#hp headcanon

[ladyhelona]

hi heuehuwheuehwu hear me out: Fred Weasley x Studious!F!Reader cock warming at the library. Reader is trying to study but Fred really needs to be inside her right now, so why not accomplish both? heueheueheuw

Study Break

💌 Fred Weasley x Reader

💭MDNI: Smut, cock warming turns to riding, semi public sex (no one catches them), Fred’s a snug little shit

A/N: The Weasley twins def deserve more content, I have another Fred fic I’ll be working on later, I LOVE writing for him

—

It starts, as these things usually do, with the soft scratch of your quill and the faint rustle of parchment—textbooks stacked like fragile towers around you, each one opened to a different chapter you’re convinced will be on the exam.

You’ve claimed the farthest corner of the library. Not because it’s the quietest, though it is. But because he always finds you here.

And sure enough, you feel him before you see him—warm breath at your neck, the barely-there graze of knuckles dragging down your spine as he leans over you like he belongs there. Like he owns the air around you.

“Studying again?” Fred purrs, voice low and full of something that makes your stomach flutter. “Shame. I was hoping you’d be doing something fun.”

You don’t look up. You don’t have to. He’s grinning. You can hear it. That insufferable little smile that always comes before trouble.

“You’re distracting me,” you murmur, eyes locked on the same sentence you’ve read four times.

“That’s funny,” he says, slipping into the seat beside you. His thigh presses against yours, firm and deliberate. “I was about to say the same thing.”

You don’t grace him with a reply. You just dip the quill back into your inkwell and resume writing—your script a little messier than before, your pulse a little louder.

Fred doesn’t move away.

If anything, he settles in, arm slung behind your chair like he’s lounging on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room and not wedged into a desk barely meant for one. His fingers toy with the end of your braid, slow and lazy, twirling it like he has all the time in the world.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-slick, “I read somewhere that physical closeness actually helps with concentration.”

You scoff under your breath, flipping a page with more force than necessary.

“Really?” you say flatly. “Is that why you’re pressed against me like a clingy kneazle?”

“Exactly,” he says, completely unbothered. “I’m only trying to help. Besides…”

His hand drifts. Not far. Just a touch lower—his knuckles grazing your waist, thumb resting just under the curve of your ribs.

“Thought it might be nice,” he continues, a smirk curling in his voice, “if we found a way to meet each other halfway. You get to study. I get to be inside you.”

Your quill halts mid-stroke. Ink pools into the corner of the parchment like blood.

You stare down at the words that no longer make sense. And then, slowly, you lift your head to look at him.

Fred Weasley looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You exhale through your nose, steadying yourself like you’ve just been hit with a gust of cold air and not an indecent proposal in the middle of the library.

Fred watches you, waiting. Not pushing, not quite. Just lingering—close enough that you can smell the faint trace of peppermint on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his body like a second skin.

You set your quill down with quiet precision. Fold your hands atop your notes. And turn your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going to let you fuck me in the library,” you say, evenly. “That’s absolutely insane.”

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, like he was counting on that exact answer.

“Didn’t say anything about fucking,” he replies, all innocent mischief. “I just want to sit.”

You arch a brow. “Sit.”

“In you.”

You blink at him. Once.

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “I won’t move. Promise.”

It’s the way he says it—soft, breathy, conspiratorial. Like a dare disguised as a favor. You hate how your thighs clench at the idea. Hate even more how easily he picks up on it.

“I’ll be quiet,” he whispers. “You won’t even notice me.”

That’s a lie, and you both know it.

But your body is already betraying you—heat curling low in your belly, your skin prickling where he touches you, your resolve bending in the weight of his attention like wet ink on a fragile page.

You glance down at your notes. Then at the empty aisle between the stacks. Then back to him.

“Five minutes,” you mutter.

Fred grins like you’ve just handed him the bloody crown jewels.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just shifts in his seat.

His hand slides lower, resting at the curve of your hip, fingers splayed wide. Possessive. Warm. He watches your face like he’s testing for hesitation—and finds none. Not anymore.

You pretend to keep your eyes on your notes. Pretend to stay still. But you don’t stop him.

He tugs, gently.

Not hard, not urgent—just a subtle pull, guiding you from your chair onto his lap like it’s nothing. Like you belong there.

Your skirt rides up immediately. Of course it does. The way you’re straddling him now—knees pressed to either side of his thighs, spine perfectly arched to keep your balance—it leaves you scandalously bare beneath the table. No barrier but him.

And he’s already hard.

You feel it—thick and heavy beneath you, his breath catching the moment you settle your weight into his lap. It makes your cheeks flush, even though you knew exactly what you were agreeing to. He keeps one hand on your waist, steadying you, and the other drifts—lower, bolder.

“Still want to study?” he asks, voice like velvet dragged over skin.

You swallow. Nod once.

Fred hums. You feel him shift again, hips tilting just slightly as he reaches down, the motion masked by the way you press in close, like lovers sharing a secret. Or a sin.

A moment later and some clothes shuffling, he’s inside you.

Thick and slow, inch by inch, and the stretch makes your mouth fall open in a silent gasp you don’t let out. Your hands grip the edge of the table like it’ll save you.

Fred groans softly against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper.

“Fuck, love. You’re always so warm for me.”

He bottoms out, then stills. Just like he promised.

And you—gods help you—you try to breathe.

You pick up the quill with shaking fingers.

Ink drips like sweat down the stem as you try to find where you left off—something about defensive charm layering, maybe. You’re staring at your notes, reading the same line again and again, and it still refuses to stick.

Fred hasn’t moved.

Not really.

But he shifts, ever so slightly—adjusting his grip on your waist, fingers spreading wider, anchoring you down. And then—

He flexes his hips.

Just once.

A deep, slow roll, barely an inch of motion—and it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Your entire body goes taut, the quill scratching a long, jagged line across the page as your mouth parts in a sharp, involuntary gasp.

You bite it back immediately. Clamp your teeth down on your lip and squeeze your thighs around him like that’ll stop the trembling.

Fred hums, the sound reverberating low in his chest.

“That wasn’t a sound, was it?” he murmurs, lips grazing your neck like a ghost. “Because you said you could handle it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He’s pulsing inside you, hard and hot and perfectly still again, but your body is aching—clenching around him like it wants more. Like it’s begging.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Open them. Force yourself to focus on the textbook, the words swimming like murky water. You pick up your quill again, start writing:

“Counter-spell applications rely on—”

Another roll of his hips.

Deeper this time. Slower.

Your pen jerks mid-stroke. The line splinters. Your breath stutters.

Fred chuckles, soft and sinful.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Need me to stop?”

You can feel the smirk without looking. You know damn well he’ll keep doing it until you crack. And the worst part is—you’re not sure you want him to stop.

Your fingers tighten around the quill like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. You scribble out the half-sentence you just butchered and try again, jaw clenched, back stiff.

“Do that again,” you hiss under your breath, “and I will hex you.”

Fred’s lips brush the curve of your ear, lazy and amused.

“You’d have to say the incantation out loud, darling.”

You freeze.

The bastard is right.

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed, face flushed. “I swear to Merlin, Fred—”

But the rest of the threat chokes off when he flexes his hips again—another slow, deliberate push upward, grinding just right, and your breath catches so hard it makes your vision blur.

He groans, low and quiet, like he’s savoring you. His hands grip your waist tighter now, thumbs stroking circles just beneath your ribs.

“Fuck, I love when you talk like that,” he mutters, nipping your jaw. “So bossy. So mean. Like you’re not soaking for me right now.”

You make a strangled sound in the back of your throat—one that would’ve been a moan if you hadn’t bit it down just in time.

The parchment in front of you is ruined. Your handwriting is illegible. Your thighs are trembling with the effort of staying still while he isn’t.

You grit your teeth and look straight ahead, breath coming in shallow pulls. “You’re such a smug little shit.”

Fred grins against your skin. “And you’re still sitting on my cock. Funny, that.”

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

Because right now, your body is trembling—coiled so tight with heat and frustration you’re not sure whether you want to slap him or sob into his shoulder.

Fred’s breathing hasn’t changed. He’s not panting. He’s not desperate.

He’s enjoying himself.

Smug, unhurried, infuriatingly calm as he brushes your hair aside and presses a kiss to the back of your neck like this is some sweet little moment and not a full-blown test of will.

You’re still trying to focus—gods help you, you are—but every word looks the same. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t remember what the difference between an incantation and an invocation is, because he’s so deep inside you and every tiny twitch of his hips sends lightning straight to your core.

Another flex.

Another gasp you barely bite back.

Your quill drops.

Fred notices.

“Mmm?” he hums, nuzzling your jaw. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

You suck in a breath, reach for the parchment again with shaking fingers—and he rolls his hips, slow and deep, just once.

It punches a whimper straight from your throat.

“Please—”

The word slips out before you can stop it.

Barely audible. Raw. Desperate.

Fred stills.

You go rigid.

You hadn’t meant to say that. You hadn’t meant to say anything.

And Fred?

He smiles.

Wide. Wolfish. Victorious.

“Please what?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Go on, love. Use your words.”

You press your thighs tighter around him, like that’ll somehow dull the ache—stop the pressure building and building with every slow, sinful shift of his hips. But it only makes it worse. Makes him feel bigger. Deeper.

He hasn’t even started moving properly, and you’re already unraveling.

It’s pathetic.

And he knows it.

Fred’s breath ghosts over your jaw, smug and slow, waiting for you to answer. His cock twitches inside you, thick and perfect, and you swear your vision goes white for half a second.

You clench around him, a broken little twitch you can’t stop, and his fingers dig just slightly deeper into your waist.

“Please what?” he whispers again.

You hate him. Gods, you hate how much you want him.

The quill is long forgotten. Your parchment’s a lost cause. There’s ink on your fingers, your thighs are shaking, and your arousal is slicking his cock so thoroughly he could slide in and out with nothing but your own desperation.

And maybe that’s what finally breaks you.

Because when you look at the mess of your notes, when you hear the smirk in his voice, when you feel him shift again, dragging against that aching spot inside you with slow, agonizing precision—

You lose.

Your breath shudders out of you, and your hips rock down helplessly.

“Just move, Fred,” you whisper, desperate and cracked. “Please. I can’t—fuck, I can’t focus.”

The silence afterward is deafening.

You feel him still. Hear the pause in his breath. And then—

“Atta girl.”

He doesn’t wait for another invitation.

Fred doesn’t give you a second to brace.

His hips draw back—slow, torturous—and then snap forward, driving up into you with a force that punches a moan right out of your throat.

But before it escapes—

His hand is on your mouth.

Firm. Gentle. Possessive.

Like he knew you’d be too loud. Knew you’d give yourself away the second he started fucking you properly.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the skin just below it. “Can’t have anyone hearing how sweet you sound, love. We’re still in the library, remember?”

You do not remember.

You can’t remember what you were trying to write.

His hand on your hip pulls you back into every thrust, setting a pace that’s deep and deliberate—none of the teasing now. No slow grinding. Just the heavy, wet slap of your bodies connecting, over and over again, obscenely quiet beneath the table, hidden in the shadows of the back corner.

It’s filthy.

And somehow, the way he holds you there—one hand muffling your moans, the other guiding your hips like you’re something he owns—makes it even filthier.

Fred’s mouth doesn’t stop moving.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he breathes, voice rough and aching with how much he wants you. “Taking me so well. Stuffed full of cock while pretending you’re still the smartest little witch in the room.”

You whimper against his palm. He groans, deep and desperate.

“Bet you like this more than studying, don’t you?”

You shake your head. You nod. You don’t know anymore.

All you know is the thick, relentless press of him inside you, the slick heat between your thighs, the way your body trembles every time his tip kisses that one perfect spot, again and again.

“Gonna make a mess of these notes,” he whispers, teeth catching your earlobe. “Gonna have you dripping all over your parchment.”

And you will. You know you will.

You’re already there.

His pace picks up—still measured, still careful, but harder now, more urgent. Like he’s chasing something. Like he knows you’re close and wants to bring you with him.

You’re panting against his palm, your moans muffled and raw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intensely it’s building inside you. It’s not just the pressure—it’s the heat, the stretch, the words. Fred is still in your ear, voice low and wrecked.

“Gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he breathes. “So tight around me—fuck, I can feel it. You’re close, I know you are.”

You nod helplessly, trembling in his lap, hips rocking without rhythm now. Your thighs are shaking, your vision’s gone hazy, and you’re so close—one more thrust, one more whisper, one more anything—

He groans into your neck, his grip on your hip tightening as he drives into you with one last deep, devastating roll.

“That’s it,” he groans softly. “Come with me. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You fall.

Hard.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking over stone—violent, full-bodied, unstoppable. Your head tips back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open against his palm as you moan into his skin, thighs clenching around him as your body convulses with pleasure.

Fred comes right behind you, with a choked, guttural sound buried in your hair. You feel him twitch inside you, thick spurts of heat filling you as his whole body shudders beneath yours.

You’re both breathing hard, slumped together in the chair like melted wax. Your notes are crumpled beneath your knees, parchment spotted with ink and who-knows-what else. The table is skewed. One of the books is halfway to the floor.

Neither of you moves.

For a long, perfect moment, the only sound is your breathing.

Then Fred shifts slightly—just enough to press a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Well,” he murmurs, smug and completely unrepentant, “that’s one way to motivate you.”

You elbow him in the ribs.

He just laughs, arms wrapping around your waist like he has no intention of letting you go.

You groan softly, still slumped against him, every limb boneless, every nerve still buzzing with aftershock.

Fred doesn’t move.

If anything, he shifts his hold on your waist, snugging you closer like he didn’t just completely ruin your ability to walk in a straight line.

You squirm.

Bad idea.

He’s still inside you—softening, but not by much—and the movement pulls a tiny, wrecked gasp from your throat.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, breathless.

Fred chuckles, lips brushing your temple. “You’re the one squirming, love.”

You reach back blindly and slap his arm. “Let me up.”

“Mm. You sure?” he asks, far too pleased with himself. “I quite like it here. Warm. Cozy. Smells like sex and ink.”

You shove at his chest until he reluctantly lets you go. Pulling off of him is a mess—literally—and the way he groans as you do it makes you shoot him a look so sharp it could flay a lesser man.

But Fred Weasley is not a lesser man.

Still seated, flushed and smug, he watches as you tug your skirt back down and reach for your wand with slightly shaking hands.

“Scourgify,” you whisper, casting a quick cleaning charm on your thighs, the chair, the floor—everywhere the scene of the crime might’ve left a mark.

You glance at your notes. A mess.

Ink stains, quill snapped, one page with a streak that could only be described as biological.

You flick your wand again. “Tergeo.”

Fred lets out a low whistle. “Look at you. So responsible. So neat.”

You turn to glare at him, cheeks burning. “You’re not helping.”

“I never help.” He stands, stretches like a smug bastard, and zips himself up with a flourish. “But I do inspire, don’t I?”

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy mending your crumpled parchment with Reparo, gathering the remains of your dignity and the notes you now barely remember writing.

Fred slides in beside you again, arm slung lazily around your shoulder, head tilted like he’s admiring your work.

“Back to studying, then?” he asks, as if he didn’t just rail you through a library chair.

You don’t look at him.

But your lips twitch anyway.

[crumblecreamery]

Jealousy's for the weak of mind- Tom Riddle

CW: Condescension, mock sympathy, begging, rough sex, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie, choking kink, hairpulling, brief spanking, he makes her taste it, dirty talking, filthy description

Tom Riddle is not a jealous partner.

Why?

Because jealousy is shallow and juvenile- a sign that one is unable to control their emotions, and an implicit admission that they believe they are not as good as the person they envy.

As someone who receives outstanding grades, glowing praise from every professor, a former prefect, and a Head Boy with a myriad of achievements, jealousy is beneath Tom Riddle. It's a weak, sentimental indulgence he simply cannot afford. A frivolous behaviour he refuses to entertain.

So if you decide to provoke him- to test or rile him up as a way to draw his attention- he'll not give you the satisfaction of starting a scene.

He'll remain steadily calm throughout Transfiguration as he observes the way your hand purposefully lingers and grazes against Rosier's whilst exchanging notes.

He offers no objection when you choose to partner up with Abraxas instead for a Potions assignment, despite the fact that he's Slughorn's star student. He simply returns to his cauldron, stirring with measured precision whilst mentally noting how close you've drifted to the blond, playfully flicking moondust onto his side of the bench.

As the day wears on and evening settles over Hogwarts with students gathering in the Great Hall, Tom cuts at his roast beef and sips from his goblet with his usual composure. Beside him, you laugh a little too enthusiastically at Mulciber's moronic joke and drawl, "Oh Mulciber, you're too funny."

You take a bite of the food from your plate, discretely glancing sideway towards Tom who sits primly with an impeccable posture by your side. Nothing. Not a clench of his jaw or a clipped remark. Not even a tightened grip on his drink.

If he notices your transparent attempts, he hides it well. Tom merely dabs his mouth with a napkin before rising from his seat, quietly excusing himself to retire early for the night.

His departure sends a small pang of disappointment stirring deep in your stomach. Had you really spent the entire day orchestrating schemes to make him jealous...only for him to remain completely unreactive?

Does he even care at all?

By the time you return to the Slytherin common room, the dungeons are veiled with a misty blanket of pale moonlight, serene and utterly quiet with only the distant trickle of a fountain and the occasional breeze of the castle's ghosts travelling about.

At this time, most of the girls' dormitory has fallen asleep, except for the dull, incremental rhythm of a grandfather clock. You're just about to crawl into bed when you spot it.

A small note written in a familiar, elegant script rests neatly atop your nightstand: "Come to my dorm. It'll be wise to not keep me waiting- T.M.R"

Back arched in a humiliating position, smudged mascara streaks down your cheeks, mingling with a broken stream of frustrated yet blissful tears. Your face is buried in his pillows, and the firm grip he has on the back of your neck does little to stifle the string of pleading noises that slip from your swollen lips.

"P-Please Tom-" You whine with a wet sniffle, the sound slightly muffled but loud enough for him to make of your request. "Too big...t-too much"

Tom's hips snap against yours, maintaining the same brutal and unrelenting rhythm he'd set from the moment he's sunk into you. Really, you should be glad he's even decided to fuck you tonight. After you publicly embarrassed him and whored yourself around his confidants and closest friends, you've given him every reason to be rough.

He wraps your hair around his hand and delivers a small but sharp tug that pulls your head up from the pillows until you're close enough to feel the warmth of his breath hit the shell of your neck. "What was that, hm?" he asks, his voice dripping with faux sympathy as he meets you with a particularly rough thrust that draws a broken moan. Tom tuts, "Too much for you? You want me to slow down, is it?"

Just as you’re about to answer, his hand that had been gripping your hip comes down on the curve of your ass with a loud smack, leaving behind a blooming sting that makes you tense.

"Ah! Please, Tom! Please-"

"Can't hear you, love. Not over the slicked sound of you taking me so well. Don't you hear that? How wet you are for me?" Tom angles his hips, watching you closely as he deepens himself to hit that spot inside you even more intensely. Plap. Plap. Plap. You don’t think it’s possible to feel this full.

His grip on your nape adjusts to wrap around the base at the front of your neck instead, squeezing just enough to manipulate your breathing but not enough to cut off your airway entirely. You gasp at the change, especially when Tom pulls out until only the head of his cock remains before slamming back inside, sheathing himself fully and feeling as your walls flutter and struggle to accommodate him, even now.

Seeing the tears on your cheeks, hearing the desperation in your voice, and feeling the way you're squeezing around him tighter like a vice only makes him harder in a sickening way.

"No more words?" Tom taunt, "Have I fucked you dumb on my cock? Pathetic."

Another smack lands on your ass, the sound reverberating through the room he'd purposefully chosen not to cast a silencing spell on tonight. Smack. Then another. Smack. And another. Smack. Let them hear, Tom thinks. All of them. In fact, they're probably rubbing and palming themselves to the sound of you being thoroughly wrecked right now. Knowing that only he gets to have you like this fuels him further.

"You thought you were so clever, didn't you? Parading around in that short skirt, leaning across the benches and laughing at their mediocre attempts at joking." Your vision has blurred at this point, thighs beginning to quake as your lips tremble. "It wasn't cute." Tom breathes out a dry laugh. "It made you look cheap and desperate, love."

Tom tightens his hold on your hair, your scalp now slightly sore as he yanks harder until your back is pulled against his firm chest. "We're not done yet. Don't you dare black out on me." His cock drills in and out of you, almost as if he wants to mould your pussy to remember the shape of him. At this point, your words have long transformed into incoherent babbles and discontinuous noises. You can feel it- the familiar pressure of climax building and building and building between your legs.

The hours stretch and pass by in a blur, and you've quickly lost count of the number of times you've come undone on his cock. A small patch of sticky mess has formed beneath the two of you on the mattress.

Finally, seeing your limp and fucked-out state, Tom releases a low grunt and buries himself to a hilt before spilling inside you- deep, warm, and full- before pulling out and leaving a messy trail seeping out from your sore cunt, slowly dribbling down your thighs. Your body collapses tiredly onto his mattress.

Tom gathers a smeared mix of your cum, commanding a low "open your mouth" before sliding his slicked fingers past your lips and pressing it against your tongue. "Remember how this tastes the next time you decide to do something this foolish." His expression softens only slightly as he brushes away your tears and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ears. "Never again will you test me."

The soft caress of his thumb is a stark contrast to the hours spent before as a reminder. "Nod if you understand."

Slowly, you do. A languid nod as exhaustion settles over you, making your eyelids heavy and droopy as the tension begins to fade.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, "If you want my attention, you need only ask. But you have it. Always."

Tom Riddle is not a jealous partner.

At least that's what he tells himself. And maybe, just maybe, there's a small part of him that knows it's not entirely true. After all, lying is another trait for the weak of mind.

A/N: First Tom Riddle fic bc there's a criminally low number of authors writing for him so... yeah! If it’s not the best it’s cause I wrote it half asleep

[mallowsweetblogs]

BestFriend! Fred with no boundaries teaches you how to have sex pt 3

summary: Fred continues his role as your sex tutor when you get curious about being on top

warnings: smut, cursing, Fred being sexy

Pt1. Pt2.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Your shoes clattered as you trudged up the stairs from the Potions classroom, clutching a stack of extra books to your chest. The weather was turning, and the dungeons were particularly damp and chill. It didn’t help that the sun had already set. Your potions partner was, as per usual, busy with something, leaving you alone to handle the nightly checkups on your extra credit assignment. Your bare legs shivered as you entered the Great Hall, an autumn draft spilling in from an open door somewhere. You quickened your pace up the marble staircase, eager to enter the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, red and comforting like the inside of a blanket fort. Fred was right, you should start wearing tights with your short skirts.

Fred, your best friend, was always giving you helpful suggestions like this- especially since you’d entrusted him with teaching you how to be intimate. You had always been a hands on learner. And he had been such a good teacher. You chuckled to yourself as you stepped onto the seventh floor, nearly home bound. Yes, you- the token virgin of your friend group- had finally caught up to the others. Sure, maybe you’d had to resort to getting your best friend to teach you out of pity, but that wasn’t important. No, what mattered was that you had learned everything, and for once you no longer felt like the naive, innocent, butt-of-the-joke friend anymore. You couldn’t help the small, satisfied smirk that twinge at your lips as you entered the common room.

“Y/N!” Angelina called from the corner, waving her hand to usher you over. Her, Katie, and Alicia sat huddled in the corner in plush chairs, all leaned together giggling with hushed voices. You set down your books and bag on the coffee table and settled down on the floor next to Angies legs.

“Okay, so where was I,” Alicia cleared her throat, pressing her fingertips together with a devious look on her face. You eyed the others who leaned in to listen intently. “So, we’d been in the common room the whole night dancing, and after the party died down-”

“She’s talking about that Ravenclaw boy she’s been seeing, you know the one- Theodore,” Angelina filled you in. You nodded your head in understanding.

“And I knew I wanted to try something new, since he’s been raving about me everytime I see him,” Alicia continued, Katie chuckling beside her.

“What could you possibly have done that you haven’t already?” Katie joked, face twisting with humor. Alicia’s grin deepened as she leaned in, prompting the three of you to huddle in impossibly closer.

“So this time, I pushed him back down onto the bed, got on top, and rode him!” Katie and Angelina scoffed and laughed with a holler, prompting a few glares from around the common room.

“Shh! Quiet you guys, seriously,” Alicia hushed them through laughter.

“You did not!” Katie laughed, trying to keep her voice down.

“What did he say? What did he do?” Angelina laughed incredulously, causing Alicia to hush her again. The three of them giggled back and forth, flabbergasted at was Alicia had said. She rode him? You were certain they were talking about sex, even you knew that much by the reactions and the context. But rode him? Like a horse? You felt yourself pout slightly as your victorious mood you had felt in the hallway sunk back into a state of confused naivety.

“Aww, Y/N,” Alicia said, half pouting and laughing at the sorry state of your face. “Why do you look like a sad little puppy?” Angelina struggled not to burst out laughing when she turned to look at you.

“Don’t tease her ‘Licia,” Angelina said, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. “Our precious Virgin Mary doesn’t need to hear about your slutty escapades.” Angelina’s jesting caused Alicia to swat her arm and Katie to burst out laughing, which didn’t make you feel any better.

“Are you ladies torturing our dear Y/N again?”

Your head snapped up to see Fred bent over your seats with an amused smirk.

“No, no, we’re not subjecting your doll to any torture, Freddie,” Angelina teased again, maliciously using your nickname for him. You begged to differ, standing up from Angelina’s legs and walking over to Fred.

“Aw, we’re sorry Y/N,” Katie pleaded with a pout, followed by several pleads of come back and we’ll stop teasing.

“I don’t need to hear any more of this conversation,” you decided, covering your ears which made the girls chuckle and pout. Fred laughed began to pick up your books and bag from the table.

“Fred, you’re so annoying!” Angelina threw a quill at his arm. Fred raised a brow.

“Yeah, you’re the reason she’s still a-” Katie’s face got smacked with a pillow curtesy of Angelina, which was followed by another round of giggles. You rolled your eyes and turned to walk away.

“Ugh, I hate you all!” You said defiantly, Fred chuckling behind you.

“Aw, c’mon! You love us!” Angelina shouted back. You turned around solely to stick your tongue out at the giggling girls.

“You wanna go upstairs?” Fred chuckled as you huffed with frustration.

“Yes please,” you grumbled, following him to his dorm.

Carrying all of your belongings, Fred pushed the door open with his foot and nodded his head for you to enter. Just last week you’d been on his bed with nothing on, feeling like you’d finally grasped the mystery of sex. You flopped down on the mattress with a defeated sigh. Fred chuckled again as he set your things down on his trunk.

“Darling, you have to step letting them get to you,” he shook his head with a click of his tongue. “You know you’re not so innocent anymore,” he continued, leaning down to poke your pouty cheek, “so why are you still upset? Hmm?” Despite being folded over, he still towered above you from the bed. You groaned and fell onto your back, covering your face with you hands.

“I still don’t know anything!” You huffed, slapping you hands down to the mattress in frustration. You could tell Fred was amused by your frustration but trying to keep a serious face. You almost rolled your eyes at him too, but decided to spare him of your annoyance. He took a seat next to you on the bed and traced your ears with his long fingers.

“What do you mean,” he asked softly, the warmth in his voice urging you to go on, a faint chuckle lingering beneath. You huffed again, this time with a slight exhale of release as his fingers felt good against your scalp. Your eyes stayed glued the bed frame.

“I just still feel so… clueless?” You thought aloud. “Like today the girls were talking about riding someone?” You looked to Fred with confused brows and watched as his head dropped with a huff of laughter or exasperation, you couldn’t tell.

“Mhmm,” Fred contemplated with a swallow, keeping his eyes down as he continued brushing your hair.

“Fred,” you whined, pulling his gaze back up to you. “What does that even mean?” This time he huffed out a laugh at your genuine concern over sexual terminology.

“C’mon,” Fred urged you to connect the dots, like a tutor with a hopeless pupil. “What do you think that means, Y/N?” You pursed your lips in thought, fixing your gaze back up to contemplate.

“Well, I mean…” you stuttered, cheeks flushing red with the familiar embarrassment of innocence. “Alicia was saying she was on top of him, and I know what it mean to ride something, it’s just-” you sighed again and looked to your best friend who was so nicely listening to you put the pieces together. “How does that even work? Like, when we- y’know-”

“Yes, yes. I know,” Fred teased, leaning in only to embarrass you more. You swatted him away.

“You were the one doing everything! How is a girl supposed to… “ride” someone?” Your voice raised with a mix of frustration and embarrassment as you turned over to bury yourself face in the covers. Fred huffed again to withhold his laughter, instead rubbing your back gently.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Fred assured you as your groans muffled into the bed. “There’s a lot of different ways to have sex, Y/N. There’s a lot of things that even I haven’t done yet.” You picked your face up to look at him with surprise. He smiled and turned your shoulder over so you were facing him again. You let him move you as he came down to lay on his side, one arm propping him up and the other steadily stroking your hair again. “Some people like being on top, some people like doing nothing-” he poked your cheek and brought out a chuckle from your scrunch face. “But it’s all about just trying stuff out and figuring out what you like best.” He finished matter-of-factly, letting you ponder on this new concept of self discovery.

“But Angelina said she did it to wow Theodore. Is that something that guys like for girls to do?” You asked curiously, gazing up to see what your all-knowing best friend thought.

“Sure, I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like that,” he cleared his throat, watching as you pursed your lips to one side in contemplation.

“Would you say you like when girls do that? Like, if a girl wanted to… be on top… do you prefer that? Or…” you trailed off waiting for his answer. Fred tilted his head and sucked through his teeth

“I suppose- I mean- I don’t know if I’d say I prefer it-”

“So you don’t like it then?” You inched closer, trying gage his reaction. He was certainly wasn’t acting like his normal, cocky self.

“No, it’s not- I-” Fred paused at his stuttering words and let out a long exhale, rubbing between his furrowed brows. “Well, you want to try it then, I’m assuming?” You let out a sheepish smile at his correct assumption. He nodded with pursed lips as you chuckled through pink cheeks and bashful brows.

“Alright,” he sighed, falling onto his back and holding his arms out. “I’m ready.” It took you a second before you sat up straight and began to stutter.

“Right now? I mean- I- I- I’m not quite sure what to do, Fred!” You scrambled, looking around the bed as if you’d find your answer. Fred dropped his arms and burst out with laughter, reaching over and pulling you onto his chest.

“I’m only joking, darling,” Fred chuckled into your hair. “Relax.” Your body did so as if on cue, as if it took instructions specifically from him.

“Okay, okay. Very funny,” you huffed into the crook of his neck. “But can we try it… maybe soon?” Your voice was as sheepish as ever. He huffed out another chuckled.

“Whatever you want, Y/N. Whatever you want,” he said he a pat on your back. “Just make sure you’re wearing sexy underwear when you come knocking.” You tore yourself up from his chest only to see his signature satisfied smirk.

“Are you serious, Fred?” You said vexed, finding it egregious that your best friend would even suggest you to do this. Even if he had taken your virginity…

“Well, if you doing this to, as you said, wow a guy,” Fred emphasized with a cheeky raise of his brows, “then you should put on your sundays best, don’t ya think?”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense…” you pondered, wondering if you even had anything remotely sexy in your underwear drawer.

“I’m joking, Y/N,” Fred clarified, with a light squeeze to your side. “And don’t feel pressured to try this at all just because Alicia did.”

“It’s not that,” you sighed, tucking your hair behind your ear then playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “It’s just that, I want to feel like I can talk about this kind of stuff. Like I can do it too and not feel so embarrassed anymore.” Fred sat up too and pulled your hand from his shirt to hold it.

“I get it, Y/N,” he said with understanding. “But seriously, don’t worry about this kind of stuff. You should just be happy to be yourself, okay?” Fred pinched your cheek and smiled when you swatted his hand away with a badly concealed smile.

“Okay,” you pouted. “I have to finish my assignment before bed.”

“Alright, darling,” he said, patting your legs and standing up. “Go be a good girl and do your homework. I’m gonna meet George and Lee by the kitchens.”

“Ooh, can you bring me a snack if you have time before curfew?” You asked, grabbing your things and following Fred out of the dorm.

“Yes, darling.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fred thought he was doing a pretty good job giving you helpful advice about sex, considering he just wanted to fuck you right then and there on his mattress.

“Fuck,” he rubbed over his face, thinking of your pouty lips complaining about wanting to ride him. Fred waited on his bed knowing exactly why you’d requested to sleep over on this chilly Friday night. Although you hadn’t flat out said it, because as per usual your cheeks flushed with embarrassment over anything remotely sexual, he knew you were coming over to use him as your personal sex tutor. He wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about it, considering he was almost certainly in love with you, but that went out the window when you crept into the dorm quietly wearing cotton pajama pants and a tank top.

“Hi,” you greeted, climbing onto his bed to sit on your shins. You’d regretted not bringing a sweater considering the weather, but you figured you could just steal one of Fred’s tomorrow anyway.

“Hey,” Fred sat up, waiting for you to say something. The silence grew as heat flushed up to your cheeks, and you could feel a smirk growing at the edge of his lips.

“Stop,” you whined, covering your face with embarrassment at his knowing gaze.

“C’mon, Y/N,” Fred chuckled, peeling your hands away. “You said you wanted to stop feeling embarrassed about sex, so try using your words.” You glared at him.

“Well maybe I’d stop being so embarrassed if everyone would stop teasing me so much,” you shot back, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“Well then stop being so teasable,” he smirked, running his thumb along the crease of your hip. You’d regretted face flushed again causing Fred to chuckle, low and breathy as he neared closer to you.

“Okay fine,” you huffed out, taking his hand off your thigh. “Then let me show you something.” You took his hand up to your top strap, guiding him to pull the soft fabric down, revealing your lavender colored lace bra. You couldn’t help but blush yet again when he swallowed and moved his hand delicately over the outline of your breast, his eyes unwavering from the sight in front of him. “You said to wear something nice.” His eyes came up to meet your own, huffing out a laugh before bringing his hand up to cup your cheek, pulling you in for the first kiss of the evening. You hummed out in satisfaction, glad that his eyes were no longer ravaging your body, and instead were closed as he kissed you with the same intensity he always did. With his hand on the back of your neck, he pulled you over him so that now you were on top as he laid beneath you. Right, you thought, he’s going to show me how to ride him. Suddenly the kiss was sloppier, and you felt less confident now that he was handing the reigns over to you.

“Sorry,” you apologized, coming up to catch your breath. “I’m not very good at this.” Fred didn’t seem to register what you said for a moment, his eyes focused, once again, below your face as he ran his fingertips down your neck and to your chest.

“It’s fine,” he said hastily, “don’t overthink it. Just do whatever feels good.” He pulled you back into him, a little rougher this time, and continued kissing you. Despite being on top, you somehow felt like he was still the one in control. His left hand kept pulling on your neck, forcing your lips into his as he deepened the kiss with his tongue, causing you to moan and fall deeper into his body. His right hand gripped your hip and settled you down onto his lap, feeling his already hard length against the soft fabric of your pants. You moaned again as you felt his hand push your hips back, grinding you down softly onto him. The noises you made drove Fred insane.

“Fuck,” you gasped, pulling away for air as you repeated the motion, grinding down on his length and feeling the pressure against your clit. You looked down at him, your tank top half off and your lips swollen and wet. Fred kept his hand steady on your hip, helping you to grind repeatedly on his hard dick.

“Just like that baby,” he encouraged, watching your hips move over his. “See? You’re a natural.” He half smiled up at you as you continued, biting your lip as the knot in your stomach began to form at his words.

“Is this what you’re supposed to do?” You panted, falling over him with a thump, your hand now resting beside his head on the pillow. You continued the movement of your hips, it surprised you how good you were making yourself feel.

“Mhmm,” Fred swallowed, his fingers gripping more at your hips. “Except without clothes on.” You took this as an instruction and sat back up, stalling your movements and taking a seat down onto his lap. Fred’s hand rubbed over your thighs rhythmically, as if to mimic the pace you’d been moving at. He watched as you pulled your tank top over your head, your bra straps already falling off your shoulders. Fred sat up and removed his own shirt, your hands coming to rest on his tanned, freckled shoulders. Instinctively, you came down to kiss them. You loved his shoulders. The way they looked, and the way they felt. The way his collar bones left a divot that could hold water. Stop being a pervert, you thought to yourself as you held back the urge to lick them. Fred’s head lulled back as you kissed up his neck, the soft weight of you pressing down into his lap. His hands dragged up from your waist, undoing the hook of your bra in one swift motion. There was a silence between the two of you as he peeled your bra down and off of your arms, revealing your bare tits in front of him. His hands ran softly up your arms and to your breasts, his thumb sliding over your taut nipple, causing you to shiver from the cold air and his touch. His arms wrapped around your body as he pulled you into him, his lips kissing tenderly across your chest, then down until he bit gently onto your nipple, sucking lightly and kissing before moving onto the next. You whined and moaned as he did this. You could feel yourself pooling in your panties, his length pressed against your heat as you ground yourself down into him. You closed your eyes and let him kiss you, let his hand run up and down your back, and squeeze gently on the sides of your ass as he licked and kissed your tits over and over again. You were embarrassingly close to an orgasm when he pulled back panting, his lips red and your chest covered in mark.

“Freddie,” you whispered, hands coming up to hold his face. You’d never seen him look like this before, eyes glazed over and lips parted slightly as he panted beneath you. He looked tempting, something so different from his usual daunting persona. You leaned down to kiss him, lips connecting together sweetly in a slow, soft kiss that made the both of groan as you continued to grind yourself down into his lap. His fingers crept beneath your waist band to pull down your cotton pants, prompting you to shuffle them down your legs. You realized you had missed the chance to show him your matching lace panties, but at this point, he was lifting up his hips and pulling both is pants and underwear down to his ankles before kicking them off the bed. You sat over him now, your wet heat pressed flush against his length, his freckled abs and chest on display for you as he laid flat against the bed, analyzing every inch of your body. You flushed without meaning to at the intensity of his gaze, when he suddenly brought his hand to your lower stomach, pressing his thumb into your clit. Your throat tried and failed to stifle a whiny moan as he worked in circles, prompting your hips to move in a similar rhythm. You could feel him pulsing beneath you, and your eyes screwed shut with a moan.

Fred thought you looked perfect, naked and whining on top of him. It was taking everything in him not to flip you underneath him and fuck you senseless in the way he’d been wanting to do all week, not having to worry anymore about holding back for the sake of it being your first time. Fred chuckled almost cruelly at the thought of you, one fuck shy from being a virgin, wanting to get on top and ride him. He groaned himself and threw his head back onto the pillow, he could feel your wetness pooling around his cock and it was driving him insane.

“Are you ready to try?” He croaked, his thumb now covered in your slick as it moved gently across your sensitive clit.

“W-what?” You whined, eyes opening to look at him. The motions of your hips slowed down as if you’d come to your senses, and your already flushed cheeks seemed to burn an even deeper red. “Oh, yes. Yes. What do I do?”

“You want to put it inside you, like we did last time. Remember?” He coaxed, continuing to gently circle his thumb.

“Mhmm,” you whined, nodding your head as you felt a pressure building in your core.

“And then just do what you’re doing now. Do whatever feels good, baby,” he reassured you, taking his hand away and rubbing up and down the side of your body.

“Okay,” you breathed out, grabbing his length from under you and lining it up with your entrance. You had to sit up, gently rubbing his tip into your core. His grip on you tightened and the look of his jaw clenching made him look even more handsome. You tried to sit, but something inside of you prevented you from pushing down at all. You kept teasing the tip of his hard, leaking dick against your soft core, but you didn’t know how to put it inside you. He was so hard and big and you didn’t know what to do. You could see Fred pulsing under you, his abs contracting at every tiny movement of your hips. Finally, you pulled his tip away and sat back down into his lap. You whined, “Fred, I’m scared.”

Fred, unable to help himself, sat up and flipped you onto your back, pushing himself inside you with a deep thrust. Your breath sucked in at the shock of his full length inside you so suddenly, but as he began to rock his hips back and forth, you exhaled a heavy breath into the crook of his neck along with a long, whiny moan.

“Let me just get you started, baby,” he grunted, thrusting into you with his full length again and again. You moaned again at his words, unsure when he had started calling you ‘baby’, but you liked the way it sounded coming out of his mouth. “You feel so good.”

Your fingernails dug into his broad shoulders as his hips snapped into yours repeatedly. This felt so different than the last time. Fred wasn’t even bothering to ask if you were okay, just fucking you harder and faster until you were drooling and crying out his name.

“Does that feel good? Hmm?” Fred asked, leaving kisses and bites down your neck and ears. You nodded and whined. Fred grunted and slowed his pace, kissing down your neck until his lips once again reached your nipples, where he bit down hard and pulled a loud gasp from your throat. He pulled out from you, leaving the two of you panting on the bed, staring at each other with eyes that neither one of you had seen before. “You think you’re ready to try now?”

You sat up slowly on your elbows, then pushed yourself up fully to kiss Fred. He met you eagerly and allowed you to flip him over, so once again he laid underneath you. He was being so good for you, you had almost forgotten the whole reason you’d come in the first place. You wrapped your hand around his length and looked down between the two of you. You watched yourself line him up with your cunt, slowly sitting back. It was a lot easier now that he’d been inside you, fucking you so roughly just moments before. You looked up and caught Fred’s gaze staring down at your hips, sinking lower onto his dick. You laid your hands to rest on his chest, using the leverage to push yourself back up then down again, your tits squeezed between your arms. You watched Fred’s face, his lips slightly agape as his eyes stared at your hips moving on top of him. You moved again, slowly and timidly as Fred fingers gripped your thighs with such intensity they were sure to leave marks. You couldn’t stop watching him. His jaw clenched again and shut his eyes, head thrown back into the pillow as you sunk down fully onto his length. You felt your clit against his pelvis, the pressure feeling so good it caused your core to shudder against the warmth of his cock inside of you.

“Fuck,” Fred swallowed again, eyes still shut as you moved in circles to stimulate your clit. You were so close to orgasm, just watching your best friend become so undone underneath you. You’d never seen him like this, his core flexed and sheening with sweat. His head thrown back with pleasure as he groaned because of you. You smirked slightly, finally understanding the appeal of being on top. “Baby, you have a move,” he grit through his teeth, opening his eyes only to see you smirking down at him. He laughed with a huff and threw his head back once more. Just as you were moving to push yourself down once more, he grabbed your hips and held you up, moving himself to fuck you from underneath. The power of his movement threw you forward so you fell over his chest. Although still on top of him, Fred held your hips up and began to fuck you hard. You make a whiny noise with each thrust, your face now buried in his neck and his hips snapped up to yours at an angle you’d never felt before.

“Fred, I’m so close,” you whined into his skin, wet from your lips.

“Just let go, baby,” Fred panted, doing all the work now that you were folded over him, panting and whiny. He was fucking you so good, the moment you felt his skin connect with your clit, your core snapped with pleasure as you moaned into his neck, shaking and cumming on top of him. Through pulsing waves of pleasure, you could feel him lose his composure, his thrusts becoming sloppy and irregular. You felt him fill you up as he came moaning into your neck, the two of you riding out the high together. Your bodies were both sweaty, you rocked your hips gently against him to slow down. You kissed him sloppily, riding out the rest of your orgasm on top of him until he fell out of you, spent. You kissed him still, unable to pull yourself away after your most intense orgasm yet. All the teasing from his fingers had built up so much pressure, you felt yourself getting wet again just thinking about it.

“Mm,” Fred hummed, moving you until he was next to you, kissing you and gently stroking the sides of your body. By now he was almost on top of you again. You got the feeling he preferred for you to be under him.

“Was that okay?” You asked, pulling away from the kiss, panting. Fred brushed the sweaty hair from your forehead and smirked with a huff.

“Yeah, like I said. You’re a natural,” he charmed, pulling a giggle out from you. He leaned down to kiss you again and you obliged. Despite your lesson being over, the two of you stayed in his bed like this all evening, naked and unable to pry each other apart.

At this point you didn’t even care about learning anything new, now that you knew what Fred looked like finishing underneath you.

[jojosdepressingadventures]

Which one is your fav? (Personal fav: raised together)

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[annawestwood1]

what canon draco malfoy would be like when he likes you and when you’re dating

author’s note: this is my personal interpretation of Draco based on his canon personality and how I believe he would genuinely behave when liking and dating someone. since we mostly see him through Harry’s perspective, parts of his private personality are naturally open to interpretation, but I’ve tried to keep his established traits, flaws and circumstances in mind. I’d genuinely love to hear what you think, whether you agree, disagree, or have anything you would add.

⋆｡°✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧°｡⋆

When he likes you

Draco would probably dislike the feeling of liking someone if it meant he could no longer remain completely in control of the situation. He is extremely concerned with pride, reputation, and the balance of power between himself and other people.

He might make fun of you more often than usual simply because it gave him an excuse to get your attention. If you were not easily impressed by his family name, wealth, or status, it would frustrate him—but it would probably make him more interested in you as well. Draco is used to people either admiring him, fearing him, or reacting to the Malfoy name, so someone who remained unimpressed would be difficult for him to ignore.

He would likely try to impress you by mentioning his family connections, showing off his belongings, or drawing attention to the things he believed made him superior to everyone else. At the same time, he would probably watch you when he thought you were not looking and immediately turn away if you caught him doing it.

He would become jealous long before he admitted that he cared. If you seemed particularly close to someone else, especially someone he already disliked or considered beneath him, his reaction would probably be irritation rather than honesty. He might insult them, question your judgement, or suddenly find reasons why they were not worth your time.

If you defended someone Draco looked down on, he could react in a surprisingly personal way. To him, it might feel as though you were choosing them over him, even if that was not what you intended at all.

Draco would also be very conscious of whether you were considered “suitable” according to his family’s standards. If you came from a family the Malfoys respected, he would probably be much more comfortable allowing himself to pursue you openly. If you were Muggle-born, or came from a family his parents disapproved of, liking you would not immediately make his prejudices disappear.

He could experience genuine conflict between what he felt and what he had been taught, but that conflict would not automatically make him kinder or more accepting. He might resent you for making him question things he had previously considered certain. Any real change would have to happen gradually and through his own choices, rather than simply because he had fallen for someone.

If you rejected him, he would probably not handle it gracefully. Draco is extremely sensitive to humiliation, and being turned down would feel like both a personal rejection and a blow to his pride.

Outwardly, he might pretend that he had never been serious about you in the first place. He could become cold, dismissive, or openly spiteful, particularly if other people knew what had happened. Rather than admitting that you had hurt him, he would be far more likely to behave as though you were the one who had embarrassed yourself by rejecting him.

That would not necessarily mean his feelings had disappeared. It would mean that protecting his pride had become more important than allowing you to see that he cared.

When you’re dating

Draco, especially while he was still young and at Hogwarts, would probably be a difficult boyfriend.

He could be possessive, easily offended, competitive, and highly concerned with how your relationship appeared to other people. He would likely want everyone to know that you were with him, particularly if he believed other boys were interested in you.

If he held your hand in public or kept an arm around you, it would partly be because he genuinely wanted to be close to you and partly because he wanted to make your relationship obvious. Draco would enjoy the feeling of being chosen, especially in front of other people.

He would probably be bad at apologising. Even when he knew he had behaved unfairly, admitting that he was wrong would feel humiliating to him. He might attempt to make peace indirectly instead, perhaps by bringing you something, sitting beside you as though the argument had ended, or doing something helpful without acknowledging why.

Draco grew up in a wealthy family where affection and approval were often connected to status, achievement, and appearances. Because of that, he might find it easier to buy you an expensive gift than to have an honest conversation about his feelings. He would know how to give you something impressive, but he would not necessarily know how to explain why he had been hurt.

If someone insulted or embarrassed you, Draco would defend you, but probably not in a particularly mature or peaceful way. Rather than simply comforting you or telling the person to stop, he would be more likely to humiliate them in return. His instinct would be to establish that nobody was allowed to treat someone connected to him that way.

That protectiveness could feel reassuring, but it could also become controlling. Draco might believe that caring about you gave him the right to interfere in your friendships, question the people you spent time with, or decide who was and was not worthy of your attention.

Privately, however, he would probably be far more insecure than he appeared in public. He depends heavily on external approval, particularly from his family, and much of his arrogance is tied to the identity he has been given. Being genuinely known by someone would therefore be both appealing and frightening to him.

Any softer side of Draco would appear gradually and almost entirely in private. He might become quieter when the two of you were alone, seek out your company without needing to perform for anyone, or allow himself to sit closer to you than he usually would.

He could lean against you when he was tired or rest his head on your shoulder when nobody else was around. But if you smiled too knowingly or pointed out that he was being affectionate, he would probably pull away and make a dry comment to restore some of his dignity.

His affection would often be mixed with pride. He might act as though giving you his attention was a privilege, even while arranging his entire day around the possibility of seeing you. He could complain about waiting for you and then continue waiting anyway.

A relationship with Draco would require patience, but patience alone would not be enough to change him. Loving him would not automatically remove his prejudices, insecurity, selfishness, or fear of disappointing his family. He would have to recognise those things himself and make the decision to become better.

An older and more mature Draco, particularly after the war, could become considerably more thoughtful and considerate. Experiencing the consequences of his family’s beliefs would likely make him quieter, more cautious, and less certain of his own superiority.

Even then, he would probably remain reserved, proud, and uncomfortable with emotional vulnerability. He might become a better partner, but he would never turn into someone who constantly expressed his feelings through dramatic declarations or effortless romantic speeches.

His love would be shown in smaller, more restrained ways: remembering what you preferred, making sure you had what you needed, choosing to remain beside you, and allowing you to see the parts of himself he worked hardest to hide from everyone else.

I really enjoyed writing this one, and I’d love to know whether you agree with my interpretation of Draco. I’m planning to continue this series, so let me know which character you would want next!

[edilzzi]

𝑇𝐻𝑅𝐸𝐸 𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑂𝐷𝑂𝑅𝐸 𝑁𝑂𝑇𝑇 𝐻𝐸𝐴𝐷𝐶𝐴𝑁𝑁𝑂𝑁𝑆 18+

From here (star x teddy)

1.) 𝐻𝑂𝐺𝑊𝐴𝑅𝑇𝑆 𝑊𝐼𝑇𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑇 𝑌𝑂𝑈 𝑊𝐴𝑆 𝐻𝐸𝐴𝑉𝐸𝑁 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐻𝐸𝐿𝐿 𝑇𝑂 𝐻𝐼𝑀.

Theodore never thought he'd have to spent his years in Hogwarts without you. His parents also never thought they'd see the biggest tears running down his face when they told him you'd be learning in Beauxbatons.

"Star.." That's what Theodore's dormmates back in Hogwarts heard him mumble every single night as he tossed and rolled around in deep slumber.

His best friend Mattheo could've swore his ears fell off one time he had to listen to Theo ramble everything about you for half the entire day. As soon as Theo opens his mouth on something that reminds him of you, everyone scrambles excuses to leave and his closest friends are already leaning on the couch or sitting on the floor—preparing to listen for hours. With the words that passed through Theo's lips, he found himself healing in the burning absence of your presence.

Pretty, beautiful, sweet, amazing, lovely, shy, and cute. That's what came out of his mouth almost every single time.

Almost no contrast to what his mates didn't hear.

Almost.

2.) 𝐻𝐸 𝐽𝐸𝑅𝐾𝑆 𝑂𝐹𝐹 𝑇𝑂 𝑌𝑂𝑈.

"Fuck you're so pretty." He pants while looking at a polaroid picture you sent of yourself—fully dressed, by the way.

It was labeled 'for Teddy'.

"So beautiful."

"I bet that little pussy tastes as sweet as you look into that camera."

"Must look s'cute under me."

As soon as Theo gets to be alone in the dormitories or the second he hits his own mattress when he's home for school break, those filthy phrases bounce along the walls on a loop he'd hate to break.

It all comes down to him, how long does he have to deal with not having the real thing?

Of course he'd wait for you whenever you're ready, but he'd never thought that time would plant itself in his hands so easily. And when it did, oh he savored it.

3.) 𝐹𝑈𝐿𝐹𝐼𝐿𝐿𝑆 𝐻𝐼𝑆 𝐹𝐴𝑁𝑇𝐴𝑆𝑌 𝑂𝐹 𝑆𝑇𝐸𝐴𝐿𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑌𝑂𝑈𝑅 𝐼𝑁𝑁𝑂𝐶𝐸𝑁𝐶𝐸.

He was willing to be patient, luckily for him he didn't have to. The first day you two saw each other after years, curiosity got the best of you.

It was meant to be a harmless question. Until, the answer wasn't delivered by Theo's mouth, but his actions instead. He should have thought his explanation a little more before giving up and showing you.

Except Theo's a sick bastard.

He couldn't help but indulge in the way your eyes pooled and widened up at him while he was pounding a steady pace into your little cunt that struggled to take all of him.

The first time led to a second, a third, a fourth, then a lot more.

How he wished he could take a picture at the way your tear stained rosy cheeks was paired with pouty lips as you begged him to make love to you.

"Say please."

"Please, Teddy."

Even then, with how much or less you beg for what you clearly want from him, he never hesitates to give what you need. Because at the end of the day, it'll always be him that drills into your greedy little pussy while you whine and claw at his back.

Theo was already beyond his fantasies. He'd thought for a while that it could've never ever happen and with his dick bigger than his confidence, it was difficult to start.

Though when he got a taste, it became clear to him that it was definitely more impossible to stop.

[neneneru]

Head canon: since Severus grew up poor, he found it difficult to let go of things he considered could still be useful, so he adapted the cauldrons that the students ruined to use as his personal plant pots 𖹭.ᐟ

[elenasdelusions]

જ⁀➴ 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝑹𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 ᥫ᭡

hii! this will probably feel more complete if you read mattheo riddle & love first ˙ᵕ˙ tw: just mature language

➽──────────────────────❥

Although there are countless of ways of how this could unfold, this is the one that feels the truest to me.

Falling in love for Mattheo Riddle is not a gentle process.

It’s confusing, uncomfortable, and more than anything, it’s painful. Like a slow, creeping tension in his chest that he doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. He spent years avoiding this type of vulnerability, no matter how tempting it could feel.

But the most fascinating thing about falling in love, is that, more often than not, you can’t even see it coming. It has a way of hitting you when you least expect it, and sometimes, when you less want it to.

For a guy like Mattheo, who made a habit out of shoving every emotion he can’t process — or simply refuses to deal with — into a locked mental drawer, pretending it doesn’t exist while hiding behind whatever coping mechanism best fits his day, the process is even more complicated.

And when Mattheo Riddle falls in love, it's like a tragedy.

Mattheo is not really the type to notice people. Most of the time, he just stays with his tight-knit friend group, rarely bothering to glance at anyone outside of it. For him, other people are usually either a temporary distraction, an annoyance, or just mere background noise. He doesn’t allow people in very easily, or usually, at all. He has that type of guarded edge that comes with being the son of the most dangerous Dark Wizard in history.

That’s one of the reasons why I’m a strong believer that one of the best love tropes for Mattheo is forced proximity.

If he were ever to fall in love, it would probably be with someone he has to be around, or at least someone he can’t easily avoid, for long enough to get past his initial barriers.

Maybe it’s a transfer student who befriends Pansy and gets dragged into their hangouts. Maybe it’s Lorenzo’s cousin who newly arrived at Hogwarts and blended into their group. Or maybe, just a random classmate he’s stuck with for a tiring, weeks-long Potions project. The specifics don’t really matter. What matters is that this person becomes part of his life without him having much control over it.

Mattheo takes a good while to warm up to new people, especially if they’re suddenly woven into his routine. In the beginning, he’s cold, reserved —his default mode with anyone new, really. It’s not that he is rude, he just isn’t exactly “Mr. Congeniality” either.

But of course, being the most opinionated person to ever exist, once he does notice someone, it doesn’t take him too long to form his indisputable opinions about them.

Well, to be completely honest, Mattheo feels utterly indifferent about most people. Sometimes not even caring enough to remember their names.

Seriously, this man is absolutely terrible with names.

But when it comes to someone he is obligated to deal with for whatever reason, he decides pretty fast what he thinks about them.

And if he has a problem with you, I guarantee you’ll know. It goes from childish, petty comments, to eye rolls that he won’t even slightly bother hiding.

And as much as an enemies-to-lovers might sound exciting, Mattheo is too ridiculously stubborn for that. He is an observer —a really great one actually. So if he doesn’t like someone, odds are that he saw something he deeply dispites in their personality and it would be extremely difficult to change his mind.

However, I could definitely see it playing out in a scenario where you are not exactly enemies, just have more of a… fun rivalry. Something that incites Mattheo’s adrenaline.

On the other hand, if he does happen to like you —or at least don’t actually dislike— it will still take some time for him to start getting comfortable, but when he finally does, that’s when you’ll start to unlock small glimpses of who is the real Mattheo behind the infamous reputation.

And for Mattheo Riddle to fall in love, I believe that’s the most likely scenario.

It starts innocently enough, or as innocently as anything can be in Mattheo Riddle’s world.

A conversation here and there. A glance that lingers too long. At first, he is quieter. He doesn’t even register it as anything significant. But there’s this pull, this tiny tug in his chest that he can’t seem to shake. It’s just… curiosity. Yeah, that’s it.

As time passes, the occasional conversations start happening more and more often and he starts becoming less guarded over time. You’re funny, smart, sharp, and Merlin, you are gorgeous. He notices it, obviously.

Eventually, just like that, you become friends. And that’s totally fine, isn’t it? He already has friends. It’s not that big of a deal.

But the tiny differences begin sneaking up on him in the smallest ways possible.

It’s in the way he starts talking to you too much. More than he ever meant to. Sure, once he’s comfortable, Mattheo is naturally a pretty chatty guy. But with you? It’s just different.

With you, he suddenly feels the urge to share everything. From the interesting to the most stupid stuff:

What he ate for breakfast;

The absolutely ridiculous gossip he overheard two Ravenclaws whispering in the corridor;

How he hates the way the History of Magic professor pronounces the word “Goblin”;

How Adrian Pucey completely humiliated himself by falling off his broom during quidditch practice;

Well, to be fair, he told everybody this one. He just really hates that guy.

But literally, anything. Everything becomes an excuse for him to talk to you.

He just… likes being around you. It’s easy.

Maybe it’s because you’ve never looked at him like you were afraid. Not even in the beginning, when his armor was still on. You didn’t flinch. You never did. You never walked on eggs around him, but didn’t treat him like some broken thing in need of fixing either.

And more importantly, you didn’t ask the same nosy, uncomfortable questions people always throw at him the second they delude themselves into thinking they earned a silver of intimacy with him.

It’s almost like you just didn’t care about any of that.

You looked at him like he was worth knowing. Not out of curiosity about his family, not out of a ridiculous fantasy, but just because. So much so that, for a brief moment, he felt like he could almost forget who he was and the weight his last name carried.

But the most surprising part for him was how you engaged back, like you wanted him to know you too. The reason why you’d want such a thing is far from Mattheo’s understanding, of course. But whether he could understand it or not, he couldn’t help but attentively listen to every single word that came out of your mouth like it was the most fascinating thing he had ever heard in his entire life.

Conversations with you didn’t feel forced. They just flowed. And before either of you even noticed it, hours had passed.

And it felt… good.

Really, really good.

…

You might be thinking that this makes absolutely no sense. Because, after all, Mattheo Riddle is terrified of vulnerability, shouldn’t he already be miles away by now? And yes… but also, no.

You see, as much as Mattheo wants to believe that he has fully mastered the art of how to control himself over the years, that’s not 100% true in practice.

Sure, he is absolutely the best at avoiding proximity and scaring people away, but at this point, you have already broken through the hardest part: getting close to him in the first place. And now, being around you feels good.

Too good.

And Mattheo doesn’t feel good very often. He is not used to it. So when he finally does, it’s an extremely easy sensation to get addicted to.

And being as impulsive as he is, in his mind, it was a simple math: It felt really good, so he kept doing it.

It’s another reason why I believe forced proximity is the easiest way for Mattheo Riddle to fall in love. Not only does it force him to truly get close to someone new, but it also gives his self-gaslighting the perfect excuse: sure, you’re getting close, but it’s not his fault, is it? He didn’t choose this. It’s just… circumstance. That’s it. “Not a big deal”, as he’d say.

So with an unhealthy dose of denial, an addiction to the feeling it gave him, and the confidence of a guy who’s never had his heart beat faster for anyone before, he convinces himself there’s nothing to worry about! In the worst case scenario, it’s just physical attraction. Nothing new! He’s felt it before, plenty of times, actually.

So there really isn’t anything to worry about.

Right?

Except, there is.

The thing about Mattheo’s carefully constructed walls, is that they are as tall as they are fragile. And they are already starting to tremble.

The shift happens subtly.

He starts observing you when you’re not looking, noticing every single detail about you. How you laugh, how you toss your hair behind your ears…

Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He catches himself thinking about you for the fourth or fifth time that day and how his heart stubbornly races whenever you enter the room.

And Mattheo Riddle, who spent his life dodging emotional attachment, doesn’t even realize what’s happening until he’s knee-deep in it.

But of course, his friends do. They realize what is happening way before Mattheo even gathers the courage to begin accepting it himself.

He could pretend all he wanted, but to his friend who’ve seen all the extremes of Mattheo Riddle’s carousel of emotions over the years, this? This was definitely new.

They start noticing the way his regular, almost scheduled, brooding days began to diminish.

How the guy who couldn’t focus for his life on any long story now sat through every. single. word. that came out of your mouth. So caught up in it he’d almost forget to blink.

And of course, being the loving assholes best friends they are, they never let him hear the end of it:

“At this point, just bark when she walks in. It’ll probably be more subtle.” — Draco Malfoy, aka Hogwarts’ personal blonde mean-girl himself.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised to catch him carving their names into his desk with little hearts around it.” — Pansy Parkinson, absolutely gleeful, especially if you happen to be her friend.

“I caught him staring at her while she was just reading for a full thirty seconds. Very smooth… I think he was drooling and everything.” - Lorenzo Berkshire, who’s always insisted Mattheo had a soft side.

Come on! They’ve waited their whole lives for this!And watching it unfold right in front of their eyes? It’s absolutely delicious.

Except for Mattheo, who doesn’t seem to find the situation half as funny as his friends do:

“You lot talk any more and I swear I’ll Avada Kedavra your asses.” — Mattheo Riddle, after hearing what felt like the fiftieth ‘joke’ that day.

He won’t actually do it, though. It’d take way too much effort to find five other misfits to be his friends. But still… don’t tempt him.

But unfortunately for him, his rage didn’t inspire much change:

“Easy, Romeo. No need to take your pent-up frustration out on us. Go on, tell us again how you don’t care, while you fix your hair because she walked past you.” — Blaise Zabini, who’s having the best time of his life.

“Speaking of… Posture check, lover boy. She’s here.” – Theodore Nott, every single time you enter the room.

However, as ridiculous it might sound, Mattheo truly feels extremely irritated by it.

Maybe, it’s because as innocent as his friends’ teasing could be, the second they start pointing fingers, poking at the idea of him having feelings, it’s like something he had buried long ago just splits open inside of him.

Suddenly, he’s not there anymore. He’s that little boy again, in the cold hallways of the Lestrange Manor; Eyes burning, throat tight. Fighting with everything he has to not feel. Trying so hard to lock it all in. Because showing a single hint of vulnerability in front of his family would surely cost him a very traumatic night.

And now, even the thought of being seen in a vulnerable state like that again makes his chest tighten in a way that makes even the most innocent mockery feel more like an accusation than an actual joke.

Still, for better or worse, the moment his friends start teasing him about it, is when the first seeds of self-awareness began to sprout inside of him. And the more those seeds grew, the more intensely the panic started to set in.

So he does what’s the most comfortable usual of Mattheo Riddle: he doubles down on denial.

Come on, him? Developing feelings? Falling in love? Be serious. He’s Mattheo Riddle, for fuck’s sake, not some lovesick puppy!

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. After everything, he doesn’t even believe he’s capable of feeling that way. Not really.

At least… that’s what he keeps telling himself over and over, like it would eventually stick.

And whatever it is that he may or may not be feeling, he pushes it down, locks it away, and throws away the key.

After all, what other choice did he have? What was he supposed to do? Cut you off out of nowhere? Please.

That would be practically admitting that everyone was right. It’d be like gluing a neon sign to his forehead saying:

“You were all right. I do care too much and now I’m panicking because I can’t deal with it.”

Well, to be fair, it wouldn’t be much of a lie. But Mattheo Riddle, being the literal embodiment of stubbornness and with the emotional maturity of a five-year-old, obviously, had to prove to himself to them, they couldn’t be more wrong!

He is fully convinced that if he ignores it long enough, eventually they’d see that it was, in fact, nothing. They’d all look stupid for ever suggesting otherwise and Mattheo would finally be able to take these ridiculous ideas out of his head.

Unfortunately for him, ignoring your feelings doesn’t make them go away, and denial can only work for so long.

Life goes on, and eventually, your already long conversations become even longer, deeper. What used to be casual chats become habits. Group hangouts slowly turn into just the two of you. And the smoke breaks you used to share with the whole group slowly shift into nighttime escapes together to the Astronomy Tower, huddled under the stars and the thick air of cigarette smoke where you two talk about everything. From the most futile subjects to things you never thought you’d be able to share with someone else.

Suddenly, without either of you noticing, it’s 2 a.m and the world outside feels asleep, distant, quiet.

You’re still sitting together in what could now be called “your spot”, judging by how many nights you two have spent like this.

And on a particular cold night, as what feels like the most natural thing ever, you trust him enough to share something truly personal, vulnerable, even. And in that moment, Mattheo Riddle freezes.

Because this, whatever it is you two are doing, felt intimate.

Too intimate.

More intimate than anything he has ever experienced before.

But as frightening as that moment felt, what really terrified him wasn’t the intimacy itself. But how badly he wanted it.

How every part of him ached to surrender to it. How, for the first time in his life, he wanted to let go. The way he had to physically bite down on his tongue just to stop himself from opening up in return was absolutely terrifying.

Because Mattheo Riddle, the Dark Lord’s son, doesn’t open up.

Not really. Not ever.

Vulnerability doesn’t feel safe to him. It never has. He’s spent his entire life perfecting the art of shutting everything down to the point where the thought of letting go, even if just for a little, makes his chest tighten and his stomach knot.

Mattheo is terrified that if he ever does open up, it won’t be soft or pretty, it’d be an avalanche. Violent. Messy. With years and years of deeply buried pain and trauma, pouring out all at once.

He’s convinced that if that happens… he’ll ruin everything. That’s what he learned, that’s what his life taught him.

And if in that vulnerable moment, you notice his struggle and reach out, if he feels your fingers gently brushing his face, running through his hair like it was the most natural thing in the world;

He breaks.

Before he can process it, before his mind catches up to his body,

he kisses you.

It’s urgent.

Desperate.

Consuming.

Like he’s pouring every suffocated feeling into it.

And it’s in that exact moment — lips against yours, hands trembling, breath unsteady — that it hits him:

He’s in love with you. And there is no way to deny it anymore.

The realization hits him like a punch directly to his stomach. The feeling is not sweet or poetic. It’s overwhelming.

Nauseating.

And he feels physically sick.

And as someone who has no idea how to deal with this wave of emotions suddenly rushing through his entire body, he does the only thing his panicked mind can think of in that moment: He pulls away. And he leaves.

No explanation.

Just gone.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

He just lays there, staring at the ceiling, scrubbing at his face like he could wipe the feelings off. But it doesn’t work.

He can still feel that kiss on his lips, and every time it replays in his mind, it drags a flutter through his stomach he never believed himself capable of:

Butterflies.

Yes. Butterflies.

The Dark Lord’s son, feeling butterflies in his stomach. Absolutely pathetic.

But they don’t last long. Almost immediately, they’re replaced by a suffocating wave of anxiety.

Up until now, he thought he had it under control. Or at least he told himself he did.

But the truth is he knew. He always fucking knew.

He knew it the moment he felt something burn in his chest every time another guy so much as looked at you for too long.

He knew it when he kept lingering, always finding some ridiculous excuse — any excuse — to be near you.

He knew it when his stare alone was enough to make anyone trying to steal your attention back off.

He knew it every time he deliberately got into fights just to get your attention.

And especially, he knew it every time he had to force himself to light a cigarette just to suffocate the thoughts growing inside his head whenever you were together.

He always knew it was only a matter of time before everything blew up.

He knew. But he ignored it.

Because denial was easier. Because it felt good.

And he knew, deep down, that the moment he let those thoughts linger, even for a second, he’d be fucked.

Just like he is now.

That’s when his mind, never one to miss an opportunity to catastrophically overthink, starts doing its favorite thing: torturing him.

First, comes the questionings: Could he even do it?

If he tried, genuinely tried, could he ever be someone’s boyfriend?

But Merlin, he feels dizzy just to think about it.

Relationships come with expectations and Mattheo has always been a bloody expert at failing those.

And even if, by some miracle, he could manage it… How the hell would he ever convince you to put up with his bullshit for long enough for it to actually develop into something real?

Sure, you might be attracted to him. Having someone lust after him has never been an issue.

But love?

That’s an entirely different deal. And someone would have to be absolutely insane to look at someone with the last name Riddle and think it’s “boyfriend material”.

Seriously, imagine going home for the holidays and telling your family you’re bringing your new boyfriend over, only to show up with Voldemort’s unhinged son! I bet that’s every young witch’s parents’ dream, right?

Or, better yet, maybe he could take you home to meet his charming family! That would be a real treat, wouldn’t it? Lovely.

Soon, reality crashes in: Even if, you were somehow deranged enough to stay, he’d probably ruin it anyway.

Hell, maybe he already has, running away like a bloody coward.

Because that’s what he does. Mattheo Riddle destroys. Himself, things, others…

At this point, it doesn’t matter anymore if you meant well, if you cared about him or if you felt the same. Mattheo’s spiraling mind has already chosen its own version of the truth, the one he has believed since the very beginning:

He doesn’t stand a fucking chance. Love was never meant for someone like him, and if anything, he’d ruin you if he ever dared trying.

So he copes the only way he knows how: He fights it.

Of course he does. Mattheo’s first instinct is always to fight: himself, the world, whatever’s trying to get too close.

He completely shuts himself off, like he always does when things inside his head become too much.

The next day, he avoids you like you had dragon pox.

What the fuck was he even supposed to say to you? “Sorry for kissing you and running away. I’m in love with you, by the way. That’s why.” ? Yeah… absolutely not going to happen.

When he sees you approaching him, your eyes full of concern, asking what’s wrong, he gathers every last bit of strength he has left just to give you the coldest, most dismissive lie he can manage:

“Nothing. I was just tired.”

It’s ridiculous, he knows it. But before you can even try to press any further, he’s already gone. He rushes away before you could see the obvious cracks in his armor.

Sadly, even if you try talking to him again, attempt to pull some truth out of him, you probably won’t get the chance. You’ll barely catch a glimpse of him after that. He’ ll avoid every place he knows he could run into you as much as he possibly can. He’ll leave rooms when you enter them. Pretend not to notice you in the corridors. Look away when you cross paths.

Because maybe — just maybe — if he distances himself fast enough, if he pretends hard enough, the feelings will just go away.

Yes. That’s Mattheo’s grand solution.

Wait for it to disappear.

Like an idiot.

But it doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t.

Even then, he’s thinking about you. Wondering if you’re okay, if you’re thinking about him, if you hate him yet.

And every time he sees you across the castle, something twists in his chest like a blade.

He absolutely hates being away from you, and pretending otherwise only makes it worse.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop feeling.

And although this might sound very romantic to others, for Mattheo Riddle, this was absolutely terrifying. His usual defense mechanisms of ignoring and burying it all suddenly aren’t working anymore. He’s stuck with all these feelings and thoughts he doesn’t even know how to process.

So naturally, he turns them into the only emotion he’s ever felt safe inside: Anger.

Because anger, he knows how to deal with.

He’s angry at the situation, for spiraling out of his control.

He’s angry at the universe, because this has to be some sadistic joke, right?

But mostly, he’s angry at himself, for letting this happen. For allowing it to get this far.

He had spent his whole life being taught that love was just another weakness, a leverage to be used against him.

And now, here he is.

Logically, self-sabotage comes following next. And oh, Mattheo is terrifyingly good at this one. It’s familiar. And in a fucked up way, that’s what he knew. What he has always done.

Behind his cocky persona, Mattheo has a terrible self image, and now he will make sure that you see him just as terribly as he sees himself.

He spirals.

He’s even more on edge than usual. Snapping at everyone. Getting into even more fights and for no reason at all. He skips classes and drowns himself in Firewhisky or whatever is strong enough to shut his brain up.

He flirts with people he doesn’t even want, right in front of you. He even sleeps around like the world is ending tomorrow, desperate for any hollow distractions he can get. Anything to keep you out of his head.

Doesn’t sound that romantic anymore, does it?

One thing you need to know about Mattheo is that the more you try to reach out to him, the harder he’ll try to prove he’s not worth the effort.

It’s not because he actually wants you to give up on him, he doesn’t. Merlin, he definitely doesn’t. But because it’s what he expects you to do. In his mind, he’s merely “rushing the inevitable”. If he ruins it first, maybe it won’t hurt as much when you finally walk away.

And when his friends, who are already very familiar with this side of Mattheo, corner him to ask what the fuck happened, and how you two went from almost something to absolutely nothing overnight, he’ll shrug and hiss that “He just got bored.”

It’s complete bullshit.

They know it.

He knows it.

But it’s easier than having to admit the truth.

It’s pathetic, really. Childish. And completely unfair.

But that’s what Mattheo does when he feels threatened: he destroys things before they have the chance to destroy him.

And as he sees the anger, or worse yet, the hurt, in your eyes, it’s like the final confirmation that you’ll be in fact, better off without him. Another reassurance of what he already knew: that he doesn’t deserve you, and he’d ruin you if he even tried.

It hits him like a wave of guilt so heavy it almost knocks him over.

But if — for some unexplainable reason — you don’t give up… If after everything, after every stupid decision, every cruel attempt to push you away and make you see how messed up and wrong he is for you, you still refuse to give up on him, he’s left completely stunned. Helpless.

He can feel the vulnerability clawing up his throat the longer he stares at you.

And Merlin, he miss you. He doesn’t care if you’re yelling at him. He doesn’t care if you’re calling him out. Just being near you again feels like air after drowning.

It’s a completely selfish feeling considering he’s the one who fucked everything up. He knows that. But he can’t help it.

He doesn’t understand why you’re still here. but the fact that you are… Feels extremely good.

It’s a contradiction. He desperately keeps trying to push you away, but even the thought of you finally giving up terrifies him more than anything else.

Still, I believe that to truly snap Mattheo out of his spiral of guilt and self-sabotage, something intense has to happen.

Something he can’t control. Something that hits him hard enough to break through the chaos in his head.

Maybe it’s one of his darkest nights. When he’s drunk and alone, again, and it’s his own fault… Again. The weight of his own choices crushing him as he realizes he doesn’t want to keep running from this anymore.

Or maybe, it’s jealousy eating him alive when he sees you with someone else.

Maybe it’s something that awakens his protective instinct.

Maybe it’s all of it at once.

Or Maybe… it’s as simple as seeing you cry. Because the moment he sees you suffering, doesn’t matter the reason, he realizes he would do anything, literally anything, just to make it stop.

Whatever it is, it has to hit him hard enough to bring him out of his cycle of self destruction and force him to face what he’s feeling. That makes him realize he can’t keep pretending. He can’t. Not anymore.

And for the first time in his tortured existence, Mattheo Riddle stops suffocating every ounce of vulnerability inside of him and is honest. With himself, first.

He loves you. And it’s the realest thing he’s ever felt. And although this terrifies him, it also gives him some clarity. Some strange sort of peace, if you dared to call it that.

And if you let him back into your life, even if slowly, if you still want him, he’ll try. He’ll actually try his best not to ruin everything this time.

But loving Mattheo Riddle is like standing in the eye of a storm. Even after he accepts his feelings, It’s never easy. It’s never simple.

For you, it means understanding that you can’t have Mattheo Riddle without taking the whole package with the years of traumas he hasn’t even begun to unpack.

For him, it’s countless sleepless nights with a twisting stomach. That dizzy, disoriented feeling whenever things get too intimate. It’s fighting with every instincts that tells him to shut down and run away.

And after finally accepting his friends’ help — after endless, exhausting conversations that took everything in him to just open up even slightly — he is finally convinced, that maybe, just maybe, he can do this. That perhaps, he’s allowed to want this. To take an actual shot.

So he stays. Even when almost every single part of his body is screaming for him to run.

He finally, finally, lets himself try.

And suddenly, Mattheo Riddle — the boy who always claimed he wasn’t scared of anything, who’s done unspeakable things with countless girls at Hogwarts — feels nervous. He feels like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore and everything that comes out of his mouth feels like literally the dumbest thing he has ever said in his entire existence.

He doesn’t know where to start. In fact, he has absolutely no idea how to even do this.

But in his own messy, complicated, storm-ridden way…

He’ll try.

Because for you? It’s worth it.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒔 ˙ᵕ˙:

→ i do not own any of these characters.

→ i do not own any of the medias used above, they were all saved from google or pinterest.

with the only exception of: the smith’s song gif and the png of John Steinbeck's quote. i created them myself. feel free to use them if you want!

➜ all the characters i write about are portrayed as over 18. even if they’re sometimes mentioned as still being at hogwarts, i portray hogwarts as having more years since there’s no college in the wizarding world.

→ links for the dividers i used (all credits for the creators):

divider 1 @enchanthings-a

divider 2 @enchanthings-a

divider 3 @lobster-graphics

divider 4 @uzmacchiato

phrase divider on the top @uzmacchiato

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