he absolutley adores SLOW kissing. any moment he's admiring you, you can tell by his eyes that he wants it, he'll grab your face and just kiss you so deeply and slowly, taking his time with you that it's impossible to pull away.
in big crowds he dosen't DARE ever leave you, he will always have either his hand in yours or both hands around your waist, guiding you.
anytime he can get the chance he WILL be putting his fingers in your mouth. and everytime he does, he just closes his eyes and tries not to make a sound.
he's very big on mock sympathy. anytime you're expressing dumb frustration over something small or stupid he'll hold your chin up with his finger and say something like, "oh yeah? aw baby, i'm so sorry" in the hottest mocking tone ever. (he's not mean about it, you both know you're frustrated over something dumb)
he curses your name under his breath everytime you kiss his neck, "fuck,___" is something that never fails to leave his mouth.
he loves it when you play with his hair. sometimes, while you're watching tv, he'll lay down in between your legs and let you play with his curls. he secretly finds it funny when you give him a bunch of tiny braids but he tries not to laugh just so you don't do it again, but that never works anyways.
for some reason, he always tells you never to be afraid to scratch him, he finds it so sexy to see the scratches on his back after you guys do it.
characters written aged 18+ as always. soft smut. hope it bites.
there is something dangerously addictive about the way you end up in his dorm after class... even though you’ve spent the last three years hating each other with a passion that's bordered obsession.
one heated argument in the corridor after potions on a thursday turns into angry kissing and now you’re straddling his lap on the edge of his bed, grinding down on him like you’re trying to win some unspoken war. your skirt's bunched around your waist - every slow, deliberate roll of your hips dragging your soaked panties along the hard length of his cock straining against his trousers.
mattheo's breathing heavily - flushed and wrecked beneath you. his hands grip at your hips with a bruising force as his dark eyes, tight jaw and hitched breath act like he still can’t believe he wants you this badly.
you keep yourself moving: slow and teasing, feeling him throb against your pussy with every grind. a soft, involuntary moan slips from your lips of his name and it breaks him the way a sirens call would to those men who are lost at sea.
suddenly his grip tightens; voice lowers. it becomes rough, almost angry....
“you sure you wanna keep going like this, princess?”
the question comes out strained and annoyed; like he’s fighting every instinct to rip your panties aside, let his cock free and bury himself inside you. he twitches hard beneath you, betraying just how badly he needs it, wants you; even while he pretends to give you an out.
that kind of mix of restraint and barely contained hunger from the boy who once upon a time used to drive you insane.. well, it sends a rush of heat straight through you, you can't say no to.
Hi! First I want to say that I really love your writing, you just know how to turn me into a puddle with your stories!
If you are still taking requests can I ask for either prompt #2 or #4 for bulked up Fred Weasley where Fred is the jealous one? (I'm in love with that beefcake) I think given his more hot headed temperament, the second he feels another guy's interest he goes into fight or fight mode.
Accidentally wrote this the wrong way round ahh sorry!! I think it’s cuter this way. Thanks for requesting hope u enjoy <3
Make You Jealous
(Fred Weasley x Jealous! reader)
‘Fred decides you’re not giving him enough attention. So, he resorts to trying to make you jealous; of course, it works.’
You’re in the Gryffindor common room on a Friday evening, nose buried in a book while the usual pre-weekend excitement swirls around you. Fred and George are holding court by the fireplace as always, demonstrating a new prototype of their latest joke product to a gaggle of admiring younger years; you’d always loved how good he was with kids, and so you adored from afar. Fred had pestered you all evening to put the book away and join him by the fire, but tonight, you batted him off. Normally, you’d be right there beside them, laughing at the explosions of colour and helping clean up the inevitable glitter. Instead, you’ve buried yourself in the History of Hogwarts for hours, much to Fred’s chagrin. He’s been throwing glances your way all evening— little smirks, raised eyebrows, trying to catch your eye— but you’re stubbornly focused on your book, always a bookworm at heart.
So, he decides to get your attention via other means. You hear her wind chime laughter before you even look up; Angelina Johnson has joined the group, looking effortlessly stunning as always in her Quidditch jumper. She’s leaning over Fred’s shoulder to get a better look at whatever he’s holding, her hand resting casually on his upper arm. Fred, the absolute git, tilts his head toward her just enough to make it look intimate, murmuring something that sends her into peals of laughter. He flashes her that full-wattage Weasley grin— the one that shows off his dimple and makes most everyone weak in the knees.
Fred spies your glaring at Angelina, but as soon you catch his eye you pretend you weren’t even looking at all, turning back studiously to your book. Usually, it wouldn’t bother you— Fred is very personable and charismatic— but given his history with Angelina, you can’t help the twang of jealousy that spreads through you. Bloody Angelina and her perfect bloody skin and hair.
Of course, now he knows you’re bothered, he keeps going. When Angelina playfully shoves his shoulder, he scoots up so she can sit on the arm of his chair— close, far too close. Every time she laughs, he leans in like he’s sharing a secret. George keeps shooting him confused looks, clearly aware something’s up, but Fred ignores his twin entirely. Your stomach twists in a way you hate admitting, so you rationalise. You know Fred. You’ve been together long enough that it usually rolls right off you. But tonight, after a long week and barely any time with him, watching him direct all that charm at someone else feels like a hex to the chest.
Finally, you feel you’ve seen enough and slam your book shut loudly. A few heads turn, but you don’t care. You stuff your things into your bag and stand, fully intending to march straight up to the dormitory and leave him to his little audience.
You don’t make it halfway up the steps before a long arm loops around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a familiar, warm chest. Fred’s voice is low in your ear, laced with amusement and something guilty.
“Bit early for bed, isn’t it?”
You try to keep your voice even as you spin around and pry yourself from his grip. “Some of us have work to finish in the morning.” Your voice betrays your irritation, to your disappointment.
His grip tightens as his grin widens. He moves up a step so you’re no longer at the same height: now, he’s looming over you, letting you crane your neck to be face-to-face with him. Up close, his hazel eyes are sparkling with mischief…and triumph. His cool breath tickles the baby hairs at your forehead as he scoffs: you fight back against becoming totally enamoured and kissing him then and there.
“Hmm…funny,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a gentleness that makes you sleepy, “because you’ve been shooting daggers at me for the last ten minutes. Thought you were soooo busy?” He lets his hand rest at the side of your face, cupping it fully in one large hand.
“You were doing that on purpose.”
“Is it a crime to want your attention?”
“You looked like you were getting enough attention, as it was.”
You open your mouth to continue, but he cuts you off with a soft laugh, leaning closer. “Angelina’s nice,” he says conversationally, “but she’s not you. And I’d much rather have my girlfriend dragging me away by the ear than pretending she doesn’t care.”
Your cheeks burn. “I wasn’t—”
“You absolutely were,” he grins, utterly delighted. “And it’s the cutest thing I’ve seen all week.” He cups your face with both hands now, thumbs stroking your cheeks, all teasing gone from his expression. “I’m yours, you daft, wonderful girl. Always. But Merlin, I love seeing you jealous. Means you still want me as much as I want you. Which is a lot.”
Before you can retort, he cranes his neck down to kiss you— slow, deliberate, and deep enough that the your knees fail you and you’re grateful for his hand at your back, supporting your weight. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like he’s won the House Cup.
“Don’t doubt the extent I will go to to get your attention,” he whispers. “But if you need reminding again… I’m more than happy to arrange it.”
You shove his chest weakly, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he says cheerfully, slinging an arm around your shoulders and steering you toward the dorms, away from everyone else. “Now, come and let me make it up to you properly. I’ve been neglected all evening, you know.” He pretends to pout as he pulls you down onto him, allowing you to straddle his waist.
“You’re a bastard,” you mutter, shrugging off your bag and placing the large tome to the side.
“I love you.”
As you settle against his hard, knit-clad chest, large hand finding yours instinctually, you realise he played you perfectly— and you don’t even mind.
Where he came from you weren’t exactly sure. But you were never going to be able to thank him enough for coming when he did.
You’d been stuck against the wall at the club for at least twenty minutes, feeling caged in by some guy who clearly could not take a hint.
You had an arm crossed over your body the other holding your drink close to your face; essentially blocking your lips from any possibility.
The unwanted man leaned in towards you once more. A moist and heated whisper brushed against the shell of your ear of what he thought of you and it sent chills down your spine that he clearly mistook for a shiver of anticipated attraction.
“Godric’s sake, there you are, Dovey,” the arm of a very tall, and quite fit if you did say so yourself, man wrapped itself around your shoulders while simultaneously pushing Mr. Creepball's face away from you.
"Y'mind, mate? She's taken and clearly uninterested in the likes of you."
Mr. Creepball scowled, eyeing your new savior up and down. You tried to subtly do the same in which you hoped did not look like your first time observing.
His sandy colored hair was tousled and messy. He had a few scars on his face; the one across his lip stretched thin as he smirked at the man.
Your previous problem was not impressed, "Who the fuck are you?"
Your savior smiled at this, and you'd be lying if you tried to deny just how weak it made your knees, "Oh, I'm Remus. Don't bother with yours, though. Don't care. You ready to go back to our friends, Dove?"
You gave Remus a shy nod before he attempted to guide you away just for the creeper to grab hold of Remus's shoulder.
"Don't buy it," the creep said. Remus gave him a confused look, giving you a side glance before rolling his eyes.
"We aren't selling you shit. Now leave us alone, you're starting to make me annoyed," Remus went to step away from the wall, only from the man to step in front of him.
"She's no more yours than she was mine, I had first claims. So give her up," the man looked you up and down, his demeanor doing nothing to calm your nerves.
Remus barked out a laugh, only making the man’s scowl more intense, "Merlin, you're serious aren't you. For fucks sake…”
Remus kept his arm around your shoulders as he wrapped his free hand at the base of your jaw, "Y'mind, Dovey?" He gave you a wink and you instantly nodded.
With a firm but gentle grip Remus pulled your face to his, the fluttering feeling in your stomach only intensifying as the space between the two of you disappears.
It's unhurried, growing achingly slow as Remus flattens his tongue against your bottom lip. The slightest of pressure on your jaw has your lips parting and you let him lick into your mouth.
A rumble in your throat akin to that of a moan embarrassingly escapes and you can't find it in your thoughts to care as you grip onto the collar of his flannel to pull him closer, deeper.
You feel him smiling against your lips at your eagerness, pushing you back against the wall you were previously not so fond of. But now, now you’d be damned if you were removed from it.
"Oi, Moons! Who the bloody fuck are you snogging?" There's a shouting behind Remus that has him detaching from you with a groan and a grin and, Merlin, if it wasn't the prettiest thing you've seen all night.
"Okay, dove," Remus lets the pet name fall from his lips again before peppering your neck and jawline with a few kisses, "Wanna properly introduce yourself to me before you're forced to meet my friends?"
When your friends dare you to test Fred Weasley’s jealousy, you find yourself in a series of increasingly bold outfits - from short skirts to scandalous dresses - only to be met with maddeningly calm reactions. While your friends are convinced Fred is simply unshakable, you can’t help but wonder if he even notices at all. But when your frustration finally boils over, Fred proves he’s been watching the whole time - with a smirk, a kiss, and a line that melts you completely.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room had a way of feeling like its own little world once curfew had passed. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, painting the stone walls gold and crimson, and the usual bustle of voices had dwindled into the softer hum of laughter and whispers. You, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia had taken over the best corner with a fortress of blankets and pillows, mugs of cocoa half-drained and biscuits scattered on a plate between you.
It was one of those nights when the girls talked about everything - Quidditch, professors, homework, and most importantly, boyfriends.
Katie had just finished recounting her latest disaster. “I swear, he actually glared at me in Zonko’s for wearing my skirt. Said it was ‘too short.’ Can you believe that? Like it’s my fault his eyes nearly fell out of his head.”
Angelina groaned. “Boys and their fragile egos. George gets twitchy if another bloke so much as looks at me in the hallway.”
“I thought you liked that,” you teased.
Angelina smirked. “Well, sometimes.”
The laughter rippled around the circle, warming the space almost as much as the fire. Alicia tucked her legs under her blanket and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Mine hated that sleeveless top I wore in Hogsmeade. Said I looked ‘too much’ for a lunch date. Like, excuse me, what does that even mean?”
It turned into a chorus of complaints - possessive comments, jealous sulking, ridiculous rules - and then, almost in unison, their gazes swiveled to you.
“Well?” Katie demanded, her smirk positively wicked. “What about Fred? Surely he’s thrown a fit once or twice.”
You blinked. “Fred?”
“Yes, Fred,” Angelina said with mock exasperation, tossing a pillow at you. “Tall, red hair, constant troublemaker, kisses you like you’re the only person in the castle…ringing any bells?”
You rolled your eyes, hugging the pillow to your chest. “I know who Fred is, thank you very much. But no. He’s never said anything.”
Alicia’s brow shot up. “Never?”
“Not once.” You shrugged like it was obvious, but your cheeks warmed under their scrutiny. “Fred doesn’t care what I wear. He’s…Fred. He’s usually too busy planning how to explode dungbombs in Filch’s office to worry about whether my jumper has a low enough neckline.”
“As if,” Katie scoffed. “Boys are always weird about it at some point.”
“Not him,” you insisted.
Angelina narrowed her eyes, that mischievous spark lighting in them. “Maybe it’s because you don’t wear anything he’d notice.”
You gasped. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” Alicia laughed. “You’re hardly parading around in scandalous outfits.”
You threw your pillow at her. “I do too!”
“Not really,” Katie sing-songed, grinning.
You were spluttering for a comeback when Angelina leaned forward, smirk turning downright devilish. “Alright, then. Prove it. Wear something a little…naughty, tomorrow. See what Fred does.”
Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“Deadly serious,” Katie said, her eyes sparkling. “We’re making this an experiment.”
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Alicia chimed in, clapping her hands together.
“Absolutely not,” you said flatly, trying to bury your burning face in your pillow.
“Yes,” Angelina countered, already buzzing with excitement. “Think of it as…research. For science.”
“Science?” you echoed, incredulous.
“Mm-hm,” she said, utterly serious. “The science of male idiocy. We need to know if Fred is some rare exception to the jealousy rule or if he’s just very, very good at hiding it.”
The chorus of agreement rose around you, their voices overlapping until you groaned.
“Please, you lot are ridiculous—”
“Please?” Katie clasped her hands together dramatically. “Do it for us. Do it for womankind.”
“For womankind?” you repeated, laughing despite yourself.
“Yes,” Angelina said solemnly. “Besides, you’ve already got the perfect test subject. He’s besotted with you, which makes him ideal.”
Your cheeks warmed at the word besotted, though you tried to hide it behind another groan. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Alicia said.
Angelina grinned triumphantly. “So it’s settled, then. Tomorrow, you wear something short. Skirt, dress, doesn’t matter. See what happens.”
You buried your face in your pillow and muffled, “I hate you all.”
Their laughter rang through the common room, bright and victorious, and you knew - even as you sat there swearing up and down you wouldn’t do it - that you were already doomed to cave.
———————————————————————
The next morning, you sat on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands, glaring at the traitorous garment lying across your knees. A skirt. A short one.
Angelina, Katie, and Alicia were sprawled dramatically across the other beds, watching you like a panel of judges.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered.
“You agreed,” Angelina sing-songed.
“You forced me!”
“We encouraged you,” Alicia corrected sweetly, propping her chin on her hand. “There’s a difference.”
Katie grinned. “Oh, this is going to be brilliant. I want front-row seats to Fred’s meltdown.”
“There won’t be a meltdown because nothing is going to happen,” you said firmly, but the way your stomach squirmed as you stood and pulled the skirt into place betrayed your nerves.
It was shorter than you usually wore - just grazing your mid-thigh - and paired with a slouchy jumper, you felt both ridiculous and exposed. You smoothed your hands down the fabric, cheeks hot. “I look stupid.”
Angelina sat up and whistled. “You look hot. Fred’s going to trip over his own feet.”
Your pulse jumped.
The common room was buzzing with early risers when you descended the stairs. Fred was leaning against the back of the sofa, head thrown back in laughter at something George was saying, that familiar freckled grin lighting up his whole face.
You swallowed hard.
“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Here goes nothing.”
Fred spotted you almost instantly, grin widening as he pushed off the sofa and came striding toward you. His long legs made it impossible to escape, and before you could even brace yourself, he swooped in and pressed a warm kiss to your cheek.
“Morning, love,” he said brightly, arm looping around your shoulders. He smelled faintly of cinnamon and sugar, like always.
You braced for the comment - for the frown, the teasing, something - but instead, he launched right into a story.
“So George and I were in Zonko’s yesterday, and wait ‘til you hear this! We’ve finally cracked the spell formula for the trick wands. Oh, you’re going to love it—”
And that was it.
He didn’t look twice at your legs. Didn’t even blink. His arm around you was easy and comfortable, and his laugh was so carefree it made you want to scream. By the time you reached the Great Hall for breakfast, you were seething quietly.
That night, you reported back to the girls, sprawled across your blanket fort once more.
“Nothing?” Katie asked, incredulous.
“Not a word?” Alicia echoed, eyes wide.
You shook your head miserably. “Not a single bloody thing. He just told me about joke wands for ten minutes.”
Angelina groaned and flopped back on her pillow. “He’s either completely blind or completely unfazed. And I don’t know which one is worse.”
Katie narrowed her eyes, determination sparking. “Alright. Time to up the stakes.”
You groaned into your pillow. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”
Alicia’s grin spread. “Skirt didn’t do it? Next time…jeans. Tight ones. And a top to match.”
The girls giggled, already plotting, and you couldn’t help but feel the creeping dread in your stomach.
Because if Fred really didn’t care what you wore…what did that mean?
———————————————————————
By the time the next Hogsmeade trip rolled around, you were regretting everything.
Katie had all but shoved the outfit into your arms. Tight, low-rise jeans that clung to your hips in a way that made you blush just looking at them, and a snug, low-cut top that left very little to imagination.
“I can’t wear this in public,” you hissed, staring at yourself in the mirror of the girls’ dorm.
Angelina leaned against the bedpost with her arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Yes, you can. And you will. Because this is science.”
“For womankind,” Alicia added solemnly, which made Katie snort.
You groaned and covered your face with your hands, but five minutes later you found yourself tugging your cloak around your shoulders and heading down the stairs, praying the ground would open up and swallow you.
Fred was waiting for you in the common room, hair still damp from a shower, grinning wide the moment he saw you.
“There she is,” he said, bounding over. His eyes flicked down instinctively as you reached him - just for a split second - but you missed it, too busy tugging the hem of your top (which was riding up your stomach) back down.
“Ready?” you asked quickly, desperate to deflect.
“More than ready,” he said easily, slinging an arm over your shoulder as you walked toward the portrait hole. His hand slid down to your waist as you moved through the crowded staircase, fingers pressing just a little firmer when a group of boys shoved past.
Your heart stuttered, but you chalked it up to Fred being Fred - always casual with touch, always without thinking twice.
By the time you reached Honeydukes, he was still his usual self. Joking, laughing, buying you your favorite sweets like he always did. Not a single comment about the outfit. Not even a raised brow.
At one point, as you leaned over the counter to inspect a jar of Fizzing Whizzbees, Fred’s gaze lingered, jaw tightening briefly before he looked away. But you didn’t see.
“Alright,” he said later, as you strolled back up toward the castle with bags of sweets swinging from your hands. “Now be honest. Between you and me, do you reckon George could pull off selling Canary Creams at Slughorn’s dinner party?”
You tripped on a step. “What? Fred, I…are you seriously thinking about pranking Slughorn right now?”
He grinned, utterly unbothered. “Always thinking about pranking Slughorn.”
You gaped at him, exasperated, and that was the moment you knew.
He really didn’t care.
Back in the dorm later that night, the girls were waiting like vultures.
“So?” Katie demanded, practically bouncing on her bed.
“Spill,” Alicia added.
You collapsed onto your pillow with a dramatic groan. “Nothing.”
Angelina sat up so fast her blanket fell to the floor. “Nothing? You were practically falling out of that top.”
“Tell me about it,” you muttered, cheeks heating.
“Unbelievable,” Alicia said, flopping back against her cushions.
Katie narrowed her eyes, wicked grin spreading. “Alright then. If the skirt didn’t work, and the top didn’t work…there’s only one thing left.”
You raised a wary brow. “…What?”
“The LBD,” Angelina said with a flourish, as if the three letters explained everything.
“The what now?” you asked.
They groaned in unison.
“Little. Black. Dress,” Alicia said slowly, as though speaking to a child.
You blinked. “That’s a thing?”
Katie threw a pillow at your head. “Of course it’s a thing! It’s the thing. The ultimate test. No man alive can ignore a girl in a little black dress.”
Angelina smirked, eyes gleaming. “And lucky for you…Gryffindor’s throwing a party next weekend.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” they chorused.
———————————————————————
The dormitory was a war zone of fabric.
Angelina had practically raided her trunk, Alicia had added jewelry to the pile, and Katie was sitting cross-legged on your bed holding up a pair of knee-high boots like they were sacred relics.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered for the hundredth time, glaring at the dress laid out in front of you. Black. Tight. The neckline plunged lower than you’d ever dared. The hemline…well, calling it “modest” would’ve been a straight up lie.
Angelina grinned like a cat. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s indecent,” you shot back.
“It’s science,” Alicia countered with what had become their tagline.
“For womankind,” Katie cheered dramatically.
You groaned into your hands, but twenty minutes later, there you were in front of the mirror. Dress on, boots hugging your thighs, hair tamed just enough to look intentional. Your reflection stared back, wide-eyed and flushed.
“You look…” Angelina tilted her head. “…dangerous.”
“Like a heart attack waiting to happen,” Alicia added approvingly.
Katie wiggled her brows. “Fred’s not going to survive the night.”
The common room was already pulsing with music and laughter by the time you descended the stairs. Red and gold banners hung from the ceiling, butterbeer bottles clinked, and students filled every corner.
But the moment you stepped into view, the air shifted. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. A whistle cut through the noise.
Your face burned. You kept your chin high, forcing yourself to stride through the crowd until your eyes found the only person you cared about.
Fred.
He was across the room, laughing with George, a butterbeer in hand. But then his gaze landed on you.
For a fraction of a second, his grin slipped. His eyes darkened, flicking down your figure with a heat that made your knees wobble. His hand tightened around the neck of the bottle.
Then, just as quickly, the easy smile returned. He passed the drink to George, wove through the crowd with that infuriatingly confident stride, and slipped an arm around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“There you are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Come dance with me.”
No comment. No raised brow. Nothing.
On the dance floor, his hand stayed firm at your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against the fabric of your dress. Once, when a Ravenclaw boy’s gaze lingered a bit too long, Fred pulled you closer, his smirk sharpening. But he said nothing.
You felt your frustration boil under your skin. Didn’t he notice? Didn’t he care?
By the time the party had started to wind down, you couldn’t take it anymore.
You tugged Fred toward the stairs, heart pounding. He followed easily, brows lifting in amusement. “What’s this then? Sneaking me away for a midnight snog?”
You whirled on him, arms crossed, trying to mask the twist in your chest. “Why don’t you care what I wear?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”
“The skirt. The jeans. This dress! I’ve tried everything. And you don’t even blink!” Your voice cracked, equal parts embarrassment and anger. “Everyone else’s boyfriends get jealous or at least say something, but you—”
Fred’s smirk curved, slow and dangerous, as if the pieces had finally clicked. He stepped closer, gaze fixed on yours.
“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was low, teasing but warm.
You faltered. “Well, you don’t act like it.”
“That’s because,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your temple before pressing a kiss to your forehead, “you can wear whatever you want, baby. I can protect what’s mine.”
The words sank into you like honey, melting every knot of frustration until your knees felt weak.
When he pulled back, that cocky grin was in place again, but softer now. Tender.
From across the room, the girls - watching unabashedly from their blanket pile - sighed in perfect unison.
And then he kissed you, properly this time, leaving no room for doubt at all.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the tower windows, warming the common room in a way that felt almost cruel after last night’s chaos. Empty bottles and crumpled banners littered the floor, evidence of a Gryffindor party well-celebrated.
You shuffled into the girls’ corner still in your pajamas, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep. But the second you sat down, three sets of eyes locked on you like you were a mouse cornered by kneazles.
“Well?” Katie demanded.
You buried your face in your pillow. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” Alicia gasped, clutching her blanket dramatically. “You basically set the bar for dramatic boyfriend declarations. Protect what’s mine? Merlin’s beard, we nearly fainted.”
Angelina was already grinning like she’d won a bet. “I knew it. I knew he was holding out on us. That boy’s got steel nerves. He noticed from the start.”
You peeked out from behind your pillow, cheeks hot. “He…he really didn’t say anything, though. Until I practically started a fight.”
Katie flopped back on her bed with a sigh. “Because he’s Fred. The man thrives on winding people up. He probably loved every second of watching you spiral.”
“Ugh,” you groaned, but there was no real bite in it. Because they were right. Fred had loved it. You’d seen it in his smirk, in the way his eyes danced when you finally cracked.
Alicia leaned forward, smirking. “So? Be honest. Did the line make you melt?”
You threw your pillow at her. “Shut up.”
Angelina caught it before it hit, tossing it back at you with a cackle. “She melted. Absolutely puddled.”
Katie sighed dreamily, hugging her knees. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. If my boyfriend ever said that to me, I’d swoon on the spot.”
You groaned again, flopping back dramatically against the cushions. “He’s insufferable.”
“Insufferable,” Angelina agreed, smirk tugging at her lips. “And absolutely perfect for you.”
Across the common room, Fred lounged with George near the fire, pretending not to listen but clearly tuned in, his ears just a little too pink to be casual. When your eyes met his, he sent you a shameless wink, mouthing, Told you so.
Your stomach flipped, traitorous and warm, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your lips.
Because damn it all…the girls were right. He was insufferable. And he was yours.
Mr. "I don't fall in love" Nott, realizing he's already fallen, pure fluff and the other boys making fun
The Slytherin common room breathed like a living thing: low emerald light pulsing from the lake windows, the fire hissing soft secrets into the hush, the faint mineral scent of deep water seeping through stone. Theo Nott had claimed the velvet wingback hours ago, boots kicked off, socks mismatched—one black, one dark green with tiny silver snakes he’d never admit to owning. The book in his lap, Defensive Magical Theory that he was supposed to be revising lay open to the same diagram of a Protego variant he’d memorized in fourth year. Useless. Every nerve ending was tuned to the pretty girl asleep on him instead.
You were a compact tangle of limbs and warmth, knees drawn up, one socked foot hooked over his ankle like you’d staked territory. Your hair smelled of cedarwood soap and the vanilla ink you used for notes; every time you exhaled, the strands fluttered against his collarbone and his heartbeat tripped like a drunk on stairs. Theo’s palm had found the warm crescent of skin between your hoodie and joggers twenty minutes ago and hadn’t left. Slow, reverent circles—thumb tracing the faint dimple at the base of your spine, middle finger brushing the soft rise just above your hip. Each pass felt like signing his name in a language he’d sworn he’d never learn.
He was not in love. He’d said it out loud to Draco last week, voice bored, cigarette dangling: “Love’s a liability. I don’t do liabilities.” Draco had laughed so hard he’d nearly fallen off the astronomy tower railing. Theo had meant it then. He was ninety percent sure he’d meant it.
Then you’d sighed—a tiny, kittenish sound—and burrowed closer, nose nudging the hollow beneath his jaw. Ninety percent plummeted to seventy-five. Your fingers, slack in sleep, uncurled against his chest, pinky brushing the silver chain he wore under his shirt. Sixty percent. He was free-falling and the ground was made of your eyelashes.
The portrait hole scraped open with the subtlety of a troll in tap shoes. Blaise stumbled in first, tie askew, cheeks flushed from whatever fruity drink he'd decided to drink. Draco followed, hair artfully mussed, smirking like he always is with his pureblood arrogance. Mattheo brought up the rear, one shoe untied, humming an off-key Celestina Warbeck chorus.
They froze in a perfect comedic tableau.
Blaise’s mouth opened, closed. Draco’s eyebrow performed an Olympic vault. Mattheo actually dropped his cloak.
Theo didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your weight pinned him more thoroughly than any binding spell. He settled for a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “You’re drunk.” As if that would make the trio believe they were having hallucinations, unfortunately, he was not so lucky.
“Observant,” Draco drawled, but his eyes were laughing. “We texted you six times, Nott. Thought you’d been kidnapped by merpeople. Turns out you were kidnapped by—” he gestured vaguely at your sleeping form—“cozy domesticity.”
Mattheo flopped onto the rug, propping his chin in his hands like a gossip columnist, his cheeks flushed from alcohol and eyes red from something he probably shouldn't have had. “Look at him. The Ice Prince melteth. I give it three minutes before he starts braiding her hair.”
Theo’s fingers twitched toward his wand, then thought better of it. You’d hate the noise. Instead he tucked the blanket higher around your shoulders, the motion so tender it should’ve come with a warning label. “Shut up,” he said, but there was no venom in it. The words came out soft, almost fond. Fifty percent.
Blaise circled like a shark scenting blood. “Remember when you said—and I quote—‘I don’t do commitment, I have more important goals’?” He produced a crumpled receipt from the Three Broomsticks, waving it like evidence. “Goal tonight was butterbeer and that Ravenclaw with the long legs. Instead you’re here playing weighted blanket.”
Your next breath hitched, a sleepy whimper that arrowed straight through Theo’s ribs. You turned your face into his neck, lips brushing the pulse that was suddenly sprinting. Forty percent. Thirty. He was a house of cards in a windstorm.
Draco dropped into the opposite chair, stretching long legs toward the fire. “He’s counting her freckles,” he announced to the ceiling. “I can see it. Left cheek—three. Nose—two. There’s one shaped like a wonky star he’s mentally named after himself.”
“Fuck. Off.” Theo hissed, but his voice cracked on the second word because you’d just made that sound again—half sigh, half murmur—and your hand had slid under his sweater, palm flat over his heart like you were checking it still worked. It did. Barely.
Mattheo rolled onto his back, laughing silently, shoulders shaking. “Mate, you’re gone. Stick a fork in him.”
Theo looked down at you: lashes casting shadows on cheeks flushed from the fire, lower lip caught between your teeth in dreams. The blanket had slipped again from your movements; he fixed it without thinking, tucking it under your chin the way his mum used to do when he was small. The memory hit like a Bludger—he hadn’t thought of that in years. Twenty percent.
Blaise sighed, theatrical. “Fine. We’ll leave you to your not-girlfriend and your totally platonic cuddling. But tomorrow, Nott, you’re buying rounds. Emotional damage fee.”
They shuffled out, still snickering. Heads close together so they could whisper about this occurrence the whole way to their dorms, leaving Theo to wonder how bad it could really be to run away. Silence rushed back in, thick and velvet, your vanilla scent letting reason back into his brain. If he ran away, then what about you?
Fuck.
Theo exhaled shakily. His hand resumed its slow worship along your spine. You shifted again, knee sliding between his, fitting against him like you’d been carved for the space. Zero percent. He was in free fall now, no broom, no net.
He pressed his lips to your temple, lingering, breathing you in. “You’re ruining me,” he whispered to the sleeping girl who owned every shard of his carefully constructed indifference. “And I’m going to let you.”
The fire popped. Outside the window, a shadow of a giant squid drifted past, slow and unconcerned. Theo closed his eyes, counted your heartbeats against his own, and didn’t move until dawn painted the lake gold.
not a random boy au
summary: harry and ron are very rudely interrupted from their hiding by their older siblings, who are in search of a broom cupboard to make out in. despite being there first, they get kicked out.
wc: 0.7k
cw: kissing, suggestive, almost handjob(?), getting interrupted
Ron and Harry are too busy cursing in hushed whispers while elbowing each other in the tight space of the broom cupboard to realise that Draco and his goons have stopped chasing them. Neither of them can make eye contact for too long, their backs flat against opposite walls of the cupboard, but chests still to close to touching for their liking. “I’m not scared of Draco hexing us anymore, I’m scared of what Hermione would say if she found us like this.”
Harry scoffs at Ron’s words, but his eyes go wide as he hears quickly approaching footsteps. He looks at Ron, whose face has gone white with fear, and both their faces immediately snap towards the opening door of the cupboard.
You and Fred are laughing quietly amongst yourselves as you swing the cupboard door open, his hands tight on your waist, trying not to touch you too inappropriately before entering the closet. But upon seeing your younger brother and his best friend hiding there, you stop in your tracks. Fred bumps into your back, groaning loudly at the sight of the younger boys, who both immediately make loud sounds of disgust.
Your first instinct is to retreat and pretend this never happened, but Fred’s steady hold on you keeps you in place, even as both his and your younger brothers stare at you with what can only be described as pure revulsion. Fred opens the door to the cupboard even wider, gesturing outside with one hand.
“Get out.” He demands, and both the boys square their shoulders up at him. “We were here first!” Harry argues while Ron simply retorts with “You get out!”
Fred groans to himself in annoyance, dropping his head to your shoulder, and you can understand where he’s coming from since you can feel how hard he is, pressed firmly against your ass. “Get out.” You repeat, and Ron looks at you with pure betrayal in his eyes, but Harry stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows furrowing as he sassily says “Find another closet to make out in.”
Your boyfriend lifts his head up from your shoulder, a mix of panic and frustration in his voice as he spits out “You don’t understand, I’m literally about to combust here.” You feel your cheeks go hot at the unexpected confession your boyfriend has given your younger brothers, but at least it causes both boys to scramble out of the closet, loudly announcing their horror as they run into the hallway.
You gasp as Fred pushes you into the closet, slamming the door behind him as he uncomfortably crouches so to not hit his head. He quickly fiddles with his belt, which echoes loudly in the enclosed space, and you busy yourself by draping your arms over his shoulders and tugging him closer to you so you can press kisses to the exposed skin of his jaw and neck.
Just as Fred frees himself from his trousers and you wrap your fingers around him, bringing out a relieved sigh from between his lips, three knocks sound on the door. Fred groans, but you freeze, knowing for a fact that neither of your brothers would be polite enough to knock.
“Mr. Weasley, Ms. Potter, I suggest finding a more private space to carry on with your… activities.” Professor McGonagall’s voice causes your jaw to go slack, and Fred straightens up so suddenly that he bumps his head on the low ceiling of the cupboard, crying out “Ow!”
But he quickly recovers, glancing down at where your hand stays wrapped around his cock, then calls out “Well, I personally think this is a great spot for hide and seek. George can’t possibly check all the cupboards in the castle.”
“Mr. Weasley, I’m going to open the door.” Fred curses quietly, tucking himself back into his trousers and opening the door himself, dragging you out by the hand. You don’t have the bravery to glance back at Professor Mcgonagall, but you know the exact look on her face as you both run away from her, and especially when she notices Fred’s undone belt, which clangs loudly with each step he takes.
summary: your fwb relationship with James is moments from being made public all because of one jersey
a/n: i woke up to an anon ask about if i use ai to write. i do not! i originally wrote an entire response and then decided to do it this way but, if anyone wants proof i can post it 😅 i have friends that see my writing from beginning to end, i promise i am ethical, love you all🫶
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The morning had been soft in a way it had no right to be.
It was wrong, staying over in James Potter’s dorm. You knew it even as you blinked awake in the hazy, golden light spilling through the curtains, his sheets twisted around your legs, his scent lingering on your skin. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to let yourself get comfortable here.
But he’d made it sound so easy the night before—slipping you that folded scrap of parchment in the middle of Transfiguration, his scrawl slanted and rushed: roommates gone for the night, you in? And you’d said yes, of course you had, because saying no to James was something you’d never learned how to do.
You were still half-asleep on the right side of the bed, the ghost of his arm warm against your waist, when James knelt to tug on his boots. He was already in Gryffindor scarlet, the fabric hugging his shoulders, his hair an untamable storm from the night before. Even like this—half-drowsy, laces clumsy in his hands—he carried that glow, that restless golden energy that made you ache in places you didn’t have names for.
A grin tugged at his mouth, faint but there, like he was still replaying the night in his head. He didn’t look at you straight away—too busy fumbling with the stubborn knot in his bootlace—but the curve of his lips was enough to twist something deep in your chest.
This was dangerous. Too soft, too familiar. It wasn’t supposed to feel nice waking up to him. It wasn’t supposed to feel like the sort of moment you’d hold onto.
But you did anyway. You let yourself memorize the way the light caught in his hair, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way he blew a frustrated huff at the laces before finally winning. It was ordinary. Intimate. The kind of domesticity your arrangement should never allow.
When he finally glanced back at you, you froze—caught between pretending to still be asleep and meeting his gaze head-on. His grin softened when he saw you watching, and for a beat, the world seemed to hush around the both of you.
“You should get more rest,” he said quietly, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Game’ll be long.”
And then, as if it were nothing, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your temple. Light. Fleeting. The kind of kiss people in love give without thinking twice.
And then he was gone, clicking the lamp back off before his boots shuffled out the door.
You should have left then. Slipped back upstairs, tucked yourself neatly into your own bed before anyone noticed you missing, erased the evidence of a night tangled up in him. Friends with benefits. No strings. No feelings. That was the rule, and rules were safe. Rules kept your heart from doing exactly what it was doing now—thrumming, traitorous, as if it hadn’t been listening when you’d promised yourself this wasn’t love.
But his room smelled like him. Like parchment and broom polish and the faint spice of his cologne, clinging to the blankets still warm with his body heat. His pillow held the imprint of his head, his jumper was thrown carelessly across the chair in the corner, and everywhere you looked was some echo of James Potter.
By the time you’d realized you’d fallen back asleep, it was far too late. The dormitory was silent, the castle already humming with the Saturday morning buzz of Quidditch day, and your window to sneak out unnoticed was long gone.
Panic thrummed as you scrambled upright. Your clothes—shoved hastily into a heap the night before—were a wrinkled disaster, creased and hopeless from being slept on. Even if you did manage to pull them on, you’d look exactly like what you were: someone who had no business being in James Potter’s bed this morning.
Your dorm was already locked off, the stairwells shifting impassably from all the students. No time, no options. Your friends would already be heading down to the stands. You had to move.
In your rush, your hands caught on the first thing draped over the chair at the foot of the bed. Scarlet fabric. Familiar. Soft from wear.
James’s jersey.
You froze, the weight of it heavy in your grip. His name blazed across the back in bold golden letters, his number stitched across the front. It smelled faintly of him—wind, grass and something warm that clung to his skin.
It wasn’t a choice, not really. You pulled it over your head, the oversized collar slipping low against your collarbone, the hem brushing your thighs. It was practical. It was necessary. That's what you told yourself at least.
But when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror, heart stuttering painfully, you couldn’t deny it: you looked like you belonged to him.
Your friends were already at the pitch by the time you slipped into the stands, breathless from the jog down. Marlene’s eyes landed on you first, sharp as ever, and she gave you a once-over that made your stomach lurch.
“Fashion choice,” she drawled, lips curving into a smirk, “or Potter let you raid his trunk again?"
For a split second, your heart stopped. The jersey felt suddenly louder, brighter, screaming James’s name in capital letters for the world to see. Your breath stuttered for half a second, warmth flooding your cheeks. Thankfully, no one was paying very close attention to you.
“They’re practically communal at this point,” you said breezily, waving it off. And it was true—James lent things all the time. To them, this was nothing.
They didn’t look twice. Not at the jersey, not at you. To them, you were just another face in the stands, another friend wrapped in Gryffindor colors.
For a fleeting moment, relief swept through you—sweet and dizzying. Maybe you could pull this off. Maybe it really was that simple.
But then James saw you.
Mid-warmup, broom tucked under his arm, his gaze snagged on you like he’d been stunned. His head snapped back around, as if making sure he wasn't seeing things, the Quaffle wobbling in his grip before slipping through his fingers. Sirius’s laugh carried across the pitch, a sharp bark of amusement, but James didn’t so much as glance his way.
He didn’t hear him. He didn’t hear anything honestly.
His eyes were pinned on you.
They dragged all the way down your body, slow and deliberate, lingering on the way his jersey swayed against your thighs, the collar stretched just wide enough to bare the slope of your collarbone. His name—his name—was stamped across your back in bold golden letters, and the sight of it seemed to knock the breath clean out of him.
To the crowd, it was nothing. A player shaking off nerves, distracted for half a beat before the game began. Your friends were still laughing at Sirius’s taunts, none of them looking close enough to see how James’s jaw tightened, how his knuckles whitened around his broom handle.
But you saw.
And in that heartbeat, the air between you crackled with something raw and dangerous. The jersey wasn’t communal anymore. It was his, and you were wearing it, and James Potter looked like he was seconds away from jumping onto his broom to tear the damn thing off of you.
And when the game began, it only got worse. He played like a man possessed—darting, diving, weaving through the air with the kind of reckless grace that made the crowd roar. Every time the Quaffle touched his hands, it was inevitable: another goal, another triumphant flash of teeth, another flourish that bordered on showing off.
To anyone watching him, it was just James Potter being James Potter—horribly cocky, golden, untouchable.
But you knew better. You saw the way his eyes flicked to you after every score, burning through the distance. You saw the way his grin softened for half a second when it landed on your face. Every point he scored was for you and he made it obvious, his chest heaving, jaw tight, gaze locking on you like you were some kind of prize.
And then, after one particularly impossible shot—a dizzying dive that sent the stands into chaos—he steadied himself on his broom, turned toward the crowd, and pointed.
Right at you.
It was quick, subtle enough that your friends thought nothing of it, laughing at his showmanship. But you felt it hit like a Bludger to the chest. His finger, his grin, his eyes—all on you.
He was so stupidly pretty in that moment, windswept and flushed and basking in the adoration of the crowd, that you had to look away before your heart gave you away.
By the time the whistle blew, Gryffindor victorious, your pulse was a mess. The stands were roaring, Peter was whooping himself hoarse, Remus clapped in that quiet, amused way of his, and Marlene was doubled over with laughter at Sirius practically climbing onto the barrier to lead the cheers.
But James ignored it all.
He didn’t even slow down to high-five his teammates, didn’t linger for the congratulatory huddle, didn’t bask in the chants of his name echoing across the pitch. His broom hit the ground with a hard thud, boots digging into the grass as he made a beeline for the stands. For you.
You barely had time to stand before he was there, sweat-soaked and flushed, hair wild, grin sharp with frustration and want.
“Good game, Potter!” Marlene teased, nudging you with her shoulder, her eyes flicking knowingly between the two of you. “Wonder who he’s trying to impress this week.”
The group laughed—Peter’s wheezy snort, Sirius’s bark of delight, even Remus’s quiet chuckle. To them, it was just another jab at James’s theatrics, his endless appetite for attention.
But James didn’t laugh. You're not sure if he was even registering words at this point.
He didn’t even glance at Marlene. His eyes were on you, only you, and the weight of it made your skin prickle under the collar of his jersey. He was still smiling, technically—still playing the part of James Potter, golden boy, Quidditch star—but the edges of it were wrong. Too sharp. Too desperate.
Your friends thought nothing of the way his hand brushed your hip as he leaned in, too absorbed in celebration. No one seemed to even notice the way his voice dropped low in your ear, meant only for you.
“You can’t do this to me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, still smiling for the benefit of everyone else but speaking so close to your ear only you could hear. “Not in front of them.”
Your heart stuttered, your throat dry. “It’s just a jersey—”
His eyes darkened, flicking down over the fabric hanging off your frame, then snapping back to yours like he couldn’t bear to look too long. “No,” he said, teeth gritted, “it’s my jersey. And you’re standing here acting like it's nothing.”
His fingers brushed along the curve of your hip again, light, teasing, almost accidental—but you know it's not. The heat of his touch lingered, crawling up your side in a way that made your pulse spike. His eyes never left yours, scanning every movement like he could memorize it all before someone else noticed. The faint smell of grass and sweat clung to him, sharp and intoxicating, and for a terrifying second you swore the world had shrunk to just the two of you. Every instinct screamed at you to step back, to pretend nothing was happening—but every part of you wanted to lean in, wanted to let him close the distance he was aching to bridge.
“You’ve no idea,” he rasped, so quiet it made your chest ache. “Merlin, you’ve no idea what it does to me. I can’t—” He broke off, biting the inside of his cheek, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before jerking back up to your gaze.
Around you, your friends were still laughing, still celebrating. No one noticed the way James’s fingers pressed firmer into your hip, or the way your breath caught, your no-feelings arrangement hanging by the thinnest of threads.
And James Potter looked like he was seconds from snapping it.
Pairing: Camp Counsellor!Theodore Nott x Camp Counsellor! reader
Summary: Between secret smiles, rule-breaking touches, and the way Theo can’t quite hide how much he cares, it’s clear that staying out of trouble might be harder than surviving the campers.
The morning felt almost unreal, like you’d woken up inside a dream you wanted no part of. A heavy mist clung low to the pine trees, veiling the path with a damp chill that clung to your skin. The sky hadn’t even decided on a color yet—just a hazy blue-gray smeared with faint streaks of gold where the sun threatened to rise. It was too early. Your eyelids were sandbags, your yawns kept cracking your jaw, and if you closed your eyes for even a second too long, you knew you’d fall asleep standing upright.
The camp had called an “emergency meeting” before breakfast—though it felt less like a meeting and more like an interrogation. One by one, each counselor had to shuffle into the staff cabin to face a private Q&A. Your co-counselor had already gone, leaving you to hover in the line outside with the rest of the camp’s walking-dead.
The rocky dirt path dug into your flip-flops as you shifted your weight from foot to foot, arms locked across your chest in a halfhearted attempt to trap some warmth. Your hoodie was soft but paper-thin against the cold; it billowed uselessly when the breeze cut through, sneaking up under the hem to nip at your bare thighs. Goosebumps prickled along your legs. You should’ve grabbed sweatpants, but in your bleary panic, shorts and flip-flops felt easier than wrestling with anything more complicated. Now you were paying for it.
Around you, the other counselors looked just as miserable. Some grumbled under their breath about being dragged out of bed for “whatever-the-hell-this-is.” Most of you were swaying on your feet, heads drooping like you’d all been planted here hours ago.
You rubbed at your temple, trying to fight off the fog that kept swallowing your brain. The whole scene felt muted, surreal. And then—
A tap on your shoulder. Gentle, but enough to jolt you out of your daze. You turned, heart jumping, and saw him.
Theo.
He was the kind of mess that shouldn’t look good, but did. His hood was yanked low over his hair, a chaotic halo of curls sticking out where the fabric failed to tame them. His pajama shorts left his legs bare to the cold, but he didn’t look like he noticed—or cared. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway over his hands, like he’d rolled out of bed and grabbed the first thing within reach. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, lashes dark against his skin, but when he saw you, something flickered awake behind them.
“What’s going on?” he rasped, voice husky and low enough that you felt it in your stomach. He leaned in slightly, maybe to be heard, maybe because the cold had you standing close already. The faint scent of mint toothpaste hit you, sharp and clean, and it made your brain kick back into gear in a way that the cold air hadn’t managed.
“Didn’t you hear?” you asked, lips tugging into a sleepy, sly little smile.
Theo frowned, hood slipping back just enough to expose more of his messy curls. “Hear what?”
“Jess and Mike,” you said, lowering your voice as though you were about to tell him state secrets. “They got caught hooking up behind the showers.”
Theo blinked, then let out a breathy, incredulous laugh, his grin spreading lopsided across his face. His teeth flashed in the pale morning light, and you had the sudden thought that it was unfair how good he looked while half-dead with exhaustion. “That’s why we’re out here? At dawn? Because those two idiots couldn’t keep it together?” His grin tilted into mischief. “What do they want us to do—fill out a Yelp review?”
Your laugh burst out, unpolished and snort-like, but it felt good. Warm. Even now, Theo could make you laugh when all you wanted was to crawl back into your bunk.
“They’re grilling everyone,” you explained, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. “Making sure no one else is secretly dating. You know—the rule.”
Theo’s grin faltered just slightly, though his amusement didn’t disappear. The rule. It was one of the camp’s biggest: no counselor relationships. Period. No flirting, no sneaking around, no hookups. It was supposed to “maintain professionalism” and “avoid conflicts of interest,” but everyone knew it was mostly because the staff wanted to avoid drama. Break it and you could be fired on the spot.
Theo’s gaze lingered on you a beat too long. “Oh yeah,” he said, voice quieter now, “because this is definitely how you get people to spill their secrets. Everyone’s about to confess their forbidden romances.” His tone was teasing, but there was something behind it, a current you were too sleepy to catch.
You shrugged, yawning again. “Didn’t even think Jess and Mike were serious.”
“They weren’t,” Theo replied easily. Then his grin sharpened at the edges. “Mike’s not serious about anyone. He flirts with everyone”
You blinked at him, thrown by the statement’s sudden weight. Too tired to sugarcoat, you muttered, “Yeah, I’m aware”
Theo’s jaw ticked, almost imperceptibly. His voice stayed even, but his eyes—usually soft with you—had sharpened, some challenge buried there. “Did you… hook up?”
“God, no.” Your nose scrunched immediately. “Ew. I’m not stupid.”
For half a second, Theo didn’t move. Then you saw it—the subtle unclenching of his shoulders, the way his chest lifted like he’d been holding a breath and didn’t know it. Relief flashed across his face before he tucked it away, glancing toward the cabin.
The line crawled forward, slower than molasses, and you groaned under your breath. Tossing your head back dramatically, you hit something solid—Theo’s shoulder.
You started to pull away, embarrassed, but he didn’t budge. In fact, you felt him shift slightly, angling so his shoulder fit more comfortably beneath your head. Like he wanted you there.
“This is going to take forever,” you mumbled into his hoodie, your voice muffled and pitiful. “I’m so tired.”
Theo looked down at you, and for a dangerous second, forgot about the entire line, the staff cabin, the rules plastered on every counselor orientation handout. You were too sleepy to notice the way his gaze softened—how it swept over your face, lingering on the curve of your lips, the delicate slope of your lashes, the way your hoodie swallowed you whole. You had no idea what you were doing to him, head against his shoulder, trusting him to hold your weight.
“I know, cara,” he said softly, voice warm with something he didn’t dare name. The pet name slipped out unguarded, and his hand lifted almost on instinct, rubbing slow circles into your back.
If you’d been fully awake, maybe you would’ve noticed the way his thumb lingered just a little longer than it needed to, or how his body angled toward yours like you were the only solid thing in the world. But you were barely upright, sighing at the soothing motion, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment.
“Come on,” he murmured after a beat, nodding toward a weathered bench under a nearby pine. “You’re going to collapse if you keep standing. Let’s sit. We’re not getting inside anytime soon.”
His hand stayed light at the small of your back as he guided you there—steady, protective, warm against the chill. You let him lead you without question. The second you sat down, your head dropped back against his shoulder like it belonged there.
Theo froze for just a breath, his chest tightening. Then slowly, carefully, he leaned slightly into you, like he’d been waiting for this.
“You got your phone?” you mumbled into his hoodie, your words half-swallowed by a yawn.
“No,” he chuckled low, a rough sound in his chest. “One of my campers stole it. Staff confiscated it for three days. I’m phoneless.”
Even through the exhaustion, you laughed—soft and real. “Of course they did. Your campers are chaos.”
Theo’s lips curved, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. You didn’t see the way his gaze swept over your tired features, or how his chest rose and fell a little too carefully, like he was scared to breathe too loud and break the moment. You didn’t hear the thought thrumming in his chest, louder than the chatter of the counselors or the breeze in the trees:
If anyone finds out, we’re done. Fired. But god—
He let his eyes close for half a second, savoring the warmth of your weight against him.
“But you’re adorable when you get them to behave,” you murmur, your voice quiet, almost lost to the chilly morning air. The words leave your lips before you even realize how dangerously soft they sound. “They look at you with so much awe, you know? Like you hung the moon or something.”
Theo’s head jerks slightly, and for a second he just stares at you. Like your words physically reached inside his chest and knocked something loose. He looks startled, caught mid-yawn, his hood slipping slightly back, revealing the messy strands of hair sticking up every which way. He’s the picture of exhaustion—hoodie rumpled, pajama shorts creased, flip-flops hanging precariously on his feet—and yet the smile that creeps onto his face makes him look unfairly, painfully handsome.
He doesn’t smirk this time, doesn’t deflect with some teasing comment. Instead, his lips part and then curl upward into the most genuine grin you’ve ever seen from him, one that crinkles the corners of his sleepy eyes and shows just the slightest hint of his teeth. He looks… happy. Not the joking kind of happy, but the kind that feels rare. Like your words actually mattered.
“Yeah?” he says softly, his voice raspier now, a little hushed, like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud, the spell you’ve accidentally cast will break.
You shift on the bench to face him a little more, your cheek still lazily leaning against his shoulder. The fabric of his hoodie is worn soft, faintly warm from his body heat. “You really are good with kids, Theo. Like… weirdly good. I’ve seen those little terrors make staff members cry, but you? You give them one look and suddenly they’re angels. It’s not normal.” Your lips twitch with a small grin. “They worship you. You know that, right?”
That earns you a quiet laugh, low and gravelly, the sound curling warm in your chest. “You’re giving me too much credit,” he mutters, ducking his head slightly, the tip of his hood shading his face. But you can still see the faint pink dusting his cheekbones.
“I don’t think I am,” you counter. “They love you. And it’s not just because you let them smuggle extra candy into the cabin or stay up too late telling scary stories.”
Theo presses his lips together in an almost boyish attempt to hide his grin, but fails. His dimples show—of course he has dimples, because the universe is cruel—and he ducks his chin a little lower, hood slipping further over his messy hair as if he can hide how much your words are undoing him. “You’re really trying to make my morning, huh?”
You shrug, a sleepy grin tugging at your lips. “Not trying. Just telling the truth.”
He’s quiet for a beat, his gaze flicking down to your face. There’s a weight to it, like he’s memorizing you—your mussed hair, your drooping eyelids, the faint pink in your nose from the cold. It’s the kind of look that feels too intimate, the kind that makes your chest tighten, even if you’re too tired to fully process why.
“Thanks,” he says finally, and it’s heavier than a throwaway thank-you. It’s loaded, like he’s saying you have no idea what that does to me.
“Of course,” you murmur, shrugging again like it’s nothing, though warmth curls in your stomach at how serious he sounds. “You really are amazing with them, Theo. And with… well. Pretty much everyone.”
Theo huffs out a low laugh, shaking his head, but there’s a tightness in his throat. There are a dozen things he wants to say—like how you’re the only one who makes the chaos of this summer worth it, how maybe the reason he’s so good with kids is because being around you makes him want to be better at everything. But he doesn’t say any of it, because there’s a strict no-relationships rule at camp, and even thinking about you like that is skirting the edge of trouble.
Instead, he leans the tiniest bit closer, his voice dropping low, just for you. “Careful,” he teases lightly, though there’s something warm and unguarded beneath it. “Keep talking like that and someone’s gonna think you’ve got a crush on me. Big violation of camp rules, you know.”
You laugh, sleep-rough and a little too loud for the quiet forest morning. “Yeah, well,” you smirk up at him, “if I did, I’d be smart enough not to get caught behind the showers.”
Theo lets out a sharp laugh, hand briefly covering his mouth to stifle it. It’s unrestrained, warm, the kind of laugh that makes his shoulders shake. When he drops his hand, there’s a look in his eyes—bright, fond, a little dangerous. “See, this is why I like you,” he mutters, so soft you almost wonder if you misheard him.
The words hang between you, charged, until his knee bumps against yours, his shoulder pressing more firmly into your head. You swear you feel him exhale, shaky and subtle, like being this close is messing with him in ways he’s trying very hard to hide.
“For what it’s worth,” he says suddenly, voice dipping low again, “you’re amazing with them too. The kids. And me.” His gaze flickers briefly down to yours, then back to the staff cabin as if he didn’t just say something that made your pulse skip.
You want to respond, but your exhaustion makes it hard to think straight. Instead, you mumble something unintelligible, which makes Theo grin wider, his hand brushing lightly against the small of your back—a tiny, secret rebellion against the no-relationships rule. It’s such a small touch, but it sends a jolt of warmth through you all the same.
Then the cabin door creaks open and Mike finally shuffles out, looking rumpled and annoyed. The line moves, groans and complaints rising from the counselors.
“Finally,” Theo mutters. Then his lips twitch in a smirk, his voice pitched for your ears only. “Guess we’ll see if they think we’re secretly dating.”
You roll your eyes but don’t move your head from his shoulder. “If they ask, just say we’ve been too tired to plot any scandal.”
“Yeah,” he says with a low chuckle, the sound curling like honey in your stomach. “Too tired. Sure.”
But you feel his thumb brush your back again as you both stand, and you realize maybe you’re not the only one who doesn’t hate the idea of breaking the rules.
✧.* : G.W x Reader
✎ : For someone who hates being touched, you sure let George get close.
𖦹 :2.4k
A/N: I LOVED THIS REQUESTTTTTTT
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
★ request: @raiweasley
ϟ taglist ϟ : @falsedivide @procookie2007 @damagedbreign @promisingflowerz-13 @littlemadamred
You’re not fond of touch.
Not in a dramatic, trauma-drenched kind of way, though everyone always seems to assume it’s something like that. It isn’t. It’s just… not your thing. Hugging, leaning, linking arms; most people take it for granted, that casual sort of affection friends seem to throw around like candy.
But you’ve never liked how it makes your skin prickle, like something was being asked of you that you didn’t sign up for. Even handshakes made you grit your teeth through the discomfort.
It’s not something you announce, not some bold statement you tack onto a badge or shout across the common room. It’s more subtle than that. A quiet recoil. A flinch so small only the most observant people ever notice. You’ve never been one for grand declarations. You just don’t reach out.
And you hope others get the hint.
Your friends learned quickly enough. First years, bright-eyed and eager, had reached for your hands during group walks to class or tugged you into hugs after a good grade. But you always stiffened, or laughed awkwardly and peeled away. That kind of discomfort sticks. So they stopped.
Now, a few years in, your group has settled into a rhythm that mostly works. They greet you with wide smiles instead of side-hugs, affection held in eye contact and words instead of open arms. No one touches your hair, no one throws themselves across your lap, no one grabs your hand under the table during hard moments.
You’re grateful for that.
Sometimes you think it bothers them, even if they’d never say so. Parvati once looked at you for a long time after hugging Lavender, her expression a mixture of fondness and uncertainty, like she wanted to reach for you but thought better of it. You’d smiled to let her know it was okay. She didn’t need to be sorry.
It wasn’t personal.
It just… is.
You love your friends. Deeply, in fact. You remember every birthday. You leave notes when someone’s had a bad day. You brew tea exactly how each of them likes it when exam season hits. You show up.
But you do it quietly. Hands in your pockets. Smiles that stretch wide, but never too close.
You keep your body to yourself.
And for the most part, no one questions it anymore.
There’s always some first-year or overenthusiastic Hufflepuff trying to break the invisible rule, but you manage. You dodge, you redirect, you smile just enough to let them know it isn’t personal. Most of the time, people get it.
Most of the time, it’s fine.
You like your space.
You like that your bed is yours alone, that when you sit at the corner table in the library, no one leans over your shoulder to read along. You like that when your friends sit beside you on the couch in the common room, they never press too close.
The unspoken boundary is as much yours as it is theirs.
You feel safest like this—untouched, unbothered.
You’ve made peace with it.
And for years, there’s never been a reason to question it.
Not until him.
But you don’t know that yet.
For now, everything still fits where it should. The people you care about are close enough, but not too close. And no one touches you unless absolutely necessary.
That’s the rule.
And you’ve never broken it.
Not even once.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
It starts slowly.
So slowly, in fact, you don’t even notice.
It begins with laughter. Not yours, though yours always follow -- it starts with his. Loud, bright, effortless. Like he finds everything a bit ridiculous and a bit wonderful all at once. You hear it down the hall before you see him sometimes. George Weasley has never been subtle.
You wouldn’t call yourselves close. Not at first.
He’s in your classes, but he’s more known for his dramatic exits than his presence during lectures. He’s the kind of person who charms a textbook to scream if anyone opens it, just to break the tension during revision week.
He’s… chaotic.
You’re not.
And yet somehow, somewhere between second year and now, he’s become a part of your world.
It probably started when you helped him with an essay in the library. He asked what oxblood was in the context of potion ingredients and you ended up explaining four different cauldron reactions. He grinned the whole time, pencil tapping against his lip, completely oblivious to how the librarian kept shushing you both.
You thought that was the end of it. But then he started sitting next to you in Transfiguration. Then he started meeting you outside the Great Hall and walking with you to class, half the time forgetting which direction he was supposed to go in the first place.
You assumed it was coincidence. Friendly proximity. George is a people person; he collects connections like chocolate frog cards.
Still, he’s never like that with everyone.
You noticed the difference in how he talks to others versus how he talks to you. With them, it’s quick jokes and a wink as he passes. With you, it’s conversations. Real ones. Questions about what you’re reading, your take on magical theory, even what kind of pastries your mum makes during the holidays.
You find yourself looking forward to seeing him.
You still keep your distance, of course. Even when you laugh at his jokes, you stay firmly planted on your own side of the bench. You don’t lean. You don’t bump shoulders. You don’t ruffle hair or playfully shove.
That’s still the rule.
But George seems to brush against it more than anyone else.
There’s a moment during Charms where he leans over your notes to copy a line and his arm rests against yours for a fraction of a second too long. You don’t move. You barely even register it. Not in the usual way, not with the instinctive urge to pull away.
Then there’s the time you’re both at the edge of the Quidditch pitch, watching Fred and Angelina practicing passes. You’re sitting on the grass, legs crossed, and George flops down beside you with a thud, his knee knocking into yours.
You expect to stiffen. Instead, you keep talking.
And when he throws his head back and laughs so hard he leans into your shoulder, you… don’t mind.
That part doesn’t make sense.
You start to notice it more and more—the little ways your body doesn’t react.
How when your friends reach for you, you still flinch or side-step, still avoid the press of contact like it burns. But when George leans close to show you something, or claps a hand on your back in triumph, or bumps your elbow during dinner—you let it happen.
You don’t shrink. You don’t freeze.
You stay.
You haven’t said anything. You’re not even sure what there is to say. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe it’s just something about the way he exists—loud but gentle, unpredictable but safe—that makes your rules bend.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But maybe it’s not.
You haven’t figured it out yet.
But someone else is about to.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
It starts with comments. Little ones. Offhand, tossed over shoulders, usually half-joking.
“Weasley’s got a shadow,” someone mutters as you pass by in the corridor, not realizing you’re just behind them.
“Didn’t think you were the cuddly type,” another says when George flops beside you in the common room and nudges your foot with his own—something simple, something playful—and you don’t move away.
You brush the comments off. Because you’re not. You’re not the cuddly type. And George isn’t really touching you. Not like that. Not in the way that counts.
Besides, it’s not like anyone knows what it means.
They don’t know how you used to flinch away from hugs at age eleven, how you’d dodge out of arm’s reach like it was second nature. They didn’t see the way your skin crawled when someone’s hand hovered too long on your shoulder, even in comfort.
They don’t know that George’s hand brushing yours during Potions doesn’t make your stomach twist in anxiety, just… twist.
So you ignore them. Or try to.
But the teasing doesn’t stop.
“Didn’t think anyone was allowed in your personal space,” Seamus teases one night as George leans over your shoulder, pretending to inspect your chessboard. You don’t respond—because George is so close that you can feel the warmth of him behind your ear, and you’re too busy pretending it doesn’t make your heart skip.
Dean snorts and adds, “Mate, you’re practically an exception to the Constitution.”
George just shrugs, light and careless. “Guess I’m charming.” He grins. You laugh. Everyone else rolls their eyes.
But later, you catch the way Hermione looks at you across the table—curious, cautious, not unkind. She tilts her head like she’s re-evaluating something, like a puzzle piece finally clicked into place.
You don’t know what to say, so you look back at your book. You’re good at pretending nothing’s changed.
Until Fred notices.
And Fred’s not subtle.
It happens one evening in the common room, the sky outside dark and thick with clouds, the kind of weather that keeps everyone inside and restless. You’re curled into the far corner of the couch, a book open on your lap, your legs tucked under you.
George sits down next to you without a word, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His knee bumps into yours, and you don’t flinch. You don’t even think about it anymore. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch, half behind you.
You feel it. You always feel it. But you never mind.
Fred strolls past with a handful of snacks, pauses mid-step, and backpedals.
“Well, well,” he says, arching a brow.
You glance up. “What?”
He nods to the space between you and George; what little space there is. “That’s awfully cozy for someone who hexed Lee Jordan last year for touching their shoulder.”
You feel your ears burn. “It was a tap. And I’d asked him not to—”
Fred raises both hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment here.” Then he turns to George and smirks. “Didn’t know you were the chosen one, mate.”
George blinks. “What are you on about?”
Fred leans forward slightly, grin widening. “You’re the only one she lets near her, and you haven’t noticed?”
George opens his mouth, then closes it again.
You can feel the shift.
The weight of the words lingers longer than Fred’s teasing tone allows. George goes quiet, and for the first time in weeks, you feel a sliver of discomfort. Not because he’s touching you—but because he might stop.
Fred moves on, mercifully distracted by Ginny launching a pillow at Ron’s head. The room erupts into laughter again, and the moment seems to pass.
But George doesn’t pull away.
And you don’t, either.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
George doesn’t pull away.
Not after Fred’s teasing. Not after the looks. Not even after you go a little quieter than usual the next day, unsure if things have changed too much to go back.
Instead—
George leans in.
Not literally. Not at first. He’s smarter than that, even if he doesn’t always act like it. He knows enough about people—about you—to sense that if he rushes this, he’ll break whatever invisible thing you’ve been building between you.
So he doesn’t rush.
He simply lets things happen more.
He sits a little closer on the couch, like it’s nothing. He drops into step beside you on your way to class without announcing himself first. During meals, his shoulder brushes yours a little more often. And you’re keenly aware—too aware—that you never mind.
You’re not sure when you stopped minding.
One evening, you’re tucked away in your usual spot by the fireplace. It’s late. Most students have gone up to bed. You’re working on an essay you don’t care much about, quill tapping rhythmically against your parchment.
George appears without a word and plops down next to you, sprawling like he owns the entire sofa. His thigh bumps yours. He doesn’t move it.
You glance at him. He meets your eyes and raises a brow.
“What?” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Sure didn’t look like nothing,” he says, leaning over slightly to peek at your parchment. His shoulder brushes yours. You don’t move.
He smells like wood smoke and something faintly citrusy. It’s oddly comforting.
“You’re hovering,” you mutter, eyes flicking back to your essay.
“I’m helping,” he says. “Silently. Like a supportive academic presence.”
You snort, but the sound comes out quieter than intended. Your cheeks feel warm.
A few moments pass. You’re trying to focus on the essay again when you feel it—his fingers brush the back of your hand. Not on purpose, not obviously, just a light, tentative touch. Testing the water.
You glance down. He doesn’t move.
Your stomach flips. But not in fear. Not in discomfort.
He notices that you don’t pull away.
That’s when he leans in—this time, for real.
Not in a dramatic, sweeping way. But gently. Purposefully. He shifts a little closer, his voice quieter when he speaks again.
“You know,” he says, almost teasing, “you don’t let people do this.”
Your breath catches.
You don’t respond right away. You’re not sure how.
He tilts his head toward you, face close enough that you can see the curve of his smile—not wide, not cocky, just… soft.
“You always flinch,” he says. “Except when it’s me.”
It’s not accusatory. It’s not even a question. It’s just… wonder.
You look down at where his hand is resting, barely an inch from yours. He could reach out. He doesn’t. He’s waiting.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re the one who moves.
You shift your fingers ever so slightly -- until they brush his. Not grabbing, not grasping. Just touching. Just there.
You feel the breath he lets out.
Neither of you says anything after that.
You go back to your essay eventually. He doesn’t stop leaning close.
And for the first time, you think:
Maybe the rule was never about touch.
Maybe it was about who made it feel safe.
And somehow, without ever asking for permission, George Weasley became your safe place.
Summary: Sirius Black has always been a dog—but the thing about dogs? They're loyal to only one person: Their owner
A/N: um this whole fic is just me calling sirius a dog so be prepared for that
credits to @cursed-carmine for the divider
The locker room buzzed with low voices and nervous energy. Players paced, adjusted gloves, tightened goggles, cracked knuckles. The scent of polish, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air. Green and silver glinted off every surface, and somewhere above, the distant roar of the crowd was beginning to rise.
You stood in front of your team, arms crossed over your chest, chin held high, calm as ever.
And when you spoke, the room snapped to attention.
"Alright. Listen up."
Voices cut off immediately. All eyes turned to you.
“You hit hard. You fly clean. No stunts unless I call them. You’ve worked your asses off for weeks—rain, snow, bruises, broken brooms—and today, it pays off.”
You paced slowly, gaze locking with your Beaters, your Chasers, your Keeper. One by one. Like loading a weapon.
“We’re going to show them—without a single inch of doubt—who’s taking the Quidditch Cup home this year.”
You let that hang, the tension curling in your teammates’ shoulders like springs wound tight.
Then your voice dropped, sharp and cutting:
"We're going to send those bleeding badgers crying back to their mummies."
That broke the tension. Laughter and jeers rippled through the room, players bumping shoulders, fists meeting palms with dull thuds of anticipation.
You smirked.
Held out your hand.
“Let’s turn those badgers black and blue.”
One by one, gloves slammed down over yours.
“Slytherin!”
You were carried into the infirmary without protest by Mulciber, allowing him to gently lower you onto the bed. Without saying much else, you interlaced your fingers neatly over your lap, settling in as you waited for Madam Pomfrey to arrive.
She seemed preoccupied with the other beds, where four more occupants were already receiving care.
“Nasty fall, (L/N)?” Potter’s voice broke through the quiet, a teasing edge to it, “Would hate for you to miss out on Quidditch for the rest of the season.”
You smirked, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter? But sadly, no—just caught a nasty Bludger to the side when I grabbed the Snitch. So, I guess you Lions have no choice but to lose to us eventually.”
Your eyes flicked past him to the bed beside where Remus Lupin lay, looking far worse off than the rest of the Marauders—pale and sweaty, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Without realizing, your lips pouted, curiosity flickering as you wondered what had gone wrong to land all four of them in the hospital wing.
Before you could study his wounds more closely, your line of sight was blocked by another presence.
Black.
Compared to the others, he looked almost unharmed, hands on his hips as he stared down at you with a cocky smirk.
“You haven’t given me an ounce of your attention, princess,” He said, voice dripping with amusement, “Only bantering with my best mate and mooning at Moony. Should I be offended?”
“Wasn’t aware I owed you my attention, Black.”
His grin widened. Typical.
It wasn’t the first time your sharp tongue had reeled him in like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sirius Black didn’t know how to leave well enough alone—and you had no intention of making it easy for him.
Merlin, he lived for it.
Before he could come up with something clever in return, Madam Pomfrey appeared at your side with a soft cluck of her tongue and a no-nonsense look in her eyes.
“Caught a Bludger, did you?” She muttered, her tone clipped as she summoned a vial and some bandages from a nearby shelf, “You lot play like it’s war.”
“I think anyone can admire the dedication to the game, Madam Pomfrey.” You replied mildly.
“Not when it might break your ribs, Miss (L/N).” She snapped.
Then, more gently, “Lift your shirt. Let’s see the damage.”
You didn’t hesitate—casually unbuttoning the lower half of your Quidditch jersey and lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the mottled bruise blooming along your side. It was ugly—deep and dark with angry purple edges, already beginning to swell.
His eyes darted instinctively toward the injury, then immediately away—head turning sharply to the side, jaw tight. His entire body went rigid, as if even the suggestion of your bare skin had turned his brain to static.
You smirked, voice syrup-sweet, “What’s the matter, Black? Shy?”
“I’m many things,” He muttered, ears tinged faintly red, “but I am trying to be respectful. For once.”
Your eyes flicked to him just once. He was still looking away—but his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could feel the heat of his focus even if it wasn’t on your bare skin anymore.
When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron and nodded, “You’ll bruise badly, but the swelling will ease by morning. Try not to exacerbate it for the time being."
"Understood. Thank you." You replied, voice even.
You slid off the edge of the bed with fluid grace, smoothing your jersey back into place with a flick of your fingers.
You nodded once toward her retreating form in quiet thanks, then turned to go.
You were hardly surprised when Sirius followed you out.
After weeks of this little push and pull—this dangerous game you’d both been playing—you weren’t even remotely surprised that he’d finally snapped the leash you’d had so delicately wrapped around his neck.
So now, here you were. Back pressed to the cold, rough stone of a quiet Hogwarts corridor, Sirius’s arms caging you in like he was the predator in this scenario.
But the truth was clear.
You were the one in control.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. You just blinked at him—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. And though your expression was frustratingly unreadable, there was something ghosting over your lips that drove him mad. A smirk that wasn’t a smirk. A glimmer of smugness that you refused to make obvious. It was maddening. Intoxicating.
Had it been anyone else he’d backed into a wall like this, they’d have giggled, blushed, reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair with wide eyes and parted lips.
But not you.
Your hands were tucked neatly behind your back like you were entertaining a child’s tantrum, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Always poised. Always untouchable. Always in control.
And God, it was driving him insane.
What he wouldn’t give to be caught in the eye of your storm—while the world bent and broke around you, you’d remain untouched, divine. He wanted to be yours. Completely. Worshipfully. Pathetically.
“What do you say we stop pussyfooting around and go on a date, (L/N)?” He asked, his voice low and rough with the effort it took to sound casual.
At that, you smiled—finally, a real smile, sly and slow like honey sliding down a knife.
“Sorry, Black,” You said, tone sweet as poison, “I don’t think I’d be interested.”
His brow twitched. “That’s not what you’ve been signalling these past few weeks.” He muttered, leaning in—just enough to try and catch your lips with his. Only to feel your finger press firmly to his mouth, stopping him dead.
He stared at you, lips brushing your fingertip, pupils blown. His breath caught, chest rising sharply. His eyes dropped to your mouth again and he clenched his jaw tight enough to ache—because if he didn’t, he might actually whine. Might beg.
“Why not?” He asked, voice hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper now.
You tilted your head, your smile that of a cat watching a bird flutter too close to the ground.
“I’m a very jealous woman, Sirius,” You said, voice light, playful—deadly, “And I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have you embarrassing me with all your… side chicks.”
He swallowed hard. The words hit like a slap and a caress. His brain fogged. The rush of blood thundered in his ears, and the air between you crackled.
You pouted suddenly, lips pursed in a way that made his knees threaten to buckle. And then—casually, cruelly—you reached up and gave his cheek a light pat.
“Sorry, puppy.”
And with that, you slipped out from under his arm like water through fingers, walking away without looking back.
Sirius stood frozen, throat dry, staring as your hips swayed down the corridor.
Utterly wrecked.
Something changed after that night in the corridor.
Well—he did.
Not immediately, of course. First, he sulked. Dramatically. Unproductively. For a good day and a half.
He spent most of it brooding in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him, ignoring three different girls who tried to sidle up beside him and ask what was wrong. (The fourth didn’t bother asking—just sat herself on his lap. That earned her a single-word dismissal and a truly withering look.)
But after that?
He changed.
The flirting stopped. The lingering touches in alcoves, the smug little smirks in the corridors, the midnight broom closet rendezvous—all gone. He stopped accepting folded notes spritzed with cheap perfume and sealed with lipstick kisses. Stopped tossing winks like knuts. Stopped acting like every hallway was a catwalk and every girl in Hogwarts his audience.
The last girl he even entertained—a sweet, overeager Hufflepuff fifth-year who tried to earn his attention by helping him with Transfiguration homework—had burst into tears when someone joked that she must have “turned him gay.”
He just wasn’t interested anymore.
Because for once in his life, Sirius Black didn’t want meaningless sex.
He wanted you.
And the castle knew it.
Even though you hadn’t spared him so much as a glance since that night in the corridor. Even though you walked past him in the Great Hall like he was furniture.
Everyone still knew.
Which meant, of course, all eyes had turned to you.
Wondering when you’d notice.
Wondering when you’d give in.
Or whether, as Sirius feared most of all…
You never would.
You loved partying.
Loved the bass so loud it rattled your ribs, the way lights flickered like spells mid-duel, the sway of bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You loved shaking ass with your friends, loved the wild screams and clinks of raised glasses. Loved the moments where you stepped back, drink in hand, watching it all unfold—cataloguing the gossip in real time. Who was kissing who. Who shouldn't be. Who’d be crying in the bathroom by midnight.
But there was a distinct difference when the party was thrown in your honor.
The moment you stepped into the Slytherin common room, the room erupted. Cheers ricocheted off the walls, your little black dress catching the green and silver lights just right, and your open jersey—your surname stitched in bold—billowed like a cape.
You’d never been prouder of that name.
Not until Remus’s voice boomed over the speakers earlier that day, full of awe:
“(L/N) has made the miraculous catch of the Snitch—Slytherin wins!”
The memory played over and over in your head as your teammates lifted you onto their shoulders, parading you through the room like the queen you were. You laughed, kissed the golden Snitch in your hand, and smudged your lipstick across it with zero shame.
The party moved on around you, wild and electric, and you eventually found yourself perched on a velvet ottoman, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold with your usual sharpened gaze—until the Marauders appeared.
“Good game, (L/N),” James grinned, raising his cup, “That was some mighty flying. Looking forward to beating you in the finals.”
You scoffed, but smiled, “Thanks, Potter. Though I can’t see you being this cordial when Slytherin mops the floor with you.”
Then your gaze slid to Sirius, who hadn’t spoken yet.
“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come over tonight, Black,” You purred, circling your finger around the rim of your glass lazily.
He grinned, wolfish and easy, “Didn’t want to be just another forgettable face in a crowd of nobodies.”
You chuckled, “Sure you didn’t just forget about me? Busy fending off your admirers, I’m sure.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that drove you mad, “Sweetheart, everyone here knows there’s only one person I have eyes for.”
You were about to volley something back—something sharp and slick and just flirtatious enough to make him twitch—when the atmosphere cracked with a loud crash and an even louder voice.
“IT WAS A FLOP!”
Across the room, Ravenclaw’s captain, Muccullen—clearly drunk and still stinging from his loss today—was making an embarrassing scene.
“I would’ve caught that damn Snitch if the snakes didn’t play dirty!” He barked, sloshing firewhisky onto the carpet.
You barely blinked. Just raised a brow, unimpressed, letting his tantrum unfold like a child kicking their legs in a supermarket.
“(L/N) thinks she’s all that,” He continued, voice rising, “but that stupid bitch just got lucky!”
Now that made your brow twitch.
You weren’t planning to dignify it with a response. But then Sirius was suddenly in front of you, jaw tight, a quiet fury radiating off him like a pulse.
“Watch your mouth.”
Muccullen blinked slowly, swaying. “If it isn’t her mangy mutt,” He slurred, sneering, “You’re just as pathetic, Black. Chasing after her like a dog when she doesn’t even want you. Face it—the only reason she gets anywhere in life or on that bloody broom is ’cause that slag keeps guys like you wrapped around her finger.”
That much was true. Sirius was so tightly wrapped around your finger you could flick it and he’d bark.
Which is why Muccullen shouldn’t have been surprised when Sirius grabbed him by the collar.
You stepped forward then, calm and unbothered, resting a single hand on Sirius’s arm.
“Down, boy.”
His grip loosened—just barely. But it was enough.
You turned your gaze on Muccullen, voice cool and dangerous.
“You really know how to ruin a party, don’t you, Muccullen?” You said smoothly, “I won today because I was faster. Simple as that. You don’t want to get pummeled by Bludgers while chasing the Snitch? That’s a conversation to have with your Beaters. Go sober up. Losing on the Quidditch pitch is one thing. This? This is just pathetic.”
Sirius shoved him back as he let go, and Muccullen stumbled off with the grace of a wounded troll.
You exhaled, turning to Sirius.
And yeah… he looked hot.
Leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a bit mussed. Breathing heavy like he wanted someone to give him an excuse to finish the fight. All for you.
He looked good defending your honor. Too good.
You sipped your drink with finality, “Well. On that note, I’m gonna turn in for the night.”
Sirius visibly deflated, like a puppy who’d been told no to a treat.
“Yeah, my roommates are gonna be partying all night,” You added, giving a theatrical sigh, “Figured I might enjoy the empty dorm for once.”
You nodded to Remus and James—who were both looking equally exhausted and wildly entertained—and started walking toward the staircase.
But you didn’t make it far before glancing over your shoulder.
Sure enough, Sirius was already staring.
You smirked. Winked.
And then you lifted your hand, curled a single finger.
Come.
His face lit up. Like Christmas and fireworks and every wish he’d never said out loud just came true.
Behind him, James cackled. Remus shook his head, amused.
“Go on, lover boy!” James shouted, slapping him on the back.
And Sirius? He sprinted.
By the time he caught up, you were outside your dorm, and his arms were already curling around your waist as you let out a soft giggle.
He buried his face in your neck, breath hot, lips brushing your skin.
“You better take me out on a date tomorrow.” You murmured.
He smiled against your throat, “Anywhere. Anytime. Just say the word.”
Bonus:
If anyone had ever been afraid of the Marauders—afraid of Sirius Black, the uncollared dog of Gryffindor House, heir to the House of Black, all sharp teeth and dangerous smirks—all they had to do was witness how he behaved with his girlfriend.
The only girl who’d ever managed to train him.
It was almost comical, the way Sirius’s entire face lit up the second he spotted you in the Gryffindor common room. His smirk melted into a wide, boyish grin, wild grey eyes softening like morning light breaking through fog.
“Baby!” He practically shouted, immediately abandoning James mid-sentence and sprinting across the room like a man possessed.
Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before your armchair, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your lap like it was the safest place in the world.
You giggled—an uncharacteristic sound, at least to everyone else. But for Sirius, it was as familiar as his own heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his thick dark hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp, and Sirius all but purred, sighing into the space between your thighs like the tension had been holding him hostage all day.
“What are you doing here?” He mumbled, voice muffled against your legs.
“Class ended early,” You replied smoothly, a smile tugging at your lips, “and I wanted to see my favourite boy.”
Sirius groaned dramatically, turning his head to press soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your wrist, right against your fluttering pulse. Like he was grounding himself with the feel of your blood beneath his lips.
Across from you, James flopped onto the couch with a snort, “Merlin, (L/N), you’ve got him trained better than a show dog.”
You didn’t even look up from Sirius as you smiled, sharp and slow.
“Oh, she knows.” Remus added from his spot by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book with a smirk.
Sirius hummed, clinging tighter to your waist like he couldn’t stand to be even a millimeter away.
You leaned back in the armchair, letting him sprawl across your lap like a pampered prince, fingers carding through his hair as if you had all the time in the world.
“You’re clingy today.” You murmured, not unkindly.
“Missed you.” Sirius said simply, lifting his head just enough to look at you—like you hung the bloody moon.
You raised an eyebrow, tapping your nails against his jaw, “Did something happen?”
He pulled one of your hands to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to each knuckle like it was sacred ritual, “Nah. Just tired of pretending not to be obsessed with you.”
“Well, you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.” James snarked.
“I know.” He replied, unapologetic.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
lazy morning time with matty! just staying in and cuddling 🥺
you know it’s coming as soon as you attempt to stretch out a leg from the heavy weight champion that is mattheos body.
his arms tighten at any sudden movement, pulling your back into his chest caging you in his trap. it’s cozy, his body heating you like a cup of hot cocoa warm in your stomach, nose nudging persistently tickling your neck.
“why don’t you love me” he whines in your ear.
you huff a laugh, “I do love you!”
it’s his go to phrase to jokingly guilt you. he means no harm course, he knows you love him. but he find it all too hilarious when you giggle and plead your case of love to him.
“you wouldn’t be leaving the bed if you did” he reasons another grumble exaggeratedly. pressing his nose further into your skin, inhaling and then sticking out to lightly lick you, relishing in you squirming.
“Mattheo! I have to pee and I’ll still be loving you from the toilet” you protest, happy spurts of laughs escaping as you talk.
untangling yourself from him you manage to escape and dash out of the bed. watching with amusement as he rolls on his back, releasing the most overdramatic groan, his arms flop over his eyes.
“I’m so alone.” He wallows out to the empty room. Mabel your shared cat wastes no time alerting her presence with a strangled whine just like his. “yeah, quit your whining” he mutters, offering affectionate pats.
“sounds like someone I know!” You call out.
mattheo rolls his eyes, pouting petulantly upon your return. you match his expression, “you’re so dramatic.” but there’s a fond grin already lighting your face.
his arms spread, inviting you in for his much requested cuddles. and when you finally accept, he grins squeezing you tightly, “you love it; and I guess you love me too.”
ˋ°•*⁀➷ just a little drabble about slightly jealous & possessive mattheo
Mattheo’s fingers traced warm lazy circles over your thigh, the feeling of which when combined with the stifling air in the classroom, heavy in post-lunch haze, and the drone of Professor McGonagall’s voice made you want to curl into his lap and fall asleep.
You offered him a slow smile as you leaned your cheek on your palm and he offered one back, his perfect lips curling as he looked at you in a way you knew was reserved only for you.
McGonagall said something that garnered mutters and groans but to be fair a werewolf could have walked into the classroom and you would have missed it, lost in Mattheo’s brown eyes.
His head inclined slightly towards the front of the room, and his brow furrowed as you heard the words “project” and “random partner assignment”. His fingers squeezed your thigh as she started reading out the names.
"Mr. Crabbe and Ms. Brown"
"Ms. Parkinson and Ms. Patil"
"Ms. YLN and Mr. Potter"
Mattheo sat up straight to his full height in attention, his back rigid, his eyes dark and narrowed at McGonagall as his fingers squeezed your leg tighter, teetering on the edge of discomfort as he ignored that he’d gotten paired with his own random Gryffindor.
You placed your hand over his and only that touch seemed to bring him back to earth.
“It's alright” you said quietly, just louder than a whisper. “It’s just a project.”
“You’re not spending a second in his airspace” he muttered, his voice gravelly, angry.
“Mattheo—”
“—Put aside the fact that he’s an egotistical self-impressed fuck who thinks he’s Godric’s gift to the world, he always pays you too much fucking attention.”
You tilted your head at that because when did you ever spend enough time around Potter for that to be the case, let alone for Mattheo to notice it?
Mattheo clocked the confused look on your face.
“Darling, I’m telling you, I see the way he looks at you—”
“—Mattheo” you said gently, smiling. Your heart swelled at his concern for you, even if you felt like it was misplaced.
But as the class dismissed, he stood and moved smooth and purposefully to the front of the room as you rushed to grab your books and follow him.
“Professor?” he said, his tone level and calm, suave and persuasive as he flashed a thousand-watt smile at her. “I’d like to request a change in partners. Ms. YLN and I have the same schedule, and as members of the same house it would be much more advantageous for our focus and our ability to master this material if we worked together, especially with the quidditch finals coming up, as I’m sure you’d agree?”
She stared sternly at him over the rim of her glasses, her lips in a firm line.
“If this assignment is too much for you on top of your quidditch responsibilities, I’ll be sure to let Professor Snape know so you can devote more time to your studies?”
His smile dropped to a scowl so quickly you could feel a chill in the air.
“My answer is final” she said when he didn't move.
You watched his fist curl at his side, out of her sight.
“Very well, professor” he said.
Mattheo was a bit a cloudy after that, though not with you, never with you. If anything, he was softer and even more affectionate, touchy, possessive.
He pressed soft kisses to your cheek at dinner, murmuring against your ear, “I can talk to Snape you know, get the assignments changed, I’m sure.”
“It’s fine, really, we’ll split the work, power through and move on” you said assuredly, much less concerned about the situation than he was. “You know…” you said, turning your head so your noses brushed, “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I know” he said, smiling cockily, his lips lingering over yours. “My fucking girl” he nearly growled and goosebumps spread up your arm, your body alight to his response. “Just as long as everyone else remembers it. I’m not jealous, love. Jealous is when you want something that isn’t yours” he said as he brushed his knuckles against your jaw. Territorial is protecting what you already have.”
You agreed to meet Harry in the library the following week in a quick and courteous exchange with every intention of spending as little time together as possible.
As you sat across from him you fixed your focus on your textbook and notes and only lifted your head when you felt his gaze on you as he sat unmoving in his chair.
“That’s… a nice sweater, you look nice today” he said, smiling shyly.
You offered a barely-there smile in return.
“You know I wish we’d talk more, get to know each other, but Mattheo…” he let the name drift off like a spell as a blush rose on his cheeks and he fiddled nervously with his quill.
And all you could think was fuck Mattheo had been right.
“Let’s just focus on the project” you tried.
“—He’s a bit intense, no? Mattheo?” Harry blurted.
You cocked your eyebrow at him. He couldn’t be serious.
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just looking out for you YN, guys like that—” but what exactly he might have wanted to say died on his lips as his eyes blew wide and wandered over your shoulder.
You knew before you turned around; you could sense him like your own shadow even if Harry’s vividly fearful look wasn’t giving it away.
“Darrrlinng” his voice purred, curling around you like wisps of smoke as he leaned over the back of your chair and placed a large coffee there, pausing just long enough to stare at Potter who looked three sizes smaller as he shrank into his seat.
You saw Mattheo reach for his pocket out of the corner of your eye and watched as Harry’s hand twitched towards his robe, but Mattheo pulled something small and shiny out, your eyes dancing over it as he reached for your wrist, which felt small and fragile in his large hands.
He gently clasped it there and you realized it was a gold and diamond tennis bracelet, with a small ‘M’ charm that dangled and danced in the low library light.
You smiled and could feel your heartbeat thrumming in your body.
“Mattheo” you whispered, turning to face him where he loomed, still leaning over the back of your chair, his head beside yours.
He turned to you granting you that perfect smile before curling a finger under your chin, then grasping it firmly in his hand as he kissed you with immediate passion, like he was leaving for war, bruising at first, and then deep, languid, unforgiving and unashamed.
You couldn’t help how hot your blood ran as you grasped at the front of his robes and then all too soon he pulled away, pressing one more firm kiss to your lips, then your nose before letting you go and pulling back with another look at Potter before he walked away wordlessly.
Your chest was heaving as you tried to catch your breath and your cheeks were red from the adrenaline, from the grasp of his hands.
Your ran your fingers over your lips absentmindedly noting that they felt swollen from his kiss as you swiped at the errant lipgloss that he’d smeared there. And then you realized with a knowing smile that now there wasn’t a place Potter could look at you from your mussed hair, to your wet lips and the diamonds on your wrist that glittered as you grabbed your quill without a singular reminder of who you were and whose you were.
His eyes were averted for the rest of the afternoon, commenting only when needed, and very quietly at that, on the project.
summary: in which you overhear sirius calling you his girl, like it’s the simplest truth he’s ever known. thus, a lovesick and kiss-drunk sirius makes it his mission to say it again, and again, until you finally believe it.
warnings: fluff, excessive affection, pet names, public displays of affection, mild teasing, soft!sirius who’s so in love, overwhelming sweetness, lovesick behavior, lots of kissing, tooth rotting fluff
word count: 3.1k
masterlist
The thing about dating Sirius Black is that it never quite feels real.
Not in the way people describe disbelief, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in that strange, dreamy sense of stumbling into a story someone else might’ve written—some fairytale stitched with mischief and the kind of heat that lingers in the spaces between words.
It has been a few months now.
Enough time for your friends to stop blinking in surprise every time they catch you smiling at him, enough time for the rumors to die down and the whispers in the halls to quiet to a low murmur—though they never go away entirely when it comes to Sirius.
He is, after all, Sirius Black: loud-mouthed and sharp-eyed, honey-voiced and maddeningly beautiful.
And yet, somehow, he chose you. Or maybe you chose each other, slowly, stupidly,and sweetly.
You know what people must think. That you temper him. That he ignites you. That your silences fill in the blanks he never bothers to pause for. That he, for all his recklessness, somehow found something steady in you.
Which is why you’re heading to meet him now outside of class. Sirius had promised to spend the entire day with you today, as he was lately busy with studying.
You’re almost there when you hear his voice.
It’s not unusual—he talks loudly, as though the air is something that belongs to him, like even his words are allergic to restraint. But it’s the way he says something now that makes your steps falter.
You’re still around the corner, concealed by the stone archway. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.
“Sirius!” James Potter’s voice cuts through the corridor, warm and familiar, and it’s easy to picture his wide grin as he strides up to him.
“Come on, padfoot. We’ve got a pitch slot and I need someone to test my latest throw. You still owe me from last week when you ditched.”
Sirius laughs, the sound low and raspy in the way you’ve come to know too well. “Didn’t ditch,” he says.
“Oh, piss off,” James retorts. “You coming or not?”
There’s a pause. You imagine Sirius running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s pretending to think, when in reality he’s already made up his mind and just wants to seem dramatic.
“Can’t,” Sirius says finally, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic. “I’ve got a packed schedule today.”
James scoffs, exaggerated. “What, you’ve started revising now? What exactly are you busy with?”
“No,” Sirius replies, too casual, too breezy. And then, with no warning at all, he adds, “I’m spending the day with my girl.”
It hits you like a whispered spell.
Not “my girlfriend,” not your name, not even some half-serious nickname. Just that. My girl.
You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the way your heart is thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape your chest, of the heat crawling up the back of your neck, of the way your fingers have curled slightly into your sleeves like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.
You’ve never been someone who takes up space easily, and right now, the sound of those two words fills every corner of your body, makes you feel almost... lit up.
It’s not the fact that he said it. You know you're his girl. He’s told you in the way he tucks his fingers into the loops of your jeans just to pull you closer in the quiet corners of the library.
In the way he lights up when he sees you walk into the common room, mid-sentence with Remus, stopping only to grin like you’ve rewired the gravity in the room.
In the way he sits behind you during study sessions just to braid strands of your hair and mutter things like “beautiful,” and “gorgeous.”
But still—my girl.
You’re fairly certain you and James both made the same face at the same time. That vaguely unhinged, utterly stunned, slack-jawed expression that usually precedes a dramatic spill or a burst of inappropriate laughter in the Great Hall.
Somewhere in your brain, a single electrical wire sparked, and then everything short-circuited.
You could practically see James’s eyebrows lifting halfway to the ceiling, and it’s almost hilarious, almost.
Because you would have laughed—if you weren’t frozen, rooted to your spot like some enchanted statue.
Then came Sirius’s voice again, casual and clear, carrying from inside the classroom, smug in the way only Sirius Black can be when he knows exactly where he’s headed.
“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “She’s probably already out there waiting for me.”
James groans dramatically. “Tell your girl I’m filing for abandonment.”
“See you later, prongs,” Sirius calls back, followed by the scraping sound of a chair and the creak of hinges swinging open.
Panic sparks in your chest.
You leap back from the wall like you’ve just been caught with your ear pressed to the keyhole—because, well, you have, essentially—and immediately fumble with your bag, turning slightly so it looks like you’ve just arrived.
And then there he is.
Leaning against the doorframe like it’s something he was born to do. Hair half-tucked behind his ears, tie loose, expression bright and unreasonably happy for someone who got an earful from Slughorn not two days ago.
His eyes find you instantly, like he was already reaching for the sight of you before he even walked out.
“Hi, baby,” he says, voice soft and amused and utterly at home in the syllables.
“Hi!,” you reply, a little too fast.
His brow lifts slightly. “Hi.”
Your heart trips. “Hi.”
He stares at you for a beat, then lets out the kind of laugh that sounds like it comes from his chest. The kind of laugh that should probably be bottled and sold as some form of antidote in your humble opinion.
“You look a little too happy for a Monday, baby,” he says, stepping closer, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted as he studies you. “What’s happening?”
You shrug with deliberate nonchalance, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Can’t I be happy?”
He grins like you’ve just said something precious. “Of course you can,” he says, reaching out to squish your cheeks between his hands so your words are suddenly a little garbled.
“Just wanna know what’s got you extra happy today.”
You mumble something unintelligible, eyes darting away, and he narrows his own suspiciously.
“Hmm?”
You free your face from his fingers and try not to giggle. “It’s nothing.”
“Nuh-uh,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense. “You don’t get to smile like that and then say ‘nothing.’ Come on, tell me.”
You hesitate, toeing the stone floor with your shoe. “I, um. I heard you.”
Sirius blinks. “You heard me?”
“In class,” you clarify, shifting your weight to the other foot and feeling heat crawl up your neck. “When you were talking to James.”
He tilts his head again. “You get happy when I talk to James? That’s new,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles softly across your cheek—his touch featherlight.
His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, are softened now, warm and brimming with a quiet kind of awe.
You swat at his chest lightly. “No, Sirius.”
He laughs again, utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, sorry. What did I say?”
You bite your lip and look away. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“Absolutely not,” he says, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Now I need to know.”
You shake your head stubbornly, lips pursed, trying not to smile, but Sirius isn’t fooled.
He takes a slow step closer, tall enough that his shadow stretches over you, the scent of him curling into your breath. The air between you tightens.
“Wait,” he says suddenly, voice pitched low with amusement, grin sharpening like he’s just solved a riddle he’s been working on since breakfast, “Was it when I called you my girl?”
Your face gives you away in an instant.
Your eyes widen, the way they always do when you’re caught off guard, as if your thoughts have leapt too fast for your expression to catch up. Heat blooms high in your cheeks, blooming pink and soft across your skin like sunrise, betraying every effort to stay composed.
“Oh my god,” he says, actually laughing now, hands braced on his hips as if the revelation physically knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what got you all smiley?”
You narrow your eyes, cheeks blazing. “Stop laughing!”
He tries, he really does, but the laughter keeps bubbling out of him, shameless and golden.
You huff and turn on your heel, nose in the air like you’ve just declared a personal war against him.
But you don’t get far.
Before you can take a single step away, he moves—quick and fluid, one long stride and he’s behind you.
His fingers find your waist with ease, curling firmly around your sides, and in one seamless motion, he pulls you back—hard enough to make you stumble slightly—until you're flush against his chest.
He holds you close. So close it feels like you’re standing inside the space between seconds.
“Hey, hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, brushing against your skin like silk. His arms slip around you fully, drawing you in again, and this time, you don’t resist.
“Why so shy, baby?” he whispers, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness all tangled together.
You pout instinctively, your fingers resting lightly against his chest. “Nothing.”
His brows lift. “No, no. No hiding. What is it?” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You are my girl though, right?”
You glare up at him, but your heart is not cooperating.
“You just... never called me that before,” you say, quiet, soft enough that it barely survives the space between you.
Sirius exhales, and pulls you even closer, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.
“Well,” he says into your hair, “You should start getting used to it.”
You don’t even get a moment to tease him back before he’s wrapping his arms around you again, tugging you flush against his chest like holding you is as instinctive as breathing.
He rocks you gently side to side, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and you can feel the quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.
“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for your ears.
He says it again, and again. Each repetition comes between a kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin with unbearable fondness, his long hair tickling across your jaw like satin.
“My girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your cheekbone.
Another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty girl.”
You giggle, trying and failing to turn your face away as warmth floods your cheeks. “Sirius, your hair’s tickling me—”
He just smiles into your skin, clearly unbothered. Another kiss, this one slower, more lingering, pressed just beneath your ear. “My favorite person.”
You squirm in his arms, laughing harder now, your hands curled into his shirt as you try to wriggle away, but he only holds you tighter.
“My most favourite girl.”
Each word hums against your skin like a spell.
And you, useless and smitten thing that you are, melt for him completely.
A quiet giggle escapes you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his chest to hide the way your cheeks are burning.
You try to squirm away, overwhelmed and giddy, but his grip tightens gently and he tilts your chin up with two fingers, catching your gaze with a look so full of open affection it robs the breath from your lungs.
He holds your face like it’s something precious, like he’s afraid to let it go. His thumb brushes just beneath your cheekbone, featherlight and impossibly gentle, and then he says—quietly, sincerely—
“Can I get a kiss?”
The way he looks at you in that moment, like you’re his whole damn universe, is almost too much.
His long black hair falls into his eyes, the ends brushing his cheekbones, his mouth barely parted.
His eyes are shining, glassy with something deeper than a smile, and he’s smiling anyway, soft and crooked like the words he wants to say are too big to fit in his throat.
There’s a trembling silence where you don’t know how to speak.
Because this is the part no one sees.
This is Sirius Black in love. Not loud, not cocky, not showy or flirtatious. But bare, unshielded, and tender to the point of devastation.
And somehow, it still surprises you—how much he feels.
Because he plays it smooth, always, with his smirks and his swagger and his stupidly charming quips.
But deep down, Sirius is just as flustered to be around you as you are around him. Maybe even more.
He still hasn’t gotten used to saying your name out loud without his heart stammering. Still can’t look at you some days without wondering if you’re a dream made flesh. Still marvels at the fact that when you walk into a room, you’re walking toward him.
He calls you his girl like it’s nothing. But to him, it means everything.
Because you’re not just his girl. You’re his world.
You lean up slowly, your hands resting against his chest like he might vanish if you touch him too fast. Then you press your lips to his, soft and sweet.
He smiles against your mouth before pulling back slightly, his eyes still closed, like he’s trying to savor the moment just a little longer. A beat passes. Then—
“Can I get another one?” he whispers, one eyebrow lifting, that same mischievous edge bleeding back into his voice.
You blink at him. “You’re so—”
But you don’t get to finish.
Because he kisses you again—harder this time. His hand cups the back of your neck, his other arm firm around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid the world might steal you away if he lets go.
And when he kisses you like that—like you’re his first and last prayer—there’s no doubt left.
Sirius Black is utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love with you.
And even if you don’t quite realize it yet — he’s been yours all along.
His lips are still brushing against yours when he pulls back the slightest inch, gaze hazy and wonderstruck, as though he’s only just now realizing that you’re real.
His thumb is tracing absent shapes at your waist, his breath slow and uneven like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your mouth by air alone.
His eyes, dark and warm and barely blinking, drink you in like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of whatever this is.
And then, of course, he leans in again for a third kiss.
You stop him with a hand on his chest and a breathless little laugh. “Sirius,” you whisper, dragging out the syllables. “You can’t keep kissing me, we have a whole day ahead of us, and we’re still in the bloody hallway.”
He leans his forehead against yours with a groan, dramatic and wounded, as if you’ve just denied him water in a desert.
“But I thought you were my girl,” he says, pout in full effect, lips parted and brow creased with the exaggerated tragedy of it all.
“My girl doesn’t let me kiss her as much as I want? This is unfair.”
You burst out laughing, fully this time, and the sound of it sends a visible shiver through him.
He never gets tired of hearing it, probably never will.
“Come on, Black,” you tease, grabbing his hand and turning on your heel to pull him down the corridor behind you, your fingers threading easily through his.
“I need someone to help me carry the books I ordered.”
At that, Sirius lights up like someone’s handed him a trophy. “Books?” he says, perking up.
“You ordered books and didn’t tell me? That’s a violation of trust. But don’t worry, love—I’ll carry them, all of them. You won’t lift a single bloody finger.”
You glance back at him with a smirk. “Wow, look at you,” you tease, eyebrows raised.
“All manly now, huh? Sirius Black, the knight in shining armor, savior of poor girls with heavy textbooks.”
“I am manly,” he insists, puffing his chest out like an idiot and giving your joined hands a little swing. “And chivalrous and noble and handsome and criminally underappreciated and—.”
You snort. “Okay, I get it!”
But just as you’re rounding the next corridor, Sirius glances down and suddenly stops short, yanking you to a halt beside him.
“Wait—you’re carrying your bag?”
You blink, confused. “Um... yes?”
He gasps so dramatically you’re worried for a moment he might start clutching his chest.
“What a horrible boyfriend I am,” he cries.
“Carrying nothing. Letting my girl do the heavy lifting like some kind of untrained baboon.”
You laugh again, shaking your head as he makes a scene of freeing your bag from your shoulder.
“Give me that. No, seriously, give it. I was raised better than this. Even my horrible, bloody mother would’ve scolded me for letting you carry your own things.” – He takes the bag from you with exaggerated care, slinging it over his shoulder – “Granted, she’d probably scold me just for being in public with you, but the point stands.”
You giggle again, unable to stop smiling, as he then reaches for your hand once more, the two of you falling into step like you were made to.
Your hands swing gently between you, fingers warm and safe in his.
And from that moment on, he never stopped.
Sirius Black referred to you as his girl in every corner of the castle, whether you were there to hear it or not.
He’d say it proudly, like the words alone lit something inside him.
And when you weren’t around, you’d better believe he was still talking, still rambling, and surely still flustered.
Cheeks tinted a soft, unmistakable pink, he'd go on and on to anyone who’d listen—usually James—about how smart you were, how good you smelled, how pretty you looked with your nose buried in a book or your hair tied back or when you laughed with your whole body like you did when he tickled your sides.
James, for his part, teased him relentlessly. But Sirius didn’t mind. Not even a little.
You were his girl after all, and he wanted the whole world to know it.
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