Lila

20 oxford law | ballerina fairy cinnamon apple

[soph5547]

The cure for a horrible manager? Your boyfriend's black Amex. (Grayson Hawthorne x Fem!reader!) SFW.

Notes: Enjoy this little piece I came up while day-dreaming about Grayson (what else is new tbh) I'll never be over him!!! He is the true LOML. PHOTO FOUND ON PINTEREST! (linked)

WC: 1596

Grayson Hawthorne x reader.

Working for charities? Horrible. Don’t recommend. 

Okay, that's a bit harsh. It’s not… horrible but it’s not all rainbows and roses either. You and Avery know that better than anyone. Now, while you have wonderful friends who work at said charities, there’s one woman who just vows to make your life miserable.

Avery, who’s held her head high no matter what, is beyond agitated now, so it’s up to you to just get home and decompress.

The entire car ride home, you and Avery talked up a STORM to Phil, the driver. He’s been around for a while, and with two teenage daughters, he’s no stranger to a good old shit talk. “It’s been since we came here.” You say, sighing. “She’s got it out for us.” 

“She’s got it out for us because we’re with the boys,” Avery crosses her arms. “Evil, horrible, women.”

Ah yes, the boys.

Jameson and Grayson Hawthorne.

Relationships pop up in unexpected places and this was no expectation. Grayson weasled his way into your life, and you were powerless to stop it. 

The shit talking took a turn, and when Phil pulls up in front of the house, the mood is foul. 

“Hey baby,” Jameson greets Avery. “Hi.” She answers back, in a flat tone. You follow quietly behind her as she walks to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Grayson reaches out, his hand wrapping around your wrist. “Talk to me, what's wrong?” You sigh as he lets go of your wrist. “Bad day.” 

“Susan?” Jameson wonders. 

“OF FUCKING COURSE IT WAS SUSAN.” Avery yells from the kitchen. “IT’S ALWAYS FUCKING SUSAN. I HATE HER.” 

She storms in, two bags of chips and tosses one to you. You catch it. “She’s out to get us, I swear.” You say to the brothers, who nod. Avery stands with chips in hand, and she spills it all. 

How we were sitting at a conference table-alone might you add- and we were laughing quietly. Susan storms in, and screams at us for being loud, and disrupting everything and how we shouldn’t even BE there.

Your cheeks are red with embarrassment and annoyance, just like they were when it happened. 

Grayson’s eyes go dark, and Jameson’s jaw ticks as you and Avery recount the story. “We can get her fired.” Grayson offers. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

Avery and you speak at the same time. You sigh “it’s… this is her source of income, we can’t just… fire her.” you explain, cursing yourself for being empathic towards that vile woman. “I just wish we didn’t have to talk to her in order to do our job.” Grayson hums and pulls you closer, hand on your hip. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t talk to you unless absolutely necessary.” He then stands up, Jameson following. They both leave. 

“Oh. um, okay?” Avery says as she watches them leave. She’s calmed down now, more so exhausted with the situation then angry. We just stood there, a bit confused. 

The boys come back, and Grayson’s already talking. “We would come with you,” he says, “but someone messed up the numbers, and we’re swamped.” He files through his wallet. “Take this, and go buy yourself whatever you want.” He passes you his black card. 

He leans in, kisses his cheek. “After the day you’ve had, you deserve it.” You smile, ducking your head. “Are you sure?” he nods, hand cupping your cheek. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jameson do the same for Avery, and he kisses her cheek. 

You and Avery go upstairs, abandoning the chips and drinks in favour of getting dressed to hit the designer stores.

Coming back down, you find a quick second to sneak back into the dining room, kissing Grayson's forehead. “Thank you.” you whisper against him and he snakes a hand to yours, squeezing as if to say ‘you’re welcome’. Even if his eyes don’t leave the paper. 

Avery meets you at the front door, and you pile back into the black SUV, Phil amused at the sudden turn around. “The usual?” he asks and you both nod. “please and thank you.” Avery hums. 

The two of you sit in the car, shaking off the day and getting excited for the shopping spree. Nothing good old retail therapy can’t cure. 

The mall is a district of high end shops, from high end names. Chanel, Prada, Burberry, YSL, Gucci, etc. 

You name it, it's here. 

“Well,” You hook your arm through Avery's as you stand at the entrance. “Which catches your eye first?” She looks over the few shops directly in front of you two. “Hmmmm” the sound is low in her throat, thinking hard over the decisions of someone with an unlimited credit card. “I think Chanel.” she nods towards the doors. “I’ve been meaning to buy a double of the pullover-this time in cream.” 

The two of you walk in, and instantly everyone in the room turns to you. “Miss. Grambs!” A woman smiles “Miss. L/n, how lovely to see you both.” 

You smile, and someone else takes the coat off your shoulders, something you’ll never get used to. Shopping with Grayson, it's easy to hide behind his name - to just be the girlfriend. But here? You and Avery are the closest thing the workers are getting to the Hawthornes. 

So you’ll drink champagne and look at clothes you couldn’t have dreamed of 3 years ago. You admire shoes, heels that are worth your parents house back home, and your heart didn't skip a beat when you swipe the black amex (at least, not in the way it used to when you and Grayson first started dating.) 

There is no lingering spenders guilt, or buyers remorse as you and Avery enter and exit each store. Bags and bags on your arms. 

Men in suits come and load the batches in the car and Phil, bless him, watches with amused eyes. 

“What do you think about this?” You hold up a birkin. Avery scrunches her nose “that color?” She eyes it “I thought you wanted neutrals?” 

You sigh “I do. I just thought a pop of color would be fun.” You turn to the worker “what do you think?” She hums “whatever you think is best, is what I think.” 

Right. These workers don’t have opinions on anything you end up getting. They’re all very… agreeable. Which is fine! Just… annoying when you want a second opinion.

“Maybe I’ll wait for gray.” You put the purse back on the counter, the baby pink with gold hardware was stunning. But it's a big purchase. 

“Maybe.” Avery says from where she sat. “he’ll probably want to be around when you get your first Birkin.” You look over at her “Right because it's a big deal for a man.” Avery laughs, standing. “Okay, men don’t really care. But this is for you-so Grayson's going to want to be here.” 

You smile softly “yeah,” it's breathy, soft. “He would.” 

The shopping spree ends with a bill higher than you can count, and dinner at a small wood open pizza place. You and Avery are tucked in the corner, spitting pizza and salad. The conversation is light, meetings coming up, date ideas, her trip to Greece, your trip to the Monaco grand prix in a few weeks. 

You get home and its dark. Grayson and Jaime are no longer in the dining room, and so you go to his wing. There, under the shut door, lights are on in the office. You knock. 

“Come in.” 

Pushing it open, you smile. “Hi, are you busy?” He looks up and instantly, Grayson Hawthorne looks his actual age. “Nah,” his smile turns boyish. “Come here.” 

You sit in his lap, getting comfortable. Pulling out your wallet, you give his card back. “Here you go.” Grayson takes it, and sets it on the desk. “Thank you, did you have fun?” 

You nod “lots. I have a dozen bags or so.” He laughs and nods “good, I expected nothing less.” his lips brush your hairline “did you eat?” 

“Mhmm, pizza.” 

“Mm good choice.” Gray smiles at you, soft. “I’m sorry,” he says “that I couldn’t come with you. You deserve to rant to be about your day, not to have me throw my card at you.” You run a gentle hand over the back of his head. “Don’t be sorry, you were busy.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs “but you’re my girlfriend. Work could have waited.” 

“Work waits for no one.” you shrug “it's okay, really. Honestly all you missed was my debate over a Birkin.” He raises an eyebrow “I thought you wanted the tan one?” You laugh, and shrug “I saw a pink one.” 

Now he laughs “Oh well, I should have known. You’ll always choose the pink one.” Smiling, you shake your head. “I wanted your opinion on it. On if I should get the tan or the pink one.” 

“Honey,” Grayson's eyes meet yours. “Get both.” 

“Both?” 

“Bnoth.” he nods “I can afford it, hell-you could get one in every color and I wouldn’t bat an eye.” You tease him by saying “Don’t test me with a good time.” He grins and kisses your cheek “we’ll go back tomorrow, you can spend the entire day in the store. I’ll shut it down for you.” 

Butterflies erupt throughout your body. OH grayson hawthorne, you think, how did I get so lucky.

The look on his face is soft, peaceful, as he whispers “thank you for understanding.” Laying your head on his shoulder, you whisper back “You’re welcome, my love.” 

[naakamuraz]

grayson hawthorne ramble !!! nsfw

ok well grayson hawthorne would love cowgirl and nobody can convince me otherwise!!!! like ofc he'd love a classic missionary. and the occasional doggy. but it's just something about cowgirl!! knowing that you're (mostly) in control and are using him exactly the way you need just turns him on sooo much >.< and the way he's able to stare at you while ur eyes roll back or suck on your neck/tits is a big bonus!!! whenever you get tired he takes control, bouncing you to his hearts content until you can't take it anymore!!

[angelmurmur]

— DAYS IN THE SUN

pairing: grayson hawthorne x sunshine!fem!reader

tags/warnings: established relationship

pt. 2 ౨ৎ . . . nights in the rain

to most people, the sun’s a relentless pest—the scorching heat, the sweat that comes with it.

but you? you bask in the sun rather than burn in it. you soak in every ounce of the golden rays that you can before the moon takes over.

unbeknownst to you, grayson’s been looking for you. not for any reason in particular, but he occasionally finds himself missing your presence—especially the sweet melody of your laughter that’s been permanently ingrained into his mind since the first time he heard it.

grayson’s not searching for you for long, though. it doesn’t take him much effort to put two and two together. the sun is out, and you’re not in your room. where else would you be other than outside? the sun is practically a magnet when it comes to you.

he makes his way down the stairs and to the backyard, immediately squinting when faced with the brightness of the sun, his eyes adjusting to the light. he scans the area until his eyes land on you. something in him settles without him even realizing it. you’re laid on your stomach on a plaid, pastel yellow blanket, simply soaking in the sunlight as your fingers gently trace swirly patterns in the grass. he stands for a moment, simply admiring you and the way you glow beneath the sun, like it exists for you and no one else.

eventually, you hear the crunch of the grass as he walks towards you. you turn your head around. as soon as your gaze meets his, a smile spreads across your face. you sit up, propping yourself up with your arms, your legs stretched out in front of you.

grayson sits down next to you. “how long have you been out here?” he asks calmly.

you shrug. “hmmm… depends. would you be mad if i said over an hour?” your smile turns sheepish.

“i’d be concerned,” he responds. honestly, you can’t tell if he’s narrowing his eyes at you or squinting because of the sun. either way, there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your heart beat a little faster.

“in that case, i’ve only been here for thirty minutes!”

he lets out a quiet breath, barely a hum. “you’ll get sunburnt.” you can hear the slight amusement in his voice, but it’s more concerned than anything.

you scrunch your nose, unbothered by his warning. “better sun-kissed than sun-starved!” you exclaim with a grin, tilting your head back and letting the light hit your face.

a ghost of a smile appears on his face and there’s something in his expression that softens—eyes steady, voice low. “you lose track of time when you’re out here.”

you scoff and lay back down on the towel. his gaze follows you, never once looking away. “you say that like it’s a bad thing!”

grayson tilts his head slowly, giving you a knowing look. “i say that because you always complain about your body ‘feeling like it’s on fire’ after.”

you wave a hand dismissively, shaking your head. “that’s a problem for future me!”

future you, in question, always ends up on his bed whining and groaning about the pain. all the while, he watches you with a gentle look that also says “i told you so,” but he takes care of you nonetheless. he always will.

grayson lets out a soft exhale through his nose—not quite a laugh, but something close. “you’re impossible.”

“you love it!” you smile up at him, practically beaming. he swears your smile is brighter than the sun itself.

“i love you,” he corrects you easily, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you don’t say anything. you can’t, really, because the way he just corrected you with such ease and certainty replaces every other thought. grayson hawthorne isn’t the type to say “i love you” often. that’s what gets you, the way he just said it so casually. normally, he shows his love with his actions, with the way he treats you like you’re something heaven-sent. because to him, you are. the weight of his words lingers between you, light and heavy all at once.

the two of you sit in a softly intimate silence, your head now rested on his shoulder. time slips by—just as grayson said it does when you’re outside. you close your eyes again as the sunlight warms your skin and his presence settles beside you—gentle, constant, and quiet in all the best ways.

[whousestypewriters]

──── ୨ৎ NOTES — GRAYSON HAWTHORNE + READER ‧₊˚

summary: passed notes between u two in class as u gradually fall in love a/n: lol i rise from the dead gasppp btw this is literally just "notes" being passed nothing like oneshot-y) there are unspecified time jumps between some too SORRY FOR THE LENGTH

to grayson hawthorne,

i'm bored and you're the closest person sitting near me, want to chat?

your friendly desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

uhm rude??? not only did you read the note (i saw u take a peak) u threw it away. im only trying to be friendly unlike u.

this class is boring me to death and i want to do something else instead so lets talk!

your annoyed but still friendly desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

i can literally see you reading these and scrunching them up???? at least have the decency to wait until im out of eyeshot to do so

your perturbed desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

i'm going to keep sending these until you tell me other wise

your persistent desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

Please stop.

Grayson Hawthorne.

–

to grayson,

A RESPONSE??? IN THIS ECONOMY??? isnt it ironic the first time you write back you get caught by the teacher lol.

anyway you dont have to sign off with your full name, you can just say grayson, or like gray or even just g. why are you being so formal about this. also the correct grammar use?? dork. be a man and use lowercase

your happy desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

i thought we were making progress, no more responses?? :((

im heartbroken, i thought we were friends.

your now sad desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

We are not friends.

Grayson.

–

to gray,

we're making progress!!!! you signed off gray that means you're listening to me and that means we're friends ha.

i also think the fact you're answering me is a clear indicator we're friends

your bestest friendly desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

I will pay you to shut up. Please STOP.

Grayson.

–

to gray,

how much?

your money hungry desk neighbour

–

to gray,

HA I SAW A SMILE YOU SMILED AT MY NOTE

your funny desk neighbour

–

To gray gray,

ive decided you need a nickname, what do you think of gray gray? maybe you can come up with one for me! we're such good friends.

your nicknamable desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

I do not like gray gray.

Grayson.

–

to grayyyy,

fine we can work on me first while i brain storm more ideas? anything in mind?

your still nicknamable desk neighbout

–

To y/n,

P.I.M.A

Grayson.

–

to grayeyeyeye,

what the fuck is pima??

your confused desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

its': pain in my ass.

Grayson.

–

to graaaaayyyy,

A JOKE FROM YOU???? i knew i was getting under that "im a tough guy" act, i dont love pima lets keep thinking.

your chuckling desk neighbour

–

to y/n,

it wasnt a joke.

Grayson.

–

to gravy,

your nickname is going to be gravy, ive decided and thats final. enjoy it. (am i hungry rn yes but shut up.)

also our assignments need partners, would u like to be mine?

your hungry desk neighbour

–

to gravy,

its nice working together isnt it? just two best friends, cracking jokes- one better than the other of course (me).

your hilarious desk neighbour

–

to y/n,

I agreed to work with you we're sitting at the same desk, why are we still writing notes?

Grayson.

–

to gravy,

its fun. besides you love it dont lie.

your loveable desk neighbour

–

grayson,

since the assignment is over so i just wanted to thank you for being my partner in it. you really helped so much thank you.

and i was also wondering if you'd maybe like to get some coffee after school or something? (if u couldnt tell by my awful stuttering when we're together i mayyy have a slight crush on you.)

your nervous desk neighbour

–

to y/n

Are you asking me out?

Grayson.

–

gray,

yes? no? depends on what you'd answer.

please dont write back with no, thats too embarrassing to have in writing, just shake your head or something

your pink cheeked desk neighbour

–

y/n,

Yes we can go get coffee after school, I'd like that.

your cheeks look nice

Grayson

–

gray,

OH THANK GOD that was nerve racking watching you stare at me for the entirety of that class only for you to hand the note back at the end.

i had to sit waiting twas evil.

also weird compliment but thank you?

your relieved desk neighbour

–

y/n,

Coffee was lovely yesterday, would you like to go out again, maybe this time for lunch on Saturday?"

Grayson

–

gravy,

i'd like that very much.

(also you wrote first???? how far we've come!!!)

your excited desk neighbour

–

gravy,

you forgot your tie in my room this morning.

your ..... desk neighbour

–

y/n,

thank you for bringing it in.

grayson.

–

gravy,

you must be very flustered, look at all the grammar mistakes.

relax gray, this is why people dont pull all nighters on homework across from their tired girlfriends, theyre going to want to get revenge by taking ties and giving wedigies.

your VERY tired desk neighbour.

–

y/n

you've rubbed off on me and my grammar in these notes.

please dont give me a wedgie.

grayson.

–

gravy,

my mother wants to meet you, i couldnt say it to your face so i thought i'd bring it up here, would u wnat that? to meet her? i promise to be on my best behaviour...

your lovely desk neighbour

–

y/n,

i'd like that, to meet the woman you adore so much. also meet me after class i want to talk to you in person please. i'll drop you home so we can chat

grayson.

–

GRAYSON

did you just tell me you love me??? oh my gosh, you wont see this till tomorrow but i cant NOT write to you, its like our thing now. you'll read this in class and probably smile because i am FREAKING OUTTT RIGHT NOWWW OH MY GOSHHH

obviously i love you to as i told you, but still im in shock and soo happyyyy ahhhhhhhhh

i love you

your in love desk neighbour

–

love,

you're cute.

i love you more.

grayson.

–

gravy,

we graduate in a few days, are you scared? im not, not with you by my side now. im more nervous (in a good way) about what the future holds i cant wait!!!

also once we graduate how will we keep passing notes???

your friendly desk neighbour for the second last time

–

y/n,

im not scared, but excited, ready to go to college and take on the world with you by my side for all of it. i'm keeping you

grayson.

–

to grayson hawthorne,

i thought it would be a throwback to start this one off with your full name like the first time i sent one of these notes. our last class is today, on our last day.

thank you for opening up to me and allowing me to love you, you're the very best gravy these peas could have (i made that up im proud)

i'll see you in the next note

your person

–

to y/n,

hi love

its been a few years since we last wrote notes to each other, but i thought it was the right thing to do for this.

i love you, and you mean more than the world to me, tonight was so unbelievably special i have to stare at you every five minutes to make sure its real.

you're the love of my life and i'm so very very glad you decided to pester me with notes in the class we shared. it was the best thing that ever happened to me. you are by far the shining jewel of my life. i love you so very much and here is to more of nights like these in the future.

your husband,

gray

[lilaappleberry]

im gonna marry a guy exactly like grayson and i will invite you, author

[whousestypewriters]

──── ୨ৎ NOTES — GRAYSON HAWTHORNE + READER ‧₊˚

summary: passed notes between u two in class as u gradually fall in love a/n: lol i rise from the dead gasppp btw this is literally just "notes" being passed nothing like oneshot-y) there are unspecified time jumps between some too SORRY FOR THE LENGTH

to grayson hawthorne,

i'm bored and you're the closest person sitting near me, want to chat?

your friendly desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

uhm rude??? not only did you read the note (i saw u take a peak) u threw it away. im only trying to be friendly unlike u.

this class is boring me to death and i want to do something else instead so lets talk!

your annoyed but still friendly desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

i can literally see you reading these and scrunching them up???? at least have the decency to wait until im out of eyeshot to do so

your perturbed desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

i'm going to keep sending these until you tell me other wise

your persistent desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

Please stop.

Grayson Hawthorne.

–

to grayson,

A RESPONSE??? IN THIS ECONOMY??? isnt it ironic the first time you write back you get caught by the teacher lol.

anyway you dont have to sign off with your full name, you can just say grayson, or like gray or even just g. why are you being so formal about this. also the correct grammar use?? dork. be a man and use lowercase

your happy desk neighbour

–

to grayson,

i thought we were making progress, no more responses?? :((

im heartbroken, i thought we were friends.

your now sad desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

We are not friends.

Grayson.

–

to gray,

we're making progress!!!! you signed off gray that means you're listening to me and that means we're friends ha.

i also think the fact you're answering me is a clear indicator we're friends

your bestest friendly desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

I will pay you to shut up. Please STOP.

Grayson.

–

to gray,

how much?

your money hungry desk neighbour

–

to gray,

HA I SAW A SMILE YOU SMILED AT MY NOTE

your funny desk neighbour

–

To gray gray,

ive decided you need a nickname, what do you think of gray gray? maybe you can come up with one for me! we're such good friends.

your nicknamable desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

I do not like gray gray.

Grayson.

–

to grayyyy,

fine we can work on me first while i brain storm more ideas? anything in mind?

your still nicknamable desk neighbout

–

To y/n,

P.I.M.A

Grayson.

–

to grayeyeyeye,

what the fuck is pima??

your confused desk neighbour

–

To y/n,

its': pain in my ass.

Grayson.

–

to graaaaayyyy,

A JOKE FROM YOU???? i knew i was getting under that "im a tough guy" act, i dont love pima lets keep thinking.

your chuckling desk neighbour

–

to y/n,

it wasnt a joke.

Grayson.

–

to gravy,

your nickname is going to be gravy, ive decided and thats final. enjoy it. (am i hungry rn yes but shut up.)

also our assignments need partners, would u like to be mine?

your hungry desk neighbour

–

to gravy,

its nice working together isnt it? just two best friends, cracking jokes- one better than the other of course (me).

your hilarious desk neighbour

–

to y/n,

I agreed to work with you we're sitting at the same desk, why are we still writing notes?

Grayson.

–

to gravy,

its fun. besides you love it dont lie.

your loveable desk neighbour

–

grayson,

since the assignment is over so i just wanted to thank you for being my partner in it. you really helped so much thank you.

and i was also wondering if you'd maybe like to get some coffee after school or something? (if u couldnt tell by my awful stuttering when we're together i mayyy have a slight crush on you.)

your nervous desk neighbour

–

to y/n

Are you asking me out?

Grayson.

–

gray,

yes? no? depends on what you'd answer.

please dont write back with no, thats too embarrassing to have in writing, just shake your head or something

your pink cheeked desk neighbour

–

y/n,

Yes we can go get coffee after school, I'd like that.

your cheeks look nice

Grayson

–

gray,

OH THANK GOD that was nerve racking watching you stare at me for the entirety of that class only for you to hand the note back at the end.

i had to sit waiting twas evil.

also weird compliment but thank you?

your relieved desk neighbour

–

y/n,

Coffee was lovely yesterday, would you like to go out again, maybe this time for lunch on Saturday?"

Grayson

–

gravy,

i'd like that very much.

(also you wrote first???? how far we've come!!!)

your excited desk neighbour

–

gravy,

you forgot your tie in my room this morning.

your ..... desk neighbour

–

y/n,

thank you for bringing it in.

grayson.

–

gravy,

you must be very flustered, look at all the grammar mistakes.

relax gray, this is why people dont pull all nighters on homework across from their tired girlfriends, theyre going to want to get revenge by taking ties and giving wedigies.

your VERY tired desk neighbour.

–

y/n

you've rubbed off on me and my grammar in these notes.

please dont give me a wedgie.

grayson.

–

gravy,

my mother wants to meet you, i couldnt say it to your face so i thought i'd bring it up here, would u wnat that? to meet her? i promise to be on my best behaviour...

your lovely desk neighbour

–

y/n,

i'd like that, to meet the woman you adore so much. also meet me after class i want to talk to you in person please. i'll drop you home so we can chat

grayson.

–

GRAYSON

did you just tell me you love me??? oh my gosh, you wont see this till tomorrow but i cant NOT write to you, its like our thing now. you'll read this in class and probably smile because i am FREAKING OUTTT RIGHT NOWWW OH MY GOSHHH

obviously i love you to as i told you, but still im in shock and soo happyyyy ahhhhhhhhh

i love you

your in love desk neighbour

–

love,

you're cute.

i love you more.

grayson.

–

gravy,

we graduate in a few days, are you scared? im not, not with you by my side now. im more nervous (in a good way) about what the future holds i cant wait!!!

also once we graduate how will we keep passing notes???

your friendly desk neighbour for the second last time

–

y/n,

im not scared, but excited, ready to go to college and take on the world with you by my side for all of it. i'm keeping you

grayson.

–

to grayson hawthorne,

i thought it would be a throwback to start this one off with your full name like the first time i sent one of these notes. our last class is today, on our last day.

thank you for opening up to me and allowing me to love you, you're the very best gravy these peas could have (i made that up im proud)

i'll see you in the next note

your person

–

to y/n,

hi love

its been a few years since we last wrote notes to each other, but i thought it was the right thing to do for this.

i love you, and you mean more than the world to me, tonight was so unbelievably special i have to stare at you every five minutes to make sure its real.

you're the love of my life and i'm so very very glad you decided to pester me with notes in the class we shared. it was the best thing that ever happened to me. you are by far the shining jewel of my life. i love you so very much and here is to more of nights like these in the future.

your husband,

gray

[soph5547]

The cure for a horrible manager? Your boyfriend's black Amex. (Grayson Hawthorne x Fem!reader!) SFW.

Notes: Enjoy this little piece I came up while day-dreaming about Grayson (what else is new tbh) I'll never be over him!!! He is the true LOML. PHOTO FOUND ON PINTEREST! (linked)

WC: 1596

Grayson Hawthorne x reader.

Working for charities? Horrible. Don’t recommend. 

Okay, that's a bit harsh. It’s not… horrible but it’s not all rainbows and roses either. You and Avery know that better than anyone. Now, while you have wonderful friends who work at said charities, there’s one woman who just vows to make your life miserable.

Avery, who’s held her head high no matter what, is beyond agitated now, so it’s up to you to just get home and decompress.

The entire car ride home, you and Avery talked up a STORM to Phil, the driver. He’s been around for a while, and with two teenage daughters, he’s no stranger to a good old shit talk. “It’s been since we came here.” You say, sighing. “She’s got it out for us.” 

“She’s got it out for us because we’re with the boys,” Avery crosses her arms. “Evil, horrible, women.”

Ah yes, the boys.

Jameson and Grayson Hawthorne.

Relationships pop up in unexpected places and this was no expectation. Grayson weasled his way into your life, and you were powerless to stop it. 

The shit talking took a turn, and when Phil pulls up in front of the house, the mood is foul. 

“Hey baby,” Jameson greets Avery. “Hi.” She answers back, in a flat tone. You follow quietly behind her as she walks to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Grayson reaches out, his hand wrapping around your wrist. “Talk to me, what's wrong?” You sigh as he lets go of your wrist. “Bad day.” 

“Susan?” Jameson wonders. 

“OF FUCKING COURSE IT WAS SUSAN.” Avery yells from the kitchen. “IT’S ALWAYS FUCKING SUSAN. I HATE HER.” 

She storms in, two bags of chips and tosses one to you. You catch it. “She’s out to get us, I swear.” You say to the brothers, who nod. Avery stands with chips in hand, and she spills it all. 

How we were sitting at a conference table-alone might you add- and we were laughing quietly. Susan storms in, and screams at us for being loud, and disrupting everything and how we shouldn’t even BE there.

Your cheeks are red with embarrassment and annoyance, just like they were when it happened. 

Grayson’s eyes go dark, and Jameson’s jaw ticks as you and Avery recount the story. “We can get her fired.” Grayson offers. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

Avery and you speak at the same time. You sigh “it’s… this is her source of income, we can’t just… fire her.” you explain, cursing yourself for being empathic towards that vile woman. “I just wish we didn’t have to talk to her in order to do our job.” Grayson hums and pulls you closer, hand on your hip. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t talk to you unless absolutely necessary.” He then stands up, Jameson following. They both leave. 

“Oh. um, okay?” Avery says as she watches them leave. She’s calmed down now, more so exhausted with the situation then angry. We just stood there, a bit confused. 

The boys come back, and Grayson’s already talking. “We would come with you,” he says, “but someone messed up the numbers, and we’re swamped.” He files through his wallet. “Take this, and go buy yourself whatever you want.” He passes you his black card. 

He leans in, kisses his cheek. “After the day you’ve had, you deserve it.” You smile, ducking your head. “Are you sure?” he nods, hand cupping your cheek. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jameson do the same for Avery, and he kisses her cheek. 

You and Avery go upstairs, abandoning the chips and drinks in favour of getting dressed to hit the designer stores.

Coming back down, you find a quick second to sneak back into the dining room, kissing Grayson's forehead. “Thank you.” you whisper against him and he snakes a hand to yours, squeezing as if to say ‘you’re welcome’. Even if his eyes don’t leave the paper. 

Avery meets you at the front door, and you pile back into the black SUV, Phil amused at the sudden turn around. “The usual?” he asks and you both nod. “please and thank you.” Avery hums. 

The two of you sit in the car, shaking off the day and getting excited for the shopping spree. Nothing good old retail therapy can’t cure. 

The mall is a district of high end shops, from high end names. Chanel, Prada, Burberry, YSL, Gucci, etc. 

You name it, it's here. 

“Well,” You hook your arm through Avery's as you stand at the entrance. “Which catches your eye first?” She looks over the few shops directly in front of you two. “Hmmmm” the sound is low in her throat, thinking hard over the decisions of someone with an unlimited credit card. “I think Chanel.” she nods towards the doors. “I’ve been meaning to buy a double of the pullover-this time in cream.” 

The two of you walk in, and instantly everyone in the room turns to you. “Miss. Grambs!” A woman smiles “Miss. L/n, how lovely to see you both.” 

You smile, and someone else takes the coat off your shoulders, something you’ll never get used to. Shopping with Grayson, it's easy to hide behind his name - to just be the girlfriend. But here? You and Avery are the closest thing the workers are getting to the Hawthornes. 

So you’ll drink champagne and look at clothes you couldn’t have dreamed of 3 years ago. You admire shoes, heels that are worth your parents house back home, and your heart didn't skip a beat when you swipe the black amex (at least, not in the way it used to when you and Grayson first started dating.) 

There is no lingering spenders guilt, or buyers remorse as you and Avery enter and exit each store. Bags and bags on your arms. 

Men in suits come and load the batches in the car and Phil, bless him, watches with amused eyes. 

“What do you think about this?” You hold up a birkin. Avery scrunches her nose “that color?” She eyes it “I thought you wanted neutrals?” 

You sigh “I do. I just thought a pop of color would be fun.” You turn to the worker “what do you think?” She hums “whatever you think is best, is what I think.” 

Right. These workers don’t have opinions on anything you end up getting. They’re all very… agreeable. Which is fine! Just… annoying when you want a second opinion.

“Maybe I’ll wait for gray.” You put the purse back on the counter, the baby pink with gold hardware was stunning. But it's a big purchase. 

“Maybe.” Avery says from where she sat. “he’ll probably want to be around when you get your first Birkin.” You look over at her “Right because it's a big deal for a man.” Avery laughs, standing. “Okay, men don’t really care. But this is for you-so Grayson's going to want to be here.” 

You smile softly “yeah,” it's breathy, soft. “He would.” 

The shopping spree ends with a bill higher than you can count, and dinner at a small wood open pizza place. You and Avery are tucked in the corner, spitting pizza and salad. The conversation is light, meetings coming up, date ideas, her trip to Greece, your trip to the Monaco grand prix in a few weeks. 

You get home and its dark. Grayson and Jaime are no longer in the dining room, and so you go to his wing. There, under the shut door, lights are on in the office. You knock. 

“Come in.” 

Pushing it open, you smile. “Hi, are you busy?” He looks up and instantly, Grayson Hawthorne looks his actual age. “Nah,” his smile turns boyish. “Come here.” 

You sit in his lap, getting comfortable. Pulling out your wallet, you give his card back. “Here you go.” Grayson takes it, and sets it on the desk. “Thank you, did you have fun?” 

You nod “lots. I have a dozen bags or so.” He laughs and nods “good, I expected nothing less.” his lips brush your hairline “did you eat?” 

“Mhmm, pizza.” 

“Mm good choice.” Gray smiles at you, soft. “I’m sorry,” he says “that I couldn’t come with you. You deserve to rant to be about your day, not to have me throw my card at you.” You run a gentle hand over the back of his head. “Don’t be sorry, you were busy.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs “but you’re my girlfriend. Work could have waited.” 

“Work waits for no one.” you shrug “it's okay, really. Honestly all you missed was my debate over a Birkin.” He raises an eyebrow “I thought you wanted the tan one?” You laugh, and shrug “I saw a pink one.” 

Now he laughs “Oh well, I should have known. You’ll always choose the pink one.” Smiling, you shake your head. “I wanted your opinion on it. On if I should get the tan or the pink one.” 

“Honey,” Grayson's eyes meet yours. “Get both.” 

“Both?” 

“Bnoth.” he nods “I can afford it, hell-you could get one in every color and I wouldn’t bat an eye.” You tease him by saying “Don’t test me with a good time.” He grins and kisses your cheek “we’ll go back tomorrow, you can spend the entire day in the store. I’ll shut it down for you.” 

Butterflies erupt throughout your body. OH grayson hawthorne, you think, how did I get so lucky.

The look on his face is soft, peaceful, as he whispers “thank you for understanding.” Laying your head on his shoulder, you whisper back “You’re welcome, my love.” 

[lilaappleberry]

FUCK I NEED YOU GRAYSON

[soph5547]

The cure for a horrible manager? Your boyfriend's black Amex. (Grayson Hawthorne x Fem!reader!) SFW.

Notes: Enjoy this little piece I came up while day-dreaming about Grayson (what else is new tbh) I'll never be over him!!! He is the true LOML. PHOTO FOUND ON PINTEREST! (linked)

WC: 1596

Grayson Hawthorne x reader.

Working for charities? Horrible. Don’t recommend. 

Okay, that's a bit harsh. It’s not… horrible but it’s not all rainbows and roses either. You and Avery know that better than anyone. Now, while you have wonderful friends who work at said charities, there’s one woman who just vows to make your life miserable.

Avery, who’s held her head high no matter what, is beyond agitated now, so it’s up to you to just get home and decompress.

The entire car ride home, you and Avery talked up a STORM to Phil, the driver. He’s been around for a while, and with two teenage daughters, he’s no stranger to a good old shit talk. “It’s been since we came here.” You say, sighing. “She’s got it out for us.” 

“She’s got it out for us because we’re with the boys,” Avery crosses her arms. “Evil, horrible, women.”

Ah yes, the boys.

Jameson and Grayson Hawthorne.

Relationships pop up in unexpected places and this was no expectation. Grayson weasled his way into your life, and you were powerless to stop it. 

The shit talking took a turn, and when Phil pulls up in front of the house, the mood is foul. 

“Hey baby,” Jameson greets Avery. “Hi.” She answers back, in a flat tone. You follow quietly behind her as she walks to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Grayson reaches out, his hand wrapping around your wrist. “Talk to me, what's wrong?” You sigh as he lets go of your wrist. “Bad day.” 

“Susan?” Jameson wonders. 

“OF FUCKING COURSE IT WAS SUSAN.” Avery yells from the kitchen. “IT’S ALWAYS FUCKING SUSAN. I HATE HER.” 

She storms in, two bags of chips and tosses one to you. You catch it. “She’s out to get us, I swear.” You say to the brothers, who nod. Avery stands with chips in hand, and she spills it all. 

How we were sitting at a conference table-alone might you add- and we were laughing quietly. Susan storms in, and screams at us for being loud, and disrupting everything and how we shouldn’t even BE there.

Your cheeks are red with embarrassment and annoyance, just like they were when it happened. 

Grayson’s eyes go dark, and Jameson’s jaw ticks as you and Avery recount the story. “We can get her fired.” Grayson offers. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

Avery and you speak at the same time. You sigh “it’s… this is her source of income, we can’t just… fire her.” you explain, cursing yourself for being empathic towards that vile woman. “I just wish we didn’t have to talk to her in order to do our job.” Grayson hums and pulls you closer, hand on your hip. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t talk to you unless absolutely necessary.” He then stands up, Jameson following. They both leave. 

“Oh. um, okay?” Avery says as she watches them leave. She’s calmed down now, more so exhausted with the situation then angry. We just stood there, a bit confused. 

The boys come back, and Grayson’s already talking. “We would come with you,” he says, “but someone messed up the numbers, and we’re swamped.” He files through his wallet. “Take this, and go buy yourself whatever you want.” He passes you his black card. 

He leans in, kisses his cheek. “After the day you’ve had, you deserve it.” You smile, ducking your head. “Are you sure?” he nods, hand cupping your cheek. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jameson do the same for Avery, and he kisses her cheek. 

You and Avery go upstairs, abandoning the chips and drinks in favour of getting dressed to hit the designer stores.

Coming back down, you find a quick second to sneak back into the dining room, kissing Grayson's forehead. “Thank you.” you whisper against him and he snakes a hand to yours, squeezing as if to say ‘you’re welcome’. Even if his eyes don’t leave the paper. 

Avery meets you at the front door, and you pile back into the black SUV, Phil amused at the sudden turn around. “The usual?” he asks and you both nod. “please and thank you.” Avery hums. 

The two of you sit in the car, shaking off the day and getting excited for the shopping spree. Nothing good old retail therapy can’t cure. 

The mall is a district of high end shops, from high end names. Chanel, Prada, Burberry, YSL, Gucci, etc. 

You name it, it's here. 

“Well,” You hook your arm through Avery's as you stand at the entrance. “Which catches your eye first?” She looks over the few shops directly in front of you two. “Hmmmm” the sound is low in her throat, thinking hard over the decisions of someone with an unlimited credit card. “I think Chanel.” she nods towards the doors. “I’ve been meaning to buy a double of the pullover-this time in cream.” 

The two of you walk in, and instantly everyone in the room turns to you. “Miss. Grambs!” A woman smiles “Miss. L/n, how lovely to see you both.” 

You smile, and someone else takes the coat off your shoulders, something you’ll never get used to. Shopping with Grayson, it's easy to hide behind his name - to just be the girlfriend. But here? You and Avery are the closest thing the workers are getting to the Hawthornes. 

So you’ll drink champagne and look at clothes you couldn’t have dreamed of 3 years ago. You admire shoes, heels that are worth your parents house back home, and your heart didn't skip a beat when you swipe the black amex (at least, not in the way it used to when you and Grayson first started dating.) 

There is no lingering spenders guilt, or buyers remorse as you and Avery enter and exit each store. Bags and bags on your arms. 

Men in suits come and load the batches in the car and Phil, bless him, watches with amused eyes. 

“What do you think about this?” You hold up a birkin. Avery scrunches her nose “that color?” She eyes it “I thought you wanted neutrals?” 

You sigh “I do. I just thought a pop of color would be fun.” You turn to the worker “what do you think?” She hums “whatever you think is best, is what I think.” 

Right. These workers don’t have opinions on anything you end up getting. They’re all very… agreeable. Which is fine! Just… annoying when you want a second opinion.

“Maybe I’ll wait for gray.” You put the purse back on the counter, the baby pink with gold hardware was stunning. But it's a big purchase. 

“Maybe.” Avery says from where she sat. “he’ll probably want to be around when you get your first Birkin.” You look over at her “Right because it's a big deal for a man.” Avery laughs, standing. “Okay, men don’t really care. But this is for you-so Grayson's going to want to be here.” 

You smile softly “yeah,” it's breathy, soft. “He would.” 

The shopping spree ends with a bill higher than you can count, and dinner at a small wood open pizza place. You and Avery are tucked in the corner, spitting pizza and salad. The conversation is light, meetings coming up, date ideas, her trip to Greece, your trip to the Monaco grand prix in a few weeks. 

You get home and its dark. Grayson and Jaime are no longer in the dining room, and so you go to his wing. There, under the shut door, lights are on in the office. You knock. 

“Come in.” 

Pushing it open, you smile. “Hi, are you busy?” He looks up and instantly, Grayson Hawthorne looks his actual age. “Nah,” his smile turns boyish. “Come here.” 

You sit in his lap, getting comfortable. Pulling out your wallet, you give his card back. “Here you go.” Grayson takes it, and sets it on the desk. “Thank you, did you have fun?” 

You nod “lots. I have a dozen bags or so.” He laughs and nods “good, I expected nothing less.” his lips brush your hairline “did you eat?” 

“Mhmm, pizza.” 

“Mm good choice.” Gray smiles at you, soft. “I’m sorry,” he says “that I couldn’t come with you. You deserve to rant to be about your day, not to have me throw my card at you.” You run a gentle hand over the back of his head. “Don’t be sorry, you were busy.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs “but you’re my girlfriend. Work could have waited.” 

“Work waits for no one.” you shrug “it's okay, really. Honestly all you missed was my debate over a Birkin.” He raises an eyebrow “I thought you wanted the tan one?” You laugh, and shrug “I saw a pink one.” 

Now he laughs “Oh well, I should have known. You’ll always choose the pink one.” Smiling, you shake your head. “I wanted your opinion on it. On if I should get the tan or the pink one.” 

“Honey,” Grayson's eyes meet yours. “Get both.” 

“Both?” 

“Bnoth.” he nods “I can afford it, hell-you could get one in every color and I wouldn’t bat an eye.” You tease him by saying “Don’t test me with a good time.” He grins and kisses your cheek “we’ll go back tomorrow, you can spend the entire day in the store. I’ll shut it down for you.” 

Butterflies erupt throughout your body. OH grayson hawthorne, you think, how did I get so lucky.

The look on his face is soft, peaceful, as he whispers “thank you for understanding.” Laying your head on his shoulder, you whisper back “You’re welcome, my love.” 

[inmyheaddd]

tangled in love, stuck by you - grayson hawthorne x reader

summary: slow mornings with grayson !! bits of playful banter and grayson being an annyoying loveable tease warnings: nothing just fluff !! probably too much ur teeth may fall out wc: 1.6k

he woke up at 5:30. you woke up in his shirt. 

you were aware of the alarm, but you kept your eyes shut and kept your head on grayson’s chest. you tried to ignore the noise and continue sleeping, but it was proving very difficult.

like always, you were expecting him to gently lift your arm off of him, get out of bed as silently as he could to not wake you, and press a gentle kiss to the top of your head. every week day.

then… with a soft exhale grayson lifted his arm, and surprisingly enough, only moved the slightest bit to turn the alarm off. 

despite his minimal stirring and attempts to not disturb the moment of peace between you, you sat up just as he turned the alarm off. 

lifting your head off of his chest while rubbing your eyes, you mumbled, “god… what time is it?”

“half past 5,” grayson was quick to smooth a hand over your hair, beckoning you back. “but that doesn’t matter. come back to sleep, sweetheart.”

you hummed, and you didn’t go back to sleep. 

you barely even registered his words — you realized you were clearly not a morning person — and you sat up fully in your drowsy state, slowly blinked, then looked down at your watch and saw the way-too-early time. “shit,” you mumbled, “don’t you have to go?” 

“no,” he answered, “ i don’t particularly … care right now,”, his voice was gravelly and still laced with sleep. then, he tried one last time to get your head back on his chest and linger in this moment of serenity for a little while longer. 

you hummed contently in answer, then purposefully put your head on the pillow next to his instead. “that’s a lie.” you smiled sleepily as you lay on your side, “you care about everything ever.”

“not everything,” you two were laying on your sides face to face, and grayson smiled back at you— that type of smile that was just the barest upwards flicker of his lips. “only a select few that matter.” 

“yeah?” you prodded teasingly, a dry chuckle leaving your lips, “like what?”

you adjusted the way you were laying down, putting your hand under your face, and it seemed that his gaze never tore off you. 

“you.” he answered simply, his grey eyes boring into yours with a sort of comforting intensity. 

“and here i was,” you let your lips by break into a grin, “thinking you were going to say your suits.”

graysons lips slid into a teasing, full smile. “oh, i was just getting to them, don’t you worry.” 

you managed an eye roll, but the fake look of annoyance dissipated into a laugh, which was soon shared by him too.

after another second of looking at each other,  a tired, amused scoff left your lips   before turning onto your back and looking at the ceiling. “you should probably wake up. i should probably wake up.” 

grayson moved closer to you, moving up so his chin rested atop your head. “we’re awake,” he murmured. 

“yeah,” a laugh escaped you as you turned to lay on your side, “barely.” 

you adjusted the way you lay, so you and grayson were face to face once again. 

he looked at you with an odd softness in his eyes— or maybe it was the sunlight streaming through the curtains that made him look soft. 

either way, you felt like you couldn’t look away. “hi,” the word escaped your lips, a mere murmur. there was a small smile growing on your lips. 

“hi,” he echoed, tiredness and some sort of amusement laced in his voice.  

you looked at each other for another moment, his gaze every so delicately trailing over your face, like he was trying to memorize the details — you recognized the look, because you felt yourself doing the same when you looked at him. 

regardless, you have never felt butterflies erupt in your stomach faster. 

“okay,” you laughed a little at absurdity of the moment, “thats it, i’m getting up now.” you pushed yourself up with an exhale, and made your way to the bathroom a few feet away. 

you stopped at the door, turned around and looked at grayson who was still in bed. 

he was propped up on his elbows, watching you make your way to the bathroom with that same little look in his eyes. 

“what are you looking at?” you tilted your head, wondering what had him looking at you like that, all silent.

he narrowed his eyes jokingly back at you, before answering. “happy,  that’s all.” 

now your eyes were narrowing, your laugh threatening to spill through your words. “what,” a slight shake of your head, “happy you’re sleeping in?” 

his lips turned downwards in consideration of your answer with a small shrug, “i suppose, yes.” his smile was borderline teasing now, “among other reasons.”

"you’re so corny.”

grayson shrugged, running a hand through his messy morning hair that you adored and then looking at you with a lazy smile. “if that’s what you’d like to call me, so be it. so long as it’s coming from you.”

you realized your face was heating up, “you’re only proving my point,” you laughed, and then you huffed when you realised grayson’s smile only widened. 

you raised your brows with a slight laugh you couldn't hold in. “i need to shower,” you put a hand on the door handle, taking a slow step back, “i’ll just be a few minutes.” 

────୨ৎ────

a few minutes turned out to be an hour. 

when you left the shower, grayson was already downstairs by then, changed into brown trousers and white linen shirt with the few top buttons undone lazily— but nothing looked lazy about it. 

you slid into a chair at the small table that sat in kitchen, two seats, just for you two, as you muttered your good mornings to each other.

“oh gray, you know, my shower was the best ever,” you sighed as you shut your eyes for a moment, holding your face in your hands. 

you heard grayson hum in response for you to go on, flipping a pancake as he did so. 

you opened your eyes and looked at his back, in some sort of admiration-trance as he cooked your pancakes, then you finally began rambling. 

“well, the water was boiling, and there was so much steam; it felt like i was about to fall asleep in the best way.” you kept talking with your face laying in your hands, then when you finished, you sat up straight and brought your cup of water to your lips.

“perhaps, you might have truly fallen asleep,” he started, then turning to you as he placed a plate of pancakes on the table, “seeing as you took took so long.” 

“oh. very funny.” you jokingly glared at him, not taking your eyes off of him as you finished your drink and put the cup down. you laughed despite yourself, “stop acting like your showers aren’t either 2 minutes or 2 hours long.” 

grayson pulled his chair out and sat in the seat across you, laughing quietly. he said, “2 hours is quite the stretch. maybe 1 and a half seems more fitting.”

“i was being very graceful with 2 hours, actually.” you retorted, raising your brows. 

“and i am very lucky to be receiving of that grace from you.” 

grayson leaned back in his chair, reaching lazily for his coffee as he gave you a once-over. it wasn't flirtatious or teasing, just peaceful.. it reminded you of that look he’d given you before you got in the shower.

you glanced at him as you brought your coffee mug to your lips. the corners of your eyes crinkled, “okay, what are you looking at now?”

“i’m thinking about how i like my mornings better when you’re in them.” he said earnestly, without really answering your question as he looked away to stir his coffee. 

you were just about to respond with something heartfelt, then he took his gaze up to you.

he made an act of looking at his watch, “even if they start late.”

you glared at him an unamusedly. though,  the flush you felt from his first comment was still creeping up on your face. 

you huffed in what you hoped looked like annoyance, then bit back a smile. “just shut up eat your pancakes already.”

grayson smiled at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling also. “right. of course,” he cut a piece of his pancake, then brought his fork to his mouth as he looked at you, amusement in his features.

you rolled your eyes jokingly. he shut up. he ate his pancakes. 

“even if they start late,” you mimicked in a high pitched voice under your breath, aggressively cutting your pancakes into pieces. “he says at 7 in the morning,” you added snappily, murmuring absentmindedly to yourself as you cut your pancakes into even smaller pieces. 

the plate you were staring at did not reply. 

you huffed, then brought your fork to your mouth and finally looked up at grayson.

he was looking at you silently, holding back what seemed to be a huge laugh. 

his eyes slightly crinkled around the corners and his lips pressed together in an attempt to hold his smile back. and the second you made eye contact— your fork still in the air, you both burst into laughter. 

you set your fork down, trying to compose yourself before you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

“surely,” grayson managed, his words coming through a chuckle. “i don’t sound like that,” he furrowed his brows, pointing a finger at you

“oh,” you laughed at him, finally picking the  fork you’d abandoned up again, and pointing at him with it, “but you really do.”

quiet laughter and chatter filled the living room as you finished your breakfast together, back and forth playful banter and stories randomly popping into your mind as the morning went on. 

by the time you were both putting the dishes away, your face nearly hurt from laughing so much. 

you weren’t a morning person, but you realized you definitely liked mornings better with grayson in them.

a/n: sorry ive been soooo m.i.a with the fics recently!! buuuut summer is soon so hopefully that'll change because i miss writing fics

taglist: @x-liv25-jamieswife @wish-i-were-heather @thecircularlibrary @whatsamongus @littlemissmentallyunstable@anintellectualintellectual @lovethornes @maybxlle @sheisntyou @emelia07 @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @charsoamerican @hxress23 @imaseabear @clarissaweasley-10 @off-to-the-r4ces @thelov3lybookworm @graysw1fe @lanterns-and-daydreams @hermesenthusiast @elysianwayy77 @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @apollosmusee @hijabi-desi-bookworm @goldi-1-graysons-version @saigonharrington @peppapigsposts @thoughtdaughter3 @apollospoem@jjsblueberry @yayyy-insecurities

[jell1ii]

Can you do Grayson Hawthorne x reader where reader is his childhood best friend but they’ve just recently started dating (no pressure ofc)

a/n: omg yes! This is so cute. Sorry if it isn’t the best, i tried 😭

Grayson Hawthorne x Reader

“Come on!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Grayson Hawthorne was a stubborn man. An infuriatingly good-looking, stubborn man. A man who absolutely hates his girlfriend, apparently. I mean, seriously, you weren’t asking for much! All you wanted was to make him look all pretty with your makeup. “Real men wear makeup, Gray.” Unfortunately your argument fell on deaf ears, as he continued to flip through the same document for the twentieth time. You’re starting to think he may not actually be busy.

“Real men also have work to do. I have work to do, sweetheart.” His eyes finally met your frustrated gaze. A defeated sigh escaped his lips at your lack of response. You’ve known Grayson Hawthorne since before he was Grayson Hawthorne. You knew that sigh. It was the sigh that meant you had won, and winning was not something Hawthorne men took lightly. It took everything in you to mask the victorious smile that tugged at your lips as you approached his desk.

“Come onnn,” you drawled, inching closer “it’ll be fun. Remember when we did the face masks? Personally, I had a great time, but if you don’t want the head massage after I guess…”

10 minutes later

“Hold still!”

“I am still.”

“No, you keep blinking.”

“You’re getting powder in them, sweetheart.”

“So stop moving!”

Grayson had changed out of his suit, now in one of his scarce in quantity t-shirts and sweatpants, being restrained held against his bed frame as you beat his face with whatever makeup you had that somewhat matched his shade.

“Ugh, you look so pretty!” You’d made him close his eyes to show off the sparkly eye makeup that you put blood, sweat, and tears into perfecting. The flash of your phone camera illuminates his glamorous face as you work his angles.

“Don’t post that.”

“I won’t. Only to my close friends story.”

“You mean the one with all of my brothers? Who will never let me live this down, ever?”

“I have worse photos i could post Grayson, trust me, this isn’t so bad. Unless, you want me to send the photo of you after your graduation party. Y’know, the one where your drunk and pouting-“

“God, please, no.”

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

family planning (t.n.)

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 11.6k

Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.

A/N: this is NOT a pregnancy fic you guys i promise also i didn't want to split this into two parts but tumblr deemed it too long so um two parts ig

credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider

Part 2

Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.

The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.

He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.

But that was the thing.

Nothing felt wrong about today.

Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.

And now he was stuck in Charms.

Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.

Then another.

Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”

The room cracked.

Not shattered. Not exploded.

Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.

There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—

Silence.

Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.

She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.

For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.

Then her lip trembled.

“—Papà?”

Her voice broke.

And then she started crying.

Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.

“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)

The classroom froze.

“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.

Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”

A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”

The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)

She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.

“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)

Theo stared at her from his seat.

He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.

“Is she—speaking Italian?” Someone murmured.

A ripple of voices followed.

“Yeah.” “Definitely Italian.” “I don’t speak Italian.” “Does anyone speak Italian?”

Someone turned.

Then another.

Then, inevitably, every gaze slid to Theo.

Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”

He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.

“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”

Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.

She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.

“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)

Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.

“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.

“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”

The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.

“Papà…” She whimpered.

Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.

“Cazzo.” (fuck)

He pushed his chair back and stood.

The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.

Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.

“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)

The girl barely registered him.

She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)

“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)

He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.

“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)

She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)

Theo swallowed.

“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)

That was when she opened her eyes.

Really looked at him.

Her crying hitched mid-sob.

For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then—

“Papà!”

She surged forward.

Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.

“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)

Theo froze.

Completely. Utterly.

His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.

The room was dead silent.

Theo’s eyes flicked up.

Every single person was staring.

Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.

Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.

No one moved.

The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.

Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.

“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”

She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.

Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.

Once.

Twice.

And then she was gone.

Fast asleep.

Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.

Theo swallowed hard.

The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.

Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.

“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.

Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”

“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”

All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.

“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”

He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.

He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.

“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”

Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.

“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.

Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed, “No. I… that… that’s impossible.”

McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."

Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”

Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”

Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”

“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."

Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."

Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.

Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.

"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"

“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”

“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”

McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”

Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”

The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.

The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.

“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)

She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.

Theo froze.

Pomfrey halted mid-step. Flitwick winced. Even Snape straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)

Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.

She was shaking.

“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”

Everyone froze.

Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.

Something twisted painfully in his chest.

“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)

Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.

Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.

“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.

She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.

McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.

“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”

Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”

Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”

The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.

Theo stiffened, then sighed.

“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”

The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.

Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.

He ignored the stares.

The whispers.

The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.

Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.

“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”

Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”

Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”

Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”

Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.

Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.

He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.

Not because it was loud.

But because it was wrong.

Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.

Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.

Theo just stood there.

Staring.

This was real. This was happening.

He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.

His stomach twisted.

This hardly seemed responsible.

Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.

Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.

He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.

He hesitated.

Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.

He stepped back.

She looked… peaceful.

Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.

Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.

He needed a cigarette. Immediately.

Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.

“Papà…”

It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.

Theo froze.

“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.

“Merda.” He muttered.

If he left and she woke up—

He glanced at the chair beside the bed.

Then back at her.

“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.

Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.

Just for tonight.

That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.

Just until she woke up.

Theo woke to pins and needles.

A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.

There was weight on him.

Warm. Solid.

Theo froze.

Slowly, carefully, he looked down.

She was asleep in his lap.

At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Theo stared.

His mind helpfully offered no explanation.

He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.

Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.

Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.

“This is a disaster.” He whispered.

She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.

He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.

For a long second, they just looked at each other.

Then her face brightened.

“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)

After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.

Because Merlin help him, she was competent.

She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.

The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.

She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.

Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.

“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)

He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was going to be a long day.

By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.

Theo was still in his pajamas.

He didn’t care.

The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.

He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.

He turned toward the common room—

And she bolted.

“—Oi, wait—!”

Too late.

She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.

“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”

She did not fall.

Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.

Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”

“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.

The room went dead silent.

Draco stared.

Lorenzo choked.

Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.

Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.

“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”

Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.

“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”

Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”

He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.

“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.

Mattheo snorted despite himself.

Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”

Mattheo blinked. Once.

Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.

Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.

“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”

Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.

Theo moved instantly.

“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”

Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”

Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”

Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."

“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.

The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)

Theo opened his mouth on instinct.

“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)

He stopped.

Because she wasn’t crying.

She wasn’t reaching for him.

She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.

She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.

Theo’s brain stalled.

Then—click.

The realization hit him like divine intervention.

An hour.

A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.

The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.

He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.

“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”

“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”

Theo was already turning away.

“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."

Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.

“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”

The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”

Mattheo looked down at her.

Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.

"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.

Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.

He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.

He shouldn’t feel guilty for this. Dammit.

It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.

He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.

And yet.

She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.

Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.

The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.

He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?

How would he keep her safe?

Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.

Merlin, he needed that.

When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.

She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.

Theo stepped closer.

Her face lit up the moment she saw him.

“Papà!”

Something eased in his chest.

At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.

Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.

And immediately—

“—achoo!”

She blinked. Sniffed.

Then again.

“Ach—ah—choo!”

Theo froze.

Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”

Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.

“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”

Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”

“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”

Theo swallowed.

“…Right.” He muttered.

He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Papà?” She asked softly.

Theo stopped.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)

Her shoulders relaxed instantly.

Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.

Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.

Theo caught her automatically.

She settled against him, warm and content.

And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.

It felt a lot like guilt.

And something dangerously close to resolve.

Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.

He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.

Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.

Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.

“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)

“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)

Theo froze.

Mom? She has a mom?

The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.

She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.

“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)

Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.

“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)

“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.

“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”

Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.

“You… you don’t know her name?”

The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.

The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.

“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)

“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.

“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."

Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.

“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)

“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)

Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.

He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”

Theo froze mid-lunge.

“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”

Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.

He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.

He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.

And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.

Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.

Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.

Still. He felt wrecked.

He promised he’d come back.

Repeated it, even.

Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.

It didn’t help.

She cried anyway.

Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.

Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.

So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.

Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.

The child sang.

Loudly.

Badly.

And every time Theo stopped responding—

“Papà?”

—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.

“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)

She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.

Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.

My God, was she clingy.

Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.

If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.

Clinging to the only constant she recognized.

Him.

The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.

He resisted.

Inside the stall, the singing faltered.

“Papà!” She called, sharper now.

“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)

The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.

Theo closed his eyes.

Unbelievable.

Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.

They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—

—and promptly ran straight into you.

You froze.

You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.

You firmly belonged to the former camp.

This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.

You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—

“Mama!”

The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.

Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.

“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.

“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.

You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.

Bianca frowned.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.

You spared Theo a glance.

He hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.

Bianca’s smile faltered.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.

“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.

Theo swallowed.

She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—

“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)

“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”

Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.

Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.

Flitwick blinked.

McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.

Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.

It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.

Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.

Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.

The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.

“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”

Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.

“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”

Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.

Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”

You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”

McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”

“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.

But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.

He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.

Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.

And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.

But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.

Theodore Nott was not a single father.

Absolutely not.

He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.

And yet.

If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.

It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.

So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.

He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.

You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”

“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”

“We can’t even speak the same language.”

“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”

“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”

The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.

You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”

Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.

“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”

His mouth opened—closed again.

“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”

The anger he’d carried with him faltered.

He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”

“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.

You hesitated. Took a breath.

“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”

Theo’s chest went cold.

“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”

You looked at him, eyes searching his face.

“Like what?” You asked.

He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”

Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”

His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”

“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”

He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.

Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."

"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"

"Fuck this." He said harshly.

You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”

He turned away before you could finish.

He needed a fucking cigarette.

Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.

“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.

He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.

He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.

The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.

But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.

You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.

“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”

Theo’s fingers stilled.

Truthfully, he wasn’t.

Not in the way you meant.

It wasn’t you he was grieving.

It was the future he thought he was building.

He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.

Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.

A home that wasn’t cold. A father who didn’t disappear into silence. A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.

He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.

Breaking the curse.

And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.

Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.

She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.

Would he turn into him?

Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?

Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?

Would his hands—

Theo’s breath hitched.

He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.

But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.

Perhaps he was driven to it.

He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.

He never got the chance to light it.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

Firm. Steady.

He stilled.

Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.

For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.

And there it was.

Your eyes.

Or rather—

Bianca’s.

His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.

"Achoo!"

Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.

“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”

The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.

Theo swallowed.

“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”

Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.

Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.

“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)

She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.

“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)

Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.

But experience had already taught him better.

If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.

He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.

Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.

Theo froze.

His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.

Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.

Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.

Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.

Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.

But it was you.

You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.

Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.

“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”

You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.

“I brought breakfast.”

Behind him, there was sudden movement.

Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.

She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.

“Mama!”

Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.

“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”

Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.

Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.

Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.

“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.

Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”

You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”

"Oh." He muttered.

“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”

You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.

Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”

You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”

Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.

“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)

Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)

Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)

Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.

You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.

Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.

Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.

Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.

A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.

You sat on his other side.

Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.

“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”

Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.

“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”

You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”

You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.

“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.

You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.

It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.

You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”

Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.

You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”

He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

You froze.

Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.

“Wow." He said simply.

You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”

Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.

Not really.

But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.

“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."

Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.

So he went.

There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.

Theo stared at it.

Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.

He handed it back.

“No?” Mattheo blinked.

“No.” Theo said flatly.

He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.

And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.

The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.

When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.

Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.

The second thing—

You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.

Fast asleep.

Theo stopped just inside the doorway.

Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.

You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.

Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He studied your face.

A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.

Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.

You stirred.

Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.

Theo froze.

Bianca was going to lose this one day.

She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.

He was going to lose this someday.

He didn't want to lose you.

He wanted you for the rest of his life.

The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.

He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.

Then you shifted again.

This time more sharply.

Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.

You stiffened.

“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.

You blinked.

You slowly sank back down, mortified.

Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.

Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”

Theo raised a brow.

You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”

He stayed silent, letting you dig.

“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”

Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.

You shot him a look, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”

Theo didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.

“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”

You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.

“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.

He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded, “Okay.”

Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.

A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.

The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.

You weren’t doing much better.

The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.

The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.

It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.

So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.

You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.

Apparently, it was a thing.

A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.

Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.

So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.

“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”

“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”

Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.

“…You’re a genius.”

So there you were.

The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.

Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.

Who cared about Bianca?

You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.

Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.

She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.

“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)

Theo obliged.

He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.

You watched from the blanket.

At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.

Then your gaze shifted.

Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.

And something in your chest shifted.

Warm.

Tight.

Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.

He stole your breath.

You stared at him.

At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.

Not your ending.

And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.

Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.

And now?

You got it.

You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.

You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.

A man you could build a life with.

But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.

And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.

It felt inevitable.

You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”

You bent to lift Bianca—

“No!” She protested instantly.

She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.

Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.

“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”

You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.

Theo noticed.

He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.

“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)

The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.

You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.

Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.

“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)

Theo froze.

The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.

Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.

You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"

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[yuunarii-arii]

Over the Countertop

Pairings: Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

tw: breeding kink, p in v, unprotected vaginal sex, degradation if you squint, possibly cringey a/n: I had fun writing this one 👀! this drabble is based on a prompt from when I asked @viperify to think of a random sentence, she chose "Tom Riddle has me bent over the kitchen counter." Yeahhhhhh... uh enjoy! (I'm still not used to writing smut, so any feedback is appreciated)

18+ MDNI

White light poured into kitchen through silk curtains, birds could be heard chirping, while wind blew in from the open window. Ever since you graduated from Hogwarts, your dear boyfriend Tom forced invited you to live with him at his flat; days living with him were quiet, you were close to the main streets, but far enough to get some peace; you enjoyed it to say the least, it felt domestic, you’ve memorized Tom’s strict routine, you prepare all his meals, tidy up the apartment, and with all your effort he thanks you for it— in ways he deemed best suited…

“Haaaah… You’re so tight...” Tom rasped into your ear, his chest pressed against your back, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, panties long forgotten on the floor. You were bent over the kitchen countertop, the cold surface chilling your exposed nipples, Tom thrusted his hips at a constant rhythm, hitting just the right spots that had your eyes rolling back.

You don’t know how things escalated so quickly, just moments ago you were preparing his morning tea, now you were bent over with your lover filling your empty hole; and Tom himself wasn’t sure what had gotten into him.

He was freshening himself up as you fixed the table for breakfast, and for a second his eyes laid on an ethereal sight; you were humming as you wore a simple light green apron atop your clothes, swaying to a song that could only be heard in your mind, unaware of the effect you held over the man. Everything about what you did looked so domestic, you weren’t even his wife, he hadn’t planned on it either, but the thought of you taking his last name created an underlying problem in his trousers.

Now, he has you beneath him, moaning his name like a mantra, squeezing so nicely around his cock, and he could only desire more. He needed to have you marked with a ring and a belly all swollen and round, just the thought of you waddling to the door, welcoming home from work had him chasing for his release. If he were to breed you, you would be completely his, mind, body, and soul, you wouldn’t be able to ever run away, and no man would dare to touch you.

You could feel your release getting closer, Tom began strong and deeper thrusts into your poor abused cunt, it had you screaming his name, your grip on the counter turned your knuckles white.

“Fuck— keep saying my name like that... Who do you belong to, doll? Who.” He demanded, yet he already knew the answer. You could barely respond, you were reduced to a moaning mess, but he didn’t take that for an answer; grabbing your chin, your tear filled eyes now staring at his lustful gaze, “Who do you belong to?  Answer me.” His voice darkened, laced with a possessive need, leaving a harsh smack on your ass, “You— You! I belong to— to you, Tom!” You desperately exclaimed, you were already so close, “Tom… Please, I need to-“

“You’ll cum when I let you, is that clear?” His hips moved faster against your ass; as sinful sounds echoed through the kitchen.

As he reached his climax, you begged for your release, you couldn’t hold back anymore; so, Tom quite mercifully granted your wish, sliding his hand between your thighs, rubbing against your swollen clit, his lips hovered beside your ear. “Let go for me,” he said in a breath; in one swift motion he joined you and came deep inside, continuing to pound into you as he chased his high.

You laid limp on the countertop, out of breath, the air was practically knocked out of your lungs; even after finishing, Tom continued to push his seed inside you with his fingers, “You better not lose a drop, love.” He commanded, stuffing the mixture of his and your release back inside, you nodded in response, but you were too fucked out at this point, you barely processed anything he had said. His lips traced over your neck, “you’re all mine…” his hands roamed your body, massaging right above your womb, no matter how long it’d take, he will see to it that you get pregnant. Until then, you would have to endure these spontaneous breeding sessions.

tags: @theodoresvalentine

©yuunari-arii 2025. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[lostmyremembrall]

༒ 𝑷𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑻𝒉𝒚 𝑨𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒐𝒕𝒆 ༒

𝐈𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐢𝐱 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐨𝐦!𝐓𝐨𝐦?

𝐃𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 𝐨𝐟 {𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐨𝐮𝐬 & 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝}

𝐈𝐬 𝐒𝐮𝐛!𝐃𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞? -> {𝑴𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝑮𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉}

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟏: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒏𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒔 Tom Riddle gets whatever he pleases. Even better if it belonged to someone else. So, when he spotted you talking with Abraxas Malfoy, it did not take long for him to approach you with a proposal.

Warning: No smut. Predator!Tom

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟐: 𝑫𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒚 Canopus Lestrange confronts Tom Riddle about approaching the reader, in the opium den that the Dark Lord had created specifically for the purest of the families. Tom Riddle had finally ruined the last of the purebloods, or perhaps they were rotten to begin with; I leave the judgement to you.

Warning: No smut. Mentions of excessive drinking, smoking. Womanizer!Tom

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟑: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 Summary: It is time for your first lesson. You notice Tom Riddle had gone through quite an effort to make you comfortable.

Warning: Nice!Tom with hints of Dom!Tom. Vanilla. Heavy sexual tension. Kissing.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟒: 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑨 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 Summary: You decide that you want to take a peek behind that polite facade of Tom Riddle, to finally understand why every girl seems to sigh and swoon at the mention of their night with Tom Riddle jr.

Warning: Minors DNI! Fingering. Praise kink. Tom stripping. Dumbification. Tom calling you 'princess'. Tom teasing you. Cum eating. Finger sucking. Forced orgasm.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟓 Summary: Tom guides through your first time taking him full.

Warning: Minors DNI! PinV. Praise kink. Dumbification. Tom calling you 'princess'. Tom teasing you. Size kink. Tom being "gentle".

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟔 Summary: You're exhausted from a long night already, but Tom can't help himself melt at the sight of you in your uniform skirt and socks. Tom decides to claim you by coming inside you.

Warning: Minors DNI! PinV. Praise kink. Dumbification. Degradation. Tom calling you 'princess'. Tom teasing you. Size kink. Tom being "gentle". Implied daddy. Spit kink. Breeding kink. Possessive!Tom. Dubcon. Manipulation. Slut shaming. Pervert!Tom. Predatory!Tom. Brief Professor kink. Voyeurism. wow this is a lot this is one kinky fic

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟕 Summary: Tom is insistent on you carrying his cum inside you until the next lesson. The trouble is, the plug seems to vibrate and stop at the most inconvenient moments. You come seeking Tom's help in the library if it is operating correctly. Tom offers to check as long as you stay quiet.

Warning: Minors DNI! Dumbification. Degradation. Tom teasing you. Size kink. Tom being "gentle". Implied daddy. Breeding kink. Possessive!Tom. Dubcon. Manipulation. Slut shaming. Pervert!Tom. Predatory!Tom. Voyeurism. Public sex/masturbation. Fingering. Plug. Soft!Dom! Tom.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟖 Summary: Ever since you gave yourself to him, it seems that Tom has grown tired of you. In a desperate attempt, you call him by the word you learned the other day. It is time for your next lesson: how to turn on a man.

Warning: Toxic relationship. Manipulative! Tom. Minors DNI. Daddy kink. Spanking. Slut shaming. Voyeurism. Dumbification. Degradation.

[professorrw]

The Next Riddle

Pairing: female reader x Tom Riddle

Request: tom riddle smut with breeding kink? 👀

Warnings: smut, 18+, some fluff, oral (female receiving), breeding kink, pet names (darling, dear, princess), unprotected sex, praising

A/N: Tom and reader are both 18! Requests open, taglist open, inbox open! Please like, comment, and reblog!

Tom was a planner. He knew exactly what he wanted to do after he graduated. The summer after yours and his seventh year you were married. You started dating in your fifth year and had been together ever since. Everyone knew you two as the perfect couple. You were both incredibly smart and good-looking. 

You came from a pureblood family that’s lineage was mostly Slytherins. Tom loved the fact that you were so pure. He knew that your children would be the best of the best. He was aching to impregnate you, but decided to wait until you were both out of school.

At the young age of nineteen you were husband and wife and living together in Britain. Tom deemed that the perfect time to have his first child. Your own parents were hoping to soon have a grandchild. They highly approved of Tom because of his talent and charming ways. You were aware that your husband wanted children and you couldn’t agree more. 

Keep reading

[g0ldendesiree]

Out of Your Head | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: when girls keep on trying to get Deans attention, you can’t help but get into your head about it.

request: yes/no

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 1.86k

authors note: hey you lot! I have just finished uni for the semester so the updates will be back to a more regular schedule!

The first time you met Dean, you assumed he was flirting as a joke.

Because guys like Dean Di Laurentis didn't look at girls like you.

Not really.

And definitely not twice.

But most certainly not in the way he was looking at you.

You were standing in line at a campus coffee shop, bundled into an oversized sweater, trying very hard not to notice the hockey players who had just walked in.

Then one of them stepped beside you “hey." That voice made the hair on the back of your neck stand.

You looked up.

Dean smiled.

Not a smirk.

Not some cocky grin.

Just a smile that, if you didn’t know any better felt genuine "hi?" You looked behind you as if he was looking through you, only to stupidly be faced with his teammates.

"I've seen you around."

Your immediate thought was that he was either blind or just s

Your second thought was that he was making fun of you.

But then he asked for your name.

And remembered it.

Because he showed up again a few days later.

And then again.

And somehow, against all logic, Dean kept choosing you.

Which six months later, left you still trying to understand why.

Not because Dean gave you any reason to doubt him. It was exact opposite, actually.

He was the most affectionate boyfriend you'd ever seen.

Which for a man that lived and breathed casual, it felt like you were waiting to wake up from this always.

Always touching you.

Always pulling you into his lap.

Always kissing your forehead.

Always looking at you like you were the prettiest girl in every room.

The problem was that your brain refused to let your heart accept it.

Years of insecurity didn't disappear because one beautiful hockey player loved you.

So most of the time they crept back in.

Like tonight.

You and Dean were at a team party.

The house was packed.

Music thumped through the walls.

Girls crowded around the hockey players.

And every few minutes you caught someone staring at Dean.

A blonde near the kitchen.

A brunette by the stairs.

Another girl who literally laughed and touched his arm while he was talking.

You knew Dean wasn't encouraging it because you knew he loved you.

But the little voice in your head was being particularly cruel tonight.

Look at them.

Look at you.

Of course they'd want him.

Why wouldn't they?

You found yourself drifting toward a quieter hallway.

Just for a minute.

Just to breathe.

Your feet carried you up to his room, the place you found yourself most nights.

A few minutes later you heard footsteps.

Then Dean's voice "thought I’d have to get some missing posters up soon.” You looked up to see him holding two drinks.

One for him.

One for you.

You forced a smile as your fingers dropped your bracelet “hey.” Dean immediately narrowed his eyes.

He knew you too well. In the few short months that you had been together, this man could read you like a book "what’s wrong?" He cocked his head as he shut the door behind him.

Dean handed you your drink as you frowned “it’s nothing.” You shook your head.

The boy crouched down in front of you “liar." He rested his hand on your knee as you looked away.

You knew it was one of those things that shouldn’t have been picking at your heart but it rang in your ears "it’s stupid." You pursed your lips together as you sucked at your teeth.

Deans fingers traced random shapes on the inside of your thigh "tell me anyway." You twisted the cup in your hands, clearly letting the mental coin toss play in your head.

He waited.

Patiently.

Eventually you sighed.

Tugging your fingers through your hair "I just-" You sipped at your drink as if it could buy you time.

Because you hated saying it out loud "I don't know." You shrugged almost wishing that he hadn’t caught you upstairs.

Dean stayed quiet.

So you continued "I look around at girls at these parties and they're all gorgeous." Your voice got smaller trying not to look stupid “then there's me."

Dean's entire face fell.

Not in annoyance.

In heartbreak.

Like hearing that hurt his soul “baby.” His hands pulled away from you.

As if he was walking on a tight rope trying to avoid hurting you.

You shrugged "it’s fine." You tried to convince yourself that it was normal to feel that way.

Dean was quick to disagree with you “it is absolutely not fine." You laughed weakly as you picked at the edge of your nail.

"It's not your problem."

The words didn’t get a chance to hang in the air before Dean decided that he had enough "the hell it isn't." Dean set his drink down on the floor and turned fully toward you.

His hands rested on your thighs "look at me." You hesitated and it made him repeat himself.

"Look at me."

So you did.

His expression was unbelievably serious "you think I settled for you?" He cocked his head as you almost looked annoyed.

Your eyes widened "what? No-" you went to explain yourself but he cut you off.

Dean wasn’t trying to argue with you but he really wanted to make sure that you got what he was saying “that's what you're saying." The hockey player sucked at his teeth “you think I looked at every girl on campus and somehow ended up with you by accident?"

You blinked as Dean leaned closer "I chose you." His words were both sweet and somehow effortless at the same time.

Your heart throbbed “Dean,” you couldn’t help it when you cracked a small smile.

His voice was barely a whisper “please listen to me.” His hand found yours as his squeezed.

It was as if you could hear a pin drop in here that’s how quiet Deans room was around you both "I like the way you laugh." Another finger intertwined with yours.

Still your heart pounded in your chest "I like the way you get excited when you're talking about something." All of the guys were used to listening to your tangents about what meats go on a sandwich or why the boys picked the wrong star in whatever Real Housewives collection they let you put on.

He licked his lips before he continued "I like that you snort when something's actually funny." You groaned knowing that it was something that he really wouldn’t let you live down.

Dean smiled as he nodded "I like every inch of you." Heat flooded your face as you scrunched your nose.

You sounded like a teen boy that had just been smothered in kisses by their grandmother "Dean." Your eyes rolled trying to act like you didn’t feel like you were drowning in love.

If you gave him the chance he’d kiss every inch of your body he’d do it "I do." Dean brought your hand up to his lips as he kissed your fingers.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles "you’re beautiful." You shook your head automatically.

Dean immediately caught it "nope." He narrowed his eyes at you like he had all the time in the world to deal with this.

"Dean-“

"No." He poked your cheek cutting you off "you don't get to argue with me about my own girlfriend." You laughed despite yourself.

"That's not how that works."

He stuck his tongue out at you "it is,” as he nodded.

"It isn't."

The two of you sounded like children "it absolutely is." His arm wrapped around your waist.

Strong.

Secure.

Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Besides."

He lowered his voice “do you know how obsessed I am with you?" His words sent shivers down your spine, shooting straight to your core.

You covered your face "oh my God." You shook your head as it was buried in your hands

"I'm serious."

You held back a laugh "you're ridiculous." Your cheeks were sore as you wanted his bed to swallow you.

Dean pulled your hands away as he wanted to see you "I am." He kissed your nose.

He had that smug look on his face as he had your total attention “but I'm also right." It was the truth.

Then your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then finally your lips.

Slow.

Soft.

Patient.

The kind of kiss that felt like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold winters morning.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours “you know what I see when I look at you?" You swallowed almost nervous about what you’d hear.

"What?"

His eyes dropped to your stomach before they quickly went back to your eyes “the girl I want to come home to." Your chest tightened as you knew all about how he wanted three kids.

His thumb drew circles against your wrist “who I want in my jersey at every game." Getting to see you sat in the crowd was almost just as good as getting to get you out of the jersey.

Another kiss on your lips.

He stopped as he took the chance to really look at you, "the girl I can't stop thinking about." His voice was soft as if he was worried he’d scare you.

And just like that he was ready to hit what felt like the nail in the coffin "the girl I love." Your eyes immediately filled and Dean noticed instantly.

"Oh no."

You laughed.

You raised your hand to stop him "don’t." You blinked rapidly to avoid tears falling.

He was quick to tease you "oh, she's crying." You sniffled as you shook your head.

"I'm not crying."

The hockey player laughed as he shook his head "she’s definitely crying." You shoved his shoulder.

Dean grinned as he sat down next to you, quickly pulling you onto his lap.

The moment you settled against him, he wrapped both arms around your middle and squeezed.

Tight and protective.

Like he was proud to be holding you.

Like he wanted the entire world to know you were his “you know," he murmured into your hair, "those girls at the party?" You groaned, shoving your head into the crook of his neck.

The boy grinned as he ran his fingers through your hair “they can look." If anything he enjoyed getting the chance to show you off.

He didn’t stop there, no he was actually convinced he was going to be the most insufferable boyfriend that day “they can stare." It made him smirk how you squirmed.

Your cheeks reddened as you whined, "stop." He laughed as he shook his head.

His fingers danced over the waist of your pants "because at the end of the day?" His lips brushed your temple as he let out a soft breath.

Dean let his fingers rest under your chin as he forced you to look at him "I get the girl I want." That was more than any public claim mattered.

And somehow, tucked safely against his chest while he held you like the most precious thing he'd ever touched, you almost believed him when he said it.

[pasukiyo]

Hi! Not sure if you are still taking requests but I had an idea and so I was curious like Tom has no interest in Quidditch at all, a big zero but! How would Tom react when he comes to the play for the first time, because he promised reader that he would come and watch her play and then something goes wrong and he sees her gets badly hurt?

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 | tom riddle

tom riddle x f!hufflepuff reader 5,694 words warnings: fluff (for once) slight angst summary: tom riddle wasn’t one for quidditch. or love. but everything he thought would be questioned the moment you convince him to come to a quidditch match, and he nearly loses you. it all feels like a dream.

 Tom Riddle remembered the day he began to fall in love all too well.

 It started off a day like any other, he remembered sitting in the Great Hall for breakfast, Tiernan Lestrange and Clarence Avery at his sides, the others on the opposite side of the table. The two of them were bickering back and forth about some Slytherin girl they both seemed to fancy, the others snickering behind their goblets while Tom remained silent, frankly quite uninterested in the topic as he chose to instead engross himself in his Astronomy book. 

 “She always sits nearest to me in Potions,” Tiernan was saying, leaning forward to glare at Clarence over the table. “It must be true love then, right Lestrange?” Liam Mulciber sniggered from behind the rim of his cup, and Tiernan turned to curl his lip at him. 

 “Well, she let me borrow her Divination book,” Avery replied, a smug look washing over his pale face. “I don’t suppose she lets you borrow any of her things?”

 “Divination?” Dolohov snorted across the table. “You don’t need the book for that class, all you have to do is make stuff up. Really, Clarence, she probably just thinks you’re stupid.”

 Lestrange’s body trembled with the force of his laugh, and Tom narrowed his eyes, trying to will his mind back on the black, inky words of his Astronomy book.

 “That’s not true,” Avery hissed, cheeks seared with scarlet flame. “I’ll have you know that I have top marks in—“

 “Would the two of you be so kind as to take your argument elsewhere?” Tom’s eye twitched and he tore through the conversation like a knife, leaving the others to tighten their lips, not daring to make even the smallest of sounds. “I am trying to read.”

 For a moment, all was silent, and the group blinked at Tom as his shoulders heaved in a sigh, attempting to re-immerse himself back in his book. Lestrange swallowed the boulder-sized lump that had formed at the base of his throat, bowing his head, the others following suit. “Yes, of course. Sorry, my Lord.”

 They didn’t dare utter a word for the remainder of breakfast and eventually, they all up and left, leaving Tom on his own at the Slytherin dining table, save for a group of third years at the end. At last, he could read in peace without the others breathing down his neck or arguing over something as silly as love in his ear. 

 Just as he flipped to the next page of the book, the doors to the Great Hall slammed open, laughter and conversation pinging off the stone walls of the large room, Tom’s focus all at once being thrown off course. His eye twitched again as he snapped his head up to the source of all the noise, his gaze following the mass of yellow Quidditch uniforms as they made their way over to the table on the far side of the Hall. 

 And just at the head of the group was her, hair swept back into a ponytail, her eyes locking onto his even from all the way across the room. Her face split into a brilliant smile and she raised a leather-clad hand above her head, wobbling it in a wave. 

 Tom Riddle blinked. 

 It was classic. It was her. 

 He should’ve anticipated this. She was always there, and for a reason unbeknownst to him, he was always drawn to her, could always feel her presence in a room, could always find her in a crowd. It was frustrating. It was irritating. It was disgusting. 

 He remembered watching as she sat to join the other Hufflepuff Quidditch players at their table— they must’ve had an early morning practice. He wasn’t sure why he felt inclined to care—after all, it was no secret that Tom Riddle loathed Quidditch. 

 He could never understand the interest. Why watch a bunch of fools fly around on broomsticks and toss balls into hoops when there were more beneficial ways to spend your time on? To be quite frank, Tom saw Quidditch as nothing more than a waste of time. 

 But even then, he still couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from her. Seeker and Captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team— he’d heard she was actually quite good at the sport, but a series of losses seemed to muddy her reputation. He’d heard other Houses snicker about it before— “Hufflepuff’s Captain caught the Snitch again, but the team was still down nearly two hundred points, and they lost anyway. Honestly, how unlucky can you be?” 

 How unfortunate, indeed. 

 Even then, she seemed content with her team, her House, everything. Tom couldn’t seem to understand how someone could be so happy, so fine with having to settle with everyone else’s ignorance. Nevertheless, there she was, laughing and cheering with the rest of the Hufflepuff team, as if they weren’t the worst Quidditch team Hogwarts had seen in years. 

 She must’ve felt Tom’s stare on her, for he could see even from all the way across the Hall how she blinked and turned her head, her eyes quick to find his. Her face lifted into a grin and she raised her hand to wave again. 

 Tom pursed his lips and slammed his Astronomy book closed. He needed to leave. 

 Tucking his book under his arm, he pushed himself away from the Slytherin dining table, striding towards the double doors of the Great Hall. He could feel eyes beading into the back of his head and he sniffed at the feeling, willing himself to keep his head forward. 

 He couldn’t understand why she was capable of getting so into his head. No one had ever had such an effect on him before, so why her? They were polar opposites— she loved Quidditch, she loved being around people, she was outgoing, fun, and he was… well, quite introverted. 

 People adored him, even he, himself, knew it. He guessed it came with being Head Boy, along with his services to the school. But Tom was less than appreciative towards the attention he received— he wanted nothing more than to be left alone, whether it be by the other students or the teachers. Professor Slughorn, in particular, was one of his biggest obstacles. Even his followers were as burdensome as they were irritating, more times than not. 

 All Tom Riddle really needed was himself. He didn’t care for anyone else, and he never would. He had come this far without trusting anyone— so why did he feel like that all could potentially come crashing down because of her? Why did he feel a pull towards her, like metal to a magnet? 

 The irritation with himself grew like a weed inside of him and with each angry step he took up the Grand Staircase, he tore through his annoyance with a blade. He needed to get a grip on himself, and as he made his way down one of Hogwarts’ many long corridors, he chanted the same phrase over and over again inside of his head:

 You do not need anyone else. 

 He spent the latter half of the morning and the beginning of the afternoon in the Library, forcing his mind into the hardcover spread on the table before him, his fingers gripping either edge of the book like it was the only thing anchoring him down to the inky, black words on the pages. Still, he could not rid his mind of the Hufflepuff girl— but why? He tried to remember every interaction he had ever had with her, if there was anything she had said that seemed to stick with him. Instead, the image of her smile and the memory of her warm, benevolent words made his insides twist with a feeling he didn’t even want to acknowledge. 

 He’d tried his best up to this point to make himself as unlikeable as possible— but even being short with her or brushing her off altogether never seemed to steer her off course. She was always just there, finding him even during the rush of lunch or dinner, asking how his day was or wondering how he felt about his classes. She seemed to try to find anything to say that may keep his attention. 

 She was nothing if not for her persistence. 

 And no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that she was annoying, he still found himself thinking of her, his mind burning with the way her face would split into a smile when she saw him, how happy she always seemed to be to see him. 

 He hated how fluttery his heart would feel at the notion that perhaps, she fancied him, his stomach doing somersaults at the idea of a relationship with her.

 Tom blinked down at his book. 

 This was really getting quite annoying. 

 For the second time that day, he slammed his book closed and sighed, leaning back into his seat, absentmindedly staring at the old hardcover. Perhaps a walk would suffice in clearing his mind— yes. Maybe all he needed was some fresh air in his lungs. 

 He pulled away from his seat and tucked the book away in his knapsack, nodding his head in acknowledgment to the old Librarian as he pushed the doors of the Library open. Keeping his lips pressed tight together, he clasped his hands behind his back as he ventured down the hallway towards the entrance to the Hogwarts Grounds, breathing the fresh air into his nostrils when he pushed the doors open, the afternoon sun kissing his pale cheeks. 

 The Grounds were bustling with students, which made sense, considering it was a Saturday. He just hoped he looked as unapproachable as possible— the last thing he needed was for someone to bother him, and he desperately hoped his followers weren’t around. He wasn’t confident he’d be able to bear their company without snapping at the moment. 

 It was warm today, the breeze adding the perfect amount of chill. The sky was a bright blue, and only a few wispy clouds painted its canvas. He thought for sure his mind would clear in no time—it was a beautiful day, after all. That was until just up ahead from the North exit of the Grounds emerged a group of students in bright yellow uniforms, their leader being none other than the very girl he had been trying to rid from his mind. 

 And of course, she was looking his way, and of course she was trotting up to him, that damned face illuminated with that damned smile. 

 “Tom!” She exclaimed as she jogged up, and once she was in front of him, he could see the faint traces of dirt on her cheeks, as well as the way the skin on her hairline glistened with a thin layer of sweat. His gaze flickered to her lips as her tongue swiped between them, and for a moment, he eyed the way her chest heaved as she caught her breath. 

 He could practically feel the knot tying itself at the base of his throat. 

 He cleared his throat and murmured her name in acknowledgment, nodding his head. “It’s a fine day today, isn’t it?” She asked, squinting her eyes as she gazed up at the sky. “I was lucky to have reserved the pitch for practice this morning. Finally beat your Neil Lament to the punch, for once.”

 He blinked— why was it that he suddenly seemed interested in Quidditch so long as she was the one talking about it?

 “Yes, I suppose,” he replied, his voice sounding void of emotion. This would usually be enough to scare anyone away— but not her. 

 “You know, I wish you’d come to our Quidditch matches, at least every once and awhile,” she leaned in, nudging his arm with her elbow. Tom tensed at the touch, the little hairs on the back of his neck standing erect, his skin erupting into flame in her touch’s wake. “We play Slytherin next Saturday, and we looked really good at practice today. Perhaps we’ll even have a shot at getting our first win of the season!”

 She trailed off, suddenly looking anywhere but at him. “I’d… I’d really love it if you’d come.”

 She blinked up at him, and she seemed to flush when he met her gaze, clasping a hand over her wrist. Tom could hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest at the realization that for some strange reason, he felt he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he disappointed her. His voice hardly felt like his own when he said, “perhaps, I will.”

 She blinked once, twice, thrice, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Tom, himself, couldn’t quite believe the words that had tumbled from his mouth either. 

 “Really?” Her lips curved into a grin and she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth— Tom hoped the swift glance he stole to her mouth was as discreet as he intended it to be. She grasped the handle of her broomstick with either hand and she turned her head to glance over her shoulder at her team where they stood waiting, calling out her name and waving her back.

 She tried to conceal her smile as she began to back away from Tom, hugging her broom to her chest. “I’ll hold you to your word then,” she said. “I expect to see you there!”

 Tom watched as she turned and bounded back to her team, peering back over her shoulder at him as the others dragged her away towards the castle. 

 Tom couldn’t believe he agreed to go to a Quidditch match— something he’d avoided altogether for seven years— all because she said she wanted him to. Tom swallowed a lump of saliva back down his throat— strangely enough, he found himself looking forward to the match next week. 

 He didn’t think the Quidditch match that next Saturday could come any sooner. Of course, he’d seen her around the castle, but something within him couldn’t quite wait to see her reaction when she noticed him in the questionable Quidditch stands. 

 Course, he still didn’t understand why he felt the urge to go in the first place. Why was it that he hated the idea of letting her down if he didn’t show up?

 If Saturday had only crept up on him, then the time for the match to begin made a break straight for him and sent him pummeling to the ground— and it was only when he entered the empty Slytherin common room that he realized he was running terribly late. 

 He made haste for the common room exit, failing to notice the group of boys looming in the corner until they were right on his heels, and he stiffened at the sound of someone’s voice.

 “My Lord, we’ve been waiting for you all morning.”

 He turned to gaze at his followers, expression as hard as stone. Liam Mulciber was at the head of the group, and the ball at the base of his throat visibly bobbed when he swallowed, realizing nobody else was going to speak up. 

 “Forgive me for asking you of this, my Lord,” he murmured, wetting his lips with his tongue. Tom only looked at him, not bothering to feign interest. “Well, I… we… were wondering where you were going,” Liam managed at last, his shoulders now lax as he inhaled. Tom sniffed, “since when did my whereabouts become your business?”

 Liam Mulciber’s body tensed again, and the others seemed to be more interested in the floor than Tom. Mulciber’s lips moved to speak again, but the ticking of the mental clock in Tom’s mind was thundering now— he was late. 

 “If you all are done interrogating me now, I’d like to get moving,” Tom said simply, turning to push open the door of the common room. “I have somewhere to be.” 

 Tom left them in the common room speechless, the sound of the door slamming shut behind him echoing in the Slytherin dungeons. His heavy, methodical footsteps were next to permeate the stone corridor as he strode to the exit, pushing open the next set of doors until he was on the steps of the Grand Staircase. Seeing as nobody else was around, he fell into an uncharacteristic sprint up the stairs. 

 “Is that Tom Riddle?” One of the paintings on the wall asked somewhere behind him.

 “I suppose it is! Hah! Never seen that boy run a day in his life. Always so aloof, that one is,” he could hear another one say. He didn’t allow himself the time to even scowl at this remark. 

 He bursted through the doors leading to the Hogwarts Grounds, and just over the stone walls on the far side of the yard, he could see the top of the Quidditch pitch, a flurry of yellow and green uniforms every once and awhile peeking from behind the stands. He could hear the muffled cheers and chants even from all the way down where he stood and he huffed, making a break for the North exit. 

 When he finally arrived, he clambered up the first set of stairs leading up to the nearest green stand he could find, dusting off his robes and huffing when he reached the top. 

 So this is what the Quidditch pitch looked like, he thought to himself. He’d never been up in the sketchy wooden stands, never been on the pitch itself, never even been within feet from the bleachers. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him as he sat in the nearest available seat in the front row, pressing his lips together and clenching his jaw, ignoring the murmurs behind him. 

 “Jason Wilbrook scores another ten points for Hufflepuff! Hufflepuff is now up eighty to thirty!” 

 The Slytherin students around Tom all grumbled, the stands on either side erupting into cheers, chanting for Hufflepuff. He blinked— although he knew absolutely nothing that was going on in the game itself, he knew it was an absolute rarity that Hufflepuff was actually winning, and against Slytherin for that matter. 

 He scanned the air and the different players in yellow uniforms until he saw her, dormant where she sat on her broom, her ponytail whipping behind her as she searched— more than likely for the Snitch. But when she looked down and her line of vision seemed to aim straight for him, he knew the little golden ball wasn’t the only thing she had been looking for. 

 Even from all the way down where he was, he could see the way her skin lit up as her lips curved into that bright smile of hers, and he could already see her leather-clad hand raising above her hand to wobble down at him in a wave. Tom didn’t make any moves to reciprocate, but he couldn’t seem to peel away from her either. Not even when something small but shiny whipped by her and she gasped, squeezing the handle of her broom with either hand as she leaned forward in pursuit of the Snitch. 

 “Oh! It seems Hufflepuff’s Seeker has spotted the Snitch!” The announcer’s voice bellowed from the amplifier in his hand. “Hufflepuff scores another ten points, making the score ninety to thirty but— uh oh, it seems Slytherin’s own Seeker, Neil Lament, has spotted the Snitch as well!”

 It was all happening so fast, but still, Tom’s eyes were trained on her and the way her yellow uniform whipped behind her as well as her hair while she chased the Snitch. Neil Lament, a burly seventh year with olive skin was at her side, his lips curled in a snarl as he rammed his shoulder into her, nearly knocking her from her broom. 

 Tom could taste bile on his tongue and his brow deepened with a scowl. The other Slytherins around him were chanting Neil’s name, yelling foul things about her, things that he hadn’t even realized were making his blood boil until he felt his cheeks warm with vexation. 

 “Hufflepuff scores another ten points and— oh, Merlin! Neil Lament has shoved the Hufflepuff Seeker and—“

 Tom needn’t hear more. He saw it as it happened. 

 Neil was seething, and seemed to have enough with this race. Gripping the handle of his broomstick with black leather gloves, he used all of the strength he could muster in his body to throw his shoulder into the girl beside him and her fingers slipped from her broom, just barely managing to latch back on before it was too late. 

 With her heart thudding against her chest, she willed her balance back onto her broom, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as she looked up and—

 —everything went black. 

 Tom’s lips parted as he watched the large, mud-colored ball ram into the side of her head before dashing away as if nothing had happened. He watched as her fingers unhooked from around her broom and her eyelids fluttered closed, her consciousness slipping away from her as she fell slack, her body limp as it fell from the broom and began to make its long descent for the ground. 

 Tom’s fingers were curled around the wand in his robes before he could even wrap his head around what was happening, his lips parting and forming the word “Levioso!” just before her body could hit the ground below. His blood was running cold, frost icing over his lungs as he guided her down into the green of the pitch, and he released his breath as soon as she was sprawled on the grass. 

 Everything after was a blur. 

 He barely remembered the trip down the wobbling wooden stairs of the stands, hardly remembered searching for the entrance to the pitch, but he did remember when a group of teachers emerged from beneath one of the stands, her body limp in the arms of Albus Dumbledore. 

 His feet were moving without his brain willing them to, and it wasn’t long before the professors acknowledged his presence. 

 “Tom, my boy,” Professor Slughorn’s lips curved into a smile as he grabbed his shoulders, locking him in place as her body was being taken away. His eyes couldn’t leave her. “That was you that casted the Levicorpus charm on her, yes? I must say, I admire your quick thinking and—“

 “Apologies, Professor. But I wish to see to her—“

 “Not to worry, dear boy,” Slughorn clapped his shoulder, brushing a piece of lint from the black of Tom’s robes. “Rest assured, Madame Everleigh will see to it that she’s nursed back to full health. Now, in the meantime—“

 Tom couldn’t bear to hear whatever it was Slughorn had to say next. He was tearing away from the professor’s grip and making long strides toward the castle where Albus Dumbledore, along with the rest of the teachers, disappeared into. His feet were on autopilot, making a beeline for the Hospital Wing. 

 When he finally arrived, she was already settled onto a bed, Dumbledore and a few other teachers talking amongst themselves as the Matron, Madame Everleigh, tended to her. Albus Dumbledore caught Tom’s eyes where he stood at the entrance to the infirmary. He excused himself from the other teachers and sauntered over to where Tom stood, hands clasped behind his back. 

 “That was some quick thinking you had back there,” Professor Dumbledore praised, but Tom was hardly comprehending his words. “Is she alright?” Was all Tom could bring himself to ask, and Dumbledore turned to glance over his shoulder before turning back to Tom, pursing his lips and nodding his head. “She’s unconscious, but she’s stable. She’ll definitely wake up with a ghastly headache, that’s for certain.”

 Tom blinked, expressionless. He wasn’t one for humor. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore already knew that. He wouldn’t question it, for now. 

 “I’m sure Madame Everleigh will have nursed her back to consciousness soon,” Dumbledore said. “She needs rest. I wouldn’t suppose Mrs Everleigh would find any issue in you keeping her some company, so long as you stay out of her way.”

 Tom bowed his head, and Dumbledore reciprocated as he watched the Head Boy pass by, noting the concern the boy had for the girl lying on the hospital bed. Interesting, Albus Dumbledore thought to himself before ambling towards the exit, pushing open the door in front of him. 

 Madame Everleigh paid him no mind, most likely not even realizing he was there at all as she fluffed the pillow beneath the girl’s head, making sure it was well supported. The other teachers had since dispersed, leaving the only ones left in the infirmary Tom Riddle, Madame Everleigh, the Hufflepuff Captain, and a young Gryffindor on the opposite wall, groaning into a large tin bucket. 

 Tom cleared his throat and it was then that Madame Everleigh acknowledged his presence, blinking up at him. “Excuse me, Madame Everleigh,” he began. “You wouldn’t mind if I stayed and kept her some company, would you?”

 Madame Everleigh shrugged, her small frame circling the bed to reach for something from the table on the other side. “So long as you stay out of my way, I see no problem with it.”

 Tom Riddle spent the afternoon sitting in a chair at her bedside, letting Madame Everleigh tell the other Hufflepuff Quidditch players her condition when they finally arrived, a somber air around them as they grumbled about their loss when the game had started off so promising. 

 It wasn’t until after dinner that the girl on the bed finally began to stir, and Tom pushed himself up on his seat, blinking down at her as her eyelids began to peel open. She grumbled something incoherent as she cradled the side of her head, the very one the bludger had hit hours before. 

 When she finally came to, she squinted over to the boy at her bedside. “Tom?” Her voice was low in a hoarse whisper, and Madame Everleigh was quick to join her at her other side, holding a cup of water to her lips. 

 “You will be sore for a while,” the Matron informed her. “It’s best if you stay here and rest for the time being. You’re lucky you weren’t unconscious for days.”

 She waited until Madame Everleigh was gone before turning back to Tom, even in pain, her face splitting into a smile. “Quite the first Quidditch match for you, wasn’t it?” 

 Tom, with his expression as hard as ever, leaned back in his seat and scoffed, not a hint of amusement on his face. He couldn’t believe she was cracking jokes when she was in pain, when he was over here worried for her. Her ignorance was astounding. 

 “You were hurt,” he replied, voice deep and rumbling. Her smile dropped and she frowned, furrowing her brows. “But I’m alright now,” she replied, narrowing her eyes at him. For a few moments, neither said anything. Her gaze was penetrating, as if she were trying to see through him. 

 None had ever tried and succeeded before. 

 “You were worried for me, weren’t you?”

 Until now. 

 Tom blinked, his eye twitching as he tore his gaze away from her, choosing to instead peer out the windows on the far wall. It was all becoming too real, this ever-growing feeling inside of him for the girl before him. Up until now, he could’ve played it off as being all in his head. But now that she was saying it aloud— it was too much. Too real. 

 She released a breathy laugh, and she reached to prod a finger against his forearm, his skin tingling with the phantom of her touch. “You were totally worried about me,” she tittered. “How lucky am I to have Tom Riddle, Hogwarts’ very own Head Boy looking after me?”

 Tom sunk his molars into the flesh of the inside of his cheek and he sniffed, shifting in his seat. “Do you want an award or something?” He questioned, and she chuckled. “Now he’s making jokes?” She raised an eyebrow to her hairline. “You’re full of surprises, Tom Riddle.”

 “It’s called being sarcastic.”

 “Is it?”

 Tom pressed his lips together to form thin, white lines and after a few beats, she turned back to look at him. “What happened after I got a bludger to the head?” She asked, noting the blackness outside the hospital windows. Tom shifted in his seat. “I left after you were injured,” he replied. “Your teammates came to visit.”

 She perked at this. “What did they say? Did we win?” She asked, and Tom shook his head. “They said they substituted another Seeker in for you. Hufflepuff lost one hundred to two hundred and forty.”

 She groaned and banged her fist against the mattress, spatting a “damn!” She grumbled, “if not for that blasted Neil Lament, I would’ve had the Snitch and we would have actually won for once.”

 Tom scoffed at this and she eyed him from the corner of her sockets. “What?” The wrinkle in her brow deepened at this. “Last I checked, you don’t even care for Quidditch. Why should you care if your team gets another measly win?”

 Tom rolled his eyes, “I don’t care about Quidditch. It’s the fact that you’re fussing over a damn sport when you’re lying in a hospital bed, injured.” 

 Silence swept over them like a wave and she blinked over at Tom who couldn’t bring himself to look at her anymore, staring out the windows instead, his arms folded over his chest. She eyed his pale skin, the sharpness of his jaw, his full, pink lips as they pursed together, his piercing, dark eyes as they looked anywhere but at her. 

 She could feel her heart as it drummed in her chest, a warmth washing over her that she’d felt many times before. She ached with affection for him, ached with want, with desire. And now that he was sitting here, her only acquaintance in the otherwise empty hospital— save for the small Gryffindor boy now sound asleep on the other side of the room— she felt a burning in her chest, a burning of hope that he felt the same way too. 

 After all, why else would he spend his entire day sitting with her until she woke up when he was always so insistent on using his time for other more important things? With the clearing of her throat, she mustered all the confidence she could to her mouth as her words formed on the tip of her tongue. 

 “You know, if I didn’t know any better Tom, I’d think you were falling for me.”

 Her heart was racing, especially when he turned to gaze back down at her, that murky, black stare of his piercing right through her. She felt like she was suffocating the longer he made her wait for his response, she could feel the crimson heat as it crept to her cheeks. 

 Tom Riddle was usually calm, cool, and collected, always knew what to say and when to say it. This was the first time he could remember being rendered speechless. 

 It was real now— never had anyone been able to see through him before, no one had ever been able to see him, to slowly begin to figure him out. But she did. She somehow knew about this strange and foreign feeling within him, something he wasn’t sure what to name. Attraction? Desire? Infatuation? Love?

 Could this be love? Could love be this sudden, this unexpected? Could this be what love was, to care so deeply for someone without even fully understanding why? To burn for someone else, to have your heart beat erratically at just the idea of them? Was love something else?

 Tom didn’t know. But perhaps, this was what it was like to fall in love with someone else. This was a day he’d remember all too well. 

 Tom straightened in his seat and cleared the heavy lump in his throat, his lip quivering as he opened his mouth, although unsure what to say. “Perhaps, I am.”

 Her lips parted and her brows knit together, and suddenly, she didn’t feel like she’d just taken a bludger to the head, or that she had nearly fallen to her death only hours ago. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than for Tom Riddle to kiss her. Her lips were practically throbbing with the idea of Tom’s on them. 

 “I don’t know whether or not I’m dreaming right now. And I really, really hope I’m not,” she murmured, losing herself further into the darkness of his eyes until she couldn’t tell when she ended and he began anymore. “Perhaps I’m dead and this is all just a hallucination,” she whispered, breathless. “Whether or not this is real, I’d really like for you to kiss me right now.”

 Tom could feel warmth surge through him at her words, his lip quivering as he leaned forward, their faces now so close, their lips but mere wisps against one another. “I hope you aren’t dreaming either,” he murmured and she trembled, feeling her lungs shudder in her chest. 

 And then Tom’s lips were on hers, and she was sure this was real. 

 Tom Riddle’s lips were on hers, soft and pliant, kissing her with an urgent, tender need. If she was a candle, then he was her flame, and she was melting like wax, sinking further and further down into the plush of the hospital bed’s mattress. If it weren’t for the pain in her head, she’d follow his lips when he pulled away, blinking down at her. Her gaze met his and his irises were so dark, she couldn’t quite tell when his pupils began or ended. 

 All she could feel was his hot breath as it lingered like an ember on her skin, and she shuddered as she exhaled. “If I’m dreaming, please don’t pinch me,” she whispered, and Tom breathed, the closest she’d ever heard him come to a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured back and the corners of her lips curved into a smile, a giggle slipping through the cracks. 

 Tom Riddle was making a joke. 

a/n; i literally just finished writing this like twenty minutes ago and i shit you not, i wrote the last like 3k words of this in one sitting 😭 not sure how i feel about the beginning, but i think i feel good about my writing at the end for once. and i actually wrote fluff and not smut for once!! look at me!! anyways, IM NOW CAUGHT UP WITH REQUESTS! so feel free to send in more if you’d like lol

| 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 |

@darkmoviesquotespizza @lyis @upsidedownspidey @michelle-26

[wolfstarstatic]

”domestic.”

tom riddle x reader arranged marriage au

fluff and slight angst if you squint

after the war your marriage with tom becomes almost domestic

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

The manor had never felt warm before.

Not truly.

It had always been polished marble floors and tall windows that let in cold moonlight, endless hallways, silver cutlery, quiet voices. Beautiful in the sort of way statues were beautiful — untouchable. Empty.

But after the war your marriage with tom changed that, you were seventeen when you found out you where to be married to one of your closest friends it was a smart match of course you both cared deeply for each other and gradually that turned into love.

tonight there was laughter echoing through the drawing room, a fire crackling too loudly because Blaise had insisted on making it “dramatic,” and someone — likely Draco — had already stolen expensive wine from Tom’s private cabinet.

Christmas lights glowed softly around the dark green garlands draped over the banisters. Snow fell beyond the manor windows in slow, heavy flakes.

And for once, Tom didn’t mind the noise.

He stood near the doorway watching the room with that same composed expression he always wore, though the edges of it softened when his eyes found you curled into the corner of the velvet sofa beside Daphne and theodore.

Daphne Greengrass was midway through telling a story about one of her Ministry coworkers embarrassing themselves at a gala while Draco interrupted every ten seconds to “improve” the details.

“You weren’t even there,” Daphne snapped.

“I spiritually was.”

“That does not count.”

“It should.”

Blaise laughed from where he lounged across an armchair while Regulus quietly hid a smile behind his glass.

The war had changed all of them.

Not in obvious ways. None of them spoke about it directly anymore.

But there was a carefulness now. A sort of quiet gratitude that settled beneath moments like this. They stayed longer at dinners. Let conversations wander. Let silence exist without needing to fill it.

As if they all understood how close they had come to never having this again.

You looked up then, catching Tom standing in the doorway.

The smallest smile crossed your face.

That was all it took.

He crossed the room without a word, long strides effortless against the hardwood floor. Even now, even after years together, there was something unfair about how striking he was — tall enough that everyone else seemed diminished beside him, dark curls slightly messy from Blaise shoving at him earlier, black sweater sleeves rolled to his forearms.

At twenty-one, Tom Riddle had grown into something intimidating.

Except with you.

Never with you.

You barely had time to tilt your head before he stopped behind the sofa and slipped both arms around your waist from behind.

The conversation around the room continued uninterrupted — no one reacted anymore. They were all painfully used to it.

Because after the war, Tom had become almost embarrassingly attached to you.

Not clingy in words.

Tom Riddle would probably die before admitting he needed affection.

But physically?

It was impossible to miss.

A hand at the small of your back. Fingers brushing yours beneath dinner tables. Pulling you against his side during conversations. Sitting far too close whenever you were together.

Like he needed constant reassurance you were still there.

Now he rested his chin gently on top of your head, his arms tightening once around your middle.

You leaned back against him automatically.

“There you are,” you murmured.

“I was gone for four minutes.”

“And yet.”

Draco made a visible face of disgust.

“Merlin,” he muttered. “You two are revolting.”

“You’re only upset because no one loves you that much,” Blaise replied lazily.

Daphne snorted into her drink.

Regulus looked deeply interested in the fireplace suddenly.

Tom ignored them entirely.

His hands stayed spread against your stomach, fingers absentmindedly flexing against the fabric of your sweater. You could practically feel the exhaustion lingering in him even now — months after the battle.

He carried himself like someone invincible. Everyone believed he was.

But late at night, when the manor went quiet, he held you like he was afraid the world might take you away while he slept.

You reached up, touching his wrist lightly.

His shoulders loosened beneath your hand almost instantly.

It still startled you sometimes, how touch-starved he truly was beneath everything else.

Growing up without softness left marks on people.

Tom just hid his better than most.

“You know,” Daphne said carefully, watching the two of you with amusement, “when your families arranged this marriage back at Hogwarts, I genuinely thought one of you would murder the other.”

Draco nodded immediately. “Specifically him.”

“I still might,” Tom said flatly into your hair.

You smiled. “He’s lying. He likes me.”

Tom turned his head slightly, pressing his face further into your hair for a brief second before answering.

“She’s unfortunately correct.”

Blaise placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “And he admits it publicly now. True love is real.”

“Get out of my house.”

“No.”

The room dissolved into overlapping laughter again.

And standing there wrapped in Tom’s arms while snow fell outside the manor windows and your friends filled the house with noise, you realized something quietly.

For the first time in his life, Tom had built something that wasn’t based on fear.

Not power.

Not control.

Just this.

Warmth.

The conversation eventually dissolved into comfortable chaos.

Draco and Blaise had moved to the floor beside the fireplace arguing over wizard chess while Regulus quietly cheated on Blaise’s behalf. Daphne sat curled into one end of the sofa with a book she definitely wasn’t reading, occasionally looking up just to insult Draco.

The manor felt alive tonight.

Warm.

You stood in the kitchen balancing two mugs of tea in your hands when you felt him before you heard him.

Tom’s presence had become familiar in the strangest way — the subtle shift in the room whenever he entered it, the quiet sound of his footsteps, the warmth that appeared at your back seconds later.

His hands slid around your waist immediately.

Always your waist.

Like it was instinct now.

“You disappeared,” he murmured against the side of your head.

You smiled softly. “I walked twenty feet away.”

“Still counts.”

“You’re needy after the war.”

Tom made a low unimpressed sound at the accusation, though his grip tightened slightly instead of loosening.

You leaned back against his chest with an amused sigh. Even at nearly twenty, you still felt small compared to him. Tom was unfairly tall — all long limbs and broad shoulders and quiet intensity — and he used it constantly.

Especially now.

Especially with you.

He rested his chin on top of your head again while you stirred sugar into the tea.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The kitchen lights were dim, golden against the dark marble counters. Snow drifted beyond the windows in slow spirals.

From the drawing room came the muffled sound of Draco yelling that Regulus was “psychologically manipulative.”

Tom’s fingers brushed lazily against the fabric covering your stomach.

“You’re tired,” you said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You nearly fell asleep standing up earlier.”

“That’s slander.”

You laughed softly, turning slightly in his arms until you could look up at him.

He looked exhausted.

Beautiful, still — devastatingly so — but tired around the edges in ways only you ever noticed. His curls were slightly messy, his dark eyes heavier than usual.

Tom met your gaze silently.

Then, without warning, he leaned down and kissed you.

Slow.

Not dramatic or consuming like he kissed when the two of you were alone.

Just soft.

Familiar.

His hand moved from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek while he kissed you like it was second nature now.

Like he’d spent years memorizing exactly how you responded to him.

You melted against him almost immediately, one hand curling into the front of his sweater.

He exhaled quietly against your mouth at the feeling.

There it was again.

That subtle thing he did after the war.

Like affection still surprised him.

Like every time you touched him gently, some part of him still didn’t entirely believe he was allowed to have it.

When he pulled back, he stayed close enough that your noses brushed.

“You’ve turned domestic,” you whispered.

“So have you.”

“I said it first.”

Tom’s mouth twitched slightly.

Then he kissed you again — shorter this time, almost absentminded — before resting his forehead against yours.

“You know,” Draco’s voice called suddenly from the doorway, “some of us are trying to lose gracefully in peace.”

You turned your head enough to see him leaning against the doorway with Blaise beside him.

Neither looked remotely ashamed for interrupting.

“Don’t encourage him,” Blaise added. “He’s become unbearable since getting married.”

Tom didn’t even look at them.

“Get out.”

“You’re in the kitchen,” Draco pointed out.

Tom finally turned his head slowly.

Draco visibly reconsidered every life choice that had led him here.

“Right,” he said quickly. “Terrifying. Forgot for a moment.”

Blaise snorted.

You laughed quietly against Tom’s chest, and immediately his attention shifted back to you entirely.

Like everyone else disappeared the second you made a sound.

It was still strange sometimes, realizing this was the same Tom Riddle who’d once terrified half of Hogwarts with a glance.

Because now he followed you around the manor late at night while you made tea.

Now he pulled you into his lap during long evenings by the fire without even thinking about it.

Now he kissed your shoulder absently while reading reports in his study because you’d sat beside him on the sofa.

Domesticity looked almost unnatural on him.

And yet somehow it fit perfectly.

Later that evening, after the others had settled back into conversation, you ended up tucked sideways against Tom on one of the drawing room sofas.

Or rather — half on top of him.

One of his arms wrapped securely around your waist while the other lazily turned pages in the book resting open in his lap that he definitely wasn’t reading anymore.

Your legs draped over his.

His fingers traced idle patterns against your side beneath the fabric of your sweater.

The fire flickered warmly across the room.

“You know what’s disturbing?” Theo said from across the room.

“No one asked,” Tom replied immediately.

Theo ignored him. “He used to threaten people for speaking too loudly around him.”

“I still do.”

“And now look at you.”

Tom glanced down instinctively when you shifted closer against him.

His hand slid up your back automatically.

Gentle.

Protective.

Completely subconscious.

Theo looked disgusted. “Exactly my point.”

You smiled sleepily against Tom’s shoulder.

Tom noticed immediately.

“You’re tired,” he murmured quietly.

“Mm.”

“we’ll go upstairs in a minute.”

The way he said it was soft enough that nobody else in the room probably even noticed.

But you did.

Because Tom only sounded like that with you.

Like the sharp edges in him disappeared for a few seconds at a time.

You tilted your head up slightly, the quiet way you asked for affection.

Draco made the loudest suffering noise imaginable from the armchair.

Tom ignored him entirely.

Again.

He leaned down without hesitation, one hand moving to tilt your chin upward gently before kissing you slow enough to make the entire room collectively regret being there.

“Oh, for the love of—” Draco groaned.

Blaise threw a cushion directly at his face.

Regulus looked deeply entertained for once in his life.

And Tom?

Tom barely even noticed them.

Too busy kissing you like he’d spent his whole life touch-starved and only just discovered what tenderness felt like.

[fallen-angel2470]

Song: Not sorry for loving you

Still EPIC musical :p

Tom x over affectionate reader

You can decide if you want it angst or fluff

Reader is over affectionate, many ppl love it, she’s a hufflepuff, gives hugs easily, gets along well with everybody. She starts dating Tom who uses her connections but her affections start getting overwhelming to him.

He grew up without much affection so meeting someone who clings to you, hugs you, whisper into your ear, kisses cheeks was a huge change that he couldn’t adjust to.

One day he feels too overwhelmed and snapped at her. (Maybe at their favourite alone spot for more angst. A place of happy memories is also the one that gave you the worst.) She understands and leaves him alone, he can either let down his pride and apologies to her or he can self sabotage himself by keeping this wall up.

You decide. (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

-fattie mushroom 🍄

It was a lazy afternoon, the sun filtering through the trees of their favorite spot in the park. Tom and you had found this quiet, secluded corner of the world long ago, a place where the bustle of life melted away into the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of birds. It was perfect—just the two of you, nestled in each other's company, as if no one else existed.

You were exactly the same now as you had been then: warm, open, and endlessly affectionate. Always hugging him from behind when he least expected it, brushing kisses across his cheek as you made small talk, whispering sweet nothings into his ear when you knew he needed cheering up. You were a Hufflepuff, your heart an open door to everyone who entered. And you gave affection freely, easily—like breathing.

But Tom had never grown up with that kind of love. He was used to walls, to being distant, to keeping everything contained. Emotions were a dangerous thing in his world. Affection? A weakness. And you, with your overflowing warmth, had been an adjustment. One he wasn’t sure he could handle.

At first, it had been fine—nice, even. Your hugs felt like sunshine, your kisses like raindrops on dry earth. But slowly, too slowly for him to understand at first, it became too much. Every day was another touch, another whisper, another sweet gesture he hadn’t known how to respond to. Every time you leaned in for a kiss, he felt cornered. Every time you wrapped your arms around him, he felt smothered. And he didn’t know how to tell you without hurting you.

And so, there they were, sitting together in their little spot, the world holding its breath, as the tension between them stretched thin.

"Tom," you whispered, leaning your head on his shoulder, your hand resting on his. "You okay?"

He flinched at your touch, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but you noticed. You always noticed. The way his jaw tightened, the way his posture stiffened. It wasn’t hard to see that he was different today. Distant.

And for the first time, you didn’t push. You just waited, watching him with the kind of quiet understanding only you could give.

Tom’s breath hitched in his chest, the weight of your gaze pressing down on him. This wasn’t something he could run from anymore. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come out as he intended. His frustration bubbled over, and before he could stop himself, he snapped.

“Can you stop?!” His voice was harsh, sharp like a whip. "I just—can you stop with all the touching? The hugs, the kisses, everything. It’s too much. It’s... overwhelming."

Your heart sank, but you didn’t move, didn’t try to comfort him. You stayed perfectly still, processing his words. You knew it wasn’t about you. You knew it was about him, about his own battles, but that didn’t stop the hurt from creeping in.

You pulled your hand away from his, a small gesture that felt like a thousand miles. "I... understand," you whispered, a small crack in your voice. "I’ll give you space."

It was a soft, painful surrender. You stood and left, not looking back. You wanted to, wanted to stay and hold him, but you knew it wasn’t your place anymore. If he needed space, if he needed distance, you’d give it to him. You weren’t going to force him into something he wasn’t ready for.

Days passed. Tom went through the motions of his usual routine, but there was an emptiness he couldn’t fill. The world felt duller without you beside him, without your warmth. His pride whispered that he was fine, that he didn’t need anyone. But every time he went to their spot, it was your absence that hit him hardest. The bench was colder, the air thicker without your presence, and his own thoughts seemed to echo louder.

He knew he’d messed up. And his pride told him to hold firm, to not reach out, to not apologize. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t go on like this.

A week passed, and Tom couldn’t take it any longer.

He found himself standing at your door, hesitant, his hand frozen mid-air, just inches from knocking. He had kept his distance, but the silence between you was deafening. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. What if you didn’t want to see him anymore? What if he had pushed you too far?

But before he could turn away, the door opened.

You stood there, looking at him with quiet eyes, a small, understanding smile on your face. No anger. No hurt. Just calm acceptance.

“Tom,” you said softly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement. He stepped inside, his breath shaky as he ran a hand through his hair.

“I... I messed up,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I—"

You held up a hand, gently stopping him. "You don’t need to apologize. I know you’re not used to affection, Tom. It’s okay."

He shook his head, his eyes downcast. "No, I should have told you sooner. I was just... I didn’t know how to handle it. And I didn’t know how to say I needed space without hurting you."

You smiled softly, stepping closer and placing a hand on his arm. "I get it. I’ve always gotten it. You don’t need to explain."

There was a beat of silence before you looked up at him, your eyes warm with understanding. "Just... tell me what you need. And I’ll give it to you. I don’t want to overwhelm you."

Tom nodded, his heart aching with the realization of how lucky he was to have you. He took a deep breath, then whispered, “I’m sorry for pushing you away. I don’t want to lose you."

You smiled, your hand resting gently against his chest. "You won’t. We just need to find a balance, Tom. We can work on it."

And in that moment, Tom finally allowed himself to let go of the wall he’d built. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel so alone.