bellatrixscurls

[bellatrixscurls]

i found your account in 2021 and it was such a good time, you and other marauder bloggers created such a beautiful horny/fluffy environment and i miss that era. thank you for your work 🙏🏼🕴🏼!

I wish I could bring that era back. Your comment made my heart full, thank you 🫶🏻💗

[bellatrixscurls]

Current what?

Pairing - Theodore Nott x Gf! reader

Summary - Your little prank was not tastefully timed.

Warnings- Bad language, smoking. This is Theo x the current bf tiktok trend lol. No one asked for this it was just in my head. Established relationship ofc, angsty teddy but he does get his comfort dw <3

WC: 1K

Dating Theodore Nott meant never being alone.

Not that he didn’t give you space – no, he cherished his alone time. Only that alone time had recently been spent tastefully lurking wherever you went. 

Instead of reading in his usual dungeon nook or the deepest corner of the library, he did it while following you. Or he’d casually ask your detailed plans for the day, your favourite shortcuts, anything to give him an inkling of your location.

It wasn’t in a creepy way — ish —, but in an ‘I'd die if anything happened to you; I always need to make sure you’re safe’ way.

And though you loved him more than anything, you couldn’t help but feel suffocated at times. He had this way of knowing everything you did to the point that you wondered if he had a mic on you.

So you and your friends decided to conduct a little experiment; talking at a relative volume in the middle of the empty courtyard. “He’s my current boyfriend, that’s it.” Little did you know that his entire friend group was just around the corner, having a smoke. Theo was furthest from the corner, laughing about something with Mattheo, lungs full of happiness and smoke, when Blaise tapped his bicep.

“You’ll never guess what your girl just said.”

Nott raised his eyebrows without much interest and took another draw of his cigarette.

“'He’s my current boyfriend.'” 

Enzo jumped in right after Zabini, taking Theo’s cigarette. “'That’s it'” He brought the cigarette to his lips, wearing that stupid smirk he always had on when gossip was about.

Theo’s eyes widened. “What—”

Matt threw his arm over his best friend’s shoulder, ruffling his hair. “You’re just her sex toy.”

“Get the fuck-” He somehow freed himself from Mattheo’s hold and stormed past his friends – not without stealing his cigarette back from Berkshire and flicking it into the grass.

There you were. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, giggling with your friends with the face of love’s young dream, like you hadn't just ripped the rug out from under your boyfriend.

He stormed over and unceremoniously grabbed your hips from behind, picking you up. You let out a surprised yelp, hands instinctively reaching back to hold his shoulders. He placed you down after a few steps, spinning you to look at him – his pout.

“Current boyfriend?” He spat lowly, looking down at you like you’d just ripped out his heart and cut it into pieces with a rusted butter knife.

You resisted the urge to laugh in his face – how did he manage to keep such close tabs on you? – but held it in for the sake of his overly fragile state. The lines on your face smoothed as you schooled your expression, feeling his bruising grip on your waist.

You wanted to laugh and tell him that it was only a joke, but the hollowness of his face made you rethink that.

Theo’s mouth was slightly parted in exasperation. He was on the edge of insanity, and you looked like you were about to piss yourself laughing. “Per l'amor del cielo – is that all I am to you?” For the love of God.

The dark circles under his eyes and the tight grip his bony hands had on you were telling. You really shouldn’t have pulled this stunt just a few hours before he got his potions test back. 

“No, no!” You reached up to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the rough unshaven skin. “It’s a joke, Theo.” You're an idiot — this really was not the time to pull a juvenile prank when he barely slept last night from anxiety.

He swallowed, looking down at you with distrust but leaning into your touch nevertheless.

"I'm sorry, baby." You murmured; in your mind, you were on your knees for the carnal sin of hurting your teddy bear's feelings.

Your boyfriend wiped his runny nose — he also has a cold currently; life has been kicking him in the balls recently — and slouched despite himself.

The watery, self-deprecating laugh that escaped you was inevitable from the way he was looking at you – adorably exhausted. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

His head dropped to the crook of your neck, a loud, annoyed sigh against the warm skin. “You're not forgiven." He spat in a tender whisper that contradicted his words.

The sigh that escaped you was weary, guilty, and sad. Your fingers scratched at the nape of his neck in the way that made him purr like a kitten, feeling his grip on you tighten but relax.

"The joke was that you're my current boyfriend, 'cause you're my future husband." Your lips brushed his ear with a timid, regretful tone that made you think maybe it wasn't as clever or entertaining as you believed it was.

That made your boyfriend shut his eyes, his hands snaking under your jumper to feel the warmth of your bare skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his neck droop — like it lost its will to stand straight — so your foreheads pressed together. His eyes seemed to have gotten the tiny sparkle you always provided, his breath soft.

You smiled weakly with tight-lipped apology, cupping his face, feeling the unkempt stubble brushing your soft hand.

Theo melted into a puddle of emotion, and every bit of worry and anger inside him morphed into soft, luminescent admiration.

Then suddenly, you were on your tippy-toes, pecking his lips, stained with nicotine that you're now addicted to — inadvertent genius from Nott.

He let the corners of his mouth turn up in exhausted affection, and when you pulled back and nuzzled into his chest, he pressed a kiss to your crown.

You breathed him in silently, noting his lack of cologne for today and appreciating his natural musk that you preferred to any expensive scent.

Theo smoothed down your hair with a careful hand, murmuring into it with a growing smirk. "How soon do I get to make the future husband thing a reality?"

Theodore Nott m.list

i hate this but i don't give a fuck because i lost the original

and do not ask me how i managed to yap what was meant to be a 400 word minific into 1k - jesus girl take the keyboard away

lmk what u thought bb

tysm for reading loves <333

Join my taglist

@weirdowithnobeardo @idiotussupremus @sunshinewhosketches @venuxsw @stargirl777foru

[bellatrixscurls]

do we want best friend mattheo or theo x reader? I’m trying to see something

[bellatrixscurls]

How do we feel about morbid, stoic, clever reader x Mattheo Riddle? He would fall in love instantly !

[bellatrixscurls]

with all due respect - lorenzo berkshire

summary: lorenzo berkshire is a compulsive playboy, an obsessive flirt and a disastrous tease, so when you come to visit hogwarts for the spring term hot off of a terrible breakup, your best friend pansy has one rule: he can look, but he can't touch. word count: 4.6k a/n: i love this messy, chaotic, disastrously hot boy.

Lorenzo's head throbbed with the reminder of every shot he'd taken the night before as he rubbed his hand slowly over his face and sunk further into the common room couch.

Pansy had “called a meeting" whatever the fuck that meant; all it had entailed thus far was getting dragged out of bed alongside the rest of his friends who looked just about as terrible as he felt.

She stood in front of them and cleared her throat as he peered at her behind half-open eyes that he tried to shade from the bright morning light.

"My best friend is coming to visit for her spring term" she announced.

No one said anything.

One person grunted.

"She has recently been through a horrific breakup and she's coming here to relax and escape. She is NOT—" she said loudly enough that Mattheo jumped, clearly having dozed off "—here to have a fling, a hookup, a one-night stand—"

Lorenzo raised his hand.

Pansy's eyes shot furiously to him.

"—nor a sneaky snog."

He lowered it.

"I am kindly asking—begging you to keep your hands and your dicks to yourself...Please" she said, closing her eyes in an effort to rein in her emotions and control herself before she shot Lorenzo another glare.

His lip curled in anger.

"Why does this feel pointed at me?" he asked.

"You went to the party last night with Penelope Farrell and left with Avery James. Do I have to say anything further?" she asked.

"Since when is that a crime?" Lorenzo replied, genuinely confused, a hand to his heart.

"He's been trying to get with Avery for ages" Blaise mumbled in support.

Pansy rubbed her temple.

"Just... be nice and keep your hands off of her, Berkshire" she relented.

He raised his hands in mock surrender and, seemingly satisfied, she pointed her ire elsewhere.

As soon as her back was turned Blaise leaned over with a sizable stack of coins in his hand.

"Two hundred galleons says you can't resist" he teased.

Lorenzo's eyes narrowed at him.

"Do you really think I'm incapable of restraining myself?" he asked, his voice rising in frustration at the way everyone was picking on him amidst how fucking horribly hungover he was.

"Yes" all five of them responded.

"Give me that" he snapped, yanking the coins out of Blaise's hand. "You've got a deal" he said, shoving them deep in his pocket.

That evening the boys were back on the common room couches, showered, changed and with decidedly more energy, ready for another night of debauchery as they passed a bottle of firewhiskey around whilst focusing on the videogame in front of them.

"Why does Pansy take for fucking ever to get ready, Malfoy?" Mattheo asked, his eyes glued to the TV as his fingers slammed the controller.

"We're going to miss the start of the match" Blaise mumbled.

"Every time. Every fucking time" Lorenzo agreed.

"—Alright, alright, enough, we're ready!" Pansy huffed behind him.

"Sorry!" offered another voice, one he didn't recognize.

He pulled his gaze from the TV as his friends looked over his shoulder.

Blaise's jaw quite literally dropped.

Theo fumbled his controller onto the floor.

And Mattheo's character died tragically on screen, completely forgotten.

Enzo turned to see Pansy before his eyes slid to you and his next breath caught in his throat.

His heart stopped and stuttered like it was trying and failing to restart. And his mind emptied completely, void of thoughts, of words, of his effortlessly cool and calm composure and any concept of what expression he should have on his face.

Suddenly every warning, every glare in his direction, and every bribe made an enormous amount of sense, because you weren't just jaw-droppingly gorgeous, you were the perfect amalgamation of every. single. one. of his weaknesses, from your hair, to your eyes, your lips, every dip and curve of your body and the way you were dressed.

If Lorenzo had spent a lifetime describing what perfect looked like to him, Merlin himself couldn't have conjured you.

He swallowed.

And then you glanced at him and fucking smiled, a beautiful, genuine, heart-wrenchingly perfect smile on flawlessly glossed lips and Theo leaned in, whispering just loudly enough for him to hear.

"Amico... you are totally fucked."

The boys gathered their composure and recovered quickly as they stood to greet you and shepherd you out the door, but Lorenzo beelined for Pansy.

"Pans, Pans! Hey. Heeeeyyy you look so nice tonight—"

"—No."

"What?" he asked innocently. "I can't compliment you?"

She whirled on him as the others walked past, fawning over you in a way that had him looking wistfully at your departing figure.

Pansy snapped her fingers in his face.

"I'm not an idiot, Enzo, I know she's your type."

"My TYPE? Pansy. She was made for me. Are you joking yourself?" he asked, exasperated. "This is bigger than you and me, babe, this is divine intervention—"

"—No, this is my best friend, whom you promised you'd leave alone."

An unexpected wave of emotion washed over her that had Lorenzo hesitating as he saw tears line her eyes.

"It's...bad, Enz. This guy really did a number on her and what she absolutely doesn't need right now is a messy rebound."

He pouted. He sneered. And he tried valiantly to ignore the creeping feeling of sympathy and compassion he felt welling up inside him, squashing it further and further down.

But Pansy put up with their shit constantly and he couldn’t remember a single time she’d ever asked for anything in return.

He opened his mouth and closed it again like a fish out of water, gasping for air, because that's exactly what he felt like.

The girl of his dreams had all but fallen into his lap.

And there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it.

"I- fuck - fine" he muttered bitterly, depressed.

Pansy patted his back sympathetically and the two of them moved to catch up with the group.

Lorenzo pushed through the crowd at the Three Broomsticks completely and utterly deflated.

It was packed and the buzz of the crowd that normally would have fueled his exuberant energy felt overstimulating and annoying.

The group had managed to squeeze into a small booth that barely fit you all and in the hustle to arrange themselves, Mattheo, Blaise and Theo left Enzo the spot next to you, shooting him a wink and several thumbs up, whether in support or to torture him he didn't know.

He hadn't said a word to you, and he didn't intend to start now.

Being close enough to feel the weight of you against him, to smell your perfume, sultry and spicy, was enough to make his leg jiggle anxiously under the table, enough to force him to keep his hands and his mouth squarely occupied with his butterbeer as he stared at the quidditch match on the television.

So when you nudged him, he intentionally ignored it.

Until you nudged him again.

"Hey!" you said, leaning in to him to be heard over the noise of the crowd, close enough that he could feel your warm breath on his neck.

S'fine. Totally fine. I'm fine he thought as he turned his attention to you. His eyes rushed to drink you in hungrily, starved of trying to deny himself as he traced your lips, your bright eyes and your beautiful fucking smile that made his insides feel like someone had his heart in a vice.

You motioned him closer and he ducked his head.

"Montrose or Ballycastle?" you asked, nodding towards the TV, referring to the two teams on the screen.

"Oh, uhh Ballycastle" he answered, following your gaze to the action there. "We're Falmouth fans, but if not them, then, yeah Ballycastle for sure."

You smiled and nodded approvingly. "I think they have a shot if Quigley can get a few early goals" you agreed.

His eyes shot back to you.

"You... know quidditch?"

"Of course I do, what do I live under a rock? It's our national sport" you quipped, rolling your eyes as you took a drink of your butterbeer.

And for the life of him he couldn't stop staring at you, as he felt his soul crumble into a little ball. You didn't seem to notice, though, as your eyes stayed fixed on the screen and you chatted away.

"For what it's worth I also looovee Falmouth. I know everyone says they're too violent, but I think that makes their matches more entertaining" you shrugged.

"—That's literally what I've always said" he mumbled. "We're beaters" he said, pointing between him and Mattheo. "We take a lot of... inspiration from them" he laughed lightly.

"Yeah?" you asked, turning your attention back to him, your eyebrow quirked. "Okay, between the Broadmoor brothers who do you like better Karl or Kevin?" you teased.

He could have died.

He could have melted off his seat and then apparated to another town to start a new life where this wasn't happening because fuccckkkk you weren't just hot you were fucking cool. You knew quidditch, you rooted for Falmouth.

He was going to kill Pansy.

He could have cried if he wasn't so intent on making sure you never ever stopped looking at him the way you were now, interested, excited, intrigued.

"Karl, obviously" he said quickly, dismissively. "Anyone who says otherwise is sorely misinformed—"

"—Absolutely not! No!" you shot back and your conversation delved into a heated argument about Falmouth's starting line, their match strategy, and how they stacked up against other teams in the league that had the two of you so totally absorbed with each other that when everyone else went to get a drink you waved them off, entirely too focused on your conversation whilst Lorenzo was entirely too focused on you.

Over the next several days whether you were eating breakfast or walking to Hogsmeade you found yourself gravitating towards him, squeezing in beside him, seeking his company. Something about him, the way he looked at you, the way he respected you made you feel comfortable, like you had a place amidst this impenetrable group of friends.

His smile was genuine, not given lightly or carelessly, but earned and his eyes had a surprising warmth in them that you loved to study when you held his attention.

He was devastatingly handsome in a careless and boyish way with his gorgeously long hair and a penchant for biting his bottom lip when he listened to you. He was magnetizing, enticing in a way that should perhaps make you want to keep him at an arm's length after everything you'd been through with your ex, but you found yourself unable to resist, just as you couldn't resist the thought of running your fingers through his hair, or over his lips...

…Your mind wandered, lingering on the way he'd looked in his fitted t-shirt this morning and the sound of his laugh but even as you lost yourself in your fantasy you couldn’t deny the ache you felt at the way he responded to you because even when you felt yourself flirting shamelessly with him, you didn't get anything from him in return.

Not a cheeky comment. Not a smoldering gaze. Not a brush of his hand. Nothing.

Pansy had described him as “a compulsive playboy”, “an obsessive flirt”, “a disastrous tease” and you thought you’d had a connection beyond the undeniable attraction between you; but if he wasn’t showing you an ounce of interest… what was wrong with you?

In your aggravation you’d started to lay it on thick, showering him with your attention, prolonged eye contact, a well-timed glance at his lips, ample praise, endless compliments, and indulgent physical touch from squeezing his muscular arm, to laying your head on his shoulder.

You even went so far as to rest your hand precariously high on his thigh last night where you could feel his muscles tighten in response, yet he hadn’t even broken his conversation with Theo, only turning to you later to offer a half smile.

You could have screamed.

Enzo lay in bed that night and stared despondently at the top of his four-poster bed questioning his morals as he listened to a storm kick up outside.

He'd always prided himself on his loyalty to his friends, but it was becoming near on impossible to deny you.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew you were flirting with him. He reveled in the way your eyes glinted at him, sinful in their insinuation, the way you touched him, squeezing his arm when you talked to him, or the way you'd nudge into his side when he walked, like even inches between you were too much.

And when you'd squeezed his leg the other night?

He'd had to grab a pillow from the couch to put over his lap and then pointedly ignore you for 20 minutes, and even still he'd just about thrown you over his shoulder.

He was exhausted.

He groaned and ran his hands down his face as thunder and lightning rolled loudly in the clouds overhead.

Fuck it he thought as he rolled out of bed and pulled on sweats, padding into the common room, there was no way he was going to get any sleep.

The searing lightning cast long shadows in the dark corridors and the dank air hung with the electricity of the storm, the noise of which reverberated off the stone walls of the dungeon louder than it did in the rest of the castle, which was why he didn't hear it at first.

He shuffled and rubbed his eyes until the thunder offered a reprieve long enough that he heard the distinct sound of muffled crying.

He picked his head up and saw you curled on the couch, a blanket nearly over your head.

As the next crack of lightning came, you cowered in fear and his feet moved before he could think of doing anything differently.

"Hey, hey" he said, coming to kneel in front of you.

As soon as you saw him, you sat upright and furiously wiped the tears from your face.

"Hey Enz!" you said with such manufactured cheerfulness that he briefly shook his head in confusion.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes searching your face in a way that was so earnest, it made your chin wobble again, but for a completely different reason.

"S-so sorry, I thought I was alone" you said, ignoring his question.

The storm cracked again and you jumped, eyes slamming shut.

"It’s s-silly to be scared, I know it's stupid, I'm f-fine" you lied.

He thoughtfully placed his hands on either side of your legs, deftly avoiding touching you as he met your eyes.

"You're sitting in the dungeon of a 1000-year-old castle in the middle of a storm that echoes in here loud enough to hurt my ears. Shit scares me too, all the time."

That made you pause, and now it was your turn to look confused as you took as shaky breath.

"No, but I shouldn't be crying, I'm sorry—"

"—Stop apologizing" he said, laughing quietly. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

You muffled a hiccup.

"But it's annoying when girls cry. And I know it's stupid to be afraid of storms."

He was genuinely baffled as he tried to say something before you interrupted him.

"Look, you don't always have to be so nice, Enzo. I know how guys think."

Lorenzo narrowed his eyes as he looked at you until it clicked, your fear, your words…

"Hold on, did-did your ex tell you you were annoying when you cried and stupid when you were afraid?" he whispered.

And just hearing the words from someone else's mouth made you realize how genuinely fucked up it was. You shrugged in defeat, at a loss for what to say in response as tears crowded your eyes again.

"Fucking hell" he said, forfeiting the effort to keep his distance as he sat next to you and pulled you into his arms.

You curled into him eagerly, nearly crawling into his lap, getting as close to him as possible and when the next flash of lightning came, he held you tightly against him and then rubbed your back as the thunder subsided.

"Did you ever hear about the time Theo's grandma ran from the cops?" he asked. "It's a great story."

You could tell he was trying to distract you and you let out a breathy laugh and shook your head as you sniffled.

He launched into the story, perfectly mimicking Theo's Italian accent in a way that had you laughing a little at first and then belly laughing by the end.

Enzo's deep voice continued to rumble beneath where your head rested just above his heart and between that sensation and the feeling of his warm arms around you, you fell into a deep sleep.

As you got heavy in his arms and he felt your warm breath against him he relaxed, relieved that you were okay. After a few minutes, you wound your arms further around him and snuggled into him, letting out a contended sigh.

He swallowed and let out a steadying breath as his insides churned, because this was going from wanting to pin you against every surface and kiss you until you forgot your own name to a whole hell of a lot more.

He'd hooked up with plenty of girls, but he couldn't ever remember holding a single one until they fell asleep.

Before long your warmth and the perfect way you held him, grasping his sweatshirt in your fingers like you never wanted to let him go coaxed him into a deep sleep of his own.

He dreamt of you, and he dreamt of the press of your warm lips to his cheek and when he woke up, he was alone.

At breakfast the next morning, you slid silently in beside him and bumped his shoulder in acknowledgement as you smiled up at him. He glanced down and smiled at you, quickly scanning your face and barely meeting your eyes but he didn't say anything, choosing instead to turn and talk to Blaise. Because even though falling asleep with you in his arms might have been the very best thing he could have wished for, after last night he finally understood that Pansy had been exactly right.

You had been hurt, you were still hurting, and you deserved someone a hell of a lot better than him on the other side of your pain. He was done trying to pretend like this could be something you both knew it couldn't, done trying to let himself dream a dream that would never come true.

Your heart sank.

And your insecurities grew.

Because despite the fact that you'd fallen asleep in Lorenzo's arms, head resting on his heart, fingers wound in his sweatshirt, things between you were still painfully platonic in a way that made your head spin.

“What’s the deal with Lorenzo?” you asked Pansy that afternoon, attempting to make it sound casual as you swiped your mascara in preparation for the boys’ quidditch match.

Her shrewd eyes shot to you. “What do you mean?”

“He’s ... hard to read.”

“That’s the infamous Berkshire charm. He’ll give you just enough attention to get what he wants and then he’ll ignore you like you never meant a thing to him. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yeah, I guess…” you said, worrying your bottom lip, warring with the Lorenzo she described and the one you thought you knew.

“Why, did he do something?” she asked.

You laughed humorlessly. “No quite the opposite.”

Her eyebrow cocked.

“Pans, I’ve been laying it on thick and he won’t even give me the time of day. I-I think I’m broken” you said, your words and worries pouring out of you now.

“What if no one ever wants me again? What if I’ve lost my touch? I mean, I feel like all of your friends are completely blind to me. They’re sweet don’t get me wrong, it’s just not how you described them. And Enzo? I swear to the gods he and I are perfect and I don’t even mean that because I want to climb him like a fucking tree, which, of course, I do but... I'm catching feelings” you said, sighing as you blotted at the blossoming tears beneath your eyes to keep your fresh makeup intact.

She groaned and rubbed her forehead.

“Alright, alright, stop, please. Promise you won’t kill me?”

You sniffed and looked at her before your eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I threatened the shit out of them. They know that this” she said waving her hand around you “is strictly off limits.”

“Pansy!!!—” you moaned.

“—I didn’t want you coming here and having your heart shattered all over again!! Do you know how many girls have tried to come up to me to see if I could just talk to Theo or Enzo or Mattheo for them? It’s sickening, it’s a bloodbath, I wasn’t putting you through it!—”

“—So you’re saying I have a chance?!”

Pansy sighed, rolled her eyes, and let her head fall back to stare at the ceiling before speaking, resigned.

“I’m saying that if I gave Berkshire the greenlight... he’d probably propose.”

You let out a noise that was something between a squeal and a scream as you jumped up and down, your mind aflutter with the possibilities.

You looked down at your fitted t-shirt and jeans and then to her, bundled in Draco's team-issued quidditch sweatshirt and smiled.

The cold spring wind nipped at your cheeks, turning them a rosy red as you watched flashes of silver and green dip and dive, though your eyes lingered on Lorenzo.

You pulled the sleeves of his team-issued sweatshirt over your hands and huddled into the warm fabric, noticing more than a few sidelong glances and whispers at the sight of you wearing his name, which you pointedly ignored.

When they won the crowd was raucous in their celebration, humming with anticipation of the party to come and Pansy was no exception as she dragged you by the hand through the crowd.

"C’mon, I want to be the first to the keg—" she'd started.

"—Can I meet up with you, actually?" you asked as your eyes shot tentatively behind you to the locker room.

She shot you a scandalized look before grabbing your face and kissing your cheek.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" she said teasingly as she departed.

"That's a short list!" you shouted after her.

She flipped you off over her head.

You situated yourself just outside the locker room door. You could hear their music, their excited celebrations muffled though still palpable, like a spell. A few players trickled out here and there as you waited, the passing time giving you just enough opportunity to feel uncertain when the door creaked open again.

He was running his hand through his damp hair, his long strides quick and sure but he faltered to a stop when he saw you.

He noticed you were wearing the Slytherin green and silver, and was just thinking how good it looked on you when his stomach dipped and then dropped faster than it had all afternoon on his broom when he realized that it was his sweatshirt, his name you were wearing.

There was no way he could be normal about how that made him feel as his palms became clammy.

"Hey!" you greeted him enthusiastically as he approached you; you always lit up for him in a way he’d never get sick of. "That was awesome! You did great!" you said warmly as you moved toward him.

"Oh! M'sweaty" he protested, albeit weakly, as he felt your arms wrap around him and he pulled you closer.

For all the girls he'd hooked up with, none had ever waited for him after a match like this and certainly none of them had ever worn his name. He held you a little closer as his heart raced in a way that had nothing to do with the energy he'd just exerted.

He felt you press into him further and took that as his sign to let you go, resigned.

But you pulled back slowly pausing right as your noses brushed, your eyes twinkling at him as they sparkled and then drew down to his lips. He could feel himself start to sweat again, felt it drip down his neck, his back, as he rolled his bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, hard.

“I—" his voice croaked and his palms squeezed your hips harder, cementing you in place and all you could think was bless this boy for being such a good listener.

“Pansy told me” you relented.

He pulled back further in an attempt to better read your expression.

“Abouuutttt?”

“What she said about me being firmly off limits?”

He eyed your face for any sort of a joke as he felt his adrenaline pumping.

“Please don’t fuck with me” he said, strong and forceful.

And then his eyes slammed closed and his face scrunched because he couldn’t look at you and think at the same time.

“Look, Panys’s right" he said. "You deserve a good guy, a really good guy and I don’t think I’m—"

You shifted against him and he felt your lips fall electric on his own. And whatever noble thought he’d been having dissipated at the warmth, the wetness, the faint taste of strawberries as he groaned and cupped your face with his hands and kissed you back hungrily moving his lips over yours again and again and again, consuming you as he pushed you into the wall betraying everything he’d held back, everything he’d dreamed about as his tongue rolled over yours and you squeezed him tighter. He kissed you hot and hard and desperate in a way that had you mindless, breathless.

His lips left yours and you panted, gasping, only to feel him trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck, licking you, tasting you, then sucking hard enough to leave a mark in a way that made you shiver. You could feel him smile against you as he pressed another kiss to your lips.

Your eyes fluttered, lidded and glazed over completely.

“What if I don’t want a good guy?” you asked.

He was in love.

E P I L O G U E

Lorenzo's arm was wound tightly around your shoulders as he pushed the common room door open. The party was in full swing and he navigated deftly through the sea of bodies without ever letting you go until he found his friends.

Conversation stopped as they looked from your flushed cheeks to your smudged lip gloss, to the trio of hickies on your neck and finally to Lorenzo’s shit-eating grin and shining lips.

“Panys’s going to kill him. She’s going to fucking bury him” Mattheo muttered as he shook Theo beside him to get his attention.

“Hmm? Oh fuck” he said the second his eyes landed on you.

“This should be good” they whispered to each other as they eyed Pansy to see her reaction with bated breath.

But all she did was sigh and smile at you, and you smiled back.

“Wait, what!? Hang on!” Mattheo shouted as he began to argue with her about equal opportunities and unfair advantages.

Lorenzo reached into his pocket, fingering the coins there.

“Blaise?” he asked as each of the boys turned to him.

“With all due respect, which, of course, is none” he said before he leaned over and slammed the coins in Blaise’s hand.

“Fuck you.”

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried  @girllblogging777  @foivetimesacharm  @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123  @slytherinscreamqueen @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco @wybieivy @itznotsophia @cipheress-to-k-pop @aur0ral1ghts @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him

[bellatrixscurls]

CAN WE GET SOME PRINCESSE TREATMENT WITH THE MARAUDERS PLEASE 🥹✌️

poly!marauders helping you get ready for bed*. ⋆

cw: none. it's only fluff!

a/n: okay maybe i self-projected a little bit with this but i swear to god doing skincare at night is SO EXHAUSTING😩😩 hope you enjoy and remember english isn't my first language<3!

you're curled up on the couch, socked feet tucked under you, wrapped in one of sirius's big sweaters. the tv's playing some old sitcom james put on just for background noise, but your eyes are barely open.

remus glances over from his book, then closes it with a soft thump. "she's falling asleep sitting up," he murmurs, setting it aside.

“I’m fine,” you yawn, the words muffled as your head tips against james’s shoulder.

“you’re not,” james grins, wrapping an arm around you and kissing the top of your head. “c’mon, angel. let’s get you to bed.”

you groan in protest but let them pull you up, leaning your full weight against james as he walks you down the hall. sirius bounds ahead to the bathroom like he’s on a mission.

“your skincare stuff is still in here, right?” he calls.

you blink blearily. “yeah, cabinet on the right…”

“perfect. we’re doing it for you.”

you perk up just a little. “wait, what?”

“you heard the lady,” remus says behind you, voice gentle as he nudges you into the bathroom. “you don’t have to do anything tonight. just let us take care of you.”

“but I can—”

“nope.” james spins you gently by the waist so you're facing the mirror. he kisses your temple and smiles at your reflection. “princess mode. you’ve been yawning since dinner.”

sirius hands you a warm, damp cloth and taps your nose. “wipe first. then we’ll take over.”

you let out a sleepy giggle and do as you're told, swiping off your makeup while they watch you fondly. the second you're done, remus steps in with your cleanser already in his hands.

“close your eyes, love,” he says, fingertips gentle as he massages it into your skin. he knows exactly where to go soft, where you tend to get dry. “you always skip this step when you’re tired.”

james passes him a washcloth. “she thinks we don’t notice,” he says, nudging your hip affectionately.

sirius dries your face with a towel, dramatically delicate, like he’s afraid you’ll break. “there. baby-soft and beautiful.”

you giggle again, eyes fluttering open, and all three boys practically beam at you.

“moisturizer,” remus announces, and james is already unscrewing the cap.

sirius swoops in behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder as he watches james apply it with slow, featherlight touches. “we should do this every night,” he mumbles. “like a spa, but just for you.”

“I’d fall asleep standing up,” you say around a yawn.

“then we’ll carry you,” james says simply.

“obviously,” sirius adds, brushing a kiss to your cheek.

you’re blinking slowly now, everything fuzzy and warm. by the time remus dabs a bit of balm on your lips and says, “done,” you’re already half gone.

james carries you to bed with ease, tucking you under the covers like he’s folding something sacred. sirius climbs in on one side, remus on the other, the three of them flanking you with practiced ease.

“see?” sirius whispers, curling against your back. “told you. easy. you didn’t even lift a finger.”

remus’s hand smooths your hair off your forehead. “you don’t have to take care of yourself when we’re here, sweetheart. that’s our job.”

james kisses your shoulder from behind, wrapping his arm around your waist. “we’ve got you.”

and they do.

as your breathing evens out and your eyes fall shut, you feel remus’s hand brush along your cheek, sirius’s nose nuzzling into your hair, james’s thumb rubbing slow circles on your stomach.

you fall asleep surrounded by love—clean, warm, cared for in every possible way. the last thing you hear is sirius whispering, “goodnight, princess.” like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

lostrologyy © 2025.

[bellatrixscurls]

All That Is Left To Say

regulus black x reader

summary: after your rough breakup with regulus black, you swore you were done. but when a curse in defense against the dark arts leaves you bleeding on the floor, he loses control. in the infirmary, with too much history between you, everything you buried starts to surface.

word count: 4.6k

warnings: ex’s to lovers, mentions of physical injury, blood, trauma response, references to past abuse, emotional distress, anxiety attacks, panic episodes, reader experiencing PTSD symptoms, mommy issues, relationship conflict, complicated ex-partner dynamics, themes of grief and healing, happy ending

There are, one discovers through the steady unraveling of life, many kinds of people one is destined to meet. 

Some enter briefly, passing across the stage of our existence with no more significance than the flicker of a candle extinguished before its warmth is felt. A stranger who lends you a quill. A student you pass by daily, whose name you never bother to learn. 

Others linger for years in the periphery of our lives, familiar in form but forgettable in essence—classmates whose faces become part of the scenery, whose presence we tolerate, but seldom invite closer.

And then, inevitably, there are the ones who stay. The ones who take root. Friends who become fixtures in our hours, our patterns, our very way of moving through the world. These are the companions who anchor us, shape us, sometimes save us.

But of all the categories of human interaction, the most treacherous—by far the most damaging—are those who fall into that final, cruel compartment: the ones we spend a great deal of time loving, and even longer trying to forget.

Unfortunately for you, there are not one but two such individuals who haunt that particular category. 

The first is your mother, a woman of remarkable cruelty and unrelenting spite, whose presence in your life has left wounds no healing spell has yet managed to erase. Her voice remains embedded in the back of your mind, an echo that resurfaces in moments of quiet, and most especially in moments of fear. 

She is, by all accounts, what one might imagine the devil would send if he himself were otherwise detained.

And then there is Regulus Black.

Your ex-boyfriend.

He occupied your heart for six brief months, and has plagued your memory for over a year since. In the hierarchy of harm, he should rank second; he did not raise you, did not strike you, did not imprison you in your own home. 

And yet, in certain hours of the night, it is his name that claws to the surface first, his voice that revisits you in your dreams, not with cruelty—but with absence. With silence. With the terrible emptiness of what might have been.

You do not know which wound is more exhausting: the one left by the mother you were born to, or the one left by the boy who told you he loved you and then disappeared so thoroughly it felt like grief. 

What you do know is that you have, at the very least, escaped one of them. Your mother is not here. Hogwarts, for all its horrors, is mercifully free of her presence.

Regulus, however, is another matter entirely.

You see him no fewer than three times a day. Sometimes across the Great Hall, his expression unreadable beneath the sweep of dark hair. Sometimes in the library, hunched over his parchment with the same precision he used to study you. 

And sometimes—like now—you find him walking directly toward you, claiming proximity with the casual grace of someone who does not feel the ground shift beneath your feet when he appears.

He is here for a book. That is all. A book Remus happens to have tucked under his arm. The corridor is quiet, the class bell not yet rung. You had been mid-conversation with Remus, about Arithmancy of all things, when you felt the air change.

You did not need to look to know it was him.

And yet, of course, you did.

Now he stands before you, perfectly composed, as if he does not know the state of your hands, the sudden sweat on your palms, the weight in your chest. 

As if you are no more significant to him than any other girl waiting beside her friend. As if he has not occupied every corner of your memory for the past twelve months.

“Lupin,” he says, his voice smooth and quiet, carrying just enough weight to command attention without raising its volume. “You still have that copy of Magical Theory I lent you last month?”

Remus adjusts the strap of his bag. “I do,” he replies, with an expression that flickers between casual politeness and something more watchful. “Was wondering if you’d ever come for it.”

“I meant to earlier,” Regulus says. “Life interfered.”

His eyes shift momentarily toward you, too fleeting to be called a glance, scarcely more than a subtle movement. 

Yet somehow, it ignites a warmth within you. You lower your gaze to the floor, as though it might provide a refuge from the weight of that silent acknowledgement.

Remus reaches into his bag and withdraws the book. “Here,” he says. “Try not to annotate the margins next time. Some of us actually care what the author meant.”

Regulus takes the book with a quiet nod. “Noted.”

You wait until he turns the corner before your shoulders finally drop, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw begins to ache. 

You exhale harshly through your nose, then turn on your heel, your shoes hitting the stone floor with unforgiving purpose.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, storming ahead, your robes flaring behind you. “Why the hell is he everywhere I go?”

Remus hurries after you, a half-confused, half-amused expression tugging at his mouth. “Is it my fault Regulus wanted a bloody book?”

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” you snap, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him down a side corridor. “Why are you even talking to him?”

He blinks in surprise. “Because he’s at Hogwarts, in the same school, haunting the same halls and library? I am not twelve years old, severing ties as if cutting a frayed thread. Some connections persist whether we want them to or not.”

You stop short. “Well, you are breaking the biggest girl code ever.”

Remus blinks, confused. “Pardon? Girl what?”

“You heard me. Girl code.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not even a girl.”

“You’re gay,” you fire back without missing a beat. “Girl code applies.”

He throws his head back and laughs, hand over his chest as if you have just confessed your undying love. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

You glare. “You are not supposed to associate with your friend’s ex. Especially when he’s an emotionally constipated bastard who left me without a single decent explanation. What’s next? You going to lunch with him and chatting about his new broomstick?”

“I’m sorry!” he says, still chuckling. “But in all seriousness, you’re acting like he cursed your name into a grave.”

“Remus,” you hiss, pulling him closer by the edge of his robe. “You don’t get it. Every time I think I’m okay, every time I’m having a semi-decent day, he appears. He just slinks in like some bloody ghost and ruins everything.”

“You hate him that much?”

“I hate that he’s still here. I hate that I spent six months giving everything to someone who couldn’t give me one sentence of honesty in return!”

There’s a long pause. Remus watches you carefully now, the humor softening into something gentler.

“You know,” he says quietly, “it bothers you that he doesn’t look bothered.”

You freeze.

“That’s what this is,” he goes on, his voice not unkind. “You’re mad because he ended it, and he walks around like he doesn’t regret it.”

You scoff, though it sounds brittle in your throat. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you?”

“I have,” you say, too quickly. “He ended things because of his own issues or whatever, which, by the way, he never even told me about. Just decided I didn’t need to know, like I wasn’t worth the effort.”

Remus sighs, eyes flicking toward the stained glass window at the end of the corridor. “He didn’t think he could make you stay.”

“I would’ve stayed,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “But Regulus doesn’t believe anyone stays.”

You feel something hot sting the backs of your eyes, but you blink it away. 

You’ve cried enough over Regulus Black to fill every basin in the castle.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin, “he was wrong, because now I’m gone. And this time, I’m the one who’s staying gone.”

“Well,” Remus began, his tone far too casual for your liking, “I’m afraid I must tell you that you do share a class with Regulus Black. Defense Against the Dark Arts, to be precise.”

You blink slowly, dread blooming like a headache. “I feel like this entire week has been designed to ruin me.”

Remus offered a small nod, watching as you turned and made your way toward your classroom. You exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken understanding passing between you, before each of you vanished into the corridors leading to your separate lessons.

The classroom is already half-full by the time you arrive. Pandora catches your eye and gestures to the seat beside her near the front. You gratefully accept and settle in. 

Moments later, the chair behind you scrapes against the floor, and without needing to turn, you know who it is. Of course it is him. Regulus Black. The universe never misses an opportunity to mock you.

The professor strides into the room with a quiet authority, his robes flowing behind him as he surveys the class.

“Wands out,” he commands without preamble. “Today we continue our practice of spell deflection and countering dark magic. If you failed to revise over the weekend, I advise you remain silent and take diligent notes. This lesson will be entirely practical.”

A few students murmur in quiet protest. You share a brief glance with Pandora, who offers a small, knowing smile.

Pairs are assigned swiftly. Pandora finds herself paired with Dorcas, while you are left with a boy whose uncertain grip on his wand betrays his inexperience, as if he cannot quite discern which end poses the true danger. 

The duel begins with harmless exchanges. Spells burst into vivid flashes of light, Protego charms shimmer and ripple like liquid glass, and stunning spells bounce in practiced arcs. 

You move through the motions with practiced detachment—cast, block, repeat—finding solace in the rhythm that dulls the edges of your anxiety. Your partner flinches at every near miss but perseveres. 

Gradually, you settle into a steady cadence, grateful for the distraction it provides from the presence a few feet behind you: Regulus Black, undoubtedly observing your every move with an inscrutable gaze.

And then something shifts.

It happens so fast you almost miss it — a wand flicks too hard across the room, a shield charm is cast too late. A spell that was meant to be redirected suddenly veers off its original path. 

It slices through the air with a sound that’s too loud, too sharp. The kind of sound magic makes when it goes wrong.

You see it out of the corner of your eye. A bolt of deep violet light, spiraling toward you in a jagged line. 

Before you can react, it hits.

The curse slams into your side like a live wire. You stagger backward, your wand slipping from your fingers as your entire left side lights up with blinding heat. 

Your shoulder crashes into the desk behind you. The air tears from your lungs.

There’s a split second of silence before the chaos.

You collapse to your knees. The floor feels far too cold beneath your palms. A ragged breath escapes you, but it catches halfway. 

Pain spreads through your ribs like someone’s carving fire through them, sharp and hot and crawling beneath your skin. You press a hand to your side and it comes away wet.

Red, bright, and vivid red.

Your name rings out, repeated more than once, but the sound feels distant, muffled, as if heard from beneath water.

“Do not move!” the professor’s voice commands, cutting sharply through the noise. You flinch at the sudden intensity. “Everyone, step back.”

Yet before the room can obey, firm hands grasp your shoulders—steady, anchoring. For a moment, you believe it to be Pandora, but then a gentler touch brushes your hair aside, and your name is spoken once more, quieter this time, urgent.

The world around you bursts into chaos.

Voices rose in panic. Footsteps thundered against the stone floor. The professor’s sharp commands cut through the chaos, urgent calls for help echoing around you.

You curled on the cold floor, your side burning with a fierce, unyielding pain.

Hands reached for you hesitantly, some too firm, others too gentle. Shadows flickered in the candlelight as the heat and noise closed in—too much, too close.

And suddenly, your mind is no longer in the classroom.

You are nine years old again, backed into the far corner of the drawing room. The wallpaper is peeling. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like ash and liquor and old perfume. 

Your mother’s voice is a velvet snarl, sweet and poisonous. Her wand is steady, raised like a promise, and you are not fast enough to run this time.

The spell hits your shoulder. You remember the way it felt—the tearing heat, the way your skin split without bleeding, the way she looked bored as you screamed. 

You remember the way no one came.

Back in the present, your chest heaves. The pain in your side is spreading, but it is nothing compared to the one cracking open inside your skull. 

You shove at the hands reaching for you and hear yourself cry out. 

“Get off me,” you sob, though no one is holding you anymore.

You clutch your side with trembling hands, shaking your head, rocking forward, trying to escape a memory you cannot outrun.

“She is in shock,” someone says, far away and echoing.

“I need everyone to back away,” the professor’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Now!”

You are sobbing uncontrollably now, your entire body convulsing with it. It is not the pain of your wound that has undone you. It is memory. It is fear so old and familiar it has worn grooves into your bones.

“Can she hear us?”

“Merlin, she is bleeding through her robes—”

“She is panicking—she is not breathing right—”

You want to tell them to stop. You want to scream until the noise stops, until the hands disappear, until your mother’s voice fades from the corners of your mind.

But all you can do is cry.

Cry and tremble and bleed.

Cry and fold into yourself like you used to, like you always have, like it is the only thing that has ever kept you safe.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel utterly, irrevocably powerless.

Regulus reaches you first. His presence carves through the panic like a blade through water, sharp and inevitable, silencing the rush of footsteps and the flurry of voices.

“Move,” he says, his voice low yet carrying an authority that makes the crowd hesitate. 

When no one obeys quickly enough, his tone sharpens into something unmistakably furious. “Move the fuck away from her!”

He drops to his knees beside you, the wool of his robes brushing the stone floor, and for the smallest moment his hands hover, trembling slightly, before he gathers you into his arms. 

The movement is careful, protective, and almost desperate, as though he fears you might dissolve into nothing if he holds you too tightly.

Your cheek finds the sharp line of his shoulder, and you feel the rise and fall of his breathing, quick and uneven. 

His hand presses lightly to your back, the other cupping the side of your face as though to anchor you.

“Breathe,” he murmurs gently by your ear, his voice soft and laden with unspoken affection. The fury from before fades into a trembling vulnerability, as if your pain unsettles him to his core. “Please, just breathe for me. It is done now. You are safe in my arms—no one will ever hurt you again. I swear it. I will not let go.”

You cling to him without thought, your hands fisting into his robes so tightly that you feel the fabric strain. He holds you just as fiercely, his head bowing until his temple rests against yours.

“She needs space!” he shouts suddenly at the few students who dare step closer, his voice snapping like a whip. “Do not come near her!”

The professor’s voice calls for Madam Pomfrey, hurried and strained, but you hardly hear it over the pounding of your heart. 

Regulus rocks you slightly, murmuring in low tones that you cannot entirely understand, only catching fragments. “Stay with me… just a little longer… you are here, not there…”

You are trembling so violently that your teeth ache from the force of it, and still you do not loosen your grip. 

Your mind flickers between the present and the past until it becomes unbearable, and the last thing you feel is the steady, protective cage of his arms before everything fades to black.

***

When you open your eyes, the air smells faintly of antiseptic potions and the crisp, laundered sheets beneath you are unfamiliar. The ceiling is high and white, the room softly lit. Your side throbs with a dull, persistent ache.

Regulus is sitting beside your bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped loosely, his head lowered in thought. He looks nothing like the cold, distant boy you have seen for the past year. 

There is a rawness in his expression, a weight in the shadows beneath his eyes that makes him appear older, thinner, almost as though the worry has been consuming him for longer than you can comprehend.

The moment you stir, his head lifts sharply. His eyes, dark and searching, find yours, and in that instant, he is on his feet. 

Without a word, he strides to the door and calls for Madam Pomfrey, his voice edged with relief and urgency.

The matron sweeps in with brisk efficiency, her wand already in hand. “You gave us quite a scare,” she says, moving to your side and inspecting the area where the curse struck. 

Her wand hovers, emitting a faint golden glow. “You took a direct hit from a poorly cast Stinging Hex. Normally it would leave only a welt, but the spell was overcharged, which accounts for the severity of your pain. The student responsible has been assigned two weeks’ detention, and your professor was furious enough to petition for expulsion. The Headmaster intervened, so it will not come to that, but rest assured it will not happen again.”

You nod faintly, the words slipping over you like water without truly sinking in.

Madam Pomfrey continues, “You will feel discomfort for several days. The damage to the muscle has been repaired, but it will remain tender. Avoid strenuous movement, and come back for a check-up tomorrow morning.” 

She sets a small vial on the table. “For the pain. Do not take more than two sips at a time.”

Once she leaves, the room is silent again except for the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift. Your gaze drifts back to Regulus.

“You stayed,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intended.

The moment the curtain shuts behind Madam Pomfrey, he crosses the short space between your bed and the chair he had been occupying, his movements sharp with urgency. 

“Are you in pain? Does anything still hurt?” His eyes move across your face and shoulders and down to where your side is bandaged, his expression tight with something between fear and anger.

You shake your head, though the dull ache in your ribs remains. It is not the pain that feels unbearable now, but the fact that he is here, leaning over you, close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. 

“Regulus,” you murmur, your voice scratchy from the earlier screaming, “what are you doing here?”

His eyes flash, the crease between his brows deepening. “What am I doing here? What kind of question is that?” He pulls his hand back, as though your words have burned him. “You were lying on the floor, shaking, barely breathing. Of course I am here.”

Your lips press together, the faintest tremor in your jaw. “You have spent a year avoiding me. I thought you made it clear that my wellbeing was no longer your concern.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp and incredulous. “That is what you think? That I could watch you suffer and simply walk away?”

“Is that not exactly what you did before?” Your tone sharpens without your meaning to, the words tasting of months of hurt. 

“You left, Regulus. You left without a word, and now you appear out of nowhere, acting as though you have the right to stand here and—”

He cuts you off, his voice suddenly louder. “Do you think I wanted to leave? Do you think I did it lightly?” His hand runs through his hair, the gesture breaking the perfect composure he used to guard so jealously. “I had reasons. You would not have understood.”

Your gaze hardens. “I would have understood if you had given me the chance!  I would have stood beside you, no matter what, but you never gave me the choice. You just vanished.”

His voice drops to something quieter, almost desperate. “I thought I was protecting you.”

You shake your head, your voice shaking now. “You were protecting yourself. You decided I could not handle the truth, or that I was better off without you, and you did not even let me fight for us.”

There is a silence so heavy it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath. His eyes do not leave yours, and in them you see the glimmer of something painfully familiar, something you have not seen in a year.

When he speaks again, the words seem torn out of him. “I never stopped caring for you. Not for one day. I stayed away because I thought it was safer.”

Your own breath hitches, the anger still burning but tangled now with something warmer and far more dangerous. “You cannot say things like that, Regulus. Not after everything.”

His voice softens, but the intensity in it remains. “I am saying it because it is the truth. I still—” He stops, his jaw tightening as though the admission is almost too much. “I still love you. And I can’t help that.”

Your voice cracks when you finally say it. “What do you mean you still love me, Regulus?”

His head jerks back slightly, as though the words hit harder than any hex. “You heard me,” he says, his tone sharp, almost defensive. “Do not act surprised.”

“How could I not be surprised?” Your fingers knot into the blanket, your chest rising too fast. “You walked away and you never looked back.”

He takes a step closer, his expression tightening. “And you think that means I stopped caring?”

“It means you stopped everything!” The pitch of your voice trembles. “You stopped writing, you stopped meeting me, you stopped—” Your throat closes. 

Something flashes behind his eyes, frustration sparking like flint. “I never stopped.”

The heat in the room becomes unbearable. You swing your legs off the bed, the urge to escape flooding your body, but as soon as your feet touch the ground, pain lances through your side and you stumble forward.

In a heartbeat his arms are around you, one hand braced at your waist, the other steadying your back. 

He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down again with such precision it feels almost angry.

“Would you just listen to me, woman?” His voice is low and fierce, his face only inches from yours. You can feel the rush of his breath against your cheek, the tension humming between your bodies.

Your heartbeat rattles in your ribs. “Then talk.”

“Why do you think I pretend to want Lupin’s wretched annotated books?” His tone grows sharper with each word. 

“Why do you think I force our schedules to match? Why do I visit the Gryffindor tower under the excuse of seeing Sirius? It is because I bloody care about your well-being! I always have. So do not, for one moment, question me.”

His gaze holds yours with an intensity that steals your breath. Slowly, deliberately, he closes the distance between you. When his lips meet yours, it is as if all the years of silence, pain, and longing have been building toward this one desperate, fervent moment—fierce, unyielding, and weighted with all the words he never found the courage to speak.

When you finally drew back, the space between you was narrow enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. 

“I owe you an apology,” he said at last, his voice softer now but still unwavering. He reached up, gently cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. 

After a heartbeat, he leaned closer, closing the small space between you just enough to let his breath mingle with yours. “For every moment I left you to wonder whether you mattered to me, for allowing you to believe that you were a passing sentiment instead of the one truth I have carried with me all these years.”

He paused, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was a coward in the way I walked away, and I will regret it for as long as I live.”

You parted your lips to answer, but before the words could form, the curtain at your bedside was suddenly pulled aside. Sirius and Remus peeked in, their eyes immediately taking in the quiet intimacy between you and Regulus.

Sirius’s voice cut through the stillness with a teasing edge. “Hi!—wait—what exactly is going on here?”

Remus’s hand shot out, grabbing Sirius by the collar and pulling him back. “Let them have their moment, will you?” he muttered, dragging Sirius away gently but firmly.

“Oww! Fine, fine,” Sirius grumbled, shooting you a cheeky grin as he retreated.

As the curtain swished closed behind them, a short laugh escaped you both, the tension easing as your conversation resumed.

With a sly smile, you tilted your head and leaned in just enough to catch his attention. “Now that I realize…” you began, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your fingers slid up to the collar of his robe, tugging him gently but deliberately closer until the space between you vanished.

“Does that mean you were sneaking books from Remus just to see me?” you teased softly, your voice dripping with playful accusation.

Regulus’s cheeks flushed a shade deeper, an almost imperceptible crack in his usual composed facade. “Stop it,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half amused.

“Oh, come now,” you coaxed, your grin widening. “You must have known I’d find out eventually. Was I your secret motivation to studying all along?”

He swallowed, then tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours with something softer, hopeful. “Does that mean… I can be your boyfriend again?”

You feigned hesitation, arching a brow with theatrical deliberation. “Hmm. I don’t know, Black. Does that mean you’ll get all depressed and disappear on me again?”

His lips quirked into a pout, the vulnerability both infuriating and endearing. “I thought you liked your boys a little depressed.”

You laughed quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Only if it’s you.”

His smile was genuine now, a rare and precious thing. “So, I am forgiven?”

“Absolutely,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “But only if you promise to stick around this time.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For you, I’ll try very hard.”

A gentle smile curved your lips, warmth radiating from your gaze. “Good,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “Because there is something I need to hear from you.”

Slowly, you lifted your hands to cradle his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as your eyes locked with his. “Promise me this,” you murmured, your tone both tender and resolute, “no more secrets between us. No more disappearing without a word. I want all of you, completely, without reservation.”

His smile softened as he leaned into your touch. “All of me is yours, amour.”

For a moment, you simply held each other’s gaze, the world outside fading into quiet stillness. 

Then, with deliberate gentleness, he leaned in slowly, his breath warm against your cheek as his eyes searched yours for any hesitation. 

When none came, he pressed his lips softly to yours, a kiss that held both promise and forgiveness, tender and unwavering.

As he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he whispered, “Just don’t die on me, alright?”

You chuckled softly, the sound bubbling up effortlessly. “I’ll try not to.”

A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he smiled. “Je t’aime.”

You rolled your eyes with a playful grin. “Gosh, I missed your French accent.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll make sure to practice just for you.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, and thought that, at last, all that was left to say had been spoken.

[bellatrixscurls]

more perv james potter plea plea plea <333333322

always down perv!roommate!james potter x fem!reader series masterlist

summary: there's nothing sexy about your outfit, but james is always down for you... or, always down to go down on you ⊹ 1.2k warnings: smut mdni, oral (f receiving), face sitting, multiple orgasms

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

You’re having a lazy day. It’s Saturday, you had a long week at work, you deserve to lounge around and do nothing. So, when you wake up, you decide to stay in bed. Just for a little while longer… or maybe a few hours longer.

James knocks on your door around noon, poking his head in.

“You’re not still sleeping, are you?” he asks, like he’s been waiting for you.

You’re currently lying on your tummy in bed, head propped up by a pillow as you doom scroll on your phone. You glance over your shoulder at him. There’s something soft about him. His hair is tousled, his glasses a bit crooked, and a small smile plays at his lips.

“No. Just taking it slow today,” you tell him, turning your attention back to the celebrity gossip you don’t actually care about. Letting him come to you, like you know he will.

You hear the door click shut and James crosses the room to your side. You put your phone down, laying your cheek down on the pillow next to it, blinking up at James.

“What?” you ask, your tone soft.

Your eyes dart down to his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat.

“You look… so fucking hot,” he rasps.

You lift your head from your pillow, shooting him an incredulous look. Since when was a baggy pair of sweats and a four-year-old t-shirt a sexy outfit? James is looking at you like it is.

“Did you hit your head?” you ask, laughing lightly.

“No,” he murmurs, climbing onto your mattress. He lies on his side, and his hand hovers over you for a moment. He still hesitates sometimes, like he can’t believe you actually let him touch you. He gently places his hand on your lower back, his thumb caressing the exposed skin where your t-shirt has ridden up.

A smile slowly creeps onto your face.

“Do you want something?” you ask, dropping your voice into a sultry tone that you know drives him crazy.

A small, desperate noise slips past his lips, and his fingertips dig into your back. He really just wanted to see you, that’s why he came. To talk to you, hold you maybe. But he can’t help that he turns into a needy mess whenever you’re near.

You turn onto your side to face him, and his hand slides with your movement to rest on your hip. His eyes dart to your chest. He sucks in a breath at the sight of the thin, loose fabric draped over your tits. He thinks you look as sacred as those marble statues of Greek goddesses in just your faded white tee.

“If you want something, you’ll have to use your words,” you tell him, a teasing lilt in your voice.

“I want you,” he says in that whiny, breathy voice that drives you crazy.

His words ignite a heat low in your belly. Your eyes trail down the length of his body, settling on the obvious tent in his pants. He’s already fully hard, just from your proximity and the prospect that you’d give him more.

“I can see that,” you muse.

His cheeks turn pink and he squirms anxiously beside you. “Please,” he says, his voice cracking.

“You have to tell me what you want, pretty boy.”

He takes a deep breath through his nose, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I want to taste you,” he finally says.

You smirk. Your cunt is already pulsing at the thought.

“Yeah, okay, baby,” you say nonchalantly, hiding your excitement as you roll onto your back.

He practically pounces on you, climbing on top of you to pepper kisses on your jaw, down your neck. Pushing your t-shirt up to your chest to lavish attention on your nipples, then trail his lips down your stomach.

“Eager, huh?” you laugh as he tugs your sweatpants and undies down in one fluid motion.

He doesn’t have the mind to be embarrassed at your teasing—his thoughts are singular. He wants you badly. Needs you.

He kisses back up the length of your leg, taking his time worshiping you, suckling on the skin of your inner thigh. When he reaches the top of your leg, he hovers over your pussy, something on his mind making him hesitate.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking at him with an eyebrow raised.

“I, um…”

“Words, James,” you command sternly, since it’s the third time you’ve had to tell him to use them.

“I want you to sit on my face,” he says, the words tumbling out quickly without a breath between them, the red hue on his cheeks darkening a shade.

“Oh,” you respond, amused.

“Please,” he whines, desperate for it. He squeezes your thighs with his large hands

You let him suffer for a moment before you agree.

“Sure, baby. Lie down.”

James scrambles up the bed as soon as you say yes, taking his glasses off and tossing them too far in his excitement. They land on the floor with a dull clatter.

You push up onto your knees as his head hits the mattress, swinging a leg over to straddle his chest.

You were going to tease him, have him beg a little, but the minute you’re on top of him, he slides his hands under your thighs and with a sharp tug, he pulls you flush against his face.

“Shit,” you gasp, grabbing onto the headboard to steady yourself as your knees land on either side of his head.

His hands press against your bum, kneading the fat there as he pushes you firmly against his mouth. He laps at your cunt like a man starved, lips and tongue working relentlessly as he devours you.

You can’t even be mad that he stole control because of how fucking good it feels.

You moan his name, one hand leaving the headboard to play with his dark curls, and you begin to rock your hips against his face. He flattens his tongue, shaking his head as if to bury himself deeper into you.

“Mmm,” he moans, sending vibrations through your cunt that have you tossing your head back in pleasure. His cock is leaking and aching in his boxers, but he doesn’t care—he’s exactly where he wants to be right now.

His tongue slides back and forth between your clit and dripping hole like he can’t decide where he wants to be more. Flicking against your sensitive bundle of nerves one second, fucking his tongue into your sweet hole the next.

“Shit, James, I’m gonna cum,” you moan, giving his hair a sharp tug. He groans, pressing you impossibly closer as his efforts double, bringing you to the edge with a few more sloppy strokes of his tongue.

He doesn’t stop there. He keeps going until you’ve cum three times. His jaw is sore, but he probably would’ve kept going. He’d happily spend the day buried between your thighs if you’d let him. But you lean back to sit on his chest.

You pant, trying to catch your breath as you gaze down at him. He rolls his aching jaw, glistening with your juices from his nose to his chin.

“Such a good job, baby,” you murmur tiredly, running your fingers through his hair, and he beams up at you like you’re the world's greatest gift.

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

[bellatrixscurls]

pls send requests for Tyler Galpin !

[bellatrixscurls]

YES

Nothing New (v2)

pairing: tyler galpin x fem!reader genre: smut content/warnings: sub!tyler, dacryphilia, use of nicknames, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it), stomach bulge, cockwarming summary: tyler shows up to your house crying, so you help him releave some stress a/n: kinda just a smutty version of nothing new. also, implied they're already not wearing all their clothes

I reattached our lips as I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. Tyler had shown up at my window after a fight with his dad, and somehow we had ended up here, with him whining underneath me.

His eyes were still red, his cheeks streaked with dried tears as he grabbed at my hips, feverishly kissing me. Despite the circumstances, I couldn't help but admit how pretty he looked like this, flushed from crying.

I slipped my tongue into his mouth as he moaned. He rolled his hips up, rubbing against my core. I pulled his shirt over his head, throwing it behind me as I moved to suck marks onto his neck.

I pulled back, earning a disappointed whine from Tyler.

"Strip for me," I stated, climbing off of his lap. He paused, meeting my eyes. "Go on, baby," I said as I removed my shirt.

His eyes flicked down to my bra—his favorite—before he got off the bed, slowly undoing the button on his jeans. I crawled to the edge as he drug the zipper downward, revealing his boxers as he kicked off the garment.

His dick strained against the fabric, creating a large wet spot. I placed a soft kiss against it, causing his head to fall back with a moan.

"'M sensitive," he whined.

I licked his tip through the fabric, his hips bucking against my tongue. I took the soaked cloth between my teeth, pulling away before letting it snap back against him.

He hissed at the feeling, letting out a moan.

I sat up, pushing my chest out as I spoke. "What do you want, baby?"

"To taste you," he groaned, pulling himself back from the pleasure.

"I'm all yours," I spoke as I laid back, Tyler quickly climbing over me.

He dipped down to my chest, making quick work of undoing my bra. His mouth latched onto one of my nipples, swirling his tongue.

My hand came to his hair, gently tugging on his curls at the feeling. I pushed my hips against him, urging him to hurry up.

"Baby," I moaned. "I need you."

He groaned at my words, his mouth leaving my chest with a soft pop. He peppered kisses down my stomach, till he reached my underwear, hastily pulling them off.

Tyler sat back just enough to give himself a good view of my pussy. He pushed my legs farther open, moaning as he did so. He cast a glance up at me before attaching his lips to my clit.

I moaned at the sudden action, tightening my grip in his hair. My hips rolled against him as his tongue slipped down to my entrance. He pushed into me, lapping at my walls. My thighs clenched around his head involuntarily as my head fell back.

"T—Tyler, oh my god. Fuck—Don't stop," I cried as he brought a hand up to wrap my legs further around his head.

He harshly sucked on my folds as he slipped his tongue in and out of me, moaning along with me as his hips rutted against the mattress. My stomach tightened as I pushed his face against me.

"Baby—Baby, I'm gonna cum!"

My walls spasmed as I came, Tyler groaning against me. He lapped at my pussy as I came down, squirming at the extra sensitive feeling. I let my legs relax as I pulled him off of me, cupping his cheeks in my hand. His face was covered in my slick as he eagerly licked his lips, watching me with longing eyes.

"So good, baby," I mumbled, gently stroking his cheek.

"Can I please fuck you?" he whined, leaning into my touch.

"Of course, baby."

He sat up as I helped him quickly slip off his underwear, exposing his pink cock, covered in precum. I accidentally groaned at the sight, causing him to let out a small gasp as his hips jerked.

I pulled him down by his neck, feverishly kissing him. My fingers laced into the curls at the nape of his neck, my tongue pushing his. I bit his lip as I pulled back.

Tyler sat up, his eyes fixed on my pussy as he drug his tip through my folds, collecting my cum. He lined himself up with my entrance, flicking his eyes up to mine.

"C—can I? Please?" he whined, a pathetically desperate look on his face.

"Yes, baby."

His gaze dropped back down to my soaked cunt, watching intently as he slowly slipped inside of me. I gasped, feeling my walls stretching to fit him. Once he had bottomed out, he paused, moaning as he tried to catch his breathe.

I stroked his hair as I adjusted to his size, cooing softly in his ear. His dick twitched, causing me to groan.

"Move, baby."

Tyler whined as he pulled back, forcefully shoving his hips against mine. I moaned, grabbing at the back of his neck. I wrapped my legs around him as he established a harsh pace, bucking into me rapidly. I sucked his neck as he whimpered.

"I'm—I'm not gonna last long," he whined.

"That's okay, baby." I could feel his abs tightening as his thrusts become sloppy. "Cum for me."

He cried out as his fingers slipped down to my clit, making quick circles as he buried his face in my neck.

"Fill me up," I cooed. "Cover my walls in your cum."

He shuddered at my words, moaning as he came, shooting hot, thick ropes of cum into me. I moved his hand from my clit to the bulge in my stomach, lightly pressing. My walls clenched around him, milking his cock, as he practically screamed at the feeling of his cum filling me up.

I came hard, yelling his name as he tried his best to fuck me through my high. My walls choked his cock as he whimpered in overstimulation, his cum pouring out of me with each sloppy thrust.

He stilled as I came down, collapsing on top of me as he panted, still shaking from his orgasm. I could feel the pool of his cum between my legs, coating both of us.

"C—can I stay here?" he panted, eyes coming up to silently plead with me. He had a new set of tears streaming down his cheeks, his eyes still watering from the pleasure. "Inside of you?" he pleaded.

"Of course," I cooed, gently petting his hair. "Go to sleep, baby."

He settled himself between my boobs, letting his eyes flutter shut. I knew I'd wake up sometime later to him needily rutting into me.

[bellatrixscurls]

you are LUCKY

I swear to god my boyfriend (who has a similar build to Tyler) came home from the hairdressers today WITH TYLER’S SEASON 2 HAIRCUT and proceeded to eat me out for a solid half hour minimum.

He has never even seen Wednesday

[bellatrixscurls]

You said in your author's note of Group Activities 4 that you're not happy with how it turned out. Can I just say that I thought it was great and I really enjoyed reading it! Of course I understand that you set a bar for yourself yet I would still like to give you some kind words because I did enjoy it 🍀

You are an angel. Thank you so much, I’m happy that you enjoyed reading it. Hopefully part five will be up to my expectations ☝🏻🩷

[bellatrixscurls]

hey! ik that you’ve written similar stories so feel free to not do it or change the plot however u may please loll! i feel like all of us anons are getting wisdom teeth surgery recently and i just joined the club. it doesn’t have to be the same surgery, but i had this idea where reader has to get it done and thinks she can handle it on her own even though she shouldn’t. and ofc somehow ex! james potter is contacted and being rlly sweet anyways while she’s delirious. maybe we have a lil confession of remaining feelings and out of all the things that could have startled james that’s it heh heh :) thank uuu

Hope you're doing well angel, thanks for requesting!

cw: modern au, anesthesia, memory loss, joke about sexual favors

ex!James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 1.6k words

“Look, it’s James!” the nurse announces cheerily, escorting James into the room. 

It’s clearly an attempt to pacify you. Your eyes are red and nearly as puffy as the rest of your face, tears shining on your swollen cheeks. Despite his trepidations about being here, the sight of you so obviously out of it has James biting down on a smile. 

“James?” You look for him. 

“Hey, hi.” James steps out from behind the nurse. He gives you a little wave. “How are you feeling?” 

“James.” You tear up again, confessional. “They won’t let me drive home.” 

He gives a nervous chuckle. “I know, love. That’s why they’ve called me. I’ll get you home, don’t worry.” 

“But I can do it myself,” you whimper.

“Alright!” The nurse claps her hands, forcing pep into her voice. “Let’s get you up, then.” 

James steps forward to help her lift you out of the chair, all while you cry and protest that you really can do it yourself. He fights the urge to hush you with a kiss between your brows. This is incredibly, hilariously, typical of you. Even when you were together, you resisted James doing anything for you, from making you breakfast to lifting your heavy furniture when you moved. You have always been obstinately self-reliant. He’s never had you weepily grouse at him before that you’re not a baby, James, however. 

You’re so distraught at the prospect of leaving your car behind that James abandons his, wrestling you (very gently) into your own passenger seat and cramming himself behind the wheel. It feels strange, like being back in your life in small but intimate ways. The car smells like you. James knows where to find tissues when you ask to wipe your face, and he recognizes the station the radio is tuned to when he switches the ignition on. He’s taking you to your apartment next, which is sure to be even worse. 

You whine a bit as he adjusts the seat and mirrors about him ruining your car, but quiet when he reminds you that the alternative is riding in his car, which you seem to find indubitably worse. Then you collapse tearily onto James’ shoulder over him being so tall. He pats your head intermittently while he drives you home. 

James was right. It is worse at your apartment, even worse than he imagined, because you’ve changed things. There’s a new painting hanging on the wall of the sitting room. The plant you cared for all of the two years you were together has been replaced by another. (Did it die? James feels he has to know.) The corner where he always tossed his shoes is now occupied by an umbrella and a bin of recycling waiting to be taken to the curb. After he gets you settled in bed, James sets out to make you a smoothie but can’t find the blender, though that’s fine because he discovers applesauce in the fridge you seem to have stocked just for this purpose. (It’s not fine. James used to know exactly where to find your blender and he doesn’t understand how you could move it. What kind of sick joke is that?) 

You’re still awake when he goes back into your bedroom. Your body relaxes upon his entry, as though you’re relieved to see him. “Where’d you go?” you ask. 

“You said you were hungry,” James reminds you. “How about some applesauce?” 

Your mouth drops open in apparent delight at this reveal, but your mood changes fast when a piece of gauze falls out onto your lap. 

“Oh.” You look down at it in horror. Your eyes lift slowly up to James’, filling, for the hundredth time in an hour, with tears. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” He laughs a little, helplessly, setting the bowl of applesauce down on your nightstand to help you. He brushes his thumbs under your eyes. “Shh, it’s fine, lovely. Aren’t you sick of crying?” 

“I don’t know,” you whimper. “I don’t mean to. I never usually cry so much, I promise.” 

“I know, sweetheart.” James gives your shoulder a squeeze, indelibly fond. He’d really like to fold your head into his chest and keep you captive there while he kisses you from dusk into dawn; it’s a lucky thing that your condition prevents it. “I think it might actually be okay to take the gauze out now. Do you want me to get the other one?” 

You nod, sniffling, and you open your mouth again. James extracts the remaining gauze carefully, taking both pieces to dispose of them in the bathroom bin and reassuring you when you cry out pitifully at his leaving. For someone who refused to plan for any post-anesthesia assistance until the nurses at the clinic literally forced you to call someone, you turn needy fast. 

This doesn’t prevent you from wrinkling your nose when James tries to feed you applesauce. 

“I’m not a baby,” you tell him. 

James fights to keep his lips still. “You’ve said. But you’re not very coordinated right now, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself by accident.” 

You only continue to pout at him. Your brow creases as you plainly try to plot some way around this; it’s dreadfully cute. 

He lifts the spoon enticingly. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

“Can’t I…what if I drink it with a straw?” 

“You can’t use a straw right now,” James explains apologetically. “Sucking on things could hurt your mouth.” 

“I can’t suck on anything?” 

“No.” 

This seems to worsen your distress. You look at your lap, muttering, “I don’t know how I’m going to thank you, then.” 

What starts as a surprised cough turns into a stream of nervous laughter. James nearly fumbles your applesauce, trying desperately to quiet himself. Fucking hell. 

“James.” You look resentful. “It’s not funny.” 

“No, I’m sorry. Erm, that won’t be necessary.” James sets down your applesauce when he starts coughing again, putting a hand to his chest. “We don’t do that anymore.” He doesn’t add that you’ve never needed to return favors, via sexual means or otherwise. You’ll only argue with him. 

Your brow creases anew. “Why not?” 

“Well, it’d be a bit strange.” James eyes you, adding when your bemusement doesn’t let up, “...since we’re broken up.” 

The heartbreak that comes over your expression is enough to make the fissures in James’ own heart burn. “We are?” you ask. 

Oh. James did wonder, when he got the call from the dentist’s office, why you gave them his name of everyone’s in your phone contacts. This explains that. It also explains why you seem so intent on keeping him close, why you do things like hold James’ hand and lean on his shoulder without reservation. It’s not only that you’re feeling sweet and touchy as an effect of the anesthesia; it’s that you’ve forgotten you don’t do those things anymore. 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” James probably shouldn’t be calling you that after just having broken the news, for danger of confusing you, but it’s difficult not to when you look so sad. “For a while now.” 

“Wh…why?” Your eyes grow glossy again. While some of the other things you’ve cried over today James has found a bit silly, this he understands completely. 

“We just thought it was best,” he says softly. “It’s okay. It’s been a while since then, and we’re alright. You’re doing well.” This is something James has gleaned from run-ins with friends-of-friends. He can never resist asking after you, and he’s glad he has the information to supply you with now. “You're doing great, lovely. It’s okay.” 

You look up at him through wet lashes. “But don’t you love me?” 

James swallows. It’s not a question you’d ordinarily be cruel enough to ask, though he knows you’re not trying to be cruel now either. This is something he’s always been honest with you about. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Then why are we—why did we break up?” 

He struggles for words. “Because—” 

“I love you,” you insist, tearily. It’s a gut punch. Whatever words James was in the middle of finding evaporate from his tongue. Of all the things you could have said, he expected that the least. “So can’t we just get back together? Please?” 

“I…” His throat feels dry. “I know you might think that now, but—” 

“No, I know it.” Tears drip from your chin, your voice shattered. The broken pieces of it prick and stab at James’ guts. “I love you. I feel it so much, and I don’t understand. If I love you and you love me, why don’t we just keep doing that? I’m not going to stop. I can tell it won’t stop, James, please—” 

“Okay.” James leans forward, touching his forehead to yours and squeezing his eyes shut so they won’t burn so badly. “Okay, shh. It’s okay, sweetheart.” Your body shakes with tiny sobs underneath him. “I promise it’s okay.” 

“Please?” you ask, brokenly. 

“Sure. We’ll talk about it, okay?” 

“Now?” 

“No, not right now.” James kisses between your brows, partly to soften the blow and partly to give himself another moment to breathe. When he leans back, he tries on a small smile. “But later, alright? Once you’re feeling better. Don’t you want some applesauce for now?” 

You blink, looking a bit dazed. James can relate. “I forgot about applesauce,” you admit. 

“Yeah?” he laughs. “You ready for it?” 

You sit up a bit, sniffling, but level James with a stern look as he reaches for the bowl. “Don’t try to do airplanes or anything.” 

Despite the ache in his chest, James’ grin spreads from a genuine place. “Okay, I won’t.” 

[bellatrixscurls]

guys WOW Tyler Galpin in season 2 is much hotter than in season 1 IM IMPRESSED I DIDNT KNOW THAT COULD HAPPEN

[bellatrixscurls]

What's Left After The Fall

After Y/n Potter finds out about a bet between Theodore Nott and his friends, she is left heartbroken. Theo, who accidentally fell for her, is confident he'll win her back.

Warnings: ANGST, hurt/comfort, depression, heartbreak, slight manipulation, using alcohol to cope. (Let me know if I forgot anything).

Word Count: 2.7k

Masterlist I Part 1

The weeks after the betrayal were a blur.

A slow, suffocating kind of numbness settled over you, thick and inescapable, like fog that clung to your skin and crawled into your lungs, dulling everything but the ache.

You had always been strong. Brave. The kind of girl who carried other people’s pain like it was lighter than her own. You were the one who gave encouraging smiles across the common room, who let others lean on you even when your own shoulders ached.

But not this time.

Not after Theodore Nott.

Because this time, it wasn’t just heartbreak.

It was devastation. It was betrayal. It was a collapse from the inside out.

You stopped smiling. Stopped laughing. Stopped being you.

The mirror became a stranger you couldn’t meet the eyes of. You stopped brushing your hair. Stopped wearing the scarf he gave you. Stopped singing along to the songs your mum used to play, the ones Theo pretended not to like but had memorized anyway.

Your bed became your sanctuary and your prison. You curled beneath the covers, body rigid, unmoving, hoping the world would forget you existed.

You started skipping meals. At first because you couldn’t stomach the thought of walking into the Great Hall and seeing his face and later, because food tasted like ash in your mouth anyway. Your hands trembled more now. The hollows under your eyes deepened. Some days, you didn’t speak at all.

Classes became background noise. Your quill stayed dry. Professors called your name, and you didn’t answer. The world kept spinning, and you couldn’t understand how it hadn’t stopped.

Hermione asked if you were okay. You told her you were just tired.

Ron asked if Theo did something. You shook your head with a hollow laugh.

Harry didn’t ask at all.

He just watched you from across the room, brows drawn tight, his jaw clenched like it physically hurt him not to step in. But he didn’t push. He never had to. He knew your tells. And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that something had broken in you.

The whispers started a few days before Christmas.

It began as murmurs in hallways, then louder, more confident, as the truth clawed its way through the school like wildfire.

“Did you hear what he did to her?”

“She’s Potter’s sister. He’s got a bloody death wish.”

“Merlin, I heard he made a bet, fifty galleons to seduce her, sleep with her, then dump her before the holidays.”

“She trusted him. He used her.”

“She loved him.”

You didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend him. Didn’t speak a word.

Let them say it, all of it. Let them tear his name to shreds, spit it through clenched teeth, pin him to the wall with their fury. You let it happen because part of you hoped if they hated him enough, it might undo how much you still loved him.

But it didn’t.

Because even after everything, you still saw him.

In every hallway you walked down. In the library where you used to sit with your knees brushing under the table. In the Astronomy Tower where you first kissed him beneath the stars. In the corridor where he first touched your cheek, told you that you had ink on your face, and made you blush like an idiot.

You still heard his voice in your head. Still read your old Charms textbook and remembered the note he slipped into it.

You couldn’t eat Chocolate Frogs anymore. Couldn’t bear the thought of one showing up in your bag again, not knowing if it would be a gift or just another cruel echo of what you lost.

And your dreams?

They were the worst of all.

You still dreamed of him.

Of soft kisses and laughter by the lake. Of his hands wrapped around yours. Of the way he used to look at you when you weren’t looking, like you were something fragile and irreplaceable.

Except now, the dreams always ended the same way.

With his voice in that common room.

“She’s easy once you know what to say.”

You’d wake up gasping. Shaking. Sometimes crying so hard you bit your own hand to keep from making noise. Sometimes Harry would find you sitting by the fire hours before dawn, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the flames like they could burn away what he did to you.

And the worst part?

He saw you too.

Not just in classes. Not just in passing.

He looked at you.

Like you were a ghost he’d never stop chasing. Like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and you were the only thing that could fill the gnawing ache he’d carved into himself.

Like he remembered everything too.

You hated that part most of all, the way he still looked at you like he meant it.

As if the boy who shattered you could somehow still feel broken.

As if you weren’t already bleeding enough for the both of you.

And so you held your head high.

Even when it trembled.

Even when your vision blurred.

Because if you let yourself stop, if you let yourself look back… 

You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to walk away again.

-----------

It was snowing outside when Theodore cornered you in the Owlery.

The stone walls were slick with cold, the wind slicing in through the high, arched windows, rattling the wooden rafters above. Snow drifted in slow, lazy flurries through the open arches, settling in soft piles near the roosts. Your fingers were stiff, numb with cold as you tried to tie a letter to your owl’s leg, breath fogging in the frigid air.

And then, “Y/N.”

His voice cleaved through the silence like a blade.

You froze mid-motion, the ribbon cutting into your fingers as your grip tightened. The parchment crinkled beneath your hand.

You didn’t turn.

He looked like hell.

Dark circles ringed his eyes like bruises. His lips were cracked, raw from wind or worry, or both. His school robes hung off him like a second skin he no longer fit into, wrinkled, disheveled, the tie completely gone. His hair was unkempt, wind-tossed, but not in the effortlessly cool way it used to be. No. This time, it looked like he hadn’t touched it in days.

There was a strange hollowness in him, like something had caved in and never quite filled back out.

“I need to explain-”

“No.” You cut in sharply, your voice flat and empty. You didn’t even raise your eyes. “You don’t.”

He hesitated.

“Please.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Just go away.”

“I can’t.” His voice cracked, barely audible above the wind. “I’ve tried. Merlin, I’ve tried to leave you alone, but I can’t-”

Your owl gave a sharp shriek and launched into the air, wings slicing through the snowfall, disappearing into the white blur beyond the arches.

You stood still for another breath, another two, then turned to face him.

He looked like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.

And for a moment, just one, he looked hopeful. Like maybe there was something in your eyes that he could still reach.

But there wasn’t.

“You already left me alone, Theodore,” you whispered, voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “The second you agreed to the game.”

He flinched.

You didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t let yourself linger, because if you did, you weren’t sure your legs would keep moving.

So you walked past him, slow, deliberate, the snow biting at your cheeks like tiny needles, the cold sharp in your lungs. You didn’t stop walking until your fingers were numb and your throat ached from holding in everything you didn’t say.

And behind you, Theodore didn’t follow.

He just stood there.

Silhouetted in snowfall.

Alone.

Exactly the way he made you feel.

-----------

The Yule Ball came and went.

You didn’t go.

The invitations had piled up, boys asking if you’d be their date with nervous grins and trembling hands, but you turned them all down. Politely. Quietly. There was no room left in you for pretty dresses or floating candles or music that reminded you of the way he used to hum under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.

So you stayed in the common room, curled up in a too-large jumper by the fire, pretending to read a book you’d already finished twice. The Gryffindor girls laughed and twirled around you, high on the thrill of the night, but their voices felt miles away.

He went.

Of course he did.

With Daphne Greengrass on his arm, her nails painted emerald to match his tie, the same color as the ribbon he once used to tie up your hair, the one still hidden in the bottom of your trunk.

They looked like a painting: him tall and pale and silent, her laughing too loudly at things he didn’t say. She clung to his side like it meant something, like she didn’t notice how his eyes were always scanning the crowd, looking for a ghost.

Everyone knew it was a front. Even Daphne.

Especially Daphne.

She tried to kiss him during the last song, slow and soft beneath the glittering snowfall that had started to drift from the enchanted ceiling.

He turned his head away.

Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, when the castle had gone quiet and the corridors echoed with the fading warmth of celebration, you slipped out of your dorm and wandered toward the Astronomy Tower. You told yourself you just wanted air. Just wanted to breathe. Just wanted to reclaim something, anything, that hadn’t been touched by him.

But he was already there.

Curled against the far wall, slumped beneath the stars, the moonlight painting sharp angles into his too-thin frame. His cloak was half-off his shoulder, his tie undone, his hair a mess of curls falling into his eyes.

He was drunk.

Alone.

His hands were trembling, white-knuckled around a crumpled piece of parchment. One of yours. You couldn’t tell which one, the ink had bled, distorted by tears and smudged fingerprints. Your handwriting, once so neat, now unreadable.

He held it like it was holy. Like it was all he had left.

He didn’t see you.

Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath when you realized he was crying.

Not the quiet kind.

The kind that ripped out of your chest when no one was listening. The kind that left you empty.

You stood there in silence, the snow creeping in through the open arches, cold settling into your bones.

And for a second, just one, your fingers twitched at your side, like you might go to him. Like you might kneel beside him and wipe the tears from his cheeks and tell him he ruined you, but you still couldn’t bear to see him broken.

But you didn’t.

You turned.

And left before he could ever know you’d been there.

-----------

February.

Your Potions partner dropped the class.

You were assigned a new one.

Theo.

You nearly protested. Nearly walked out.

But something in you, maybe anger, maybe exhaustion, said no.

You sat beside him in stony silence, ignoring the way his fingers twitched near yours, the way his voice caught every time he said your name.

You didn’t speak.

But he did.

Little by little.

Week by week.

He asked if you were okay.

You didn’t answer.

He complimented your potion knowledge.

You ignored him.

He passed you a note once during a silent reading assignment. All it said was:

“I miss the way you smiled at me.”

You burned it with a flick of your wand.

He didn’t pass another one.

But he never stopped looking at you.

-----------

It happened in March.

You were on patrol. Alone. Prefect duty.

There was shouting echoing through the dungeons. At first you thought it was Peeves. But then you recognized the voices.

Theo.

Draco.

“-She’s not yours to fix, Nott!”

“She’s not yours to talk about!”

“You broke her-”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life fixing it, if I have to!”

You rounded the corner just in time to see Theo punch Draco in the gut.

Hard.

Draco wheezed and stumbled back, red-faced and furious.

But Theo didn’t look angry.

He looked wrecked.

“I love her,” he said, voice hoarse. “You don’t get to talk about her like she’s some stupid bet we won.”

“She’s a Potter,” Draco spat. “You think her brother’s ever going to let you near her again?”

“I don’t care what Potter thinks.”

Theo turned, eyes blazing.

“I care what she thinks.”

He looked up, and saw you.

Everything stilled.

You stared at each other in the dark hallway, heart pounding, lips parted.

Then you walked away.

Not because you were angry.

But because, for the first time in months…

You didn’t know what to feel.

-----------

Two days later, a letter showed up on your bed.

Nothing except your name.

You hesitated, fingers trembling, then opened it.

Y/N,

I don’t know how to do this right. I never did.

The night they made the bet, I was drunk. I was stupid. I said yes because I didn’t want to be the one they laughed at. I thought it would be harmless. I thought it would be easy.

But you weren’t easy.

You were brilliant. Brave. Kind. You looked at me like I was worth something, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t think I deserved that.

Somewhere between pretending and falling, I lost track of the lie.

And by the time I realized I loved you, it was too late.

I don’t want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know that I never stopped choosing you.

Even now. Even in silence. Even when it hurts.

You cried.

Not because you forgave him.

But because, for the first time, you believed him.

-----------

The next time he approached you, you didn’t walk away.

You didn’t smile either.

You just stood by the Black Lake, arms crossed, as he approached slowly, like he wasn’t sure you wouldn’t disappear.

“I still hate what you did,” you said softly.

He nodded. “You should.”

“I’m still angry.”

“Good,” he said quietly. “Stay angry. Just… be angry with me. Not without me.”

You exhaled shakily. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “As long as it takes.”

Silence.

Then finally. “You’ll wait… and you’ll make it up to me.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

You raised an eyebrow. “You want me back, Theodore Nott? You’re going to earn it.”

His mouth parted.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

“I can do that.”

And Merlin help you,

You smiled back.

-----------

He wrote you letters. Almost daily.

Never asked for anything.

Just sent you thoughts. Funny stories. Memories. Apologies.

One had a pressed flower from the Black Lake. “Thought you might want to keep it this time.”

One had a bad sketch of you. “My masterpiece. Don’t laugh.”

One had a Chocolate Frog with a note: “For old times. No tricks. Promise.”

You didn’t respond.

But you didn’t throw them away.

-----------

May.

You sat by the lake again, the same log where he first made you laugh.

You heard footsteps.

You didn’t turn.

He sat beside you in silence.

Then, quietly: “Do you hate me less today?”

You smiled, just a little. “Maybe.”

“Enough to go for a walk?”

You looked at him.

His eyes were softer than you remembered. Like he’d carved away every part that used to be cruel just to be worthy of sitting beside you again.

You nodded.

He stood and held out his hand.

You stared at it.

Then, finally, you took it.

It was warm.

Steady.

Real.

He didn’t pull you in.

Didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t rush it.

He just held your hand as you walked, like the slow act of existing beside you was enough.

And maybe, just maybe, it was.

Because love isn’t loud.

It’s not always fireworks and confessions and screaming matches.

Sometimes, it’s just this.

A quiet beginning.

After everything.

-----------

Epilogue

You kissed him again for the first time in the rain.

He was holding your face, soaked and trembling, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe you were real again.

“I’m still angry,” you whispered.

He smiled. “Good.”

“And I still don’t trust you fully.”

“I’ll earn it.”

And when you kissed him, he didn’t rush.

He kissed you like he was scared to wake up.

And for the first time since you walked away that night, the world felt right again.

Not perfect.

But healing.

Together.

----------------

Thank you all so much for all the love on Cruel Games. It siriusly (; means so much me, I really thought that this acc would just be something for me to do for fun and that It wouldn't blow up! Also thank you to all the people said I should make a part two, I'll tag you down below!!

Tag List: @lilians17 @thegoddessofnothingness @fries11 @froggiedragon @nayegpr

[bellatrixscurls]

Cruel Games

Theodore Nott x female reader (Harry's twin sister)

He never meant to fall for her.

When a drunken bet between Slytherin’s most notorious boys dares Theodore Nott to make the Gryffindor princess, Harry Potter’s twin sister, fall in love with him, it starts as a game. Fifty galleons. One month. One heart.

Warnings: ANGST, betrayal, heartbreak, manipulation, underage drinking. (Idk what else, let me know if I forgot anything).

Word Count: 3.6k

Masterlist I Part 2

The Slytherin boys’ dormitory reeked of firewhisky and the air was thick with smoke, both from the cigarettes and the heat of too many egos in one room. Bottles clinked together in careless hands.

It was nearing 2AM. The fifth bottle had just been cracked open.

“Mate, I’m telling you,” Lorenzo Berkshire slurred, tipping his half-empty bottle toward Theodore Nott with a lazy, drunken grin. He was draped across one of the emerald velvet chairs like he was born in it. “You don’t have the balls.”

Theo sat on the edge of his bed, one long leg stretched out, the other pulled close. He twirled his wand between two fingers, lips twitching into a faint smirk. His dark hair fell into his eyes, shadowing the perpetual boredom painted across his sharp features.

“Don’t tempt him, Enzo,” Mattheo Riddle chimed in, flicking ash from his cigarette with a smirk. “He’ll do it just to prove you wrong. Pride's practically a second religion to this one.”

“Thirty galleons,” Draco offered, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. His cheeks were flushed with liquor and mischief. “If you can make her fall for you.”

“The Gryffindor princess herself,” Blaise added smoothly, spinning a gold coin between his fingers. “Y/N Potter. Golden girl. Top of her class. And tragically naive.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, mildly intrigued. “You want me to date Harry Potter’s twin sister?” he repeated, drawing the words out slowly, like they were some foreign incantation.

Draco grinned like a cat. “Not just date. Win her over. Make her think it’s real. Sweep her off her feet, flowers, compliments, the whole bloody show.”

“Take her to Hogsmeade,” Blaise offered. “Let her wear your scarf. Make her think you’re different.”

“And if you sleep with her…” Enzo slurred, barely able to sit up straight, “I’ll throw in an extra twenty galleons. Fifty in total. Enough for that new broom you've been eyeing, yeah?”

Theo’s smirk faltered, just for a moment. The idea was ridiculous. Cruel. He wasn't desperate. And yet…

He could already hear their laughter if he refused. He could see it, the smug glances, the mocking jabs, the unspoken truth that they thought he couldn’t do it.

That she was too far out of reach, even for him.

“Relax, mate,” Mattheo said with a crooked grin. “It’s not like she’s a saint. She’s still a teenage girl. With a thing for dark-haired brooding types, I’ve heard.”

“Bet starts tomorrow,” Draco added quickly, already savoring the spectacle. “You’ve got until the Yule Ball to seal the deal.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. That gave him… what? A little over a month?

A month to make Y/N Potter fall for him.

“Sick game,��� he muttered, mostly to himself.

“Says the one who hasn’t said no,” Blaise sing-songed.

The room fell into a brief, heavy silence, punctuated only by the slow drip of firewhisky from a tipped bottle.

Theo’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t a monster, but he wasn’t a coward either. And somewhere deep down, buried under years of pureblood pride and reckless anger, he wanted to prove that he could do it. That he could charm the Gryffindor sweetheart, just to spite the world that always told him he’d never be enough.

He raised his bottle with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Fine,” he said, voice cold and deliberate. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

The room erupted.

Lorenzo whooped, slamming his hand against the nearest wall. Blaise let out a low whistle. Mattheo raised his cigarette in a mock toast. Draco looked positively gleeful.

-----------

You never really noticed Theodore Nott before.

He was quiet, dangerously so. Not in the way that demanded attention like Draco Malfoy, or commanded it like Mattheo Riddle. Theo drifted through hallways like smoke: sharp-eyed, unreadable, always just out of reach.

And maybe that’s why you stayed away. Because he never looked your way. Because he was a Slytherin. Because you were a Potter. And because, deep down, something about him terrified you, not in a bad way. In the way falling feels just before you hit the ground.

But then, one day, he looked at you.

It was just after Transfiguration, and you were halfway down the corridor when you noticed him leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. The sunlight streaming through the high windows lit up the dust motes in the air and cast a soft golden halo around him.

His eyes found you instantly.

“Y/N Potter,” he said casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve got ink on your cheek.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Before you could react, he stepped forward and reached out. His thumb brushed gently across your cheek, his touch feather-light but confident, like he had every right to touch you. You froze, heart stuttering in your chest as he looked down at you, eyes glinting with amusement.

“There,” he said, voice lower now, lips quirking. “Gone now.”

He didn’t wait for a thank you. Just turned, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked away.

You stood there in the corridor for a full minute after he disappeared, your cheek still tingling where he’d touched it.

That was the beginning.

-----------

He kept showing up.

At first, you thought it was coincidence, him passing by your table in the library, brushing past you in Potions, or sitting a few rows behind you in Astronomy. But then it started happening more often. And then it stopped feeling like coincidence.

He’d sit near you in the library, pretending to read but glancing up every few minutes like he was waiting for you to look at him. You never made the first move, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Sometimes, you’d find a Chocolate Frog slipped into your bag. Once, he left a folded note inside your Charms textbook. All it said was:

“You bite your lip when you're reading. Very Distracting.”

You blushed so hard you couldn’t focus for the rest of the lesson.

He held doors open. He remembered how you took your tea. He teased you gently, never cruelly, always with a smirk that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to admit.

But what got you most, what really ruined you, was how he listened.

Really listened.

Not just to your words, but to the things you didn’t say. To the sighs between sentences, the way your hands fidgeted when you were anxious, how your eyes lit up when you spoke about your mum’s old records. He’d nod like it mattered. Like you mattered.

He wasn’t who you thought he was.

He was thoughtful. Witty. Unexpectedly gentle, especially when the world wasn’t watching.

You remember the first time he made you laugh so hard you cried. You’d both snuck out of the castle, bundled in cloaks and scarves, sitting by the Black Lake under a fading winter sun. He was telling you about the time Draco accidentally hexed himself bald in third year, and his impressions were so ridiculous you nearly fell off the log you were sitting on.

Theo caught you before you did, hands gripping your waist, breathless from laughter. And for a moment, just one, he didn’t let go.

You remember looking up at him, suddenly aware of how close he was. How his laugh faded into something quieter. How the space between you felt like it was made of static.

That was the first time he kissed you.

It was soft. Hesitant, like he was scared you might pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You kissed him back like you’d been waiting for it your entire life.

After that, everything changed.

He’d greet you in the morning with a quiet “Hi, love” as he passed your table. His hand would brush yours under the library table, fingers tangled briefly, heart pounding. You’d sneak out to the Astronomy Tower late at night and lie on your backs, stargazing, whispering secrets into the dark like they’d disappear by morning.

And one day he introduced you to his friends.

The boys didn’t say much, just raised their brows when you walked into the dining hall hand-in-hand with Theo.

Mattheo gave him a slow, knowing smirk. Blaise leaned back and muttered something under his breath. Draco looked you over like he was sizing you up but said nothing.

Lorenzo was the only one who spoke.

“Didn’t think it was real,” he muttered, raising his glass toward Theo. “Guess we all owe you now, huh?”

You didn’t know what he meant.

But Theo just tightened his grip on your hand and smiled. “Yeah,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Guess you do.”

-----------

It wasn’t long before you fell, completely, recklessly, all-consuming.

And he made it so easy.

You remember the night it happened, the night you nearly told him you loved him.

It was storming outside, rain pounding against the floor of the Astronomy Tower. You were both curled up on a conjured blanket, far past curfew, the fire in the nearby torch casting warm flickers across his face.

“I don’t like people much,” Theo murmured into your hair, his arm wrapped around your waist. “Never have.”

You turned your face toward him. “You like me.”

He looked down at you then, his expression unguarded for the first time.

“I like you too much.”

There was a pause.

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he had all the time in the world.

You didn’t stop it when his hands slid under your jumper. You didn’t want to. Every touch felt sacred, like something you’d been holding out for your entire life..

It ended with you asleep in his arms, limbs tangled together like a secret only the two of you knew.

And for the first time in years, you felt safe.

Wanted.

Chosen.

You were falling. Hard.

And the worst part?

So was he. Or at least, that’s what you believed.

-----------

Six weeks.

That’s how long it took for you to fall in love with Theodore Nott.

Six weeks of stolen glances and midnight kisses. Of aching silence and whispered promises. Six weeks of convincing yourself that this, whatever this was, meant something to him too.

You let him in. Past the layers. Past the name that followed you like a shadow. Past the expectations of being Harry Potter’s sister. With him, you weren't “The Girl Who Lived” You were just you.

And you thought, maybe that was enough.

But all of that shattered on a Thursday night.

You’d just finished tutoring a second-year in Charms and were heading back to the Gryffindor Tower through the dungeons, a path you took sometimes because it was quiet and warm and Theo always met you halfway.

But tonight, he wasn’t there.

Instead, you passed by the entrance to the Slytherin common room just as the door cracked open, left ajar by someone who clearly forgot to close it all the way.

You weren’t trying to listen. You weren’t even curious.

Until you heard your name.

“She actually thinks you like her?” Blaise’s voice rang through the air, slick with mockery. “Merlin, Nott, I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”

Your feet stopped cold. Your hand dropped from your bookbag.

Inside, laughter rippled like poison.

“She’s a Potter, mate,” Mattheo added, a cruel grin evident in his tone. “You’re playing the long game.”

“Fifty galleons richer by Christmas,” Lorenzo said smugly. “Who knew Theo had it in him?”

Your throat closed up. You felt your heart stutter and then drop entirely. The air around you shifted, colder, heavier. Like the world had tilted and you hadn’t caught up yet.

And then you heard it.

His voice.

Theodore’s voice.

He chuckled, low and lazy, like this was just another conversation. Like you were just another game.

“Wasn’t that hard,” he said, and your breath caught. “She’s easy once you know what to say.”

Someone laughed. Maybe Mattheo. Maybe Enzo. You couldn’t tell. Everything felt like it was happening underwater.

“You had her wrapped around your finger after what, two weeks?” Draco sneered. “Almost impressive.”

Theo didn’t deny it.

Didn’t hesitate.

He just shrugged. “She wanted someone to see her. I pretended I did. Simple.”

The boys hollered. Blaise clapped him on the back. You could almost hear their smirks, like knives in your spine.

“She thinks you care,” Mattheo said with a dark laugh. “You’ve practically got her begging to say it first.”

“What’s next?” Enzo added. “Collect your winnings, and ghost her before New Year’s?”

And Theo, your Theo, just laughed.

“As if I’d stay longer than that.”

The words punched the air out of your lungs.

Your hand flew to your mouth before the sob could escape, but it was too late. The world tilted on its axis, the corridor swaying around you.

You stumbled back a step, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. You couldn’t stay there. You couldn’t breathe. Every word kept echoing in your head like a curse you couldn’t lift.

“She’s easy.”“I pretended I did.”“As if I’d stay longer than that.”

You wanted to be wrong. You wanted to burst through the door and demand he take it back. Tell you it was just a joke. That they made him say it. That he didn’t mean it.

But you didn’t.

You turned and walked away.

Fast. Silent. Shaking.

The tears came before you even made it to the end of the corridor.

Not soft ones. Not quiet ones.

Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that tore out of your chest like something feral.

Six weeks.

Six weeks of believing he saw you. Loved you. Chose you.

And the whole time, it was for a bet.

-----------

You didn’t confront him right away.

Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even when he passed you in the hallway with that easy, lopsided smile and whispered “Hi, love” like nothing had changed.

You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe without choking on everything you now knew.

Instead, you let it rot. You let the betrayal sit in your chest like a curse, burning and festering until all that was left was ash.

You stayed up all night. Sleepless, shaking, clutching your pillow like it might hold you together. Over and over, you replayed every kiss, every look, every promise.

Every lie.

The worst part was, he was good at it. Too good. He made you believe. He made you trust.

And you hated him for it.

But you hated yourself more, for falling.

By the time you decided to confront him, the rage had burned through you like wildfire and left nothing but hollow devastation behind.

It was two days later when you saw him again.

He was by the Black Lake, just like always, hands shoved in his coat pockets, the early December wind tousling his hair. His head was tilted to the side, watching the water with the kind of stillness that used to make you think he was a mystery worth solving.

You knew better now.

Your footsteps were slow. Measured. He turned when he heard you approach, and for a moment, just a moment, his whole face lit up.

He looked happy to see you.

That hurt more than anything.

“Y/N-” he started, voice soft, a smile tugging at his lips.

And then your hand cracked across his face.

Hard.

His head snapped to the side. The sound echoed off the lake, sharp and final like a closing door. A few birds startled from the nearby reeds, flying off into the grey sky.

Silence settled between you like a chasm.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there, stunned, cheek reddening where your palm had landed.

You stared at him, your chest rising and falling too fast, your breath unsteady, eyes already glassy with tears you swore you wouldn’t let fall.

“You lied to me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, but each word struck like a blade. “All of it. The notes. The smiles. The way you looked at me.”

His expression cracked.

“No, Y/N, wait-” he took a step forward.

You stepped back immediately, shaking your head.

“Don’t.” Your voice broke. “Don’t come near me.”

He flinched like you’d struck him again.

“You bet on me,” you choked, each word trembling with disbelief and fury. “You bet on me, Theodore. You made me fall for you. For galleons. For fun.”

He looked like he couldn’t breathe either.

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, okay, it started that way. I won’t lie to you. I was stupid. I was drunk. They were egging me on, but it changed, Y/N. It wasn’t, Merlin, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but then it did-”

“Stop,” you whispered. “Please stop.”

His voice died in his throat.

Tears stung your eyes, your vision blurring as your lip trembled. “You looked me in the eyes. You kissed me. You held me like I meant something. All while laughing about it behind my back.”

Theo’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

He looked… broken. Gutted.

But not as much as you.

You took another step back. “You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t get to say it changed. You don’t get to rewrite what you did.”

He tried again, desperate now. “Please, Y/N, just listen, I swear, I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know I’d-”

“But you did,” you whispered, tears finally spilling over. “You meant to. And you broke me anyway.”

The wind howled between you, biting and cold.

His shoulders sagged. His hands, once so steady, trembled at his sides. He looked at you like he didn’t recognize himself.

But you did.

And you would never forget it.

So you turned.

And walked away.

You didn’t run. You didn’t sob. You didn’t scream.

You just walked, slow and shaking, because if you ran, you wouldn’t stop. And if you stopped, you’d collapse.

Behind you, Theo didn’t follow.

He just stood there.

Alone.

In the cold.

Holding the pieces of everything he ruined.

-----------

Theo didn’t return to the dorm that night.

Or the next.

The Slytherin common room, once filled with heat and laughter and too-loud bragging, felt colder now. Empty, even with five boys still inhabiting its dark green walls.

The fire burned low in the hearth, barely crackling anymore.

Theo hadn’t spoken since that day by the lake.

At first, the others shrugged it off.

“Let him sulk,” Mattheo muttered. “He’ll get over it.”

“Probably just embarrassed,” Blaise added. “Got in too deep, that’s all.”

But he didn’t “get over it.”

He barely spoke in class. Showed up late to Potions, if at all. Sat in the back of lectures with hollow eyes and ink-stained fingers. He no longer cracked sarcastic jokes under his breath or leaned over to whisper something cruelly clever during a boring lecture.

He didn’t flirt.

He didn’t smile.

And he didn’t look at anyone the same way, not really.

You had become a ghost to him.

A phantom that clung to every hallway, every staircase, every book left on a table with your name scrawled on the inside cover. He started walking the long way to class, just to avoid the places you used to meet. He couldn’t sit by the lake anymore, not even alone. He tried once. Lasted ten minutes. Then vomited in the bushes and didn’t go back.

He thought maybe if he drank enough, he could forget how your voice cracked when you said you broke me.

But the firewhisky only made it worse.

He started drinking late at night. Alone. Avoiding the others unless forced to share a table or a classroom. He stopped going to meals altogether. Once, Mattheo made a comment about him wasting away.

He didn’t respond.

And the moment anyone said your name, even in passing, his expression turned to stone. Cold. Barely human.

But it was Lorenzo who finally pushed him too far.

They were in the dorm, mid-December, snow piling outside the windows and music crackling. Theo sat on the windowsill in silence, staring at nothing, while the others tried to pretend things were still normal.

“Told you she’d break eventually,” Enzo said, laughing with a swig of his drink. “Didn’t think you’d lose your mind over it, though.”

He smirked as he held up a galleon between two fingers. “Fifty well-earned galleons, boys. Now you can finally buy that-”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Theo punched him.

Hard.

The crack of fist against jaw echoed through the dorm like a firework.

Enzo stumbled back, blood already spilling from his split lip. “What the fuck, mate-?!”

“Say her name,” Theo said, his voice eerily calm. “See what happens.”

Nobody laughed after that.

Not Mattheo.

Not even Draco.

They all stared at Theo, at the tightness in his jaw, the haunted look in his eyes, and realized that this wasn’t just some heartbreak.

This was ruin.

Because the damage was done.

He’d played the part. Worn the mask. Followed the rules of the game they all built together.

He’d won the bet.

But in doing so, he’d lost the only thing that ever made him feel like more than a Nott.

More than a shadow.

He’d lost you.

And you, Y/N Potter, the girl who smiled into his shoulder and held his hand under library desks and kissed him like he mattered, you would never look at him the same way again.

Hell, you wouldn’t look at him at all.

And that was his punishment.

Not the silence from his friends.

Not the bleeding knuckles.

Not the sleepless nights or the screaming regret.

It was your absence.

The final, gaping hole you left behind when you walked away.

And Theo realized then:

He didn’t just ruin the best thing he ever had.

He ruined the only good thing he ever was.

----------------

I hope you guys loved it!!!! I am getting back into my harry potter era, so I went to search angsty theodore fics and there are like none so I wrote my own. <3

[bellatrixscurls]

→ Boyfriend!Fred

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early 20s

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! Fred is so proud to be yours it’s unreal. He talks about you constantly. To customers. To George. To strangers in line at the coffee shop. He’ll say things like, “My girlfriend’s a genius, actually,” or “My girl’d look fit in this.” And when you show up to the shop in a little college hoodie and a mini skirt? He kisses you in front of everyone and tells Lee, “I’m going home early. Family emergency.” (You’re the emergency.)

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! You’re the couple everyone knows is amazing in bed — even if they’ve never heard a sound. It’s the way Fred’s hand always settles just a bit too low on your back. The way you tug him closer by the belt loops. The way he leans down to whisper something in your ear, and you bite your lip when he does. You walk into a room and people notice. You leave together and they assume.

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! He lives for after-class drop-ins. You’ll show up at the joke shop still half-stressed from a lecture, and he’ll toss you onto the workbench, straddle your thighs, and kiss it all out of you. He tastes like cinnamon and smoke and sugar, and his hands slip under your shirt without even thinking. “C’mon, love. Let me distract you for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Maybe until you can’t walk.”

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! Fred is a slut for domesticity. He cooks for you. Always. Makes breakfast in nothing but a towel. Packs you snacks for late study nights. He keeps a toothbrush for you in his bathroom and gets pouty if you don’t use it. When you fall asleep in his jumper on the couch, he tucks a blanket over you and kisses your forehead like it’s religion. He tells George, “If she asks, I’d marry her tomorrow.”

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! He can’t stop touching you — like ever. Thigh squeezes under tables. Fingers brushing the small of your back in public. Hands cupping your jaw before he kisses you breathless and gone. And when you’re alone? His touch gets lazy. Confident. Possessive. “Need my hands on you or I’ll lose my mind.”

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! He loves when you wear his clothes, especially to sleep. You in nothing but a pair of tiny shorts and his old Gryffindor tee? It short-circuits him. You stretch, and he’s already pushing your shirt up, murmuring, “That mine too, darling? Or you going to make me take it off again?” He always ends up doing both.

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! The sex? Is mind-melting. Fred’s filthy but loving. He wants you giggling, breathless, legs shaking. Likes to talk — murmuring praise, filth, love, teasing. “Look at you, baby. All wet and needy. Studied hard all day just to fall apart on me tonight, huh?” After? He’s clingy as hell. Spooning. Hair stroking. Kisses to your neck until you fall asleep.

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! He surprises you on campus. Often. Random coffee. Handmade snack boxes. Little joke-shop trinkets. Once he showed up in full disguise pretending to be your classmate just to sit near you for a lecture. You laughed so hard when he got caught. But the truth? It was romantic as hell. You kissed him behind the library that night. Twice. Then made out until a professor yelled.

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! You fight — but always make up properly. Fred’s fiery. You are too. Arguments get passionate. Loud. But he never lets it sit. He’s the first to knock on your door. The first to hold your face and say, “I hate fighting with you. Let’s never be apart that long again, yeah?” Then you both cry. Then you kiss. Then you make up — in every room in the flat.

⋆ Boyfriend!Fred! Fred’s already in love. It’s just a matter of when he tells you. He knows it when he watches you fall asleep studying. He knows it when he sees you laughing with George. He knows it when you steal his favorite hoodie and say, “This smells like home.” He’s planning something. Ring in a drawer. Vow on his lips. He just wants the timing to be perfect. Because loving you? It’s the best prank the universe ever pulled on him.

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