#is this pact like...binding or something?

[visualxwitch]

When you go to bed and have a dream where the only vivid detail you remember is making a pact with a spirit, and you’re not sure if you should be concerned about that or not:

[wonderlanderings]

When Gentlemen Fall

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.0k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: MDNI, Fluff, Smut, Forbidden Love, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension. 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Gwayne Hightower has spent months restraining himself from the princess's advances. Tonight, you decide to test just how strong his honour really is.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: this has probably been done before but here it is anyways, because i could not get the idea of my mind.

As Rhaenyra’s younger sister, the court has never quite known what to make of you.

Where she is fire and defiance, you are the hush that follows a storm. The Realm's Delight burns bright and bold, a dragon in human skin—you, by contrast, are the candlelit glow that softens every sharp edge, the cool hand on a fevered brow. You are poised, graceful, perfect in every way they demand you to be. You are the very portrait of a princess they can understand.

But perfection is a cage, and you have long since memorised the bars. You know the precise weight of your gaze to make a lord nod in approval. You know the exact angle of your smile to disarm a suspicious lady-in-waiting. You know the weight of your crown—figurative though it may be—and you wear it with the practised ease of a woman who learned to perform before she learned to speak. You have honed this mask until it fits like a second skin.

Only a handful have ever glimpsed the woman who paces her chambers at midnight, who laughs too loudly in private, who speaks truths that would curdle the milk in the court's golden goblets. And of that handful, only one has ever made your pulse stutter with something sharper than mischief.

Gwayne Hightower knows you.

He knows the real you—the one who hides behind porcelain smiles and demure silences. He has seen you crack a joke so improper that even Ser Harwin choked on his wine. He has watched you roll your eyes at a lord's tedious monologue and then turn to him with a look that said, save me from this, and he had—he always had, with a gallant and utterly doomed excuse that whisked you both away. He knows you, and that knowledge is precisely what makes this game so dangerously, exquisitely entertaining.

There was a time, in the earliest days of this dance, when you doubted yourself. You wondered if you had imagined the tension—if the heat you felt was merely your own desire reflected back at you by wishful thinking. You are a princess, after all, and he is a Hightower. The wall between you is not made of stone; it is made of duty, of oaths, of the thousand invisible chains that bind a man of honour to his station.

But you watch him now with sharper eyes, and the truth is undeniable.

You see it in the rigid set of his jaw when you enter a room, as if he must physically brace himself against the sight of you. You see it in the way his knuckles go bone-white where he grips his sword belt, the leather groaning under the pressure. You see it in the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand rests on his arm a moment too long—that tiny, betraying stutter that no one else would notice, but you have memorised like a prayer.

And you see it most of all in what he doesn't do.

Oh, he wants you. That much is as clear as the morning sun through the Red Keep's windows. But more than that, he knows you know. And that knowledge is a slow poison in his veins. He is a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, a son of the Faith, a Hightower. He has sworn oaths and signed pacts and built a life on the sacred foundation of his honour. He cannot act on his desires. He cannot even acknowledge them. 

So you push.

You push because you can. Because there is a peculiar, intoxicating power in knowing that you are the sole architect of his torment—that a single brush of your fingers against his sleeve can send him spiralling into a silence so deep it borders on prayer. You are the sculptor of his suffering, and you wield your chisel with the precision of a master.

You push because he lets you. Because for all his oaths and his honour and his desperate, clinging restraint, he never once tells you to stop. He never walks away. He never asks you to leave him be. He simply stands there, a man made of stone and duty, and lets you carve your name into his fractures.

You do it in the training yard, when you appear at the edge of the lists with a goblet of water and a smile that says I brought this for you, Ser Gwayne. 

His sparring partner stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden presence of a princess where one has no business being. Gwayne does not stumble—he is too disciplined for that. But you see the way his shoulders tighten beneath his tunic, the way his grip on his sword goes white-knuckled. You see the way his gaze darts to you and then away, as though looking too long might burn him, might sear through his carefully constructed walls and leave him bare.

You wait until he has lowered his blade, until the other knight has retreated with a bow and a mumbled excuse, before you step closer. Close enough to count the sweat on his brow. Close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.

"Your form is impeccable," you say, soft enough that only he can hear, as you press the cup into his hands. Your fingers linger on his—not a graze, not an accident, but a deliberate, unhurried caress that lasts three heartbeats too long. "Then again, I've always admired how controlled you are."

The word lands like a blade between his ribs. You see it in the slight flare of his nostrils. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, a muscle leaping beneath the skin. You see it in the way his thumb twitches against the goblet, as though he is physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

His swallow is audible. "Princess," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, like gravel smoothed by too much restraint. "You should not—"

"Should not what?" You tilt your head, all innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "Compliment a knight on his skill? How dreadfully improper of me. I shall have to write to the High Septon and confess my sins immediately."

A ghost of something—frustration? longing?—flickers across his face. "You know that is not what I meant."

"Do I?" You take a step back, just enough to make him lean forward unconsciously, just enough to prove your point. "Then perhaps you should be clearer, Ser Gwayne. I am, after all, only a simple princess. I cannot be expected to read minds."

His eyes darken. There is a storm in them now, a tempest he is fighting to contain. "You are many things, princess," he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "But simple has never been one of them."

The admission costs him. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, in the way his knuckles are white around the goblet. He has said too much. He knows it. And you know he knows it.

You smile—slow, satisfied, victorious—and you walk away before he can take it back.

You push him at the feast, when you dance with him—because you arrange it, because you are a princess and he cannot refuse, because you have learned exactly which strings to pull to make the court's expectations align with your desires. A word here, a smile there, a subtle mention to the right lady-in-waiting that you would so enjoy a turn about the floor with Ser Gwayne Hightower, and the pieces fall into place as neatly as stones in a mosaic.

He knows what you have done. You see it in his eyes when he approaches you, summoned by the queen's own hand, his expression a careful mask of courtly composure. He knows he has been maneuvered. He knows you have trapped him in a web of propriety and expectation, and he knows he cannot escape without causing a scene.

And you revel in it.

You take his hand, and you let him lead you to the floor, and you press closer than propriety allows. Your chest brushes his. Your thigh slides against his as you turn. You are a shadow against him, a whisper of silk and warmth, and you feel the tremor that runs through him like a plucked string.

"Relax, Ser Gwayne," you whisper against his ear, your breath warm on his skin, your lips so close that you almost—almost—brush the shell of his ear. "The court is watching. Would you have them think you cannot stand the touch of your own princess?"

His hand tightens on your waist—just for a moment, a reflexive clench that speaks of longing more than any words could—and then he forces it to loosen. You feel the effort it costs him, the way his fingers uncurl one by one, as if he is peeling them away from something precious.

"They would think nothing of the sort," he grits out, his voice so low it is barely more than a vibration against your skin. "They would think a Hightower knows his place."

"And what place is that?" You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief, with challenge, with the knowledge that you hold all the power here. "At my side? In my shadow? Beneath me?"

His step falters. Just one beat, a stumble so small no one else would notice—a catch in the rhythm that lasts less than a breath. But you notice. You always notice. You catalogue it like a victory, like a trophy, like another stone in the fortress of his composure that you have so carefully chipped away.

His eyes meet yours, and there is something dangerous in them now. Something hungry. Something that looks, for just a moment, like he might forget every oath he has ever sworn.

"You play a dangerous game, princess," he says, and there is something raw in his voice now, something frayed at the edges, like a rope that has been stretched too thin for too long. "One day, you will push too far."

"And what will you do then, Ser Gwayne?" You smile up at him, sweet as poison, innocent as sin. "Will you finally catch me?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You see the war in his eyes—duty against desire, honour against want, everything he has been taught against everything he has come to crave. You see him imagine it: reaching for you, pulling you close, forgetting the court and the oaths and the thousand eyes that watch.

You see him remember himself.

He does not answer. He cannot answer. The words are trapped in his throat, caught between his teeth, held back by a lifetime of discipline. But his eyes tell you everything—that he is drowning, that he is burning, that every moment spent in your presence is a war he is steadily losing.

And you, sweet princess, have never been one to surrender.

You let the dance continue. You let him lead, let him pretend he is in control, even as you feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a forge. You let him hold you, let him spin you, let him guide you through the steps with the precision of a man who is using every ounce of his focus to remember where his hands are allowed to be.

The evening ends with Gwayne Hightower excusing himself early, pleading a headache, and you watch him leave with a knowing smile that curls at the corner of your lips like a secret shared with no one but yourself.

Your sister finds you moments later, eyebrow arched, a goblet of wine in her hand and a knowing glint in her eye.

"What did you do to him?" she asks, and there is no accusation in her voice, only amusement. Only the curiosity of a woman who knows her sister too well to be fooled by innocence.

"Nothing," you say, innocent as a lamb, wide-eyed as a dove. "I simply danced with him."

Rhaenyra snorts, a sound most unladylike and utterly familiar. "You danced with him the same way a cat dances with a mouse.”

You smile and say nothing, because she is not wrong. Because she has never been wrong about you, not really, not when it matters. Because she knows you better than anyone, and she knows exactly what you are doing.

But she does not stop you. She never does.

Tonight, you have reached a brazenness you would otherwise not think yourself capable of.

But that is the thing about walls—once you have chipped away at them long enough, they do not so much crumble as dissolve, leaving you standing in the ruins of who you used to be, marveling at the woman you have become. And tonight, that woman is not content with whispers and glances. Tonight, she wants to hear him break.

You know he stands guard outside your chambers. You know it as surely as you know the beat of your own heart—that steady, traitorous rhythm that quickens every time you so much as glimpse his silhouette in a crowded hall. You can picture him there now: broad-shouldered and impossibly still, his silhouette backlit by the sconces that line the corridor. The flickering torchlight catches the copper in his hair, burnishes the sharp lines of his jaw. His hand rests on his sword hilt in that familiar, easy grip that speaks of decades of discipline—but you know better now. You know the tension that lives in his shoulders like a second skeleton, a permanent weight he carries because he refuses to let it go.

His jaw will be set in that maddening line of stoic resolve as he surveys the darkened hallway. The perfect knight. The unshakable sentinel. A man carved from stone and oaths.

You intend to shake him.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting amber shadows across the stone walls, painting the room in shades of gold and crimson. The night air has turned cool, carrying the faint scent of rain from the open window—the first promise of a storm rolling in from the Blackwater, the distant rumble of thunder a fitting prelude to the tempest you are about to unleash. You left the door unlocked. Not ajar, not obvious—just unlocked. A test. An invitation. A trap baited with silk and sin.

You let your shift slip from your shoulders.

The silk pools at your feet like water, a whisper of ivory against the cold stone floor, and the cool air kisses every inch of your exposed skin—raising goosebumps across your chest, your stomach, the sensitive flesh of your thighs. You shiver, but not from the cold. Never from the cold. You are burning from the inside out, a furnace stoked by anticipation, by the knowledge that he is just beyond that door, that he can hear everything.

You lie back on your bed, the sheets soft and rumpled beneath you, and you let your hand drift lazily down the plane of your stomach. You are deliberate in your slowness. You are an artist, and this is your masterpiece—a performance meant for an audience of one, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Even if he stands rigid and unyielding, pretending he cannot hear, pretending you do not exist beyond the role of princess to his protector.

But he can hear. And he does exist in the space between your thighs, whether he knows it or not.

You make no effort to stifle the sounds that escape you.

They begin softly—small, breathy sighs that could almost be mistaken for restlessness, for a woman turning in her sleep. A whisper of pleasure, barely audible, a thread of sound you let hang in the air like silk. You test the waters, waiting, listening for the telltale creak of leather shifting outside your door. Nothing. Not yet. He is made of sterner stuff than that.

So you push harder.

Your fingers find the heat between your thighs, and you trace slow, aching circles around that sensitive peak with practiced precision. You know your own body like a map you have studied in the dark—every curve, every hollow, every place that makes you gasp. And you let yourself feel it, truly feel it, because this is not merely performance. This is want. This is hunger. This is the fire that has been building since the first moment he looked at you like you were the sun and he was desperate for a taste of the burn.

A moan escapes you—low and throaty, the kind of sound that belongs in a shadowed alcove, in the tangle of sheets, in the quiet space between two bodies that have given up pretending. It is the sound of a woman who has stopped caring about propriety, who has abandoned the mask of the perfect princess and let the woman beneath claw her way to the surface.

Another. This one sharper, catching on the edge of a whimper as your fingers press harder, faster, chasing something that feels perilously close to release. You arch your back against the pillows, letting your head fall back, your hair spilling across the linens like a white halo. Your breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, and you do nothing to quiet them. You let them swell and crest, filling the chamber with a symphony of your own making.

And you know he can hear you through the oak of the door.

You bite your lip, frustration coiling hot and heavy in your belly. Is he truly that steadfast? That unmovable? That infuriatingly honourable? You have given him every invitation, every provocation, every whispered temptation. You have stripped yourself bare, not just of silk but of pretense, and still he stands there like a sentinel carved from the very stones of the Red Keep.

You press harder, faster, your breathing growing ragged as you chase the thought of him—his hands instead of yours, his mouth on your throat, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself imagine it is him touching you, him drawing these sounds from you. You imagine his breath hot against your ear, his voice rough with desire, whispering all the things he cannot say in the light of day.

The silence from the other side of the door is absolute. No shuffle of boots. No sharp intake of breath. No telltale clink of armour betraying a shift in stance. It is as if he has turned to stone, as if he has willed himself into a statue of duty and denial, carved from the same unyielding marble as the Seven themselves.

You are about to give up. About to abandon this foolish game and finish what you started in bitter, solitary frustration—when—

Knock. Knock.

"Princess?" His voice is low through the door, carefully measured. Painstakingly neutral. The voice of a knight addressing his charge, nothing more. "Is everything all right? I thought I heard... sounds of distress."

You almost laugh. Distress. How perfectly proper. How adorably chivalrous. If you weren't already so wound up, so aching and empty, you might find it endearing. But you are far past endearing. You are past patience, past games, past pretending that the heat between you is anything less than a wildfire waiting to consume you both.

You do not answer.

Instead, you let your fingers slide deeper, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet chamber. You let a moan spill from your lips—deliberate, wanton, unashamed—knowing he can hear every shameful, beautiful note of it. You arch your back, let your breath catch in a sharp gasp, and you let his name fall from your lips like a prayer you have forgotten how to stop praying.

"Gwayne..."

"Princess?" His voice is sharper now, edged with something that might be worry—or might be something far more dangerous. The careful mask is slipping. You can hear the crack in his composure, the faint tremor beneath the steel. "I'm coming in. Forgive me."

The door swings open.

He stands silhouetted in the firelight, one hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the room for threats—for assassins, for intruders, for anything that might explain the sounds that have been tormenting him for the past quarter-hour. His body is coiled and ready, a predator prepared to strike, every muscle taut with the promise of violence.

Until they find you.

And then he falters.

Everything about him goes still. His hand falls from his sword, limp at his side, as though the weapon has become an afterthought, as though every lesson of his training has been rendered meaningless by the sight before him. His chest, rising and falling with quickened breath, seems to freeze mid-inhale, the air trapped in his lungs like a prisoner. His eyes—those lovely, terrible, agonized eyes—trace the curve of your body, the arch of your back against the rumpled sheets, the slow, indolent movement of your fingers still buried between your thighs.

You watch the recognition dawn on his face. The moment when the sounds he has been trying to rationalize—the soft moans, the ragged gasps, the whispered invocation of his name—finally find their source. You watch him put the pieces together, watch him realize that every moment of torment he has endured tonight was not an accident, was not a dream, was not something he could dismiss with prayer and denial.

He knows he should look away.

You see it in the way his gaze flickers, just for an instant, toward the door. You see it in the muscle that leaps in his jaw, the desperate clench of his teeth. You see the war in his eyes—the battle between every oath he has ever sworn and every desire he has ever denied.

He knows he should turn. Should close the door. Should pretend he saw nothing and scourge himself with prayer and penance for the rest of the night. He should walk away and never speak of this, never acknowledge this, never let himself remember the way you look right now—sprawled and wanton and utterly, devastatingly his.

But he cannot.

His eyes travel down the column of your throat, past the rise and fall of your bare chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, to where your fingers move in slow, torturous circles. You watch him watch you, and the power of it is intoxicating—headier than wine, sharper than any blade. You have defeated the great Ser Gwayne Hightower without ever touching him. You have brought him to his knees without ever leaving your bed.

He swallows. You watch his throat work, watch the struggle play out across his features—the desperate, agonizing push and pull of duty against desire. "You—" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, tries again, the words scraping past his lips like broken glass. "You said you were in distress."

"Did I?" You tilt your head, all mock innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "I don't recall saying anything at all."

He flinches as if you have struck him. "Princess, I—"

"Gwayne." You say his name like a command, like a plea, like a prayer. You hold his gaze as you slowly, deliberately, begin to move your fingers again—a languid, unhurried rhythm that you know he can see, that you know he cannot look away from. 

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and charged. For a long moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. The fire pops and crackles. The rain patters against the window, a soft percussion against the stone. The world goes on outside, oblivious to the cataclysm happening within these four walls.

And then he breaks.

It happens in the space between one heartbeat and the next. One moment he is standing there, frozen in the doorway, a man carved from stone and oaths. The next, he has crossed the room in three swift strides, and suddenly he is there, standing over the bed, looking down at you with eyes that have abandoned all pretense of restraint. His chest heaves. His hands are still fisted at his sides, but they are shaking now, trembling with the effort of not reaching for you.

Your fingers graze his wrist, and he shudders.

The contact is electric, a spark that leaps between you like lightning, like the first crack of thunder before a storm breaks. You feel the tremor that runs through him—the way his muscles jump beneath your touch, the way his breath catches in his throat like a man who has been drowning and has just been offered air. His control shatters.

He falls to his knees beside the bed, his hands finding your hips, gripping them with a desperate, almost bruising intensity. His forehead drops to your stomach, and you feel the hot, ragged puff of his breath against your skin—warm and uneven, a man fighting for composure and losing. He is shaking. The great Ser Gwayne Hightower is shaking like a leaf in a storm, undone by the mere touch of your hand.

"I cannot," he gasps into your skin, the words muffled against your belly, his lips brushing your flesh with each desperate syllable. "I cannot—I swore—"

"To protect me," you say softly, your fingers threading through his hair. The strands are soft beneath your touch, copper and gold catching the firelight, and you gently scratch your nails against his scalp. He moans—a low, broken sound that vibrates against your skin. "You swore to protect me, Gwayne. Not to watch me waste away from wanting you."

He looks up at you then, and the agony in his eyes is breathtaking. His face is flushed, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and slick. He looks like a man who has been dragged through the Seven Hells and has finally glimpsed salvation—and is terrified it will be snatched away.

"You are a princess," he says, and his voice cracks on the word, splintering like glass. "You deserve—"

"I deserve what I want." You cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. Your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the stubble that scrapes against your skin. "And I want you, Gwayne. I have wanted you since the first moment you looked at me like I was something worth burning the world down for."

His breath catches. His eyes search yours, desperate for something—permission? Absolution? A reason to stop fighting? "You know—"

"I know everything." You smile, soft and tender and achingly sincere. "I know you have been fighting yourself for months. I know you stand guard outside my door every night and pray for strength. I know you dream of me, just as I dream of you. And I am still asking."

The last of his resistance crumbles. You see it go, see the war finally end in his eyes—the way the tension drains from his shoulders, the way his hands loosen their desperate grip on your hips, the way his expression shifts from agony to something rawer, more vulnerable, more his.

And then he is surging up, his hands sliding from your hips to your back, pulling you against him as his mouth crashes into yours.

It is not gentle. It is not chivalrous. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for years and has finally been offered a feast. It is desperate and hungry and so full of longing that it steals the breath from your lungs. His hands rove across your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you impossibly closer as though he is afraid you will disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment.

His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, and you open for him like a flower to the sun, letting him taste every last inch of your surrender. He groans into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates through you, and you feel the last of his control slip away. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and he deepens the kiss—claiming, consuming, devouring.

You kiss him back with everything you have. All the months of longing, all the whispered fantasies, all the nights spent imagining this moment—you pour it all into the kiss, letting him feel the weight of your desire, the depth of your want. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, and you feel the solid warmth of his chest against yours, the rapid drumbeat of his heart echoing your own.

When he finally pulls back, he is breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands still gripping you like you might disappear. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and you watch a single tremor run through him—the aftershock of a lifetime of denial finally broken.

"I am going to burn for this," he murmurs, and there is something like wonder in his voice, something like awe. "I am going to burn in the deepest pits of the Seven Hells for what I am about to do to you."

You laugh, soft and breathless, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Then we will burn together."

His eyes open, and the look he gives you is devastating—raw and tender and full of a love he has been too afraid to name. "You are not afraid?"

"I have never been afraid of the fire," you say softly. "I have only ever been afraid of being cold."

He kisses you again, softer this time, a gentle press of lips that speaks of promises and devotion and a future neither of you can guarantee. When he pulls back, he traces the curve of your cheek with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Then I will keep you warm," he whispers. "For as long as you will let me."

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

bonus scene pt 2

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

*

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

Bonus

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Imitation of an Angel, picture of holiness Part 5

Pairing: Alastor x f!reader

Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent to hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven. Read part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here.

Alastor had never fussed this much before leaving for a meeting.

You stood just outside his room, straightening your own feathers while he hovered around you like a manic hummingbird in a three-piece suit.

“My dear,” he said, smoothing your collar for the fifth time, “do remain here. In the hotel. With the doors locked. And don’t answer any knocks. Or speak to strangers. Or step into any contract circles. And if Angel Dust tries anything suspicious...”

“I’ll be careful,” you promised, touching his arm.

He melted. Which was why he leaned in and kissed your forehead. And your cheek. And the corner of your mouth.

And then, embarrassingly, your temple, jaw, shoulder, and both hands like he was blessing relics.

“Alastor,” you laughed softly. “You’re going to be late.”

He ignored that. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, voice low and firm. “Stay here. I will return shortly. No harm will come to you. I swear it.”

“I know.”

He cupped your face, thumb brushing your skin with desperation. “I can’t lose you again.”

You kissed his palm. “You won’t.”

Only then, begrudgingly, did he force himself to leave, back straighter and smile sharper as he stepped into the hall.

Rosie was already lounging elegantly, sipping tea from a porcelain cup worth more than several souls combined. She gave no reaction whatsoever to Alastor’s arrival. Or to the fact that he had a wife again. Rosie knew everything and cared about less than a half of it.

“Morning, sugar,” she greeted lazily. “Wife doin’ well?”

“Splendid, thank you,” Alastor answered, absolutely unbothered.

The Vees, however...

They were not.

Not even a little.

Velvette glared daggers the moment he walked in. Valentino’s eye twitched. Vox looked like he was buffering.

“You,” Vox hissed, “have some explaining to do.”

Alastor adjusted his tie. “Do I?”

Velvette stomped a heel. “YES, YOU DO.”

Valentino crossed his arms. “You stole something. YOUR PROPERTY? Your…your…whatever she is.”

Alastor tilted his head. “My wife?”

Rosie chuckled into her teacup. “He means they were about to bulldoze the poor girl into a contract.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Yes, I noticed.”

Vox slammed his hand on the table. “Who...WHAT...is she?!”

Alastor blinked. “My wife.”

“No,” Vox snapped, “you don’t get it. She’s not a normal sinner. She doesn’t look like a sinner. She doesn’t act like one. She looks like a fallen angel or a disguised power...or some kind of ancient entity in a mortal shell!”

Velvette nodded rigorously. “Yeah! No offense but you don’t exactly attract normal people.”

Rosie sipped. “He did once.”

Alastor ignored all of them with malicious serenity.

Vox leaned forward, voice dropping into conspiratorial paranoia. “Did you make a deal? With her? For her? Did someone from Heaven send her? Is she binding your soul? Is this some old ritual from your life? Are you...OH MY GOD...did you make a pact with a cherub?!”

Alastor’s eye twitched.

Just a little.

Rosie noticed and grinned.

“Vincent,” Alastor said pleasantly, “you are spiraling.”

“ANSWER ME!”

Alastor folded his hands, elbows on the table. “My wife is exactly what she appears to be. An ordinary sinner.”

Vox screamed internally.

“That’s impossible,” he spat. “She’s too...too...too nice. Too clean. Too bright. Too...OPPOSITE OF YOU.”

Valentino muttered, “Yeah, what kinda woman willingly marries you?”

Rosie raised her hand. “A very lucky one.”

Alastor nodded. “Indeed.”

Velvette threw her hands up. “This is BULLSHIT.”

Vox leaned back, fingers drumming rapidly, clearly rewriting entire conspiracy boards in his head.

“You’re hiding something,” he muttered. “And I’m going to find out.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened into something cruel and delighted.

“Oh, do try,” he purred. “I’ll enjoy watching you fail.”

Rosie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.

Vox had spent the entire overlord meeting with one obsessive, vibrating thought:

“I need to know what she is.”

So the moment the meeting ended, he retreated to his massive neon tower, marching into the surveillance chamber like a televangelist about to perform an exorcism on live TV.

“Camera teams!” he barked. “Deploy micro-drones into the Hazbin Hotel. I want eyes on her. I want audio. I want EVERYTHING.”

A terrified tech demon saluted. “Y-yes, sir!”

“And send one of our field agents,” Vox added. “Someone discreet. Someone who won’t get emotionally compromised. Someone heartless.”

Three demons immediately backed away.

“…Uh,” one muttered, “sir, we don’t have anyone like that. It’s the Hazbin Hotel. It…changes people. Like with that snake...”

Vox growled. “Just pick the meanest intern and THROW HIM.”

Within minutes, a spy drone zipped into the hotel and instantly caught you in the kitchen, humming to yourself while making tea.

The feed showed you adjusting your little apron, wings fluffing absently as you searched for honey.

You found it and smiled.

Vox felt his circuits glitch.

“Is she...she’s...she’s being adorable on purpose,” he muttered. “It’s a trap. IT HAS TO BE A TRAP.”

But then you whispered to yourself:

“Alastor will want cinnamon in his. He likes cinnamon.”

The drone made a small, mechanical whirr of emotional damage.

The intern monitoring the feed sniffed. “She’s…so considerate…”

Vox slapped him. “SHE IS A SINNER, DAMNIT! STAY STRONG.”

But it was too late.

The drone physically fell out of the air and landed on the countertop in front of you.

“Oh, hello?” you said kindly.

The drone made a weak beep…be-beep like a dying Roomba.

You gently picked it up, dusted it off, and set it in a spoon rest so it wouldn’t fall again.

“There you go. Try to be careful, little guy.”

The drone’s camera wobbled. It emitted one soft ping of pure devotion.

The intern started sobbing.

“WHY IS SHE NICE TO OUR EQUIPMENT?! WHO DOES THAT?!”

Vox screamed.

The field agent demon Vox had sent, meanest intern, name: Trudge, crept into the hotel through a cracked window with a tiny notepad.

He expected danger.

Death.

Hellishly powerful sinners.

Instead he found you in the lobby, reading a book with your wings tucked neatly around you.

You looked up, startled. “Oh! Do you work here? Are you lost? Can I help you find something?”

Trudge felt his entire worldview collapse like a wet cardboard box.

“I...uh...I...are...uh...do...you...want...uh...water?” he stammered.

You blinked, confused. “I can get my own water, but thank you.”

“I’LL BRING YOU SOME ANYWAY,” he squeaked, sprinting to the kitchen.

Vox, watching the feed, slammed his head into the monitor.

“NO! NO KINDNESS! STOP IT! DON’T LET HER GET TO YOU!”

Trudge ran back with a glass of water, panting. “Is this okay?”

You smiled. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”

Trudge burst into tears.

“I’M SO SORRY I BROKE IN! YOU’RE TOO NICE! WHY ARE YOU SO NICE?! WHY DID VOX MAKE ME SPY ON YOU?! I CAN’T DO THIS. YOU’RE LIKE A SUNBEAM WITH FEATHERS...”

Vox shrieked so loud the screen cracked.

“GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, INTERN! SHE IS NOT YOUR FRIEND!”

Trudge curled into a ball on the floor, sobbing. “She said thank you…Vox never thanks us. I can't remember the last time someone said thank you to me.”

Unfortunately for Trudge, Alastor arrived.

He stepped out of a shadow with a voice like a violin tuned to menace.

“My, my…”

His smile widened, teeth gleaming.

“…It seems I’ve acquired uninvited guests.”

Trudge froze.

The drone fried itself.

A dozen other hidden cameras around the hotel crackled, sparked, and combusted in terror as Alastor’s aura filled the room.

Vox screamed over the monitor:

“ALASTOR, WAIT, LET’S NEGOTIATE...”

Alastor reached out and crushed the last functioning drone in one elegant hand.

Static filled the feed.

He looked directly through the screen. Smiling.

“Do keep your eyes to yourself, old chap.”

Vox watched as every single screen in the surveillance room flickered, distorted, and finally melted.

Vox stood in the dark, trembling, hands shaking so hard his neon frame glitched.

“WHAT...WHAT...WHAT IS SHE?!”

From the shadows behind him, Velvette muttered:

“Someone Alastor’s obsessed with.”

Valentino nodded solemnly. “Someone we should leave alone.”

Vox hissed. “You don’t get it. He never loved anyone. Not like that. And she...she...she just smiles and people fall in love with her!”

Velvette snorted. “For once, Voxie, maybe you should stop poking the demon radio man.”

Vox shook, staring at the melted screens.

“…I need stronger cameras.”

You woke beneath the weight of a warm, long arm draped over your waist.

Alastor had wound himself around you sometime in the night, one leg hooked over yours, chin pressed to the back of your head, breath warm against your nape. He was…humming. Happily. Sleepily. Like some content animal hiding its face in its favorite blanket.

You shifted slightly.

He immediately tightened his hold.

“Mm, good morning, my dear…” His voice was still gravel-soft from sleep. “Going somewhere?”

“I was just trying to stretch…”

“You can stretch here,” he murmured, squeezing you, burying his face against your shoulder like he intended to fuse with you permanently.

The affection hit you too quickly. Your pulse fluttered.

Oh no.

Your wings flicked.

Just a tremor, just a little twitch, just a ripple of heat running down your spine. But Alastor’s hand tightened at exactly the wrong moment, pulling you in, and the sudden, overwhelming flush of embarrassment shot through you like lightning.

Your wings exploded open.

WHAP!

The left wing smacked into the wall with a loud thud.

The right wing smacked directly into Alastor’s face.

There was a muffled “…oof!”

You whipped around in horror. “Alastor! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean, my wings just...!”

He was flat on his back now, hair mussed, antlers crooked from the impact, his expression dazed.

And then he burst out laughing.

Actual laughter: bright, delighted, startled. A sound you had rarely heard when he was alive, and even less since his death.

“Well!” he wheezed, adjusting his crooked antlers, “I certainly didn’t expect to be assaulted this early in the morning.”

“I didn’t assault! My wings have a mind of their own, I swear.”

“Oh I gathered.” He propped himself on an elbow, still chuckling, still blinking bits of feather fluff off his eyelashes. “Though I must say, if you wished to make a dramatic gesture of waking me, a simple shake would have sufficed.”

Your face burned. “You squeezed me!”

“And you reacted quite beautifully.” His grin turned sly. “I had no idea you could do that, little dove.”

“Alastor.”

“Yes?”

“Stop looking so pleased.”

He only laughed more, reaching to gently gather your wings closer so they wouldn’t keep flaring. He touched them reverently, smoothing a feather with his thumb.

You were too flustered to move.

He tilted his head.

“Does it happen every time you get flustered?”

“No!”

Your wings immediately twitched.

He looked delighted. “Oh-ho.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He dared.

He immediately pulled you into his chest again, whispering shamelessly, “My sweet, sweet wife…”

Your wings shot out again. WHAP!

He fell off the side of the bed this time.

A thud.

A muffled, pained laugh.

“My dear,” he groaned from the floor, “you may be the death of me all over again.”

You crawled to the edge, mortified. “Alastor, I’m so...”

He peeked up at you with ruined hair and the most besotted grin you’d ever seen.

“No apologies. None at all.” He reached up and tapped your nose. “It’s delightful.”

“What part of this is delightful?”

“You,” he said simply. “Being flustered. Being yourself. Being here.”

Your wings, of course, reacted.

He braced an arm over his head and shouted through a laugh:

“Feathers incoming!”

You tried to ignore it. The next day, the first thing you felt when you woke up was the weight across your waist, his arm tightening as if your movement set off some internal alarm.

He murmured something into your hair, your name, stretched tender like warm caramel, and then, without opening his eyes, hauled you closer with a sleepy strength that made your spine pop.

“Good morning, my little lark,” he mumbled, voice muffled and uncharacteristically soft. “Don’t go flying off without me…”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you whispered, trying not to laugh.

“Mmh. Good.” His nose nudged the back of your ear. “You’ll stay and be charming with me, won’t you?”

You shied helplessly, which was the exact wrong thing to do, because your wings reacted immediately.

They snapped open behind you: too large, too luminous, too feathery for the narrow bed.

FWUMPH.

One wing slammed squarely into Alastor’s chest, sending the Radio Demon toppling unceremoniously off the mattress and onto the floor with an “oof” and a startled burst of static.

You choked. “Alastor!”

From the floor came the unmistakable sound of him laughing.

Not his polite chuckle. Not his dangerous I-might-kill-somebody amusement.

A real, helpless, delighted laugh.

“Marvelous!” he wheezed, crawling back onto the bed. His grin was huge, wild, and boyish. “My dear, if you wished to sweep me off my feet, you could simply ask.”

“Stop provoking me.”

“Ah-ah,” he said, tapping your nose. “They respond to emotion. Perfectly natural. Perfectly adorable.” His smirk sharpened. “And very informative.”

You hid your face, which made the wings twitch again.

He laughed harder.

He gathered you up in his arms again, deliberately threading his fingers through the nearest wing. “Now then,” he purred, “before the day begins…give me another reaction.”

“Alastor.”

“I insist.”

And he absolutely insisted, kisses along your cheek, your shoulder, the back of your neck, every one sending your wings flicking and startling and fanning until one finally whacked him again, at which point he collapsed dramatically across your lap like you’d mortally wounded him.

You were still laughing when he sat up and announced:

“Training. Immediately.”

This was how you ended up asking everyone else for help before admitting you needed Alastor.

You tried Vaggie first.

Vaggie squinted, grabbed your wing, flared it out with clinical precision, and tried to explain muscle movements that you simply didn’t have.

Finally she sighed. “Okay, try…uh…lifting from the scapular junction and no, not like that, that’s just your shoulder.”

You tried again.

“No, that’s still shoulder.”

Another attempt.

“That’s…still shoulder.”

After ten minutes she stepped back, defeated. “I don’t know how to help you. I was born with wings. I didn’t even learn them, they just worked.”

Husk’s contribution was worse.

He stared at your wings, took a long drag of his cigar, and said, “Just leap off something tall. Your instincts’ll kick in. Probably.”

“Probably?” you repeated, horrified.

“Eh. Pain teaches.”

Alastor appeared out of nowhere behind you with a murderous smile.

“I knew,” he said sweetly, “that consulting Husker would be a mistake.”

Husk flicked ash. “She asked.”

“And you answered. Tragically.”

Lucifer, of course, was out of the question, Alastor made sure of that. The one time the Morningstar had even looked at your wings, Alastor pulled you behind him like you were a rare artifact on loan and Lucifer was a museum thief.

Lucifer just grinned. “Relax. I’m only admiring. Baby wings are adorable.”

“They are not baby wings,” Alastor hissed, then whisked you away like a Victorian husband offended on his wife’s behalf.

Back to his room, he circled you like a ballet instructor preparing to reshape your entire skeleton.

“Stand tall, sweetheart,” he said. “Wings relaxed. Shoulders down. Don’t hunch, you’re not a frightened dove.”

“I’m trying.”

“Good. Now extend.”

You tried to flare your wings gracefully.

What happened: they unfurled unevenly, twisted at the midpoint, and knocked a lamp over.

Alastor caught the lamp midair and set it down without looking, his smile beaming with the kind of pride parents usually reserved for a child’s first steps.

“You’re magnificent.”

“I almost destroyed hotel property.”

“A minor triumph.”

He moved behind you, hands gentle at the bases of your wings, guiding their angle with terrifying care. His voice lowered, rich and coaxing.

“There. Feel that tension? Breathe with it. Don’t force the movement, invite it.”

You did.

The wings lifted in a trembling, luminous arch.

Alastor’s breath hitched.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You have no idea how exquisite you are.”

You flustered.

Your wings spread further.

He made a noise so helplessly fond it practically broke something in the room.

Then he snapped into instructor mode again.

“Now, fold.”

You folded.

“Now, flare.”

You flared.

Several times you hit him.

He didn’t stop smiling.

You hadn’t accessed much of your Hell-given abilities yet, but they were emerging in strange ways. As Alastor tested your wings’ balance, he noticed one.

“Hm,” he said. “Your aura shifts when you’re frightened.”

“That’s not a power.”

“Observe.”

He stepped back, flicked off the lights, and the room immediately filled with a soft glow, your glow. Whitish-gold, the color of early dawn, floating from your skin like smoke.

You startled. The glow brightened.

Alastor gasped. “Oh, that’s delicious.”

“Alastor...”

“This is angelic resonance,” he breathed. “You can mesmerize. Not through violence, but through overwhelming calm. Affection. Serenity.”

“That’s not useful in Hell.”

He looked personally offended. “My dear, half of Hell’s population would collapse if someone simply told them they were proud of them.”

“Alastor!”

“In fact, I suspect you could subdue even powerful demons if you wanted to. All without lifting a finger. A form of emotional paralysis. Charming.”

That...actually made sense in a twisted Hell logic way.

“So I can…calm people to the point of incapacitation?”

“Precisely. You shine, they freeze.” His smirk softened. “You were always dangerous, darling. You simply lacked the proper setting.”

Your wings quivered.

Alastor’s eyes darkened affectionately. “Careful. If you flutter them like that at me, I may forget we’re supposed to be training.”

Later, during another exercise, he asked you to hold still while he tapped a rhythm on your wings. Soft, experimental.

The air shimmered.

You blinked. “What was that?”

“A response,” he said, delighted. “You can manipulate sound vibrations. Not through radio or mimicry, like I do. Yours is…harmonic.”

“Harmonic?”

“You can disrupt demonic frequencies. You can break enchantments. Even unravel illusions.”

You stared.

He beamed.

“My little angelic amplifier.”

And then, of course, you accidentally demonstrated it.

During an attempt to hover, just a little, you flapped awkwardly and produced a soft hum.

The chandelier above you shattered. It simply disassembled itself. Every crystal bead slid apart like melting ice, drifting down in a glittering cascade.

Alastor watched with starry eyes.

You looked at the carnage. “Oh no. Oh no I’m so sorry!”

He grabbed your hands in both of his.

“Do it again.”

“Alastor!”

“Marvelous! Stunning! Do it again!”

At the end of hours of practice, tumbling, hovering, gliding attempts, accidental knockouts of furniture, Alastor finally lowered himself beside you on the bed.

You lay on your stomach, wings draped over the sheets, exhausted in every muscle you didn’t know you had.

Alastor stroked a hand down the nearest wing.

“You’re progressing beautifully.”

“You say that because you’re biased.”

“Absolutely,” he said happily. “But that doesn’t make it untrue.”

He leaned down, kissed between your wings, and hummed.

You felt your powers flicker, soft golden light spreading through the room.

He tucked himself against your side, his antlers tangling slightly in your feathers.

You laughed as you gently freed them. “You look ridiculous.”

“I look devoted,” he corrected, closing his eyes. “And I intend to bask like this for at least an hour.”

“An hour?”

“Or two.”

You rested your cheek against his shoulder. “Alastor?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Thank you for teaching me.”

He squeezed you, voice low and genuine, the kind of softness he hid from the world.

“I would teach you anything you wished to learn.”

Your wings fluttered involuntarily.

He grinned into your hair.

About the taglist, I will add you to it if you comment you want to be added to the taglist, but some blogs are not being tagged even when I add them! So if you aren't getting tagged, it's not because I didn't put you in! In that case, please follow my blog on your own to keep yourself updated on my fics. Every fic is in my Masterlist in the pinned post.

@kathypellar

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[di-nana-saur]

The Slow Unraveling - os but not so os

The night before the Trial of Seven, the Stark princess—betrothed to the cruel Prince Aerion—wanders in the shadows and collides with Prince Baelor. In his private pavilion, he claims her, awakening a heat she never dared imagine. One stolen night of slow surrender and quiet possession—before dawn brings blood and fate.

pairing 𓂃 prince!Baelor Targaryen x Stark!fem!reader

genre 𓂃 forbidden / secret affair, age gap, power imbalance, smut, pining, protector x protected, enemies-to-something-more, Targaryen fire meets Northern ice

warnings 𓂃 18+ only · explicit smut · virginity loss · possessiveness · mentions of past / threatened abuse · graphic sexual descriptions

wordcount 𓂃 2.6k

Author's note 𓂃 I’m really sorry if Baelor feels misccharacterized here — I imagine Baelor as honorable, dutiful, chivalrous and possessive. If it feels too far from his canon self, forgive me, I only know of him from the serie (in which we don't see enough of him unfortunatelty in my opinion) ♡. Mind the tags and enjoy the reading <3

part 2 here <3

part 3 here <33

The banners of Ashford still snapped in the wind like dragon wings, but the day's clamor had faded to uneasy murmurs. The Trial of Seven loomed at dawn—justice hanging on steel and blood—and the campfires burned low, casting long shadows across the meadow.

You, daughter of House Stark, had been sent south as part of the betrothal arrangements: promised to Prince Aerion Targaryen, called Brightflame by those who flattered him and Monstrous by those who knew him. Your father had sealed the pact in Winterfell's great hall, trading northern ice for southern fire, hoping to bind the North closer to the Iron Throne.

You had arrived at Ashford weeks ago, veiled in grey fur and quiet dread, your silver-grey eyes watching the Targaryens like a wolf sizing up a lion.

Aerion was beautiful in the cruel way of dragons—pale violet eyes that burned too bright, hair the color of molten gold, a smile that promised delight and delivered pain. He had already cornered you once, fingers digging into your wrist as he whispered how he would "tame the wolf" on your wedding night, how he would make you scream his name until the Old Gods themselves heard. You had endured it with Northern steel, but tonight the fear coiled tighter.

Tomorrow he would fight in the trial he had demanded, defending his own twisted honor against Ser Duncan the Tall. If he won, your fate was sealed. If he lost... gods, the uncertainty was almost worse.

The day had been endless.

Dawn had found you already awake, staring at the canvas ceiling of your guest pavilion while the camp stirred outside. Breakfast had been forced down—bread that tasted of dust, fruit too sweet. Aerion’s squire had come again with the same summons: the midday feast in Lord Ashford’s pavilion.

You had dressed in the pale grey gown your mother had sewn, the silver thread now feeling like mockery. At the high table Aerion had played the gallant betrothed—pouring wine, brushing your hand, laughing too loudly. Under the table his knee had pressed against yours, hard enough to bruise. You had kept your face blank, counted the stitches in the tablecloth, prayed for the meal to end.

Afterward he had dragged you on that walk through the tourney grounds, arm locked through yours like a manacle. “My little wolf will watch me win tomorrow,” he had said, voice light and venomous. “And then we’ll celebrate properly.” His fingers had dug into your forearm when you tried to pull away. You had said nothing. You had learned that silence was safer than protest.

By dusk you had escaped to your own pavilion, claiming illness. The servants had left you with a single candle and a basin of cool water. You had washed your face, scrubbed at the red marks on your arm until the skin stung, then slipped out again—not into the open meadow this time, but deeper into the labyrinth of guest pavilions reserved for the highborn. The corridors between the tents were narrow, lit by sputtering torches, heavy with the smell of oiled canvas and smoke.

You walked without purpose, bare feet silent on the rush matting, night-rail trailing behind you like a ghost. You only wanted movement. Stillness felt like drowning.

You turned a corner too sharply and nearly collided with him.

Prince Baelor Targaryen stood in the dim corridor, black tunic unlaced at the throat, cloak draped over one arm as though he had been on his way somewhere and stopped. His dark hair was still damp from a recent bath or the mist; the silver threads at his temples caught the torchlight like steel. He was taller than you remembered from across banquet tables, broader, the quiet power of him filling the narrow space.

He did not step back. He simply looked down at you, violet eyes cool and unreadable.

“You wander at strange hours, Lady Stark,” he said. His voice was low, measured, edged with something that was not quite warmth. “It is not wise.”

You froze, hands twisting in the folds of your night-rail. Heat rushed to your face. “I—I could not sleep, Your Grace. Forgive me. I did not mean to—”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you the way one might study a map of unfamiliar terrain. “Aerion’s betrothed should not need to creep through corridors like a thief in her own camp.”

The words were not kind. They were not cruel either. They were simply true, spoken without softening.

You dropped your gaze to the rush matting. “I only wanted quiet. Forgive me Your Grace.”

A long silence. Then he stepped aside—not to let you pass, but to lean one shoulder against the canvas wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The movement brought him closer without crowding you. You could smell cedar smoke and clean linen on him, nothing of Aerion’s cloying perfume.

“Quiet is hard to find here,” he said. “Especially tonight.”

You risked a glance up. His expression had not softened, but the coldness in his eyes had shifted—less distant, more… assessing. As though he were weighing something you could not name.

He pushed off the wall slowly, unfolding his arms. “Come.”

It was not a request, but it was not an order either. He turned and started down the corridor, not looking back to see if you followed.

You did.

He led you through two more turns, past closed tent flaps and sleeping guards, to a smaller pavilion set slightly apart from the others—the one reserved for the royal heir when he wished privacy. Inside it was simple: a low table, cushions, a single brazier burning low, a narrow bed draped in dark wool. No banners. No excess. He closed the flap behind you both.

You stood near the entrance, arms wrapped around yourself.

He did not sit. He poured wine from a flagon into two cups, offered you one without ceremony. When you took it your fingers brushed his—brief, accidental. He did not flinch. Neither did you pull away immediately.

“You are afraid of him,” Baelor said. It was not a question.

You stared into the cup. “I am afraid of what comes after tomorrow. Win or lose.”

He drank once, set the cup down. “Aerion wins tomorrow, the hedge knight dies, and the realm calls it justice. He loses, and the whispers begin anew. Either way, you remain his.”

The bluntness of it made you flinch.

Baelor watched the reaction, then stepped closer—slow enough that you could have retreated. You did not.

“But tonight,” he said, voice dropping lower, “you are not his. Not yet.”

Your breath caught. You looked up at him—really looked. The violet eyes were still cool, still guarded, but there was something else beneath: interest, sharp and focused.

He lifted a hand—slowly—and brushed a damp curl from your cheek. The touch was light, almost clinical at first. Then his thumb lingered, tracing the line of your jaw with deliberate care.

You shivered. Not entirely from cold.

“I cannot,” you whispered, voice trembling. “If he ever found out… if anyone saw… he would burn everything. He would burn me.”

Baelor’s hand stilled against your skin. His gaze did not waver.

“Aerion’s temper is known,” he said flatly. “His… impulses are known. But I am not some courtier to be intimidated by his whims.” His voice hardened, just enough to carry the weight of truth. “If he ever raises a hand to you again—if he ever tries to claim what is no longer freely given—I will stand between you and him. I will end it. Blood or no blood.”

You searched his face. The promise was not soft. It was steel wrapped in velvet. Targaryen steel.

“You would risk that?” you breathed. “For me?”

“I would do it for less,” he said. “But tonight it is for you.”

He leaned in then—not rushing, not gentle in the soft way of songs, but with the controlled hunger of a man who rarely allowed himself either. His mouth brushed yours once, testing. When you did not pull away, he kissed you properly—firm, unhurried, tasting of wine and restraint.

Your hands rose hesitantly, settling on his chest. He made a low sound against your lips, approval, hunger or both.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours, exploring with a slow, deliberate intensity that made your knees weaken. You pressed closer, feeling the hard planes of his chest through the thin fabric of his tunic, the heat of him seeping into your chilled skin. His hands slid down your sides, large and callused, gripping your waist with just enough force to pull you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth at the feel of his arousal—hard and insistent—pressing against your belly through his breeches.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat, teeth grazing lightly over your pulse point. “Undress me,” he murmured against your skin, the command wrapped in velvet.

Your fingers trembled as they found the laces of his tunic, pulling them free with halting movements. He shrugged it off, revealing the scarred, muscled torso beneath—battle marks from Redgrass Field and beyond.

You traced one scar with tentative fingertips, feeling him shudder under your touch. Emboldened, you leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, tasting salt and skin.

Baelor’s breath hitched. His hands moved to the ribbons of your night-rail, tugging them loose with precise, unhurried pulls. The fabric parted, slipping from your shoulders to pool at your feet in a whisper of linen. Cool air kissed your bare skin, but his gaze burned—violet eyes raking over you, taking in the freckles scattered across your chest, the curve of your breasts, the red curls at the apex of your thighs.

“Beautiful,” he said, voice rougher now, less controlled. He cupped one breast, thumb circling the nipple until it pebbled under his touch, sending a spark straight to your core. You arched into him, a soft whimper escaping your lips. He leaned down, capturing the peak in his mouth—hot, wet suction that made your knees buckle. His tongue swirled, teeth nipping just enough to draw a gasp, while his other hand kneaded your neglected breast, rolling the nipple between callused fingers.

Heat pooled between your legs, slick and aching. You threaded your fingers into his dark hair, holding him there as pleasure built in waves. He switched sides, lavishing the same attention on the other breast, until you were panting, hips shifting restlessly against him.

Baelor straightened, eyes dark with want. He guided you back to the narrow bed, laying you down on the dark wool. The blanket was rough against your back, a contrast to the smooth heat of his skin as he settled over you, bracing on his forearms. He kissed you again—deeper, hungrier—while one hand trailed down your body, over the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, until his fingers found the slick folds between your thighs.

“Legs around me,” he instructed quietly.

You moaned into his mouth as he parted you, thumb finding your clit with unerring precision. He circled it slowly at first, then with increasing pressure, drawing whimpers from your throat.

“I have you. Does this feel good?”

“Y-yes, my prince.” you stammered, a soft whimper escaping as his fingers teased, building a warmth that spread through your core. “It feels… strange. But good.”

“Strange how, my lady ?” he asked, voice low, fingers pausing but not withdrawing.

“Like… like fire building inside me,” you admitted, cheeks flushing deeper. “I’ve never felt this before.”

He smiled faintly against your skin. “That’s how it should be. Let it build.”

Two fingers dipped inside you—slow, careful, stretching you gently, curling against that sensitive spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. “Breathe,” he growled against your lips.

“Please, my prince,” you whispered, hips bucking into his hand. The fear had melted into something hotter, needier.

He withdrew his fingers, slick with your arousal, and brought them to his mouth—tasting you with a low, appreciative hum that sent another wave of heat through you. Then he unlaced his breeches, freeing his cock—thick, veined, the head glistening with precum. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the shaft, stroking from base to tip. He hissed, hips jerking into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Enough,” he said, voice strained. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness. “Look at me.”

You did, as he pushed in, inch by inch, the stretch burning sweetly. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He groaned when he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, holding still for a heartbeat to let you adjust.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

“A little,” you admitted, voice small. “But… I want more.”

Then he moved—deep, rolling thrusts that dragged his cock over every sensitive nerve inside you. The rhythm was steady at first, building friction until you were arching beneath him, meeting each stroke with desperate rolls of your hips. His hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that made your vision blur.

“Gods,” you moaned, the coil in your belly tightening, tighter. He angled his hips, hitting that spot deep inside with every thrust, the wet slap of skin filling the room.

He guided one of your hands down between you, placing your fingers on your clit.

“Touch yourself,” he instructed gently. “Like this. Circle slowly—find what feels best.”

You obeyed, circling timidly while he thrust, the dual sensation making you tremble harder, pleasure coiling tighter. “Like this?” you asked, voice shy, seeking his approval.

“Perfect,” he growled, eyes darkening as he watched you. “Just like that. You’re learning quickly.”

He watched your face the entire time—eyes locked on yours—adjusting his angle when your breath hitched, slowing when you needed it, deepening when you arched for more.

Pleasure coiled steadily, warm and tight in your belly, building with every thrust, every circle of your fingers. Your free hand clutched at his back, nails pressing deeper.

“I’m… I’m close,” you breathed, voice breaking. “I-I can't, it is too much—”

“Come for me then,” he commanded, voice rough, lips brushing your ear. “Let me feel you.”

It hit like a storm—pleasure crashing over you in shuddering waves, your walls clenching around him like a vice. You cried out his name, back arching off the bed, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks.

Baelor followed with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you—hot, thick pulses that filled you completely. He collapsed against you, breath ragged, holding you through the aftershocks.

He stayed inside you for long moments, breathing hard against your neck, then eased out carefully, gathering you against his chest. One arm banded around your waist, the other stroking slow paths through your damp red curls.

You curled into him, small and sated, the ache between your thighs warm and tender rather than frightening.

When the first grey light showed itself, he rose, dressed in silence, then helped you back into your night-rail with the same deliberate care.

"I'll see you at the royal stand at dawn,” he said, voice low and even. “Watch.”

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

He walked you to the edge of the pavilion corridor, kissed your forehead once—brief, possessive—then turned back into the shadows.

You stood there in the growing light, skin still warm from his, heart pounding with something new: not just fear, but the faint, dangerous spark of something like safety.

Tomorrow would bring blood.

Tonight had brought something else.

And the wolf inside you no longer felt quite so small.

part 2 here <3

[i-heart-slashers]

Ours

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Poly!Lost Boys x Female!Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Their bites mark your skin, a blood pact that ties you to them, not as a possession but as an equal. Somehow you navigate their chaotic, possessive love: David’s commanding presence, Paul’s infectious energy, Marko’s wild mischief, and Dwayne’s quiet protection. Together, you revel in the night, from playful waves to tangled moments on the beach, knowing this bond is as much yours as it is theirs.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.4k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: blood. biting/blood bonding. possessive behavior. intense romantic dynamics.

A chaotic symphony of laughter, screams, and crashing waves could be heard as you weave through the boardwalk crowd, the scent of saltwater and fried food clinging to the air. Your heart thumps, not from the noise, but from the four pairs of eyes you know are watching you. They’re always watching.

David leads the pack, his platinum hair catching the moonlight as he strides with that predatory grace. His gloved hand brushes your wrist, a deliberate touch that sends a shiver up your spine. “Keep up, darlin’,” he murmurs, his voice low, laced with that dangerous charm that first drew you in. You smirk, meeting his icy blue gaze. You never make it easy for him.

Behind you, Paul’s voice cuts through the din, half-singing, half-laughing, some ridiculous hair-metal tune he’s been obsessed with all week. His wild blond curls bounce as he jogs to catch up, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, babe, let’s hit the Ferris wheel! You, me, and a view of the stars!” His enthusiasm is infectious, but you roll your eyes, nudging him off.

“Not tonight, Paul,” you say, your tone teasing but firm. He pouts, but it’s all for show. He’d follow you anywhere.

Marko’s next, darting out from the shadows like a cat, his patchwork jacket a blur as he grabs your hand and tugs you toward the ocean’s edge. “Fuck the rides,” he says, his grin all teeth, wild and sharp. “Let’s get wet.”

Before you can protest, he’s pulling you into the shallow waves, the cold water biting at your ankles. You laugh, shoving him, and he stumbles dramatically, only to splash you back. His golden curls stick to his face, and his eyes—those mischievous, hungry eyes—lock onto yours like you’re the only thing in the world.

Dwayne lingers at the edge of the group, his dark eyes scanning the horizon, always watching, always protecting. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s with a weight that makes you listen. “Don’t stray too far,” he says now, his voice soft but carrying over the crash of the waves.

You nod, knowing he’s not just talking about the water.

This is your life now. The Lost Boys. Your boys.

It wasn’t always like this. A month ago, you were just another face on the boardwalk, a runaway with a chip on your shoulder and a knack for trouble. You’d come to Santa Carla looking for freedom, not love, and certainly not whatever this was—something deeper, darker, more binding than any human connection could ever be.

It started with a dare. David, leaning against his bike, cigarette dangling from his lips, had sized you up like you were prey. “Think you can handle us?” he’d asked, his smirk daring you to say yes. You’d laughed in his face, all bravado and no sense, but something in his eyes made your heart race—not with fear, but with want.

Paul had been next, charming you with his easy grin and endless energy, sneaking you beers from a vendor who didn’t card. Marko had stolen your attention with his reckless stunts, flipping off railings and dodging security as if it were a game. And Dwayne… Dwayne had just watched, his silence drawing you in until you found yourself seeking him out, craving the way his gaze made you feel seen.

They didn’t just want you. They consumed you.

The night they invited you to join them was nothing like the movies. No grand speeches, no candlelit rituals. Just the five of you in a cave, the air thick with salt and secrets. David had knelt before you, his hands steady on your hips, his voice low and serious. “This isn’t a game,” he’d said. “You’re either in, or you’re out.”

You didn’t say yes. Words felt too small for what they were asking. Instead, you’d tilted your head, exposing your throat, and let them take what they needed. David’s fangs had pierced first, sharp and searing, followed by Paul’s eager bite, Marko’s teasing nip, and Dwayne’s slow, deliberate claim. The pain had been blinding, but it melted into something else—something warm, something alive.

And then they’d offered their own blood, a crimson pact that bound you to them. You drank from David’s wrist, the taste metallic and electric, then Paul’s, then Marko’s, and finally Dwayne’s, his hand steadying you as you swallowed. It wasn’t just blood. It was them—their essence, their hunger, their fire. It coursed through you, remaking you into something new. Not quite human, not quite vampire. Something else entirely.

Now, as you stand ankle-deep in the Pacific, Marko’s laughter ringing in your ears, you feel the weight of that bond. Four bite marks scar your skin: one on your throat, one on your wrist, one on your shoulder, and one just below your collarbone. They’re not just marks—they’re claims, each one a piece of them etched into you forever. David’s is precise, a perfect crescent. Paul’s is messy, a little too deep, like he couldn’t help himself. Marko’s is jagged, like he was playing with you even as he bit. Dwayne’s is careful, almost tender, placed where only he would see it.

You wear them like a necklace, a twisted, beautiful thing that marks you as theirs. But it’s more than that. They’re yours, too. You feel it in the way David’s eyes soften when you challenge him, in the way Paul’s voice cracks when he sings for you, in the way Marko’s chaos calms when you touch him, in the way Dwayne’s silence speaks louder than words.

The boardwalk fades behind you as you wade deeper into the water, Marko still tugging at your hand. Paul’s now splashing alongside, his shirt already soaked and clinging to his chest. David stands on the shore, watching with that possessive glint in his eye, while Dwayne moves closer, his boots sinking into the wet sand.

“You’re gonna regret this,” you call to Marko, your voice light but laced with a challenge. He grins, pulling you further until the water hits your thighs.

“Never,” he says, and then he’s on you, tackling you into the waves. You go down laughing, the cold shocking your system, but his arms are warm, solid, holding you against him as the tide rolls over you both. Paul dives in next, his whoop echoing across the beach, and even David cracks a smile from the shore.

Dwayne wades in, his movements slow, deliberate. He doesn’t join the chaos, but he’s there, pulling you up when a wave knocks you off balance. His hand lingers on your waist, steadying you, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—the roar of the ocean, the weight of his gaze.

“You good?” he asks, his voice low, meant only for you.

You nod, brushing wet hair from your face. “Better than good.”

He doesn’t smile, but his eyes do, crinkling at the edges in that way that makes your heart stutter.

The night stretches on, endless and perfect. You end up sprawled on the beach, the five of you tangled together on a blanket Paul stole from somewhere. David’s arm is draped over your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. Paul’s head rests in your lap, his humming soft and content. Marko sprawled out beside you, sketching in the sand with a stick, while Dwayne sat cross-legged, watching the horizon like he was guarding you all from some unseen threat.

This is your eternity now. Not just the blood, not just the bites, but this—the messy, beautiful chaos of them. They’re not perfect. David’s too controlling, Paul’s too reckless, Marko’s too wild, Dwayne’s too tense. But they’re yours, and you’re theirs, and that’s enough.

“You ever think about running?” David asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. His fingers pause on your skin, waiting.

You tilt your head to meet his gaze. “Where would I go?” you say, not a question but a statement. “You’d find me.”

His lips curve, not quite a smile but close. “Damn right we would.”

Paul laughs, rolling onto his side to look up at you. “You’re stuck with us, babe. No take-backs.”

Marko snorts, flicking sand at Paul. “Like she’d want to leave. Look at us. We’re fucking irresistible.”

Dwayne doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that says more than words ever could.

You lean back, staring up at the stars, the weight of their presence grounding you. The ocean roars, the boardwalk hums, and the night stretches out before you, endless and wild. You’re not just theirs. They’re not just yours. You’re something more, something new, bound by blood and fire and the kind of love that doesn’t have a name.

And as the waves crash and the stars burn, you know one thing for sure, you wouldn’t trade these moments with your boys for anything.

[devilcat3d]

i should make more demon deals with my friends. like binding contracts/pacts where we both have to fulfill a condition. but instead of something grand and important, its usually shit like "hey can you grab me a soda from the fridge" and they'll be like "yeah if I can get a kiss after" and then we both fulfill our end of the bargain. a soda for a kiss. you get it

[obeythebutler]

Hi! I got your ask to re-ask and that's very very sweet of you- really feeling like that "sup Shakespeare" post rn aaa-

As for another request, perhaps MC tracing Solomon's pact marks? Since some people hc his torso basically fully covered in those circle symbols, so it might be a nice bonding point between him and the MC (even though they probably have only the 7 lol) - but honestly I really like your writing and ideas in general, I'm just biased to Lucifer and Solomon, and would be happy with anything you'd write about them :]

Thank you for sharing your writing and keeping me tethered to this fandom lol

You set your bag down on the floor and grunt, the thump making a bird near the windowsill fly away.

Solomon looks up from his book to greet you, glasses resting low on his nose. “Hello to you too. Long day?”

“Don’t even get me started.” You sigh, removing your jacket and shoes, brows furrowed. “It’s such a hassle trying to keep these pact marks covered in the human world.”

He hums, flips a page.

You continue.

“I was trying to grab a jar at the grocery store," You rant, letting down your hair, bobby pins and clips scattering around the table. "And then my sleeve rode up—cause y'know, it was high up, and then my sleeve went down, and—ugh—Satan's pact mark revealed itself and this lady thought I had a tattoo, and complimented me on the unique design—"

"What's so bad about it?" He asks, the corners of his lips turning up slightly.

"The thing is," You seethe, sitting down on the plush couch with a grunt. "That it drew the attention of a lot of other people, and then the next thing you know is that you're surrounded by a lot of people and you're hyperaware of the other pact marks on your body which can be revealed anytime soon—people—people might start to think I'm into witchcraft or something."

"You'll get plenty of that with these marks." He soothes, setting down the book but not before placing a bookmark. "Foundation can help cover it up."

"I'd need a shit ton of it." You mutter, loosening your cuffs. Then your eyes widen. "How do you cover it up? You have seventy-two pacts, does your skin even have space left for more?"

"They're able to adjust," He shrugs his shoulders. "Always room for more."

"...They do that?"

"Of course they do. They're etched into your very bones, didn't you know?"

You stare at him for a moment in disbelief, wondering if he's bluffing. Maybe it shows up on X-Rays too.

"Anyways," You roll your eyes, getting up to stride towards the man. "Since you're Solomon the Wise, why don't you let me see them?" You bend down to where he's sitting, imperceptible smile still on his face which falters when you trace a finger along his clavicle, where the designs of a pact show. You recognise it as Ipos's, Earl and a Prince.

But Solomon was a King.

And the king's pact binds them.

"Trying to find any excuse to touch me." He rasps, though makes no move to stop you. Goosebumps rise across his skin as your fingers touch it. You stop at his shirt buttons and look at him, asking for permission.

"Go ahead."

Suddenly, your hands hesitate. It's so awfully intimate, and his skin is cool to the touch. With every button popped open, ink and sigils reveal themselves. Solomon inhales sharply when your fingers graze across his torso.

You trace one near his heart, the area slightly raised as if its been branded.

You feel his heart thump. You lock eyes with him, swallowing as your mouth goes dry.

"They are very pretty though." You remark, tracing the circle where the end of it goes under his ribcage. Five more adore the skin of his stomach. Your body aches from hovering awkwardly above him, so you settle for crawling into his lap instead, thigh burning a bit from the stretch. Solomon grunts below you, but steadies you all the same with his hands on your waist. Two more pactmarks reveal themselves on his hands and arms. That's what his body is—a tapestry of ink and seals accumulated over centuries. "You're pretty too."

"Stop being so sappy" He grumbles, though pink dusts his cheeks. "It feels like my apprentice has been taking a lot of Seductive Speedcraft classes lately."

You trace one pact on the column of his neck, and he bares the area to you. Bobs his throat when your fingers graze his jugular vein.

"Have you ever been pursued because of your marks?" You mutter, leaning more into him. Solomon freezes underneath you.

"In the pursuit of love or being chased in the name of practicing magic?"

You shoot him a look. "Magic. Duh."

"For the latter, yes, many times." He says, eyes lidded, and sighs when your hands find their place on his shoulders. You push the fabric away to trace at the skin, new pacts evident. So intricately detailed. "I had to keep myself covered up just to avoid stares and a crowd of people. Now, I can roam around freely with them."

"Quite a convenient era." You remark dryly, pressing a kiss to his neck. His adam's apple bobs at your action.

Solomon stares at you imperceptibly for a moment—the same look that he gives to his texts and scrolls, engrossed in his work. You feel as if you're going to be devoured.

"I wanna see your pactmarks now."

That is all the warning you get before you're flipped over on the divan, head hitting a pillow with a muted thump, Solomon's body on yours.

"May I?"

You nod shakily, not trusting yourself to speak. He unbuttons your shirt now, eyes roaming over the expanse of skin that is revealed. Levi's pactmark comes to light and the man narrows his eyes.

"Not fair." He mutters, inhaling in the crook of your neck, while his hands slide under your shirt at the same time. Your brain feels fuzzy. You want to tell him he's already acting like envy; but you can't find the words to formulate on your tongue when he's like this.

So, so greedy for you.

He traces Beel's mark on your stomach, and you resist the urge to move away from his touch involuntarily.

"They all get to have themselves on you." He whines a bit, and when his lips brush against the column of your throat you freeze. "They all get to have you like this. Why don't I ?"

You swallow. "You already do." Though it comes out breathy.

You feel him smile into your skin. "You're right," He mutters, and then his teeth meet your skin. You whine when he bites, tongue soothing the sting. Saliva cools on your warm skin. Hands groping at your waist and chest, slipping underneath your undergarments. "I get to have you like this," He speaks, and then he bites again at another spot, sucks the skin in anticipation of the bruise that will form. "Only I get to have you like this."

You breath stutters halfway through your throat when he looks up at you. Hair a mess and pupils blown wide, lips shiny. You have to remind yourself to not jump on the man like a feral animal.

And turn the tables on him.

"I want to see the pacts on your thighs too."

"Oh yeah?" He breaths out a laugh, nipping at the inner side of your wrist now. "I'll show you everything.

(Okay, also, I hope you like this!!! Thank you so much!!! Giggling kicking my feet rn!!!)