theodorenmyth

[theodorenmyth]

Hiiii!! I’ve been reading a lot of your work and I love all of it😩😩 the writing is just so immaculate! I know you’re planning to start writing again I wanted to ask hopefully in the future you could write one abt any of the slytherin boys (your choice) and the little things that they try to do to get reader into saying yes to be their Yule ball date! And maybe becoming even more after🤭 I hope that you’re doing great and I can’t wait to see the future works that you create!!

Took You Long Enough.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

Summary ; Theodore Nott is determined to ask you to the Yule Ball—but subtle hints, awkward near-confessions, and endless sabotage from his chaotic Slytherin friends turn it into a full-blown disaster. You, curled up in his stolen sweater and completely oblivious, might just be the one thing holding him together… or pushing him over the edge.

A/N ; TYTYTY FOR REQUESTING THIS CUTE LIL IDEA! <3 i really appreciate it. Pleaseee enjoy!

Warnings ; nothing, just PUREEEE fluff and sillyness, and a lil bit of drarry

Word count ; 4.3k

Theodore Nott doesn’t ask people to the Yule Ball.

He doesn’t do asking, in general. He glowers, he broods, he appears silently beside you like a gothic cat in the night and makes dry remarks about the state of your homework or the Gryffindor table’s poor taste in jam.

He doesn’t pursue people.

He prefers if people come to him—quietly, hopefully, and preferably while he’s pretending not to notice them. That’s the arrangement. That’s what he’s used to. It works.

Until you, of course.

You, who somehow slip through the cracks of his calm. Who can talk to portraits like they’re old friends. Who keep forgetting your tie, and lose your quills, and always have ink on your fingers. You who are bright, too bright, and never quite where he expects you to be, and always where he doesn’t realize he’s hoping you are.

He’s ruined.

But even then—especially then—Theodore Nott does not ask people to the Yule Ball.

Which is why he’s sitting across from you in the library, glaring at the blank roll of parchment in front of him like it murdered his ancestors. His jaw is tight, quill clenched in his fist, and his eyes flick up to you every twenty seconds like clockwork.

You, completely oblivious, are humming under your breath as you scribble something in the margin of your Transfiguration book. Your hair keeps falling into your eyes. He wants to tuck it behind your ear and then maybe die from the shame of doing something so cliché.

He’s thinking about that—very inappropriately and not at all helpfully—when Draco Malfoy flops gracelessly into the seat beside him.

Theodore jerks slightly and hunches over his parchment like he’s hiding state secrets.

Draco snorts. “You are so obvious.”

“Am not,” Theodore mutters.

“You’ve written ‘ask them’ and then scribbled it out five times.”

Theodore grits his teeth. “That’s not what I was writing.”

Draco leans in. “It looked like ‘ask them to the—’”

“I said shut up.”

Across the table, you look up from your book, blinking innocently. “Are you two whispering about me again?”

Draco smiles, unbothered. “Absolutely.”

Theodore stiffens.

You squint. “You’re both terrible at whispering.”

“Noted,” Theodore says, voice tighter than his collar.

Draco, far too amused, props his chin in his hand and watches the two of you like it’s theatre. “You’re really not going to ask them?”

“I’m getting there,” Theodore hisses under his breath.

Draco raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You’ve got, what, three days left? They’re going to get snatched up by some Hufflepuff with emotional availability.”

“Six days, actually.”

“Just ask them, Nott. You’re brooding. They like brooding. You’re weird. They like weird. This isn’t complex.”

Theodore stares hard at a nearby bookshelf. “You ask them, then.”

“I would, but Harry might finally strangle me in my sleep.”

“You’d like that.”

“I would.”

You, somehow still not looking up, flip a page and mutter, “You two do realize I’m right here, yes?”

Draco doesn’t blink. “Of course.”

Theodore considers disappearing under the table. Instead, he mutters something about needing to study and tries to focus on the ink bleeding across his notes.

You glance at him, eyes flicking over his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw. “You okay?”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

You lean a little closer. “You sure? You’re gripping your quill like it owes you money.”

Theodore, mortified, releases it instantly and clears his throat.

“Studying,” he says shortly.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than comfortable. “All right then.”

And you go back to your book, your foot swinging idly under the table, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just knocked the breath out of him with a single look.

Draco kicks him under the table.

Later that night in the Slytherin Common Room . .

Mattheo Riddle is sprawled across the emerald green Slytherin common room sofa like he’s auditioning for the cover of Tragic Witches Weekly, one arm draped over his eyes dramatically, the other lazily twirling a Sugar Quill between his fingers. His boots are muddy and kicked off at odd angles, and his half-finished Transfiguration essay flutters sadly beside him as if it too has given up on life.

The fire crackles in the hearth. The lamps are dimmed to a moody golden hue. The vibe is somewhere between a séance and a group therapy session with no actual healing involved.

Mattheo removes the quill from his mouth and props himself up with the enthusiasm of a dying man. “So,” he drawls, eyes glinting with unholy delight. “How’s the ‘Operation Ball Date’ going?”

Theodore slumps into the armchair across from him, every inch of his posture screaming defeat. He looks like he’s aged ten years in three days.

“Don’t start,” Theodore mutters, rubbing his temples like it might erase the memory of every failed attempt.

Pansy, perched like a cat on the armrest beside Mattheo, raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You opened your mouth, forgot how to function, and they walked away wondering if you were cursed.”

“I was close this morning,” Theodore hisses, glaring at the rug like it’s at fault. “I was right there. I was mid-sentence—mid-sentence, Pansy—when the Gryffindor table exploded. Literally. Exploded.”

────────────────

Flashback – That Morning, Great Hall

Theodore had rehearsed it.

Twelve times in his dorm. Five times in the mirror. Once in the corridor—where a first-year saw him muttering to himself and ran.

He spotted you at the far end of the table, hunched over a plate of toast with your head in your hand, eyes still bleary from sleep. You looked vaguely annoyed at the jam as though it had committed a personal offense. Your hair was slightly out of place. Your jumper sleeves were too long.

You looked perfect.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, striding toward you with all the confidence of a man walking to his own execution. “You just say it. Just say it. ‘Do you want to go to the ball with me?’ That’s all. That’s—”

You looked up.

Theodore froze. Then sat beside you and cleared his throat. “Hi.”

You blinked. “You look… tense.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re holding your goblet like it’s trying to escape.”

He placed the goblet down. Too hard. It clinked against the table. “Do you want—”

BOOM.

An eruption of red and gold sparks blasted from the Gryffindor table like a cannon. Plates flipped. Porridge flew. A stack of toast caught fire. A Slytherin screamed.

“MERLIN’S—”

“FRED!”

“GEORGE!”

“I SWEAR TO GODRIC—”

Professor McGonagall sprang to her feet, wand drawn, steam practically pouring from her ears as she bolted toward the cackling twins already making a run for the exit.

Chaos.

Absolute.

FUCKING.

Chaos.

You turned to Theodore, wide-eyed. “What were you saying?”

He stared at the smoking wreckage of the Gryffindor table.

“…Never mind.”

────────────────

Present Time . . .

Mattheo snorts. “Fred and George?”

“Who else?” Theodore grinds out.

Draco glides in like a malicious breeze, robes swishing, hair perfect, expression entirely unimpressed. “You know what your problem is?”

“Do enlighten me,” Theodore snaps.

“You’re passive. Hesitant. A snail on a cold morning.”

Theodore squints. “That’s not a real saying.”

“It is now,” Draco replies, flopping onto the opposite chaise. “You can’t just wait for the perfect moment. You have to make the moment. Force fate’s hand. Seduce destiny.”

“I’m going to hex you,” Theodore mumbles.

Mattheo waves a hand. “No hexing until we brainstorm. It’s time for a new strategy.”

“A new strategy?” Theodore asks, exhausted.

“A bolder one,” Pansy adds, twirling her wand.

Mattheo sits up straighter, enthusiasm building like a firework about to blow. “You want theatrics. Drama. They don’t know you’re into them because you’re too busy staring at them like a lovesick ghost. We need impact.”

“I’m not going to throw myself out a window to get their attention.”

“Shame,” Mattheo says without missing a beat. “But fine. Not that. Yet.”

Draco leans forward. “Just ask them. Tomorrow. Before breakfast. While they’re too tired to register what’s happening.”

Pansy nods in agreement. “Sleep-deprived, low blood sugar, emotional vulnerability—it’s the golden window.”

“They’d punch me in the face,” Theodore mutters.

Mattheo claps with genuine excitement. “That’s romance!”

Over the Next Week, The Descent into Chaos

Attempt #1: Help with Potions

The Potions dungeon is dim, as always, filled with the smell of boiling chamomile and something faintly metallic. Professor Slughorn hums happily at the front of the room while everyone else slouches over their cauldrons, silently begging the clock to move faster.

You’re working alone today—not by choice. Your partner caught Spattergroit and is banned from classes until further notice, which left you with a bubbling potion and a half-written instruction sheet. You’re squinting down at your notes, stirring clockwise, trying to remember when to add the powdered fluxweed.

“Clockwise,” comes a soft voice beside you, “but only for six more turns.”

You look up—and there’s Theodore, standing just beside your workstation. He’s watching your cauldron with an unreadable expression, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe like he’s trying to hide them.

“I knew that,” you say, a little defensive.

He shrugs, eyes flicking toward you and then away. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

You glance at your notebook and then back at him. “Are you… offering to help me?”

He looks like he regrets everything immediately. “If you don’t want me to—”

“I didn’t say that,” you interrupt quickly. “Just… surprised.”

Theodore slowly slides onto the stool beside you. He’s already got his gloves on, and his sleeves are neatly rolled up to his forearms. You can’t help noticing his fingers—long, steady, careful—as he picks up your spoon and stirs the potion with practiced ease.

“You forgot to sprinkle the asphodel before the fluxweed,” he murmurs. “Otherwise the potion thickens too quickly and burns.”

You blink at him. “Since when do you know this much about Polyjuice Potion?”

“I read ahead,” he says, not looking at you. “And I… practiced.”

“You practiced Polyjuice? For what? Planning to sneak into the Gryffindor common room?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “Maybe I just wanted to be good at something.”

You go quiet for a moment. The bubbling of the potion fills the space between you.

“That’s kind of sad,” you say gently.

He finally looks at you—and his eyes soften. “It’s kind of true.”

You don’t say anything, just reach out and offer him the jar of powdered fluxweed. He takes it without brushing your fingers, but just barely.

“You’re good at this,” you say after a beat.

“Only because I wanted to impress you.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t look up, just sprinkles the ingredient into the cauldron.

Silence. Then you ask, half-teasing, half-breathless, “What?”

He stirs once, then twice, then says softly, “Nothing.”

You lean in, lips curling upward. “Are you trying to impress me, Nott?”

He still doesn’t meet your eyes. “Maybe.”

“Because it’s working.”

That gets him. He goes stiff for half a second, then glances at you—just a flicker of a look—and it’s the most flustered you’ve ever seen him. A faint pink colors his ears.

You smile into your notes and pretend not to notice.

And for the next half hour, you work side by side, your hands occasionally brushing, his voice low as he guides you through every step like he’s been memorizing it just for this.

Slughorn walks by at one point and raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Nott! Lending a hand, are we?”

Theodore clears his throat. “Just helping.”

Slughorn smiles. “Teamwork makes the potion work!”

You snort, and Theodore mutters, “That was terrible.”

But he doesn’t move away from you. Not even once.

Attempt #2: Study Session Sabotage

The Slytherin common room is quiet, bathed in the soft flicker of emerald-tinted flames and the dim glow of enchanted lanterns floating above. The underwater windows ripple gently with lake shadows, casting moving patterns on the stone walls. It’s peaceful, unusually so—until the subtle sound of slippers on stone breaks the silence.

You’re curled up in your favorite armchair near the fire, oversized jumper hugging your body like a blanket, and a half-done Herbology essay balanced on your lap. Your hair’s a little messy, your notes slightly smudged, and your brow is furrowed in focus.

Across the room, Theodore watches.

He’s holding two steaming mugs—both of which he enchanted himself. His hand tightens around the ceramic as he takes a deep breath, then makes his way across the room before he can lose his nerve.

You look up just as he approaches, blinking slowly.

“Theodore?”

He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. “You looked… cold.”

Your gaze flicks to the mugs. “What’s this?”

He hesitates. “Hot chocolate. One’s for you.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He nods, avoiding your eyes. “I charmed it the way you like. Cinnamon, no whipped cream.”

You blink.

He still doesn’t look at you.

You smile softly, reaching out to accept the mug. Your fingers brush his—warm against warm—and he stiffens like it startled him.

“You remembered that?” you ask.

“I remember a lot of things about you,” Theodore says, almost too quietly.

Your heart skips, but you pretend not to notice. Instead, you gesture to the empty space beside you. “Sit?”

He hesitates.

Then—slowly—he lowers himself beside you, settling into the corner of the sofa, leaving a careful gap between your knees. He holds his mug like it’s an anchor. You catch a quick glance at him, his sharp profile, the way his hair curls a little at the edges when it’s this humid near the fire.

He leans in slightly. “Are you working on Sprout’s quiz?”

You sigh and nod. “I’ve read this same sentence six times.”

He glances at your parchment. “It’s because you wrote it wrong.”

You make a face. “What?”

He scoots just an inch closer, tilting your paper so he can read it better. “Spore release in puffshrooms is triggered by humidity, not heat. That’s why they’re so common in greenhouses.”

“Oh.”

His fingers are still ghosting over your notes.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I just pay attention. When you’re talking about it.”

You freeze for a second, then glance sideways. “You listen to me?”

“I always listen to you.”

Your chest tightens in the quietest, warmest way. “Even when I ramble about magical gardening for twenty minutes?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you look at him like you’ve never quite seen him before.

There’s a pause, and then you laugh, soft and a little shy. “You’re surprisingly gentle when you want to be.”

Theodore’s jaw tenses, like he doesn’t know what to do with that compliment. Then he mutters, “You should see me with kneazles.”

You nearly snort your cocoa.

“Alright then, kneazle whisperer,” you say, tucking your legs closer to him. “You’re stuck with me now. We’re study partners tonight.”

“I could be stuck with worse,” he replies before he can stop himself.

You don’t answer. But you don’t look away, either.

You just smile—and go back to your notes, heart thudding.

And next to you, Theodore sits quietly, his shoulder now almost against yours, pretending to read while he memorizes the shape of your handwriting and wonders if this—this soft, shared quiet—counts as a small kind of magic.

Attempt #3: “Accidental” Hogsmeade Run-In

The sky is pale grey, snow falling in lazy spirals like the world’s slowed down for a moment. You tug your scarf higher and step around a patch of ice on the cobblestone street, your boots crunching with each careful step. You hadn’t told anyone you were heading to Hogsmeade—not even your closest friends. You just… wanted a bit of space.

And maybe some peppermint bark.

Honeydukes glows warmly up ahead, windows fogged from the inside and little charms floating above the display case. You're just about to walk in when—

“Y/N?”

You stop mid-step, looking up.

And there he is.

Theodore Nott, standing beneath a snow-dusted awning like he was planted there by the universe itself. His hair is windswept, a few snowflakes catching in the strands. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and in his gloved hands, he’s holding a small, neatly wrapped package.

He freezes for a heartbeat, like he’s not sure he’s real. Or that you’re real.

You blink. “Teds?”

He clears his throat. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Your eyes flick down to the package. “What’s that?”

His fingers twitch slightly. “It’s—uh—peppermint bark. I remembered you said once that Honeydukes only sells the really good kind in December. I was going to get you some.”

Your chest warms, a slow flood of soft affection breaking through the chill. “You remembered that?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking away. “It’s not a big deal.”

You smile, stepping closer. “It is to me.”

Silence settles between you as the snow continues falling, lightly dusting his coat, your shoulders. You take the package gently from his hands and hold it between both of yours.

“It’s warm,” you say quietly. “Did you just buy this?”

He hesitates. “…I’ve been holding it for a while. Just in case I saw you.”

Your heart flips.

“You were hoping to run into me?”

He finally meets your eyes, and his voice is soft. “Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, the tension building gently in the air. Then you open the door to Honeydukes and tilt your head.

“Walk with me, Teds?”

He follows without hesitation.

The inside of the shop is glowing, every shelf crammed with sweet chaos. Colorful wrappers shimmer under the floating lights, and enchanted candy hops around in its jars. You make your way through the aisles, glancing at different sweets while Theodore trails beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing more at you than the shelves.

You hold up a box of Fizzing Whizbees. “Remember when Mattheo dared Draco to eat five of these at once and he threw up in Professor Binns’ ghost?”

Theodore chuckles. “I still have the photo.”

You giggle and grab a few chocolate frogs before pausing at a shelf lined with delicate, pastel-pink candied roses. You hold one out.

“Try it.”

He eyes it warily but accepts, biting off a petal. The moment it hits his tongue, his nose scrunches.

“It’s… floral.”

You burst out laughing, your hand grabbing his sleeve as you double over slightly. “Teds, your face—”

“I’m being poisoned by a bouquet.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person laughing like a maniac in a candy shop.”

You shoot him a grin. “You love it.”

He huffs, but the corners of his mouth curve upward.

You finally step back out into the snow, both of you carrying small bags. It’s a little quieter now, the sky darkening with the promise of evening. The wind is gentle, and your footsteps echo softly.

A flake lands in his hair, and you reach out without thinking—brushing it off.

He stills under your touch.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” you say, quieter now.

“I didn’t expect to actually find you,” he says, not quite meeting your gaze.

You turn slightly to face him, snow swirling around both of you.

“You’re kind of sweet, you know.”

He swallows. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Theodore looks at you like he’s on the verge of saying something else, something big.

But instead, he says your name—softly—and nods toward the castle. “I’ll walk you back.”

You don’t let him walk behind you. Instead, you link your arm through his.

And he doesn’t say a word about it—just holds on like maybe, for the first time, he's exactly where he wants to be.

Three Days Before the Ball. .

You’re curled up in the Slytherin common room with a book, wearing Theodore’s sweater.

You hadn’t exactly planned to keep it.

One chilly evening in the library, you’d complained about the cold, and Theodore—without saying a word—had peeled it off and gently tugged it over your head, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d meant to return it the next day, truly. But then… it smelled like him. Like citrus, clove, and ink. It was warm. It was soft. It was safe.

And Theodore never asked for it back.

So now it’s yours.

The sleeves droop adorably past your fingertips, and the hem hangs lower on you than it ever did on him. You’ve rolled up the cuffs three times, but they still fall when you don’t pay attention. Every time you move, it carries that faint familiar scent, and you feel—just slightly—like you’re wrapped in him.

Across the room, Theodore is watching you.

Or, more accurately, he’s watching you while trying not to watch you. He’s pretending to read, legs crossed tightly, sitting far too stiffly on a velvet chair by the fire. The book in his hands is upside down. He doesn’t notice.

Mattheo notices, though. Of course he does.

“You’re being disgusting,” Mattheo mumbles, lounging beside him.

Theodore doesn’t respond.

“I’m serious. It’s pathetic in a cute way. Like a puppy following someone home from the train.”

From the floor near the hearth, Astoria flips a page of Witch Weekly and hums. “It’s almost romantic.”

Blaise sighs without looking up from his chess game. “It would be, if he’d just ask them already.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for the sweater to propose on his behalf,” Lorenzo adds, rolling a knight across the board. “It’s halfway there.”

Draco, half-draped across an armchair like he owns the castle, lets out a dramatic sigh. “You are actively letting this moment slip away. Look at them. Look.” He points. “They’re curled up in your sweater like they’ve always belonged there. You’re losing your window.”

Theodore bites the inside of his cheek.

He looks over.

You’re nestled on the couch with your legs tucked under you, knees brushing the edge of a plush emerald cushion. Your face is half-lit by the firelight, a book resting gently in your hands. The cocoa beside you has gone lukewarm, untouched for ten minutes. The only thing you’ve moved is your thumb, slowly turning pages—and occasionally tucking the sweater sleeve back up your wrist.

It’s unfair how good you look like that. Effortless. Completely at home.

He swallows.

“Now,” Mattheo whispers.

Theodore stands.

Astoria gasps softly. “Oh, he’s doing it.”

“I’m proud of him,” Pansy murmurs, hand on her chest.

“I’m terrified for him,” Blaise mutters.

“Don’t trip,” Lorenzo calls under his breath.

Theodore doesn’t hear them. Or if he does, he ignores it all, like the world has narrowed to just the space between the fire and the couch.

You notice his approach before he says a word.

Your eyes lift to meet his, brows raised ever so slightly. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I might.”

You smile a little. “Should I get Madam Pomfrey?”

“No.”

You sit up straighter, closing your book around a finger to keep your place.

Theodore stands there like he’s forgotten how to be a person. Then, after a silent internal argument, he lowers himself gently onto the arm of the couch beside you. He doesn’t speak yet. Just watches you for a second, almost like he’s trying to memorize you.

You stare back, curious, the firelight dancing in your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, concern flickering in your voice.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers clench slightly on his knees.

Then: “Yes. I mean—no. Wait. Kind of.”

You blink.

Theodore clears his throat. His voice comes out quieter this time, almost shy. “There’s something I’ve been trying to do. And I’ve been putting it off. Because things keep… getting in the way. And I didn’t want to make it weird. But I’m pretty sure I already have.”

You tilt your head, lips twitching.

He’s blushing now, pink blooming just under his cheekbones. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to the sleeves.

You look down. “I am.”

“It looks… really good on you.”

There’s a pause. Then you smile, warm and full.

“You’re rambling,” you tease.

“I know.” He exhales, standing up again just to walk in a nervous half-circle in front of you, running a hand through his hair before finally turning around and blurting:

“Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

It comes out fast. But there’s more behind it—he’s been carrying it for days.

“I mean—if you’re not going with anyone. I don’t know if you are. I didn’t ask, obviously, because I’m not creepy, I’m just… I thought maybe—because you’re great, and I’m…” He gestures vaguely to himself. “…me.”

He takes a breath.

“Well, I mean, I’m not terrible—okay, maybe I am—but I’ve been trying to do this for days and everything keeps exploding or catching fire or turning into a social disaster and I know this isn’t how normal people ask people out but I’m not normal, clearly, and you’re in my sweater, and that has to mean something—”

His voice pitches higher, rushing now like he’s lost all control:

“—So I’m standing here, asking, loudly, if you—would—please—possibly—want to go to the Yule Ball with me, unless you hate me, which is valid, in which case I’ll just go die now, if you don’t, that’s amazing. I just—thought maybe, you might—because we’re already sort of… close? I mean—if you don’t see it that way, I get it. I do. But I’d really like to go with you. Properly. Like a date. If you want.”

The room falls quiet.

From behind, you hear a hushed, hopeful, “Don’t blow this,” from Mattheo.

Theodore is standing there like he’s balancing on the edge of a rooftop.

Your heart beats a little faster.

You set your book down slowly. Your fingers brush over the hem of the sweater.

And then you look up at him—soft, teasing, but unmistakably moved.

“Well,” you say gently, leaning back into the cushions, “took you long enough.”

[theodorenmyth]

about to write a fic rn.. heh.. stay tuned guys :3

[theodorenmyth]

Not trying to be rude, but please use a read more on your fics. You're very skilled, but your posts show up in search results unrelated to your fandom

will do ml<3 ty for the reminder because i genuinelyu forgot to do it.. (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

[theodorenmyth]

OH MY GLAWWDDD, TY FOR TAGGING ME ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ⟢── fav color ; any shade of blue and white ⟢── last song ; one last time ─ ariana grande ⟢── currently reading ; one piece's manga ⟢── currently watching ; one piece (EPISODE 1005 CHAT!!)

⟢── currently craving ; fries and friend shrimp... ⟢── coffee or tea ; oatside (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵) ⟢── tags ; @musingsofahufflepuff @siriusblackslefttoenail

get to know your moots tag game ! ✶ answer the questions, then tag six people

favorite color ꕀ green and brown last song ꕀ tú by maye currently reading ꕀ the luminaries by susan dennard currently watching ꕀ the great british baking show currently craving ꕀ massaman curry. like always. and like. alcohol and a couple cigs HAHA. a break too :P coffee or tea ꕀ always tea! i don't like coffee

ty for the tag @saltcxrcle ! tagging: @lelapine @toadspondofwhimsy @outof-spite @h0neyst4rz @hhoneylemon @our-lady-of-venom

[theodorenmyth]

Hii I've been reading your three threads of love and wanted to ask if you're doing a series or only two parts

hello ml! sadly it is a two part <33 if you want, i can make a sequel for them if you like!

[theodorenmyth]

Hey, can we get a part 2 to three threads of love like basically them js trying to get him to accept their soulmate thing and like their progress thanks

Three Threads of Love II.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x M!Reader x Mattheo Riddle

Summary ; Despite your best efforts to deny the sudden, magical connection tying you to both Mattheo and Theodore—already soulmates in their own right—you spiral into a dramatic whirlwind of hoodie-hiding, pouty “hmph”s, jealousy-fueled meltdowns, and increasingly flustered encounters, until your vulnerable heart betrays you and you end up nestled between Theodore’s legs with Mattheo asleep on your chest in the Slytherin common room, accidentally proving that maybe… just maybe… the threads of fate got it right.

A/N ; OH MY GAAWWDD, TYY FOR REQUESTING 😋🫶 This is my first fanfic in over a month soplease pleaseee enjoy 🥀💔(I got a writing block, so sorry if my writing seems different)

Warnings ; nothing, just PUREEEE fluff, y/n being a dramatic lil cutie, jealousy

Word count ; 5k+

You were going to die.

Not in the fun, dramatic “woe is me, the universe has betrayed me!” way.

You meant actual death.

Cardiac arrest.

Heart giving out.

Soul leaving your fucking body right here in Transfiguration class.

Why?

Because you’d made the grave mistake—the stupid, irredeemable mistake—of saying the words:

“Yeah… you can sit with me. But like, only in class.”

You had thought—naively—that such a statement would create a respectable emotional boundary. You had thought Mattheo and Theodore might interpret it as a tentative, hesitant olive branch. A slow start. Something manageable.

You had not accounted for Mattheo Riddle sitting down beside you and promptly draping an arm along the back of your chair like he was already engraving your initials together into a tree.

You had not anticipated Theodore Nott taking the other seat, silent and cool and terrifyingly calm, like he didn’t plan to leave it for the next fifty years.

And you absolutely, completely, entirely did not prepare for being sandwiched between both of them, stuck in the middle of what could only be described as a soulmate chokehold.

Your heart was beating out a war drum rhythm against your ribs. You were trying your best to appear casual. Normal. Unbothered.

You were also sweating, twitching like a cursed clock hand, and bouncing your leg under the desk like your knee was on a sugar high.

Totally fine.

This was fine.

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

Mattheo leaned closer. “You say that, but your leg’s vibrating like it’s possessed.”

“I always bounce my leg.”

“You didn’t last week.”

“I do it when I’m deep in thought,” you hissed, scribbling violently on your parchment.

Theodore, from your left, tilted his head slightly. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

“Shut up,” you blurted, voice cracking.

You could feel your ears heating up. Your cheeks were so hot they could have been used to toast bread. Maybe even grill cheese. A full meal.

The worst part?

They were both acting completely normal.

Mattheo slouched in his seat, stretching his legs out, his fingers tapping lazily against the desk as he smiled to himself. Meanwhile, Theodore had his arms crossed, looking focused, but every now and then, his eyes flicked toward you like he was secretly watching you combust for fun.

You tried to copy Cedric’s signature unimpressed face.

You failed.

You looked like a constipated owl.

Professor McGonagall began the lesson, waving her wand and revealing a complicated diagram of animal transfiguration on the board.

You attempted to take notes. Tried being the key word.

Because Mattheo’s knee bumped yours under the desk.

And you, in your infinite grace, made a sound. A high-pitched, choked-off squeak that made the Ravenclaw girl three seats away glance over.

Mattheo blinked innocently. “Did I scare you?”

“No,” you lied through your teeth. “I just… sneezed.”

“That wasn’t a sneeze,” Theodore murmured.

“That was my soul screaming,” you muttered. “In case you didn’t notice, this is a high-stress situation.”

Mattheo chuckled under his breath. “You’re making it one.”

“Maybe don’t lean in like that,” you grumbled, eyes glued to your parchment.

“I’m just sitting,” he said innocently, though his arm was still behind your chair, knuckles lightly brushing your shoulder every few seconds.

You tried not to react. You were not going to be flustered again. You’d sworn it.

No more squeaking.

No more panicking.

You could be chill.

You were chill incarnate.

You—

Your hand brushed Theodore’s.

Your breath caught.

It was accidental, stupid, meaningless. You both reached for the same inkpot and your pinkies touched.

You nearly threw yourself out the window.

Your entire soul detonated.

Theodore paused.

Then, deliberately, he brushed his fingers against yours again.

You physically levitated.

“Y/N?” he asked, calm as ever, “You okay?”

You didn’t trust your voice.

You nodded instead, violently, like a bobblehead having a meltdown.

Mattheo snorted.

“You’re blushing,” Theodore noted, clearly amused.

“I’m not blushing,” you croaked. “It’s the lighting.”

“We’re underground,” Mattheo said. “There is no lighting.”

“I’m having a fever,” you said desperately. “It’s contagious. Both of you should leave.”

Mattheo leaned closer, his lips inches from your ear. “If you wanted us to touch you, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.”

You dropped your quill.

You bent to grab it and stayed down there for a few seconds longer than necessary, just to escape the humiliation.

When you came back up, your hair was a mess, your face was even redder, and Mattheo was watching you like you were his favorite kind of entertainment.

“You good?” he asked, all too smug.

You cleared your throat. “Perfect. Couldn’t be better. So good, actually. Best day of my life.”

Theodore, ever the quiet menace, slid your parchment closer to himself, his fingers brushing your hand again—just briefly.

You twitched.

“You spelled ‘transfiguration’ wrong,” he added casually.

“I’m under duress.”

“It’s endearing.”

You hated them.

You hated how calm they were. How effortless. How they were clearly enjoying the living hell out of watching you unravel.

But the worst part?

You were fucking beginning to like it.

Just a little.

Just enough to notice how nice Mattheo’s cologne smelled up close. How his stupid shoulder fit perfectly against yours. How Theodore’s voice dropped an octave when he spoke directly to you. How his hand lingered just a second longer than it should have.

Your eyes darted between them.

Mattheo was pretending to study the board. Theodore had his chin resting on his hand, watching you from the corner of his eye.

You tried to exhale.

It came out as a high-pitched wheeze.

Class ended far too slowly and far too quickly at the same time. You were still twitching. Still blushing. Still struggling to look either of them in the eye without combusting.

As the rest of the students packed up, Mattheo leaned toward you. “So… same seat tomorrow?”

You stared at him like he’d grown another head. “We’ll see,” you said, hoping it sounded mysterious instead of desperate.

Theodore brushed your hand again as he passed you your quill. “Thanks for letting us sit. We missed being close.”

You blinked. Swallowed. Nodded stiffly.

Mattheo winked. “Try not to miss us too much before dinner.”

You held it together.

You did.

Until they walked out.

Then you slammed your head against your desk and muttered, “I am doomed.”

From across the room, Cedric stuck his head in the door and called, “I heard everything. You’re adorable. But also doomed.”

You flipped him off without looking up.

The next day . .

You were not jealous.

You weren’t.

You were... mildly concerned.

Vaguely observant.

A loyal classmate paying attention to the integrity of the potion-making environment and the distracting volume of the laughter being aimed directly at Mattheo’s damn face.

You were absolutely not staring at the way that sixth-year Slytherin girl leaned over his desk like she was trying to crawl into his lap. You didn’t notice the way her laugh dragged out a half second too long, or how she touched his arm as if she had any business whatsoever being within his personal space.

No. You weren’t paying attention to any of that.

Even though your quill had stopped moving.

Even though your jaw was tight.

Even though your eyes had narrowed into little slits of murderous intent.

You were just... hyper-fixated.

Totally calm.

Just studying Mattheo’s immediate radius like it was cursed. That was normal. That was healthy.

The girl tossed her hair over her shoulder—twice—and gave him what could only be described as a look that belonged in the restricted section of the library.

"Your eyes are just so intense," she cooed.

You immediately looked down at your cauldron before you said something insane like, “Thanks, they’re also MY soulmate’s eyes, you tragic broomstick.”

Mattheo just smiled a little and went back to grinding the knotgrass like nothing was happening, like he was completely unbothered by her flirting or your rapid descent into psychological crisis.

You clenched your jaw and poked at your potion so aggressively it sizzled too fast and turned an ominous shade of purple.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t flirting back.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t looked at her more than once.

What mattered was: she thought she could try.

She thought she had a chance.

She didn’t see the green streak in your hair or the mark on your soul.

You weren’t possessive. You just believed in justice.

And then, as if the universe had declared this to be your villain origin story, it happened again.

Across the room, Theodore was flipping through his notes, calm and quiet as always, when a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl waltzed up to him like she was auditioning for the lead role in “Obliviate My Dignity, I Love You.”

“Oh, Theodore,” she said sweetly, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder, “I was wondering if you could help me with Ancient Runes sometime this week? I always get so confused with those complicated little symbols, and you’re just so smart...”

You couldn’t breathe.

You weren’t even blinking anymore.

Your hands were clenched so tightly around your quill that you felt the tip snap with a pathetic crack.

Your parchment was shaking.

She giggled.

GIGGLED.

A FUCKING HEHE.

And Theodore—stoic, poised, elegant Theodore—just gave a nod, polite and distant, like nothing about this warranted your complete emotional combustion.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to shove your book across the room and shriek, “BACK OFF YOU WHORE, HE BELONGS TO ME!”

Instead, you sat there.

Frozen.

Fuming.

You calmly (violently) stuffed your books into your bag, slammed your cauldron shut, and stormed out of the classroom like your robe was on fire and your dignity was the smoke trailing behind you.

Neither Mattheo nor Theodore even had time to say anything.

Because you were already gone.

Like a jealous little storm cloud with anger issues and the emotional stability of a cursed kitten.

────────────────

Ten minutes later, you were back in the Hufflepuff common room, violently offended by existence, draped across the nearest armchair like a Victorian maiden who’d just learned her engagement had been broken off.

Face buried deep in the cushions, body twisted at an angle no healer would ever recommend, you let out a groan so dramatic it echoed through the room.

“She touched his arm,” you hissed into the pillow. “She touched him, Cedric. With her hand. Like she was entitled to it. Like that arm hadn’t been claimed by fate and magic and whatever divine thread ties me to my terrible, irritating soulmate—”

Cedric, several feet away at the chessboard, didn’t even glance up. “You’ve said that three times already.”

“Because it bears repeating!” you shouted, flipping onto your back and throwing one arm over your eyes like the sky was falling. “Mattheo SMILED. And not a polite smile. Not a disinterested, dismissive, ‘please leave me alone’ smile. A pretty one! He did that sharp little side-smirk! You know the one!”

Ernie peeked up from the couch, confused but intrigued. “The side-smirk?”

“The one where his lip curls like he knows you’ll sell your soul for him!” you cried, flailing your hands in the air. “And then—THEN—he leaned back in his seat and let her talk to him for a whole minute.”

Cedric moved his knight, muttering, “A whole minute. Scandalous.”

You sat up straight, wild-eyed and flushed. “It WAS! And she twirled her hair, Cedric. Hair twirling. In front of me. She twirled, giggled, and tucked it behind her ear like she was in some tragic romance story. I don’t even twirl my hair and I’m adorable!”

“That’s true,” Susan chimed in from beside Ernie, flipping through a book but watching you with far too much amusement. “You pout and dramatic sigh. Much more your brand.”

“And don’t even get me started on Theodore,” you seethed, sinking back into your chair and pulling a throw blanket over your head like you were entering mourning. “Some Ravenclaw girl just happened to need help with Ancient Runes and just happened to sit next to him and just happened to giggle like a deranged fairy when he said a single word.”

Ernie blinked. “Was it a helpful word?”

“IT WAS ‘SURE!’” you wailed. “She asked if he could help her and he said ‘sure’ like it meant nothing. Like she wasn’t plotting to seduce him right there on the table!”

Cedric, still not looking up, asked, “Did he actually flirt back?”

You paused. “No.. but he breathed near her! And he tolerated her existence!”

Susan burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re so far gone it’s embarrassing.”

You huffed, cheeks puffing out furiously. “I’m not jealous.”

“Uh-huh,” Ernie said gently, holding in a grin.

“I’m not!” you insisted, wrapping the blanket around yourself like a burrito of righteous fury. “I’m just...being observant.”

“Sure you are.”

“I’m observing the threats to my peace.”

Susan leaned closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “The way you puff your cheeks out when you're mad is so cute.”

You let out a muffled “hmph” and turned your back to all of them, nose in the air, face flushed, cheeks round and puffed out like a hamster that had been denied snacks and emotional validation.

Cedric glanced up finally and sighed. “Y/N, just admit you’re jealous and we can move on.”

“I am NOT JEALOUS,” you snapped, not turning around. “I am concerned. For the sanctity of our soulmate bond!”

Susan cackled. “Classic.”

────────────────

Later that day, in the library. .

You had chosen the most secluded table in the entire back corner of the library—the one hidden behind towering bookcases and suspiciously dusty shelves no one touched since 1873. It was your fortress of petty.

Textbooks? Open.

Quill? Sharp.

Eyes? Squinted in betrayal.

Arms crossed so tightly you were ninety percent sure your own ribs were bruised. You weren’t writing anything, or reading, or even pretending to. You were just... sulking.

And the moment you saw Mattheo and Theodore enter the library, your back went straight like a puppet on strings.

They saw you instantly, of course. How could they not? You were exuding the kind of dramatic storm cloud energy that could ruin a vacation.

You did not wave.

You did not smile.

You made direct eye contact for half a second, then turned your head so fast your neck cracked, flipping open your Transfiguration book like it had personally saved your life.

You heard them approach—heard the way Mattheo’s boots tapped lightly on the floor, how Theodore moved without making a sound at all.

And then—without so much as asking—Mattheo slid into the seat beside you like he owned it, which in hindsight, he probably assumed he did.

Theodore took the chair across from you, looking unbothered and elegant as always, like he was about to read a 600-page poetry anthology out loud in a dead language.

You didn’t look at them.

You refused.

Instead, you stared at the page in front of you with the intensity of someone trying to set it on fire through sheer spite.

A beat of silence.

Two.

Then—

“You’ve said ‘hmph’ six times in the last two minutes,” Theodore said, tone as flat and dry as the dusty library air.

You stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mattheo, already lounging with one arm slung lazily over the back of your chair, leaned in with an amused smile. “You also sighed dramatically four times. Adjusted your posture five. And glared at Theodore when he looked at his watch.”

“I was admiring his watch,” you said, still not making eye contact. “It’s ugly.”

“I gave it to him,” Mattheo replied smoothly.

You blinked. “Exactly.”

Theodore raised a brow. “You pouted at your inkpot.”

“I was—” You faltered. “It insulted me first.”

Mattheo grinned. “Did it, now?”

“...Yes.”

“You also whispered ‘traitor’ to your quill when it rolled off the table.”

You turned a page in your book so aggressively it might’ve developed trauma. “It deserved it.”

Theodore tilted his head ever so slightly, resting his chin on one hand while the other idly traced circles on the wooden table. “You've been avoiding eye contact.”

“I’ve been making eye contact with this table,” you said.

“The table is not your soulmate.”

“Neither are you!” you snapped automatically, then immediately flushed when you realized what you just said.

Mattheo’s smile widened. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

You sucked in a breath through your nose and gave a sharp little “hmph.” Then another. Then one more for good measure.

Mattheo leaned closer, chin nearly resting on your shoulder now, his voice far too amused for your liking. “Are you jealous?”

You blinked rapidly at your book. “No.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m cold.”

“It’s boiling in here,” Theodore replied, still cool and unreadable.

“I have poor circulation,” you snapped.

Mattheo laughed. “You’re blushing.”

“It’s a blood pressure issue!”

Theodore’s eyes twinkled, the faintest curl of a smirk forming at the corner of his lips. “It’s alright, Y/N. We think it’s cute.”

“I am not cute,” you said, cheeks growing impossibly warmer. “I am threatening.”

Mattheo hummed like he was considering it. “You are threatening. In a ‘tiny, furious owl with separation anxiety’ kind of way.”

You stood abruptly, practically knocking over your chair as you stuffed your book into your bag with a vengeance. “I’m going to study somewhere else.”

Mattheo blinked up at you. “Why?”

Theodore looked entirely unbothered. “So you can complain to Cedric again?”

You froze.

Your hand paused halfway into your bag.

“You heard that?” you asked, voice cracking like a dry twig.

Mattheo grinned. “You shrieked loud enough to rattle the common room walls.”

You stared at them, utterly horrified. “I hate both of you.”

“You’ll learn to love us eventually,” Mattheo said, smug.

You let out another “hmph,” turned on your heel, and stormed off down the aisle of books, cheeks puffed out, stomping like a pissed-off puffskein that had been denied a cuddle.

They watched you go in silence for a few seconds.

Mattheo leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head, utterly content.

Theodore finally allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk.

“He’s going to be unbearable about this for weeks.”

Theodore nodded slowly, fingers steepled. “And we’re going to enjoy every second of it.”

You were sulking again.

Not in the usual way—not with puffed-out cheeks and dramatic sighs and stomping footsteps that echoed through every hallway. No, this was... quieter.

More dangerous.

Because this time, they were the ones avoiding you.

You hadn’t seen Mattheo or Theodore in two whole days.

Two.

Whole.

FUCKING.

Days.

A whole 48-hours.

No shared glances in the corridors. No smug grins across the Great Hall. No teasing banter about your latest emotional meltdown. Not even a sarcastic comment about your twitchy hands or how cute you looked when you were furious.

It was maddening.

Worse—they were doing it on purpose.

Cedric confirmed it that morning while tying his tie with the energy of someone emotionally drained by your 4 a.m. ranting.

“Yeah, I saw them near the Slytherin table yesterday,” he’d muttered around a yawn. “Mattheo looked over at you and smirked. Then walked in the opposite direction.”

You gasped so hard you choked on your own toast.

“They’re teasing me,” you croaked, dramatic and betrayed. “They’re emotionally waterboarding me.”

Cedric didn’t even blink. “You’ve used that phrase three times this week.”

“Well it keeps being true!”

Now it was evening, and you were curled up in your usual chair in the Hufflepuff common room, staring blankly at your book without turning a single page. Every few minutes, you let out the world’s smallest “hmph,” followed by another.

Susan was mid-essay nearby when she finally caved.

"Y/N," she said softly, "please find them before you kill yourself. You radiate the energy of an abandoned Victorian orphan."

You opened your mouth to argue—then closed it again.

Because she was right.

You were tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of pretending their absence wasn’t suffocating. Tired of pretending like you didn’t miss them so much it hurt.

So you stood up.

Tossed your quill onto the table.

And mumbled, “I’ll be right back.”

────────────────

The Slytherin common room was quiet when you walked in, your eyes scanning the space as you clutched the sleeves of your hoodie. Your footstep echoed softly against the stone floor, the low hum of the fire crackling in the background. You had expected to arrive before them, maybe have a second to collect your thoughts, but instead—

There they were.

Mattheo and Theodore, already settled on the floor in front of the large emerald velvet couch, backs leaned against it like it was their personal throne. Theodore was calmly flipping through a book, legs stretched out long in front of him, posture perfect even in relaxation. And Mattheo… Mattheo was sitting right next to Theodore, his hand gently playing with his fingers, his entire body relaxed and comfortably close, with his head tilted back to rest on Theodore’s shoulder.

He wasn’t even pretending not to be clingy about it.

You stopped in your tracks, shoulders stiffening slightly, and let out a tiny "hmph.”

Neither of them moved.

But Mattheo’s lips twitched like he was fighting back a grin.

You took a step closer, narrowing your eyes as you walked slowly toward them, arms crossed over your chest. “So this is what you two do when you’re not harassing me.”

Mattheo opened one eye, still lazily resting against Theodore’s shoulder. “Define ‘harass,’ sweetheart.”

“You were ignoring me for two days.”

“You call that ignoring?” he replied smoothly, his hand reaching up to play with the string of Theodore’s hoodie. “We were giving you space. You looked flustered.”

“I’m always flustered!” you shot back. “You don’t just leave me to—process emotions! Like some wounded Victorian maiden in a tower!”

Theodore finally looked up from his book, staring at you with an annoyingly calm gaze. “You missed us.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “I missed your chaotic aura.*l That’s all.”

Mattheo leaned into Theodore a little more, clearly enjoying himself. “You stomped out of Charms class like someone had insulted your kneazle.”

“I don’t even own a kneazle.”

“You do now. His name is Denial.”

You gasped. “You jerk!”

Another small “hmph.” left your lips as you dramatically turned your face to the side, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing your blush. Your eyes flicked back to the pair of them, curled up like puzzle pieces, fitting together with years of comfort and silent communication.

And the worst part? You wanted in. You wanted that warmth. That safety. That closeness.

Your feet moved before your pride could stop them.

“I’m sitting there,” you mumbled, pointing vaguely between Theodore’s legs.

Theodore blinked. “Here?”

“No. In the void, Theodore. Yes, there.”

You walked over before they could say anything else, and Theodore wordlessly shifted his legs slightly apart to make room. You turned around and slowly—very slowly—sat down between his legs, your back against his chest, his knees bracketing your sides. His arms didn’t move to touch you, but they hovered nearby, like he was waiting for permission.

Your breath hitched slightly. You didn’t stop him.

The warmth of his body behind you made your heart flutter in the most irritatingly tender way. And then—

Mattheo moved too.

Without warning, he scooted in—right in front of you, between your crossed legs, his knees on either side of your thighs, his back pressed gently to your chest. But instead of just sitting there, like a normal person might, he leaned his entire weight forward, turned himself sideways, and flopped his head down directly onto your chest.

You yelped.

Your soul left your body.

“Mattheo—!”

“Shhh,” he hummed. “You’re comfortable.”

“I’m not a mattress!”

“You’re my mattress now,” he mumbled smugly, nuzzling closer, one arm draping over your waist like he belonged there.

Theodore let out a faint sigh behind you. “He did this to me earlier.”

“He’s heavy,” you complained, even as your hands awkwardly hovered near Mattheo’s shoulders, not quite sure if you should push him off or hold him tighter.

“Strong chest,” Mattheo muttered into your hoodie. “Perfect pillow.”

“Your flirting is criminally effective and I hate you.”

From behind, you felt Theodore rest his chin lightly on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re not pushing him off.”

“I’m contemplating murder,” you whispered.

“You’re stroking his hair.”

You froze.

Your hand had—without your permission—found its way into Mattheo’s curls and had started absently running through them. You immediately stopped, yanking your fingers away like you touched a hot cauldron.

“I didn’t mean to!”

Mattheo just hummed, too cozy to care. “Don’t stop…”

You groaned and thudded your head back against Theodore’s shoulder. “You two are infuriating.”

“You love it,” Theodore murmured, his voice so low and soft it made you shiver.

You didn’t reply.

But you didn’t move, either.

You even let out a little, content sigh.

Ten minutes passed by like a flash.

You were so warm.

So unbelievably, stupidly warm. Enveloped in an ocean of blankets, stolen body heat, and the barely-there sound of Mattheo's breath against your chest. The faint scent of his cologne—cinnamon and something darker—lingered on his robes and wafted up each time he shifted. It wrapped around you like a sleep spell.

Theodore’s arms were loosely encircling your waist, steady and grounding. He wasn’t doing anything—just holding you. But every so often, his fingers brushed against the soft fabric of your hoodie, tracing idle lines like he was memorizing the shape of you in silence.

One of them was gently rubbing your back.

The other had their fingers wrapped loosely around the string of your hoodie, tugging it every now and then like a bored cat playing with yarn. You had no idea who was doing what anymore.

You didn’t care.

You just let yourself sink into it.

Let the low, familiar rumble of their breathing pull you into that fuzzy place between awake and asleep. Let the quiet flicker of firelight on your closed eyelids lull you deeper. Let go of all the petty “hmphs,” all the jealousy, the biting comments and sulking. For a moment—just one—you weren’t overthinking everything. You weren’t pretending to hate them. You weren’t caught in the terrifying realization that two soulmates had already found each other and somehow, impossibly, also found you.

You were just… here.

Warm.

Held.

Wanted.

A breath shuddered out of you and your muscles softened completely, sinking further into Theodore’s lap like you were meant to be there. Mattheo let out a soft hum at the sound, his cheek now smushed lazily over your sternum. You felt the vibration in your chest, and your fingers—completely of their own accord—moved to rest gently in his hair.

The softest curls.

So warm.

So—

“Mm’not jealous,” you mumbled, half-asleep. “You’re jealous…”

Theodore let out a quiet laugh through his nose.

Mattheo snorted against you. “Sure, darling.”

But you were already gone. Lips parted. Breathing even. One hand tangled in Mattheo’s hair, the other limp near Theodore’s wrist. Your cheeks were flushed, soft lashes resting against the tops of your cheeks, the same cheeks that puffed out earlier when you were pouting your entire soul away in the common room.

You looked like peace personified. Like something breakable and beautiful.

Theodore glanced down and carefully adjusted your hoodie so it wasn’t bunching too tightly at your neck. His fingers grazed your jaw briefly, like he couldn’t help himself. Like it would’ve been a crime not to touch you gently while you were this still.

Mattheo looked up at him, voice low. “He’s still blushing.”

Theodore nodded, barely audible. “Even in his sleep.”

Neither of them moved.

They didn’t want to.

They didn’t dare.

This was the first time you'd let them hold you like this.

The first time you'd come willingly, nervously, but trustingly. It wasn't dramatic or loud or laced with teasing comebacks.

It was soft.

Vulnerable.

The moment felt sacred.

And that was the exact moment all hell broke loose.

The common room door creaked open—quietly at first, then all at once.

Lorenzo was the first to enter, holding a butterbeer and mid-sentence with Pansy. “And I told her, if she thinks she can just hex a boy into dating her—” He froze.

Right behind him, Pansy dropped her chocolate frog. Astoria’s gasp could probably be heard by the Bloody Baron. Draco walked into her back and nearly dropped his whole cauldron cake.

Blaise stopped chewing entirely.

All five of them stared.

On the couch in front of the fireplace, the three of you were an aesthetic tragedy waiting to happen.

You, dead asleep, face tucked into Mattheo’s hair, hand still curled in Theodore’s jumper. Mattheo, content and borderline purring on your chest. Theodore, holding both of you like a quietly smug piece of artwork.

“I am—” Astoria began, eyes wide.

“—actually going to cry,” Pansy whispered, hand over her heart.

Draco blinked like a man who had just seen the moon turn into a puppy. “They’re all cuddled up like baby ducklings.”

Lorenzo let out a laugh that shook his whole chest. “That’s it. That’s the moment. Draco. Camera. Now.”

Draco, bless his chaotic soul, grinned. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He whipped out the shiny black Muggle camera from his robe like he was drawing a wand. It beeped. Whirred.

Mattheo stirred slightly, but didn’t open his eyes.

“You’re gonna get caught,” Blaise warned softly, though his smirk was already forming.

“Oh, it’s worth it,” Pansy whispered, biting her knuckle.

Draco leaned in, camera poised. “Smile, lovebirds…”

The flash went off.

Mattheo’s eyes cracked open—just barely.

“You take one more photo,” he murmured groggily, “and I’m cursing your shoes to scream every time you walk.”

“I’ll risk it,” Pansy whispered back, already gesturing for another shot.

Theodore opened one eye and spoke with deadly calm. “All of you are insufferable.”

“But he’s BLUSHING in his sleep,” Astoria hissed gleefully.

Mattheo cracked a sleepy smile. “He really is.”

You stirred slightly, letting out a soft snore before snuggling deeper between them.

And the camera flashed again.

[theodorenmyth]

it's been.. a whole ass month since I last written a fic 😭😭😭 did you guys miss me? I'm so sorry for being inactive guys.. I've been busy with school BUT IM FINALLY ON BREAK so I can write rics whenever I want 😋😋😋 send me some requests in my inbox :3

[theodorenmyth]

um.. hi guys!! how yall doing.. 😅😅😅 anyways I'm sorry for disappearing chat 😓😓IM BACK NOW!! so. . . YAY! And I'm ready to write fics so drop me your one piece/harry potter requests in my inbox 😛

[theodorenmyth]

DING—DONG !

I have an announcement to make.. drumrolls please?!

🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

I OFFICIALLY HAVE AN AO3 ACCOUNT!!! I've taken your guy's suggestion to make an ao3 account and I made it :D I'll be uploading my fics there so all of you can read it! (Maybe not all of it because uploading 200+ fics?? 😭 Maybe all of it but it'll take days.)

My Account —

[theodorenmyth]

hiya, sneaking into your inbox to ask for a fluffy piece about mattheo sneaking out of his dorm at night to go cuddle with his snarky, prefect bf (also a slytherin) or them generally just sneaking around bc the relationship is relatively new and matty is super needy

Sleepy Cuddles

Pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x M!reader

Summary ; In the early stages of a secret relationship, Mattheo Riddle can't help but sneak into his snarky Slytherin prefect boyfriend’s bed for late-night cuddles. Needy, clingy, and absolutely obsessed, Mattheo refuses to let go—even when duty calls. What starts as a sleepy cuddle session turns into a battle of affection, stubbornness, and sleepy kisses, with Mattheo pressing soft kisses to your neck and jawline while you halfheartedly try to escape. Despite your protests, it’s obvious: you’re already wrapped around his finger… literally.

A/N ; hi I came back from the dead.. I missed u guys :3

Warnings ; none

Word count ; 2.2k+

The first time Mattheo snuck into your dorm, it was at least a little justified.

Midnight.

Cold.

Thunder rumbling low outside the castle walls. He’d claimed he "couldn’t possibly survive alone with all that weather threatening to murder him in his sleep."

You, being the soft idiot you were when it came to him, had let him crawl into your bed without a word.

But now?

Now it’s a perfectly clear night, barely a breeze outside, and the bloody idiot is shimmying through your door again like some overgrown, desperate cat.

You sit up in bed, squinting at the figure tripping over a chair and nearly flattening himself against your dresser.

"Mattheo," you hiss, dragging a hand down your face, "what the fuck are you doing?"

He straightens up, hair a mess, wand clenched between his teeth for Merlin-knows-what reason. He pulls it free with a sheepish grin.

"Needed to see you," he says simply, shameless as ever, like that explains everything.

You glare. "It’s one in the bloody morning. Tomorrow is patrol night, and if you get caught here, I lose my prefect badge."

Mattheo shrugs, moving toward you anyway. "Worth it."

"Mattheo—"

He flops onto your bed beside you with a dramatic groan, burrowing under your green Slytherin blankets like he owns the place. His hand immediately finds your waist under the covers, clinging to you like you're some sort of anchor keeping him tethered to this world.

"You’re so warm," he mumbles, already curling into your side, as if he hadn’t just committed a thousand violations of school rules and common sense. "You smell good too."

You thump him lightly on the head. "You’re impossible."

"Mm." He grins against your shoulder. "You love it."

Unfortunately, he’s right.

With a long-suffering sigh, you shift so he can tuck himself more comfortably against you. His hair brushes your jawline as he nuzzles closer, his fingers lightly stroking up and down your side, slow and almost absent-minded.

"You’re needy as hell, you know that?" you mutter.

Mattheo snickers. "You're lucky I'm only this clingy with you."

"That’s not reassuring."

"Should be." His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt now, tracing lazy circles against your skin. "Means you’re special."

You try (and fail) to suppress the heat creeping up your neck. "Says the guy who nearly broke my door sneaking in like a damn burglar."

"It’s not breaking if it’s romantic," he says smugly.

"You are a menace."

"I’m your menace."

You finally laugh, low and reluctant. "Unfortunately."

For a few minutes, it’s quiet. The castle seems to exhale around you, torches flickering in the corridors beyond your room. Mattheo’s breathing slows, matching yours, a steady rhythm that tugs at something deep in your chest.

And then, because he’s Mattheo Riddle and incapable of letting a peaceful moment stay peaceful, he mumbles, "You should let me move in."

You snort. "Move in? You have your own bed!"

"Your bed’s better. Smells better too." He inhales dramatically. "Like books and peppermint."

"You’re ridiculous."

"I’m serious," he insists, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. His hair falls into his eyes, soft and messy, and you hate how stupidly fond you feel.

"Mattheo—"

"Please?" His voice drops to a near-whine, shameless. "I’ll be quiet. I’ll even make the bed in the morning. I’ll..." he trails off, smirking wickedly, "repay you with affection."

You raise an eyebrow. "Affection, huh?"

"Endless affection," he promises solemnly. "Cuddles. Kisses. The works."

You roll your eyes, but before you can reply, Mattheo shifts closer, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against your jawline. The touch is soft, feather-light, and it makes your whole body tense.

Then he presses another kiss a little lower, right where your jaw meets your neck.

And another.

And another, softer still.

You feel your heart stutter like a traitor.

"You’re unbelievable," you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless.

"You’re in love with me," he whispers, lips brushing your skin between every word. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies.

"Debatable," you manage, even as your hand slips into his messy curls without thinking.

He leans in again, pressing a soft kiss just beneath your ear. "Very debatable," he murmurs. His breath sends shivers down your spine.

You shove his face away with a hand, earning a huff of laughter.

"Alright, shut up," you say, trying not to grin. "You can stay for a bit."

Mattheo beams, victorious. "You love me."

"You’re on probation," you correct, lying back and letting him tuck himself under your arm again. "One wrong move and you're back to your own bed."

"Sure, sure." His voice is muffled against your chest. "I’ll be on my best behavior."

A moment later, he adds, "Mostly."

You sigh. "You’re going to get us both expelled."

"You’d miss me," he says smugly.

"You have too much faith in your own charm."

"And you have no poker face," he shoots back, laughing softly when you flick his ear.

After a beat, he quiets. His fingers absently trace the stitching on your pajama shirt, slow and aimless, like he’s memorizing every thread. His hand feels almost reverent against your chest, grounding you, soothing you.

"You know," he says, voice low and strangely tentative, "I like this."

You glance down at him, hand still resting lightly on his head. "Cuddling?"

"Yeah. And you."

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. "Feels...good. Safe."

You soften immediately, cursing him and yourself in the same breath. You lift your hand, threading it deeper through his hair, feeling him melt under the touch like wax.

"I like it too," you admit quietly, your chest tightening with the honesty of it.

He tilts his head up, grinning that boyish, almost shy grin he saves only for you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." He smirks, cocky again, but there’s a gentleness behind it now. "Means I can keep sneaking in then."

You groan. "I’m creating a monster."

"You’re just mad you love the monster."

"Go to sleep, Mattheo."

"Yes, Prefect."

He snickers against your skin, obnoxiously pleased with himself. But his breathing evens out soon enough, his weight warm and solid beside you, one leg tangled lazily with yours like he never plans to let you go.

You lie awake a little longer, staring up at the ceiling, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other wrapped around his waist.

You know you’re doomed.

Utterly, irreversibly doomed.

But somehow, with Mattheo curled against you like this—needy, reckless, yours—you don’t really mind.

In fact, you think you might love it.

The first thing you become aware of when you wake up is the distinct sensation of being completely, utterly trapped.

And no, it's not a nightmare. It's Mattheo.

His body is draped over you like a human blanket, arms wrapped around your torso in a way that suggests he never plans on letting go, and one of his legs is tangled in yours, pinning you to the bed.

You blink, squinting at the light creeping through your curtains. It's still early, and you can hear the faint echoes of other students beginning their own early mornings.

But here you are.

Mattheo Riddle has infiltrated your bed again. And there’s no way to escape.

"Mattheo," you croak, voice a little too rough from sleep. "You’re crushing me."

He makes an unintelligible noise against your neck, burrowing deeper into the crook of it like you’re the most comfortable thing in the world.

"Mattheo," you repeat, trying your best to shove him off, but he’s clingy as hell and stronger than you remember.

"Mm?" he hums, still not bothering to lift his head. "You smell good."

"What?" You sputter, utterly flustered despite the situation. "That’s it? That’s your response?"

He just sighs contentedly, pressing a lazy kiss to your neck like he’s done this a thousand times before. "Mm. You smell like peppermint and... books. My favorite."

You fight the stupid smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "You’re unbelievable."

"I know." He nuzzles even closer, pulling your arm tighter around him like he’s some kind of needy puppy. "Now stay. You’re warm. I’m tired."

You groan, pulling your other arm out from under his grasp to check the time. "Mattheo, please. I have rounds in less than fifteen minutes, and if I’m late—"

"I don’t care," he interrupts, voice muffled as he drapes himself more heavily on top of you. "You’re not leaving me."

You try to sit up again, but his body is like dead weight on top of yours. You give a half-hearted tug on his arm, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he lets out an exaggerated whine, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face into your chest.

"Mattheo," you repeat, trying to wiggle your way out from under him, "I have responsibilities!"

"You’re not getting out of this bed." He lifts his head just enough to glance at you, his eyes heavy with sleep but mischievous all the same. "I’ll do anything. Just don’t go."

"Anything?" you echo, raising an eyebrow. "I could be late, you know. You’ll be late for classes."

He shrugs, unbothered, and his lips curl into a small, smug smile. "Nah. Who needs classes when I’ve got you?"

"Mattheo..." You huff, trying to pull yourself out from under him, but he's like a sticky spider, wrapping his arms tighter and tighter, refusing to let you escape.

"You're so warm," he mumbles, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who’s definitely in the wrong.

You’re about to protest again when you feel him press a soft kiss to your neck, lingering a moment before nuzzling against your skin.

"What are you doing?" you ask, half-indignant, half-amused.

"I’m trying to convince you to stay," he mumbles, voice drowsy but still so damn smug. "It’s working, isn’t it?"

Your mind goes blank for a second as his lips leave another soft kiss on your throat. And then, another one just under your jaw. His lips are warm, soft, and... distracting.

"You’re impossible," you mutter, but you can’t stop yourself from shifting slightly, making more space for him, despite your best efforts.

"You love it," Mattheo says matter-of-factly. His hands sneak up to your back, pulling you closer until you’re practically sandwiched between him and the mattress.

"I’m serious, Mattheo," you say, your voice losing its sternness in favor of frustration and something else that feels suspiciously like affection. "I have to get up."

Mattheo glances up at you, looking far too content with his position. "You’re always so serious. Just relax. Let’s just... stay here a little longer." He presses his lips to your jawline, soft and slow. "I promise I’ll let you go soon."

"Yeah, right," you mutter, but you don’t move.

You can feel Mattheo smile against your skin, and it’s a feeling you know all too well—the warm, self-satisfied grin he wears when he knows he’s won.

And he has.

Again.

You sigh, finally giving in to the inevitable. "You're fucking impossible," you grumble, sinking deeper into the sheets, despite the nagging voice in your head that keeps reminding you of your prefect duties.

Mattheo hums happily, nuzzling into your neck again, completely satisfied. "I love you."

"I love you more." You shift, letting him pull you into a more comfortable position. "But I’m still going to be late if you don’t let me up soon."

"Then be late," he whispers, his voice full of drowsy amusement. "You can’t possibly want to leave me now."

The next thing you know, his lips are brushing against the side of your neck again, his kisses slow, deliberate, and so soft they make your heart race. One kiss lands just below your ear, and another trails along the side of your jaw.

"Mattheo..." you start, but your voice cracks. You have to swallow hard to keep it from betraying you, your stomach flipping.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes half-lidded with sleep, but the look on his face is soft and entirely too affectionate for your own good. "I’m not letting go," he says, voice hushed and serious now.

You know he’s joking.

Mostly.

But damn it, there’s something in his gaze, something warm and tender that leaves you speechless.

"I’m going to get in so much trouble," you mutter, knowing full well that you don’t really care.

"Good," Mattheo says with a sleepy grin. "You’ll be in trouble with me, and I can make it worth your while."

You roll your eyes, but it’s obvious you’ve already given up.

Mattheo presses a sleepy kiss to the side of your throat, so soft and slow you almost melt right then and there.

Then another, a little higher.

And another, just under your jaw.

"You're evil," you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut.

"Mm," he hums, sounding very pleased with himself. "Your evil."

You thump your head back against the pillow, officially resigned to your fate.

There’s no way you’re getting out of this bed without a serious fight—and honestly, you’re not sure you even want to.

Instead, you sigh, reaching down to pull the blankets higher around both of you.

"Five more minutes," you mumble.

Mattheo grins against your skin, victorious.

"Knew you'd cave."

"Yeah, yeah," you grumble, pressing a kiss to the top of his messy curls. "Shut up and go back to sleep, menace."

As Mattheo settles against you again, breathing deeply in contentment, you try once more to fight the pull of his affection, the warmth of his body.

But in the end, it’s no use.

You're already lost.

[theodorenmyth]

hey!

could i please request a fic where theodore's sibling is dating mattheo and they want it to be a secret, but then everyone ends up finding out and they think theo's going to be angry/overprotective but he's really chill? and the pair are confused and a little offended by how unbothered he is?

i love reading your comedy fics because they always make me laugh!!

Secret Relationship

pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x GN!Reader

summary ; You and Mattheo Riddle secretly date behind your brother aka Theodore’s back, fearing his reaction. But when everyone finds out, Theodore is shockingly chill — leaving your chaotic friend group furious and dramatically disappointed by the lack of sibling rage.

A/N ; it's been so long since I uploaded 😭😭😭😭😭 I missed u all sm, AND ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WROTE A MATTHEO FIC HELLO?! I've been on a Theodore streak I swear 😭 pls enjoy this comedic mess

Warnings ; none, just pure chaos

Word count ; 4.1k+

The night air curled around you in thin, biting tendrils, the wind sweeping through the Astronomy Tower and chilling your fingers where they gripped the stone ledge. The tower loomed above the castle, far removed from the warm flicker of torches and the comfortable murmur of the common rooms. Up here, the world felt suspended—like time had stopped and the stars were the only witnesses to your terrible, beautiful secret.

You were absolutely not supposed to be here.

"You’re shivering."

The voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence. You didn’t even need to look—you’d recognize that voice in your sleep. Mattheo Riddle stepped forward from the shadows with that familiar slouch, half-hooded eyes glinting with mischief and something gentler he’d never admit to. His black coat hung loosely from his shoulders, already halfway off as he reached out and draped it over yours.

The weight of it was immediate—warm, worn, and unmistakably his. It smelled like firewood, mint, and danger. A combination you had no business enjoying as much as you did.

"I'm not cold," you muttered, hugging the coat tighter around yourself despite the denial.

Mattheo arched a brow, unimpressed. "You're a terrible liar."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are," he insisted, stepping closer, his grin growing with every step. "You always do that thing with your nose when you lie."

You blinked. “What thing?”

"That—" He pointed at you with a smirk as your nose instinctively scrunched. "Exactly that."

Your scowl deepened. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told.”

“And yet, here I am.”

He was fully in front of you now, close enough to steal your breath if you let him. His fingers grazed your waist like a question, an invitation. One you never could refuse.

"You could’ve stayed in bed like a reasonable person," he teased, voice dipped in velvet. "Instead, you came all the way up here just to see me."

"Don't flatter yourself," you muttered.

But he knew better.

And so did you.

Mattheo leaned in, his lips brushing yours, barely touching—just enough to set your nerves alight. "Say it."

"Say what?" you breathed, feigning innocence.

"That you missed me."

"I didn’t."

"Liar," he whispered against your mouth, and then he kissed you.

The world fell away.

His mouth on yours was rough and unrelenting, like he had waited too long and thought too much and wanted to erase the time you’d spent apart. You kissed him back with equal fervor, clutching his collar as if to tether yourself to the moment. The cold didn’t matter. The risk didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way his hands roamed your sides like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, like he wanted to touch everything at once.

He was infuriating and impulsive and impossible—but gods, he was yours.

Eventually, you pulled away, lips tingling and lungs begging for breath. He rested his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist still firm, possessive.

"This is reckless," you whispered, eyes half-lidded and drunk on him.

Mattheo didn’t even blink. "Reckless is snogging your best mate’s sibling in the Astronomy Tower at one in the morning while the entire school sleeps."

You groaned and thumped your head against his shoulder. "Don’t remind me."

"Just saying. We’ve already passed the point of no return, haven’t we?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you watched the stars—millions of them, quiet and distant and probably laughing at the mess you’d made of yourself. You should’ve stopped this weeks ago. You’d tried to stop. But Mattheo always had this way of pulling you back in, like gravity.

"This is insane," you murmured.

"Mm," he agreed. "And I love it."

You tilted your head to look at him. "You would."

Mattheo smiled, that crooked, charming sort of smile that spelled nothing but trouble. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that contradicted everything he usually projected.

"I like you like this," he said suddenly.

"Like what?"

"Defiant. Warm. Close." His voice dropped. "Mine."

Your breath hitched.

You hated how easily he could unravel you.

“You know my brother would murder you,” you said, only half-joking.

Mattheo’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, well. That’s why he doesn’t know.”

“And if he finds out?”

His eyes darkened—not in fear, but in resolve. "Then we deal with it. Together."

Something in your chest tightened painfully. Mattheo Riddle was not known for making promises, but when he did, they meant something.

You tried to play it off, to lighten the moment. "Very noble of you. Might even make you look brave."

"I'm always brave," he deadpanned.

You laughed despite yourself and leaned up to kiss him again—softer this time, slower. Like a lullaby in the middle of a war.

Another set of footsteps—distant but undeniable—snapped you both out of it. Mattheo jerked away instantly, eyes sharp, scanning the stairwell below.

Your stomach dropped as you ducked behind one of the stone columns, barely breathing.

Please not a professor. Please not a prefect. Please not—

Silence.

The footsteps faded.

Mattheo let out a slow exhale. "That was way too close."

You nodded, pressing a hand over your pounding heart. “We need to stop doing this in public places.”

"Then invite me to your dorm."

"Absolutely not."

"The library?"

"Too exposed."

"Empty classroom?"

"Too cliché."

"Room of Requirement?"

You paused. "...Too convenient."

He gave a low laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Mattheo leaned forward and kissed your cheek, just above your jaw. “Tomorrow night?”

You hesitated. You should say no. You meant to say no.

“…Fine. But somewhere safer.”

"Deal."

He squeezed your hand once before retreating back down the stairs with the grace of someone who’d done this a dozen times and would do it a dozen more.

You stayed a moment longer, the weight of his coat still wrapped around your shoulders and the ghost of his lips still on your mouth. The stars blinked silently overhead, their light cool and unjudging. You exhaled and turned to go, already thinking about tomorrow—and all the chaos it might bring.

You were in too deep.

And you didn’t care.

Rain was pouring against the windows like the sky itself was throwing a tantrum, Hogwarts cloaked in that damp, miserable grey that made everyone collectively more dramatic than usual. You trudged into the Great Hall, dragging your feet like a ghost of your former, snogged-out self. You spotted your friends instantly—because they were loud, nosy, and sitting in their usual spot, plotting world domination over croissants and coffee.

You slid into your seat next to Blaise with the elegance of a sleep-deprived troll and immediately reached for a slice of toast, praying today would be normal. No scandal. No drama. No accidental references to someone’s pine-scented hair or stupid smirking face or warm hands on your—

Mattheo Riddle plopped himself directly beside you.

Your toast froze mid-air.

“Oh, excellent,” he said, sounding obscenely cheerful for someone who hadn’t brushed his curls. “You got the good jam.”

He reached across your plate like a heathen and scooped up a glob of raspberry jam with his butter knife, smearing it messily on your toast like he was helping.

“I was going to eat that,” you deadpanned.

“And now you are, but with flavor,” he replied, looking far too pleased with himself.

Across the table, Lorenzo choked on his tea. Draco froze mid-butter-spread. Blaise leaned back slowly with a suspicious grin. Pansy squinted like she was trying to read the entire history of your existence from the look on your face. Astoria didn’t even look up—she just let out the most disappointed sigh in the history of human breathing.

You, a rational and responsible person, did the obvious thing.

You pretended absolutely nothing was happening.

Mattheo, who was clearly born to make everything worse, leaned in. “Are you going to eat that, or are you going to keep staring at me like you’re in love?”

You dropped your toast. Draco visibly gasped. Blaise bit his knuckle.

“Okay,” Lorenzo said slowly, dramatically. “I think we all need to pause and—what the hell is going on here?”

“Nothing,” you and Mattheo said in perfect harmony.

A collective suspicious silence fell over the group.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “You’re sitting suspiciously close to each other.”

“Coincidence,” you said.

“He stole your toast.”

“Generous community breakfasting,” Mattheo supplied.

“You’re blushing,” Draco noted, pointing a butter knife at your face.

“It’s warm in here,” you snapped. “There’s body heat. Circulation. Weather.”

“You’re playing footsie,” Blaise added smugly.

“We are absolutely not playing footsie,” Mattheo said, jerking his leg away from yours so fast he kneed the underside of the table and nearly knocked over the entire jug of pumpkin juice.

“Okay,” Lorenzo muttered. “If this isn’t a secret relationship, then I am the ghost of Salazar Slytherin, here to reclaim his house from the deranged couple defiling it.”

You tried to glare. Really, you did. But Mattheo had crumbs on his lip, and his eyes were doing that annoyingly attractive sparkle thing, and your face betrayed you by melting.

“OH MY GOD,” Pansy screamed. “YOU’RE LITERALLY SO IN LOVE.”

“I am in denial,” you barked. “Which is very different.”

Blaise laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench. “So, just to confirm—are you or are you not snogging this absolute chaos goblin in secret?”

“We’re not snogging,” Mattheo said quickly. “Why would we snog? Snogging is for people with… lips.”

“You have lips,” Draco said flatly.

“Debatable,” Mattheo replied, before turning to you with pleading eyes. “Help me.”

“Everyone is being very dramatic,” you announced. “Mattheo and I are friends. Acquaintances. Mortal enemies with occasional group project chemistry.”

“You left the Potions lab last Thursday with your tie undone and a hickey on your neck,” Astoria said without looking up.

“It was a mosquito! ” Mattheo cried. “They were everywhere.”

“In the Potions lab?” Blaise asked, blinking.

“...Yes,” you said weakly. “It was.. uhm.. infested.”

Pansy slammed her hands on the table. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”

“Five minutes,” you blurted. “No time at all. We’re still in the test trial phase.”

“Two months,” Mattheo mumbled at the same time.

You turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “What happened to denying everything?”

“I panicked!” he whispered. “You’re really bad at lying and it’s contagious!”

“Oh my god, it’s been TWO MONTHS?” Draco’s voice cracked like a choirboy’s. “And you didn’t tell us? We could’ve made popcorn!”

“I’m going to cry,” Pansy announced. “I feel betrayed. Emotionally compromised. Romantically offended.”

“You literally told me yesterday to snog someone or die lonely,” you muttered.

“I didn’t mean him! ”

Mattheo raised a hand. “Okay, now that’s just rude.”

“I SWEAR,” Pansy continued, “if Theodore finds out and kills you, I am not attending your funeral unless there’s drama and vengeance.”

You blinked. “Okay, but—what if he just doesn’t… find out?”

The table went still.

Pansy looked like she was about to burst into flames. “Okay. Someone get Theodore. He deserves to know that his sibling is dating—dating—Mattheo ‘bite me’ Riddle.”

You stiffened.

The entire table stilled.

Then, as if summoned by the devil himself, all heads turned in slow-motion toward the far end of the Slytherin table… where Theodore Nott sat, expression calm, buttering a scone with the serenity of a man who was either extremely zen or planning to murder someone using only a teaspoon.

You froze.

Mattheo froze.

Even Draco looked nervous.

“He doesn’t know,” you whispered.

“He definitely knows,” Astoria said calmly. “He’s buttering that scone with deadly precision. No one but assassins butter that neatly.”

Blaise leaned in, stage-whispering like a six-year-old gossip. “He’s holding the knife like he’s considering options.”

Pansy was practically vibrating. “I live for this. Theodore is going to explode. It’s going to be glorious. I want screaming. Threats. At least one table flip. I want to feel alive again!”

“Do not summon violence into this sacred breakfast,” you hissed.

Draco smirked. “Better tell Mattheo to run now while he still has all his limbs.”

Pansy stood up and immediately rolled up her sleeves. “I AM READY FOR THE DRAMA. BRING IT. DUEL AT DAWN. I’LL BE YOUR SECOND.”

Astoria grabbed her by the back of the cloak and yanked her down like she was restraining a feral cat. “Sit. Down. You’re not sword-fighting Theodore in the middle of breakfast.”

“Why not?” Pansy whined. “We live in a magical castle. This is the perfect place for sword-fighting!”

You and Mattheo exchanged a horrified glance.

“I think we just declared war,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Well. At least we’re dying pretty.”

If Mattheo Riddle had a Galleon for every time he thought, “this is how I die,” he could’ve funded a whole underground resistance, a few cursed artifacts, and still had enough left to buy you a shiny ring and a nice flat in Hogsmeade.

This time, though?

There would be no ring.

No flat.

No wedding.

Just his body launched into orbit by Theodore Nott’s inevitable, unstoppable rage.

You were standing in the corridor just outside the Great Hall, trying to decide whether to walk into your own execution or drag your boyfriend back to the dungeons by his ear.

Mattheo Riddle had been pacing like a man possessed for the past fifteen minutes.

“Okay, okay, okay—maybe I should bow?” he muttered to himself. “No. Too much. Theodore might think I’m mocking him. Should I curtsy? Would that be better? Classier?”

“Mattheo,” you said, voice deadpan, “if you curtsy to my brother, I will physically throw you out of a window.”

“I just—he’s going to murder me,” Mattheo wailed, throwing his hands in the air like some kind of tragic widow. “He’s going to skin me and use my corpse as a decorative throw for the Slytherin common room. I’ll be throw fashion, darling.”

You stared. “You’ve lost your mind.”

He spun dramatically and grabbed both your hands. “You don’t get it. That man terrifies me. He’s tall. He’s quiet. He wears all black. He looks like he reads tragic poetry for fun. He has ‘I’ll bury you behind the greenhouse’ energy.”

You tried not to laugh. “He’s just my brother.”

“No. He’s a whole experience. A terrifying one. Like one of those silent movies where the guy never speaks but everyone dies anyway.”

“Mattheo—”

“What if he pulls a wand on me and casts some obscure ancient curse from the Nott family grimoire and my skin turns inside out?”

“Then I’ll get you some exfoliating cream and a hug.”

Mattheo gave you an utterly wounded look. “That’s all the sympathy I get in my darkest hour?”

“Your darkest hour hasn’t even started.”

Footsteps echoed ominously down the hallway.

Mattheo froze, grabbing the wall like a man in mourning. “Oh Merlin. It’s him. It’s Theodore. I’m not ready. You said I had five more minutes!”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t emotionally prepared then and I’m *less* emotionally prepared now!”

You didn't have time to argue. Theodore turned the corner, walking toward you with his usual unbothered, slow-as-hell stride, like he had all the time in the world to arrive at your crime scene.

Mattheo made a strangled noise like a dying bird and—without shame—threw himself behind you.

“Don’t let him hurt me!” he whisper-yelled into your shoulder. “If I die, tell your mother I looked amazing at my funeral.”

Theodore raised a single eyebrow. “Are you hiding behind my sibling?”

Mattheo popped his head out. “Not hiding—strategically retreating. It’s different.”

“Yes,” you muttered, “the strategy is cowardice.”

He clung to your robes like a damsel. “This is not cowardice. This is self-preservation, thank you very much.”

Theodore stared at him blankly. “You’re pathetic.”

Mattheo inhaled deeply and then stepped out with the air of a man marching to the gallows. “Okay. Okay. Theodore. I—I want to say something.”

Theodore tilted his head, mildly curious.

“I want to apologize for—uh—for all the... snogging. And emotional bonding. And, uh, the fact that I may or may not have licked and attacked your sibling’s neck in a highly inappropriate location on the Astronomy Tower—NOT THE POINT—what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry and please don’t hex my kneecaps or transfigure my ears into cauliflowers or whatever it is you Notts do when people betray your bloodline.”

Theodore blinked.

Mattheo cleared his throat. “I just—really, really like your sibling, alright? Like, a lot. Like, ‘I’d write you letters in blood if I wasn’t squeamish’ a lot. And I know I’m kind of a mess and also a little deranged but I swear on Salazar’s bald head that I’m serious about this and if you want to punch me, just go for the left side, that’s my less photogenic side anyway—”

“I already knew,” Theodore interrupted.

Mattheo stopped mid-rant, finger in the air like he had more dramatic declarations to unleash. “Wait. What?”

“I’ve known for weeks.”

There was a beat of complete, shell-shocked silence.

Mattheo’s hand slowly lowered. “You… what?”

“I saw you sneaking out of the Astronomy Tower the first time,” Theodore said casually. “The scarf was a dead giveaway. And the second time. And the third. And the time you came back to the dorms with glitter in your hair and that weird grin like you'd just invented a new sin.”

Mattheo blinked rapidly. “So you knew... this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“No.”

“You didn’t curse me? Or duel me? Or send a howler to my mother?!”

Theodore shrugged. “I was enjoying watching you panic.”

You smacked your forehead.

Mattheo gasped and dramatically grabbed your sleeve. “He played me like a fiddle. A fiddle made of pure emotional torment.”

Theodore looked at you, dead serious. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll feed him to the Giant Squid.”

Mattheo nodded solemnly. “Honestly? That’s fair. Bit overkill, but poetic.”

“You two are insufferable,” you muttered.

Mattheo flopped against your back again, sighing dramatically. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He peeked at Theodore again. “So we’re good?”

Theodore gave him a long look. “Don’t push it.”

Mattheo immediately retreated behind you again. “He said don’t push it. I’m not pushing it. I’m hiding behind it.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“I’m a terrified man!”

Pansy, who had just turned the corner behind you with Draco and Astoria in tow, screeched like someone had been stabbed—an unholy, earsplitting shriek that ricocheted off the stone walls of the corridor like a cursed howler let loose during a funeral.

“HE FUCKING KNEW?!” she howled, her eyes wide with the sheer betrayal of it all, like Theodore had personally wronged her ancestral bloodline.

The entire hallway fell into a stunned silence for half a second before chaos exploded like a badly brewed potion. A nearby portrait of a sleepy wizard jolted awake and threw his goblet at the ground, muttering something about “witches these days.” You and Mattheo both flinched so violently you almost knocked heads—and Mattheo, being the brave soul that he was, dove behind you like a coward, clutching the back of your robes with the death grip of a man facing an angry hippogriff.

“HOLY SHIT, Pansy!” Lorenzo barked, careening in behind her like a gale-force wind in Gucci boots, nearly tripping over his own feet and the bag of crisps he had clearly brought specifically for this moment. “You trying to rupture the space-time continuum with your lungs? I think my left eardrum just committed suicide!”

“You—you KNEW?!” Blaise turned to Theodore with all the grace and fury of someone who just found out his favorite soap opera had been canceled mid-cliffhanger. “And you didn’t do anything?! Not even a single ominous shoulder squeeze? A disapproving nod? A slow, terrifying walk behind them in the corridors with your eyes narrowed like a cryptid in the fog?!”

“I was counting on some emotionally stunted vengeance,” Lorenzo chimed in, now holding his crisps like a judgmental gavel. “You let us down, Nott.”

“EXACTLY!” Pansy shrieked, spinning around with the energy of a banshee leading a revolution. “Where’s the drama?! Where’s the furious wand duel at midnight in the courtyard? WHERE'S THE TWO-PAGE SPEECH ABOUT BETRAYAL AND SIBLING HONOUR AND A TRAGIC LOVE DOOMED FROM THE START?!”

Draco looked like he was genuinely grieving. He placed one hand on his heart, the other dramatically outstretched as if speaking to the heavens. “This is worse than my father’s fourth engagement party. At least that had fireworks and an enchanted swan that exploded.”

Theodore, for his part, looked like he’d just woken up from a nap and couldn’t be arsed. Standing with his hands in his pockets and his expression set to “Could Not Care Less If I Tried,” he said, “I already told them. I’ve known for weeks.”

“WEEKS?!” Blaise yelped, clutching Lorenzo’s shoulder like he needed emotional support.

“And you didn’t even glare once?!” Draco gasped, eyes practically bulging out of his head. “You didn’t pull out your wand and threaten to CRUCIO his bloodline?!”

“I expected some level of ominous sibling rage,” Lorenzo muttered. “Instead I got... emotional neutrality. Honestly, it’s offensive.”

“I’m just—confused,” Blaise said, flinging his arms out. “Do you even care? You’re acting like Mattheo hasn’t spent the past month playing tonsil hockey with your sibling in every broom cupboard in the castle.”

“I expected fireworks,” Pansy seethed. “Screaming. Maybe a duel that would’ve made the school nurse cry. At least a threatened expulsion! And instead—” she gestured wildly at Theodore “—we got this! Calm! Rational! Emotionally intelligent?! I’m DISGUSTED.”

Astoria, who had been quietly standing by, now had both hands around Pansy’s waist, physically holding her back like she was restraining a chihuahua on steroids. “Pans, don’t lunge. You promised no tackling.”

“I DIDN’T PROMISE NOTHING,” Pansy roared.

Theodore blinked slowly, looking almost bored. “If Mattheo breaks their heart, I’ll throw him off the Astronomy Tower myself. Until then, I’ve got exams.”

Mattheo, still half-hiding behind you like a traumatized Victorian child, made a strangled sound. “He’s gonna what—?”

“I—I tried to apologize,” Mattheo spluttered, peeking out from behind your shoulder with the world’s most wounded expression. “I was halfway through my bloody sentence and he just cut me off! I had a whole speech! With metaphors!”

“You didn’t even get to the metaphor about comparing Theodore’s glare to a dementor with a caffeine addiction,” you whispered.

“RIGHT?” Mattheo pointed at you with a pout. “That was my best one!”

“You were sobbing into a chocolate frog outside the potions lab,” Blaise said, deadpan.

“Yeah, I remember that,” Lorenzo added with a snort. “You kept whispering, ‘he’s going to turn me into a ferret’.”

“You weren’t even dating me when you did that,” you muttered.

Mattheo groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I was emotionally preparing! For war!”

“And there was no war!” Draco cried. “Just—just peace! Like we’re living in some healthy, emotionally mature AU!”

“This is worse than my cousin’s vow renewal,” Pansy snapped, now pacing in a circle. “At least that ended with a hexed priest and someone’s wig catching fire.”

Lorenzo clapped Blaise on the back. “Well, guess I lost the bet.”

“What bet?” you asked, dreading the answer.

“I had twenty galleons on Theodore turning Mattheo into a cactus and leaving him outside Hagrid’s hut.”

“Honestly, I would’ve preferred that,” Mattheo muttered.

“Same,” Draco said, disgusted.

“You’re all insane,” Theodore said.

“And you’re boring,” Blaise fired back. “Where’s the trauma?! Where’s the iconic sibling rage? You had the perfect opportunity to deliver a one-liner and threaten him with a slow, painful doom! Instead you let him live?!”

Pansy turned on Theodore with wide, devastated eyes. “You’re not mad at all? Like not even a little? There’s no secret plotting? No passive aggressive breakfast commentary?!”

Theodore just shrugged. “I like my sibling. I don’t hate Riddle. I’m not wasting spell energy unless he does something dumb.”

“I am something dumb!” Mattheo squeaked from behind you.

“WE KNOW!” Pansy and Draco yelled in unison.

Astoria buried her face in her hands. “I’m too sober for this.”

Draco sighed dramatically and crossed his arms. “Fine. New plan. Someone date someone they shouldn’t so we can salvage this absolute travesty.”

“I VOLUNTEER!” Lorenzo said immediately.

“NO YOU DON’T!” Blaise and Draco snapped.

You turned to Mattheo with a dazed smile as the rest of your friends devolved into chaos, arguing over who should pretend to get engaged for maximum scandal.

“Well,” you muttered. “That went well.”

Mattheo blinked at you, still clutching your robes. “I feel like I survived an execution by emotional chaos.”

You patted his cheek. “You did great, sweetheart.”

“I hate all of them,” he whispered.

From behind you, Pansy screamed, “SOMEONE THROW SOMETHING DRAMATIC OR I’M GOING TO COMBUST.”

A shoe flew past your head.

“Okay,” Mattheo muttered. “Maybe I don’t hate them. I just… fear them.”

You nodded. “Reasonable.”

And somewhere, Theodore was already walking away from the scene like a man who had never emotionally invested in anything except his morning tea and the hope that someone, someday, would shut Pansy up for more than two minutes.

[theodorenmyth]

this might be lowk dumb but academic rival reader w theo where she outsmarted him in class or scored better than him on a test and he basically fucked her dumb to mend his bruised ego? lots of degradation +++ WHATIF somebody walked in (*ahem* mattheo)

idk im high dont judge me 😭🙏🙏

Outsmarted.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

Summary ; In a tense rivalry with Theodore Nott, you outsmart him in class and score higher on a test, only to find yourself at the mercy of his ego. What starts as a battle of wits quickly spirals into an intense, degrading game of power and control, where Theodore pushes you to your limits.

A/N ; OMFG this is the first full smut fic I've wrote in MONTHS. Please bear with me 😓🥹 oh and I also changed it into gender-neutral y/n because I saw that you put she and her, and since I don't write for f!reader, I'm so sorry 🥹 still, enjoy! :D (there's still slight aftercare in the end, dw)

Warnings ; NSFW, degradation, overstimulation, rough sex, power dynamics, accidental exposure, oral sex, anal sex

word count ; 5k+

The moment Slughorn said your name, you knew the entire classroom had shifted.

A few heads turned your way, some surprised, some not. You didn’t look up immediately—no, that would ruin the effect. You waited, just a moment, pen paused at the edge of your parchment, letting the attention simmer in the air. Then, with perfect calm, you lifted your eyes, looked the professor square in the face, and smiled.

“The highest mark in the class,” Slughorn boomed, holding up your parchment as though it were a sacred scroll. “Y/N has once again impressed me. Their essay on Veela charm magic was truly outstanding. The way you connected the emotional manipulation to Occlumency theory… Brilliant. Simply brilliant.”

Your smile widened as a very specific pair of eyes practically drilled into the side of your head. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. Theodore Nott had been sitting in the same bloody seat for the past year—third row from the front, one seat left of center. And right now, you could practically hear his teeth grinding.

You turned your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision. His quill was stilled. His jaw was locked tight. He was staring straight ahead, but his gaze was ice.

The smugness bubbling in your chest was almost criminal.

Because this was a rare moment—a very rare moment. Theodore Nott was the golden boy. Always top of the class, always confident, always with just enough charm to get away with being insufferably smug. You’d spent years trading barbed words and subtle jabs with him across shared subjects. But he never lost. Not in Slughorn’s class.

Until now.

And you had done it.

The rest of the class buzzed with chatter as students began packing up, chairs scraping, parchment rustling. Slughorn dismissed everyone with a cheerful wave, but you stayed seated, fingers tapping slowly against the desk, taking your time.

You knew he’d come to you.

You were counting on it.

Sure enough, his voice came just as the last student filed out of the dungeon.

“You really think this means something?”

You looked up slowly, turning to face him. Theodore stood at the edge of your desk, arms crossed, expression tight and unreadable. He looked calm, but there was a tension in his shoulders. A subtle twitch in his fingers.

“I think it means I’m smarter than you,” you replied coolly.

His eyes narrowed. “By one point.”

“Still higher,” you said, blinking innocently. “That’s how numbers work, Nott.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated. “Slughorn’s biased. He always has been. You flirt with him like it’s a hobby.”

You raised your brows, fighting the grin tugging at your lips. “Oh? Jealous?”

Theodore’s jaw ticked. “Hardly. I just think you’ve got a talent for being manipulative.”

You stood, slowly gathering your things. “And you don’t? Please, Theo, I’ve seen the way you flash that little smirk when you know you’re ahead. Don't get salty just because I gave you a taste of your own game.”

“I didn’t lose,” he said, voice low.

You stepped closer, slinging your bag over one shoulder, chin tilted just slightly. “You did. You just can’t admit it. Poor Theo. All that pride… fragile, isn’t it?”

His eyes flared. “Watch it.”

You leaned in just slightly, dropping your voice to a whisper as you brushed past him. “Why? Worried I’ll bruise your ego again?”

He stepped closer, a bit too close, really. You could smell the faint whiff of expensive cologne and mint tea on his breath. His pale eyes burned into yours, but your expression didn’t falter.

He looked like he wanted to strangle you.

Or kiss you.

Or both.

“You’re awfully smug for someone who scraped ahead by one point,” he snapped.

You gave a mock gasp. “Oh no, not one point!” You clutched your chest theatrically. “Guess that means I still beat you.”

He let out a low exhale through his nose, jaw flexing. “You’re asking for it.”

You stepped into him now, narrowing the space even more, just to get under his skin. You made sure your voice was low, teasing, each word dipped in honey. “You gonna punish me, Nott? For being smarter than you?”

His eyes darkened in a way that made your breath catch, but you didn’t back down. You leaned in closer until your lips barely brushed the shell of his ear.

“Go on then. Show me how much it bruised your pretty little ego.”

You pulled away slowly, letting your fingers graze his as you moved past. Your shoulder brushed his chest and you swore you heard the faintest hitch in his breath.

Then you paused in the doorway.

“Oh,” you said over your shoulder, tone deliberately sweet, “if you need help understanding the theory I wrote about, I’d be more than happy to tutor you.”

That got him.

His expression darkened as he took a single step toward you, and you swore there was a flicker of something wicked in his eyes—anger, yes, but something else, too. Something darker. Rougher.

Possessive.

“I don’t need help,” he said tightly.

“Hmm,” you hummed, looking him up and down with a smirk. “Could’ve fooled me.”

And with that, you turned and disappeared into the corridor, heart pounding in your chest—not from fear, but from the anticipation coiling hot and tight in your stomach.

You’d poked the beast.

No, provoked it.

You wanted to see him crack.

You wanted to see that perfect, composed mask of his shatter.

And something told you Theodore Nott wasn’t going to let this one go.

Not quietly.

Not gently.

Not at all.

You didn’t expect him to catch you so soon.

One minute you were strolling down the corridor toward the dungeons, minding your business, savoring the echo of your earlier win like the last bite of something sinfully sweet—and the next, a hand curled around your upper arm and yanked.

You gasped, stumbling forward before you recognized the familiar grip. Long fingers, knuckles pale with tension. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Oh,” you said lightly, letting him drag you without resistance, “so you do handle rejection poorly. Thought so.”

Theodore didn’t even glance at you. His grip tightened like a vice around your arm.

“Back to the common room?” you drawled. “You gonna cry about your test score or beg me to tutor you—?”

“Keep talking,” he interrupted, voice so low it vibrated through your spine. “And you won’t even make it through the door before I’m shoving my cock down your throat.”

Your heart stopped.

The smugness drained from your face so fast it was dizzying. Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing came out.

You weren’t scared, not exactly—but the intensity in his voice, that cold fury barely restrained, struck something primal. You swallowed hard and glanced up at him, pulse skittering.

The side of his mouth twitched, like he’d noticed the shift in your expression and liked it.

“Thought so,” he muttered, dragging you faster now.

Through the Slytherin entrance. Past a handful of students who barely spared you two a glance. You moved quietly now, your earlier cockiness hollowed out, replaced by something hot and anxious low in your belly.

By the time he shoved open the door to the boys’ dorm, you were breathless.

He pulled you inside and kicked the door shut behind you with a loud thud. Before you could speak, he spun you around, slammed you against it, and braced a hand on either side of your head, caging you in.

His voice was gravel. “You want to act like you’ve got the upper hand?”

You blinked at him, trying to recover your tone. “I—I’m just naturally—”

He cut you off by grabbing your jaw, thumb swiping over your lips with a possessive drag. “Go ahead. Act like you’re in control.”

“I…” you breathed, but even you heard how weak it sounded. You tried again, softer this time. “I am.”

His expression sharpened into something hungry.

“No,” he said, almost pitying. “You’re just mouthy. And I’m going to ruin that mouth first.”

He shoved your shoulders, guiding you down fast—too fast to resist—and your knees hit the floor with a quiet thump. The carpet dug into your skin, but you barely noticed. Your breath hitched as you looked up at him, his hand still gripping your hair.

“Open.”

You hesitated. Just a flicker. But that was all he needed.

“Oh, now you’re shy?” he mocked. “Figures. Smart little brat until there’s a cock in front of them.”

The heat of humiliation—and arousal—rushed through you. Slowly, shakily, you parted your lips.

Theodore’s eyes darkened. “Good.”

He undid his belt slowly, letting the clink of metal and drag of leather build anticipation. His cock was already hard when he pulled it free, tip flushed and glistening. Your mouth watered, and you didn’t even try to hide it.

“You gonna do this properly,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, “or do I have to teach you how to suck cock too?”

You didn’t dare answer—not with your tongue darting out to taste him, warm and soft against the tip. His breath caught, his fingers tightening in your hair.

And then he was shoving into your mouth.

No warning. No gentle build-up.

Just Theodore’s cock stretching your lips, pushing past your tongue, pressing deep.

You gagged instantly, throat clenching around him, hands scrambling for purchase on his thighs. He didn’t stop—his hips rocked forward, slow but firm, dragging a strangled sound from your chest.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

You whimpered, throat burning, tears stinging your eyes—but you adjusted. You had to. Your hands steadied, lips stretching, jaw aching as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked.

Theodore’s head tipped back slightly, a quiet curse escaping him.

“Merlin, you’re filthy,” he muttered. “Drooling all over me like a little whore.”

Your spit slicked his length, dripping down your chin as you took him deeper. The rhythm built quickly—his hand in your hair controlling the pace, your mouth hot and wet around him.

You looked up, eyes watery, and that broke him.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” he rasped. “All that cleverness, gone the second I put my cock in your mouth.”

You moaned around him, deliberately loud. He hissed.

“You like this, don’t you?” he said through gritted teeth. “Getting face-fucked like a toy. You act so fucking smug, but this—this is all you’re good for.”

He thrust harder now, rougher, fucking your mouth like he meant to brand you from the inside out. You coughed around him, spit bubbling, hands trembling as he used you.

“Fucking pathetic,” he grunted. “Letting me use your mouth just ‘cause I said a few filthy words.”

You tried to keep eye contact. You really tried. But your lashes fluttered, head swimming.

And then—

“Shit. Gonna cum.”

You braced yourself, breath stuck in your throat as he shoved in deep, holding you there with his cock pressing past your tonsils.

Hot, bitter warmth flooded your mouth. You gagged once, eyes wide, but he held you still as he twitched against your tongue.

“Swallow,” he growled, breath ragged.

You did.

And then he slowly pulled out, watching a line of spit and cum trail from your lip to his cock. He cupped your cheek and forced your gaze up.

“Still feeling smart, sweetheart?”

You panted, lips red and swollen, face flushed and slick.

And despite everything, you managed a tiny smirk.

“Define smart.”

He laughed once—low and dangerous—then grabbed your arm and dragged you up.

The second he pulled you off the floor, your knees wobbled like they couldn’t support you anymore. But Theodore didn’t give you time to recover. He pushed you back, walking you until the backs of your legs hit his bed—and then he shoved you down.

“You’re not gonna be able to walk by the time I’m done with you,” he growled, standing between your legs, eyes dark with that same fury-laced lust that had burned behind them in class.

You opened your mouth, maybe to say something smug—something to keep your upper hand—but your breath caught as he suddenly grabbed the front of your shirt and ripped.

Buttons flew. The fabric tore straight down the middle.

You gasped, staring at him wide-eyed as he dropped the ruined cloth onto the floor like it meant nothing.

“Oh,” you breathed, your pulse thundering in your ears, “so you’re—mmf—that angry.”

He didn’t answer. Just pushed you flat against the bed and leaned down, growling against your neck, “Shut the fuck up.”

His hands were on your waistband next—hooking into your trousers and tearing them down with a swift, brutal yank that made your body jolt. You barely got a gasp out before he tossed them aside too, leaving you exposed and breathless, sprawled across his bed like a prize he was about to claim.

“You like making me lose,” he muttered, crawling over you, dragging the length of his body against yours. “But you’re gonna learn what happens when you push me.”

You tried to smirk, but it wavered when you felt his cock again—hot and heavy, smearing against your thigh as he settled between your legs. Your thighs twitched, instinctively parting for him even as your brain scrambled for control.

“Don’t worry,” you managed, voice already shaking. “You’re… good at making your point.”

Theodore’s eyes snapped to yours.

“You’re not funny.”

And then—he was inside you.

You gasped, a full-body jolt seizing through you as he buried himself to the hilt in one unrelenting thrust. You cried out, back arching, fingers clawing at the sheets beneath you as he bottomed out, grinding deep.

“Fuck,” he hissed, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Your legs twitched around his hips. You bit your lip, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your body struggled to take him, stretch for him—but the burn melted into a high, hot ache that made your mind go blank.

And then he moved.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

He pulled out halfway and slammed back in with a sharp snap of his hips, making you cry out again, louder this time. Your head tipped back against the pillow, voice already falling apart.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, fucking you harder now, setting a pace that was punishing from the start. “Wanted to act clever? Act smug?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. You just grabbed at his arms, your body bouncing with each thrust as he filled you again and again and again.

“Where’s that smart mouth now?” he snarled.

Your lips parted, a moan escaping instead of a word. Your brain was white noise.

He laughed—dark, breathless. “That’s what I thought.”

He shifted his grip, grabbing under your knees, pushing them back until your thighs pressed against your chest. The new angle made you sob, your whole body shaking as he pounded into you harder, deeper.

“You’re just a fucking hole now,” he breathed, voice like thunder in your ears. “Not so clever when you’re getting split open.”

Your eyes fluttered. You were seeing stars. Your whole body trembled with every thrust, every filthy word that poured from his mouth.

“You feel that?” he whispered, dragging his cock out slow, only to slam back in and knock the breath from your lungs. “That’s mine. All of this is mine.”

You moaned, your hands gripping his wrists now, holding on for dear life as your stomach tensed and heat coiled dangerously low.

He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, hips still snapping in a ruthless rhythm.

“Say it.”

“Wh-What—”

“Say you’re mine.”

You choked out a whimper. “Y-Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

“That’s right.” His voice cracked with hunger. “Fucking. Mine.”

You barely registered the way your body started to lock up—tightening, trembling—as you crashed straight into orgasm, legs shaking violently as you sobbed through it, overwhelmed and overstimulated.

Theodore grunted above you. His hips stuttered.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Make you walk around dripping with me. Show you who fucking owns you.”

You were too far gone to answer. You nodded helplessly, eyes wet, mouth open in a silent gasp.

Then he slammed in one last time—and came.

Hot and deep and thick, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled everything into you, groaning your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

He stayed there for a moment, buried inside you, panting against your neck.

Then he pulled out slow—too slow—and you whimpered, body wrecked and twitching beneath him.

Your body was still trembling when Theodore dragged you up by the hips, flipping you over with zero care for how boneless you felt beneath him. Your legs barely held under you, arms shaky where your elbows sank into the mattress. Your face pressed into the sheets, still flushed, still sticky with sweat and spit and his cum.

“Get up,” he snapped, swatting your ass hard enough to make you jolt. “Hands and knees, now.”

You whimpered but obeyed, limbs folding into place automatically as he manhandled you into position. Your heart was still pounding—faster now. Louder. Because you weren’t sure if your body could take more, but god—you wanted it.

The moment your ass was up, Theodore grabbed your hips again, rough and greedy, spreading you open with both hands.

“Look at this,” he said, voice low, hungry. “Still dripping.”

You gasped as he shoved two fingers into you, fucking his cum back in without warning. You squirmed, hips twitching, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

“You’re gonna take it again,” he growled, curling his fingers. “Like a good little toy.”

You bit down on the sheets, heat rising in your chest again—shame and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. Your body rocked with every motion of his hand, slick and sensitive, your thighs already shaking again.

Then you felt his cock again—pressing against your hole, thick and hard and ready.

“Still so fucking tight,” he hissed, dragging the head up and down, teasing. “You should thank me. I’m gonna ruin you properly this time.”

He pushed in without warning.

You screamed into the sheets—legs nearly giving out—his cock splitting you open again, slower this time, making you feel every inch. Your arms trembled as he bottomed out and stayed there, grinding deep.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re clenching so hard. You want me this bad already?”

You nodded frantically, unable to form words.

“Then beg.”

You sobbed. “P-Please, Theo—”

“Please what?” His hand came down hard across your ass again, the sound cracking through the air. “Use your words.”

“Please… please fuck me,” you breathed, desperate and shaking. “Fuck me stupid—use me—please—”

He chuckled darkly. “That’s more like it.”

Then he pulled out and slammed back in—harder than before. You cried out, face buried in the blankets as he began to fuck you like an animal, his pace brutal, punishing. His hands gripped your hips like he owned them, dragging you back on his cock again and again, each thrust hitting you so deep it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were a mess. Moaning, shaking, soaked. Your body was wrecked, already overstimulated, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t ask him to stop.

“Fucking filthy,” he spat, thrusts getting rougher. “You act so cocky in class, and now look at you.”

He leaned forward suddenly, one hand wrapping around your throat, forcing your head up as he fucked into you from behind.

“Nothing but a fucktoy,” he growled against your ear. “Just something for me to use.”

Your mouth fell open, eyes glazed and watering.

You didn’t even hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps.

But Theodore did.

He froze mid-thrust, eyes snapping toward the dorm entrance—and you barely had time to turn your head, body still fully impaled on his cock, when the door swung open—and Mattheo FUCKING Riddle stepped in.

The scene he walked in on was nothing short of obscene: you on your stomach with your ass up, trembling violently, drooling into Theodore’s sheets, eyes fluttering and rolling back with every deep, punishing thrust. Theodore was balls deep inside you, pelvis flushed tight to your ass, one hand gripping your hips while the other pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you in place like you were nothing more than a toy he’d been wrecking for hours.

The room was filled with slick, wet sounds. Skin against skin. Your broken moans echoing off the walls. The heavy scent of sweat, cum, and sex hanging in the air like a fog.

Mattheo stopped.

Froze.

His jaw dropped.

You barely registered him through the haze in your brain—just a blur of dark curls, wide eyes, and a gaping mouth as your body spasmed again, Theodore’s cock twitching inside you.

The room went silent for a beat.

Then—

“OH FUCKING HELL—”

Mattheo shrieked—actually shrieked—spun on his heel, and slammed the door shut so hard it rattled the walls.

You thought he might’ve said something else—something like “I’m telling everyone”—but it was hard to tell over the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of your own whimper when Theodore thrust in deeper, still fully inside you.

You could feel yourself clench helplessly around him.

Your body twitched.

Your mouth hung open.

“The fuck,” you mumbled, completely dazed. “Did—was that Mattheo?”

Theodore groaned darkly behind you. “Don’t care.”

And then he started moving again.

Rougher. Meaner. Like the interruption had only made him more determined to fuck you stupid.

“Let him run his mouth,” he growled, hips snapping into yours. “Let him tell everyone. They should all know who you belong to.”

You cried out, hands gripping the sheets as your legs shook violently, brain melting into static as Theodore pounded you through it, deeper and deeper.

“Listen to you,” he hissed through his teeth, leaning over your back, one hand gripping your ass like he was molding it. “All that smugness gone. Just a whimpering little cocksleeve now, yeah?”

You sobbed, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed into you harder—meaner—his hand sliding around to squeeze and knead your ass with brutal, possessive fingers.

“Bet you like being fucked dumb,” he whispered against your neck, his pace losing rhythm. “Bet your needy little hole was made to be filled.”

One more thrust.

Two.

Then he slammed into you with a guttural moan, cock twitching deep inside as he spilled inside you, filling you again with hot ropes of cum. You could feel it pulse inside, hot and thick, and the sensation sent you over the edge all over again.

Your body jerked violently, trembling as your orgasm crashed through you a second time—strung out and raw, pleasure mixing with the overstimulation until your vision blurred.

“Fuck yes,” he muttered into your skin, still grinding into you, still squeezing your ass like he owned it. “Such a good little cumdump. Always so eager to be used.”

You couldn’t even answer. Just moaned weakly into the mattress, body limp and leaking, mind completely wrecked.

Your body felt like it was made of static.

Nerves buzzing, thighs quaking, mouth barely able to form words—just soft, broken little moans, every inhale catching in your throat. You were spent, wrung out and stuffed full, Theo’s cum still dripping from your used hole down your thighs in a hot, sticky mess.

But Theodore wasn’t done.

He didn’t say anything at first—just shifted you like you weighed nothing, dragging your trembling body upright, your chest pressed against his as he sat back against the headboard and pulled you onto his lap.

“Theo…” you whimpered, voice a desperate whine. “Please—can’t—can’t anymore, I can’t—”

“Shh,” he murmured, not unkindly. “You can.”

Your knees pressed into the bed on either side of his hips, shaking like leaves, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you steady. His cock nudged against your still-leaking hole, already half-hard again from just the feel of you squirming in his lap.

“You’ve taken me so well tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “I want to see you ride me. Just once. Just one more.”

“Just one?” you sniffled, already pouting.

He chuckled lowly. “For now.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering as he guided your hips—lining you up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, pushing back into your sore, stretched hole with agonizing slowness.

You choked on a moan, eyes tearing up as your walls fluttered helplessly around him.

“Theo—ah, f-fuck—it’s too much—”

“You’ll take it,” he murmured into your neck, holding you down as inch by inch, his cock disappeared inside you again. “Because you can. You were made for this.”

You clung to his shoulders, face flushed and streaked with sweat and tears. “Y-You’re so mean,” you whimpered. “S’not fair..”

His fingers dug into your thighs, nails leaving little crescent-shaped dents.

“Then stop being so fucking cute when you cry,” he muttered darkly.

He held you still for a moment, letting you shake and clench around him, lips ghosting over your skin as you panted like you’d just run a marathon.

And then he moved you.

Slowly.

Up.

Down.

Your breath hitched as your body slid down onto him again, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, the wet sounds echoing obscenely through the room. Your moans were high-pitched now—desperate, broken. Every bounce made your thighs tremble harder, your arms tightening around his neck as you rode him with trembling, clumsy motions.

“Theo—please—f-feels weird, it’s too much—gonna—”

“You’re already so cockdrunk,” he muttered, voice thick. “Look at you. Whimpering like you’re not loving every second of it.”

You were. And you hated it.

Your face crumpled as your body clenched again, his cock kissing that spot deep inside you with every bounce. The overstimulation was unbearable—every thrust like fire and lightning all at once.

He helped you move, holding your hips and lifting you just to slam you back down on him. Your cries turned into gasps, then sobs, your legs barely holding you up.

“T-Theo, Theo—please, I can’t—gonna—gonna—again—”

You came with a strangled cry, your nails clawing down his back, body going stiff before collapsing into him. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, trembling and pulsing around his cock, squeezing him so tightly he groaned against your throat.

He cursed under his breath, jerking his hips up once—twice—then stilled with a growl as he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, filling you to the brim again. His arms held you tight to his chest, one hand in your hair, the other cradling your lower back as your whole body went limp.

You were shaking like a leaf in his arms, and this time, Theodore didn’t make you move.

He just held you.

Whispered something into your hair, too soft to catch. Pressed his lips to your temple like he hadn’t just ruined you three times over. His hand slid up and down your spine, slow, gentle, soothing your trembling muscles with soft circles.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, breath tickling your skin.

You nodded against his neck with a small, pitiful hiccup. “Y-Yeah…”

“Too much?”

You whined. “Mhm.”

He chuckled softly, brushing your damp hair back from your face.

“You did so good, baby. So, so good.”

Your pout returned. “You’re being nice now.”

His lips curled against your skin. “I can be nice. Sometimes.”

You huffed softly, nose buried in his shoulder, still aching and dripping and completely, utterly ruined.

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

The room was still thick with the heat of your final moments together. You felt drained, like every muscle had been sapped of its strength, but there was a strange warmth to the way Theodore held you close, his body still flush against yours, his cock still buried deep inside you. His grip on you softened as he adjusted you, gently shifting you so you were cradled in his arms, face resting against his chest.

“Shh, relax,” he murmured softly, smoothing your hair back, his fingers warm against your damp skin. “I’ve got you.”

You let out a shaky breath, too tired to protest, your body aching but not in a way that was uncomfortable. His hands slid down your back, soothing you, rubbing your skin as his lips pressed soft kisses against your forehead.

“Good job,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the tip of your nose. “You did so good, baby.”

You melted into him, too tired to even respond, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t need words right now. His lips kept brushing over your face—your cheeks, your lips, your eyes—each kiss a soft reminder of how he had pushed you and then taken care of you afterward.

“Still feeling good?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You nodded softly, your body still trembling, but there was a new comfort in his presence. His gentle kisses, the warmth of his body, the way he softly ran his fingers along your spine—it was like the chaotic energy of everything before was being replaced by this slow, tender care.

He shifted beneath you, adjusting his position so you were more comfortably on top of him, not needing to move but cradled close in his arms. His cock was still inside you, softening slightly, but he didn’t rush to pull away. He just let you rest, letting you feel his warmth, as if nothing else mattered but making sure you were okay.

“Let’s just stay like this,” he said quietly, kissing your forehead once more. “No rush. You deserve to rest.”

You let your eyes flutter closed, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, his presence grounding you, wrapping you in a sense of safety and care.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, pressing another soft kiss to your lips.

You smiled faintly against his skin, finally letting yourself feel the warmth of his affection.

[theodorenmyth]

okol what ab ex bf theo with gn reader who is soso pretty but at the same time has really bad insomnia and is basically movong like a zombie around hogwarts?

Giving you full creativity here

Sleep-Deprived Mess

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

Summary ; You’re sleep-deprived, chronically sarcastic, and navigating Hogwarts with all the grace of a half-dead zombie—made worse by the fact that your annoyingly gorgeous ex, Theodore Nott, is suddenly everywhere. What starts as a caffeine-starved late-night encounter turns into accidental cuddles on the Astronomy Tower, unexpected honesty, and a whole lot of emotional whiplash. You were supposed to be over him. You wanted to be over him. But instead, you woke up in his arms, flustered out of your mind, and maybe—just maybe—starting to believe that your heartbreak wasn’t the end of your story.

A/N ; I loved this request so much! :3 considering I have insomnia, I can really relate to y/n 🫠 enjoy bb

Warnings ; none

Word count ; 3.5k+

You don’t remember the last time you slept properly.

Actually, that’s a lie. You do remember it, and you wish you didn’t. It was the night before you and Theodore Nott had the emotionally void, soul-eating conversation that ended your relationship in the most anticlimactic way possible. No dramatic shouting. No slamming doors. Just a quiet, “This isn’t working,” from him and a stunned, “You’re a coward,” from you, followed by silence so loud it made your bones ache.

Since then? Nada. Nothing. Not even a solid two-hour nap. You’ve been cruising on fumes, anxiety, and the occasional sugar quill ever since. You’ve reached the level of exhaustion where you feel outside your body, like some tragic little poltergeist who used to be hot and is now just... floating.

You look like the aftermath of a particularly bad curse. Your eyes are rimmed in smudged eyeliner you applied three days ago and never took off—somewhere between “grunge” and “possessed.” Your uniform is barely clinging to the concept of decency. Your shirt's half-buttoned, tie hanging somewhere around your ribs like it's given up too. You wore mismatched socks on purpose because you were too tired to pretend to care. You’re not walking so much as gliding—dragging your feet like they’re weighted, arms slightly limp, expression blank.

And somehow? People still say you look good.

“You’re so pale, but like... in a sexy way.”

“You’ve got that haunted doll aesthetic going on. It’s working.”

“Are you okay?”

“You look like you haven’t slept in years. Slay.”

“You look like the main character in a sad indie film. Obsessed.”

At this point, you’re 87% eyebags, 10% sarcasm, and 3% delusional optimism that you’ll actually pass your classes despite not remembering anything past breakfast—which you skipped anyway, unless you count coffee and staring at your toast blankly before leaving it behind as a meal.

You’re floating through the corridor on your way to... somewhere? Probably class. Or the library. Or maybe the Astronomy Tower to dramatically consider your life choices. Whatever. You’re just trying to exist.

And then you turn the corner and bam.

Theodore.

Of course.

Because the universe is a cruel, tasteless joke.

He’s just standing there, looking like he didn’t ruin your mental health. Hands in his pockets, tie straight, hair irritatingly perfect in that tousled-just-right way like he’s in some stupid perfume ad. He’s got this look in his eyes—cold and unreadable—that you used to find hot and mysterious, but now just makes you want to punch something.

You blink slowly, deadpan. “Oh great. It’s my least favorite hallucination.”

He blinks back. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Wow, starting strong. Hello to you too, Theodore.” You force a smile, all teeth, no soul. “How’s the emotional repression going?”

He looks you up and down, and you can feel him analyzing everything from your shirt that’s buttoned wrong to the faint twitch in your eye.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through the Great Lake backwards.”

You gasp, clutching your chest dramatically. “You flatter me.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Oh no, this is just how I look when I’m thriving.” You gesture vaguely to your face. “This is peak performance, thank you for noticing.”

He frowns. “You’re shaking.”

You look down at your hands. They are shaking. Huh. You hadn’t noticed. “Probably just the caffeine and repressed trauma.”

“Seriously.”

“You’re seriously annoying.”

He sighs. That signature Theodore sigh, like you’ve personally burdened him by existing.

You hate how good he still looks doing it. You hate that you notice. You hate that you care. But mostly, you hate that he has the audacity to stand there and pretend like he didn’t ruin your life and your sleep schedule.

“You’ve looked like this for weeks,” he mutters.

“Gee, wonder what happened a few weeks ago that could’ve caused this,” you say, putting a finger to your chin thoughtfully. “Can’t think of anything.”

“You’re being difficult.”

“And you are being nosy. If I wanted judgment, I’d go talk to my reflection.”

“You’ve been forgetting things. You mixed up your potions ingredients yesterday and nearly exploded your cauldron.”

“Oopsie.”

“You asked McGonagall if she was Professor Sprout.”

“Okay, that one wasn’t sleep deprivation. That was trauma-induced blindness.”

“You forgot your wand.”

“I was trying to live wand-free. Minimalist lifestyle. It’s very freeing.”

He stares at you for a long beat. You stare right back.

Finally, he says, “You’re not okay.”

You put your hands together like you’re praying. “Wow. Genius. I’ve been cracked like a fortune cookie, and you got the message.”

He steps forward like he’s about to say something meaningful. Maybe even comfort you. But you’re already stepping back, holding up a hand like a stop sign.

“Nope. Don’t do it. Don’t pull the ex-boyfriend concern card. You don’t get to act like you care now. That ship sailed. Then it sank. Then it got eaten by a Kraken. Then the Kraken exploded.”

“Y/N—”

“You do not get to ‘Y/N’ me. You gave up those privileges along with holding my hand and seeing me in my pajamas.”

He opens his mouth. You raise a hand again.

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are ‘Here’s a bed and a sleeping potion laced with affection and regret,’ I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“And you’re being the human equivalent of a cold shower.”

He frowns deeper, clearly regretting this entire encounter. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re boring, but we all have burdens to bear.”

You push past him, robes swishing with all the flair your exhausted body can muster.

But of course, because the gods of chaos hate you, he follows.

Because of course he does.

Because it’s Theodore FUCKING Nott and he’s incapable of minding his own business, especially when it involves you being unwell in any capacity.

Classic.

────────────────

You’re not entirely sure if your legs are moving or if your soul is just dragging your body out of spite. Either way, you’re pretty convinced you just walked into a suit of armor and apologized to it. Twice. In your defense, the armor looked judgmental. You, on the other hand, have not slept in what feels like two decades.

Behind you, of course, is Theodore Nott. Because of course he is. Because fate has a sense of humor and that humor is cruel, dry, and apparently obsessed with making your life miserable.

“You should really be in the Hospital Wing,” he says, his tone maddeningly calm—the same voice he used when you were spiraling about Herbology grades or, more devastatingly, when he ended things with a shrug and a “this just makes sense, doesn’t it?”

You don’t even bother turning around. “And yet, I’m still not as hazardous as dating you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, you weren’t fair. I’m being delightful.”

You keep going, dragging your half-dead limbs toward nowhere in particular, hoping he’ll take a hint, get bored, or spontaneously combust. Preferably the third option. But no such luck. You hear his footsteps again—soft, deliberate, like he’s trying not to startle you, like you’re a skittish cat in a haunted corridor.

“Where are you even going?” he asks after a beat, like he’s not already used to your midnight wanderings or emotional evasions.

“To the moon.”

“You don’t have the energy to climb a staircase, let alone defy gravity.”

“Watch me, Nott.”

And then—because you are nothing if not dramatic—you change direction entirely and start climbing the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. Your knees pop with every step. Your vision flickers like a bad wireless signal. Your soul momentarily leaves your body to scream into the void and returns wearing Crocs. But you make it to the top anyway, because spite and trauma are apparently your new cardio.

The wind smacks you in the face the second you open the creaky tower door, greeting you like an overenthusiastic ex with unresolved feelings and no concept of boundaries. You step onto the platform, making a beeline for the stone railing, where you dramatically clutch the edge like a sad Victorian widow awaiting the sea’s return of her dead sailor.

Theodore is right behind you, probably still judging your posture and life choices.

“I hope you’re not planning to jump,” he says, stepping closer with that cool, vaguely amused air he wears like a second uniform.

“Jump? Babe, I don’t have the upper body strength to climb over this railing. I just want to vibe dramatically and feel the cold wind validate my internal chaos.”

He watches you. You feel it, even if you don’t see it—the weight of his gaze, familiar and intrusive in that way only ex-lovers and nosy portraits can be.

“You’re actually insane,” he mutters, half fond, half exasperated.

“No, I’m just very, very tired and emotionally repressed. Different species.”

You hear him sigh again—deep and drawn out like he’s inhaling all of his regrets. Then, to your absolute shock, he shrugs off his Slytherin cloak and drapes it over your shoulders.

You freeze.

“What are you doing?” you mutter, eyes still locked on the stars above. If you turn around now, if he sees your face, he might see something traitorous in it—like hope. And you’re not doing that again.

“You’re cold,” he says simply.

“And you’re confusing.”

“Still cold, though.”

“You broke up with me in the middle of the courtyard like it was a casual lunch plan.”

“I know.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘It’s better if we don’t talk anymore.’”

“I know.”

“And now here you are. Talking. Giving me your cloak. Chasing me around like some emotionally stunted stray dog.”

He’s silent.

You finally turn to face him, half-expecting him to disappear the moment your eyes meet. But he doesn’t. He’s standing there, tall and stupidly pretty, his gaze soft in that way that always made your breath catch when you least wanted it to.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, pulling the cloak tighter around you.

“Like what?”

“Like you miss me.”

He exhales, quiet and sharp. “What if I do?”

Oh.

Absolutely not.

You take two steps back, your finger raised in warning like some kind of exhausted, pretty prophet. “No. No, no, no. You do not get to say that. Not when I’ve gone three days without proper REM sleep, three weeks trying to emotionally detach myself from you like peeling off duct tape, and three months wondering if I hallucinated the entire relationship because you never even gave me closure.”

His brows furrow. “Y/N—”

“I literally thought about throwing hands at a first-year this morning because they looked at me funny. I hallucinated a talking cat in Divination. And I nearly called Professor McGonagall ‘mum.’ I am hanging by a thread, Theodore. A single, fraying, fashionably tragic thread.”

He looks like he wants to laugh. You hate that he looks like he wants to laugh.

“I’m being serious,” you hiss.

“I know,” he says, lips twitching. “You’re just really dramatic when you’re sleep-deprived.”

“You liked my dramatics when we were dating.”

“I still do.”

You blink.

“Okay, great. I’m jumping.”

You whirl around and grip the railing dramatically again. He steps forward and casually tugs you back by the collar of his cloak, pulling you right into his chest like it’s a Tuesday and not a full-on emotional crisis.

“I swear if you try to hug me, I’ll throw you off this tower,” you grumble, even though you’re already leaning against him.

“I’m not hugging you,” he replies smoothly. “I’m keeping you from face-planting into the sky.”

“I’m very light. The wind might take me anyway. Wouldn’t that be romantic? Tragic ex dies in the arms of her unresolved feelings.”

“Her?”

You pause. “Shut up, I’m monologuing.”

The wind gusts again, whipping your hair and thoughts into chaos. You curl further into the cloak, heart thumping traitorously, and—because life is unfair and you are weak—you let yourself lean a little closer to him. He’s warm. Irritatingly, achingly warm. The kind of warm that feels like home. The kind of warm that sneaks into your dreams.

“You can sleep up here if you want,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I’ll stay.”

You crack one eye open, squinting up at him like he’s offering a cursed object.

“That sounds like a trap.”

“It’s not.”

“Last time you said something wasn’t a trap, we ended up snogging behind the greenhouse and getting caught by Sprout.”

“That was... arguably not a trap.”

“I had soil in my ear, Nott.”

He smiles, and it’s soft. Real. Dangerous.

You give up.

You lean fully into him, muttering, “If you tell anyone I let you hold me, I’ll deny it and say you seduced me with dark magic.”

“Deal.”

“And if I fall asleep, I better not wake up to you brushing hair out of my face like some tragic romance hero.”

“No promises.”

You close your eyes. The wind howls. The stars shimmer.

And for the first time in what feels like forever… you begin to drift.

Wrapped in his cloak. In his warmth. In all the things you told yourself you’d stopped wanting.

You wake up in stages. First, it’s the vague awareness that you’re no longer cold, which is suspicious on its own because this is Hogwarts, where the temperature is somewhere between “cryptic ice cavern” and “casually cursed blizzard.” Then it’s the realization that something—no, someone—is pressed against you. Not just pressed. Melded. As in, your entire backside is practically being worn like a human hoodie.

And you’re warm. So warm. Suspiciously warm.

That’s when it hits you.

You’re being held.

Like, full-body, gently-restraining cuddled.

Like the kind of cuddle that screams I’ve claimed this chaotic creature and I will physically anchor them to this mortal plane if necessary.

You open your eyes, blinking groggily, only to be met with the soft glow of early morning. The sky is pink and gold, birds are chirping like they’re getting paid for it, and you—well. You are currently situated directly between Theodore Nott’s legs, his Slytherin cloak tangled around both of you like a very clingy, emotionally loaded burrito.

Worse? His arm is slung around your waist with the casual entitlement of a man who clearly thinks this is normal. His head is resting somewhere near your shoulder, and if your ears aren’t betraying you, he's breathing softly against your neck.

You do not scream. That would require energy. You do, however, panic internally with the intensity of a thousand screaming banshees while maintaining the external composure of a flustered mannequin.

Your first thought: This is illegal.

Your second thought: Did I crawl into his lap in my sleep like a needy little drama queen?

Your third thought: WHY DOES HE SMELL SO FUCKING GOOD?! THIS IS UNFAIR.

You shift slightly, and he groans against your skin—actually groans, like a man being personally victimized by the concept of morning. His grip around your waist tightens like a boa constrictor’s, except instead of squeezing the life out of you, it’s squeezing the last shreds of your will to not melt on the spot.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles, and oh no. Oh no, no, no. His voice is raspy and sleepy and low enough to knock years off your life expectancy.

“This—this is not—” You try to sit up but his arm does not move. If anything, it flexes. “Theodore.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes. “Mm?”

“You are currently using me as a human teddy bear. Wake up. Let go. Be less… everything.”

“No.”

“No?! That’s it? That’s your answer?! You can’t just no me like this is a normal Tuesday!”

“You’re comfy,” he says simply, like that explains everything. “I’m staying.”

You gape at him, cheeks already on fire. “Okay, wow. Just—wow. This is rich. This is next-level ex behavior. You dump me, ghost me emotionally, and now you’re cuddling me like we’re a romcom couple with trust issues and a shared apartment lease?!”

“Didn’t ghost you.”

“You literally said, and I quote, ‘We shouldn’t talk anymore.’ That’s ghosting with extra steps!”

Theodore shifts again, and suddenly he’s sitting up just enough to rest his chin on your shoulder, still half-draped over your back like a sleepy octopus. He’s fully awake now—his voice more awake, more smug—and that’s a dangerous thing.

“I made a mistake,” he says, eyes still closed. “Let me fix it. Starting with this.”

“This? THIS is your strategy? Sedation via snuggle attack?”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

You sputter. “I—I am so not okay with this! ”

He finally opens his eyes and looks at you. And it is unfair. He’s got sleep-fluffed hair, pillow-creased cheek, and a lazy sort of fondness in his gaze that turns your knees to regret-flavored pudding.

“Y/N,” he says softly, voice suddenly serious, “I thought you didn’t want me around anymore. You were tired, distant, hurting… I didn’t know how to help. I thought backing off would be safer for you.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snap, pulling the cloak tighter around yourself. “Now I’m tired, distant, hurting, and hugged by the man who emotionally tripped me down a hill.”

“I never stopped wanting you,” he says, and now he’s pulling you back into him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like this is home. “I thought I was doing what you needed. But I was wrong. I should’ve fought harder for you. For us.”

You go very still.

Your heart is pounding so loud, it’s embarrassing. And when you try to formulate words, actual language, your mouth decides now is the perfect time to betray you.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “Why are you so clingy?! This is not the vibe!”

“I’m literally holding you because you’re warm and smell like vanilla and poor life choices,” he says calmly. “And also, because I like it.”

You make a strangled noise. “You don’t get to say things like that! I’m supposed to be angry! I’m supposed to be emotionally immune to this nonsense!”

“You’re flustered.”

“I AM NOT!” you squeak, then immediately wince. “Okay, fine, I might be. But you—you’re a menace.”

He grins against your shoulder.

“I missed you,” he says, and it’s so soft it almost doesn’t register. “I miss you every day. And I don’t care if it’s clingy or dramatic or completely insane—I want to be here. I want you.”

You spin around in his arms, intending to glare at him, but it backfires horribly. Because now you’re face-to-face, practically nose-to-nose, and he’s giving you that look. That stupid, heart-softening, I’d ruin myself for you look.

“I—I…” You trip over your words like they’re hexed. “You can’t just say that stuff and expect me not to fold like a cowardly lawn chair!”

He leans closer, voice low. “But you’re already folding.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

“I like you when you’re all flustered and dramatic.”

“I will hex you.”

He leans in even closer. “You missed me.”

You look down at your hands tangled in his cloak, your lip wobbling just a bit. “No i didn't.”

He grins into your hair. “Say you missed me.”

“I’ll say it at your funeral.”

“Say it, or I’ll kiss you.”

You shriek. Shriek. Like a first-year being chased by Filch’s cat.

“You are evil.”

“Say it.”

“I MISSED YOU, OKAY?” you shout, clearly on the verge of emotional collapse. “I missed your stupid face and your stupid voice and your stupid smell—why do you smell good, that’s not even fair—and your smug smile and the way you act like you don’t care when you do care and now I’m sleepy and flustered and you’re not letting go, and I’m emotionally compromised!”

Theodore beams. Actually beams.

“Gods, I love you,” he says like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You blink.

Your brain just gives up.

You reboot like a corrupted Windows system.

“I’m hallucinating,” you mumble. “This is a dream. Or a stress coma. Or I’m dead and this is purgatory.”

“Not dead,” he says, kissing your forehead.

“Purgatory, then.”

“You’re cute when you’re panicking.”

“You’re clingy when you’re smug.”

He tightens his grip. “I’m never letting you go again.”

“You say that like it’s not a threat.”

“It’s both.”

You stare up at the ceiling, trapped in the warmest, safest, clingiest ex-boyfriend cuddle of all time, and sigh.

“Fine,” you grumble. “But only because I’m too tired to fight you.”

“Sure,” Theodore says, smirking into your hair. “That’s the reason.”

And that’s how the two of you spend the rest of the morning curled up in the Astronomy Tower, limbs tangled, insults whispered between fond kisses, and threats laced with affection.

You fall asleep again, eventually. This time, with his heartbeat in your ear and his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

You wake up a few hours later, confused, flustered, and very much still wrapped in Theodore’s arms—his face pressed against your cheek, mumbling nonsense in his sleep about “keeping you forever.”

And you?

You whisper, “Merlin help me,” before nuzzling back into his chest and letting sleep take you under again.

Because you’re doomed.

Utterly, completely, fantastically doomed.

And you wouldn't change a thing.

[theodorenmyth]

Hi I may have already asked this before and if I have I’m sorry but do you have a Ao3? My tumblr is messy and won’t let me read fic and save place

Yes I do have ao3 :3 but I barely use it because the fics there are.. interesting:3 should I upload on ao3? Would you guys enjoy it if I posted there?

[theodorenmyth]

hii i was just wondering if you got my insomnia request w/theo 😭

yes I did!! I'll be writing it as soon as I can :3 your request is on my next writing list so don't worry! :D