Welcome to my side blog. (◠.◠✿) Her. 27. This blog is Otome, anime, videogames related.. 💛 You can also fin different stories from different fandoms I’m keen at the moment 💖 My main blog is: Frcf
Summary: You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.
A/N: I'm currently in love with potter!reader x draco scenarios. ♡
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It started about a month ago—a quiet little mystery that became your favorite part of the week.
Every Friday morning, just as the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, a sleek, pale-gray owl swooped down gracefully and landed in front of you. It was never late. And it always brought something thoughtful—something that made your heart race just a little.
The first gift had been a delicate silver charm bracelet, simple but elegant, with a tiny serpent dangling from the chain. The note attached was written in tidy script:
“Something subtle… to keep me close, even when I’m not there.”
The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:
“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”
You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.
Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:
“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”
And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.
It read:
“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”
You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.
“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”
Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.
“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”
You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”
“Michael Corner?”
“Wrong again.”
“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”
“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.
“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”
Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”
That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.
You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.
“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.
Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”
You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”
Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”
You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”
“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.
“You know it’s only ever you, right?”
That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.
“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”
“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.
You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”
⸻
The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.
The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.
“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”
You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.
Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.
Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Holy—” Fred began.
“—bloody hell,” George finished.
“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.
Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”
You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”
“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.
“Nope.”
“Mclaggen?”
“Wrong.”
“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.
“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”
“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”
You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”
Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”
“I am NOT—!"
And then it happened.
A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.
Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.
The table fell dead silent.
“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.
Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.
“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."
Silence.
Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.
Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”
Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.
And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.
There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.
“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”
Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.
“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.
“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.
Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”
You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”
Summary: You had a talent for endless complaining—fortunately, someone always seemed to have the full-time job of fixing whatever you whined about.
slytherin!reader x draco
part 2 (kinda) here
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You were dramatic. Or at least, that’s what everyone always said.
But honestly, was it that unreasonable to complain when your shoes pinched your feet so badly you were pretty sure your toes were permanently damaged?
“I swear,” you huffed one evening in the common room, dramatically flopping into a chair and kicking off your battered shoes, “these are cursed. Walking around Hogwarts is like a medieval torture device.”
Your friends, used to your tirades, just laughed and kept chatting, not paying much attention.
But the next morning, something unexpected happened.
Sitting neatly on your bed was a box—wrapped in elegant silver paper, tied with a green ribbon. Your brows furrowed in confusion. Tucked under the bow was a small note, written in clean, slightly slanted handwriting:
“For your poor, tortured toes.”
No name. No hint of who sent it.
Cautiously, you opened the box—and your eyes widened. Inside was a pair of gorgeous shoes: soft, sturdy, and—when you tried them on—shockingly comfortable. Like walking on clouds.
You stormed down to the common room, holding the box high. “Okay, which one of you is my secret shoe fairy?”
Blank stares. Shrugs. Smirks. Everyone swore they knew nothing.
Strange.
And it didn’t stop there.
A few days later, you were crammed into the library, wedged into a tiny spot between two first-years, scowling at your overflowing notes. You muttered under your breath, “The library is always packed during exam season. I can never get my spot. Honestly, what’s the point?”
You didn’t expect anything to happen.
But the very next day, when you walked into the library, you nearly dropped your books in shock. In the far corner—a place you’d never noticed before—was a little tucked-away alcove. It was empty, despite the crowded room, and set up with plush cushions, soft lighting, and a perfectly organized desk.
Floating just above the table was a tiny enchanted sign that read:
“Reserved for annoying overachievers only. (who is mostly known as Y/N)”
Your eyes darted around, but no one seemed to be watching.
Later that week, after losing your hair tie for the third time in a single afternoon, you huffed loudly, “I keep losing my hair ties. It’s like they disappear into thin air. I’m cursed.”
You didn’t expect anything.
But the next morning, you found a little velvet pouch sitting right on your pillow. Inside were enchanted hair ties—smooth, shiny, and softly shimmering with magic.
The note?
“No excuses for messy hair now.”
At this point, your friends were obsessed with the mystery. “You’ve definitely got a secret admirer,” one of them said, grinning. “Come on, who wouldn’t like you?”
You’d laughed it off, but secretly… your heart was starting to race every time something new appeared.
Then, after a long day of running between classes and study sessions, chilled to the bone and completely exhausted, you slumped onto a bench in the corridor, groaning, “I never have time to get tea between classes. I’m going to shrivel up and die at this rate.”
And later that day, as you pulled out your books in class, you blinked down in surprise. Sitting snug in your bag was a self-heating mug—warm and steaming with your exact favorite tea.
The note?
“Can’t have you dehydrated now, can we?”
It was driving you crazy. Every complaint, every little offhand comment—you were starting to realize someone was listening. Really listening. And fixing things in ways that made your chest ache and your stomach flip.
But no one admitted a thing.
Then one night, sitting by the fire after a long day, you sighed without thinking. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I care about any of this. It’s not like any boy actually likes me.”
Silence.
The kind of silence that makes you look up, because something shifts.
And there he was—Draco Malfoy. Leaning casually against the wall nearby, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. His arms were crossed, and for once, his usual smirk was gone.
“Well,” he said, his voice low and careful, “for once, I can’t exactly fix that with a note.”
Your heart stumbled. “Wait… what?”
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, rubbing the back of his neck—a surprisingly shy gesture. “It’s been me,” he admitted quietly. “The shoes. The library spot. The tea. All of it.”
You stared, stunned. “You?”
He nodded, meeting your eyes head-on now. “You never stop complaining,” he said with a tiny, teasing smile, “and I guess… I just wanted to make things better. Because I—” He hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. “Because I like you. I’ve liked you for… a while.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding, piecing together every note, every gift, every quiet, thoughtful act.
“Draco…” you breathed, stepping a little closer.
He shrugged, eyes flicking down. “So… I was hoping I finally fixed that last complaint.”
You grinned, your heart completely full now. “Hmm… not quite yet.”
His brows lifted. “No?”
You smiled, soft and sure. “I think a kiss might do the trick.”
For a split second, Draco looked stunned. And then he leaned in, catching your lips in a kiss that was gentle at first—almost careful—but quickly deepened, full of all the quiet feelings he’d been hiding for so long.
When you finally pulled back, he was smiling—a real, warm, genuine smile, eyes shining.
“There,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Fixed.”
And for once… you had absolutely nothing left to complain about.
Part 1: Crazy Rich... Wizards?
Part 2: Wands, Wizards, And Wicked Traditions
Part 3: Wealthy, Witty, Witches
Summary: When your boyfriend drags you into a world of old money, ancient grudges, and fancy robes, you quickly learn that fitting in isn’t about magic—it’s about surviving family dinners.
wc: 2.5k+
cw: muggle!reader x draco, light angst, narcissa and luscious degrades reader, draco comforting reader, draco and luscious fight, draco pov.
A/N: I'm so excited for the next few parts of this!! Hope you guys love this! 🫰
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Three days. That’s how long it took to finally say yes.
You’d paced your flat in your socks for most of it, Googled “how to act at wizard weddings” and “what to wear when meeting magical parents of your boyfriend,” only to be met with silence and fanfiction.
None of it prepared you for the moment Draco turned to you with that anxious tilt to his mouth and asked, softly, if you’d come to Blaise Zabini’s wedding as his date. His date, sure. But also… his partner. The one he wanted to introduce to his world.
You’d fallen in love with him over walks in the park, late-night pastries, and the way he looked at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. But this—stepping into the reality of his past, of his name, of everything he'd survived after the war—this was different.
Still, you said yes. And once you did, Draco didn't waste a second. Your suitcase was already packed. His wand—yes, the wand you now grudgingly accepted wasn't just a "fancy stick"—was tucked neatly in his coat. And you were holding tightly to his hand as you took your first step into the unknown.
Apparating felt like being squeezed through the eye of a needle. You landed on cobbled pavement, dizzy and breathless, the cool London air rushing into your lungs.
“Welcome to Leaky Cauldron,” Draco murmured, steadying you with a hand around your waist.
A voice interrupted before you could speak. “You took long enough.”
Blaise Zabini stood leaning against a lamppost like he’d been sculpted there. His skin was dark and gleaming in the late morning sun, his emerald green robes layered over tailored black slacks and a shirt with silver embroidery along the cuffs. He wore confidence like cologne—rich, undeniable, and entirely intentional.
Draco laughed. “Still dramatic, I see.”
“You brought her,” Blaise said, stepping forward with a smooth charm. “I almost didn’t believe it.”
You swallowed, managing a nervous smile. "Better believe it! Sorry if I don’t look very… magical.”
“On the contrary,” he said, offering you his hand. “You look exactly like someone Draco would fall for—someone no one else saw coming.”
You barely had time to answer before a sharp voice chimed in. “Blaise, you’re smothering her.”
Daphne Greengrass walked into view like the breeze had parted for her. She was tall, statuesque, with ash-blonde hair that curled at the ends and eyes so pale they seemed to pierce. Her robes were minimalist but elegant, her makeup subtle, her expression far from it.
“Daphne,” she said simply, offering you a hand. Her grip was cool, her eyes cooler. “Fiancée. I also double as Blaise’s moral compass, which is exhausting work.”
You laughed, even though you weren’t entirely sure it was a joke.
Draco leaned in and murmured, “She grows on you.”
“She better,” Daphne added with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
You followed them down a narrow cobblestone alley hidden behind a brick wall at the back of a pub. The bricks shifted when Draco tapped them in a specific pattern with his wand and then the wall melted away to reveal something out of a fairytale.
Diagon Alley was unlike anything you’d ever seen. Cobbled streets wound between crooked shops stacked two or three stories high, with bright, painted signs that swung themselves gently in the breeze. A group of children giggled as they chased a toy broomstick zipping through the air. A woman in violet robes argued with a talking mirror. An owl soared overhead, its feathers flashing silver in the sun.
Your mouth fell open. “Is this... real?”
Draco watched your face with a soft smile. “Every bit of it.”
“Flourish and Blotts,” Blaise pointed out, “where half of wizarding Britain pretends to read.”
“And Slug & Jiggers,” Daphne said, gesturing to a potion shop whose windows steamed ominously, “where teenage boys tried to brew love potions and gave themselves hives instead.”
They took you through boutiques filled with enchanted mirrors that judged your outfit out loud. You tried on robes that changed color with your mood—Daphne raised a brow when yours briefly turned soft pink. Draco insisted you needed something formal, and Blaise chose a set of black velvet robes with silver embroidery along the hem.
“Goes with her eyes,” he said, not even looking at you as he said it—because he didn’t need to.
You laughed more than you expected to. Even Daphne smiled once. And for the first time since you said yes, you let yourself believe maybe you belonged here.
Until you reached the gates of Malfoy Manor.
The laughter died.
The manor loomed like a fortress behind wrought iron gates. The peacocks on the lawn didn’t strut—they watched. You half-expected one to speak.
Inside, the air was crisp and perfumed faintly with lavender and old parchment. Marble floors stretched into shadowed corridors. You didn’t need to be told to take your shoes off; the place demanded silence.
And then they appeared.
Lucius Malfoy entered like a breath of winter—sharp, pale, controlled. His silver hair was tied neatly, his tailored robes immaculate. Narcissa was a wraith of elegance beside him, gliding like she didn’t need to walk, just will herself across the room.
“Draco,” she said softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
“Mother.” He nodded to his father. “Father.”
Lucius gave a single, assessing nod, and then his gaze found you.
“This is my girlfriend,” Draco said, his voice quiet but steady.
There was a pause.
“What family are you from?” Lucius asked, his voice like cool silk—dangerous only if you tugged too hard.
You swallowed. “Oh, I’m not actually a wizard. Or a witch. Or… whatever you call it.”
The silence wasn’t loud. It was still. Dead still.
Lucius’s expression didn’t falter, but it hardened. A door closing. A verdict passed.
“I see,” he said shortly. Then to Draco, clipped and final: “A word.”
Draco tensed. “I’ll be right back,” he told you softly, then followed his father down a long corridor.
You were left standing in the echoing marble foyer beside Narcissa, who finally turned toward you with a smile you couldn’t quite trust.
“This way,” she said, leading you to a sitting room you suspected hadn’t changed since the 1700s.
You sat delicately on the edge of an antique settee. Narcissa poured tea without asking. She moved with the precision of someone who’d spent her life mastering appearances.
“I imagine this is all rather overwhelming for you,” she said politely.
“It’s… different,” you said honestly.
She passed you the tea after she poured one herself.
“I’m sure Draco explained how important family is to us,” she said. Her voice was smooth, but there was iron beneath it. “Our legacy is… particular.”
“I know I’m not who you expected,” you began carefully.
“No,” she agreed, stirring her tea. “You’re not. You’re kind. You're decent looking. And, a muggle"
“I don’t say this to be cruel,” she continued, setting her spoon down. “But you must understand—we survived a war that very nearly destroyed us. We rebuilt from ash. Our name, our bloodline… they mean something. Not just to us. To our world.”
You sat straighter, unsure if it was defiance or just instinct.
“I love Draco,” you said.
Narcissa’s smile returned—small, cold, pitiful. “Yes. And love is very pretty. But it doesn’t last forever. It doesn’t stand up to the pressure of our kind. Not in the long run.”
You felt something hollow out in your chest.
“I just want what’s best for him,” you said, quieter now.
“So do I,” she said.
But she didn’t mean the same thing.
⸻
DRACO'S POV
The moment I saw the way my father’s eyes narrowed when he looked at her, I felt the old familiar surge of protectiveness boil up inside me—raw, stubborn, unwilling to back down. I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. This wasn’t just some passing irritation. This was an unspoken warning, an invisible line I was crossing.
In the drawing room, Lucius paced slowly, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, his gaze sharp and cold like frost on glass.
“She’s not one of us,” he said quietly, but every word was a blade. “A muggle. Do you understand what that means? For the family? For our legacy?”
I swallowed the urge to snap, to argue, to defend her with every fiber of my being. Instead, I squared my shoulders and looked him in the eye.
“She is exactly who I want. And don’t you dare pretend you know better.”
Lucius’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You don’t understand the weight you carry, Draco. This isn’t about who you want—it’s about what we need.”
“What we need doesn’t mean a thing if I’m miserable,” I shot back, voice low but fierce. “You lost sight of that a long time ago.”
He stopped pacing, fixing me with a look that said he was considering just how far I was willing to go.
“She is not just ‘some girl.’ She’s kind, brave, and the only person who ever looked at me without judgment. You can’t see that because your world is too small. You live in the past.”
I stepped forward, the words finally spilling out, because I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
“Do you know what it was like, growing up with that shadow of expectation? Having my life decided before I even breathed? She’s the first person who ever made me want to break free, not to fit into a mold someone else carved for me. So, if it means choosing her over the family’s so-called ‘legacy,’ then so be it.”
Lucius’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Careful, Draco. These are dangerous words.”
“Maybe it’s time for danger,” I said, voice steady. “Because I’m done living in fear.”
⸻
The dining room is vast and silent, the heavy drapes drawn tight against the fading light outside. You sit at the polished mahogany table, your hands folded neatly in your lap, the cool weight of the silverware beside your plate doing little to ease your nerves. Draco’s presence next to you is the only anchor in this sea of unfamiliarity.
Opposite you, Lucius Malfoy’s pale, calculating eyes study you with an unsettling intensity, as if trying to decipher some hidden flaw. Beside him, Narcissa’s poised elegance barely conceals a sharpness in her gaze that prickles at your skin.
The first silence stretches long enough to make your throat dry before Lucius breaks it.
“So,” he begins smoothly, voice low and measured, “tell us about the home you come from. The people who raised you.”
You clear your throat, choosing your words carefully. “It’s a quiet place. My father is a doctor, while my mother's a teacher. We don’t have... connections to anything magical or unusual.”
Draco’s jaw tightens beside you, and you sense the tension radiating off him.
Lucius’s eyes narrow slightly, lips curling into a faint, disapproving smile. “Doctors and teachers,” he repeats, almost as if tasting the words. “Respectable professions, of course, but hardly the sort of pedigree we were expecting. And your life—how does one like you find their way into the world we live in?”
You blink, uncertain how to answer. Your world is the one you grew up in—the one filled with ordinary things and normal struggles. But here, your answers feel fragile.
“I... met Draco through a friend,” you say simply, counting your Labrador a friend, hoping your answer was enough.
Narcissa leans forward slightly, her voice soft but laced with a quiet edge. “I’m curious,” she says, “how much do you understand about what it means to be part of this world? To bear a name that carries history, responsibility... expectation?”
You swallow hard. You want to say that you’re willing to learn, that you love Draco and want to stand by him. But the words feel small, inadequate against the weight in the room.
Lucius folds his hands neatly on the table. “It’s not a question of love,” he says evenly. “Love is fleeting—like a gust of wind. What matters is legacy. Bloodlines. The company you keep. Do you understand why we’re cautious? Why a history like yours... raises questions?”
You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “I do. But I don’t want to be an obstacle.”
Narcissa’s eyes glint with something unreadable. “An obstacle... or perhaps a weakness?” she murmurs. “We survived a war that threatened to unravel everything our family stands for. That legacy is fragile.”
You bite your lip, feeling the weight of their judgment settle on your shoulders like a cloak of ice.
Draco squeezes your hand beneath the table, a quiet promise. But you can see the hurt behind his usual composure.
Lucius’s gaze sharpens. “And your future? What plans do you have? Surely, you must understand that our world demands more than... ordinary ambitions.”
“Well, I want to continue my studies further, get a master's degree. And most importantly, I just want to be with Draco,” you say softly. “To support him.”
Narcissa inclines her head slowly, a faint smile curving her lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Support is necessary, yes. But it must be the right kind of support. The kind that understands sacrifice, discretion, strength. This world is not kind to those who cannot uphold its demands.”
You feel suddenly small, as if you’re being weighed and found wanting.
The conversation dwindles into strained silences broken only by the delicate clink of cutlery. Draco’s parents exchange glances, their expressions unreadable. You notice how Lucius’s eyes linger on you with a quiet calculation, while Narcissa’s polite smile never wavers, though there’s a coldness beneath it that chills your bones.
You meet Draco’s eyes, finding in them a mixture of reassurance and the "it's going to be okay" look.
When the meal finally ends, and you rise from the table, your legs feel unsteady beneath you. The grand manor feels less like a home and more like a test you weren’t prepared to take.
But still, you hold onto Draco’s hand—the only certainty in a room full of questions.
That night, your room was warm, but your thoughts were not.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the old stone walls, but its warmth did little to thaw the cold settling in your chest. Your robe was still wrapped tightly around you, more out of habit than comfort, your fingers knotted tensely in your lap as you stared into the flames, watching them dance with quiet detachment.
You didn’t hear Draco at first—only noticed him when the door clicked shut behind him and his soft footsteps padded across the rug. He stopped when he saw you there, curled into the armchair like you were trying to disappear into it. For a long moment, he said nothing.
“They don’t like me,” you murmured, voice flat but fragile. The words dropped between you like stones into deep water.
Draco didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked closer, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him near. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were tired—older than they should have been.
“I think your mother was trying to be civil,” you added, your voice cracking just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse. She was being polite. Careful. Like she didn’t want to soil the tablecloth by saying what she really thought of me.”
Draco exhaled sharply and dropped to his knees in front of you, robe rustling as he settled. His hands hovered for a moment before resting gently on your legs, grounding you. His jaw was tight, clenched with restrained fury, but his eyes—his eyes were heartbreakingly earnest.
“They want me to end up with someone like Daphne,” he said bitterly, spitting the name like a curse. “Someone polished. Someone with a family name carved into every wall of this place. Someone quiet and proper and painfully dull. Someone they can parade around like a bloody heirloom.”
You blinked, your throat closing. “And instead, you brought me.”
Draco’s eyes didn’t waver. “I brought the person I want,” he said, firm and unshaken. “The only one who sees me—really sees me. Past the name. Past the wounds.”
You looked down, blinking fast, but the tears welled anyway. “She said love won’t last in your world. That it's a nice idea—until it gets inconvenient.”
Draco reached up, hand cupping your face, thumb brushing just beneath your eye to catch the tear that had managed to escape. “Then we’ll rewrite the rules,” he said quietly, voice steady despite the tremble in his hand.
You leaned into his touch instinctively, your breath hitching. The manor loomed outside the room, cold and judgmental, every corridor echoing with ghosts and expectations—but here, in this tiny flickering pocket of warmth, was him.
“They’ll never accept me,” you whispered, barely audible. “No matter what I do. No matter how hard I try.”
“Then let them be wrong,” Draco said, his voice low, fierce. “Let them choke on their pride and live in their perfect, polished little world. Because I’m not giving you up. Not for them. Not for anyone.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the conviction there. The desperation. The choice he’d already made.
And just like that, the cold manor felt a little less cruel.
Because sometimes, love isn’t about being welcomed.
HAIIIII!!! I'm a huge fan of your writing🎀🎀and I really want to request a story if you ever interested to make. Recently I've been seeing many of Snily edits with 'Undressed' by Sombr. I was thinking maybe you can make a Draco one? Say Draco and reader broke up because of his own mistake (maybe he could...cheat?) but he never really forget about her even he chose to stay single out of regret and now he's a potion teacher at Hogwarts. One day when he teach some first years, he saw a boy who looked like his rival, but with a very familiar pair of eyes....
UNDRESSED | D.M
Summary: And I don't wanna learn another scent. I don't want the children of another man To have the eyes of the girl I won't forget.
wc: 1.2k+
A/N: I am SOOO sorry this took so long. I just finished reading a book that RUINED me, that I didn't have the motivation to do anything. But anyways, here's your request! I hope everyone loves cries over this!
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
The candles of the Great Hall flickered gently beneath the enchanted sky, mimicking the soft violet of twilight. The Sorting Hat’s ancient voice echoed from the front, rambling its yearly verse, as new students fidgeted nervously at the foot of the dais. Most of the professors were focused, watching with polite interest as names were called and houses assigned.
Draco Malfoy wasn’t.
He sat in his usual seat at the staff table, half-slouched, arms crossed, eyes shadowed under pale lashes. He was used to this charade by now. Every year, the same parade of wide-eyed children, the same songs, the same tight smiles from old professors. He never cared much for ceremony. But this year, something felt…different.
His eyes drifted over the first-years.
That’s when he saw him.
A boy—toward the end of the line. His hair was a wild, inky mess, sticking out like it had a mind of its own. There was something smug in the way he carried himself, like he was already used to being watched. But it wasn’t the posture, or the hair, or even the faint echo of familiarity in his expression that struck Draco still.
It was the eyes.
Bright. Wide. Piercing. Eyes that had haunted Draco’s dreams for years.
Your eyes.
He hadn’t heard his last name being called—too lost in the fog of his own sorrow. And he didn’t dare ask anyone, because of the quiet fear that the answer might shatter what little hope he had left.
He leaned forward almost unconsciously, heart skipping, but the boy turned his head too quickly, laughing at something a girl whispered beside him. Just like that, the moment passed. Draco sat frozen, caught between the rush of something he didn’t quite dare name and the cold wall of disbelief.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
He hadn’t thought of that night in years.
At least, not on purpose.
That night, he didn’t sleep. He sat by the fire in his office with a glass of firewhiskey, fingers trembling as he whispered your name to the dark. “I saw him… I think” he said aloud, as if you could hear. “Merlin, he has your eyes.”
The memory came back like a curse—sharp, vivid, cruel. You in that worn jumper of his, sitting cross-legged on the flat in Muggle London, candles flickering low. Dinner cold. Hands folded in your lap. You’d waited hours. He never came.
When he finally stumbled in, half-drunk and disoriented, he didn’t realize the girl tangled in his arms wasn’t you. He hadn’t seen her. He only saw you — or what his mind convinced him was you. Until the door slammed open.
“Draco?” Your voice. It was shaky, uncertain, scared.
He turned too slowly. Your eyes met his. You looked at him, then her. And something inside you just… broke. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just looked at him, as if you were trying to understand how he’d become someone you didn’t recognize.
“No. No, no, no—” Draco stumbled forward, almost tripping over his feet. “love, wait—please, I swear— I thought it was— I didn’t mean to—”
“You thought it was me?” Your voice cracked. “You thought I’d… that I would just…?” You looked at the girl beside him, then back to him, tears swimming in your eyes. “You don’t even see me anymore, do you?”
“I gave you everything,” you whispered, voice trembling now. “I stayed through the war. Through your name. Through your guilt. I loved you when you didn’t even love yourself. And this… this is how it ends?”
He reached for you, eyes wide. “Something went wrong— I don’t even remember—I thought I—"
“You thought,” you whispered bitterly. “But you didn’t know. And now I do.”
“Don’t leave. Please.” His voice broke, quiet and childlike. “Don’t walk away. Don’t—don’t leave me like this.”
Your lip trembled. “You already left me, Draco. You just didn’t notice.”
You walked out that night. He called after you, but the door never opened again. He tried writing. Tried explaining. He even found out days later that the drink had been tampered with—some bitter mixture that clouded memory and dulled control. But none of it mattered. Because he knew what you’d say:
If you truly loved me, it wouldn’t have happened at all.
You never replied to his letters. You disappeared from his life like fog lifting off the lake—quietly, cleanly, leaving him choking in the emptiness.
He remembered the quiet Sundays best—you in his jumper, legs tangled with his under the blanket, your head resting on his chest as the rain tapped gently against the windows of your tiny flat.
You’d read aloud from some Muggle book you loved, voice soft and animated, while he played with your fingers absentmindedly, pretending not to care about the plot just to hear you laugh when he got the characters wrong.
There were no war scars between you then, no names or legacies or shadows of who he used to be. Just your warmth, his breath steadying in time with yours, and a world that—for a while—felt like it might finally be enough.
The next morning, he waited in the potions classroom, pretending not to care.
Then the door opened, and there he was.
The boy.
Same wild hair. Same quiet smirk. And the eyes—God, the eyes. Wide and curious, scanning the room with an intensity that twisted something in Draco’s chest.
He felt winded.
The class began to settle, parchment rustling, cauldrons clanking.
“What’s your name?” Draco asked suddenly, voice too tight.
The boy blinked, surprised. “James,” he said. “James Potter.”
Draco’s lips thinned. Of course. Saint Potter.
But it wasn’t the father’s name that mattered.
“No,” he said quietly, stepping forward. “Your mother’s. What’s her last name?”
The boy frowned. “Y/L/N,” he replied slowly. “Why—?”
Draco closed his eyes.
The world fell silent.
Your name hung in the air like a curse. A name he had once whispered in the dark, begged for in dreams, clutched like salvation.
Of course you had a son. Of course you had moved on.
You moved on with the guy who almost killed him. His sworn enemy. Harry Potter.
He turned back to his desk without another word, sitting down with slow, mechanical grace.
“Turn to page ten,” he muttered, barely audible. “Read in silence.”
His voice shook.
As the children obeyed, murmuring and flipping pages, Draco stared blankly at the stone wall behind them. He didn’t see it.
He saw you. Your hands. Your laughter. Your body curled against his in a bed he hadn’t been able to sleep in after you left. And then he saw you walking away — coat flapping behind you, eyes full of hurt.
A week later, he passed the boy in the corridor. It was just the two of them.
“Professor?” the boy asked, hesitating. “Can I ask you something weird?”
Draco stopped, lips dry. “Of course.”
“You looked… sad. When I asked that question about a muggle book called 'Wuthering Heights' earlier. Did I—did I say something wrong?”
He blinked, taken off guard. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Then, after a pause: “You just remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Someone you cared about?” the boy asked, head tilted.
Draco gave a sad smile. “Very much.”
The boy nodded. “My mum always says people like that never really leave. She says they live in the spaces between things.”
Draco swallowed. “Your mum sounds… wise.”
“She is. Her name’s Y/N.”
His heart stopped.
He forced a smile, tight and shaking. “She’s very lucky to have you.”
As the boy walked away, Draco turned to the wall, bracing his hand against the cold stone. Your son. Yours and Potter’s. And he looked just like you. The final nail in the coffin of a past he never stopped mourning.
In the quiet, he whispered, “I deserved this. But Merlin, I wish I’d told you. I wish you’d known it wasn’t my choice. That I never meant to lose you. Y/N… I never stopped loving you. I think I’ll die with your name in my mouth.”
But the only thing that answered was silence. The kind of silence that follows the closing of a chapter that should have ended differently.
draco malfoy x crazy rich asians inspired au!!! actually just read this from tiktok (@/brandolover21) BUT IT WOULD MAKE SUCH A GOOD FIC 🙏🏻🙏🏻
CRAZY RICH... WIZARDS? | D.M
Part 1: Crazy Rich... Wizards?
Part 2: Wands, Wizards, And Wicked Traditions
Part 3: Wealthy, Witty, Witches
Summary: You find out your long time boyfriend is a... wizard? Was it a prank? a joke? some kind of unamusing humor? No. It was real. And now, he wants to introduce you to his parents.
CW: muggle!reader x draco. This isn't the whole "meeting up with the parents" thing, just draco comforting reader.
WC: 1.3k+
A/N: OMG YES! I LOVEEEEE CRAZY RICH ASIANS!! I kinda want to turn this into a series, that's why this is just the "intro" part. So, look out for that!
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
“You’re—” you blink, your voice trailing off.
“A what?” you repeat, blinking again, this time with your mouth slightly agape, trying to wrap your head around the words you just heard.
“As I’ve said for the third time now, love,” Draco said, his voice gentle but laced with that familiar edge of sarcasm, “I’m a wizard.”
You stared at him like he’d suddenly grown a second head. He was smiling, but there was a nervous edge to it—a smile that said he was bracing for impact.
You searched his face for any sign that this was some elaborate joke. Maybe he’d hit his head? Maybe he’d been watching too many fantasy movies?
Because the man you loved—your sweet, level-headed, frustratingly perfect boyfriend—was now seriously claiming to be a wizard. And he kept saying it like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You blinked again. No. Absolutely not. Magic wasn’t real. Witches weren’t real. And wizards? Wizards belonged in children’s books and video games—not standing in front of you, barefoot in your apartment kitchen with bed hair and baggy clothes.
You shook your head, trying to realign yourself with reality. “I have a degree in Information Technology,” you muttered under your breath. “I don’t believe in... whatever this is.”
And yet, here you were.
You looked at Draco Malfoy—the man who had somehow stumbled into your life and fit into it so seamlessly you sometimes forgot he had a past you barely understood.
You met him on the most average Tuesday, walking your Labrador through the park. Your dog had bolted toward him like he’d known him his whole life, knocking Draco clean off his feet. You rushed to apologize, but Draco—ever the composed stranger in expensive clothes—just laughed and said, “It’s alright, love. Happens more than you’d think.”
That was the beginning. A clumsy, brown-furred collision, followed by coffee dates, late-night talks, and the kind of chemistry you thought only existed in books. He was sharp-tongued, devastatingly charming, and somehow the most mysterious person you’d ever met—and now it made sense. Sort of.
You folded your arms across your chest, narrowing your eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Draco simply nodded, his silver-grey eyes never leaving yours. "Deadly."
And suddenly, the world felt just a little less solid beneath your feet.
Draco was calm, too calm for someone who had just dropped a bomb the size of a small meteor on your relationship. His pale blond hair was pushed back, and his silver-grey eyes watched you carefully, scanning your face for any sign of belief—or worse, fear.
You, however, were too busy trying to make sense of what he’d just said. You blinked once, twice, and then stared at the object he’d just pulled out of his jacket pocket.
"A stick," you deadpanned, pointing at it. "What are you doing with a stick, Draco?"
He tilted his head, that familiar smug expression playing on his lips like this was the most casual conversation in the world. "This," he said, holding it up between his fingers, "is not just a stick. It’s a wand."
"A wand," you echoed in disbelief.
"Yes," he said, as if he were explaining basic addition. "Made of hawthorn wood, ten inches, reasonably springy. Core of unicorn hair, if you're curious."
You narrowed your eyes. "You’re being serious."
"As serious as I was when I said I loved you the first time," he murmured.
You swallowed hard, the warmth of that memory clashing violently with the current ridiculousness of this conversation. "Okay," you said slowly, folding your arms. "Then prove it. Do something. If you’re a wizard, then wave your little stick and show me some magic."
Draco raised one eyebrow. “You asked for it.” Then, with a flick of his wrist and a whispered, “Accio,” your coffee mug lifted off the counter and zoomed straight into his hand.
You gasped and stumbled back, nearly knocking over a barstool. "What the—how did you—"
Draco set the mug gently back on the table and held up both hands, placating. “I told you. I’m a wizard.”
Your breath came in short, disbelieving puffs. You looked around, expecting cameras, prank show hosts, anything to explain away what you just saw. "No way. No. This is—this has to be a trick. A magnet, or wires or—"
“Do magnets make things float mid-air in perfect arcs?” he asked gently, stepping closer.
You stared at the mug, now innocently sitting where it had been seconds ago. "So... you’re telling me magic is real? Like, real real? Like... Wands and flying brooms real?"
Draco hesitated for a moment, then pulled something else from his coat. It was a photograph—an old one, faded slightly at the edges—but it moved.
The people inside were waving. Laughing. One of them was unmistakably him, younger, with sharp cheekbones and a pointed smirk. He was standing next to a tall, darker-skinned man you vaguely recognized from pictures. Blaise Zabini. And the woman beside them, regal and graceful, looked exactly like a refined version of Draco—his mother, perhaps.
"This was taken at Hogwarts. My school. It’s a boarding school for young witches and wizards," he said softly. "And yes, everything you think is fiction—wands, spells, flying, it’s all real."
You gingerly reached out and touched the photo. It rippled under your fingers, the movement so natural it gave you chills.
Your voice was quiet. “So that’s where you went? Instead of Eton or wherever posh boys disappear to?”
He chuckled under his breath. “Something like that.”
A thousand questions flooded your brain, and you weren’t sure which to ask first. "Your parents—do they know about me? That I’m... not magical?"
“They will,” Draco said carefully. “They don’t yet. And they may not react... well.”
You stared at him. “Then why tell me now?”
His expression softened. “Because Blaise is getting married. He asked me to be his best man, which means I’ll be going back into the wizarding world—publicly, for the first time since the war. And I want you with me. I want them to meet you.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You felt as though the ground beneath you had shifted. “You—you want to introduce me to your wizard parents? At a wizard wedding?”
Draco gave a slightly sheepish smile. “It’s a week-long event, really. Blaise’s fiancée is from an old magical family. It’s going to be extravagant. Think... floating flowers, dancing candles, people Apparating in from all over the world.”
“I don’t even know what Apparating means!”
He laughed, stepping closer and cupping your face in his hands. “It means you’ll have me by your side the whole time.”
“But I don’t belong there, Draco. I can’t wave a wand or fly a broom or—”
“You belong with me,” he said firmly. “And I’ve kept you hidden from that part of my life for too long.”
You studied his eyes, those ever-stormy greys that had once made you nervous but now only felt like home. “What if they hate me?” you whispered. “What if they think I’m... beneath you?”
His hands dropped from your face to your shoulders, holding you steady. “Then I’ll remind them who I am. And that I choose who I love. Not them. Not tradition. Me.”
For a long time, you stood in the silence, watching the way his wand glinted in the afternoon light, feeling the truth of his words settle into your chest like a heavy but welcome weight. You weren’t just dating a man with good looks and a mysterious past anymore—you were in love with a wizard. A real one.
And it seemed that magic—real, inexplicable, unscientific magic—was about to turn your world completely upside down.
You finally spoke, voice small but sure. “Then I guess I’d better find something to wear to a magic wedding.”
Draco grinned. “I already had a few options picked out for you. Just wait until you see the dress robes.”
You groaned. “Please tell me they don’t sparkle.”
“Oh, they absolutely do.”
You stared at him, then broke into a laugh—half terrified, half thrilled. "This is insane."
"Welcome to my world," Draco said with a wink, twirling his wand once more and making the chandelier above glow softly with golden light.
And in that moment, the impossible began to feel just a little bit real.
In which you refuse to believe a man like Mattheo riddle could be obsessed with you and are immediately proven wrong by the man himself.
Oblivious!fem!reader x Mattheo Riddle
Words: 854
A/n: lowkey kinda hate this but here ya go guys
“No.” You say definitively, arms crossed over your chest as a frown graces your lips. “Stop trying to bullshit me, enzo.”
Lorenzo makes a sound of indignance, pouting at you like you’ve truly hurt his sentiments.
“Y/n, don’t do this to me. I’m telling you, that man is utterly obsessed with you.” He insists, leaning down to get all up in your face like the annoying bastard he is. You scoff, pointedly shoving at his chest for distance. His grin is unrepentant even as he stumbles back, like he’s daring you to prove him wrong.
“Why am I friends with you?” You sigh.
“Because I’m a right handsome bloke,” he flounders and you roll your eyes.
Lorenzo had been behind you lately with his ‘theory’. It was an absurd creation of his mind, and he insisted that Mattheo riddle liked you. Well in his words, Mattheo riddle was obsessed with you.
Yeah right.
“Okay, so let’s assume I believe your shit for even a minute.” You say, eyes narrowed. “I’ll still need definitive proof, enz.”
“Proof!” He agrees, and you mentally chide yourself. He looks like he has proof, with the way he’s grinning. Merlin help you.
Lorenzo clears his throat theatrically, arms wide open as he starts to say, “he sits beside you in every lecture, which is weird since you’re a nerd and you talk everyone’s ears off—“
He’s properly cut off by you smacking the back of his head.
“Ow!” He yelps, rubbing his head with an injured expression. “You’re a cruel woman.” But he bounces back with his theory.
“So yeah, he listens to you talk. He never listens to anyone, like, anyone. I’ve only ever seen him glare, but his lips twitch when he looks at you!” He rambles, arms flapping like a bird’s.
“Enzo..” you grumble, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“He’s totally obsessed with you, I swear—“
“Who’s obsessed with who?”
Enzo freezes. You glance up and fight to keep your mouth closed. Mattheo stands behind enzo, arms crossed, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Who’s obsessed with who, Lorenzo?” He asks again, sharper and lorenzo visibly gulps.
“I..um well. You see, Mattheo, there are many people in the school obsessed with other people, makes you wonder if it’s a love potion? Or teenage harmones? Or—?”
Lorenzo is the worst liar in history and you’re growing red with second hand embarrassment. Mattheo looks unimpressed at his blabbering, glancing at you briefly like ‘how do you deal with this?’
Lorenzo flounders, and ends up just spitting it out.
“You’re obsessed with Y/n!” He says, loud enough to make several heads turn in the hallway. You have half a mind to hex your loud mouth friend, but Mattheo’s nonchalance throws you off kilter.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding like it checks out. “And?”
What. The. Fuck. ?
You blink, letting your mouth hang open as you straighten up, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. Enzo gives you a look, smug asshole, and withers just a bit under Mattheo’s glare.
“Nothing..” he mumbles. “Nothing at all, Mattheo.”
“What do you mean nothing?” You scoff, stepping forward. “Don’t play into his delusions! I thought you were above pranks, Mattheo.”
Mattheo looks at you like you’re the one being unreasonable and it boils your blood.
“Y/n,” he says, voice quieter, lacking its usual edge as his eyes soften. “I thought it was obvious?”
Lorenzo takes a step back, letting you and Mattheo be face to face and hides a snicker behind his mouth. You both ignore him.
“I’ve been so bloody obvious? I sit with you in class everyday, I bloody smile at you! I don’t smile at someone unless their making a fool of themselves. And dammit, love, how have you not figured it out?” He says, running an agitated hand through his hair.
“She’s hopelessly oblivious.” Enzo chimes in helpfully.
“No,” you glare at him. “I’m just..” but yeah, enzo might be right on this one. You’re an idiot. Your neck grows hot at the thought and you groan, burying your face in your hands.
“You’re not pulling my leg?” You ask meekly, glancing at him from behind the gaps of your fingers. “You like me?”
“A bit too much, if I’m honest.” Mattheo chuckles, reaching forward to pry your hands from your face. “But in case you need me to spell it out..”
He pulls you closer, his hands firm around your wrists as he tugs you to his chest.
“Hogsmeade?” He whispers, dark eyes boring down at you. “Tomorrow, four o clock?”
“Yeah,” you exhale, your fingers catching his robe sleeves to steady yourself. Lorenzo hollers from behind you. You both ignore him. Again.
“It’s a date.” He grins, and dear Merlin he’s right. He never really does smile at anyone except you. Not like that. Not really.
It’s safe to say, Lorenzo is a royal pain in your ass after Mattheo walks off. But for once, you don’t swat him away for his comments. Because for all your obliviousness..it’s a good thing Mattheo’s bold, and obvious as hell for the woman he wants.
જ⁀➴ After a long day on the field, Rin finds his way back to the place that feels most like home ♡
˚₊‧꒰ა The apartment was quiet with a faint sound of the television playing in the background. Curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your legs, you absentmindedly scrolled through your phone while waiting for RIN to get home from his match.
The front door clicked open. You barely had time to look up from the couch.
"Welcome ho—"
The rest of your sentence dissolved into a startled laugh as his weight sank into the sofa with you.
One arm slipped around your waist while his head found its way to your chest, settling there. His cheek pressed against you, hair brushing your chin as he practically melted into your side.
It was less of a hug and more of a complete surrender. For a second, you suddenly wondered if something had happened during the match.
"Tough match?"
Then he let out a muffled groan.
"...Just tired."
"Oh."
His grip tightened slightly around your waist as he shifted closer, pressing his face further into your chest. The movement seemed entirely unconscious, like his body had simply decided that after spending the entire day running, fighting, and finding new reasons to be annoyed at Isagi, his body had automatically sought out the place where it could finally rest.
You smiled softly and threaded your fingers through his hair, earning a quiet hum in response.
Almost immediately, the tension in his shoulders eased beneath your touch, and little by little, the sharp edges he carried so naturally began to disappear. And before long, Rin had his eyes closed, content to let himself rest in the warmth of your embrace.
"...How was your day?"
You blinked.
The question caught you off guard; even clearly half asleep and exhausted, he was still asking about your day.
"…It was okay," you said softly. "I went grocery shopping. But the cashier accidentally charged me twice! Unbelievable. Do you know what I was going to do with that money? I was gonna buy that game I told you about."
"...Mm."
"And the neighbor's dog escaped again."
"...Idiot dog."
You laughed. Then you continued rambling about random little things that didn't really matter and everything in between. At some point, his hums faded away entirely, and when you glanced down, you realized his eyes had been closed for several minutes.
"...Rin?"
There was no response. Looking down, you found him fast asleep, and the sight drew a soft smile from you, and without thinking, you leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his hair.
"Good night, Rin."
Outside, the city continued moving, its lights glowing beyond the apartment windows. Inside, however, everything felt quiet. Rin slept through it all, secure in the feeling of home he always found in your arms.
warnings: baby fever (obviously), suggestive ending, tom riddle being nonchalant, and fluff fluff fluff!
summary: puff comes across cute baby videos. when does that ever go well?
word count: 876
a/n: hi guys!! sorry this is so short, i wanted to get a little something out but this is all i have because i’ve been so busy with dumb life😒 that being said, i hope you guys enjoy and that i can get some longer stuff out soon! 🤍
the slytherin common room was silent, the calm kind of silence that made your eyes begin to droop and your mouth open in a yawn. the group was sprawled upon the couches in various positions and tasks, and the slytherins you didn’t know well were accustomed to your regular appearance at mattheo’s side by now.
that might’ve been why it was even more shocking when you suddenly blurted out from your lazy scrolling, “i want a baby.”
it was almost comical the way everybody’s heads snapped to look at you in a mixture of disbelief and horror. well, everybody’s but mattheo’s, who’s hand had gone deathly still from where it was rubbing languid circles along your bare calf. even tom had turned to look at you slowly with a barely decipherable eyebrow raise, his face carefully blank. “explain.”
you let out an indignant huff, tightening your grip on your phone where a cute baby video was playing on repeat. “not right now, obviously. i’m not stupid.” the room let out a collective breath of relief, and you rolled your eyes, just barely noticing the way tom immediately went back to his book, unbothered. you sat up straighter and turned up the volume on the device before practically shoving it in blaise’s face, who leaned back, startled and squinting and the muggle technology.
you watched as he observed the video, the way the furrow between his brows smoothed ever so slightly and his lips quirked up in an almost unnoticeable movement as the little girl’s laughter rang from the screen. the video ended, and you pulled the phone back, waiting anxiously for his reaction. he looked at you, at your wide and eager eyes with a certain glint to them, and sighed. “it’s… cute.” he admitted begrudgingly.
you squealed excitedly, pointedly ignoring the wince he let out at the sudden high-pitched noise, practically bouncing in your seat. “i know right. did you see that onsie?” you gushed, distractedly handing the phone to theo, draco, and enzo who were hovering impatiently above you.
you turned your attention to them after blaise’s nod, monitoring the way they practically melted as the toddler waddled onto the screen in her yellow duck romper, following after her father in the park on unsteady new feet covered in tiny shoes. a moment later, the clip changed to her nestled in a swingset seat, curly pigtails blowing lightly as she giggled with flushed cheeks and a gap-toothed smile, her mother pushing behind her.
theo mumbled something in italian, lilt surprisingly soft, and it seemed draco for once didn’t have a sarcastic comment to share. “she kinda looks like you, puff.” enzo pointed out, voice light. draco frowned.
“um, no. she doesn’t.”
“um, yes. she does. with the yellow and the hair.”
theo’s eyebrows shot up, unbelieving. “just because they both like yellow and have hair doesn’t mean they look alike, moron.”enzo scoffed. “i know that-” he was cut off by mattheo’s impatient hand, which grabbed the phone with more force than necessary.
at any other time, a petty argument would break out over the simple movement, but now? everybody was focused on mattheo’s face as the video played, watching in silent wait for his response. he gave nothing away even as the video ended, just slowly handed the phone back to you, tension radiating off his body.
you felt your pulse thumping loudly throughout your body, heart banging against your ribcage as your nerves grew. the boys looked between each other and then back at mattheo, then briefly at tom who’s gaze had focused on his brother, and then back at each other, playing a game of anticipation with their eyes.
theo let out a pitchy whistle, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “soooo-” mattheo stood abruptly, his fingers latching snuggly around your wrist as he quickly led you up towards his dorm, ignoring the knowing jeers ringing out from behind him. you stumbled slightly as you clumsily followed him, surprised, and he slowed his pace to match yours, still not meeting your worried gaze.
“matty?” you questioned, sounding more anxious than you’d meant. his jaw tightened as he closed the door behind you and began to pace, hand coming up to mess with his curls, eyes trained on his feet while his lips moved— no sound came out, as if he was having an argument with himself only he could hear. you took a step closer from where you stood by the door, hesitant, and began to speak.
“i didn’t mean to scare you, matt. i didn’t mean like… now, of course. far into the future— and only if you want them too, you know! i’d never want you to think i was-” it was jumbled rambles spoken through rosy cheeks, hands gesturing as you spoke, and mattheo let out a tortured groan as he seemingly lost whatever battle was raging in his mind, closing the space between you with two wide steps and backing you against the door, not commenting on your startled gasp.
“you’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, puff.” the words were deep and strangled, and that was all the warning you got, because suddenly his lips were on yours and you definitely weren’t thinking about cute babies.
✦ Who would endlessly stare at you in class, his hand rubbing your lower thigh. He would multitask, of course, writing neat notes about the class's contents, just in case you got too distracted. And, if he couldn't sit next to you, he'd pass you little notes that never failed to make you smile.
✦ Who would talk about you to his friends almost to the point of exhaustion. He was obsessed, truly. He couldn't shut up about you, and Mattheo had never heard Theo open his mouth so much.
✦ Who would always save a seat for you right next to him in the Great Hall, and, if you were going to be late, he would grab extras of your favorite foods so you wouldn't go without.
✦ Who was quiet in spoken word, but loud with his actions. He was always bringing you gifts, sometimes they were big and ostentatious, other times they were small things he saw in passing in Hogsmeade—no matter what, each one was meaningful.
✦ Who would take you on weekly dates, always making sure he was your outlet for your stress and worries. He left nothing unsaid, making sure you knew he was going to be there and that he loved you more than words could say.
✦ Who would watch you get ready for class, for parties, for date nights with rapt fascination, not just to admire your beauty but to make sure he knew what products you were running low on so he could replace them before they ran out.
✦ Who never really knew how to handle all of the public words of affection you would give him, so he would take them with shy smiles and pink cheeks he would try to hide.
✦ Who would surprise you at your house over the summer after realizing letters wouldn't suffice for two long months. He would show up at your door, a rare, wide smile on his face as he took in your shocked expression. He'd pull you into a tight hug, kissing you silly.
✦ Who would take you back to his villa in Italy, showing you off to his neighbors, who always asked about the girl he talked about so frequently.
synopsis: them doing a post-match interview after winning a big match and they do this interview with their 9-month old baby boy because i have severe baby fever.
isagi had fully intended to give your son back before the interview started, but the second your little boy buried his face into his dad's neck, wrapped those tiny arms around his jersey, and let out the saddest, most offended little whine imaginable when you reached for him, he immediately folded.
"… yeah, sorry," he laughed sheepishly, already bouncing him on one hip. "he's... not negotiating today."
the reporter found the whole thing adorable before the interview even began because here stood japan's match-winning striker, sweat still dripping down his face, medal hanging crookedly around his neck, while absentmindedly rubbing tiny circles into the baby's back like he'd done it a thousand times.
every answer somehow included multitasking. "yeah, we adjusted the press during the seco– buddy, don't eat dad's medal... okay... during the second half we– hey, that's not food?”
your son spent the first 2 minutes completely fascinated by the microphone. every time the reporter lifted it toward isagi, two tiny hands immediately reached for it with the determination of a man trying to win the world cup himself.
eventually... success. the baby yanked the microphone straight out of the reporter's hand.
"bababababaaaa!!! dada!!! bthhhhhhhhh!!"
he then aggressively blew spit directly into the microphone.
the speakers echoed every single wet raspberry throughout the stadium.
complete silence… followed by 40,000 people laughing.
isagi completely froze before immediately losing it himself, head dropping onto your son's little shoulder because he was laughing too hard to breathe.
"bro..." he wheezed. "he really wanted to say something..."
the reporter – absolute professional for approximately 3 seconds – burst out laughing too before dramatically holding the microphone back toward your son.
"would you like to comment on your father's performance today?"
"DADADADADAAAAAA."
"yes, that’s a powerful statement."
the internet immediately declared that your son had just delivered "the greatest post-match analysis of all time."
clips of isagi trying to conduct a serious interview while wrestling a baby for possession of the microphone collected 20 million views overnight.
the comments absolutely killed him:
"he inherited isagi's field vision because he saw that mic from ten centimeters away."
"first assist of his career."
"his media training starts early."
"bro already has more interview aura than half the league."
isagi reposted one edit with the caption: "he's banned from media day until further notice 😭💙"
itoshi rin
rin genuinely believed this interview would go smoothly because your son had been suspiciously well-behaved ever since the final whistle blew, happily resting against his shoulder while lazily playing with the collar of his jersey, and after you made 3 separate attempts to take him back only for your baby to cling even tighter with a tiny pout and watery eyes, rin simply looked at you, gave the smallest shrug, and muttered, "he doesn't want to," as if that settled the matter, which admittedly, it did.
by the time he walked over to the interview area, every camera had already shifted from celebrating japan's victory to zooming in on the sight of one of the most intimidating strikers in the world absentmindedly rubbing little circles across his son's back while adjusting the baby's tiny socks with one hand, completely unfazed by the dozens of reporters surrounding him despite looking like he'd been carrying him like this for hours.
the interview actually started surprisingly normally because rin answered every question in his usual short, matter-of-fact way while your son remained perfectly content against his chest, occasionally patting the gold medal hanging around his neck or trying to pull on the collar of his jersey, making it seem like everyone had worried over nothing.
"he's behaving today," the reporter commented with a smile.
"usually does," rin replied without a second thought.
the moment those words left his mouth, your son locked eyes with the microphone.
every parent watching immediately knew exactly what was about to happen.
the reporter raised the microphone closer so rin could answer the next question, only for two tiny hands to suddenly shoot forward with shocking speed, grabbing it with both hands before anyone had time to react.
"ba."
the entire interview area fell silent.
your son blinked once. then– "bababababababAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
it wasn't crying. it wasn't babbling. it was an impressively loud, victorious yell delivered directly into the microphone, which echoed throughout the entire stadium loud enough for nearby players to physically turn around and see what had just happened.
the reporter jumped so hard she nearly dropped her cue cards while photographers immediately lowered their cameras because they were laughing too much to keep them steady.
rin simply stared at his son for a few quiet seconds before sighing almost imperceptibly. "... loud."
that single word made everyone laugh even harder.
your son, incredibly proud of himself, immediately tried to scream into the microphone a second time, but rin calmly removed it from his tiny hands with the practiced patience of someone who had apparently dealt with this exact situation more than once before.
"... finished?"
"... da."
"... good."
then he continued answering the reporter's question as though absolutely nothing unusual had happened, while your son happily resumed playing with the medal around his father's neck instead.
the internet completely forgot about the match because every trending topic became some variation of "RIN ITOSHI'S BABY SON JUST JUMP-SCARED THE ENTIRE STADIUM," while countless edits slowed down the exact moment your son leaned forward to yell into the microphone with meme audios playing over it.
what truly broke the internet, however, wasn't the screaming – it was the brief moment immediately afterward when your son reached up with both hands, accidentally squished rin's cheeks together, and caused the tiniest, weakest, most reluctant smile to appear before rin realized cameras were still rolling and immediately returned to his usual cold expression.
within minutes, fans had declared your son the only person on earth capable of making rin itoshi smile on command, with thousands joking that japan’s soccer team should stop recruiting strikers and simply hire the baby instead.
itoshi sae
sae somehow managed to make carrying a 9-month-old baby through a post-match interview look effortlessly elegant, standing there with his medal around his neck and his jacket draped neatly over one shoulder while your son sat comfortably on his hip, absentmindedly chewing on the zipper of his jacket with complete satisfaction as though this were simply another ordinary afternoon rather than an international broadcast watched by millions.
before the interview even began, you reached over with open arms, quietly asking if your son wanted to come back to mama, only for him to immediately shake his tiny head, bury his face into sae's shoulder, and cling tighter with a little whine that made the nearby reporters collectively let out an audible "aww."
sae simply glanced at you. "guess he's staying."
he didn't sound annoyed. if anything… he sounded quietly pleased.
throughout the interview, sae answered every question with his usual calm, composed demeanor while simultaneously multitasking in ways nobody expected, casually fixing your son's tiny jersey’s collar after it slipped off, catching his pacifier before it hit the floor without even looking, adjusting the little sneaker that kept slipping off his foot, and gently bouncing him every few seconds whenever he grew restless, all without interrupting a single answer.
the reporter eventually smiled before crouching slightly so she was closer to your son's eye level. "do you think he'd like to say something, too?"
sae looked down at him. "you have something to say?"
your son immediately reached toward the microphone with absolute confidence. the reporter happily held it closer.
"gagagagagaga..." a fat pause. "dadadada..." another pause. "mmmmmmmm."
everyone waited. then without warning… he leaned forward and licked the microphone. completely. absolutely no hesitation whatsoever. not a single thought in his tiny brain.
the reporter froze for a second before laughing so hard she had to lower her clipboard because she physically couldn't continue the interview.
sae calmly took the microphone back, reached for the towel around his own neck, wiped it clean with practiced efficiency, handed it back to her, and simply said, "sorry."
"it's okay."
“he does that."
somehow, the fact that sae said those three words with complete seriousness – as though babies licking expensive broadcasting equipment was a perfectly ordinary occurrence – became funnier than the actual licking itself.
the interview continued, except your son had now decided the microphone was the greatest invention in human history, leaning toward it every single time it came within arm's reach while sae quietly shifted him away at the last possible second before another attempted lick could happen.
fans later counted… it happened 6 separate times.
the internet edited the clip like it was an action movie, like dramatic slow motion, suspenseful music choices, and captions reading "TARGET LOCKED" every time the microphone entered the frame before cutting to sae calmly redirecting your son at the final moment.
thousands of comments joked that the true battle of the evening hadn't been the football match at all – it had been sae spending 5 uninterrupted minutes defending a microphone from his own baby.
nagi seishiro
nagi had completely forgotten there was supposed to be a post-match interview because, after the final whistle, he'd spent almost 20 minutes wandering around the pitch with your son comfortably resting against his shoulder, absentmindedly pointing at the stadium lights and occasionally trying to steal the gold medal hanging around nagi's neck, making the media staff chase him down just to remind him that he still had obligations to fulfill.
when they finally caught him, he simply blinked. "oh." he looked down at your son. looked back at the staff. "guess he's coming, too."
nobody argued.
by the time he reached the interview area, your son had fully decided that his father's medal belonged to him and repeatedly reached for it with determined little grabby hands, causing nagi to lazily lift it out of reach every few seconds while continuing to walk without putting in even the slightest extra effort.
"hey. mine."
tiny hands reached higher.
"... no."
another reach.
"it’s daddy’s.”
louder baby noises followed immediately.
after a full minute of this extremely one-sided argument, nagi finally sighed. "fine..."
he let your son hold the medal. instant peace.
the interview began with the reporter congratulating him on today's win, only for your son to enthusiastically babble right over the top of her introduction as though he had been personally waiting for his turn to speak all evening.
"congratulations on today's vic–"
"BAAAAAAA!"
the reporter burst into laughter. "and congratulations to you, too."
your son nodded. everyone around him completely lost it.
halfway through another question, your son noticed the microphone for the first time.
nagi noticed him noticing it. "don't."
tiny hands reached.
"don't, buddy."
they stretched farther.
"too troublesome…”
your son ignored every warning. and somehow, despite nagi technically being one of the fastest athletes in the world… the baby still won. he proudly grabbed the microphone with both hands before immediately announcing to the entire stadium, "dadadadadadadadadabthhhhhhhhhhh."
the loudest raspberry imaginable echoed through the speakers.
nagi stared at him for several long seconds before quietly looking back at the reporter. "wow. that was a long answer."
the reporter folded over laughing so hard she couldn't even ask another question because she kept trying to compose herself only to remember the raspberry echoing around the stadium all over again.
the internet immediately clipped nagi's completely deadpan response, turning "that was a long answer" into the newest reaction meme overnight, while thousands of fans jokingly translated the baby's speech into detailed tactical analyses, transfer rumors, and complaints about bedtime schedules.
reo even commented underneath one viral clip, "he definitely inherited nagi's interview skills," only for nagi to casually reply, "he talks way more than i do," which somehow made the entire interaction even funnier because everyone agreed he wasn't exaggerating.
mikage reo
reo had shown up to the interview looking as polished as ever despite having just played 90 exhausting minutes, somehow still managing to keep his hair neat while carrying your son comfortably on one arm, who was wearing the tiniest little pair of noise-canceling headphones because reo had insisted before kickoff that the celebrations afterward might be too loud for sensitive little ears.
fans immediately zoomed in. "of course, reo bought luxury baby headphones." "those probably cost more than my rent."
before the interview even began, you walked over with open arms to take your son back for a little while, only for him to dramatically bury his face into reo's shoulder with the most pitiful little whimper imaginable, clutching onto the front of his jersey with both fists as though someone had just informed him he was being separated forever.
even nagi held his arms out with a lazy, "come here."
your son looked at him. then immediately turned back around and hugged reo even tighter.
reo looked far too pleased with himself. "guess i'm his favorite today."
you rolled your eyes. "don't let it get to your head."
throughout the interview, reo somehow answered every question while gently bouncing your son whenever he became fussy, absentmindedly fixing his tiny headphones whenever they slipped sideways, wiping a little bit of drool from his chin with a towel without missing a beat, making every parent watching collectively smile because it was obvious none of these little habits were rehearsed – they were simply second nature by now.
halfway through the interview, your son spotted the microphone. he stared at it with complete focus. reached once. missed. reached again. success. with both tiny hands wrapped proudly around the microphone, he lifted it toward his own face like a seasoned professional before confidently announcing, "dadadadada..."
everyone waited.
"... GOOOOOOO."
the entire interview area exploded into laughter.
nobody actually knew whether he'd been trying to say "goal" or if it was simply another happy baby noise, but the timing couldn't have been more perfect considering reo had just scored the match winner.
reo gasped loud. "did you guys hear that?!”
he looked between the reporter and the nearby cameras with mock seriousness.
"i think that's his first official post-match interview."
the reporter immediately joined in. "would you say today's victory belongs to your father?"
your son stared at her. "babababa."
the reporter nodded thoughtfully. "mhm. interesting analysis."
reo sighed. "he disagrees."
your son then lightly bonked the microphone against reo's chest before happily giggling to himself.
"okay, okay," reo laughed. "i'm getting absolutely cooked by my own son on live."
by the end of the night, the internet had collectively decided your son held a higher position in the club hierarchy than anyone else, with edits introducing him as assistant coach, sporting director, club president, and even reo's toughest post-match critic, while countless fans joked that his "GOOOOO" celebration deserved its own commentary replay.
the sweetest moment happened after the interview had officially ended, when your son suddenly leaned forward all on his own, gave reo the tiniest little kiss on his sweaty cheek, rested his head against his shoulder with a sleepy sigh, and closed his eyes as if the excitement had finally caught up to him.
reo visibly melted.
he completely forgot there were still cameras following him as he gently rubbed your son's back and whispered, "yeah? all done? let's go find mama," before carrying him across the pitch with the softest smile on his face, making everyone watching quietly agree that, as incredible as his winning goal had been, nothing compared to the way he looked carrying his little boy afterward.
bachira meguru
bachira had absolutely no intention of bringing your son into the interview at first, but the second you reached out to take him back, your little boy immediately wrapped himself around bachira's neck like the world's tiniest koala and let out the most dramatic, heartbroken whine imaginable, making bachira laugh so hard he nearly dropped the medal hanging around his own neck before grinning at you apologetically.
"sorry, honey," he said, gently patting your son's back. "he picked his favorite parent for the next 5 minutes... don't worry, it'll be you again after i accidentally tell him he can't eat grass."
the interview was pure chaos before anyone even asked the first question because bachira kept making funny faces every time your son looked even remotely close to getting fussy, causing the baby to burst into loud giggles that echoed through the microphones while reporters repeatedly had to pause because they couldn't stop smiling at the sight of one of the world's best forwards entertaining a baby between every answer.
your son found the microphone absolutely fascinating from the moment the interview started, repeatedly reaching toward it every time the reporter lifted it closer, only for bachira to gently redirect those little hands somewhere else while whispering, "nope... that's not your toy... well, technically it could be your toy, but i think she'd be sad."
eventually, the reporter laughed and simply held the microphone toward your son instead. "maybe he has something he'd like to say?"
your son's entire face lit up. he grabbed the microphone with both hands. "bababababa... DADA!!"
everyone smiled.
then he leaned closer. "BTHHHHHHHHHH."
the loudest raspberry imaginable exploded through the stadium speakers.
bachira physically doubled over laughing, nearly losing his balance because he couldn't stop wheezing into your son's shoulder.
"HE PRACTICED THAT!" he laughed. "i swear he does that every time i call his grandma!"
the reporter was laughing too hard to continue. "do... do you think he has any thoughts on today's match?"
your son immediately smacked the microphone with one tiny palm. "DA!"
bachira nodded dramatically. "exactly! i couldn't have said it better myself."
the internet instantly declared the baby the funniest post-match interview guest in football history, while edits comparing bachira's nonstop energy to your son's chaotic little personality flooded everyone's timelines, with thousands of comments joking that bachira hadn't raised a son – he'd simply cloned himself in miniature.
shidou ryusei
nobody – not the reporters, not the camera crew, not even you – expected shidou to show up carrying a baby with the same confidence he'd just celebrated scoring 2 goals, casually strolling into the interview area with your son perched comfortably on one hip while excitedly pointing at every bright stadium light he could see, looking completely content in the safest place he knew.
"you sure you don't want me to take him?" you asked one last time.
your son answered by grabbing a fistful of shidou's jersey.
shidou grinned. "sorry, babe. he has excellent taste."
the interview started surprisingly well because your son was completely distracted by shidou's medal, repeatedly lifting it up to inspect it before trying to chew on it while shidou absentmindedly let him, only occasionally stopping him with an amused, "hey little dude, dad kinda needs that."
everything changed the second the microphone entered the baby's line of sight.
he froze. stared. reached. somehow succeeded on the very first try.
"BAAAA!"
shidou immediately pointed at him. "THAT'S MY BOY!"
the baby squealed louder. "DADADADADADAAAAAA!"
the stadium speakers practically shook.
shidou threw his head back laughing. "YEAHHHH! LET HIM COOK!"
the reporter was crying laughing by this point. "would you say he inherited your confidence?"
"confidence?" shidou laughed. "nah." he proudly bounced your son a little higher. "he inherited greatness."
your son immediately celebrated by grabbing the microphone again and aggressively blowing another raspberry into it.
the internet completely lost whatever composure remained.
"THEY SHARE THE SAME ENERGY."
"THIS ISN'T A FATHER AND SON."
"THIS IS A DUO."
fans joked that shidou was encouraging his son's press conference debut like he'd just scored the winning goal himself, while countless edits paired every loud baby scream with one of shidou's goal celebrations because, somehow, the energy genuinely matched perfectly.
karasu tabito
karasu walked into the interview already smiling because he'd spent the last 15 minutes listening to your son happily babble complete nonsense into his shoulder while absentmindedly playing with the little hairs at the back of his neck, and after watching your baby stubbornly refuse to leave his dad's arms despite multiple attempts from you, the coaching staff, and even a very bribable bachira holding out a plush mascot, karasu simply chuckled. "well," he said. "he's made his decision."
unlike most players, karasu somehow managed to keep the interview flowing naturally while carrying a baby, casually answering questions with one hand tucked into his pocket while gently bouncing your son with the other, occasionally pausing just long enough to fix his little jersey after it rode up or quietly wipe away a bit of drool before continuing exactly where he'd left off.
the reporter eventually laughed. "he's been eyeing the microphone this entire time."
"yeah," karasu sighed. "i've noticed."
your son finally made his move. tiny hands grabbed the microphone. "... dadadadada..."
everyone leaned in.
"... GOO..."
pause.
"BABABABABABA!!" followed immediately by a delighted squeal.
karasu pinched the bridge of his nose while trying (and failing) not to laugh.
"... great. he's discovered public speakin’."
"do you think he has your personality?" the reporter teased.
karasu looked down at your son, who was now trying to eat the fuzzy windscreen covering the microphone. "not really… he's louder."
your son looked up at him and giggled.
karasu's entire expression softened. "yeah, yeah. yer funny."
the internet adored how naturally fatherhood seemed to fit him, with countless fans pointing out that every time your son reached for something he wasn't supposed to have, karasu never scolded him or looked stressed – he simply redirected him with the patience of someone who had already mastered the art of negotiating with a tiny human who couldn't even speak yet.
kaiser michael
kaiser had every intention of doing the interview alone because he genuinely believed it would be easier that way, but the moment you tried taking your son back, the baby immediately buried his face into his father's shoulder and clung to him with surprising strength, refusing to let go despite your gentle coaxing, causing kaiser to glance down for a brief second before quietly saying, "he's comfortable," with such calm certainty that even you couldn't help smiling before waving them both toward the interview area.
somehow, kaiser looked impossibly composed standing beneath dozens of flashing cameras with your son balanced securely against his chest, occasionally adjusting the baby's tiny jacket whenever it slipped off one shoulder or gently brushing sweaty little blond strands of hair away from his forehead between answering questions, all while speaking with the same composed confidence he always carried after a victory.
every so often, your son reached up just to touch his father's face, gently patting his cheek or absentmindedly playing with the damp strands of his blond hair falling into his eyes, and every single time, kaiser instinctively leaned down just enough to make it easier for those tiny hands to reach him without interrupting whatever answer he was giving.
halfway through the interview, the inevitable happened – your son spotted the microphone. his eyes widened. tiny fingers stretched toward it.
the reporter smiled knowingly. "would you like to let him answer one?"
kaiser gave the smallest nod.
the microphone was placed in front of your son. "...babababa..."
everyone waited.
"DADA!"
kaiser's lips twitched.
then your son enthusiastically leaned forward and planted the wettest little kiss imaginable directly onto the microphone before giggling to himself.
the reporter completely broke character. the camera crew laughed. even several photographers lowered their cameras because they were laughing too hard to keep shooting.
kaiser simply accepted the microphone back, wiped it clean with the towel around his neck, and quietly apologized before looking down at your son.
"was that your interview?"
"... da."
"... i see."
by the next morning, the internet had fallen hopelessly in love with the contrast between kaiser's composed, almost regal demeanor and the tiny baby enthusiastically covering expensive broadcasting equipment in drool every chance he got, with thousands joking that the only person capable of making michael kaiser patiently sanitize microphones on live television was his own son.
ness alexis
ness had spent the entire walk to the interview softly talking to your son about absolutely everything that had just happened during the match, pointing toward the cheering supporters, waving his tiny hand toward the cameras, and proudly showing him the medal around his neck as though your 9-month-old genuinely understood every tactical decision that had led to today's victory.
by the time you reached them, your son had become so content listening to his father's voice that the second you reached over to carry him instead, he immediately leaned right back into ness's chest with the sweetest little sigh, making ness smile so brightly it almost rivaled the stadium lights.
"sorry," he laughed sheepishly. "i think... i might be trapped."
throughout the interview, ness somehow answered every question while instinctively rocking your son in slow, gentle motions, occasionally kissing the top of his little head whenever he grew sleepy before quietly adjusting the tiny blanket draped around his shoulders because the evening air had started getting colder.
reporters quickly noticed that your son hadn't taken his eyes off the microphone once. "i think someone has something important to contribute."
ness laughed. “i think you're right."
the microphone was lowered. your son reached forward with both hands.
"... dadadadada..."
pause.
"... MAMAMAMAMA..."
everyone collectively went quiet.
ness blinked and looked toward you standing just off camera. "... did–"
before he could finish speaking–
"BTHHHHHHHHH."
another enormous raspberry echoed through the speakers.
the entire interview dissolved into laughter.
ness laughed so hard he actually had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes before gently taking the microphone back from your son.
"that..." he smiled down at him. "that was a wonderful speech, little guy.”
the reporter grinned. "care to translate?"
ness nodded with complete seriousness. "he said..." he pretended to think very hard. "that i'm the greatest midfielder in the world.”
your son immediately smacked him on the cheek with one tiny hand. everyone burst into laughter again.
"or," ness corrected himself through a grin, "maybe he disagrees."
the internet absolutely adored the entire exchange, especially the way ness looked at your son with so much open affection that it almost made people forget they were watching an elite footballer and not simply an impossibly proud first-time dad, with thousands of comments insisting the baby had fact-checked his father live on international television for the whole world to see.
Summary: After Mattheo's anger gets the better of him, you're left heartbroken and crying. But when he realises the damage his words have done, he's determined to earn your forgiveness-even if it means swallowing his pride and apologising on his knees.
Warnings: Mentions of broken bone. Fluffy ending
A/N: Part 2 for everyone who's been asking! (I love pathetic Mattheo) Here is Part 1. Pictures from Pinterest.
Masterlist
————————————————————————
You stumbled out of the Quidditch locker room with tears in your eyes.
Everyone in Gryffindor was celebrating the win.
Everyone except you.
Mattheo had never spoken to you like that before. In the months you'd been dating him, he'd never been angry enough to shout, swear, and tell you to leave.
Ugly firsts.
Pansy caught up to you.
"Hey-woah. What happened? What did the bastard say to you?"
You shook your head.
"He... he doesn't want to see me right now."
"Well, did you tell him about the Butterbeer accident?"
You nodded.
"I did."
Your voice cracked.
"He didn't believe me."
Pansy's expression softened immediately.
"Hey... you know how he gets. When he's angry, he doesn't think straight. Theo and Mattheo have had thousands of fights, and they're still best friends."
She gently squeezed your arm.
"It's going to be okay, alright?"
You nodded, wiping your eyes.
"Yeah... I'm just gonna give him some space."
Pansy smiled reassuringly.
"Good call. Don't worry. That boy has it bad for you. He'll come to his senses soon enough."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
After returning Ron's jacket, you made your way back toward the castle.
As you stepped inside, you spotted Theodore awkwardly hopping on one leg, trying to reach the crutches that had fallen just out of his grasp.
"Theo?"
You hurried over, picking them up before handing them back.
"What are you doing?"
He grinned.
"Grazie, bella."
He took the crutches before studying your face.
"...Hey."
His smile faded.
"Have you been crying?"
You quickly looked away.
"I mean..." he continued, trying to lighten the mood, "you should be celebrating. Gryffindor won. If anything, I should be the one crying."
A weak laugh escaped you.
"Wanna tell me what happened?"
He led you toward the dorm he shared with Mattheo.
Thankfully, Mattheo wasn't back yet.
Once you'd both sat down, Theo looked at you expectantly.
"So?"
You fiddled with the sleeve of your jumper.
"Well..."
"You know how he was already in a bad mood this morning because you got injured."
Theo nodded.
"Yeah. He'd been pacing around the room all morning. I thought he was going to wear a hole through the floor."
You smiled faintly.
"I was wearing his jersey..."
"...but right before the match, Ron accidentally bumped into me and spilled Butterbeer all over it."
Theo frowned.
"...Right."
"And because wands weren't allowed after everything that happened last year, I couldn't clean it."
"I didn't have time to change, and I was sticky and freezing..."
"...so Ron lent me his jacket."
Theo blinked.
"...The jacket."
You nodded sheepishly.
"...The one with WEASLEY written across the back?"
You nodded again.
Theo winced.
"Yeah..."
"I'm guessing Mattheo wasn't exactly thrilled."
"No."
You looked down at your hands.
"He wasn't."
You swallowed.
"He kept looking up into the stands during the match..."
"...and every time he saw the jacket..."
You sighed.
"After they lost, I went to see him."
"And all that anger just..."
You snapped your fingers softly.
"...came out."
Your voice barely rose above a whisper.
"He told me he didn't want to see me anymore."
Theo's face immediately softened.
"Oh, bella..."
Without another word, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a gentle side hug.
"He's a bloody idiot."
You let out a watery laugh.
"I'll talk some sense into him, alright?"
You nodded.
"Thanks, Theo."
He smiled warmly.
"Anytime."
Just then, the dorm room door swung open.
Mattheo stepped inside.
His hair was still damp from the shower he'd taken after the match. His Quidditch bag slipped from one shoulder, looking as exhausted as he felt.
He froze the second he saw you.
You instinctively tensed.
Your shoulders stiffened.
You braced yourself.
"...Sweetheart?"
His voice was quiet.
Gentle.
Nothing like before.
For the first time since the match, he truly looked at you.
He noticed your red eyes.
The way your shoulders had curled inward.
The way you'd instinctively prepared yourself for him to be angry again.
His stomach dropped.
You weren't flinching because he'd raised his voice.
You were flinching because you'd expected him to.
The realization hit him harder than any Bludger ever could.
His Quidditch bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.
He didn't care if he looked pathetic or that Theo was watching. All he cared about was you.
He crossed the room in seconds before dropping to his knees in front of you.
He gently took your hands in his.
"Matty... what are you-?"
"I'm sorry."
His voice broke.
"So... so sorry."
He lifted your hand, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.
"I was angry."
He swallowed hard.
"But that's not an excuse."
"I had absolutely no right to take it out on you."
His grip trembled.
"I should've listened."
"I should've believed you."
"I should've trusted you."
"And I should never have shouted at you."
He finally looked up.
His eyes were filled with nothing but regret.
"Please..."
His voice barely came out.
"Please forgive me."
He rested his cheek against your palm, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability you'd never seen before.
Silence settled between you.
Finally...
You cupped his face.
"Of course I forgive you."
His shoulders sagged with relief before you gently continued,
"That's what partners do."
"I'm here for your bad days, Matty..."
"...but I'm not your punching bag."
His eyes immediately filled with guilt again.
"I know."
He nodded quickly.
"I know."
"And I swear on Salazar..."
"I will never, ever, ever let my anger out on you again."
"If I ever do..."
He took a shaky breath.
"You have my full permission to smack me as hard as you possibly can."
Click.
Both of you turned toward the sound.
Theo was balancing on one leg, a camera held triumphantly in his hands.
A smug grin spread across his face.
"Oh..."
He admired the photo.
"This..."
He looked between the two of you.
"...this is absolute peak blackmail material."
Mattheo groaned dramatically.
"Delete that picture, Nott."
Theo grinned wider.
"Or what?"
"I'll break your other leg."
Theo gasped theatrically.
"You'd assault an injured man?"
"I'd assault a very annoying man."
Theo clutched the camera protectively.
"Worth it."
You couldn't help it.
You laughed.
A real laugh this time.
Mattheo looked up at you, the tension finally melting from his face.
"There she is," he murmured softly.
"The smile I nearly lost."
You intertwined your fingers with his.
"Don't lose it again."
He smiled sadly before pressing a kiss against the back of your hand.
"I won't."
Ever again.
————————————————————————
Tag list - @pbjts @bunnieeegohop @mooniez @ithinkaboutyouuu @yourstargirlyyy
Rin doesn’t turn around, leant against the wall, but the corner of his mouth twitches—just slightly—as he hears your stuttered response.
“I-I have a boyfriend!”
Only then do the footsteps that follow indicate the boy’s (that had approached you) departure.
Rin’s hand snakes around your wrist, now that the annoyance is finally gone.
Physically at least.
That boy is still lingering in his head.
Rin doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to.
He’s always like this, even if he’s hauling you away a little faster.
The door clicks shut behind you both with a quiet finality. His room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of his desk lamp and the city lights bleeding through half-drawn curtains.
He tosses his gym bag onto the floor with an indifferent thud before finally glancing back at you over his shoulder.
His eyes catch the light just so, obscuring most of whatever expression flickers in those sharp teal eyes—but not enough to hide how they drag down your body like he’s memorizing every inch again for good measure.
“You’re still thinking about it,” he states flatly, “About that guy.”
A pause.
“You shouldn't be.”
“What? No I’m not.” You protest softly, following him over to his bed with gentle footsteps.
With a dry snort, he sinks down to sit at the edge of the bed.
You can practically feel him rolling his eyes despite his expression remaining as flat and unflinchingly indifferent as ever.
He lifts one shoulder in a dismissive half-shrug, face still indifferently cool.
He raises an eyebrow in clear disbelief as you follow him over to his bed, his expression almost bored.
He leans back against the headboard, legs spread out in front of him.
The fabric of his sweatpants stretches taut over his thighs.
He tugs absently at a loose thread on the seam, dark sea gaze flicking up to you again.
A beat passes before he reaches out suddenly, fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweats to yank you forward gently, until your knees bump against his thighs.
His thumb brushes over where some random guy’s words still cling like sweat onto skin earlier today.
“You don’t need anyone else.”
A quiet command more than an observation.
“So stop..thinking.”
He raises an eyebrow—a silent, doubtful challenge.
He's still frustratingly calm, still playing the part of unbothered.
Like you're the only one feeling this charged and uncertain.
His gaze slides back to you—he watches those nervous fingers of yours silently for a long moment before he speaks.
"You can touch me," he mutters finally, not bothering to hide the dry edge to his tone.
“But..you wouldn’t like it. Not like this,” You mutter quietly, “You sound bored. Dry.”
He hesitates; for just a moment, his tracing fingers falter. You noticed.
Something shifts in his gaze, too.
Those dark blue eyes narrow ever so slightly, the slightest hint of annoyance flashing in their depths.
Bored?
He hates when you think that.
Hates that you think you've figured him out.
He hates this—explaining himself, peeling back layers he usually keeps carefully hidden.
But the way you look at him—soft and patient like he’s some puzzle to solve instead of an open book waiting for you to read—it makes his chest ache in ways that piss him off.
“I’m not bored. I’m jealous, okay?”
He lets out a low scoff, his shoulders tensing involuntarily.
"I just…don’t know how to react when others approach you.” His jaw tightens, just a fraction, but then his eyes are softening as he meets your gaze, all vulnerable and open.
Hiii! I was wondering if you could write something about brother's bsf!Theo x onlyfans!Reader
omg…. can you imagine if brother’s bsf!theo found reader’s onlyfans page… he’d be fucking insufferable, constantly threatening to tell your family just to get his way.
“i’m hungry. make us an egg sandwich.” theo orders nonchalantly, stretching his arms and yawning as he strolls into the kitchen with your brother. your parents are rushing around in the kitchen, grabbing a quick breakfast before heading off to work. in other words, the kitchen is packed.
“fuck off, nott.” you sneer, focused on slicing a banana for your smoothie.
“you sure about that?” he leans in slightly, voice low. “i’d think twice before acting all bratty to your… only fan.”
your heart beats in your throat at his insinuation. your eyes dart around the room, but thankfully no one catches it. without another word, you drop the banana on the cutting board and grab two eggs.
you curse under your breath while making the sandwich, nearly burning yourself on the stove. ever since he discovered your onlyfans on the laptop you left open in the living room, he hasn’t stopped taunting you. what he conveniently leaves out, though, is that he’s your top subscriber, stroking his cock to your content every single night.
"you're still the one I run to, the one that I belong to; you're still the one I want for life."
word count: 65,605.
summary: a love story told through the past and the present, unsent letters, and years of aching devotion. at its heart, this series is about friendship, longing, healing, and finally coming home to the person who has always been yours.
author’s note: hey hi hello i'm back again with yet another theo series. this one was a lot of fun to write since it's different to what you've read from me so far. i'm happy to say the entire series is complete so I will be posting a new chapter every friday ♡
♫ you're still the one - teddy swims. nav. more theo.
somewhere only we know - rhianne
exile - taylor swift (feat. bon iver)
save your tears - the weeknd (feat. ariana grande)
someone you loved - lewis capaldi
the night we met - lord huron (feat. phoebe bridgers)
start over - 5 seconds of summer
work song - hozier
i miss you, i'm sorry - gracie abrams
begged - olivia rodrigo
glimpse of us - joji
daylight - taylor swift
golden hour - kacey musgraves
a thousand years - christina perri
you're still the one - teddy swims
“Did you hear? Mattheo has a date tonight in Hogsmeade. 8pm. Some Ravenclaw witch.”
You slip through the dimly lit Slytherin corridors like you belong there – because, well; you do. The castle knows you, the shadows know you, the portraits whisper when you pass and well… Mattheo Riddle sure as hell knows you, even if over the last few weeks he’s been trying to convince himself otherwise.
“Oh, Matty has a new crush…”, you whisper to yourself, lips curving as you saunter around in nothing but his old quidditch jersey that skims across your bare skin. The one you used to wear to bed when the two of you were an item.
The jersey still smells like him – sweat, smoke and that sharp, expensive cologne that he gets whenever he visits London on weekends. You’ve washed it a hundred times and yet still – intoxicating. He left it back at your dorm earlier in the semester when you were still ‘pretending’ to be done with one another. You never gave it back. Obviously. Now? It’s the only thing that covers you as you push open the door to his dorm without knocking.
Witch, please!
He’s standing in front of a mirror near his wardrobe, adjusting the collar of a crips black shirt that he looks far too dangerous in, preparing for his so called ‘little date’. For a second, the only sound in the room is the soft click of the dorm door shutting behind you as you kick it with your foot.
“The fuck are you doing here?”
His voice is curt yet delicious. It’s like salted caramel poured over vanilla ice cream – your guilty pleasure and merlin; there’s that familiar hunger you’re so used to hearing flickering behind the surprise of you standing there.
You don’t answer him with words. That would be too simple. Instead, you walk straight across the dorm like you own the space; hips swaying just enough so that the hem of the jersey brushes teasingly against your thighs and ass which causes his gaze to drop in the mirrors reflection immediately. He breaths heavily; just once as you approach, hoping to play it cool.
“I have plans tonight.”
“I know”, you purr, stepping around to stand in front of him, and then in so that your chest brushes against his own. “With some sweet little clueless Ravenbore who probably thinks she can ‘fix you’.”
You reach up; sliding a hand down his chest before giving Mattheo a firm push.
He stumbled back; walking instinctively without realising it towards the bed. “Babe, I really like this girl-.”
You follow no. The back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. With one harsh shove at his chest, he falls flat onto his back with a surprised exhale, eyes widening like a deers in panic as you climb over him and straddle his lap on one smooth and trained motion.
Leaning forward, your lips ghost over his jaw ever so softly, “…and yet here you are, referring me as ‘babe’, Matty.”
His hands automatically find your waist even though he doesn’t want them to; gripping hard through the thin jersey as he groans like you thought he would. “Old habit.”
Without waiting, you roll your hips against his own slowly. Deliberately. Giving Mattheo a teasing lap dance that you hum the music to with a smirk on your face. He clearly doesn’t need it. Fuck, but.. he wants it. The friction makes his breath hitch as you wet cunt slides across his jeans and you feel him harden beneath you immediately.
“Or obsession”, you correct, shifting your lips to graze his own, nipping at the lower one. He moans, Merlin – the sound is fucking beautiful. You grind against him again; this time, letting the jersey ride up just enough to tease. “Be honest, Riddle. Were you planning on going out, sitting across from a date, fake laughing at her innocent little clueless jokes and pretending you don’t still think about this every night?”
Mattheo’s fingers dig further into your hips, eventually guiding your movements as he tries to hold desperately onto some shred of control. “You’re fucking insane.”
Bracing your hands on his chest, you feel his heartbeat thunder beneath your palms and moan. His eyes roll back at the sound; head tilting back against the bed as low groan escapes again and you continue with your slow, torturing rhythm.
“Cancel the date, Riddle”, you suggest with a sugar sweet giggle that tickles against the hollow of his throat, “Or don’t. Either way, we both know how tonight is going to end.”
His eyes snap open; pupils blow wide with lust and that familiar obsessive glint you fell for moons ago and know oh so well. His hands slide up the jersey beneath your hem, taking their time to appreciate your warm skin.
“You manipulative little witch…”
The growl which drowns out the words has no real anger in it. No. Only surrender wrapped in dark chocolate like affection. Bitter, but you always crave more. Smiling down at him, you roll your hips against his again, sealing your victory with every teasing moment as you reach down to peel the jersey up and over your head, tossing it somewhere far away from the bed.
“Fuck…”, you utter euphorically as the cool air of the dungeon dorms hits you with a crash. “…want you to make me scream tonight, Matty. Loud enough the portraits hear.”
He smirks.
Mhmmm – you think smugly to yourself, looking at him beneath you with an awe you should be ashamed of. He’s a psycho. You’re a red flag. His toxic. You’re tainted. Either way, as his control begins to visible dissolve beneath you; you do know one thing…
..that little crush he had – it isn’t lasting. Not one bit. Not at all.
Summary: The night before your wedding, your fiance sends you a letter before bed.
Four Birthdays
Four birthdays you spend with Draco
McDon's
Summary: Pregnancy cravings has its hold in you. Draco, being the best husband in the world, comes to the rescue even if he doesn't understand what you want.
Longing
Summary: Pansy catches Draco staring. Hermione catches you staring.
Bookshelves
Summary: Draco loves to spoil you. Too much if anyone were to ask you.
no children. not yet. we're still young, we're not ready.
but every so often,
he went through phases.
it always started the same way.
someone would pass you their baby. a baby shower, a christening, a family gathering where there was always one making its rounds. you would lull it in your arms, holding it like the most precious thing in the world, giggling as the baby babbled.
to you, it was nothing more than affection. but across the room, your husband—who had always spoiled you—would be watching with that look in his eyes which were so dilated, you could see your reflection. and you'd know all rational thoughts have left him.
he thought, I could give you one if it'd make you happy.
your stomach would go woolly. his baby fever was starting again.
it started with little things.
like when he would come up behind you while you made coffee, wrapping his arms around your waist and rubbing your belly warmly.
you would glance back at him suspiciously. he'd only bite his lip, smiling shyly, before hiding that familiar expression of longing on his face in the crook of your neck.
or when he'd be lying with his head in your lap during a film and suddenly, unprovoked, he'd tilt his head back to look up at you with glossy eyes and the slightest pout.
"I wonder what your milk would taste like."
then, as though he'd said nothing at all, he'd turn back to the screen and fall quiet again.
later, when you were stretched out on the couch instead, he'd lazily climb on top of you and tug at your neckline so that your breast would swell out. absentmindedly, suckling on your nipple. his cheek hot at the dip between them as his honeyed tongue rubbed side to side until you were raw.
all the while, his attention stayed fixed on the film, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
then, it would manifest through sex. the slowest, softest sex imaginable.
he would roll his hips like he might grind on a pillow. so tenderly and carefully stuffing his cock inside you, inch by inch, like you were still a virgin, which was so unlike the bruising, receptor-numbing sex you were used to.
whenever you urged him to fuck you harder, deeper, rougher, his hands would tighten around your waist, grounding you.
“that's not how our baby should be made." he'd murmur, almost chiding.
when he was close, he'd bury his face against your neck, his voice barely more than a breath. "m' coming inside," as though it would do anything.
and when he finally came and the creamy head of his cock pulsed inside the deepest part of you, he'd let out a long, contented sigh before pressing gently against your lower stomach with his hand.
his come thick and more excessive than usual.
"do you feel it?" do you feel me?
then he'd nuzzle his cheek to your belly and drift to sleep there, arms wrapped possessively around your waist, as if he believed that if he stayed close enough, if he loved you hard enough, he could coax a heartbeat into existence by sheer devotion alone.
a few days later, when it became obvious nothing had come of it even after he had came so much it spilled out of you, his bitterness was impossible to hide.
his eyes would catch on the blister pack of birth control pills sitting on the nightstand, and something ugly would flicker across his face. for one cruel, selfish second, he'd imagine sweeping them into the trash.
keeping you tangled in bed until you forgot to take them. pretending he hadn't noticed.
but he wouldn't, of course not. instead, he'd sulk and taunt you.
he'd take other people's babies the moment their parents offered and gaze down at the tiny bundle from beneath his lashes, his expression melting unbearably soft.
"I really, really want one."
with the same bratty insistence as someone begging for a puppy—completely enchanted by the tiny fingers, the sleepy noises, the idea of having a mini version of you following him around.
rushed ahead to the sweetness of it all, blissfully skipping over midnight feedings, diapers, tantrums, and every impossible responsibility that actually came with a child.
"look," he'd huff. "I'm holding his head right, aren't I?"
I could do this. I'd be good at this, please.
you'd sigh, watching his biology get the better of him. the primal urge to reproduce leaving him unrecognisable. he can't help himself.
