered existence. The quiet comfort of someone who knew you before the world got to you.

By the end of that final year, the harsh reality of life got to you both. Your sheltered upbringings cracked like porcelain dropped on stone. No amount of wealth, no inherited status, no pureblood pride could shield you from the way war hollowed people out and left nothing but ruin behind.

Theo’s mother — Gone. Just… gone. No body. No explanation. One day there, the next, a missing name whispered behind locked doors. The Nott estate hung a black veil over its gates, and no funeral was ever held. There was no point. Grief like that was wordless — just cold halls, two untouched teacups and a father who stopped speaking altogether. Lord Nott, once sharp and cruel with his lectures, had gone fully nonverbal. Not by curse — but by choice. As if silence was the only form of control he had left.

Your father — alive, yes. Barely. He came back from that damned mission, but not the same man who had tucked you into bed with stories about ancient magic and told you to always think three steps ahead. His body was broken beyond recognition. The medics didn’t let you see him at first. They said it would be “too distressing.” Eventually, you did. And they were right. He was unrecognizable. Wheelchair-bound. Spine bent at an unnatural angle. One leg gone from the knee down. His wand hand — once so steady, so sure — was now a twisted, useless claw curled permanently against his chest. His face was gaunt and pale, skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. Scars like lightning bolts slashed down his neck. His eyes were sunken and wild. You remembered staring at him in silence, unable to move. Because he terrified you. Not in the way an enemy would. But in the way a nightmare does when it looks like someone you love wearing the wrong skin. A ghost in a body that wasn’t built to hold him anymore. He couldn’t speak at first — not from any injury to his throat, but from shock. From trauma that settled into his bones and refused to leave. And when he finally did speak again, his voice was rough. Short. Cold. Barked orders and fragmented thoughts. No longer your clever, strategic father — the man who once gently corrected your spellwork and taught you how to read people like books — but something else entirely. A man stitched together from grief and pain. A shadow with too many memories and too little future. Your mother — still healing from her own wounds — became his nurse. She rose with the sun and fell asleep in chairs beside his bed, hands blistered from potion bottles and bandages. She stopped wearing jewelry. Stopped painting her nails. Her posture slumped. Her laugh disappeared. She aged years in mere months — not from time, but from the weight of it all.

You heard her crying once, through the door of the grand kitchen. Quiet. Shaking. Then silence. Then the kettle boiling like nothing had happened. You stayed away from your parents' room as much as you could. And hated yourself for it. But every time you looked at him… you didn’t see your father. You saw what war did.

Your mothers had been right that Christmas. The fear in their voices, the tension in the way their hands had trembled as they poured wine and tried to smile — it had all been true. They had known what was coming. And still, no one prepared you.There were no instructions. No easing in. You and Theo were thrown into it — contracts, vaults, magical properties, shared estates, heirlooms, taxes, infernal negotiations with families older than stone. The joint businesses, the web of wealth spun between your last names, all fell into your hands. You were expected to just know — to manage, to lead, to represent, to preserve legacies that were already falling apart. You had to learn everything in a matter of days. Not weeks. Not months. And you did. So did he. Because what other choice was there? You were no longer just students. You were heirs to something crumbling. You were survivors of something that never truly ended.

Theo, who once smirked during Potions and drew obscene doodles in the margins of your notes, now wore tailored suits and pinched the bridge of his nose over budget ledgers. You, who used to skip class to nap in the sun, now read estate law by candlelight and signed contracts that made your stomach turn. Shared business. Shared history. Shared ruin. And yet, in the quiet, in the moments between meetings and estate visits and painfully public galas, you still found each other.

At night, when you thought everyone was asleep and the world had gone quiet, you’d meet in the corners of your decaying privilege. His study. Your greenhouse. The stables at the Greengrass estate during a black-tie engagement party neither of you wanted to be at. You’d find each other in the dark. A familiar rhythm. The same kiss. The same desperate hands. The same way your body knew his, like you’d been made for this, even if you never got to officially claim it. It wasn’t passion anymore — not really. It was survival. Because without it — without him — you weren’t sure you’d still be standing. School officially ended. Graduation came and went without you. While your classmates celebrated the start of a new life, you were already buried in the old one.

As the months rolled on, it began to change you. Not just inside — not just the fatigue, the sleeplessness, the weight of responsibility. But outside too. Theo grew leaner, his sharpness no longer boyish but sculpted by loss. His stubble always present now — not because he was trying to impress anyone, but because he didn’t have the energy to care. And you —You’d grown colder. Still beautiful, but distant. Your fingers slender and always stained with ink, your voice quieter, but never unsure.You moved like a woman who knew how to survive. Together, you navigated endless meetings; estate conflicts and public appearances — always seated side by side, always quietly aligned. Like a married couple. Like a power duo. Like something real, even if it wasn’t.

You’d been in the Nott estate office for hours. Stacks of parchment, ink-smudged records, bloodline documentation, contracts, estate transfers — all tangled up in the web of shared legacy that neither of you had asked for, but now had to untangle. The windows were drawn. A single lamp flickered, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Above you, the yelling started again. Theodore’s father — a once dignified, articulate man — now reduced to ghostlike fury, roared behind closed doors. You could hear him stumbling, the scrape of wood against stone, a loud crash as something shattered. And then again — cries. Muffled, broken. You couldn’t tell if they were from pain, grief, or madness anymore. You and Theo had long stopped reacting to it. You sat across from each other, bent over opposite ends of the desk, searching desperately for one specific scroll that had vanished in the chaos. Your hands trembled. Theo’s jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The silence was heavy. Suffocating.

“You filed it wrong,” he snapped finally, voice low but sharp.

You looked up, exhaustion fraying your edges. “I didn’t. I double-checked. It’s not here.”

“It has to be,” he growled, standing abruptly. “We can’t afford to lose this one. Not this one.”

You stood too. “Don’t raise your voice at me, Theodore. I’m trying just as hard as you.”

His hand slammed against the desk, papers jumping in every direction. “It’s not enough!”

Something cracked. Not the desk. Not the lamp. You. He moved opposite you, towering over your frame, the air between you tense and buzzing. His shoulders squared, jaw clenched, anger etched into every sharp angle of his face — but it wasn’t just anger. It was everything. Grief. Pressure. The unbearable weight of inheritance and expectation pressing down on both of you.

“You think I don’t know that?” you hissed. “You think I’m not drowning too?”

The silence that followed was dangerous. Alive.

Then, in one breathless movement, Theo swept the remaining papers off the desk with a furious snarl, grabbed your waist, and shoved you back against the polished wood. His hand gripped your neck — not harsh, but firm — his breath hot against your ear as he rasped, “Fuck you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, voice low, steady. “Do it then, bastard. Fuck me.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed into yours — hard, hungry, desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. But it was real. Raw. You kissed him back with equal force, hands fisting in his collar, dragging him closer as his hips pressed into yours. A clash of teeth and tongues, of fury and grief and longing. Hushed gasps. Scraped sighs. You clawed at his back like it might anchor you to the moment, to something that still made sense — leaving angry red streaks in your wake, some broken just enough to draw blood. His hand slid under your shirt. Yours tangled in his hair. You didn’t care about the desk. The office. The yelling upstairs. For a few stolen minutes, there was nothing but heat — the ache of needing to forget, the need to feel alive, to release anger, if only briefly. And when it ended — when your breaths slowed and your foreheads rested together — you didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Didn’t explain. You simply slid off the desk, tugging your oversized shirt back over your shoulder, smoothing the hem of your loose shorts with trembling hands. Then, wordlessly, you began collecting the papers scattered across the floor. Theo helped, running a hand through his disheveled hair, jaw set and unreadable. Neither of you looked at each other. You smoothed out a torn contract. He re-inked the title line. And you went back to work. The marks you left on his back stayed for weeks — angry, raw reminders of a moment you both refused to speak of. You tended to them in silence, dabbing salve over the scabs with careful hands. Theo never complained, even when the pain made him wince. He just sat still, jaw clenched, as if he needed to feel the sting, to feel something.

People whispered. They always did.

“They’re perfect together.”

“They run their families like they were born for it.”

“They have to be together, right?”

But they didn’t know. They didn’t know how you’d sign the last page of a treaty with your hand trembling and Theo would place his fingers over yours — just for a second — to steady you. How you’d brush against each other on the gala stairs and both flinch, as if the touch was too much. They didn’t know about the arguments behind closed doors, the way grief twisted everything tight. Didn’t see you both unravel — trying to keep up with legacies you were never meant to carry alone.Didn’t see the way your fathers now sat silently in the shared manor farm’s garden, side by side — your father’s hands gnarled and motionless in his lap, Theo’s father pushing the wheelchair in slow, stiff silence during their mandatory daily walks. Didn’t see your mother smoking alone at dusk beside the grave of Theo’s mother — a grave with no body. Just a stone. Just a name. You were still just friends. Still clinging to the label like it might save you. Not because you didn’t want to call it love anymore — but because now, you couldn’t. There was no time. No energy. No room left for soft words and safe confessions. Not with everything else you were carrying.

The peace after the storm came three years later.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Not all at once. It came slowly, like the way bruises fade — inch by inch, color by color, until one day you looked in the mirror and realized the ache was gone, but you still remembered exactly how it felt. You and Theo had learned to breathe again. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough. Enough to survive the meetings. Enough to sleep for more than four hours. Enough to stop jumping when owls arrived unexpectedly. Enough to function in the daylight, to keep your voices steady, to hold a quill without shaking. You were still sleeping in your own homes with your parents, still tethered to the ruins of what had been. But more often than not, you found each other in Theo’s bed — not for passion, not for pleasure, but for stillness. For warmth. For something close to peace. Just holding each other in silence, hearts beating like stubborn clocks in the dark. One morning, you had walked alongside your fathers in the garden. Slowly. Carefully. You had finally gathered the courage — or maybe just the numbness — to stomach the way they looked now. His father guiding your father’s wheelchair, both silent as ghosts, eyes cast low like men already half-buried. It was there that his father first openly pitched the idea of marriage to both of you. Not as a romantic gesture. Not even as protection anymore. But as necessity. Politics. Legacy. A tie to keep everything standing. Theo hadn’t said you were just friends. He hadn’t said no. He had only said, flatly, “There’s no time.”

And your father — your once-sharp, untouchable father — had started crying. Not loud. Just quietly. Shamefully. Because he couldn’t walk you down the aisle without assistance. Because he couldn’t hold a wand. Because he was no longer the man you had looked up to with such blinding pride. You had clutched Theo’s hand so tightly his fingers had gone pale. He hadn’t let go. That same night, you had sat outside in the old tree — the one he’d pushed you from years ago. The bark still scraped. The branches still high. The memory still vivid. You didn’t speak. You just sat in the crook of the trunk, a cigarette burning slow between your fingers, staring out into the dark, and wishing everything would stop spinning — just for a while. Theo had climbed up beside you like he always did, the wood creaking under his weight. And without a word, he’d pulled you gently against his side, his arm wrapping around your back with the kind of ease only years could grant. His lips found your temple — soft, gentle — and he whispered something quiet into your ear. You didn’t catch all of it. You didn’t need to. It was the tone that mattered — low, steady, like an anchor dropped into stormy water. You leaned into him, resting your head beneath his chin, letting the smoke curl upward as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your spine. For a moment, nothing hurt. For a moment, the world stood still.

One summer afternoon, an owl arrived. You were in Theo’s study, both of you hunched over estate plans in silence, the kind of quiet that had become second nature — not hostile, just heavy. The open window let in the distant hum of cicadas and the faint scent of warm stone. The owl cut through it all with a sharp flap of wings, landing on the back of Theo’s chair with practiced ease. You blinked, reaching for the parchment tied to its leg. Pansy’s handwriting. Flowing. Delicate. Dramatic. A vacation. Her beach villa. Two weeks. Sun, sand, alcohol, “and absolutely no business, darling.”

Around you, life had kept moving — faster than either of you could follow. The Malfoys had escaped the war with little more than scratches and enough gold to polish their name clean. Draco had expressed interest in Daphne’s sister Astoria, fallen in love, and now they were expecting their first child as a married couple — a picture-perfect future handed to them on a silver spoon. Pansy had found love in Blaise, of all people, and last you heard, they’d gotten engaged. Daphne had vanished off to some far land, buried in magical research and ancient libraries, sending the occasional vague postcard with too much sun and too few words. Everyone had moved on.Except for you two. You’d declined nearly every group invitation over the years. Some never even reached you anymore. The others came wrapped in awkward politeness — sympathy laced into the phrasing, like everyone knew but no one wanted to say it aloud. Everyone knew your situation. They whispered it behind their hands at galas and in footnotes of society columns: the heirs who stayed behind. The children who became the legacy. Only Pansy had stayed in contact properly. Owls passed between you — sometimes short and sweet, sometimes long and rambling. She never pushed, just reminded you that she was still there. Still waiting. But you’d never gone. Never had the time. Never had the energy to pretend you were whole enough to relax. Until now.

“Is this… a joke?” Theo asked eventually, voice low and flat.

You didn’t answer. Just folded the parchment once more and placed it on the desk between you like it might detonate. A vacation. A real vacation. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had one. No duties. No legacy. No headlines. No contracts. No whispered condolences. No tense galas. No black robes or uncomfortable meetings. Just… escape. It felt foreign. Unreal. Irresponsible. And still —Still, a part of you ached for it. Not the beach. Not the cocktails. Not the idea of rest. But the idea of being you again. Not your name. Not your family’s. Just you. Theo leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, and exhaled slowly. You watched the way his jaw flexed, the way his shirt clung to his collarbones, the way exhaustion lived in his body like a second soul. The silence stretched, heavy and careful, like all things between you. You reached for the letter again, scanning it once more.

 “Two weeks,” you said quietly, setting it back down. “We’d be off the grid. No meetings. No correspondence. No expectations.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s impractical,” he muttered. “We have three estate reports due. I still need to finalize the imports for—”

“We can delegate,” you interrupted, calm. “Take the work with us if we must. But I think—” You exhaled slowly. “I think we need the distance. From all of this.”

You gestured vaguely to the desk, the stacks of parchment, the endless flow of sealed envelopes. Theo didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on a dark spot in the wooden grain of the desk. Then, finally, his gaze met yours.

“We go,” he said. “Just a few days. Nothing excessive.”

“Fine,” you agreed with a slight nod. “I’ll write back.”

No smiles. No jokes. No laughter. Just two people who had grown used to survival. Two people who made decisions like allies, like business partners. Because that's what you did. You endured. Together. 

The vacation came. And for the first two days, neither of you knew what to do with it. You arrived late in the afternoon — salt in the air, the light golden and low, the villa glowing with warm sandstone and the sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs. It was almost too beautiful. Artificial. Like stepping into a memory you didn’t belong in. Pansy greeted you at the door, her hair twisted into a silk scarf, her grin wide and bright, a new engagement ring on her finger gleaming like a spotlight. Blaise was behind her, hand resting lazily on her waist. He smirked and said something about you two looking “as thrilled as a pair of accountants at a rave.” You didn’t laugh. Theo didn’t either.

Inside, the villa pulsed with sun and music — warm and alive in a way that felt almost foreign. Draco was already lounging shirtless by the pool, sunglasses perched on his nose, one hand lazily stroking the curve of Astoria’s very obviously pregnant belly. She looked radiant, her skin kissed golden by the sun, her laughter ringing out as she tipped her head back at something he whispered. Around them, their friends glowed with the same ease — pleasant tans, light clothes, relaxed smiles. Like the war had never touched them. You and Theo looked like ghosts. Pale. Drawn. Unseasoned by joy. You'd packed three swimsuits, but couldn’t bring yourself to put any of them the first day. You’d grown so slender in recent months that your reflection no longer felt like your own. Your body — once yours, once familiar — now felt like something borrowed and worn thin. You stood in front of the mirror too long. Silent. Theo noticed. He always did.

“It was your idea,” he muttered later, tension clipped into his voice as he stood in the shared bedroom of the villa. “You’re the one who said we needed this.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you replied, equally quiet. Defensive. “Like we don’t belong here anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick. Neither of you moved. It wasn’t really about swimsuits. Or sunlight. Or laughter.  It was about what you’d become — and how far you’d drifted from your friends. Then, without a word, Theo stepped behind you. His arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently back into him. You felt his lips brush the side of your head as he whispered, “You worry too much.”

A pause.

“You’ve always been gorgeous.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You just leaned into him, letting the words settle between the two of you like something fragile.

That same night, after a dinner that felt more like a performance than a meal, you sat curled up with a book in your lap — not reading, not even pretending to. Your fingers gripped the spine too tightly, knuckles white. The pages didn’t turn. Theo was nearby, sprawled on the adjacent chair, one arm draped lazily along the back. His eyes weren’t on you. They were locked on the horizon, sharp and quiet, like he was daring it to say something. Dinner had started innocently enough. Pansy had tried — really tried — to keep things light, even as she sipped from her wine glass with the telltale smirk of someone trying to pull threads back together.

“So,” she began, eyes flicking between you and Theo across the candlelit table, “What finally dragged you two out of your cave? Don’t tell me it was the promise of tan lines and mocktails.”

Theo didn’t smile. Neither did you. It was Blaise who chuckled into his drink.

Pansy tried again. “Still just messing around like you were at Hogwarts? Or did one of you finally grow up and confess something real?”

You had managed a dry, noncommittal smile. Theo stabbed his food with a bit more force than necessary, the clink of silverware sharp in the quiet.

“No time for discussing feelings,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate. “Too much work.”

You didn’t argue. You just nodded, barely. Silently agreeing.

Then, after a pause, he added, quieter this time — as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit — “But we’re still close.”

Pansy didn’t push. Nobody did. Then Draco — in a tone too casual to be careless — leaned forward slightly and asked, “How are your families?”

The question hit like a slap. Sharp. Unwelcome. Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers clenched tighter around your fork. Heat flared in your chest — not anger, but something more bitter, more helpless. Like a scream trapped behind your ribs. Your hand slid under the table, gripping Theo’s thigh through his shorts. Your long nails dug in, leaving harsh, red crescents in his skin. A warning. A plea. He didn’t flinch. His hand covered yours — warm, relaxing. He gave it the faintest squeeze, thumb brushing your knuckles once, then said quietly, with no elaboration: “Better.”

That one word hung in the air. Final. Clipped. Uninviting. The conversation moved on, awkwardly, stumbling into safer territory. Someone laughed a little too loudly. The subject shifted to the weather today being unbearably hot, then to Astoria’s pregnancy, and then — mercifully — to dessert. You didn’t mind Draco. You liked him, even. He’d been a close friend for years. But the question — innocent or not — had sliced right through what little armor you still had left. If Theo hadn’t spoken first, you weren’t sure what might’ve come out of your mouth. And so later, when the moon was high and most of the others had wandered off to their rooms or the beach, you sat outside together in a comfortable silence that wasn’t really comfortable at all. Just familiar. The book lay unopened in your lap. Theo’s jaw was tight as he stared at the sea. No one joined you. No one interrupted. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t judgment. It was just... distance. The kind you grow used to when you’ve lived too long behind walls no one else knows how to climb.

Day two bled into heat and salt and sun. The others were scattered — Blaise and Pansy off snorkeling somewhere beyond the rocks, their laughter occasionally echoing over the waves. Draco was seated under a shaded umbrella, massaging Astoria’s swollen ankles with surprising tenderness, the two of them tucked into their own quiet world. Theo had gone for a run. His body moved like he was chasing something — or maybe trying to outrun it. Every flex of his shoulders caught the light like marble. He’d shaved — the first time in what felt like months — and the sharpness of his jaw, no longer hidden beneath stubble, made something unfamiliar twist in your stomach. You’d gone to grab a brush from the bathroom that morning, pausing in the doorway for a heartbeat too long. He stood by the sink, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him, his movements precise, methodical. The aftershave he wore — the one you’d given him for his last birthday — lingered in the air, fresh and clean and far too rare. He barely used it. There was never time. You stepped closer, silently, meeting his reflection in the mirror as your fingers brushed the edge of the counter. Then, without a word, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw — soft, fleeting, almost questioning.

“Smells good,” you mumbled against his skin, the words barely audible but thick with meaning.

His hand paused mid-motion. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one tugged at the corner of his mouth. Almost. But not quite.

His hair, damp from an earlier swim, was slicked back, a few strands falling forward as he ran. You sat on a sun-warmed rock a few meters away, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, Theo’s shirt draped over your swimsuit. You’d burned yesterday — badly — and now his button-down protected your flushed skin. You weren’t reading. You weren’t doing anything, really. Just staring. Watching him like it was the first time you’d allowed yourself to see him. Something in your chest thudded — quiet but impossible to ignore. He caught your gaze mid-stride, his expression softening in the way it always did when it was just you. And then he waved, slowing as he jogged toward you, his breath steady, lips slightly parted. You didn’t wave back. Not yet. You just kept watching him come closer, wondering, without meaning to, what you both could have been if the timing had been right for once.

By day three, something shifted.

It was small. Barely there. You were eating breakfast outside on the patio, legs pulled beneath you, a cup of bitter espresso growing cold beside your plate. Theo sat across from you, hair damp from a morning swim, shirt wrinkled from a night spent tossing.

He looked up from his plate, brow raised at your silence, and muttered, “If you frown at that book any harder, you’re going to scare the author out of retirement.”

You blinked. Then laughed — surprised by the sound of it, startled by the sudden lightness. The rest of the group went quiet. Pansy’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Draco raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. Blaise shot Theo a look and smirked. It was subtle, but the reaction was there — like they’d just seen a ghost exhale. No one said anything. Not out loud. Theo didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes softened as he looked at you. That same night, the two of you went for a walk on the beach. It was quiet. A silence neither heavy nor awkward — just there, between footsteps on wet sand and the sound of distant waves. His hand found yours as naturally as breathing. Your summer dress swayed softly with the breeze, the silver serpent necklace still resting cool against your collarbone. He was still wearing the ring. The one you’d given him. It was duller now, a few new scratches cutting through the initials — but he wore it. Always. After a while, Theo glanced at you and muttered,

 “This whole thing’s... not too bad.”

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting.

“No,” you murmured. “It’s not.”

You both stopped near the dunes, where the sand was still warm underfoot. The moon cast a pale glow across the waves.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter.

You didn’t reply — not in words. Instead, you stepped closer, let your head rest lightly against his shoulder as you both sat down. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. You just let his arm wrap around you while you stared out at the sea.

By day four, he threw you into the pool.

You were in the middle of drying your legs in the sun, sunglasses perched on your nose, a rare moment of ease softening your expression. He walked past casually. Paused. Looked down at you. And without warning, without ceremony, scooped you up and launched you into the water. You came up gasping, hair stuck to your cheeks, laughing through a stream of curses. He dove in after you. You splashed him. He dunked you. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was familiar — messy, chaotic, joyful. Like a version of yourselves you’d buried beneath duty and grief. A life before the war, before bloodlines and business, before everything became sharp-edged and quiet.

Blaise had laughed from a deck chair, calling the others out to watch the chaos unfold. “Merlin, they’re alive!” he shouted, grinning like it was the most surprising thing he’d seen all summer.

You managed to climb on Theo's shoulders with pure, stubborn determination, shrieking as you tried to dunk him beneath the water. He grabbed your waist and threw you off again, the splash echoing through the courtyard. But you didn’t go down quietly. You surfaced with a wicked grin, swam up behind him, and yanked his shorts down under the water with a triumphant snort. His bark of laughter turned into a string of curses muffled by your laughter. You gave him the finger, tongue stuck out like a smug child, and climbed out of the pool victorious — dripping wet and absolutely unbothered.

The deadline you gave yourselves — “just a few days” — blurred. Stretched. By the end of the week, you weren’t keeping track of time anymore. Theo spent less time staring into the distance, more time beside you. You weren’t clinging to your book anymore — sometimes it sat forgotten beside a half-drunk glass of wine, your head tipped toward the sun. There were moments now. Small ones. Soft ones. Moments where he laughed without bitterness. Where you smiled without flinching. Where the two of you shared silence without the weight of the past pressing on your chests. You still didn’t talk about what you were. But for once, you weren’t pretending. Not lovers. Not friends. Just two people breathing for the first time in years. Most nights, you’d lay in bed beside each other, sharing lazy, hushed conversations. About everything and nothing. Estate renovations you’d never actually start. Which room had the best light for tea in the morning. The dumb things Blaise said. The even dumber things you two had done as teens. You’d fall asleep mid-sentence sometimes, smiles lingering. After the others went to bed, you always slipped away together for a walk. It became a habit neither of you named — just something that felt necessary. You’d walk along the quiet shore, or wander through the villa grounds barefoot, whispering under the stars. One evening, after Theo joked about throwing you into the sea if you had kept teasing him, you playfully elbowed him and muttered that you’d haunt him in his bath forever if he did. He had chuckled, said “worth it,” and then, with a strange kind of quiet certainty, leaned in and kissed you — soft, slow, nothing like the other times. Theo started waking you early, just after sunrise. He’d tug you from bed with a grumble of “come on, lazybones” and force you to join him for morning workouts. You hated them. You were horrible at most of the exercises he showed you — uncoordinated, sleepy, constantly complaining. But you always outran him. Every time. Barefoot, laughing, hair tangled in the wind, leaving him behind on the sand while he cursed after you with a grin. One morning over breakfast, you found yourself in an unusually animated conversation with the girls. Astoria talked about the baby’s nursery while Pansy passed around wedding brochures and complained about choosing a flower color. You made a particularly crude joke about what labor sounded like, mimicking a hippogriff in heat. Everyone laughed — even Astoria, who nearly choked on her juice. Theo, from across the table, had turned slowly to stare at you, utterly scandalized. You just sipped your coffee with a smirk while Pansy wheezed beside you, clutching her stomach.

Week two had settled into your bones like sunlight. You hadn’t planned to stay this long. Neither of you had. But time moved differently here — slower, softer, like the universe had finally stopped asking you to fight. The morning began the way many had: with Theo doing pushups in the sand. This time, though, you didn’t join. You sprawled on his back as he worked through the set, pretending to be a drill sergeant barking orders. He grumbled, muttering something about poor form and insubordination, but didn’t try to shake you off. The laughter that followed felt foreign. But not unwelcome. You returned to the villa a bit earlier, digging through an old handwritten recipe book you’d packed — one of the few things his mother had left behind. You found the worn page with her pancake recipe, smudged with flour and time. You made them exactly as written. No substitutions. No modern twists. Theo returned not long after, fresh from his workout, shirtless and sun-warm. He walked straight to you, arms slipping around your waist as you flipped a pancake. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring something about how it felt like home. His hands gently rubbed along your stomach, a motion so instinctive, so familiar, it sent a shiver through your spine.

“I forgot how good this smells,” he whispered, nuzzling your hair. “It’s like she’s here.”

You set the table quietly, the others still asleep, the sun casting lazy beams across the kitchen floor. The villa smelled faintly of chocolate and butter — the pancakes charmed to stay warm. Theo was gone, showering but taking uncharacteristically long. Long enough that your stomach twisted. You opened the bathroom door just in time to hear the hitch in his breath — the sharp, silent kind of sobbing that shook his shoulders even under the hot stream of water. His body was curled in on itself, hands braced against the tiled wall like he was holding himself upright on memory alone. This was the first time you’d seen him cry in years. You stepped in, fully clothed in your short summer dress, no hesitation. The steam clung to your skin, your hair already dampening. You didn’t speak. Just wrapped your arms around his back, let the water soak through you completely. He didn’t pull away. He sagged against you like it was the only place he knew how to fall. You kissed his shoulder as best as you could reach. His spine. His jaw. Whispered into the heat and silence:

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

“I’m still here.”

“Still breathing.”

“Still with you.”

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed — ragged, wet, broken — into your shoulder. But then, barely audible above the water and the ache in his chest, he mumbled something. Words you couldn’t quite catch. Your brows knit, lips parting to ask him to repeat it — but before you could, he turned. His hands found your waist, fingers trembling. Then your back met the cool tile of the shower wall. It wasn’t the kind of release that came from desperation or fury — not this time. It wasn’t making love either. It hovered in between. There was restraint in the way he kissed you, in the way his mouth trailed your collarbone like a habit he couldn’t unlearn. There was a tenderness in how his hands and hips moved, like he didn’t want to hurt you — not anymore. But it was still tension. Still need. Still the only way he knew how to let go. And you let him — because you felt it too. That pressure in your chest, the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you couldn’t say. You needed the closeness. The quiet violence of it. The comfort of two bodies still reaching for something in the dark. So you gave in, together — not to forget, not to escape, but just to feel something that wasn’t loss.

Breakfast was oddly silent. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just careful. Respectful. Protective. Theo’s eyes were red-rimmed, his expression unreadable as he focused on his food. His hand brushed yours once beneath the table — briefly, barely — but it was enough. It was obvious he’d cried. Undoubtedly, everyone had heard the stifled gasps and creaking pipes from the bathroom, the low rhythm of bodies against tile despite your efforts to stay quiet. But no one said a word. No teasing from Blaise. No knowing glance from Pansy. Even Draco, usually unable to resist a smirk, simply nodded a silent greeting. Instead, they complimented the pancakes.

“These are… amazing,” Astoria said with a gentle smile, reaching for a second helping.

“Might be the best I've had,” Pansy added, sipping her coffee like it was just any other morning. “You’ll have to share the recipe.”

You’d replied softly, eyes on your plate, “It’s Theo’s mum’s. Family secret.”

Next to you, Theo stilled. Then looked away. And that was it. No more questions. No comments. Just a table full of people choosing kindness over curiosity — the kind of friends who knew better than to ask.

The afternoon was golden. A slow breeze rustled through the tall palms as sunlight shimmered across the surface of the pool. Everything smelled like salt, suncream and fresh lime. Pansy floated lazily in the pool, humming under her breath, sunglasses perched crooked on her nose. Blaise and Draco sat under the pergola in deep conversation, voices low as they argued — again — about Quidditch teams and playoff brackets like they hadn’t aged a day since sixth year. Astoria was curled up nearby on a chaise lounge, one hand resting gently on her stomach, her book half-forgotten in her lap. Too many cocktails had been sipped — fizzy, colorful things with ridiculous garnishes — and the laughter that floated across the patio was light, untethered. Astoria's glass, of course, was alcohol-free, her drink bright pink and sparkling with some enchanted citrus blend. She looked radiant, even without the buzz. You, on the other hand, were tipsy for the first time in years. Giddy in a way that made your limbs loose and your words just a little slurred. Theo was too, stretched beside you on the lounge chair, one arm slung lazily over the side. His cheeks were flushed, his grin unguarded. He muttered something under his breath — probably a complaint about the ridiculous paper umbrella in his drink — and you burst into laughter that wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t remember the last time your bodies weren’t tight with tension. The alcohol loosened something deeper — not just in your limbs, but in your hearts. For once, you were just two people melting into a sun-drenched afternoon, not heirs, not soldiers, not survivors. You returned to the oversized sunbed tucked beneath the shade of the canopy, balancing two fresh cocktails in your hands. The heat clung to your skin, the salt from earlier still drying on your legs. Theo lay sprawled across the lounger, eyes closed, one arm resting behind his head, his chest slowly rising and falling. You sat beside him, careful not to spill the drinks, and leaned over to place his on the small side table. His eyes blinked open lazily, taking you in — bikini, sun-flushed skin, and all.

“Merlin,” he muttered, voice thick and low. “You look too damn good in that.”

Before you could respond, he tugged at your wrist, pulling you down so that your upper body settled across his chest. You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and he smirked against your hair. His arms curled loosely around you, one hand idly tracing the curve of your spine, the cocktail forgotten for the moment. He was in nothing but his swim trunks, his skin sun-kissed and damp from the earlier dip in the pool. As you finally settled against him, he reached up with one hand, running it through his messy, wind-tossed hair. The other hand fumbled lazily for the cigarette box on the table. He pulled one out, lit it with a flick of his wand, and took a slow drag, the smoke curling between you. You watched as he exhaled toward the open sky, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, lingering. He turned his head slightly, meeting your lips properly this time, a slow, familiar exchange. When he pulled back, he passed you the cigarette without needing to ask, his fingers brushing yours. You took it, took a drag, and let the smoke drift into the breeze. Your cheek against his sternum, your eyes half-lidded, your body draped over his like he was home as you continued your previous drink infused, lazy argument.

"I am not letting this one go, Theodore. You are the one who insisted we plant that stupid frostleaf in zone five," you murmured, voice slow, lips brushing his collarbone as you spoke.

Theo scoffed, head tipped back against the cushion, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.  "You said it needed partial shade."

"And you said you'd reinforce the dome charms. Which you didn't."

"Because someone forgot to order the runestone stabilizers," he said, turning his head slightly, his voice rough and lazy. "We lost four moonfruit pods because of that."

You hummed, tapping your finger against his chest. "Mm. Still think it’s your fault."

He reached for the cigarette again, took a drag, and handed it back — but this time, his fingers paused around yours. His eyes flicked to your lips. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to. He leaned in slowly, brushing your nose with his before pressing his mouth against yours. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. It simply belonged. Slow. Warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that started with a sigh and ended in silence. His lips moved with yours like he already knew how — like he always had. You kissed him back just as slowly, shifting your body slightly over his, your hand curling around the side of his neck. His fingers found the small of your back again, grounding you. Not pulling. Just holding.

You pulled back a little, your nose brushing his again. "We're supposed to be relaxing."

He smirked lazily, not opening his eyes. "I am relaxed. You’re the one who keeps bringing up the bloody farm."

You kissed him again. Just a soft press. No tongue, no urgency. Just lips grazing. Lingering. Then again, deeper this time — not heated, not rough. Just there. Steady. Familiar. Like you could spend a lifetime kissing him like this and never get tired.

His mouth parted slightly, and your teeth scraped gently against his lower lip before you pulled away, just enough to whisper, “We should probably hire someone to manage it.”

“Mm.” His eyes opened halfway, gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable. “We could. But then we wouldn’t have anything to argue about while making out in the sun.”

You smiled against his jaw. “So this is your strategy. Pick fights with me to justify the kissing.”

“You caught me.” He kissed your temple. “Shameful, really.”

You passed the cigarette back to him, your fingers running lazily along the side of his ribs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still lying on top of me,” he said, taking another drag. “So I win.”

You laughed, low and warm. His thumb rubbed circles into your back. You rested your cheek against his chest again, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Another kiss. Soft, aimless. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about sex or tension or release. Just presence. And for the first time in years, there was no edge in it. No hiding. Just this. Just now. Your friends glanced over every now and then — not with curiosity, not even with surprise, but with quiet relief. As if they were all silently thinking the same thing: finally.

Pansy made some offhand comment — something about you two being “The best cupid ever.” and “Honestly, I should start charging for my matchmaking services.” — which drew a few soft laughs and a dramatic eye-roll from Blaise. You didn’t react, just gave a lazy middle finger in her general direction without lifting your head.

Theo smirked. “Charming as ever.”

You hummed. “Mhm. Remind me to hex her drink later.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

He kissed your temple again, slower this time, lingering. You could feel his smile against your skin. The warmth wrapped around you like a blanket — the lapping of the pool water, the scent of sea salt and citrus, the weight of Theo’s arm around your waist, firm and sure. You could stay here forever. But some part of you — the part still wired for responsibility — stirred.

“We still have that event when we get back,” you murmured eventually, words barely above a whisper, your lips brushing the space between his collarbone and throat. “The Rosiers’ fundraiser thing. And the estate check-in the day after.”

Theo groaned softly, eyes still closed. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t say anything,” he mumbled, cutting you off mid-sentence. He turned his head toward yours and kissed you again — slow, drawn out, silencing. His fingers slid gently up your spine, grounding you once more in the moment. “We’ll think about it when the time comes.”

You sighed into the kiss, nodding slightly, even as your thoughts tried to drag you back. But he kissed you again. And again. Until you forgot what you were trying to remember. Until there was nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Until the only thing that mattered was the way his hand rested over your heart, as if to remind you: Not yet.

Dinner that night had started with Theo at the grill, shirt half-buttoned, wand tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. Most of the others had wandered off toward the beach, drawn by the promise of a final dip before the sun disappeared. But you and Theo had stayed behind — still very much buzzed from cocktails and sun, swaying more than walking, laughter catching in your throats like bubbles. He was flipping skewers with practiced ease, the flames casting golden light across his cheekbones.

“You know,” he began, eyes narrowed at the meat as if it had personally offended him, “your dad once smacked me in the back of the head with a spatula for salting too early.”

You snorted. “Fifth year, right? He said you were ruining centuries of culinary magic with your ‘lazy seasoning.’”

Theo grinned. “Swore if I ever married into the family, he’d disown me if I served undercooked lamb.”

You leaned on the counter beside him, eyes playful. “Well, lucky for you, your meat’s never undercooked.”

He glanced sideways. “Are we still talking about lamb?”

You grinned, leaning in close, your voice a sultry murmur. “Depends. You planning to show me how well-seasoned it is, Nott?”

That earned you a kiss — rough, sudden, his hand finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. You kissed him back eagerly, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. The heat wasn’t just from the grill anymore. At some point, the tongs clattered to the ground. A skewer nearly rolled off the edge. You both stumbled into the counter, knocking the entire barbecue over, bits of meat splattered everywhere.

“Shit—”

“Fix it!” you laughed, breathless, smacking his chest as he scrambled for his wand.

A quick Reparo saved the dinner. Mostly. You were still breathless with laughter as you floated the slightly-singed peaches back onto the platter.

“Perfect,” Theo declared proudly. “Just how your dad didn’t teach me.”

You winked. “We’ll say it’s rustic. He’ll cry tears of joy.”

Draco, already halfway through his second helping, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said casually, “I’ll give it to you, Nott — your meat’s surprisingly well-seasoned.”

You choked mid-bite, coughing as a piece nearly went down the wrong pipe. Theo patted your back with all the faux innocence of someone definitely not responsible.

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Well, she’s had plenty of practice enjoying Theo’s meat in her mouth.”

You groaned, still recovering from the coughing fit, while Theo muttered under his breath, “Can we please stop with the bloody meat jokes?”

Astoria, giggling behind her glass of lemonade, gasped, “Stop, stop — I swear, the baby’s pressing on my bladder, I’m going to pee myself.”

Laughter erupted around the table, soft and honest, the kind that curled around your ribs and loosened something tight inside. Even Theo was smiling, his hand brushing your thigh under the table in a quiet kind of affection.

As the night wore on, the music had slowly faded. The clinking of silverware had long since stopped. The scent of grilled skewers and roasted peaches still lingered faintly in the breeze, but the world had gone soft — wrapped in a silk silence that only came with places far from the real world. You were lying on the same sunbed as earlier, only now a light blanket was thrown over your legs, and the air was cooler, salted with wind from the sea. The pool water shimmered in lazy ripples nearby, catching the moonlight in fractured reflections. Theo was stretched beside you, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped across your waist. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the occasional red glow brightening the line of his jaw. The two of you were quiet, like the night — like the stars themselves had hushed to listen in. You tilted your head back, staring up. The sky was vast. Deep and dark and impossibly full.

“Remember when we used to sneak out just to do this?” you murmured, your voice lazy, full of sun and wine and salt.

“Mm,” Theo hummed in response. “Back when we thought stargazing made us poetic.”

You grinned. “Back when we thought anything made us poetic.”

A pause.

Then you added, voice faintly amused, “Hard to believe everyone’s already asleep. Pansy, especially. She used to threaten to hex anyone who even mentioned bed before 2 a.m.”

Theo chuckled, low in his chest. “Years of partying caught up with them. We’re surrounded by old souls now.”

You turned your head against the curve of his shoulder, looking up at him. “You’re one to talk. You haven’t gone dancing shirtless on a table in at least... three years.”

He exhaled smoke and smirked. “True. But at least I haven’t gone full Draco.”

“Oh Merlin,” you groaned, laughing into your hand. “That man went from brooding teen heartthrob to doting husband and father in record time.”

“And yet somehow, that unborn child is not the product of anything prim or proper,” Theo said with mock seriousness, eyes still on the stars.

You snorted. “Right? There’s a reason Pansy said she heard things through the walls during that holiday they took months ago.”

Theo looked at you then, his grin lazy, eyes shining in the low light. “Poor Pansy.”

“She’s scarred.”

“She deserves it.”

You both fell into another comfortable silence, eyes drifting back up to the stars. The sky stretched endlessly above you — scattered with constellations you used to memorize.

You squinted. “That one’s... the hunter. Right?”

Theo glanced up, unimpressed. “No. That’s clearly the swan.”

You lifted your head, offended. “That’s not even close to a swan.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You forgot everything, didn’t you?”

You jabbed him in the side with your elbow. “I did not. That one—there—is definitely the hunter.”

“That’s the dipper,” he said flatly.

You stared.

“…Is it?”

Theo smirked. “No idea.”

You blinked at him.

He grinned wider. “I just wanted to win.”

You let your head fall back with a laugh, resting against his chest. “You’re the worst.”

He kissed the top of your head. “And yet, here you are. Laying on top of me. Again.”

You smiled into his shirt, your hand finding his under the blanket. Fingers interlaced. No words. The stars stretched on above you. The stars above were achingly bright. Far too distant to touch, yet somehow closer than they’d ever felt before. The warmth of Theo’s body beside you, the quiet hush of waves brushing the shore just beyond the villa walls, the low hum of cicadas in the distance — it all wrapped around you like a second blanket, thicker than air, softer than memory. You let your eyes trace the patterns in the sky. Not that you remembered what they were. Not anymore. There had been a time when you and Theo would stay up late, sprawled in the tall grass behind your estate, naming constellations like you owned them. Now, you could barely tell Orion from a smudge on glass.

“I thought I’d have a child by now,” you said, your voice so soft it barely stirred the air.

Theo stilled. Not completely — his chest still rose and fell beneath your cheek — but you felt the way his breath caught, how his thumb paused its motion against the back of your hand.

You didn’t look at him. “Not because of pressure, or expectation. Just…” A faint, wistful smile tugged at your lips. “I always imagined holding someone small. Someone new. Teaching them how to swim. How to breathe through a nightmare. Loving them in all the ways I wished I’d been loved.”

He was quiet for a beat too long. And then—

“That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed once, dry and amused. “It is. But it’s beautiful, too. You get to start over. To raise someone from scratch. Make sure they know how wanted they are.”

Theo’s voice came slower this time, a little unsure. “Are you—thinking about it? Seriously?”

You turned your face into his chest, letting his heartbeat soothe the strange ache blooming in your ribs. “Not right now. I mean, look at us. We can barely remember to eat when we’re knee-deep in family estate paperwork.”

He gave a quiet huff — not quite a laugh, but close. “So you’re saying you haven’t secured a secret baby deal with some charming wizard behind my back?”

You nudged him playfully with your elbow. “No, but now I’m considering it. Just to spite you.”

“Charming,” he muttered. “Truly maternal energy.”

You smiled. It lingered this time. As the stars wheeled above and the warm night pressed in around you, something shifted. Like a current turning under still water. You felt it in the way Theo’s fingers tightened around yours, the way his breath changed — deeper now, steadier. And quieter.

He spoke again, barely more than a murmur. “What are we?”

The question should have startled you. It didn’t. It just settled, gently — like it had always been there. Waiting.

You shifted slightly to look at him. His profile was half-shadowed, all soft angles and stubble, moonlight catching in his lashes. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first — they stayed fixed on the stars, like he couldn’t bear to look at you if this moment turned fragile.

“I mean…” He swallowed. “We’ve been everything, haven’t we? Friends. Enemies, kind of. Coworkers. Fuckbuddies. Family, almost.” A dry laugh escaped him. “Not in order.”

You said nothing, just watched him quietly.

“I think I’ve always wanted to ask,” he continued, voice even softer now. “What this is. What you are to me.”

“Then why didn’t you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

His eyes finally met yours. And there it was — that expression you’d seen a thousand times but never understood until now. Something raw. Something bare.

“Because if I asked, and you said the wrong thing… I wouldn’t survive it.”

Your breath caught.

“Because if I gave this a name,” he went on, “it might crack. And I’d lose the only real and constant thing I’ve ever had.”

You stared at him, helpless against the emotion building in your throat. The weight of years between you. Of missed moments. Of long nights and longer silences. You sat up slightly, your blanket falling just low enough for the night air to kiss your bare shoulder.

“The world never gave us a chance,” you whispered. “Not really. There was always something. A war. A legacy. A fire to put out.”

“And we let it,” he said, quietly. “We let it take what could’ve been ours.”

A long pause. His eyes searched yours.

“I don’t want to let it anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, held it tightly between both of yours. Your voice trembled, but your words didn’t.

“I don’t need a name for this,” you said. “I just want something real. Something that’s ours. Not inherited. Not strategic. Not survival.”

His hand rose slowly, brushing your cheek with reverence.

“You’ve always been real to me,” he whispered. “Even when I was too much of a coward to say it.”

He looked at you — really looked at you — like he was seeing the past, present, and future all at once. Like every version of you he'd ever known had folded into the woman before him now, and he didn’t want to blink in case she vanished.His gaze dropped to your lips. Slowly — as if pulled by something older than reason, older than time — he leaned in. Not in a rush, not with intent to conquer or claim, but with the reverence of someone approaching a sacred thing. As if kissing you might unmake him, and he wanted to savor every second before the unraveling began. His breath brushed yours first — soft, uncertain. Then his lips touched yours. And this time — this time, it wasn’t stolen or frantic or desperate. It wasn’t about lust or tension or pretending not to care. This kiss was slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss that settled instead of sparked. That said more than words ever could. Your lips moved against his in the kind of rhythm only years could create — familiar, but new. His thumb brushed your jaw as his other hand curled around your hip beneath the blanket, pulling you in gently, like you were something sacred. When he pulled back, your breath mingled. Neither of you moved far.

“So we stop pretending?” he asked, voice husky, heart in his throat.

You nodded. “Even if we’re bad at this.”

His lips brushed yours again — once. “Even if we’re terrified.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

Another kiss followed, this one lingering like a promise. Your hands found the edge of his shirt, fingers sliding beneath, palms against warm skin. His touch mirrored yours — careful, reverent. Not in a hurry. Not this time. He shifted over you slowly, weight balanced between his arms as the blanket slipped slightly, forgotten in the hush of the night. The stars blinked quietly above, casting their silver light across your bare shoulders, tangled legs, the slow press of mouths and hearts finally moving in sync. Your breath caught as his lips traced your neck — not rushed or claiming, but memorizing. Like he'd kissed you a hundred times before but only now understood what it meant. Clothes became memories. Fingers traced old scars and familiar curves as though seeing them for the first time. There was no rush, no rougness, no anger— only the soft sound of skin meeting skin and the way you whispered each other's names like confessions. He murmured things against your collarbone. You responded in sighs, in gasps, in the arch of your body meeting his. Moans swallowed by kisses, hands in his hair, his stubble against your cheek.

Then — quiet, nearly lost in the moment — came the words:

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, as if he’d been holding them back for years and they finally broke free.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. You just kissed him deeper, slower, your mouth shaping the same words into his.

“I love you too,” between kisses to his jaw, his temple, his mouth again.

Another kiss.Not a hungry one, not rushed or desperate — but the kind that settled instead of sparked. The kind of kiss that said stay. That asked, without words, are you sure? You answered with your hands, grasping the sides of his bare toned torso, pulling him closer, grounding him with the silent truth that had always lived between you. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. And then, slowly — like time itself had stretched open just for you — he became one with you, his touch reverent, steady. Everything about it felt intentional. There were no boundaries now. No pretense. No performance. Just you, him, and the soft rustle of linen as the blanket fell away fully. Neither of you said anything about protection. The thought drifted by, then vanished, drowned in the slow rise of heat between your bodies — in the way your skin fit his like a memory long buried and finally remembered. You weren’t reckless. Just… undone. Quietly, completely. When he finally fully sank into you, it was with the gentleness of someone who knew every piece of you — and wanted to love them all. You gasped softly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. He didn’t rush. He wasn’t angry or frustrated. Each movement was slow, deep, deliberate. Like you were writing something onto each other, something lasting. A rhythm born not of lust, but of meaning. Of knowing. Of years of holding back finally melting into touch. Your mouths met again and again — between sighs, between whispered names, between soft moans and gentle gasps. You held his face like he might vanish, and he touched your waist like he’d been dreaming of it. And then, breathlessly, his forehead against yours, voice fraying at the edges — “I love you so much.”

You kissed the words into his mouth before saying them back. “I love you more.” Again. Slower this time. Surer. 

You made love under the stars that night, the sleepy villa hushed around you. Tangled in the warm summer night and years of unspoken truth. Touches that felt like questions. Kisses that felt like answers.Hands tracing paths long memorized but never truly explored — until now. The tension unraveled slowly, achingly. Like the final page of a long story you’d both been too afraid to read. Quiet whimpers slipped from parted lips as you reached your peak — together, finally. A soft gasp, a stuttered breath, a whispered name like a prayer. It wasn’t loud.It didn’t need to be. It was the kind of undoing that settled in your bones and stayed there. When the world stilled, when the echoes faded and the waves whispered just beyond the terrace walls, you stayed wrapped around each other — skin to skin, soul to soul. His body pressed to yours, protective and warm, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. You shifted gently, your lips ghosting across the line of his jaw, down the curve of his throat, pressing soft kisses there — lazy, loving, lingering. He hummed low in his chest, fingers threading through your hair, anchoring you to him like he never wanted to let go.

“I think,” he murmured, voice sleep-soft and rough from use, “this is what peace feels like.”

You smiled against his skin. “Then let’s not lose it this time.”

There was no answer at first — just the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the soft hush of breath against your temple.

“We won’t.”

The next day arrived too soon.

Suitcases thudded closed. Sunglasses were pushed up into hair. The sun hadn’t even reached its peak, but the sleepy villa already felt quieter, heavier — like it knew you were leaving. You stood near the gate with Theo, both of you still in flip flops, skin warm from the last morning rays, the scent of sea salt  lingering on your clothes. There was something different in your posture now — not just exhaustion soothed by vacation, but a softness neither of you had worn in years. A calmness that had finally settled beneath the surface. Pansy noticed it first. She looped her arm through Astoria’s as the two of them watched you from the porch, their silhouettes framed by climbing bougainvillea and the gold-pink of early noon. Astoria, glowing and content, sipped from her glass of water with a knowing smirk. But it was Pansy who spoke, loud enough for all of you to hear.

“Told you this trip would finally get those two to stop acting like sexually repressed soulmates,” she muttered with a smug smile.

Astoria laughed, turning slightly toward her. “You did say that. And you were absolutely right.”

You caught the tail end of it and rolled your eyes with a half-smile. Theo just smirked, wrapping an arm lazily around your shoulder like it was second nature now — as easy as breathing.

“Ignore her,” he said, brushing his lips against your hair in a quick, almost casual gesture. “She just never left her matchmaker phase.”

Pansy raised her glass in mock salute. “I'm just thrilled I don’t have to listen to the will-they-won’t-they saga anymore.And I still hold the title of best matchmaker, thank you very much.”

“Cheers to that,” Blaise added as he joined Pansy and Astoria on the front porch, coffee in hand.

You turned to Theo, your hand slipping into his — warm, steady, real. There was no panic in it this time. No flinching. Just a quiet confidence built on years of falling and finding each other again.

“Ready to get back to work?” you asked.

He squeezed your fingers gently. “As I’ll ever be.”

You both looked back at the villa one last time — at the floatie still drifting in the pool, at the sand clinging to the edges of your towels, at the place where things finally changed. Slowly,  you stepped into the waiting car — no longer pretending, no longer hiding. Just you and him. Finally. But something lingered. Stayed. Buried deep within you, like a secret whispered by the stars. Unseen. Unfelt. But there.  A spark. A beginning. The softest trace of life, already blooming in silence.

A promise made not with words, but with touch. With love.  A wish breathed into the night sky — “I want a child someday” — caught by a falling star, and answered in the heat of that kiss, in the slow, sacred rhythm of that night.

As the sun kissed the horizon and the car carried you both away, a tiny heartbeat — still weeks from its first beat —had already begun to make a home within you. The product of tenderness. Of love. Of everything you'd both been too afraid to say — finally spoken, finally heard. Neither of you knew yet. But the stars did. And they were smiling.

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[the-riddlerr-deactivated2025071]

Just Fucking Ask

summary: Late at night, cloaked in stolen invisibility and reckless need, you sneak into Theo’s dorm thinking you’ll watch unnoticed. But he’s already waiting—one step ahead, dark-eyed and dangerous, ready to ruin you for even trying to hide.

warnings: MDNI, explicit sexual content, voyeurism, masturbation, dominance/submission dynamics, rough sex, degradation, praise kink, possessive behavior, swearing, semi-public setting (dorm), unsafe sex

You thought you were quiet.

You thought your footsteps didn’t echo. That your sighs were shallow enough to be swallowed by the stone. That the way you lingered by the edge of the corridor, half-hidden behind shadows and library corners, was completely unseen and unheard.

Slipped through the entrance of the Slytherin dorms after hours, nothing but the whisper of fabric and the weight of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. The invisibility cloak clings to your body like a secret — one Theo loaned you, ironically.

He’d handed it to you weeks ago without a word, just the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, like he knew you’d need it before you did. That was always his way — aloof, detached, but devastatingly precise. He never said much, but his silences said everything.

You’d meant to return it.

The cloak.

The common room is still, bathed in soft green light that ripples across the stone like water. The lake outside murmurs against the windows, casting shadows like ghosts. You hold your breath. Every sound is too loud — the creak of your foot on the floor, the distant drip of condensation, the fluttering betrayal of your own pulse.

But he’s there—already sitting on his bed. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled lazily to his forearms, exposing pale skin and delicate veins and the promise of control — the kind you’ve felt before in the grip of his hand low on your hips. That steady, unbearable pressure like he could press your whole body into obedience if he wanted to.

And he does.

The room smells like him: smoke, cedar, ink. A single cigarette burns low in the tray on his desk, its lazy curl of ash untouched, as if he forgot it — or discarded it in favor of something far more intoxicating.

You freeze.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t flinch.

But his lips part with a soft, knowing sound — something between a sigh and a hum, the kind that curls low in your stomach and makes your knees feel unreliable.

He doesn’t look up from where he sits on the edge of his bed, fingers pausing mid-button on his shirt, one side already loose and hanging open just enough to tease the sharp line of his collarbone. "I had a feeling you'd come here tonight."

No movement. No panic.

Just that voice — steady, cool, and cruelly correct.

The cloak still covers you. You haven’t made a sound. But he knows. Of course he does.

There’s a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth now, barely-there, the kind he wears when he’s already won something you didn’t know you were offering.

You haven’t made a sound. Not a footstep. Not the brush of fabric. The cloak still clings to your body like a second skin, silent and enchanted and flawless.

“I didn’t think you’d be this pathetic about it,” Theo murmurs, voice low and thick with dark amusement. He leans back on one elbow, the muscles in his forearm flexing smoothly beneath his skin, while his other hand drifts slowly—deliberate and teasing—down over the flat planes of his abdomen. His touch is casual but charged, as if every inch of movement is calculated to unsettle you.

“You didn’t even have the nerve to knock,” he says, eyes glinting with sharp, knowing light. “Just sneaking in, hiding in my room like some coward, my pretty girl hoping for a show.”

His lips curl into a slow, cruel smile, that dangerous smirk that promises both punishment and pleasure.

You don’t move.

The cloak rustles—just barely—but it’s enough.

His smile curves slowly, sharp and knowing, like a blade catching the light.

“You’re not that quiet, sweetheart.” The words slip from his lips like a velvet warning—soft, but impossible to ignore.

His gaze sharpens, catching every tiny movement you make beneath the cloak, every shallow breath you try to hide.

He undoes his belt with a soft, deliberate snap that echoes in the quiet room.

A rush of heat floods your skin, your heart stuttering like it’s trying to catch up with the sharp edge of anticipation cutting through your nerves.

You realize, with a sudden, jarring clarity, exactly what he’s about to do.

The sharp sound slices through the thick air, and you catch your breath—too sharply, too suddenly—your lungs burning with the effort to stay calm.

“Oh, there it is.” His voice drops — low, molten, threaded with quiet satisfaction. It drips like warm honey over glass, smooth and slow, every word a calculated drag meant to settle low in your spine.

“Breathe louder,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up through heavy lashes, dark with something filthy and indulgent. “I like hearing what I do to you.”

He looks obscene like this — sprawled back against the bed, shirt parted and belt undone, the sharp lines of his abdomen catching in the low light. One hand still resting casually at his waistband, fingers just brushing the skin beneath, as if he’s deciding whether to touch himself yet — or just keep tormenting you with the idea of it.

His smirk curves lazily, full of heat and cruelty and something possessive beneath it all.

You’re already flushed, heat crawling down your spine like flame. Your skin feels too tight, too aware, like every inch of you is tuned to him. To the way he breathes.

He hasn’t even touched you.

And that’s the worst part — the most maddening thing.

He’s still mostly dressed, belt loosened but not gone, shirt hanging open just enough to frame the sharp line of his ribs, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

Theo’s head tilts slightly, just enough to make it look casual — but you can tell. There’s intent behind it. Precision. His dark eyes sweep the room like he’s mapping it, calculating shadows and silence, tracking the invisible thread that ties him to you.

Because he knows.

He knows.

Even if you haven’t made a sound. Even if the cloak still clings to you like a secret.

There’s something in the way his gaze lingers on the doorway. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth, smug and slow, like he’s picturing exactly where you’re standing — what you look like under that cloak, flushed and frozen, practically trembling.

“You gonna stay under there while I fuck my hand?” he asks, voice low and velvet-smooth, laced with something dark and sharp that makes your knees ache to give out.

There’s no mockery in it. Just quiet cruelty — indulgent, knowing, soaked in heat.

“Or are you gonna show me,” he continues, tilting his head slightly, eyes locked on the space where he feels you, “just how fucking desperate you’ve gotten since I last touched you?”

His fingers drift lazily along the edge of his open belt, like he has all the time in the world. Like he could get off just imagining what you look like right now — flushed, trembling, soaked beneath silk and shadow.

Your knees threaten to buckle. Heat coils low in your belly, tight and relentless, but still—still—you don’t move.

You stay hidden beneath the cloak, breath shallow, every nerve pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

Because you want to see what he does when he thinks you won’t.

There’s something wicked in the way he sprawls there, belt open, fingers dancing just at the edge of indulgence but never fully giving in. Like he’s putting on a show for a ghost—one he knows is watching.

His hand trails lower, brushing just beneath the waistband of his trousers, and his jaw flexes—just once—tight and aching.

Theo drags his hand down over his abdomen with maddening slowness, fingers skating over skin like he’s savoring the anticipation as much as the act itself.

He exhales through his nose—controlled, low, like he’s been wound tight all fucking day, and now, finally, he’s letting himself unwind… just enough.

His pants sit low on his hips, undone and open, the fabric slipping further with every breath. He doesn’t rush. He never does. And when his fingers wrap around his cock—finally—it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting it through his skin. He strokes once, lazy and wet, and his head tips back against the wall with a quiet, breathy noise that goes straight to your core.

Like this is routine. Like this is his ritual. Like he touches himself to the thought of you more than you know—and now he’s letting you see what that looks like.

His thumb drags over the head, spreading precum with a slow roll of his wrist, and his jaw tenses—just barely. Controlled. Composed. But his eyes flick toward where you stand, cloaked and shaking.

“Thought about you all fucking week,” he says, voice thick now, dragging over the words like they taste good in his mouth. His hand moves slow over his cock, thumb brushing the tip again, and his eyes stay locked on the empty space where he knows you are.

“Lying in that little bed upstairs, legs spread, fingers shaking—so fucking needy it’s embarrassing.” He groans softly, like the image wrecks him and turns him on in equal measure.

“Wondering what I’d do if I caught you.”

He strokes a little harder now, more rhythm than before, hips shifting just slightly off the mattress. His voice drops again, darker:

“Would I make you stop… or make you finish with my hand around your throat?”

His lips twitch, not a smile—a warning.

“Bet you’d beg either way.”

He strokes slow. Long. Each movement deliberate, obscene in its patience. His grip is firm but measured, just tight enough to make his breath hitch on the drag, just loose enough to show he’s nowhere near giving in. Not yet.

His hips shift—barely. A subtle roll, like his body’s acting on instinct while his mind stays sharp, in control.

His eyes stay heavy-lidded, locked on the space you occupy like he can feel the way your thighs press together. Like he knows your breath is trembling, your fingers twitching at your sides, aching to do something, say something, touch something.

But you don’t.

You watch.

“Bet you’re dripping now,” he murmurs, voice like smoke — thick, low, curling around you. “Bet you didn’t wear a fucking thing under that cloak.”

His hand moves again, slick and slow, hips twitching just barely as he exhales through gritted teeth — not from need, but restraint.

“You came here hoping I'd do this,” he says, gaze burning into the empty space where you stand. “Wanted me to touch myself while you watched. All quiet. All obedient.”

A beat. He groans — soft, bitten off.

“Dirty fucking girl.”

His jaw flexes, sharp and furious with control, as he fists his cock with more purpose now, dragging his palm along the length like he’s thinking about exactly how deep he’d be inside you.

You’re not breathing now. Just watching. Burning. Your thighs are pressed tight, aching with the kind of need that makes your head foggy and your pulse deafening. The invisibility cloak is too hot now, suffocating, clinging to your skin like silk soaked in desperation.

And still, you don’t move.

Theo’s head tips back against the wall, the line of his throat exposed, sharp and elegant even as he starts to come undone.

His lashes flutter, mouth parting around a low, wrecked sound that slips past his teeth before he can catch it. His jaw clenches hard, the muscle twitching as his hand speeds up — slick, sure, practiced.

Each stroke is rougher now, less about teasing, more about need. Controlled, yes — always — but fraying at the edges, like the image of you under that cloak is finally starting to ruin him.

His hips lift, chasing the rhythm, and his breath stutters through his nose, thick and ragged.

“Fuck,” he grits under his breath, eyes squeezed shut for half a second—just long enough to imagine how you’d feel instead.

Warm. Wet. His.

“Should’ve had you on your knees,” he grits out, voice wrecked now—low and venom-slick, like it’s dragging itself from somewhere deep and dirty.

“Should’ve ruined that sweet fucking mouth earlier when you looked at me like you wanted to be used.”

His eyes crack open, dark and burning, tracking where he knows you are even now—hidden, trembling, soaked beneath silk and sin.

“Maybe then,” he growls, stroking harder now, his breath catching, “you wouldn’t be standing in the fucking corner like a ghost. Shaking. Thighs clenched so tight you probably ache.”

He drags his thumb over the head, groaning like the thought alone is going to undo him.

“You came down here for this, didn’t you? For me. And now you can’t even move.”

He’s close—so close.

You can hear it in the way his breath shatters, no longer smooth and measured but broken, guttural, dragged from deep in his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together and failing.

The glide of his palm is rougher now, slick and fast, fingers tight around his cock like he’s punishing himself with the rhythm.

And his hips—fuck, his hips—jerk up in short, desperate stutters, like his body’s chasing something his mouth won’t beg for.

His jaw’s locked, throat working with every breath he tries to swallow, and there’s that sound—low, bitten-off, ragged—like a growl caught behind his teeth.

His head falls back again, lashes fluttering, lips parted, ruined.

He stops.

Just like that—hand freezing at the base of his cock, chest rising hard with each ragged breath, jaw clenched so tight you swear you hear his teeth grind.

The silence that follows is deafening.

His eyes lift—slow, unblinking—locking onto the exact space where you stand, invisible and exposed all at once.

And when he speaks, it’s not loud.

It’s worse.

His voice drops to a low, guttural whisper, soaked in filth and authority, quiet enough to make your skin prickle.

“Take off the fucking cloak."

You freeze.

Your breath stutters in your throat, muscles locked, heart pounding so loud it feels like it might give you away. The cloak weighs heavier now—like guilt, like want, like the last thread between you and him.

And then he moves.

Theo leans forward, slow and purposeful, like a predator closing the gap before the kill. His cock still gripped in one hand, slick and flushed and aching, but forgotten for now. All his focus—all of it—is on you.

His pupils are blown wide, drowning out the sharp blue of his eyes with nothing but heat and hunger, raw and unfiltered.

“Or I’ll come without you,” he says, voice a low growl wrapped in silk—deadly soft, but laced with threat. His fist tightens around his cock, and his knuckles go white with restraint.

His eyes never leave you.

“I’ll make a fucking mess all over my stomach thinking about how good that little pussy could’ve felt.”

He leans in just a fraction more, dark hair falling over his brow, lips curling like he already knows what you’ll choose.

“Won’t even look at you when I do it.”

A beat. His jaw tics.

“Your choice.”

And somehow, that’s the cruelest thing of all—he means it.

He’ll finish right there, in front of you, without letting you touch, taste, beg.

And Merlin help you—

Your hands move before your mind even catches up.

Fingers trembling, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, you reach for the edges of the cloak like it’s the only thing keeping your body from unraveling completely.

Because there’s no pretending anymore.

You were never invisible to him.

You never could be.

You drop it.

The cloak slips from your shoulders like a confession, pooling at your feet with a whisper of silk and guilt. Your breath is tight in your throat. He’s already watching you—has been, probably, the whole time—with that unreadable stare that cuts sharper the longer it lingers.

He leans back, legs spread, cock flushed and heavy in his fist, slow strokes resuming with maddening calm.

“There she is,” he says, soft and razor-edged, like a secret dragged over skin.

His smirk curves slow and wicked across his lips, satisfaction pouring off him in waves. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Doesn’t need to.

“Knew you wouldn’t last.”

His voice is quiet, almost tender, but it cuts straight through you—warm, cruel, true.

He sits back a little, still stroking himself with maddening leisure, eyes devouring you like you’re the reward for a game he already won.

You swallow hard, but he keeps going.

“You were dripping under that cloak, weren’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked—more rasp than sound, like it’s being dragged straight from the heat sitting heavy in his chest.

He eyes you like a fucking prize, pupils blown wide, jaw tight, hand still working slow and possessive over his cock as he takes you in.

“Just standing there, shaking, thighs pressed tight like that’d do a damn thing to help you.” His tongue flicks across his lower lip as he breathes in deep—like he can smell your want from across the room. “Like some shy little voyeur who thought she could handle watching.”

He tilts his head, the heat in his eyes darkening, sharpening. “You couldn’t help it, could you?” he rasps, voice sinking into something mean.

You shake your head—small, helpless, a flicker of honesty you can’t stop even if you tried.

But that only makes him laugh.

Low. Quiet. Dark.

Not mocking. No—pleased. Like he’s just confirmed something he already knew. Like you’ve proven him right without needing to say a single word.

“Yeah,” he breathes, smile curling slow and wicked across his lips. “Didn’t think so.”

His eyes drag over your body like hands, and he shifts on the bed—shoulders rolling back, cock still heavy in his grip, glistening and flushed from everything you made him feel without even touching him.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, eyes trailing over you like a brand. “Look at you. You’d let me fuck you right here with the others on the other side of the door.”

Your knees threaten to give again.

“C’mere.”

One word. Low. Rough. Laced with authority that doesn’t ask—it owns.

Not a plea. Not a demand. Just a fact: you’re going to move. You have to.

And you do.

He grabs you the second you’re close enough—hands firm and unapologetic, like he’s been waiting to get his hands on you.

Fingers dig into your hips, possessive, rough, dragging you into his lap in one sharp, fluid pull. No hesitation. No softness. Like he owns every inch of you.

And fuck, he does own you. Every inch, every breath. Especially now.

His cock presses hot and thick between your thighs, the heat of it searing through whatever’s left of your composure. You gasp—quiet, involuntary—and he smirks against your skin like he felt it vibrate through you.

One hand slides up to your jaw, gripping it firmly, tilting your face toward his like you’re his to direct—because you are. His thumb presses under your chin, slick from touching himself, the heat of it smearing against your skin like a brand.

“You like watching?” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips, his voice dipping into something low and dangerous—a taunt coated in velvet.

His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to keep your face tilted up, to make sure your eyes don’t leave his. That you don’t dare look away.

“Is that it?” he breathes, lips brushing yours but never closing the distance.

You nod again—silent, breathless, your chest rising too fast. But it’s already too late to answer.

Theo’s hand is already moving.

Sliding up your thigh, fingers strong and sure beneath your skirt like he owns the space there—because he does. And when he finds you soaked, trembling under his touch, he lets out a soft, wicked breath that punches low in your belly.

“I knew it,” he growls, dragging two fingers through your folds. “Knew you were soaking wet under there. Fucking filthy,” he snarls, the raw heat of his words wrapping around you like a curse and a claim all at once.

You whimper, breath catching in your throat, but he doesn’t ease up—not even an inch.

His fingers slip inside you—two, rough and fast—pulling a sharp, desperate cry from your lips that you barely have time to swallow before his mouth claims yours.

His kiss is hot, hungry, like he’s trying to devour every sound you make, every tremble beneath his touch. His free hand tightens in your hair, anchoring you to him, and the rough press of his fingers inside you is relentless—deep, urgent, demanding.

He fucks you with his fingers until you’re gasping, his other hand gripping your throat with just enough pressure to make your pulse stutter.

“Always so fucking needy for me,” he says. “You could’ve waited. Could’ve come in like a good girl. But no—had to sneak in and watch while I touched myself, like some desperate little thing.”

You’re already close.

He knows.

And he pulls his fingers out.

You whine, but he’s already shifting you, lining himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick like a threat. You gasp at the contact, hips instinctively pressing forward despite the delicious torment of the slow tease.

Theo’s eyes blaze as he watches your reaction, lips quirking into a cruel smirk.

“You want it?” he asks, voice low and gravelly, thick with heat and challenge. His gaze locks onto yours, eyes dark and unyielding, daring you to admit exactly how much you crave him.

“Yes—Theo—please—” you breathe out, voice trembling, barely more than a whisper.

He tilts his head, eyes darkening with a slow, cruel smile that promises everything and nothing good. “You’ll beg louder than that,” he growls, voice thick with hunger and control. “When I’m done with you.”

And then he pushes in.

Not slow. Not gentle.

Deep.

His hips slam forward, hard and unrelenting, driving every inch inside you like he’s marking you with fire.

You cry out, clinging to his shoulders as he starts to fuck up into you with harsh, snapping thrusts—hands locked on your waist, forcing you to take it, to ride it, to feel him.

He bites, not gentle—just enough to make you gasp, to feel the sting burn beneath the heat of his breath.

His words come in broken growls, filthy and reverent, spilling out against your skin like poison and praise all at once.

“You take me so well, fuck—so fucking tight—” His teeth scrape your pulse, his hips grinding deeper, rougher. “—mine.” A thrust. “Always mine.”

And you can feel him everywhere—inside you, against you, around you—unrelenting and overwhelming.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice low and dark right against your ear, each word hitting like a bruise and a blessing.

His hips grind deeper, unforgiving. His grip on your waist tightens until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

“Letting me use you like this.”

He chuckles—low, wicked—mouth dragging along your neck.

“You’re gonna come, aren’t you?” Theo growls, breath hot against your cheek as he thrusts up into you, deep and merciless. “All over my cock. Because you’re that easy for me.”

You choke on a moan, fingers clawing into his shoulders, trying to hold onto something—anything—as he fucks you deeper, harder.

“Yes—fuck—Theo, please—” your voice is wrecked, barely coherent, falling apart for him just like he wants. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he snaps, cutting you off with another brutal roll of his hips. “You will.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding that spot that makes you jolt, makes your mouth fall open in a soundless cry.

“Gonna come for me like the desperate little mess you are, yeah?” he murmurs, lips against your ear. “Do it. Let me feel it.”

“God—yes, yes, I’m—”

Your legs tremble around his waist, barely holding on as he drives into you, unrelenting.

He’s not slowing.

Still moving—deeper, faster—like he’s chasing something in you, like he’s trying to carve himself into your body and leave no part untouched. Each thrust hits so deep it knocks the breath from your lungs, the sharp slap of skin on skin echoing through the room, obscene and perfect.

“Come on. Be a good girl." he breathes, voice thick and sinful against your ear. "Fall apart for me.”

And you do.

You come with his name on your tongue and his teeth on your skin, your body wracked with it, sobbing into his neck as he fucks you through it—his own groan rough and feral as he follows seconds later, buried deep inside you, holding you down on him like he’ll never let go.

Silence after.

Just your breathing.

The faint crackle of the dying fire.

His hand strokes down your back, slow and grounding.

He presses a kiss to your temple—still a little smug, but gentler now. His gaze is dark and blown wide, lashes heavy, lips still wet from kissing you like a fucking sin. There’s sweat at his temple, hair mussed from your fingers, and that look on his face—the one that says he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

“Next time you want to watch me, sweetheart…” His thumb traces your bottom lip, slow, filthy, unforgiving.

“Just fucking ask.”

[nottsangel-rip]

Need Theo and mattheo to make me watch them fuck each other

HELL FUCKING YES U GET IT !!!!!! ok but how about them tying you to a chair and forcing you to watch as they jerk each other off, moaning into each other’s mouths. they’d call it their ‘punishment’ for you, but honestly, you’re in fucking heaven. getting to watch your boyfriends fuck each other? you honestly couldn’t think of any other way you’d rather spend your friday night. every so often, they’d glance at you, teasing words thrown your way, “you know, if you’d been a good girl for us, we might’ve let you join. too bad, though.” and maybe, just maybe, if you’re lucky enough, they’d both finish by coming all over you.

[iris-qt]

charmed, i'm sure

(feat. accidental truth serum, public chaos, and one very flustered reader)

It starts during double Potions.

Snape’s droning on about the stability of truth serums, and Mattheo Riddle (gorgeous, brooding, completely full of himself) is stirring his cauldron with that signature air of boredom and menace.

You’re seated next to him. Unfortunately.

Well, technically it was alphabetical. But you’re starting to think fate just has a sense of humor.

Snape snaps his fingers. “Taste test. Two drops each.”

It's obvious he thinks no one made the potion right.

You arch a brow. “Taste the potion? Isn’t that, like, illegal?”

Mattheo shrugs. “Probably. But I’m dying to know what secrets you’re hiding.”

You roll your eyes and raise your vial. “Bottoms up, Riddle.”

And then.

He drinks. You pretend to drink.

You blink. He blinks.

And then... chaos.

“Your eyes,” he says dreamily, “should be illegal in academic settings. I can’t focus. I think I failed last week’s quiz because of them.”

You look over at him in horror. “What?”

“Oh no,” he says cheerfully. “I think it’s working.”

Snape narrows his eyes. “Mr. Riddle, is there a problem?”

Mattheo turns to him, absolutely beaming. “No, Professor. Unless you count the fact that I’m catastrophically in love with the girl next to me and have been writing her name over and over in the margins of my Arithmancy textbook for three months.”

There is a beat of silence.

You drop your quill.

Snape sighs. “Hospital wing. Now.”

“But I feel fine,” Mattheo says. “Better than fine. Actually, I feel free. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to tell her that her laugh makes me feel like I’m choking on happiness?”

You slap a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry, Professor,” you mutter, dragging him out of the classroom as fast as your legs can carry you. “He’s clearly unwell. Tragic. Don’t wait up.”

In the hallway, Mattheo’s grinning like a madman.

“Wait,” he says, eyes wide. “Did I tell them about the dreams yet?”

You freeze. “WHAT dreams?”

He looks slightly panicked. “Oh no.”

You push open the hospital wing door and hiss, “Mattheo Riddle, if you say one more thing that makes me want to throw myself out a window—”

“I think you’re smarter than me,” he blurts. “It’s not fair. You’re so clever. I watch you solve things and it’s like... like watching lightning happen in real time. And you don’t even brag about it. It’s disgusting. I’m obsessed with you.”

You gape at him.

Madam Pomfrey appears with a raised brow.

“Veritaserum, I assume?”

You nod numbly. “Yes. And please. Make it stop before he proposes.”

Mattheo places a hand on his chest, gasping. “Do you want me to?! Because I will. I have the ring picked out.”

A/N: missed this trainwreck | mattheo masterlist |

[pizzaapeteer-deactivated2025102]

Succumb to the lust

On the eve of Halloween your three idiotic friends Mattheo Riddle, Lorenzo Berkshire and Theodore Nott invite you over for an evening of spooky fun watching horror films. However, they don't expect to release a trapped spirit, taking the night for a turn unravelling some longing desires bubbling in the pit between the four of you. Warnings: NSFW 18+, foursome, throat fucking, dirty talk, swearing, anal, double penetration, PIV, cunnilingus, f! orgasm, multiple m! orgasms, fem reader is possessed by a succumbs, a demon that survives on semen. The bold italics is her thoughts. I got vvv carried away in this 8k fic!! An: Apologises for posting this almost a month later 'halloween' fic. heads up i've never written a 4some before so I hope this is okay! <3

The thick lining of emerald covered walls do little to quieten the echo from the rowdy shouts of chatter, the sounds encapsulating around you ensuring you heard the group of boys well before you saw them. As usual, the expansive space of the Slytherin’s boy’s dorm accommodated by your three friends, greets you with the resident pungency of boyish charm. The three of them, congested and huddled like bunnies in a tight-knit burrow, are focused entirely on none other than a muggle computer.

Theo and Lorenzo hover closely behind Mattheo’s shoulder, their tall broad frames hunched with intense focus, their eyes glued to the screen, watching with excitement and a hint of fear.

Theo observes with an eagle’s line of sight, mentioning tactics of strategy to Mattheo, with his finger outstretched, pointing towards the pixelated scenery where Mattheo’s character depicted manoeuvres through the haunted maze. On Mattheo’s other side, Lorenzo presses a firm hand upon his shoulder, taking a more aggressive and chaotic tactic. Shouting bollock loads of commentary on the best way to attack the monster.

Which leaves the victim, Mattheo perched on the chair between them, his eyes flickering like a hummingbird’s wings, his brows furrowed frozen as if moulded in cement. His irritation spikes under the growing overstimulation he’s endeavouring, only resulting in another failure. Three loud shrieks fill the room when the monster jumps at the screen, it now flashing GAME OVER as the character succumbs.

A laugh unable to be contained, bellies out from you with pure delight, having watched Theo and Lorenzo almost knock Mattheo clean out of his chair in fright. The sound makes for an unconcealed alert of your presence, the extent of their swearing coming to a halt. “What’s going on here that’s got you three jumping out of your skins?”

They adjust their positions at your arrival, striking nonchalant relaxing poses, each giving you three gestures of hello. “Nothing, nothing, just playing a game.” It’s the eve of Halloween, a stormy night setting the spooky atmosphere - and what better way to spend it watching horror films. 

“Not the most feared guys in school scared of a little muggle game?” Instantly the tease in your tone replaces their once friendly expressions with the forming of three scowls and loud resorts of denial brushing off your taunt. 

“Uh huh.” You reply sarcastically, letting out a light giggle, shutting the door behind you with a click. The sound of your sweet laugh eases their original annoyance, each of their hearts swooning internally. It didn’t matter that you were making fun of them. It was so light and infectious it had even the toughest of boys’ hearts melting.

“So what movie did we wanna watch?” You ask, removing another layer, tossing it without looking onto one of their unmade beds. The room falls into a comfortable silence and you think nothing of it, assuming they’re deep in thought about your question. With precision, your focus remains entirely on neatly lining your shoes up by their door. Too caught up in the minor details of your perfectionism to notice the lingering brazen glances that follow the way you bend, showing off the fine curve of your ass.

Mattheo, lost in the hypnotisation of sinful exposure, relaxes himself with an overconfident lean on the back feet of his chair. The chair rocks with the unstableness of a stack of playing cards, collapsing out from under him in a sudden thud. The room crackles with the roars of laughter erupting from Theo and Enzo, breaking the peaceful silence. 

The loud antics snap your attention and you turn, assessing the situation of Mattheo’s clumsiness, him sprawled with a bitter grimace on the floor. Quirking a teasing smile, you offer a hand down to him. “Still spooked, Matty?”

He brushes off his embarrassment with a roll of his eyes and accepts your hand. The contact is gentle, showing his softened-down self saved for you before his face hardens, shooting a joking glare at his friends to knock it off.

“Very funny. I don’t scare easily, sweetheart.” He scoffs, shrugging off your minor hit, making the others snicker at his response.

“Sure ya don’t.” Giving a mocking nod, you stifle a laugh at his bitter defiance. “Anyway, imma pop to the bathroom. You guys sort something to watch, yeah?” Backing up towards their shared lavatory, emphasizing your words heavily while you point a finger at the three of them as if to address children. 

They give you a chorus “Yes ma’am!”, watching your frame vanish behind the wooden door. The second you’re no longer within hearing distance, an agitated sigh released from Mattheo. “Dude, what the fuck-.”

“Don’t look at me. You’re the idiot that fell out of his chair-”

“Please, I was stretching-.“

“-don’t play daft. Your jaw was on the fucking floor.”

Lorenzo’s gaze shifts away from the dispute behind him to the screen exiting the game. He takes the moment in charge to inspect around the muggle device - the three of them had stolen it off one of the pretentious muggle born Ravenclaw’s. Their plan originally to throw it off the astronomy tower for fun had switched when Theo had the curious idea to check it out first. Alas, they stumbled upon the game that had grabbed their attention for the last thirty minutes.

He continues to browse through internet explorer before his brows pull together, chuckling with intrigue. “Ooh what’s this?” Lorenzo interrupts the rambling ongoing behind him, his eyes drawn towards the blaring red picture of a busty girl with devil horns. A Halloween game advertisement that all too easily enhances his attention, luring him in with a magnetic pull. 

“Feeling lonely huh Berk, poor Ravenclaw couldn’t satis-oof-the fuck was that for, twat.” Theo releases a low grunt, his tease shut down by the sharpness of Lorenzo’s elbow jabbing into him. 

Mattheo smirks amused, leaning back against the four-poster beam, his gaze flickering over Lorenzo’s shoulder with a curious eye. “Don’t do anything stupid, Enzo.” 

Enzo grins, looking back at him, “Oh shut the fuck up, I’m the smartest here.” 

“I beg to differ.” Theo mutters. 

As if to prove Theo right, he’s already clicking on the ad with little to none rationality before the others can suggest better of it. “Enzo, what the hell did you do?!” Theo comments with frustration, watching as the ad fills up the screen, aggressively taking over control.

The computer once fully functional glitches and sparks shoot out the side, smoke ejecting out the back surrounding the machine. “YOU BROKE THE BOX THING!” “I did nothing!” “Bullshit, you fucking clicked that stupid ad-.” “Yeah! It was working perfectly before!” “don’t blame me! It was fucking tits-.” There’s a swat to the back of his head discipling Lorenzo’s greedy eyes, and he scowls bitterly. 

During the boys’ argument, electricity surges through the circuits, a powerful force traveling along the wires. Unaware to the boys, they’ve just released a deadly spirit trapped inside the confines of a pornographic ad. A wise and extremely driven succubus Mazien, banished to live out a 10000 years, advertising to sinners the luxurious pleasures of sex. A torturous punishment of watching hundreds, thousands of humans cumming over and over but forbidden to unlock the power of semen shown before her eyes.

As you move to exit the bathroom, you reach to flick the light off, but a surge of electricity vibrates through your body, shocking you. The current of electricity zaps with a powerful blast, hurling you backwards into the wall with a loud thud. The hardness of wood breaks your fall, the violent impact leaving you frazzled as you release a deep groan of achiness. 

Silence falls in the bedroom before three shouts of your name call out in panic. A multitude of concerned knocks rat on the door rapidly, wanting your attention, and seemingly only causing your head to throb harder. There’s a moment of weariness in your eyes before a dark glowing red blurs your vision and you pass out. 

Holy shit, it worked! It actually worked. Oh my god! I’m free!! A voice rings vibrating inside your head. The sound is so clear yet so distant. Must have hit your head pretty hard if you’re hearing voices. You try to shift and rub it, but the movement doesn’t happen. Your body acting on its own accord.

You lift your hands, examining them as if inspecting the delicacy of them for the first time. They look normal so far as you watch behind a tunneled vision, standing and stretching, your body cracks as though unmoved for a thousand years. The steps to the mirror feel daunting in your apprehension of what you’re about to witness. 

And then the voice rings out again, a sultry consciousness that’s loud and overbearing, a voice echoing, pounding around your membrane. Fuck me this girl is hot. I sure know how to pick ‘em. 

It’s a woman’s voice, you can tell. Watching with a hypnotized gaze at whose reflection glances back at you in the mirror. You recognize the familiarness of your features, though something lurks behind your usual humanized eyes, and then there’s your abnormal action. 

A wicked grin gleams, your tongue running along the line of teeth seductively as you check yourself out. Whoever she is, she’s clearly happy to have possessed you. Possessed right? That’s the only logical explanation for what’s happening. Though nothing about this is logical!

Her body is fuckin fit. Why are her tits not further out…I’ll just mmh uh huh yeah that’s better. With impatient hands, you pull down the fabric of your shirt, exposing far more skin than you would have preferred, fixing it the perfect way Mazien likes. Next your hair. Fingers that usually carry themselves with tender touches threads aggressively ruffling your hair into a disheveled but sexy mess. Observing peculiarly the tactical style Mazien alters your appearance, you lean forwards inspecting your lips, forming a cute pout reapplying the lip gloss found in your pocket. 

Another round of thumps slams on the door, stealing your attention, pausing the newfound vainness you’re showcasing. Listening to the murmurs, you register male voices, deep tones that lull your ears, a peaceful heaven. A strong whiff of testosterone fills your senses, the scent gliding under the door engulfing you like a familiar drug. It calls towards you like sweet temptation. Inhaling again with a deep breath, you’re able to identify the redolent of not one but three young oversexed guys. 

Gazing back at yourself in the mirror, the reflection projects a gorgeous, overconfident young woman. Beneath the eyes there’s a tinted guard, a hidden panel of glass creating a one sided window that allows a view of Mazien’s perspective of yourself. But deeper there’s an anxious girl watching with uncertainty, feeling as if your heart should beat with a rapid thump on the verge of stopping. Instead, your pulse spikes with ambition and excitement at what awaits. I’m in for a treat. 

You’re practically begging through the thickness of your thoughts to communicate and halt her ambitions with whoever the hell is in your body. She doesn’t appear to listen, moving confidently to unlock the door and greet your friends. 

They each turn to the door and it’s like a scene straight out of an 80s movie. Three boys stand aghast around a beautiful creation emerging from their wildest fantasies. As if a smoke of cloud had appeared behind you, effortless breaths of wind blowing your hair and a gleaming spotlight captivating your beauty. 

You appear normal enough. Flashing them an amused smile, Mazien knows her touch ups to your appearance have worked their magic. Holy fuck, aren’t these boys a sight for sore eyes!

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Cocking a curious brow, you step back into the cozy nest of boisterous chaos that now remains a quiet tension. Your tone is sweet, feigning innocence and obliviousness. 

They shrug nonchalantly, acting as if they hadn’t all just been drooling over you. Though you’ve always been beautiful, there’s something different about you they can’t quite put their tongue on.

Theo is the first to speak. Clicking his mouth with a low hum, he observes you with his usual intenseness, taking in every detail about you. His lips pull in a calming smile, finding interest in the newfound confidence you’re asserting. “You alright bella?” 

Nodding, you grin reassuringly, “yeah I’m perfect, just got a little shock. What happened out here?” Your lips shine under the illuminating lights, enticing their eyes to flutter, taking in the shimmer sparkling on them. Had they always been that pretty, that luscious and full? 

Enzo chuckles, brushing off the issue as no big deal. “nothi-“

“Enzo brought a virus onto the machine and broke it.” Mattheo states blankly, happy to shove his friend under the bus. 

Muttering a bitter motherfucker under his breath, he turns, defending himself with feigned innocence. “What! I did no such thing!” Looking directly at you with playful cuteness, hoping you’ll believe him. 

You’re used to their bickering antics and would normally roll your eyes, but Mazien controlling you is highly entertaining and releases a giggle unlike yourself. It’s not high pitched and cringe like you’d expect. It’s sweet and flirtatious? 

You didn’t even know your voice could break a pitch that high, but it grabs the boy’s attention in a new way as they consume the energy, you’re inviting them to match. “Enzo, what did you click on?” You ask with another teasing tone as you sweet talk him.

He bites his lip, trying to appear nonchalant, but he’s beginning to sweat anxiously. They never talk about their sexual desires around you. “Nothing, I just got curious.”

Oh baby boy I know exactly what you clicked on.

Theo, much like Mattheo, finds enjoyment in ripping the rug out from Enzo. “Curious, my ass. Fuckin horny shit.” Theo rolls his eyes, hiding the smirk at his friend. His tone is low, but you’re able to make out what he’s saying with Mazien’s heightened hearing.  

Pouting with feigned confusion, your brows crease, crossing your arms, projecting your tits to compress. “Horny? What did you click on?” 

A slight flush threatens its way up Lorenzo’s neck, and Theo and Mattheo snicker at his embarrassment. Mattheo speaks up, throwing an arm around your shoulder, “nothing to worry your pretty head about y/n, let’s just watch the movie yeah.” He speaks reassuringly with comfort that the usual you would embrace, but with Mazien inside your veins, she wants a little fun. 

“Oh, I don’t know if I’m feeling that anymore.” Your eyes linger on Enzo as if checking him out. “Not if Enzo’s feeling a little… hot.” 

Lorenzo’s flush finally breaks the surface, adoring his skin a deep red, and he laughs, stretching his arms awkwardly. He’s not entirely sure how to react, but one glance at your tantalizing gaze and he suddenly grins with an idea. “Oh yeah idk if I can focus on anything right now with all this going on.” 

Mattheo and Theo share looks of confusion, “dude wtf.” 

“It’s okay.. I don’t mind helping Enzie out. It is Halloween, after all. You all deserve a treat.” Grinning with satisfaction, you move in front of the three of them. Mazien inspects the difference in their sizes and yourself. It’s not extreme, but it still has your mind spiraling at the strength they could inflict on you, enthusing her of what’s coming.

“Treats?” They repeat their ears tuned in like dogs, the three of them tilting their heads with uncertainty, sharing curiosity with one another. There’s no logical explanation for how you’re acting right now and their minds tick like time bombs trying to unravel the mystery of your sudden change in behavior . 

Despite their brutal confusion, there’s something lingering under the surface, an itch desperate to be scratched. You’ve all been friends since first year, a strong friendship held together by the bonds of trauma, pranks and overall deep respect. The strings threaten to loosen with the suggestion, and their weakening control slips with sexual interest at the opportunity you’re possibly offering them. 

No way they’re actually buying into this? Course they are, sweetheart. These horn dogs may be your friends, but they want to fuck you all the same. Mazien addresses you suddenly through your mind. Is she on your side? 

“Yeah, something with a sweet kick.” Your finger taps lightly under each of their chins, walking past them individually, holding their undivided attention. “A little tang that will tickle my tastebuds.” Until you stop in front of lucky boy number one, Enzo.

His brows furrow at the delicate caress of your hand cupping his jaw, having no time to react as your lips press with an eagerness onto his. A small moan leaves your lips and Enzo’s shock melts instantly away, replaced by a hungry desire kissing back forcibly. His tongue is already diving greedily and getting lost in the sensation of this fantasy. The kiss is messy, and your hands roam over his sides getting excited at his lusted participation. 

Theo and Mattheo share a look with one another, not quite believing the sight presented before them. You’re making out with Enzo right in front of them. Their jaws are practically on the floor. You pull back grinning a seductive look letting out a flirtatious giggle. You look over at Theo and Mattheo. “Aw, are you boys feeling lonely?”

You move quicker than usual, the sexual endurance from Enzo’s kiss fueling your energy levels within. Colliding your lips against Mattheo, the energy eccentric with lust, your fingers threading into the depths of his locks with a force that entices a groan from his throat. Like Enzo’s, it’s messy, his hands sliding around your frame, pressing you up against him. You reach searching for the third boy, looping your fingers through Theo’s pant hoops and guiding him towards you with dominance as you switch to smashing your lips onto his instead. 

The initial shock vanishes as quickly as it arose, the three of them falling into their usual sexual confidence in the bedroom. Mattheo’s fingers skillfully meander, assimilating every nook and grove of your body, his lips finding their place opposite Enzo as they graze feverish kisses on either side of your neck. Both determined to taint the sensitive tissue with prideful marks, while Theo ensures you feel his dominance just with the force of his tongue. A mass of moans meshing amongst the three of you in sexual pleasure. 

This is too easy! I’ll have these boys cumming in no time. 

Tilting your head backwards from Theo, you relish the breath of air that fills you, releasing a satisfied hum at Mattheo and Lorenzo’s actions, forming goosebumps along your skin. Small moans stumble from your needy, enfeebled state, your heartbeat fluttering with rapid thumps down to your core. You close your eyes, caught up in the bliss caging both boy’s lips to your neck, Theo watching with a darkened look in his eye. The pure sounds you utter breathlessly send vibrations straight to their aching groins, the sultriness in your voice blurring their minds in a foggy cloud, a sight they never imagined experiencing. 

The way you carried your confidence in everyday life was nothing compared to the level of seduction present, hooking into their skin with a tight hold. Just like a fish limping out of water, there was no use in struggling for air. You already had your hand on their throats and they invited the feeling in. It’s unlike anything they’d expect from you, the total bliss adorning upon your face with poise, hypnotizing them lustfully. 

Their pants tightening doesn’t go unnoticed and you smirk arrogantly. “Aw, are we feeling a little tense, boys?” Rotating to align yourself in the center of their angled legs, you lower down onto your knees. Fingers lined with yearning graze up the lengths of Mattheo and Enzo thighs, inching up the innermost part towards their dark cravings. “Well, what are you waiting for? Whip out those pretty cocks.” 

The lewd words that glide from your pretty lips short-circuits their brains, a part of them convinced this is a weird connected dream the three of them are sharing. They all start speaking at once, revealing their reactions, looking hesitant, wondering who will be the first brave soldier to succumb. 

“Merlin sake…” “fuckin hell who knew you were such a slut y/n-“ “are you insane!? I’m not getting my cock out in front of these two idiots!” “Aw feeling shy huh Mattheo?” “Dont be such a puss-” “Hey! Shut the fuck up before I shut it up for you.”

“Ah ah ah boys!” Grabbing their attention with a few claps, the sound loud and commanding as you tut at them. Your hands climb their way up Theo’s long trousers, gazing with lustful wide eyes between the three of them. It’s an unholy sight driving Mazien mad while you watch paralyzed within your mind at the scene about to unfold. 

It’s alright baby, we’ll convince them to sit tight. 

Biting your lip, your head tilts innocently. “First one to show me their cock gets to fuck me. You do wanna fuck me don’t you boys?” The mocking undertone rolls of your tongue pleasantly, and your heartbeat spikes a heated desire growing within.

The silence is deafening, your promise hanging in the air within each of their grasps. With lightning speed, they quickly loosened their belts, synchronised and lower their trousers. You giggle, eating up their neediness. The more desperate, the better they’ll cum. 

Your eyes light up, analyzing the three different dicks presented in offering towards you. Theodore stands to your right and even with a brief look, it’s easily the biggest out of the three. The sight creates erotic images thinking about it filling you up. Mattheo standing in the middle pumps his own, his fingers gliding along the thickness, a protruding vein catching your eye. Last, Lorenzo’s pink tip gleams and your eyes take in the slight curve of his length, mouth watering at the view. 

The slow, excruciating moment of your appreciation is short-lived as they grow restless under your tantalizing gaze. Mattheo, never one to show patience, reaches first his hands, diving into your hair and tightly pulling you towards him. “You got what you wanted, so don’t get shy now.” Gladly, you open your mouth, allowing him to glide his cock inside. 

A deep sigh falls from his luscious lips, moaning a quiet, “f-fuck.” Your lips slide along his length, sucking with determination, hollowing your cheeks. Resting a hand on his thigh, you bob, inching further down causing your mouth to salivate. Pulling off, ignoring his protest, you spit the newly created drool in both hands, taking a hold of Theo and Enzo’s dick pumping them.

You can feel the way your pussy clenches, desperate for this fantasy coming to life. A surge of energy fills the air, like a switch being flipped, and you know you’ve lost control. Theo and Enzo rest their hands on your head, encouraging you to take Mattheo’s cock further. The force of their hold makes you gag around Mattheo’s dick, moaning out.

A shared degrading laugh falls collectively. “Aw look, she’s taken you so well Matt.”

“For such a small mouth she sure can fill herself well.”

“Fuck..cant wait to see her really stuffed.”

Mattheo’s hips thrust with vigorous strength, ensuring he grazes the back of your throat. “Oh-h yeah baby like that. Look at that a total fuckin slut taking me so well.” 

“Never thought I’d see the day she was choking on one of our dicks.” Lorenzo smirks, highly entranced by the tears pooling in your eyes threatening to spill with each buck of Mattheo’s hips. 

It’s only a few seconds later and oxygen is being welcomed back into your lungs before being stolen by the tight hold that Theo redirects your head towards his brightening, reddened tip. Mattheo releases an exasperated, audible protest. “What the fuck are you doing?!” 

“You’re fuckin hogging her.” Replacing where your mouth once occupied on Mattheo’s cock with your enthusiastic hands. Theo groans, enjoying the way your jaw relaxes in order to accommodate for his size. “That’s it baby, take it a little more.” 

Your hand falls from Enzo’s grasp as he retreats, moving around behind you, pressing the heat of his chest to your back. A desperate caress of his hands covers your body, sliding up to massage your tits from behind and he whispers grazing your ear, “so perfect. Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

Eyes still glued to Theo’s deepened frown, his low tone muttering curses in Italian, making you moan at the visionary sight. You give a small nod, lips still around his cock at Enzo’s words.

Your knees lift, assisting Enzo in ridding the tedious barrier of your shorts and panties before elevating your ass for him. “You two are missing out. This is the real treat.” Your mind flutters in a flurry as Enzo slides his tongue along your slit in one long, tortuous tease. His hands take hold of your thighs, pushing them apart with a nudge of his knee. 

Erupting a squeal, you moan around Theo’s cock. “F-fuckin hell bella, Enzo keep doing that she’s lovin it.” Theo commands his hand, pulling tighter on your hair. “Oh yeah..yeah like that.”

Mattheo, who’s still bristling at the stolen blowjob attention, releases a shaky breath, attempting to contain his jealousy. Antsy he slides a hand under the top of your tank, groaning when greeted by the bare flesh of your tit. He squeezes urgently, fingers swallowing your skin in his grasp, enticing breathless gasps. 

Waves of hot pleasure course along your veins under the weight of the boys’ touches and their vocal displays of gratification. The sensations enhance your arousal, greedily devoured by Enzo spreading your cheeks further apart to dig deeper, sucking at the new douse of wetness. 

Holy shit! I can feel how much you love this sweet girl. You wanna cum so badly, don’t you? Mazien laugh echoes inside your head. 

From your backseat position, you can feel the way your body is reacting to everything happening. It’s an insatiable feeling experiencing it all while being unable to control your body or actions. Every nerve heightened as if lit by the fires of hell. Your legs tremble under Lorenzo’s grip, weakening your stature, your head spinning with nauseating need.

You don’t have time to feel embarrassed when you are under the control of Mazien. If anything, you feel grateful. She senses that and releases Theo’s cock from your mouth, replacing it with your hand again, smirking at your thoughts. 

Holding both Mattheo’s and Theo’s cocks, you pump them, angling their tips towards your mouth, waiting with your tongue sticking out eagerly. They grunt, their shoulders touching, standing close in order to have the right position for you. You watch how their brows crease, frustrated with pleasure, both their hands holding your hair with iron grips for stability. 

You moan at Enzo’s relentless pace in eating you out, his tongue bringing endless attention towards your clit. The skillful flick of his tongue overwhelming the bundle of senses and your legs convulse, squeezing his head.

You can tell they’re both being stubborn, competing against one another for your praise at who can hold out the longest. You swirl your tongue, licking the tips of both their cocks as one, not caring if they find it awkward. “You’re close aren’t ya..come on boys cum for me.”

“Jesus mate, just fucking cum already.” Mattheo smirks between breaths and moans. 

“Be my guest Riddle.” Theo grunts, his breath equally ragged, “M-maledetto.” 

You roll your eyes at their bickering, continuing to press your ass up, grinding back on Enzo’s blissful face, his hands digging into your cheeks, likely bruising the skin. These boys are so cute, they wanna please us so badly. Deciding their competitiveness is starting to delay the process of Mazien getting what she needs, you give them a glorious offer. “Whoever cums first gets my ass.” 

Eyes widening with lust, Mattheo is quick to cum, the idea of getting to be the first one to fill your tight sacred hole, pushing him over. His hands grip your hair, tugging with a force to ensure your mouth envelops him once more, not allowing you to miss every shot of fluid that jets tainting your tongue. 

Instantly you’re hit with the nostalgic tang of salty cum. It coats your throat like a refreshing elixir hydrating your body after a drought. The taste satisfying glides with ease at your natural mechanism to swallow. Pulling back with a happy pop, you hum heavenly at the first batch. Oh yeah, this is exactly what I need. 

Theo scoffs a laugh, redirecting your focus back onto his aching cock. “God, Matt always has been an ass man, haven’t you?” 

Mattheo’s head still tilted back pants with a blissful expression coating his face, eyes still closed. “Of course it’s the best hole.” When he regains his breath, he squats down, pulling your shirt down and releasing your tit. “Sweet tasty of victory, god these fucking tits y/n.” He mumbles, taking a mouthful of your nipple, swirling his tongue around it, squeezing the other in a circular motion. 

Sensing the arrival of your orgasm, you squeeze Theo’s cock, needing something to grip, your eyes closing with pleasure etched on your face continuously muttering moans. Enzo increases his pace, diving his tongue further inwards, lapping with the intensity of a starved man. Mattheo and Theo hold you still, preventing your body from squirming as you try to both escape and embrace the pleasure.  

He moans, talking you through your climax. “So pretty for’me, that’s it sweetheart soaking my face.” The overstimulation pushes you over the brink, causing the sickly downpour of cum to drench Enzo’s sweet lips. A deep glottal groan ricochets against your clit spurring a high mew, making him chuckle, swallowing your juices with happiness, not bothered about himself not orgasming yet. 

Theo’s hips jut at the peak of his own orgasm, his hands felicitously press a hand to the back of your head, warranting you can’t pull back, making you take the entirety of him. Oh this boy has a load on him. I’ll swallow it all!

Your eyes prick once again, your throat constricting around the depth of his length, snuggly emptying himself with broken groans. You love it, eyes gleaming with a lively sparkle, being used exactly how you need to be. I can feel it working already! But they don’t look down, always have more room for semen.

Mattheo continues his attack, sucking along the tops of your cleavage, relishing in the coughs of air you take in Theo’s release. You clean the access of the drool from the corners of your mouth, resting your chin atop of Mattheo’s head for support. He eats up every gasped whimper you elicit as he plants hickies along the sides of the tissue.

Theo doesn’t hesitate to push him out of the way again. “Quit marking her like she’s yours. Move her on the bed.” 

Mattheo scowls at his scolding, frowning at Theo’s audacity. “Who put you fucking in charge?”

“I think I get a little credit for lasting the longest.” Theo smirks “isn’t that right, bella?” 

You lean back into the comfort of Enzo’s lap, his burly thighs acting in support for your feeble state. Enzo’s arms scoop under yours, lifting and pulling you up and onto the bed, letting you lay fully down. “No need to fight, plenty to go around.” Watching Theo and Mattheo advance you smirk with a desired appetite. 

Enzo hastily lifts you up to release your tits from the confines of your tank and a chorus of groans fills the room, watching with darkened eyes at how your tits bounce, recoiling from the action. Enzo peers overtop, muttering huskily mostly to himself, “Fuck me, she came over not even wearing a bra.” 

“Yeah figured that when I had my one out in the ope-” 

“Piss off Riddle I couldn’t fuckin see.” Enzo rolls his eyes with deep irritation at the amused smug Mattheo shoots him. He redirects his attention down to you, flicking his eyes over the relaxed state your breasts fall, rising with each shallow breath you release. 

He cups a hand under your jaw, tilting it backwards to capture your gaze, giving you a filthy cheek of a grin. Even upside down, he looks handsome as ever, adorned with the glistening remains of yourself on his pretty lips. His eyes hold contact with you, foreheads pressed together intimately as he lowers down, replicating the spiderman kiss. 

His lips move with rushed intensity, tongues tangling with one another, transferring yourself onto your tongue, dirtying your taste. It’s a filthy delicious flavour, rendering you weak with feeling. Mazien doesn’t mind either, relishing in the taste of yourself on your lips. Oh sweet baby you taste absolutely sinful. 

Her words only add to the heat scorching your body, an itch under your skin being scratched delightfully and you moan pressing further into Enzo’s kiss. Cupping his cheek, your nails scratch into his scalp, keeping him perfectly in place. 

Mattheo and Theo roll their eyes, watching Lorenzo’s seduction tactics and crawl up on either side of you, latching a mouthful to each one of your breasts. Their styles differ from one another, Mattheo’s tongue circling and grazing his teeth over the sensitive nipple. While Theo flattens his tongue with slowness, pressing thousands of tender kisses across the surface. The combination of three tongues on your body has you squirming, overwhelmed by such sensations. 

Oh sweetheart these boys are gonna wreck you and I’ll eat it all up deliciously.

The air is sultry with thick desperation, suffocating the room, creating tension and competition between the two boys. In the battle of ascending on who can reach your needy cunt begging for attention first, Theo and Mattheo butt heads, both of them groaning in frustration and pain. You close your legs, their useless coordination at working together irritating Mazien, making you pause pulling away from Lorenzo’s kiss, resting up on your elbows to scold them. 

“I think it’s time Enzo gets his treat and you two take a seat on the bench.” With a press of a heel planting onto each of their chests, the powerful shove tumbles them back off the bed, a look of surprise overcoming them at your sudden strength.

“The fuck-” “when did she get so strong?!” 

Enzo listens to their protests with a smug grin, his lips move, peppering your neck with starved kisses. Of course, his sweet boy antics of worshiping you instead of prioritising himself have paid off in the long run. 

“Stay down there and watch.” The command uttered out of your mouth has them feeling weak, the tone so dominant they feel no other option but to obey. Theo mutters, rolling his eyes irritably, “fottuta stronzata! Why am I being punished for his idiocy?” 

Mattheo scowls at him. “You were equally involved. It was your fat head that bumped mine!” 

Lorenzo lets out a raunchy wolf whistle, his eyes lighting up as you bend, leaning forwards, arching your back and ass up for his pleasure once again. The angle allows you to continue peering down at the two excluded boys in front of you, smirking as you gaze hungrily at their throbbing and erect cocks. Theo and Mattheo quit bickering, watching with sulky eyes, swallowing desperately for a taste they crave now made to wait for. 

“Which hole do you want, Enzo?” 

Enzo’s hands caress your backside, roaming over your heightened skin, putting in the effort to rub his hands captivatingly over the delicacy of your body boasting to the others. His eyes flicker from their pathetic faces, cracking a grin down to the way your body shivers under his teasing touch, unable to believe the alluring view before him. He leans pressing his chest against your back, whispering with a heated hoarse breath, “I wanna fuck that pretty ass of yours.”

Subconsciously you scream, feeling yourself panic, never having experienced anal before, but Mazien only laughs, getting excited about feeling your tight body stretched out by the attractive boy. Relax sweetheart, he’s gonna take such good care of us. 

Mattheo watches with a grumpy and unpleasant expression, groaning with disappointment at the current outcome despite your earlier promise. His fallen face makes you giggle at the trickery and deceptiveness played on the poor boy and you whisper to him, “Patience is a virtue, Matty.” The irony of your words having you mentally scoffing, coming from the sinful lips of the demon in control. Your attention redirects back to Enzo, moaning as you spread your legs for him, allowing him to settle with easier comfort between them. 

He grabs his wand and casts an extra lubricating incarnation, rubbing his thumb, circling it over your hole. Lightly pressing inwards, he applies bit by bit more pressure getting you ready for him. Wet, fervent kisses press urgently to your lower back as he continues to tease before sliding a finger in. The motion stalls your breath, short sharp exhales falling as you moan at the sensation. He grins, thrusting his finger slowly in and out, adding another digit mumbling, “good girl..that’s a good girl gettin ready for me yeah?”

He smirks, biting his lip, his eyes not leaving the way your hole expands and breathes him in, and he gives his cock a quick pump. His composure remains calm and excited, though he’s barely holding it together wanting to get a move on already. He slides his fingers out, gathering your slick along your wet clit, spreading it over his cock before rubbing it against your hole. He goes slow grunting, edging his tip in. 

Moaning at the burning stretch, you smile getting giddy as his length glides slowly but surely bottoming you out. You scream, but it’s only inside your head, never having encountered something so fulfilling before. Feels so good doesn’t it? Wait till we get him, filling us up with his load. 

There’s no air left for you to inhale, your stomach tight with suspense, every nerve prickling with a fiery sensation. Your muscles convulse and you grip the sheets with an iron grip, your eyes rolling back. A deep gasp finally leaves your mouth, staying ajar as you focus on the stimulation of Enzo’s cock inching further in. The sight is mesmerizing for Mattheo and Theo, who gaze with blown pupils, their own hands pumping their cocks. 

“F-fuck mate isnt that the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.” 

“Mi farà venire prima ancora di entrare dentro di leiiii.” Theo responds with a shaky groaning breath, his eyes not leaving your orgasmic face, his lip pulled between his teeth. 

Mattheos brows furrow both from pleasure and confusion, “dude I can’t fucking understand you-”

“Would you two shut up, the both of you are ruining my fuck.” Enzo grits out through his ecstasy. The last thing he needs when pounding your ass is their annoying fucking voices in his head. His grasps on your hips tighten with such intensity he’d break glass if holding it, his hips finally pick up pace continuously sliding in and out of your tight hole. “Fucking hell, you like that pretty girl?” 

He spanks your ass when you struggle to find an answer, and a sprawl of moans mumble tumbling out, blocking your efforts to think. Managing out some small words of affirmation, you answer “Holy shit!! Yes! Oh my god enzooooo.” 

It’s almost like your conscious self is slipping through to express the effect they’re having on you. Four gorgeous lustful eyes watch with parted mouths how your tits swing, bouncing with each thrust, their pretty cocks glistening swollen under the dim lights. 

God, you feel that! He’s going sooooo fast. He’s gonna cum soon. 

Enzo grunts, his head hanging slightly mumbling incoherent words, “fuck..oh yeah hmm.” He lands another smack to your backside, propelling you forwards by the force, your head smashing into the mattress. “godd, look at her. My cock looks so good pushin in your tight hole baby ugh.” His hands lather over your blushing ass and spread your cheeks, getting a clearer look. 

You whine erotically, biting your lip as the breath continues to be knocked out of you. Oh my god! Oh my god! The praise chants are around your mind and Mazien just laughs in response. You’re calling out to Theo before you can register what her plans are. “Theo honey c’mere.” He reacts, standing up quickly, entranced by the desperateness laced in your tone. Eager to escape out of timeout, that was definitely, in his opinion, all Mattheo’s doing. 

“Enzo lay back for a sec,” you pant out to him, sitting up as Theo approaches the side of the bed, your eyes gazing up marveling at the Italian hunk in front of you. Enzo moves, rocking back on his ass with deep restraint, having felt moments away from breaking. What are you doing? Why is Theo joining in already? Relax baby, it’s okay.. you can handle it. 

When you direct Theo to lie in front of you with the flick of your hand, Mattheo is quick to his feet too, protesting, “Wait hey what about me goddamit! Enzo, you’ve been in her enough.” Mattheo growls impatiently like a little brat. He maneuvers around to the side of the bed, shooting daggers at Enzo. 

Enzo gives him an incredulous look, “wait your fucking turn.” 

“I’ve been waiting!” He’s complaining as if you’re not even in the room, “dude just let me fuck.”

Theo, whose only focus is on you and receiving his turn, caresses your body with his touch of dominance, guiding you without a word to hover over him. He grips his cock with shaky breaths, lining it with your entrance, “Gonna fuck you so good tesoro.” A promised whisper for only you to hear. 

While he ignores Mattheo’s childish tantrum, he notices your attention averted and commands with a cool tone of authority. “Eyes on me y/n.” His hands cradle your head with a demanding force, the two of your eyes meeting, and he flashes that charming grin. He licks his lips, guiding your hips to lower, allowing your pussy sinking onto his tip. “That’s it..fuck.”

He rocks his hips up, edging in slowly, feeling the pulsing of your warm walls eagerly attempting to drive him in. Theo fills you completely, offering hoarse praises, “Yeah baby…yeah so good taking it all.” 

His thrusts become more erratic, fucking up into your cunt, making you release loud moans, your hands claw gripping exceedingly at his arms. The sweet movement of your hips roll, riding him as much as you can.Your ass aches at the emptiness while Mattheo and Enzo continue their bickering and a deep, wanton whine releases, alerting Enzo of your desperate need. 

Enzo growls at Mattheo’s bickering, redirecting his cock to slide back inside your ass. “Dude shut the fuck up I’m about to cum.” His voice is strained and broken as he continues his pace. “F-fuccck y/n this ass.” 

Mattheo, though irritated, can’t tear his eyes away from how you’re taking both of them, its pure filth. Your mind is a messy blur under the weight of ecstasy, the filling of both their cocks stuffing you. “Yeah yeah, you like taking both our cocks, baby?” Theo mumbles, groping a hand up at your tits, his other arm tightly wrapped around your waist to help guide you along his length. 

“Yesyesyesyes…oh my god.” Incoherent mumbles slip out amongst your breathless groans. 

Enzo doesn’t last much longer, his head falling, dropping onto your back and with a broken moan he cums. The hot jets of semen spurted deep inside your ass sends a static of power along your body, energizing you and making Mazien squeal. Oh fuck yeah! Fuck this is exactly what I need!

Lorenzo pulls back, resting against the headboard, and watches through lidded eyes as your movements on top of Theo grow quicker and faster. Mattheo, not one to wait around, moves laying down on the bed commanding Theo. “Move her on top of me, Nott.” 

In one swift motion, Theo rolls effortlessly, lifting your body up with the ease of a feather, shifting you on top of Mattheo, letting your ass bottom out once more by his throbbing, aching cock. “Salazar fucking shit-“

You moan at his girth, stretching you out before Theo readjusts himself, finding his comfort back inside your pussy. Mattheo shifts, wrapping an arm around your throat as he whispers in your ear, “fuck- ah - thought you could cast me aside sweetheart?” A low throaty chuckle vibrates against your back and you squirm as Theos pace picks up. “I’m gonna bury Enzo’s cum in you so deep it’s going to be dripping out of you for weeks to come” 

The combination of both their cocks stuffing you make your body quiver, shaking with desire, your hands scraping, gripping Theo’s arms. Mattheo’s hips hardly move, but he doesn’t need to, as just the fulfilling feeling of his cock buried inside your snug ass is making your mind a fuzzy blur. He uses his free hand to play with your tits, squeezing, pinching at the nipple, making your head lean back into the crook of his neck. 

Enzo watches lazily, his mind going in and out of consciousness, feeling drained. He rubs his cock tiredly, enjoying your sweet whimpers as he closes his eyes. Body slick with sweat, the air hot with lust, your eyes squeeze shut tightly, the sensations overwhelming you and you know you’re on the verge of breaking. 

You’re the first to cum for the second time, squeezing and drenching Theo’s cock with an almighty force, your body shakes pressing further down onto Mattheos’ cock and he groans a deep guttural sound in your ear that reaches the depth of your soul.

Theo is next but not without making you experience a new sense of pleasure, leaving a lasting impression as he bends your legs driving hard before he releases staining your stomach in his cum. 

Gasps of panting echo around, and while the real you feels wrecked completely mentally, your body feels alive. It’s thrumming, stimming with sexual energy as it absorbs the large ejaculations of cum. It seeps into your body and you giggle excitedly. Oh god, those boys sure know how to fuck. 

Mattheo’s ears pick up on your too relaxed giggle for someone who was just whimpering from overstimulation and he grabs your waist, thrusting up from underneath you, as the last one left inside you. He reached a hand, rubbing at your clit, needing to make you cum just once, for his ego. “Come on baby..give me my fucking treat.” 

The sensation is so overwhelming, having both Theo and Enzo still watching with greedy carnal eyes as Mattheo makes you fall apart again so quickly, squirting with a high-pitched squeal. Back arched, ass pressed down harder on his cock, you whine moaning, “omg omg omg.” Even Mattheo is struggling to keep his composure and cums shortly afterwards. He gently lifts you off him before pumping his cock, squirting his cum over the curves of your ass. 

The room is hot, filled with the smell of sex and sweat, sin tainted everywhere, as your body lies exhausted on the bed. Dirty, sticky heavenly semen sprayed over your body like art on a canvas. The three boys pant, sharing a look amongst each other at what the hell just happened. 

A crossing of your friendship, their eyes tainted with temptation and lust despite their exhaustion. And yet Mattheo speaks up again, noticing your spent expression as he leans down closer to you. “Don’t think this time you get to stay in charge sweetheart” Fuck again!? Might just have to keep this girl. 

tags: @romantasyreader28 i gotchu bb! also tagging some muts who have been hearing me yap about this for a moment appreciate you all and the sweet sweet support! @amongemeraldclouds (thanks wifey for proof reading!!) @papercorgiworld @leona-hawthorne @mattyriddlesbitch @finalgirllx @thatdammchickennugget @slytherinslut0 (thanks for the vote of confidence pookie!) @sylviaonyx. pretty divider from here. Thank you for reading if you got to the end here!! Appreciate your support!

[kweenkatsuki]

Sweet “I’m sorry” sex in the shower with Bakugou.

[kweenkatsuki]

No you don’t understand.

I’m talking sweet “I’m sorry we fought, I’m sorry we stopped talking, I’m sorry we stopped caring, I’m sorry we stopped loving” sex in the shower with Bakugou.

[angeliasheart]

just, idk.

It's been a while since the two of you actually loved each other's company. Katsuki and you were living together for years. From roommates to fwb to lovers. That's the issue. For so long, the two of you were something, but not anything at the same time. So many things happened in between the transition of your relationship that the 2 years together seemed like 7.

I mean, he is a pro hero, has been since straight out of high school. You are finishing college, already with so much work to do, your starting career is already at its peak, and you're being recognized for all the things you've already done. That's another issue: the both of you avoided so long to be in love that when it happened, it felt so wrong.

But then, both of you "accepted" the fate. Love was the correct word, although none of you said it was. There was something, of course there was, but when you repress your own feelings so much, you end up not realizing what it truly is.

But after a while, it was official. The promise ring on your finger made it clear. But did it feel official? No, not at all. Not when he disappeared for 2 or 3 days, not giving any explanations to you when he came back. Not when you forgot to mention him to your new co-workers. Not when he screamed at you that he simply couldn't read your fucking mind, or when you argued that he didn't even heared you out, however, both of you agreed that neither had given any signs. (or did you two simply not noticed?)

Well, it didn't even matter anymore. There was love, sure, I mean, after that he remembered that he could go anywhere he wanted. He was Katsuki Bakugou, after all. He could go anywhere he wanted to, just not home. Not after cursing your name, after forgetting about the speech you were about to give at the college. It was so important to you... Did he even care anymore? Where was the Katsuki that remembered every single little step in your life? The so observant boyfriend he was?

And you no longer payed any mind about when he is injured during battles. When his scars kept growing, thats the hero job after all. Maybe is the apartment that is haunted. Maybe that's why he is always so mad, you keep fooling yourself. Simply living for the hope of it all. Maybe he was never yours. Maybe when you told him that all the cages holding him to be better were mental, was the truly end of it. Of you and him.

Yeah, his words shot your heart to kill first, but he was so regretful about it. Yeah, he didn't ever said he was sorry, but he was. And somewhere, in the middle of this haze it was the relationship, it faded away. Not the relationship itself, but the presence, the caring, the loving.

You both knew what happened. There was no going back now. So the last goodbye and demonstration of the love once was so pure and honest, was there, under the water droplets. The last kiss, last time feeling each other's love.

But maybe, just maybe, there was still a invisible string tying the two of you together. Maybe in a few (weeks or years) the two of you will be ready to love and to be loved. Maybe one day you won't be screaming at his face to stop calling you baby. One day he won't be calling you a mad woman.

One day, the two of you will care again, but for now, that last kiss will suffice.