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@downbadreading
Downbadreading's fic recs!
i read and read and read an di decided to this because people need to know such a masterpiece and i'm tired of missing my favourite fic. SO HERE WE GO!
minors do not interact since most of my recs are matured themed.
Ateez fic recs
Straykid Fic recs
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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02 - c.san + corruption/body worship (18+)
Âť c.san x fem!reader Âť 18+ dni if minor Âť language, explicit sex, protected sex, infidelity!!!!, corruption kink, body worship, praise, spitting, spanking/slapping, biting, almost hate sex, dacryphilia, dirty talk, slight degradation, oral sex: m receiving, hair pulling, deepthroating, cock worship, choking, reader uses gendered slurs when talking about herself - san does not use any gendered slurs, please note that although san continually says heâll take the condom off everything done and contained inside this fic is consensual and prediscussed between the characters, these characters are also kinda terrible people so donât be like them ._. Âť wc 3.7k Âť link to masterlist
itâs not complicated, in all honesty. thereâs not much to it â itâs dirty, itâs debase, itâs wrong in so many ways, but complicated? not in the slightest.
the main question you have to ask yourself day in and day out is why.
why are you doing this?
you have a good husband, someone who treats you like an angel sent from heaven and who works hard but still lets you work and do your own thing because he wants you to be happy.
sometimes, you wonder if he would let you do this because it makes you happy.
the answer is obviously no.
and yet â
âhe wonât ever have to know.â
Keep reading
Don't tell
warnings: cheating , fingering ,
Summary; you and conrad having sex in the beach house while your boyfriend was at work. A/N; i dont know if i like this or not lowk, sorry that its short, not proofread!! word cound: 670+ âËâšâ Smut, cheating
Conrad and you found yourselves alone at the secluded summer house, enjoying each other's company as close friends often do. The day had been filled with lighthearted activitiesâplaying board games, baking cookies that now sat half-eaten on the counter, and sharing laughter that echoed through the sunlit rooms. As the evening wore on, the atmosphere between you grew more intimate, the playful energy shifting into something deeper and more charged. Â
You were on top of him, your bodies pressed close, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours. His touch was deliberate, teasingâhis fingers tracing slow, maddening circles just outside your panties before finally slipping beneath the fabric. The sensation sent a shiver through you, your breath hitching as his fingertip traced delicate patterns around your entrance. Â
"Conrad..." His name escaped your lips in a breathy moan, laced with impatience and need. Without warning, he slid a finger into you, the sudden intrusion drawing a sharp gasp from your throat. You were already slick with arousal, and he wasted no time, setting a steady rhythm as he pumped in and out of you. Each movement sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your body, your fingers tightening around his shoulders for support. Â
Small, involuntary sounds escaped youâsoft whimpers and gasps that filled the quiet space between you. His free hand gripped your hip, anchoring you in place as he worked you with practiced ease. The tension coiled tighter inside you, your muscles clenching around his fingers, every nerve alight with anticipation. The air between you was thick with desire, the only sounds the quiet rustle of fabric and the mingling of your ragged breaths.
He slipped another finger into you, and your eyes squeezed shut as an echoing moan escaped your lips. The sensation intensified, sending waves of pleasure through your body. "Fuck⌠you feel so good," he murmured softly, his voice thick with desire. His movements became more urgent, pumping faster in and out of you, each thrust heightening the building tension between you. The rhythm of his fingers matched the rapid beating of your heart, creating an intoxicating blend of physical and emotional connection. The room filled with the sounds of your shared passion, every touch and whisper amplifying the intimate moment.
"T-this is⌠so wrongâŚ" you whimpered weakly, your voice trembling with a mix of protest and reluctant acceptance. Though your words expressed disapproval, your body language told a different story - your resistance had faded into passive surrender. As his lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, you shuddered involuntarily, your breath hitching when he alternated between soft kisses and deliberate sucking. Each touch left visible evidence of his claim on you, the marks blooming across your skin like dark petals.
He gradually slowed his pace, withdrawing slightly as he lifted his gaze from your neck to meet your eyes directly. With a deliberate smirk, he taunted, "Does your little boyfriend fuck you like this?" His words carried a provocative edge, emphasizing the contrast between his controlled movements and the raw intimacy of the moment. You instinctively arched your back, tilting your head backward as the sensation overwhelmed youâhis fingers, smooth and practiced, glided effortlessly in and out of your slick folds, each motion calculated to draw out both pleasure and reaction.
"Don't tell him about this, hm?" he groaned in a low, husky tone, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles around your sensitive clit. You could feel yourself growing increasingly wet with each passing second, your body responding uncontrollably to the deep timbre of his voice and the skilled movements of his fingers. The combination of his commanding words and expert touch sent waves of pleasure through you, making it impossible to focus on anything but the mounting sensations he was creating.
"Honey, I'm home!" a familiar voice called out cheerfully as the front door swung open with a soft creak, signaling the end of another workday. The sound of keys jingling and a bag being set down in the entryway followed. "fuck," you said quietly into Conrad's ear.
future wife - ln4
summary: lando always says that yn russell is his future wife. the entire paddock thinks he's just joking, but he's not. wc: 6k + social media posts
folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!! FINALLY !! i loved writing lovesick puppy lando so so much and i really hope you love him too. PLEASE SEND YOUR FEEDBACK AND LEAVE A REBLOG !
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and 206,378 others
yn.russell silverstone race weekends always hit different 𼚠big bro starting front row tomorrow and i couldnât be prouder LETS GOOOO
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username1 the most iconic russell
username2 COME ON RUSSELL NATION
landonorris excuse me why didnât you include a picture of your future husband here ??
âł yn.russell lando your delusions are talking again
âł username1 hey he ALWAYS does this
âł username2 lando and ynâs banter will never get old
carmenmmundt Love you both â¤ď¸
username3 LANDO BEING ANNOYING IN THIS COMMENT SECTION AS ALWAYS
charles_leclerc I see homeboy trying to shoot his shot again
âł landonorris what are you talking about? weâll get married
âł yn.russell LANDO STOP đ
username4 sheâs the real paddock princess
username5 lando really said fake it till you make it
username6 GEORGIE BOY DID IT
georgerussell63 Love you so much little one đ¤ Also Lando, sheâs still my sister
âł landonorris and? sheâs my girl đ
âł yn.russell STOP
liked by yn.russell, maxverstappen1 and 986,409 others
landonorris honey iâm hooooome đŹđ§đ picture by my favorite girl @/yn.russell
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username1 LANDOOOOO
username2 the papaya hat is killing me
username3 CALLING LITTLE RUSSELL HIS GIRL AS ALWAYS
mclaren Papaya forever đ§Ą
username4 manifesting lando and yn wedding
carlossainz55 Just wait until George finds you cabron
âł landonorris he knows sheâs my future wife
âł georgerussell63 I HATE YOU
username5 DYING AT THIS COMMENT SECTION LANDO YOU HAVE NO SHAME
username6 lando and yn are my favorite platonic lovers (actually thereâs nothing platonic about them we all know it)
username7 SO BOYFRIEND CODED
yn.russell lando i need you to look at me when i tell you thisâŚ
âł landonorris yes i do darling đ
âł georgerussell63 Iâm literally never letting you two fly together again
âł username1 IM WHEEZING
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
You're lounging in George's motorhome at the track, scrolling through your phone while he reviews data with Alex. Carmen is perched on the sofa beside you, both of you sharing occasional knowing looks at the boys' intense focus on lap times.
"Oh, by the way," you say casually, not looking up from your phone, "I won't be around for dinner tonight. Got a date."
The effect is immediate. George's head snaps up from the screen, Alex nearly drops his water bottle, and Carmen tries (and fails) to hide her amused smile.
"A date?" George's protective brother mode activates instantly. "With who?"
"That new marketing guy from McLaren," you reply, finally glancing up. "Jacob. You know, the one I was talking to at the paddock party last week?"
"The tall blonde one?" Alex pipes up, earning himself a sharp look from George.
"Not helping, mate," George mutters.
"He seems nice," Carmen offers diplomatically, though there's something knowing in her expression that you can't quite read.
"Speaking of nice," Alex says with a poorly concealed grin, "should we tell Lando? You know, since he's been planning your wedding since 2018 and all."
The friendship between you and Lando dates back to karting days, when you'd tag along with George to races. You were fourteen when you first met a tiny, curly-haired Lando who immediately declared you were "pretty cool for a girl." Despite George's protective big brother routine, you and Lando became inseparable during race weekends.
The marriage jokes started right when Lando was making his F2 debut. You were both hanging out in the paddock when he suddenly announced, "When we get married, our wedding colors have to be papaya orange. Because I know I'll drive for Mclaren"
"Bold of you to assume I'd marry you, Norris," you'd laughed.
"Please, you love me," he'd grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Plus, I've already told my mum you're the one. Can't disappoint her now, darling."
That was the first time he called you darling, but it certainly wasn't the last. Over the years, the pet names multiplied - love, sweetheart, future wife - each one delivered with that characteristic Lando grin that somehow managed to be both cheeky and endearing.
But at the end of the day, he was Lando. And it was all jokes.
"He's probably too busy planning our honeymoon in papaya-colored paradise to care about my actual dating life," you said, trying to sound casual.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Carmen murmurs, just as the door bursts open.
Lando's characteristic energy walks in, his curls slightly messy from his helmet. "Hello lads! Future wife," he grins, making his way over and dramatically flopping onto the couch, his head landing in your lap like it's his designated spot.
"Comfortable?" you ask dryly, but your hand automatically goes to his curls.
"Very," he beams up at you. "Why's everyone looking so serious though? Did George finally realize his neck's too long?"
"Ha ha," George deadpans, while Carmen tries to hide her laugh behind her hand.
"Little Russell was just telling us she's got a date tonight," Alex announces, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding.
Lando sits up so fast he nearly headbutts you. "A what now?"
"A date," you repeat, watching as his face does a complicated journey before settling on forced nonchalance. "With Jacob from marketing."
"McLaren Jacob?" Lando's voice goes up an octave. "My Jacob?"
"He's not your Jacob," you roll your eyes. "And yes, that Jacob."
"The one who still can't figure out how to work the coffee machine?" Lando scoffs, repositioning himself to face you properly. "Come on, darling, you can do better than that. What happened to our sacred Friday night FIFA tournaments?"
"Sacred?" George snorts. "Is that what you call screaming at the TV when she beats you?"
"Oi, whose side are you on?" Lando throws a nearby cushion at George. "Besides, I let her win. Can't have my girl crying, can I?"
"Your girl?" you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way your stomach flips at his words.
"Obviously," he grins, but there's something slightly off about it. "Who else is going to fulfill my mum's dreams of having you as a daughter-in-law?"
"I'm sure Jacob would love to hear about these marriage plans," Alex teases, earning himself a glare from Lando.
"He better watch himself," Lando mutters, then louder, "Where's he taking you anyway? Probably somewhere boring like that chain restaurant near the factory."
"Actually," you say, "he's taking me to that new rooftop place in town."
"The one I said we should try?" Lando looks genuinely offended now. "That's just... that's just rude, love. I called dibs on taking you there."
"When exactly did you call dibs?" Carmen asks innocently.
"In my head," Lando protests. "This is not fair."
You poke his side. "Jealous, Norris?"
"Of course I am," he says, and for a moment, his voice loses its playful edge. "Can't have someone stealing my future wife away. We've got plans, remember? House in Surrey, three kids, dog named Fernando..."
"You've really thought this through, haven't you?" you laugh.
"Been planning our future since I was fourteen, love," he grins, but there's something soft in his eyes. "Now, would you cancel on Jacob and have a proper movie night with your future husband instead?"
"Still not your wife, Lando," you remind him.
"Not yet," he corrects, "But I'm a patient man, darling."
"Okay this is getting weird," Alex chimes in, "Lando, we're leaving. Little Russell, have fun on your date."
"Right," Lando stands up, but his usual bouncy energy seems subdued. "Have fun with boring Jacob. But just remember," he points at you with mock seriousness, though something flickers in his eyes, "I'm not giving up without a fight. Can't let some marketing guy steal the love of my life, can I?"
"The love of your life?" you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your heart skips.
"Since karting, darling," he winks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on, Alex, let's leave the Russell siblings to their protective brother-sister chat."
As soon as the door closes behind them, Carmen turns to you with raised eyebrows. "You really have that boy pining over you, you know that right?"
"Oh please," you wave her off, though your cheeks feel warm. "We're just joking around. We've been doing this since forever."
"Sure, sister, sure," George snorts, exchanging a knowing look with Carmen. "Because every guy I know plans out their future house in Surrey with their 'joke' wife."
"And names their future dog Fernando," Carmen adds.
"It's just Lando being Lando," you insist, but you can't help glancing at the door where he'd disappeared. "He jokes like this with everyone."
"Really?" Carmen leans forward. "Because I've never heard him call anyone else 'the love of his life' or 'darling' or plan out their wedding colors."
"Or look like someone kicked his puppy when they mention going on a date with someone else," George adds.
"You're both reading way too much into this," you say, standing up and grabbing your bag. "I have to go get ready for my date with Jacob."
"The date that Lando looked absolutely thrilled about," George mutters under his breath.
You pretend not to hear him as you leave, trying to ignore the way Lando's slightly hurt expression keeps playing in your mind.
Because it's all jokes. And he's just Lando.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 211,984 others
yn.russell great great night đ
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username1 OMGG LITTLE RUSSELL
username2 she's so pretty its not fair
flonorris1 we need to catch up đ
username3 HUHH DID LANDO FINALLY ASK HER OUT
username4 how did george allow her to go on a date
charles_leclerc Oblivious little baby russell
âł yn.russell ?
âł username1 EXPLAIN
iamrebeccad Prettiest girl đ
jacob___ â¤ď¸
âł yn.russell đ
âł georgerussell63 I'm watching...
âł username1 IM YELLING
âł username2 WHATS GOING ONNN
landonorris the prettiest girl in the world and my future wife idc idc
âł username1 lando have some class ffs
âł yn.russell ENOUGH
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by carmenmmundt, jacob__ and 229,836 others
yn.russell snaps from the summer break đ happy happy
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username1 AN ICON
username2 i wish i was this pinterest feed coded
carmenmmundt Love you my girl !
username3 HOLD ON. THE SECOND PICTURE
username4 did she just soft launch đđ
username5 LITTLE RUSSELL HAS A BOYFRIEND ?????
username6 if her bf is not lando we donât want it
alex_albon i know someone whoâs NOT going to like this
landonorris my darling đđ do u miss me as much as i miss youuuu?
âł username1 HES SHAMELESS
âł yn.russell STOP THIS MADNESS
georgerussell63 I know a lot of ways to make a crash look accidental
âł yn.russell youâre literally not intimidating anyone BYE
âł username1 SO SHE DOES HAVE A BF
jacob__ â¤ď¸
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
The sun is surprisingly bright as you make your way through the Zandvoort paddock, dodging various team personnel rushing around for Thursday preparations. The summer break was finally over and it was time for race cars again. You're just turning the corner when you hear a familiar voice.
"There's my darling!" Lando calls out, jogging over with his signature grin. "Thought you'd forgotten about your future husband during the break."
Before you can respond, he's pulled you into a tight hug. You catch a whiff of his familiar cologne, the one he's worn since F2, and automatically hug him back.
"How was your summer?" he asks, keeping an arm around your shoulders as he starts walking with you. "Did you miss me terribly? Cry yourself to sleep thinking about our FIFA rematch?"
"Actually," you start, feeling unexpectedly nervous, "I've got some news."
"Oh?" His eyes light up. "Did George finally admit his neck is abnormally long? Because I've been sayingâ"
"Jacob and I are officially together," you cut in quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. "Like, properly together. Boyfriend and girlfriend."
Lando's step falters slightly, his arm dropping from your shoulders. "What?"
"Yeah," you continue, fiddling with your paddock pass. "We kept seeing each other after that first date, and during the break... it just got serious."
"Serious?" His voice sounds strange. "How serious? When did thisâ why am I just finding out about this?"
"We wanted to keep it quiet at first, you know? But he talked to the higher-ups at McLaren today about dating someone connected to another team, and they're cool with it, so..." you trail off, watching his face carefully.
"Cool with it," he repeats slowly. Then, visibly forcing his usual grin, "Well, that's... that's great, love. Really great. Though I have to say, my mum will be devastated. She was really counting on those papaya-themed grandchildren."
But his joke falls flat, lacking its usual warmth. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Landoâ"
"No, really," he cuts in, running a hand through his curls. "I'm happy for you. Even if he is rubbish at making coffee. And boring. And probably doesn't even know your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip, or that you secretly love watching those terrible reality shows, or that youâ" he stops himself, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Good for you. Both of you."
You're about to respond when his race engineer calls him over.
"Duty calls," he says, already backing away. "But hey, tell Jacob he better treat my future wife right. Even if she's... not actually my future wife anymore."
He tries to wink, but it looks more like a flinch. Before you can say anything else, he's gone, leaving you standing alone in the paddock with an inexplicable heaviness in your chest.
But you immediately brush it off. Because at the end of the day, he's just Lando.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,504 others
yn.russell making it official đ¤ @/jacob___
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username1 OH?
username2 YALL HE WORKS FOR MCLAREN ??
username3 what happened to lando ?? the marriage proposal??
georgerussell63 About time you stopped sneaking around đ
âł yn.russell shut up old man
âł carlossainz55 Protective brother mode activated
carmenmmundt You guys look so cute! â¤ď¸
âł yn.russell love you xxx
alex_albon Well this is going to be interesting đ
âł landonorris mate.
âł alex_albon what? I said nothing
username4 But what about Lando?? đ They were literally perfect together
usernsme5 nooo my ship is sinking
username6 the way lando looks at her thoâŚ
jacob___â¤ď¸
âł yn.russell đ¤
landonorris i guess i need to find a new future wife then đ¤ˇââď¸ applications open x
âł danielricciardo i volunteer as tribute mate
âł landonorris sorry mate you're not george's sister
âł carlossainz55 You okay there buddy?
âł yn.russell don't worry, you'll always be my favorite husband-that-never-was x
âł landonorris đ
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
yn.russell has added to their stories
landonorris has replied to your story
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
The Singapore night air is thick with humidity and celebration. The club's bass thrums through your bones as you watch Lando being congratulated for what feels like the hundredth time. He's practically glowing, champagne-drunk and victory-high, but something seems off about his smile.
"Babe, want another drink?" Jacob's voice pulls your attention back. His hand is possessively placed on your lower back, and you notice Lando's eyes flicker to it before he quickly looks away.
Across the VIP section, Alex nudges Charles, nodding towards where Lando is now aggressively stabbing at his ice with a straw.
"Subtle, mate," Alex smirks, sliding into the booth beside Lando. "Very subtle."
"Don't know what you're talking about," Lando mutters, but his eyes betray him, darting back to where Jacob is now whispering something in your ear.
"Ah, l'amour," Charles sighs dramatically. "It is painful, no?"
"Nothing's painful," Lando protests, straightening up. "I just won a Grand Prix, in case you forgot."
"And yet you look like someone stole your puppy," Alex points out.
"Or your future wife," Charles adds with a knowing look.
"She was never actually going to be my future wife," Lando says, but his voice lacks conviction. "It was just jokes. Always has been. She's George's sister, for fuck's sake."
"Right," Alex drawls. "So you wouldn't mind if I told you they're probably going to move in together soon?"
Lando chokes on his drink. "They're what?"
"He's joking," Charles quickly intervenes, shooting Alex a look. "But your reaction..."
"Means nothing," Lando insists, but his knuckles are white around his glass. "I just... I don't want her to rush into anything. As a friend. A protective friend. Who happens to be her brother's mate. And her future husband. But like, as a joke. Obviously."
"Obviously," Alex repeats dryly.
Suddenly, Charles straightens up. "Where did they go?"
The spot where you and Jacob were standing is empty. Lando's eyes scan the crowd, something uneasy settling in his stomach.
"Probably just getting more drinks," he says, but he's already standing up.
"Lando..." Alex starts.
"I just need some air," Lando cuts him off, making his way through the crowd.
The corridor leading to the outdoor area is quieter, the music muffled. That's when he hears raised voices.
"You're being ridiculous," Jacob's voice is sharp. "I was just talking to her."
"With your hand on her waist?" Your voice sounds tired. "While I was right there?"
"Oh, so I can't even network now? That's literally my job, YN. But I wouldn't expect you to understand that, since you're only here because of your brother."
Lando's feet move before his brain catches up.
"Everything alright out here?" His voice is deliberately light, but there's steel underneath.
"Fine," Jacob snaps. "Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend."
"Doesn't sound very private," Lando steps closer to you instinctively. "Or very pleasant."
"This doesn't concern you, Norris."
"See, that's where you're wrong, mate," Lando's usual playful demeanor is gone. "YN's wellbeing always concerns me. Future wife contract, remember? Legally binding and all that."
"We're still doing that joke?" Jacob scoffs. "Bit pathetic, don't you think?"
"Not as pathetic as hitting on sponsors' daughters while your girlfriend watches," Lando retorts, then softer, to you: "You okay, darling?"
The familiar pet name makes your chest tight. "I'm fine, Lando."
"Great, she's fine," Jacob moves to grab your arm. "Let's go."
"Touch her like that again," Lando's voice is deadly quiet, "and you'll be looking for a new marketing job. Might want to learn how the coffee machine works first though."
Jacob looks between you and Lando, jaw clenched. "Whatever. This is bullshit anyway. Call me when you're done playing happy families with your brother's friend."
He storms off, leaving you and Lando in charged silence.
"So," Lando finally says, attempting his usual lightness, "does this mean I can keep the dog name Fernando?"
You let out a watery laugh, and without thinking, he pulls you into a hug. You fit against him like you always have, his cologne familiar and comforting.
"My darling," he murmurs into your hair, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't call you that anymore."
You pull back slightly to look at him. "You've been calling me that since we were teenagers."
"Yeah, well," he gives you a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "things change, don't they?"
The way he's looking at you makes your heart stutter. Has he always looked at you like that?
"Is he always like this?" Lando asks quietly, still holding you close. His usual playful tone is gone, replaced by something more serious than you're used to hearing from him.
"No, no," you shake your head quickly. Maybe too quickly, because Lando's brow furrows as he studies your face. "It's notâ he's not usually... it was just a misunderstanding."
He's silent for a moment, his hands fidgeting like they always do when he's worried about something. "You'd tell me though, right? If he ever... if he's not good to you? Or tell George at least?"
"Of course," you try to smile reassuringly. "But really, today was just a bad night. Too much pressure, too much champagne..."
"YN," he cuts in, and the way he says your name instead of one of his usual pet names makes you look up at him. His eyes are intense, concerned. "Promise me."
"I promise," you say softly. "You're a great friend, Lando."
Something flickers across his face â so quick you almost miss it â before his signature grin returns, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Friend?" he scoffs, but his voice sounds slightly strained. "Future husband, remember? Can't have my darling dealing with drama alone. Bad for our future marriage prospects."
You laugh, and he joins in, but there's something heavy hanging in the air between you. Before either of you can say anything else, Alex's voice carries from the doorway.
"Found them! Everything okay out here?"
"Never better," Lando announces, stepping back and throwing an arm around your shoulders with practiced ease. But you notice how his smile doesn't quite match the one in all those podium photos from earlier. "Just reminding the future Mrs. Norris about our very legitimate marriage contract. Very binding. Legally waterproof and everything."
He's doing that thing he does when he's uncomfortable â talking too fast, jokes tumbling out one after another. But his hand squeezes your shoulder gently before he lets go, and you catch him glancing back at you as he bounces toward the club entrance, his "Let's celebrate my amazing win, shall we?" almost drowning out the sound of your heart beating too fast.
Alex watches the exchange with knowing eyes but mercifully says nothing, just offers his arm to escort you back inside.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
texts between george and yn
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 287,540 others
yn.russell british boy steps foot in mexico city and instantly thinks he's a local... who's gonna tell him
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username1 LANDO X LITTLE RUSSELL IS SO BACKKK
username2 he looks so cuute
username3 i know her bf is not going to like this
alex_albon he can't even keep tequila shots down. such a fake
âł landonorris want to test that theory?
âł charles_leclerc Poor little Lando Norris
username4 HELP SHES SO IN LOVE WITH HIM đ
jacob___ đ
âł username1 i know he's JEALOUS
username5 the way yn's feed is like 60% lando
username6 MY PARENTS
landonorris why is my future wife so mean to me
âł yn.russell LANDO
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
Later that afternoon, you're sitting with Carmen in the Mercedes hospitality when George joins you, stealing a bite of your sandwich.
"Get your own food," you swat his hand away.
"Sharing is caring, little sis," he grins, then notices your expression. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," you say automatically, but Carmen raises an eyebrow.
"She's overthinking," Carmen supplies helpfully. "About Jacob."
"I'm not overthinking," you protest. "I'm just... thinking. Normal amounts of thinking."
"About?" George prompts.
You fidget with your paddock pass. "He wants me to meet his parents. After Abu Dhabi. Says it's time we got more serious."
George's expression shifts slightly. "And you want that?"
"I mean... yeah? I think so. It makes sense, right? We've been together for a few months now, things are good..."
"Are they?" Carmen asks gently.
"Of course they are," you say, but your voice lacks conviction. "The Singapore thing was just a one-off. He apologized. He's been really sweet since then."
"Sweet enough to make up for being a dick?" George mutters.
"George."
"Sorry, sorry," he holds up his hands. "Just... you don't sound very excited about meeting his parents."
"I am excited," you insist. "It's just... a big step."
"Not as big as naming your future dog Fernando," Carmen says under her breath.
You shoot her a warning look. "Can we not?"
"Not what?" George asks.
"Nothing," you say quickly. "Just... Carmen thinks I'm not fully committed because..."
"Because you still light up every time Lando calls you 'darling'?" Carmen finishes.
"That's notâ he calls everyone darling."
"No, he doesn't," George and Carmen say in unison.
"I hate you both," you groan. "Look, Lando and I are friends. That's all we've ever been. The whole future wife thing is just our running joke."
"Sure," Carmen nods. "That's why he looks like someone kicked his puppy every time Jacob touches you."
"He does notâ" you start, but stop when you catch sight of Lando walking past. He gives you a small wave and his signature grin, but something about it seems off.
"Doesn't what?" George prompts.
"Nothing," you shake your head. "I should go. Jacob's waiting for me."
As you leave, you hear Carmen say to George, "They're both idiots, aren't they?"
"Complete idiots," George agrees. "But at least they're consistent about it."
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 298,605 others
yn.russell happy birthday to my favorite âfuture husbandâ đ from stealing your caps in karting to stealing your FIFA records (still undefeated btw), you've somehow become one of my favorite people in this weird little world of ours. here's to many more years of terrible jokes, impromptu dance parties in the garage, and you pretending to let me win at everything (we both know I'm just better đ). love you loads landolorian đ¤
ps: fernando the nonexistent dog says happy birthday to his future dad x
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username1 THIS IS TOO CUTE
username2 YOUR HONOR IM CRYING
landonorris still waiting for that marriage certificate darling đ also you definitely cheated at FIFA last time
âł yn.russell sounds like someone's a sore loser
âł landonorris sounds like someone's avoiding the marriage topic
âł georgerussell63 get a room you two
âł landonorris working on it mate
âł username1 LANDO WTF
âł username2 HE HAS NO SHAME
mclaren Happy Birthday @/landonorris! @/yn.russell when's the wedding?
âł landonorris asking the real questions admin
âł oscarpiastri I'll officiate
âł landonorris DEAL
âł yn.russell STOP IT
jacob___ đ
âł landonorris problem mate?
âł yn.russell boys.
âł username3 THE TENSION
username4 why aren't they together yet??
username5 my heart can't take this anymore just date already
liked by username1, username2 and 3,976 others
f1.gossip Lando Norris and YN Russell spotted getting cozy at his birthday celebration last night. Swipe for more đ
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username1 "just friends" my ass
username2 no because why does he look at her like she hung the stars
username3 wait where's jacob? đ
âł username1 apparently he left early...
âł username2 he posted from a different party later that night
username4 george watching his best friend and his sister like đ§ââď¸
âł username1 he's been watching this slow burn for years poor man
username5 jacob watching these photos like đđđ
username6 the way lando calls her darling more than her actual boyfriend does
username7 who's gonna tell jacob his girlfriend has better chemistry with lando in these photos than their entire instagram feed
username8 the "future wife" jokes don't seem so jokey anymore huh
username9 okay but can we talk about how she literally glows when she's around him?
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
The afternoon sun filters through your apartment windows as you put the finishing touches on your makeup. You're going out to dinner with Jacob - another fancy restaurant, another chance for him to network while you smile politely beside him.
A knock at your door makes you pause. Opening it reveals Lando, holding a bag of takeaway and what appears to be your favorite ice cream.
"Oh," he says, taking in your dress and heels. "You're going out."
"Yeah," you adjust your earring, but can't help smiling at the familiar sight of him with food. "With Jacob. Remember?"
"Right," his smile dims slightly. "The boyfriend. Must've slipped my mind." He holds up the bags. "I brought provisions for our traditional post-race debrief. You know, where you tell me how amazing I was and I pretend to be humble about it?"
You laugh despite yourself. "Since when are you ever humble?"
"I'm incredibly humble. The most humble. No one's more humble than me," he grins, then peers around you into the apartment. "But seriously, can't you reschedule? I got your favorite ice cream. Mint chocolate chip, because I'm the best future husband ever."
"Still going with that, are we?" you ask, turning back to the mirror to check your lipstick.
"Always, darling," he follows you in, setting the food down and flopping onto your couch like he owns it. "It's legally binding, remember? Can't disappoint my mum now."
"I can't tonight," you say, checking your phone. "Jacob said he has something important to tell me."
"The one who made you cry?" Lando's voice loses some of its playfulness.
"That was one time," you defend, though without heat. "And he apologized. He actually told me he loves me last week. Says he wants us to be serious."
Lando sits up straighter, his usual energetic demeanor momentarily stilled. "And do you? Love him?"
"You don't know anything about my relationship, Lando," you say, but it comes out softer than intended.
"I know you," he counters, standing up and moving to lean against the wall near your mirror. "I know you scrunch your nose when you're trying not to laugh at bad jokes. I know you secretly love those terrible reality shows but pretend you're 'just watching them ironically.' I know you stress-eat ice cream when George has a bad race."
"That's different," you say, but you're fighting a smile.
"Is it?" he challenges, but his tone is gentle. "Look, I just... I want you to be happy. Even if it means dealing with boring Jacob who still can't work the coffee machine."
"He figured it out last week, actually," you laugh.
"Finally! Only took him what, six months?" Lando grins, then sobers slightly. "But seriously, if he makes you happy..."
"He does," you say, though something in your chest tightens. "Most of the time."
"Most of the time?" Lando raises an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement, darling."
"Nobody's perfect."
"I am," he says immediately, making you laugh. "What? I'm just saying, our future children would have excellent genes. Plus, I make a mean cup of coffee."
Your phone buzzes - a text from Jacob asking where you are.
"I have to go," you say, grabbing your purse. "Lock up when you leave?"
"Fine," he sighs dramatically. "Abandon your future husband with melting ice cream. But just know, Fernando the dog is very disappointed in you."
"Still haven't given up on that name, huh?"
"Never," he grins, but something flickers in his eyes. "Save me some time this weekend? For proper FIFA revenge?"
"You mean so I can beat you again?"
"Excuse you, I let you win," he protests, following you to the door. "It's part of my long-term strategy."
"Which is?"
"Can't have my future wife thinking I'm bad at something, can I?" he winks. "Even though we both know I'm actually terrible at FIFA."
You shake your head, laughing. "Goodbye, Lando."
"Wait," he calls as you start down the hall. "Just... be happy, yeah? Even if it's with someone who took six months to learn how to make coffee."
"I am happy," you say, but even to your own ears, it sounds more like a question than a statement.
"If you say so, darling," he says quietly. "But just remember, the Fernando name reservation is still valid. You know, in case the coffee-challenged boyfriend doesn't work out."
You roll your eyes but can't help smiling as you walk away, trying to ignore the way your heart seems to be arguing with your head about exactly what - or who - makes you happiest. Behind you, you can hear him humming what sounds suspiciously like the wedding march, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
Because at the end of the day, he's still Lando. Your Lando. Even if you're not quite ready to admit what that really means.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,498 others
yn.russell last dinner date before heading back to the circus đď¸ @/jacob___
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username1 ewww
username2 cute couple tbh
jacob___ miss you already x
âł yn.russell â¤ď¸
landonorris see you in las vegas darling x
âł jacob___ can you not?
âł landonorris sorry mate, contractual future wife obligations
âł yn_russell boys. please.
âł georgerussell63 đż
âł carlossainz55 Share some with me
âł username1 LORD
âł username2 THIS IS SO MESSYYYYY
username3 THIS COMMENT SECTION HAS ME IN TEARSSSS
username4 i feel like shit is about to hit the fan reaaaally soon
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
"I just don't understand why you have to be there for every single race," Jacob's voice carries down the paddock corridor. "It's not like you're actually part of the team."
You're standing outside the McLaren hospitality, what started as a casual conversation having turned into yet another argument. "My brother races in F1, and Lando's one of my closest friends. Of course I'm going to be here."
"Right, Lando," Jacob scoffs. "Because God forbid you miss one of his races. Wouldn't want to disappoint your 'future husband.'"
"Don't do that," you say tiredly. "You know it's just a joke."
"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you'd rather spend time with him than support your actual boyfriend's career."
"Your career? I've been to every single marketing event you've asked me to attend. I've smiled and networked and played the perfect girlfriend."
"Perfect?" He laughs humorlessly. "You barely talk to any of the sponsors. You're too busy hanging out in the Mercedes garage or watching Lando's practice sessions."
"That's not fairâ"
"You know what's not fair? Having a girlfriend who's more invested in other people's careers than mine."
"I didn't realize I was supposed to give up my entire life just because we're dating."
"Your entire life?" His voice rises. "You mean hanging around the paddock like some glorified fan?"
You step back like he's slapped you. "Is that what you think I am?"
"I think," he says coldly, "that you need to figure out what's more important - playing happy families with your brother's friends or having a real relationship with someone who's actually going somewhere in life."
"Hey!" A sharp voice cuts through the tension. George is standing there, face thunderous. "What the hell is going on here?"
"Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend," Jacob says stiffly.
"Doesn't sound very private to me," George steps closer, positioning himself slightly in front of you. "Or very respectful."
"George, it's fine," you start, but he cuts you off.
"No, it's not fine," he says, not taking his eyes off Jacob. "No one talks to my sister like that."
Jacob holds up his hands. "Look, this is between me and YN."
"Not anymore it's not," George's voice is dangerously calm. "I think you should leave."
For a moment, it looks like Jacob might argue, but something in George's expression makes him think better of it. "Whatever. Call me when you're ready to be a proper girlfriend."
As he walks away, George turns to you, his anger melting into concern. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," you say automatically, but your voice wavers.
"Come on," he wraps an arm around your shoulders, leading you toward his driver room. "Let's talk."
Once inside, you sink onto the couch while George grabs two water bottles. "How long has he been talking to you like that?"
"It's not... it's not usually that bad," you say, fidgeting with the bottle label. "He's just stressed about work."
"That's not an excuse," George sits beside you. "Has he said things like this before? About you being just a fan?"
You stay quiet, which is answer enough.
"YN," George's voice softens. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it's embarrassing," you admit quietly. "He's right, isn't he? I am just hanging around because of you."
"Stop," George says firmly. "You've been part of this world since we were kids. You understand racing better than half the people in the paddock. Hell, you probably know more about tire strategies than some of the engineers."
You manage a small laugh. "Only because you never shut up about them."
"Exactly," he grins, then turns serious again. "Look, being here isn't just about me. It's your life too. You've built relationships with everyone here. Carmen loves you, Alex considers you a little sister, and Lando..."
"Don't," you cut him off. "Please don't bring Lando into this."
George studies you for a moment. "Why not? He's your best friend."
"Because..." you trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated mix of emotions that surface whenever Lando's name comes up lately.
"Because Jacob's jealous of him?" George suggests gently.
"He's not... it's not like that."
"Isn't it?" George raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like your boyfriend has a problem with how close you are to someone who's been in your life a lot longer than he has."
"Lando and I are just friends," you say, but the words feel hollow.
"Are you?" George asks softly. "Because friends don't look at each other the way you two do. Friends don't have elaborate future plans including dogs named Fernando. Friends don't get that look in their eyes when the other person is dating someone else."
"George..."
"I'm just saying," he continues, "maybe Jacob isn't entirely wrong to be jealous. Just... wrong about everything else."
You're quiet for a moment, processing. "I don't know what to do."
"Yes, you do," George says simply. "You just need to be honest with yourself about what - or who - actually makes you happy."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?" He challenges. "Because from what I just heard, Jacob doesn't make you happy. He makes you feel small. And my little sister," he squeezes your shoulder, "deserves someone who makes her feel like she could take on the world."
"Someone like Lando?" You ask quietly.
"I didn't say that," George grins. "But now that you mention it..."
You shove him playfully. "Shut up."
"Make me," he laughs, then sobers. "Seriously though, YN. You deserve better than someone who makes you question your place here. This is your home too."
You lean your head on his shoulder. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. I'm the older sibling, remember?"
"By like two years!"
"Still counts," he says smugly, then adds more seriously, "Just... promise me you'll think about what I said? About being honest with yourself?"
"I promise," you say softly, even as your mind drifts to a certain curly-haired driver who's probably wondering where you are for your traditional pre-race FIFA tournament.
"Good," George stands up. "Now, want to go watch Lando absolutely butcher his quali prep? I heard he's still convinced he can take turn 3 flat out."
You laugh, letting him pull you up. "Some things never change, do they?"
"Nope," George agrees, but there's something knowing in his smile. "And some things are just waiting for you to realize they've been there all along."
As you walk toward the McLaren garage, you can't help but think about how some of the best things in life start as jokes - like a fourteen-year-old boy declaring you'll have papaya orange wedding colors, or a nickname that feels more like home than any other word in the world.
Maybe it's time to stop pretending it's all just a joke.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and 301,988 others
yn.russell my big brother just won in VEGAS!!! đ⨠from watching you race karts in the rain to watching you stand on top of the podium under those lights... i've never been prouder to be a russell. you deserve this more than anyone georgie. also thanks for letting me steal your champagne and ruin your hair before the photos đ
ps: mum's crying, dad's crying, i'm crying, even fernando the dog is crying and he's not real x
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username1 I LOVE THEM SMMMM
username2 THIS IS MY FAMILY
georgerussell63 love you little sis â¤ď¸ (but i was definitely the cuter kid)
âł yn_russell keep telling yourself that x
âł landonorris can confirm yn was the cuter kid
âł georgerussell63 no one asked you lando
âł landonorris just supporting my future wife mate
âł yn.russell boys please this is george's moment
username2 THE WAY SHE RAN TO HIM IN PARC FERME đ
username3 sibling goals fr
username4 ok but can we talk about how lando waited to celebrate with george until after yn had her moment with him đĽş
âł username1 future brother in law behavior
username5 wait why isn't jacob in any of these photos? Wasn't he there?
carmenmmundt so proud of you both â¤ď¸
âł landonorris *all three of us
âł carmenmmundt ?
âł landonorris future wife = future family
âł yn.russell this is GEORGE'S post omg
âł landonorris sorry darling carry on x
charles_leclerc the russell genes are strong
âł landonorris hopefully our kids get her genes
âł georgerussell63 LANDO.
âł yn.russell i swear to god
âł landonorris what? just planning ahead đ
username6 THIS COMMENT SECTION IS KILLING ME
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
yn.russell has added to their stories
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
The Abu Dhabi night is alive with celebration, the McLaren garage covered in papaya and champagne. But you're hidden away in one of the quiet corridors behind hospitality, mascara smudged, trying to muffle your sobs.
"There you are, darling! We've been looking everywhere forâ" Lando's voice cuts off abruptly when he sees you. "YN?"
You quickly try to wipe your tears, but it's too late. His championship-winning smile vanishes instantly as he drops down beside you.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, concerned. When you don't answer, he gently takes your hands away from your face. "Talk to me."
"It's stupid," you manage to say. "You should be celebrating. You just won the constructors'."
"Pretty sure the champagne will still be there in ten minutes," he says, thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. "What happened?"
You take a shaky breath. "Jacob... he..." Your voice breaks.
Lando's expression hardens. "What did he do?"
"He broke up with me," you let out a bitter laugh. "Apparently now that he's secured a position at Mercedes for next season, he doesn't need the Russell connection anymore."
"He what?" Lando's voice is dangerously quiet.
"Turns out I was just... convenient. A way to get closer to Toto. To Mercedes." Your voice cracks again. "God, I feel so stupid."
"You're not stupid," Lando says fiercely. "He's the stupid one. He's worse than stupid, he's a completeâ"
"I really thought..." you cut him off, fresh tears falling. "I actually thought he cared about me."
Without hesitation, Lando pulls you into his arms. You bury your face in his race suit, still damp with champagne, and let yourself break.
"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, darling."
You stay like that for a while, his hands running soothingly up and down your back as you cry. The distant sounds of celebration feel like they're from another world.
"Want me to crash his car?" Lando finally asks, making you let out a watery laugh. "I could do it. Make it look like an accident. I am a professional driver, after all."
"Lando..."
"Or we could put laxatives in his coffee. Though he'd probably notice, since he still can't make a proper cup himself."
Despite everything, you find yourself smiling slightly.
"There's my girl," he says softly, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't..."
"It's okay," you whisper. "I've always been your girl. Even if it was just as a joke."
Something shifts in his expression. "YN..."
"Don't," you pull back slightly. "Please. I can't... I can't lose you too. Not tonight."
He studies your face for a long moment, then nods, pulling you back against his chest. "You'll never lose me. Future husband contract, remember? Legally binding. Can't get rid of me that easily."
You close your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. "Promise?"
"Promise," he kisses the top of your head. "Besides, Fernando still needs both his parents."
This gets a real laugh out of you. "We don't actually have a dog, Lando."
"Yet," he corrects. "We don't have a dog yet. But when we doâ"
"His name will be Fernando," you finish with him, and for a moment, everything feels okay again.
"Want me to get George?" he asks after a while.
You shake your head. "Not yet. Can we just... stay here for a bit?"
"As long as you need," he says, and you can hear his heart beating steadily under your ear. "I'm not going anywhere."
In the distance, someone calls his name.
"Go," you start to pull away. "They need their champion."
"They can wait," he says firmly, pulling you back. "You need me more."
And maybe it's the way he says it, or the gentle kiss he presses to your temple, or how his arms feel like the safest place in the world, but suddenly you realize what everyone's been trying to tell you all along.
This was never just a joke to him.
And maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke to you either.
But that's a revelation for another night, when your heart isn't quite so broken and his race suit isn't covered in your tears. For now, you let yourself be held by your best friend, your future husband, your Lando, as the Abu Dhabi night carries on without you.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 288,760 others
yn.russell back to my favorite job: professional thirdwheel đď¸ (at least they feed me occasionally) @/georgerussell63 @/carmenmmundt
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username1 MY PARENTS
username2 wait... where's jacob? đ
âł username1 he unfollowed her last week đ
âł username3 tea incoming
georgerussell63 You love us
âł yn.russell debatable
âł carmenmmund We literally paid for your dinner
âł yn.russell okay fine you're alright
landonorris need a fourth wheel? đ
âł yn.russell ...
âł landonorris i'll bring snacks
username4 THE WAY LANDO COMMENTED SO FAST
username5 LANDO THIS IS YOUR CHANCE
username6 single little russell era is coming
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
The winter sun is setting early, casting long shadows across your apartment. It's been a month days since Abu Dhabi, a months since Jacob revealed his true colors, and you're curled up on your couch in your comfiest sweats, surrounded by empty ice cream containers.
George and Carmen tried to cheer you up, making you tag along on their vacation, but now that you were back home, the sulking feeling inevitably came back too.
A familiar pattern of knocks at your door makes you groan. "Go away, Lando."
"Not a chance, darling," his voice calls back. "I come bearing provisions!"
"I don't need provisions," you call out, but you're already getting up to open the door. "I need to wallow in peace."
You open the door to find Lando, arms full of bags, wearing a ridiculously oversized hoodie that you're pretty sure belongs to George.
"Wallowing is officially cancelled," he announces, breezing past you into the apartment. "We're having a proper heartbreak recovery session."
"We are?"
"Absolutely," he starts unpacking the bags. "I've got all the essentials. More ice cream - mint chocolate chip, obviously. Every terrible rom-com Netflix has to offer. Popcorn. Those weird crisps you like that no one else understands. And..." he pulls out a bottle with flourish, "your favorite wine."
"Lando..."
"No arguments," he says firmly, but gently. "I'm not leaving you alone to cry over that coffee-challenged idiot."
"I wasn't crying," you protest weakly.
He raises an eyebrow at your clearly tear-stained face. "Right. And I'm not the most talented driver on the grid."
This actually makes you laugh. "Your modesty never fails to amaze me."
"I know, I know, I'm incredible," he grins, already making himself at home on your couch. "Now come here. We're starting with The Notebook because I know it's your guilty pleasure, even though you pretend to hate it."
"I do hate it," you say, but you're already curling up next to him.
"Sure you do, darling," he throws a blanket over both of you. "Just like you hate reality TV and actually love Jacob's boring marketing presentations."
You wince slightly at Jacob's name, and Lando immediately softens.
"Sorry," he says quietly. "No more mentions of He Who Shall Not Be Named. Though I still think we should put glitter in his car ventilation system."
"George already offered to have him banned from the paddock," you smile slightly.
"Good man, your brother," Lando nods approvingly. "Though my revenge plans are much more creative. I was thinking we could reprogram his laptop to only play 'Baby Shark' when he opens PowerPoint..."
You can't help but laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"Made you smile though, didn't I?" he says softly, and something in his voice makes you look up at him.
"You always do," you admit quietly.
He holds your gaze for a moment before clearing his throat. "Right, well, that's what future husbands are for, isn't it? Can't have my darling being sad. Bad for our wedding photos."
"Still going with that, are we?"
"Always," he says, and despite his light tone, there's something earnest in his eyes. "Someone's got to look after you properly."
"I can look after myself," you point out.
"Oh, I know," he grins. "But it's more fun together, isn't it? Plus, who else is going to appreciate your terrible taste in movies?"
"My taste is not terrible!"
"Darling, you genuinely enjoyed that film about the talking cats."
"It was artistic!"
"It was horrifying," he laughs, pulling you closer. "But I watched it three times with you anyway."
"Because you're a good friend," you say softly.
Something flickers across his face. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "The best friend you'll ever have. Even if you have questionable taste in everything except future husbands."
You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. "Speaking of questionable taste, weren't we supposed to be watching The Notebook?"
"Oh right!" he brightens, grabbing the remote. "Time to pretend you're not going to cry at the end."
"I never cry at the end."
"Darling, you've cried every single time we've watched it."
"Have not!"
"Have too! Remember last time? You got tears all over my favorite hoodie."
"That was one time!"
"One time this month, maybe," he grins, then softens. "It's okay though. My hoodies are always available for your tears. Even if they're about stupid coffee-challenged marketing guys who don't deserve them."
You lean your head on his shoulder. "Thank you, Lando."
"For what?"
"For being you. For being here. For..." you gesture at all the supplies he brought. "For everything."
He's quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Always, darling. In sickness and in health, remember?"
"We're not actually married, Lando."
"Yet," he corrects, but there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "We're not actually married yet."
The movie starts playing, but you're more aware of his steady breathing, of how perfectly you fit against his side, of how safe you feel in this moment. And maybe it's too soon, maybe your heart is still too raw, but you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the right person has been here all along.
But that's a thought for another day. For now, you let yourself be comforted by your best friend, your constant, your Lando, as he quotes along with the movie and keeps you supplied with ice cream and terrible jokes until you're laughing more than you're crying.
And if you do end up crying at the end of The Notebook, well, his hoodie is already there to catch your tears.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 291,483 others
yn.russell FIRST RACE OF THE SEASON. WHAT A RIDE !!!! lando winning and georgie on podium. ALEX P5 !!!! all of my boys killing it 𼺠so happy to be back, i missed this so much
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username1 LITTLE RUSSELL BIGGEST SUPPORTER
username2 SHE WAS SO HAPPY FOR LANDO OMFG
username3 still gutted for the missed mclaren 1-2 but GEORGE P3!!
carmenmmundt You almost broke my hand with all the squeezing !! Missed you so happy my girl đ¤
âł username1 AHH LITTLE RUSSELL IS HEALING
username4 the way she JUMPED into lando's arms
ciscanorris My future daughter in law! It was so good to see you
âł username1 AHH MAMA NORRIS CLAIMING HER
landonorris THAT WAS FOR YOU MY DARLINGGG
âł yourinstagram đĽş
âł username2 AHH SHE DIDN'T CORRECT HIM
georgerussell63 Love you sis, even tho you hugged Lando first
âł yn.russell he won okay
âł landonorris and i'm her future husband
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
The Miami night air is warm and sweet, carrying the distant sounds of celebration from the post race party below. You're leaning against the balcony railing, watching the lights of the circuit sparkle in the distance, when familiar footsteps approach.
"There's my darling," Lando's voice is soft as he joins you. "Hiding from your adoring public?"
You smile, not looking away from the view. "Just needed some air."
The past few months flash through your mind - Lando showing up at your door with takeaway after particularly hard days, marathon gaming sessions that somehow always ended with you falling asleep on his shoulder, countless movie nights where he'd quote every line just to make you laugh. He never let you wallow, never let you retreat into sadness. Whether it was surprising you with your favorite coffee in the morning or sending you ridiculous memes at 3 AM, he was constantly there, slowly piecing your heart back together without you even realizing it.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, bumping your shoulder gently with his.
"Just thinking about everything that's changed since last season."
He hums in agreement. "Good changes though, right?"
You finally turn to look at him, really look at him. His curls slightly messy from running his hands through them - a nervous habit you've known since you were teenagers. But there's something different in the way he's looking at you now, something that makes your heart skip.
"Yeah," you say softly. "Good changes."
He takes a step closer, and suddenly the air feels charged with possibility. "You know, I've been thinking..."
"Dangerous hobby," you tease, falling into your familiar pattern.
"Very dangerous," he agrees, but his voice is serious. "Been thinking about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes."
Your breath catches. "Lando..."
"Like when a fourteen-year-old boy tells this pretty girl she's going to be his future wife," he continues, taking another step closer. "And he keeps saying it for years, making it this big running joke, because it's easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke at all."
"What are you saying?" you whisper, though your heart already knows the answer.
He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your cheek. "I'm saying that I've been in love with you since we were kids. I'm saying that every time I called you darling, every time I talked about our future dog Fernando, every time I claimed the future husband title - I meant it. All of it."
"Lando..." your voice wavers.
"I know it's only been a few months since... everything," he says quickly. "And if you're not ready, if you don't feel the same way, we can pretend this never happened. We can go back to just joking around. But I needed you to know that for me, it was never just a joke. You were never just a joke."
You stare at him, this boy who's been your constant, your safe place, your home for so long. And suddenly everything clicks into place.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he says softly, giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don't.
His lips meet yours, gentle at first, like he's afraid you might break. But when your hands slide into his curls, pulling him closer, the kiss deepens into something that feels like coming home and falling free all at once.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. "So," he says, slightly breathless, "about that legally binding marriage contract..."
You laugh, the sound full of joy. "Still going with that, are we?"
"Always," he grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. "Though now I'm thinking maybe we should make it official. You know, for Fernando's sake."
"We still don't have a dog, Lando."
"Yet," he corrects, pulling you closer. "We don't have a dog yet. But we will. Right after the wedding. Which will definitely have papaya orange colors because I called dibs when we were fourteen andâ"
You cut him off with another kiss, feeling him smile against your lips.
"FINALLY!"
You break apart to find George standing in the doorway, grinning like he just won the championship.
"Ever heard of knocking?" Lando grumbles, but he doesn't let go of you.
"On a balcony door?" George raises an eyebrow. "Besides, I've been watching you two dance around each other for months. Years, actually."
"Have not," you protest.
"Have too," both men say in unison.
"I hate you both," you mutter, but you're fighting a smile.
"No you don't," Lando says confidently. "You love me. You're going to marry me and we're going to have a dog named Fernando andâ"
"Still with the dog name?" George groans.
"It's tradition!" Lando defends. "Tell him, darling, tell him how important traditions are."
You look between your brother and the boy - no, the man - who's been your everything for so long, and feel your heart might burst with happiness.
"Actually," you say slowly, "I was thinking maybe we could name the dog George."
"What?" both men exclaim.
You burst out laughing at their expressions. "Just kidding. Fernando it is."
"See?" Lando beams at George. "She agrees with me. Because she loves me. Because we're getting married. Becauseâ"
"Because it was never really a joke?" you finish softly.
His expression softens as he looks at you. "Never."
"Right," George clears his throat. "I'm going to leave before this gets any more sickeningly sweet. But Lando?"
"Yeah?"
"Hurt my sister and they'll never find your body."
"Please," Lando scoffs, pulling you closer. "I've been planning our future since I was fourteen. I'm not about to mess it up now."
As George leaves, shaking his head but smiling, Lando turns back to you.
"So," he says, his eyes twinkling, "about those wedding colors..."
You silence him with another kiss, thinking about how sometimes the best love stories start as jokes, and how sometimes the person you're meant to be with has been there all along, calling you darling and planning your future with a dog named Fernando.
And maybe, just maybe, those papaya orange wedding colors don't sound so bad after all.
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 201,384 others
yn.russell turns out some jokes become reality 𧥠@/landonorris (yes, we're actually getting the dog. yes, his name will be fernando. no, this isn't a drill - the future wife position has officially been filled, i love you my lando)
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username1 SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP IS THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENING??? đđđ
username2 THE WAY I JUST SCREAMED IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS
username3 THE FUTURE WIFE JOKES WERE REAL ALL ALONG
georgerussell63 About bloody time đ (but actually very happy for you both)
alex_albon the group chat can finally rest, no more "should I tell her?" messages from lando every 5 minutes
carmenmmundt The paddock's favorite love story
ciscanorris Finally! I've only been waiting for this announcement since they were teenagers đĽ°
username4 the way this man has been calling her darling for YEARS and we all thought it was just banter đđ
username5 THE WAY I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE 2019
username6 ok but can we talk about how he's literally been manifesting this since they were TEENAGERS???
username7 this is actually the cutest thing ever like???? he's been planning their wedding since he was 14???? hello???
username8 the way george is probably somewhere being like "finally i don't have to pretend i don't see them flirting"
landonorris worth the wait, every single secondâ¤ď¸ love you darling x
âââââââââ ๨ৠâââââââââ
It's a lazy Sunday afternoon in late summer, and you're curled up on your couch with a book when you hear Lando's key in the door. You smile, not looking up - he's been coming and going from your place so much lately that it feels more like his home than his own apartment.
"Darling!" his voice calls out, sounding suspiciously excited. "Close your eyes!"
"Why?" you ask warily. "Last time you had a surprise, it didn't end well."
"Just trust me!"
You sigh fondly, closing your eyes. "Fine, but this better be good."
You hear him moving around, and then something warm and furry lands in your lap.
Your eyes fly open to find yourself face to face with the most adorable chocolate Labrador puppy you've ever seen. The puppy immediately starts licking your face while Lando watches, beaming with pure joy.
"Lando..." you breathe, already in love with the wiggling bundle of fur. "What did you do?"
"Well," he drops onto the couch beside you, reaching over to scratch the puppy's ears, "I was thinking about how we've been together for months now, and living together basically even though we pretend we don't, and how there's this one very important member of our family still missing..."
"You didn't," you whisper, even as the puppy settles contentedly in your lap.
"I did," he grins. "Meet Fernando. Finally."
You look between Lando and the puppy - Fernando - feeling your heart might burst. "You actually named him Fernando?"
"Of course I did! I've been planning this since I was fourteen, remember?" His eyes soften. "Plus, I made you a promise, didn't I?"
"We're not married yet," you point out, but you can't stop smiling.
"Yet," he emphasizes, leaning over to kiss your cheek. "But really, I thought... I mean, we practically live together anyway. Might as well make it official. You, me, and Fernando."
You look down at the puppy, who's now snoring softly in your lap, then back at Lando. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Properly?"
"Maybe," he fidgets slightly. "Unless you think it's too soon? I know we haven't been together that long, but it feels like we've been building towards this forever, you know? And I thought, with Fernando here now..."
You cut off his rambling with a kiss. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'll move in with you. Properly. All three of us."
His face lights up like you've just given him the best gift in the world. "Really?"
"Really," you laugh.
"You're ridiculous," you tell him fondly.
"You love it," he says confidently.
"I do," you admit softly. "I love you."
His expression melts into that soft look he reserves just for you. "I love you too, darling. Both of you," he adds as Fernando stirs and licks his hand.
Just then, your phone buzzes - a text from George.
"Oh no," you groan, reading it. "George is coming over."
"Perfect!" Lando brightens. "He can meet his nephew!"
"You did not just call our dog George's nephew."
"Of course I did! He's family now. Speaking of which..." he pulls out his phone, "my mum's been asking when we're bringing Fernando to visit."
Before you can respond, George's voice carries through the door. "Why is there puppy food in the hallway?"
Lando jumps up excitedly. "Ready to meet Uncle George, Fernando?"
The puppy perks up at his name, tail wagging as George opens the door.
"You didn't," George says, taking in the scene.
"We did!" Lando announces proudly. "Meet your nephew!"
"My... nephew?"
"Fernando Russell-Norris," Lando declares. "Well, technically just Norris for now, but that'll change once your sister finally agrees to marry me."
"Still waiting on that proposal, aren't you?" George smirks.
"All in good time," Lando winks at you. "Got to do it properly, haven't I?"
You watch George pretend not to be completely smitten with Fernando, while Lando chatters about all his plans for family weekends and teaching Fernando tricks. You can't help but think about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes about future marriages and dogs named Fernando.
"Our little family," Lando says softly, pulling you close while Fernando attempts to climb into George's lap.
And as you lean into his side, watching your brother and your boyfriend argue about who gets to be Fernando's favorite uncle (while the puppy seems more interested in chewing George's shoelaces), you realize that this - this moment, this love, this little family - is better than any dream you could have had.
It's your reality. Your perfect, slightly chaotic, absolutely wonderful reality.
And you wouldn't have it any other way.
Big Family
Summary: After the rookies adopted Max as their father on paddock, you became their mother
Song: Chest Pain (I Love) ¡ Malcolm Todd
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this!đŤś
Word count: 10.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The thing about Kimi Antonelli is that he never asks permission for anything.
Not when he commandeered Maxâs phone to order three extra-large pizzas at 2 AM, not when he âborrowedâ your favorite hoodie and stretched it out beyond recognition, and definitely not when he decidedâmid-conversationâthat Max was now the gridâs unofficial father figure.
âItâs just facts,â heâd said, shrugging, as if he hadnât just upended your entire dynamic with four words.
Youâre still trying to figure out how that happened when Ollie Bearman flops onto the couch next to you, his legs dangling over the armrest.
âSo,â he says, grinning like heâs about to drop a grenade in your lap, âdoes this make you our grid mom?â
You blink. âWhat?â
âWell, Max is the dad,â Ollie says, as if this is the most logical progression in the world. âYouâre dating him. Therefore, mom.â
Across the room, Gabriel Bortoleto snorts into his energy drink, and Isack Hadjarâwhoâd been pretending to mind his own businessâfails spectacularly at hiding his laughter.
Max, who had been scrolling through telemetry data on his tablet with the kind of focus usually reserved for qualifying laps, suddenly looks up as if heâd just sensed a disturbance in the paddockâs force. His eyebrows knit together. "Did someone justâ"
"Assign you parental duties without consent?" you finish dryly, tossing a throw pillow at Ollie, who catches it with the reflexes of someone whoâs dodged his fair share of flying debris in the F2 paddock. "Yeah. Welcome to the club."
Kimi, sprawled on the floor like an overgrown golden retriever, props himself up on his elbows. "Itâs not that weird. You already act like it," he says, jerking his chin toward Max.
"Remember Baku? When Gabe tried to eat his third energy bar in an hour and you grabbed it out of his hand like, âNo, youâll crash the carâ?"
Max opens his mouth, then closes it. You can practically see the replay running in his headâthe way heâd plucked the bar from Gabrielâs grip with the same effortless authority he uses to defend pole position.
Gabriel, for his part, groans and buries his face in his hands. "I wouldnât have crashed," he mumbles, but itâs undercut by Isackâs snicker.
Max sighs, rubbing his temples like heâs suddenly developed a headache. âSo now Iâm responsible for what you eat before races?â he mutters, but thereâs no real heat in itâjust that vaguely exasperated fondness he reserves for things he pretends to hate but secretly enjoys.
You recognize it instantly, because itâs the same tone he uses when you steal his fries.
Ollie, sensing weakness, swings his legs off the couch and leans forward. âItâs not just food,â he says, counting off on his fingers. âThereâs also the time you told Kimi to stop using his helmet as a step stool. And when you made Isack rehydrate after FP2 last weekââ
âBecause he looked like a wilted lettuce,â Max cuts in, throwing his hands up. âThatâs just common sense!â
Isack, who had been quietly enjoying the chaos, suddenly straightens. âWilted what?â
Max opens his mouthâprobably to double down on the lettuce commentâbut Kimi cuts him off by flinging a bag of Haribo at his head.
"You literally said, 'Hydrate or die-drate,'" Kimi announces, as if this is the most damning evidence possible. The bag hits Max square in the forehead before bouncing onto the couch, scattering gummy bears like tiny, sugary landmines.
You press your lips together to keep from laughing. Max, ever the professional, manages to look vaguely offended while simultaneously catching a stray gummy bear mid-air and popping it into his mouth.
"That was medical advice," he insists, chewing. "Not parenting."
Gabriel, whoâs been watching this unfold with the detached amusement of someone who knows heâs next, leans forward. "Then explain why you made me redo my seat fit last week because you said I was 'sitting like a drunk sloth.'"
His deadpan delivery is impeccable. Even Max pauses, the gears in his head visibly turning as he triesâand failsâto come up with a rebuttal that doesnât sound like heâs digging his own grave.
You decide to take mercy on him. "Face it," you say, nudging his knee with yours. "Youâve been dad-ing this whole time. You just didnât realize it."
Max stares at Gabriel for a long, silent moment, then slowly turns to you with the expression of a man whoâs just realized heâs been ambushed.
âThis is mutiny,â he announces, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Ollie, sensing victory, launches himself off the couch and drapes himself dramatically over Maxâs shoulders like a human scarf.
âFace it, old man,â he sing-songs, âyouâre stuck with us.â
The room erupts into chaosâKimi lobs another handful of Haribos, Isack starts a slow clap that Gabriel joins with exaggerated enthusiasm, and Max, despite his best efforts, canât suppress the laugh that escapes.
You catch his eye over the mess of limbs and candy wrappers, and he rolls his own in that way he does when heâs pretending to be annoyed but is actually two seconds away from caving.
âFine,â he grumbles, shoving Ollie off with a half-hearted elbow. âBut if Iâm the dad, that means I make the rules.â He pauses, then smirks. âBedtimeâs at nine.â
The protests are immediate and deafening. Kimi, mid-reach for another gummy bear, freezes. âYou canât be serious,â he says, horrified.
Max leans back against the couch cushions, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself as the rookies erupt into indignant squawking.
Gabriel flings an empty Haribo bag at his head, which Max dodges with the reflexes of a man whoâs spent years avoiding flying debrisâboth on and off the track. âNine?â Ollie gasps, clutching his chest like heâs been personally betrayed. âI have homework.â
You snort. âHomework?â you echo, raising an eyebrow. âYou mean that sim data you were supposed to review yesterday?â
Ollieâs eyes dart to the side, and you know youâve hit the mark. Max shoots you a look thatâs equal parts gratitude and why are you enabling them, but you just grin and steal a gummy bear from the pile on the couch.
Kimi, ever the opportunist, seizes the distraction to launch himself at the remaining candy, but Isackâdeceptively quickâsnatches the bag first and holds it above his head.
âHydrate or die-drate,â he parrots, grinning as Kimi swipes at the air like an overexcited kitten. Max sighs, but thereâs no real annoyance in it.
âYouâre all impossible,â he mutters, but the way his fingers absently tap against Ollieâs forearmâstill draped over his shouldersâgives him away.
Gabriel, ever the observer, leans forward with a smirk. âSo,â he drawls, âif bedtimeâs at nine, does that mean youâre tucking us in?â The room goes momentarily silent before dissolving into laughter.
Even Max cracks, shaking his head as Ollie nearly topples off the couch from how hard heâs giggling. âAbsolutely not,â Max deadpans, but the effect is ruined by the way heâs trying not to smile.
The media had a field day with this. You realized it the moment you walked into the paddock the next morning and saw Laurent Mekies holding up a tabloid with the headline
"VERSTAPPEN ADOPTS ROOKIE SQUAD: IS THIS THE NEW RED BULL FAMILY?" splashed across the top.
Laurentâs smirk is nothing short of diabolical as he taps the tabloid against his palm. "So," he says, voice dripping with amusement, "when were you going to tell me weâre running a daycare now?"
Max, who had been mid-sip of his coffee, chokes so violently that Ollieâmaterializing out of nowhere like a particularly mischievous ghostâthumps him on the back with far more enthusiasm than necessary.
"Careful, Dad," he chirps, grinning. "Wouldnât want you to drown before breakfast."
You press a hand to your mouth to stifle the laugh threatening to escape, but itâs a lost cause when Kimiâstill bleary-eyed from what you suspect was a very late-night sim sessionâwanders over and squints at the headline.
"Huh," he says, reaching out to poke the paper like it might bite him. "We made it to print. Does this mean weâre famous?"
Gabriel, who had been lurking behind Laurent with the air of someone who knows exactly how this conversation will go, sighs. "No, Kimi. It means weâre embarrassing."
Max, having recovered from his near-death experience with the coffee, levels Laurent with a look thatâs pure donât you dare.
Laurent, being Laurent, dares. "GP wants to know if youâll be hosting family dinners in the hospitality suite," he adds innocently, and you swear you can see Maxâs soul leave his body for a brief, blissful second.
"Tell GP," Max says, voice dangerously calm, "that if he ever calls this a family dinnerâ"
The rest of his threat is drowned out by Isackâs sudden arrival, the Frenchman slinging an arm around Maxâs shoulders with the ease of someone whoâs decided fear is irrelevant.
"Relax," he says, grinning. "Weâll behave. Mostly." The mostly hangs in the air like a promise, and you donât need to see Maxâs face to know heâs already regretting every life choice that led him here.
The chaos peaks when Kimi, in a stroke of geniusâor sleep deprivationâgrabs Laurentâs discarded tabloid and holds it up like a trophy. "Group photo," he declares, as if this is non-negotiable. "For the archives."
You barely have time to react before Ollie bodily drags you into the frame, your shoulder colliding with Maxâs chest as Isack and Gabriel flank you both with the coordination of a pit crew.
Max makes a half-hearted attempt to escape, but itâs futile; Kimiâs already herding Laurent into the shot with the determination of a sheepdog.
"Say âP1â!" Kimi commands, stretching his arm out to snap the photo just as Max mutters, "Godverdomme," under his breath. The resulting image is a masterpiece of absurdity: Laurentâs resigned smirk, Maxâs exasperated eye-roll, and the rookiesâ collective shit-eating grins. Your own laughter is barely contained, face half-buried in Maxâs sleeve.
Later, when Kimi inevitably posts it with the caption "Paddock Parents⢠(theyâre in denial)".
The backlashâor rather, the backlash avoidanceâcomes swiftly. Max spends the next forty-five minutes aggressively ignoring his phone, which buzzes incessantly with notifications from the group chat Kimi has ominously renamed "Daddy and Mommyâs Little Monsters."
It was the Italian Grand Prix, and Kimi was at the top of his game, snatching pole with a lap so blistering even the timing screens seemed to blink in disbelief.
Ollie and Isack locked out the front row beside him, second and third respectively, and the collective energy in the paddock was less "race weekend" and more "teenagers hyped on Red Bull and poor life choices." Yours and Maxâs shared glance said it all: This is going to be a problem.
The problem, as it turned out, wasnât the race itselfâit was the post-qualifying press conference. Kimi, still buzzing from adrenaline and the sheer audacity of his own success, leaned into the microphone like he was about to drop a truth bomb.
"Yeah, no, itâs all thanks to Dad," he said, jerking a thumb toward Max in the crowd with the subtlety of a foghorn. The room erupted. Ollie, never one to be outdone, chimed in: "And Momâs pep talk."
You buried your face in your hands as the journalistsâ heads swiveled toward you like meerkats spotting a predator.
Max, who had been mid-sip of his water, inhaled half of it. "For fuckâsâ" he coughed, wiping his chin, but the damage was done.
The headlines wrote themselves: "ROOKIE TRIO DEDICATES POLE TO âGRID PARENTSâ", "VERSTAPPENâS UNOFFICIAL F1 DAYCARE STRIKES AGAIN".
By the time Laurent Mekies strolled into the paddock the next morning with a custom-made "Worldâs Best Dad" mug, Max looked like he was considering a career change to deep-sea diving. Alone.
Kimi said it so casuallyâlike he was commenting on the weather, not dropping a bomb that would inevitably ricochet through the paddockâs rumor millâthat you almost missed it entirely.
You were halfway through stealing a fry from his plate when his words registered, your fingers freezing mid-air. "Youâre what?"
He blinked up at you, cheeks stuffed with pasta like a chipmunk hoarding for winter. "Dedicating my win," he repeated, shrugging as if this were a foregone conclusion and not a declaration that would send the media into a frenzy.
"To you. And Dad, obviously, but mostly you." He pointed at your stolen fry with his fork. "Because you share your food."
You stared at him. "Kimi," you said slowly, "you havenât even won yet."
He grinned, the little shit, and stole your abandoned fry back. "Yeah, but I will."
The confidence in his voice wasnât arroganceâit was the same unshakable certainty he had when heâd announced Max was the gridâs dad, like he could speak things into existence just by believing them hard enough.
You laughed, "Maybe you should dedicate it to your actual family," nudging Kimi's shoulder with yours. He snorted, shaking his head like the suggestion was absurd.
"They know I love them," he said, stealing another fry from your plate with the audacity of a raccoon who'd long since abandoned shame.
"But youâ" He pointed the fry at you for emphasis. "âyouâre the one who stayed up till three AM going over telemetry with me when I was freaking out about sector two."
His tone was casual, but there was something disarmingly earnest in his eyes that made you pause mid-bite.
You felt yourself tearing up, blinking fast to keep the sudden warmth in your eyes from spilling over. "You better win then," you muttered, shoving your plate toward him so he couldnât see your face.
Kimi, the little demon, saw anywayâof course he didâand grinned, shoving half the stolen fry into his mouth before tossing the other half onto your plate like a peace offering.
"Deal," he said, stretching the word out like it was a binding contract.
You scruffed his hairâa gesture that was part affection, part exasperationâyour fingers tangling in his curls like you were trying to shake some sense into him.
Kimi barely flinched, just grinned up at you with sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth, looking like a smug, overfed cat. "You're insufferable," you muttered, but your voice lacked any real bite.
Kimi's grin widened, unfazed. "You love me," he sing-songed, batting your hand away with the grace of a drunken puppy.
Ollie, materializing out of nowhere like a particularly persistent ghost, draped himself over Kimiâs shoulders with a dramatic sigh. "Aw, Momâs favorite," he teased, pinching Kimiâs cheek with exaggerated sweetness.
Kimi swatted at him halfheartedly, but Ollie dodged with the reflexes of someone whoâd spent years evading older siblings. "Jealous?" Kimi shot back, tossing a fry at Ollieâs face.
Ollie caught it mid-airâbecause of course he didâand popped it into his mouth with a wink. "Nah," he said, chewing. "Iâm the fun child."
Isack and Gabriel came out of nowhereâliterally. One second, you were watching Ollie and Kimi bicker over the last fry, and the next, Isack had materialized behind you like a ninja, his breath tickling the back of your neck.
"So," he said, voice dripping with faux innocence, "if Kimiâs the favorite, does that mean we get to rebel?"
Gabriel, appearing at your other shoulder with the silent precision of a spy, nodded solemnly. "Parental favoritism is a serious issue," he intoned, pressing a hand to his chest like a lawyer delivering a closing argument. "I demand equal snack rights."
You blinked. "When did you twoâ?"
"Exist?" Gabriel supplied, stealing a fry from your plate before you could swat his hand away. "Since forever. You just notice Kimi more because heâs louder. Like a car alarm."
Isack nodded sagely. "Or a firework in a library."
"Fine, whoever wins tomorrow gets to spend a whole day with grid mom and dad," you joked, tossing a gummy bear at Kimiâs forehead.
The room froze like youâd just declared war instead of a throwaway bet. Ollieâs fingers stalled mid-air, halfway to stealing Isackâs energy drink. Gabrielâs eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into his hairline.
Kimiâs eyes locked onto yours with terrifying intensity. "Wait," he said, voice suddenly stripped of all humor. "Youâre serious." It wasnât a question.
You blinked. "Iâ"
"No takebacks," Ollie interjected, slapping a hand over your mouth before you could clarify. His palm tasted like Haribo dust and poor decisions.
"Terms are set. Winner gets parental custody for twenty-four hours." His grin turned feral. "And weâre all witnesses."
The silence in the room was so absolute you could hear the faint hum of the hospitality suite's fridge. Then, like a dam breaking, chaos erupted.
"Fuck yes," Kimi hissed, slamming his hands on the table hard enough to make the cutlery jump. His grin was sharp enough to cut steel. "Youâre on."
Ollie, who had somehow already whipped out his phone, was typing furiously with one hand while the other kept you pinned in place.
"Adding it to the group chat rules," he announced, as if this were a legally binding contract and not the most absurd bet in paddock history. "No edits, no deletions."
The moment Ollie hit 'send' on the group chat messageânow permanently pinned under the ominous title BATTLE FOR PARENTAL CUSTODY (NO TAKEBACKS)âthe room emptied faster than a Red Bull pit stop.
Kimi vaulted over the couch with the reckless abandon of someone whoâd just been handed a golden ticket, his sneakers squeaking against the floor as he bolted for the door.
"Simulator. Now," he threw over his shoulder, already halfway down the paddock corridor before you could process what was happening.
Gabriel, ever the strategist, executed a perfect sidestep to avoid colliding with a startled engineer, his phone already out to call his trainer.
"Cancel my dinner," he barked into the receiver, then paused. "No, yes, I know itâs carbonara nightâthis is more important."
Isack, in a move that defied both physics and common sense, somehow managed to shove two energy gels into his mouth while simultaneously lacing his shoes.
"Hydrate or die-drate," he mumbled through the foil packets, giving Max a thumbs-up before sprinting after Kimi like a man possessed.
You turned to Ollie, who was still typing with the ferocity of a journalist on deadline, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
"You realize," you said slowly, "that this is the most ridiculous thing youâve ever done."
"Got to go," Ollie said, snapping his phone shut with the finality of a judge delivering a verdict. His grin was all teethâthe kind that made you instinctively brace for impact.
Before you could protest, he'd already vaulted over the back of the couch like an over-caffeinated parkour artist, his sneakers skidding against the polished paddock floor as he bolted for the door.
"Sim time!" he crowed, disappearing into the hallway with the energy of a grenade pin being pulled.
Max stepped into the hospitality suite with the weary air of a man whoâd just survived a debrief that lasted three times longer than necessary.
His hair was mussed from where heâd been absently running his fingers through it, and the collar of his fireproofs was half-zipped, revealing a sliver of sunburn from Bahrain testing.
He blinked at the empty roomâstrewn with discarded Haribo bags and a lone flip-flop someone (Ollie) had lost in the chaosâthen turned to you with the slow, dawning suspicion of someone whoâd learned to fear silence. âWhere is Kimi?â
You kept your face carefully neutral, stirring your coffee with a spoon youâd definitely stolen from Kimiâs plate earlier. âGone.â
Maxâs eyes narrowed. He kicked a gummy bear off his shoe with the precision of a man whoâd spent years avoiding debris. âGone where.â
âSimulators,â you said, too casually, and took a sip of coffee. The lie tasted bitter, but not as bitter as the truth: Theyâre currently waging war for the right to monopolize our weekend, and youâre the grand prize. Max didnât need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that usually preceded him pinching the bridge of his. âOf course they are,â he muttered, collapsing onto the couch beside you.
The cushions were still warm from where Ollie had been sprawled like a sunbathing cat. âRace tomorrow and theyâreââ He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly suspicious. âWhy are you smiling like that?â
You werenât. Probably. âLike what?â
âLike youâve justââ His phone buzzed violently on the table, skittering toward the edge with the enthusiasm of a startled animal.
Max snatched it up before it could leap to its death, thumb swiping the screen with the weariness of a man who knew better than to hope. The color drained from his face. âWhat the fuck is this.â
You craned your neck. The screen glared back, illuminated by a group chat notification so aggressively highlighted it burned into your retinas: OLLIE: UPDATE: Kimiâs lap times are illegal. I repeat, ILLEGAL. This is cheating. GABRIEL: Youâre just mad heâs 0.3s faster than you. ISACK: [image attached: a blurry screenshot of Kimiâs telemetry with the caption âPapa Verstappenâs favorite childâ scribbled in red marker] KIMI: wait until i tell mom youâre bullying me
Maxâs fingers tightened around the phone like he was contemplating crushing it into dust. âExplain,â he said, voice dangerously calm. âNow.â
You shrugged, stirring your coffee with the spoon that was definitely Kimiâs. âTheyâre⌠motivated.â
âTheyâre deranged,â he corrected, staring at the screen like it might morph into a live grenade.
Another notification popped upâthis time a video of Ollie attempting to balance an energy drink on his head while reciting the FIA sporting regulations backward. Maxâs eyelid twitched. âWhy.â
"I did joke that whoever wins gets to spend a day with us," you whispered, watching Max's face cycle through five stages of grief in three seconds flat.
His grip on the phone slackened, the screen now displaying a live feed of Kimi's simulator sessionâcomplete with Ollie's running commentary in the background ("*That corner exit was *criminal, Antonelliâ").
Max inhaled so sharply you half-expected the Haribo bags to levitate. "Joked," he repeated, deadpan. The word hung between you like a deflating balloon.
You winced. "In my defenseâ"
"There is no defense," Max interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose with the precision of a man calculating tire wear mid-race. "You armed them."
Maxâs fingers tap a staccato rhythm against his thighâthree beats, pause, repeatâthe way they do when heâs mentally rewriting a race strategy mid-session.
You recognize the tell instantly, just like you recognize the exact moment his brain shifts from what the fuck to how do I weaponize this. His gaze flicks to you, then back to his phone, where Kimiâs latest sim lap flashes with a delta that would be illegal in three time zones.
âSo,â he says, voice deceptively light, âif theyâre racing for us, we should make it worth their while.â
You blink. Thatâs not what you expected. âMeaning?â
Maxâs thumb hovers over his screen, a predator considering its strike. Then he types three words and hits send with the finality of a guillotine drop. The rookiesâ group chat erupts instantly.
MAX: Last place cooks.
The response is immediate chaos. Your phone vibrates so violently it nearly skitters off the tableâOllieâs panicked WAIT WHAT buried under Gabrielâs IS THIS A THREAT and Isackâs I ALREADY BURNED WATER ONCE.
Kimi, ever the opportunist, sends a single knife emoji.
Max leans back, satisfied, tossing his phone onto the couch like he hasnât just declared psychological warfare. âNow theyâre really motivated,â he says, grinning.
Maxâs grin faded into something softer as he sank into the couch beside you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours before you even registered the movement.
His arm curled around your shoulders with the same effortless certainty he used to thread a car through Eau Rougeâno hesitation, just inevitability.
âTheyâre going to kill each other,â he muttered, but his fingers were already carding through your hair, blunt nails scraping lightly against your scalp in the way that always made you melt.
Maxâs fingers tangled in your hair, his palm warm against the nape of your neck as he tugged you closer. You went willingly, your cheek pressing against the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath his team shirtâstill faintly damp from post-debrief adrenaline.
The scent of his cologne mixed with the sharp tang of energy drinks and the lingering sugar from the Haribo massacre.
His sigh ruffled your hair as he slumped deeper into the couch, his free hand absently tracing circles on your shoulder. "This," he muttered, "is mutiny."
You snorted, tilting your head just enough to see the curve of his smirk. "You love it."
The race was a symphony of chaos from the moment the lights went outâKimi lunging into Turn 1 like a bloodhound scenting victory, Ollie and Isack nearly trading paint in their duel for second, Gabriel executing a move so smooth it should've been illegal.
You watched from Max's garage, fingers gripping the edge of the monitor table hard enough to leave marks, your pulse thrumming in time with the engine notes screeching through the headset.
Max, ever the maestro, wove through the madness with the precision of a surgeonâuntil Kimi, the little demon, divebombed him into Ascari with the audacity of a kid sneaking extra cookies before dinner.
The Ascari chicane erupted into a flurry of sparks and disbelief as Kimi's front wing kissed Max's rear tireâa move so audacious the stewards would be debating it for weeks.
You barely registered Laurent Mekies' choked noise beside you, too busy watching Max's hands flick the wheel in that infinitesimal correction he'd perfected over years, the car snapping back into line like a disobedient pet.
Over the radio, his voice was eerily calm: "Tell Antonelli if he wants a tow, he could just ask."
Isack, ever the opportunist, slotted into second with the smugness of someone who knew he wouldnât have to deal with Maxâs wrathâthat honor belonged solely to Kimi.
Ollie, meanwhile, spent the first five laps yelling into his team radio about "unfair advantages" and "parental favoritism," which only fueled Kimiâs determination to widen the gap.
By lap 15, Max had carved his way up to fourth, his radio transmissions laced with increasingly creative Dutch profanity.
Kimi crossed the line first, his victory lap a masterclass in barely contained chaosâhe fishtailed out of Parabolica, nearly clipped a marshalâs post, and still managed to wave the Italian flag so vigorously it smacked his own helmet.
Isack, ever the composed one, finished second with a nod to the crowd that somehow read as both respectful and I told you so.
Ollie limped his car over the line in third, his post-race interview devolving into a dramatic retelling of how Kimi "stole his apex" and "betrayed the sacred bond of sibling rivalry."
Max, whoâd spent the final laps nursing a suspiciously soft tire, rolled into fourth with the air of a man whoâd just survived a toddlerâs birthday party. Gabriel, ever the silent assassin, claimed fifth without fanfare.
Kimi emerged from the car like a firework explodingâall kinetic energy and barely-contained glee. He ripped his helmet off before the mechanics could reach him, his curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, his grin wild enough to split his face.
The Italian flag draped over his shoulders flapped behind him as he sprinted first to his parents, nearly knocking his mother off her feet with the force of his hug.
His father clapped him on the back so hard Kimi stumbled, laughing breathlessly as he turned to his teamâwhere he was immediately swallowed by a sea of navy-blue shirts and backslaps that sounded suspiciously like someone crying.
Then he spotted you.
His eyes locked onto yours from across the parc ferme, and for a split second, everything stilledâthe noise, the movement, the world narrowing to the sheer, unbridled joy radiating off him.
Then he was running again, dodging photographers and FIA officials with the agility of a kid playing tag. You barely had time to brace before he collided with you, his arms wrapping around your waist with enough force to lift you off the ground.
The flag tangled between you, the fabric rough against your cheek as he spun you once, twice, before setting you down with a breathless, "Told you I'd win."
Up close, he smelled like sweat and burnt rubber, his fireproofs still warm from the cockpit. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your back like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go.
"Youâ" His voice cracked, raw with adrenaline. "You saw that last lap?"
You laughed into his shoulder, the sound muffled by his race suit. "Saw you nearly take out Max in Ascari, you little menace."
The moment Kimi's arms wrapped around you, something primal and fierce surged in your chestâan instinct you hadn't known existed until now.
His racing heartbeat thudded against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your neck, and suddenly, you were acutely aware of every scrape on his knuckles, every smudge of tire rubber on his cheeks.
Your hands moved without thought, one cradling the back of his helmet-mussed head while the other pressed between his shoulder blades like you could physically imprint this victory into his bones.
"Idiot," you murmured into his hair, but your voice cracked halfway through.
Kimi only laughed, his grip tightening in response, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. Behind him, Ollie fake-gagged into his glove while Isack mimed wiping away tears, but you barely noticed.
All you could focus on was the way Kimi's breath hitched when you carded your fingers through his sweat-damp curlsâthe way he leaned into the touch like a sun-starved plant.
Max's hand landed on your lower back, his touch warm even through the fabric of your shirt.
"You're crying," he observed quietly, his thumb brushing the spot where Kimi's flag had chafed your cheek. You hadn't even realized.
Kimi pulled back just enough to peer at your face, his grin faltering when he saw the moisture gathering in your lashes.
"Hey," he said, suddenly serious, his thumbs swiping at your cheeks with surprising gentleness. "No way. This isâthis is happy, right?" His voice wavered on the last word, uncharacteristically vulnerable.
You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "So happy," you managed, squeezing his wrists. His pulse fluttered under your fingertips, rabbit-quick.
Something in his expression shiftedâa flicker of recognition, like he'd just solved a puzzle he hadn't known he was working on.
Then Ollie barreled into him with the grace of a drunk giraffe, slinging an arm around his neck and shouting something about "emotional damage" loud enough to startle a nearby marshal. The spell broke.
Later, when the podium ceremonies had ended and the press had gotten their fill of Kimi's infectious laughter and Ollie's theatrics, you found yourself cornered in the hospitality suite by Gabriel.
He leaned against the counter beside you, sipping a protein shake with the air of someone who'd been waiting all day to deliver a verdict. "You know," he said casually, "he cried in the cool-down room."
You nearly dropped your water bottle. "Kimi? Cried?"
Gabriel's smirk was all teeth. "Not like, sobbing. Justâ" He mimed wiping his eyes with exaggerated delicacy. "When Ollie said you looked proud. Then he punched Ollie in the arm so hard the FIA mic picked it up."
He took another sip, watching you over the rim of his shaker. "Maternal instinct's a hell of a drug."
You opened your mouth to protestâyou weren't that soft, for Christ's sakeâbut Max chose that moment to materialize behind you, his chin hooking over your shoulder.
"Tell me you're not conspiring with the gremlins," he muttered, breath warm against your ear.
Gabriel grinned, unrepentant, and tossed his empty shaker into the bin with a flourish. "Wouldn't dream of it, Dad."
Max's groan vibrated through your back as Gabriel sauntered off, but his arms tightened around your waist when you tried to follow.
"Nope," he said, spinning you to face him. His thumbs traced absent circles on your hips, his gaze flickering over your face like he was memorizing something. "You've been claimed."
"By who?" you challenged, just to see his eyes narrow.
"By them." He jerked his chin toward the window where Kimi was currently attempting to climb onto Ollie's shoulders while Isack egged them on. "And me."
His voice dropped, rough around the edges in that way that always made your stomach flip. "Mostly me."
You rolled your eyes, but the effect was ruined when Max caught your wrist and pressed your palm flat against his chest.
His heartbeat thudded under your fingersâsteady, relentless, alive. "Feel that?" His lips brushed your temple. "That's your fault too."
The accusation hung between you, weightless and undeniable. Because it was true.
Somewhere between confiscating Ollie's fifth energy drink and letting Kimi nap against your shoulder during film review, something had shifted.
You'd stopped being just Max's partner and become theirsâthe person they texted at 3 AM with simulator questions, the one Isack trusted to fix his headrest padding, the silent presence Gabriel sought when the pressure got too loud.
Max's fingers skimmed your jawline, tilting your face up. His eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide with something that wasn't quite possessiveness but close.
"You're smiling," he accused.
"You're imagining things," you lied, but your traitorous fingers curled into his shirt anyway.
A crash from outside shattered the momentâOllie's triumphant whoop punctuated by Kimi's indignant "CHEATER!"âand suddenly Max's mouth was on yours, insistent and tasting faintly of the espresso he'd stolen from your cup earlier.
His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, angling you closer like he could absorb the noise through sheer force of will. When he pulled away, his breath came uneven.
"We're leaving," he declared.
You raised an eyebrow. "And them?"
"Their problem." Max jerked his chin toward the window where Isack was now attempting to climb the hospitality awning while Gabriel filmed with clinical detachment. "They've survived this long."
Another crashâdefinitely carbon fiber meeting concreteâmade you wince. "They're your problem too," you reminded him, just as Kimi's voice cut through the chaos: "MOM! Ollie stole my trophy!"
Max exhaled through his nose like a man resigning himself to the gallows. "I hate you," he informed you solemnly, already striding toward the door.
You caught his wrist, your fingers sliding easily into the spaces between his knuckles. "Liar."
His grip tightened, calluses catching on your skin. "Yeah," he admitted, and let you tug him into the madness.
The trophyâsolid silver and nearly as tall as Ollieâgleamed under the paddock lights as Kimi clung to it with the desperation of a man guarding his last meal.
Ollie, perched on the hospitality awning like a deranged squirrel, grinned down at him with the kind of glee usually reserved for arsonists.
"Come on, Antonelli," he taunted, dangling Kimi's winner's cap just out of reach. "Jump for it."
Kimi's grip on the trophy tightened. "That's stealing," he hissed, though his voice cracked halfway through, ruining the effect.
Gabriel, leaning against a nearby pillar with his arms crossed, snorted. "Legally? No. Ethically? Also no. But it is funny."
You sighed, rubbing your temple where a headache was forming. Max, who'd been watching the spectacle with the detached amusement of a zookeeper, finally stepped forward.
"Ollie," he said, voice dangerously calm. "Give it back."
Ollie froze mid-taunt, his grin slipping into something more cautiousâlike a cat realizing itâs been caught mid-swipe at the curtains. "Butâ" he started, then stopped when Maxâs eyebrow inched higher.
With a theatrical sigh, he tossed the cap back down. It landed in Kimiâs outstretched hands with a soft whap.
"Buzzkill," Ollie muttered, but he was already scrambling down, his sneakers scraping against the awningâs metal frame.
Kimi clutched the cap to his chest like a vindicated toddler. "Thank you," he said, aiming for dignity but landing somewhere closer to pouty. Max snorted and ruffled his hairâhard enough to make Kimi yelp.
Max's fingers drummed against the hospitality table, slow and deliberate, like a judge considering a death sentence.
His gaze slid from Kimiâstill clutching his trophy like a shieldâto Gabriel, who'd wisely retreated behind the pillar. "Gabriel," Max said, voice deceptively light. "You know what this means."
Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "No."
"Yes," Max corrected. The word landed like a guillotine blade. "Last place cooks. That's the rule."
Gabriel's scoff was undercut by the way his fingers tightened around his phone. "I was fifth. That's midfield, not last."
Max leaned back against the hospitality counter, arms crossed. His smirk was lethal. "You finished behind Ollie, who spent half the race yelling about Kimi's 'illegal' apexes. That's last in my book."
A beat of silence. Then Gabriel's shoulders slumpedâa rare concession. "Fine," he muttered, already pulling up a recipe on his phone. His face twisted in horror. "Do you own⌠pans?"
Kimi, who had been suspiciously quiet, suddenly perked up. "I can help!" he announced with the enthusiasm of a puppy offered steak.
Ollie choked on his energy drink. "Help? You set water on fire once."
Kimi's grin was all teeth. "Exactly. Gabriel needs supervision."
Gabriel groaned, rubbing his temples like he could already feel the migraine forming. "This is how we die."
The yacht rocked gently beneath your bare feet, the Mediterranean sun warm against your shoulders as you leaned over the railing.
Kimi's victory had come with perksâthis sleek, white monstrosity of a boat being one of themâand Max had grumbled about "excessive celebrations" right up until the moment he'd sprawled across the sunbed with a contented sigh.
"You're burning," you observed, flicking a droplet of water at Max's shoulder where his skin had started to pink. He cracked one eye open, squinting against the glare.
"Worth it," he muttered, stretching his arms above his head with a groan.
The movement made his swim trunks ride dangerously low on his hips, and you barely resisted the urge to trace the tan line there with your tongue.
A sudden splash shattered the moment. Kimi surfaced like a deranged dolphin, shaking saltwater from his curls as he clung to the boat's ladder.
"Race you to the cove!" he challenged, already kicking off again before either of you could respond.
Max sighed through his noseâthe sound of a man who'd long since accepted his fateâbefore rolling off the sunbed in one fluid motion.
"He's going to drown himself," he said, as if commenting on the weather.
"Your kid," you reminded him, just as Kimi's triumphant whoop echoed across the waves. Max shot you a look that could melt titanium before diving in after him, his form perfect even when swimming for leisure.
You watched them cut through the waterâKimi all reckless energy, Max effortlessly efficientâuntil they disappeared around the rocky outcrop.
The yacht's deck was suddenly too quiet without their chaos. You counted to thirty before giving in and grabbing the waterproof camera Kimi had "forgotten" on his sunbed. The little shit knew you'd follow.
The cove was postcard-perfect: turquoise water lapping at white sand, cliffs draped in bougainvillea.
Kimi was already sprawled on a flat rock like a sunbathing seal, arms spread wide as if to absorb the entire Mediterranean. Max floated nearby, one arm hooked around an outcropping, watching Kimi with the fond exasperation of a parent at the zoo.
"Took you long enough," Kimi called without opening his eyes. His grin widened when you lobbed his abandoned hat at his face. "Owâhey! That's winner's merchandise!"
Max snorted. "Should've thought of that before abandoning ship." He swam closer to you, fingers brushing your ankle where you perched on a lower rock. "Regretting our life choices yet?"
You flicked water at him. "Only the ones involving you two."
Kimi sat up abruptly, sending droplets flying. "You love us," he declared, as if this were irrefutable fact. The afternoon light caught the salt crusted in his eyelashes, the faint scar on his shoulder from his first karting crash.
He looked absurdly young like thisâall sunburnt nose and reckless joy.
Max's hand found the small of your back as you waded into the shallows. "She tolerates you," he corrected, but his thumb traced idle circles on your hipbone, betraying him.
Kimi's answering grin was feral. He launched off the rock with a yell, tackling Max into the water with the precision of a torpedo. They surfaced in a tangle of limbs and half-hearted curses, Kimi's laughter bouncing off the cliffs.
"Youâ" Max wrestled him into a headlock, but Kimi just grinned up at him, unrepentant. "âare a menace."
"Your menace," Kimi corrected, and the way Max's grip loosened told you everything.
You snapped the photo just as Kimi twisted free, capturing the exact moment Max's exasperation melted into something dangerously close to affection. The camera shutter sound made them both turnâKimi dripping and triumphant, Max's hair plastered to his forehead like a wet sheepdog.
"Blackmail," you announced, waving the camera. "For when you inevitably flood the yacht."
Kimi's gasp was theatrical. "You wound me." He paddled closer, resting his chin on your knee where you perched on the rocks. Up close, he smelled like salt and sunscreen, his eyelashes clumped with seawater.
"Besides," he added, mischief glinting in his eyes, "Dad already threatened to throw me overboard twice this morning."
Max snorted. "Third time's the charm."
The yacht's deck was littered with abandoned towels and half-empty glasses when Gabriel finally emerged from below, scowling at a recipe on his phone like it had personally offended him.
"Who the hell uses saffron in scrambled eggs?" he muttered, kicking a stray flip-flop out of his path with unnecessary force.
You barely had time to dodge before Ollie cannonballed into the sea, soaking Gabriel's designer shorts.
Gabriel's glare could have melted steel. "Bearman," he growled, wringing out his shirt, "I will end you."
Ollie surfaced with a gasp, shaking water from his hair like a golden retriever. "Prove it," he challenged, grinning.
Isack emerged from the water like some kind of vengeful sea god, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, one hand clutching a half-melted ice cream cone that had somehow survived his impromptu swim.
"Gabriel," he announced solemnly, shaking saltwater onto Ollie's head, "your eggs taste like regret."
Gabriel's spatula froze mid-flip. "You whatâ"
"The saffron," Isack continued, licking a rogue drip of vanilla from his wrist with the gravitas of a food critic. "It's tragic."
Max, who'd been silently observing the carnage from his sunbed like a war correspondent, chose that moment to interject. "You ate them?"
Gabrielâs spatula clattered onto the grill with a metallic clang. His expression cycled through disbelief, betrayal, and finally, resignation. "You ate my experimental eggs," he repeated, deadpan.
Isack shrugged, licking the last of the ice cream from his fingers. "Someone had to. They were weeping in the pan."
From the edge of the yacht, Ollie let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a choke. "They whatâ"
"They wept," Isack confirmed gravely. "Like a sad French film."
You sighed as you watched your chaotic familyâyour chaotic family, Christâspread across the yachtâs deck like a particularly unruly pack of seagulls.
Kimi was attempting to balance Ollieâs discarded flip-flop on his head while dramatically reciting what sounded like Shakespearean insults. Gabriel had abandoned his culinary war crimes to film the spectacle with the detached fascination of a wildlife documentarian.
Isack, now perched on the yathtâs edge like a sunbathing lizard, flicked water at them both with his toes.
And MaxâMax was watching you watch them, his sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal the quiet amusement in his eyes.
"Regret yet?" he asked, though the way his fingers brushed your wrist betrayed him.
You caught his hand before he could retreat, threading your fingers through his. His knuckles were still faintly salty from the cove, the calluses along his palm rough against your skin.
"Not even a little," you lied, just to feel him scoff.
The moment shattered when Kimiâs flip-flop catapulted off his head and smacked Gabriel square in the chest. Gabriel didnât even flinch.
He just slowly lowered his phone and said, voice deadly calm, "Antonelli. Why."
Kimi blinked at him, all faux innocence and sun-bleached lashes. "Physics?"
The shriek of the spatula scraping against the grill was Gabrielâs only warning before Ollie lunged from the sea, tackling Kimi into the water with the grace of a falling fridge.
They surfaced in a tangle of limbs and half-shouted profanities, Kimiâs laughter bright enough to eclipse the Mediterranean sun.
"Youâre all banned from my kitchen," Gabriel announced to no one in particular, tossing his ruined eggs overboard. A seagull dove after them with a shriek.
Maxâs thumb traced your pulse point, his grip tightening when Kimi tried to climb onto Ollieâs shouldersâonly to slip and drag them both under again.
"Theyâre going to drown each other," he muttered, but he made no move to stop them.
You leaned into him, watching Isackâwhoâd somehow acquired a second ice creamâlob a spoonful of mint chocolate chip at Gabrielâs retreating back.
"Theyâre your problem too," you reminded him, just as Kimi surfaced with a war cry and launched himself at Isackâs legs.
The sun dipped low over the Mediterranean, painting the yachtâs deck in gold and long shadows, but the chaos showed no signs of slowing.
Kimiâs latest attempt at a backflip off the diving board ended in a spectacular belly flop, the sound echoing off the cliffs like a gunshot. Ollie, whoâd been mid-sip of his sparkling water, choked laughing so hard it came out his nose.
"Alright! I'm going to make beef ragu with shredded beef to celebrate the winner," you announced, peeling yourself off the sunbed with the kind of determination usually reserved for pit lane calls.
Kimi's head snapped up so fast his sunglasses flew into the sea, his cheer echoing off the yacht's hull like a war cry. "YES! RAGU DAY!"
Max's fingers caught your wrist as you passed, his grip warm and slightly sticky from sunscreen. "You realize you're rewarding his recklessness," he muttered, though his thumb traced idle circles on your pulse pointâa silent plea for you to stay.
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to the sun-warmed crown of his head. "I'm rewarding his win," you corrected, just as Ollie cannonballed into the sea behind you, soaking Max's discarded shirt.
The galley was a minefield of Gabriel's abandoned culinary casualtiesâa scorched pan of weeping eggs, saffron threads scattered like confetti, one singular smoke alarm dangling by a wire.
You'd barely unearthed the Dutch oven when Kimi materialized at your elbow, dripping seawater onto the marble counter. "I'll chop!" he declared, brandishing a chef's knife with the enthusiasm of a serial killer.
You plucked the blade from his fingers. "You'll watch," you amended, nudging him toward the breakfast bar with your hip.
He flopped onto a stool with a dramatic sigh, chin propped in his hands as you browned the pancetta. The scent of garlic hitting olive oil made his stomach growl loud enough to startle the seagull perched outside the porthole.
Max appeared in the doorway, toweling saltwater from his hair. "He's hovering," he observed, nodding at Kimi, who'd inched forward until his chest nearly touched the counter's edge.
"You hover," Kimi shot back, kicking Max's shin under the table. The resulting scuffle sent a carrot rolling across the floor, which Isackâwho'd slipped in silentlyâsnatched midair with the reflexes of a feral cat.
"Ragu thief," Kimi accused, pointing at Isack's retreating back. The older boy paused just long enough to take an exaggerated bite before tossing the carrot back with a smirk.
The galley descended into organized chaosâGabriel materializing to critique your knife skills, Ollie attempting to "help" by dramatically drizzling olive oil until Max confiscated the bottle, Isack periodically stealing ingredients only to return them with added spices.
At one point, Kimi snuck a raw onion slice into Ollie's energy drink, resulting in a spit-take that sprayed half the kitchen.
"Mom," Ollie whined, wiping his mouth as Kimi cackled, "Kimi's committing war crimesâ"
Max caught your wrist before you could intervene, his palm warm against your pulse. "Let them fight," he murmured, tugging you back against his chest.
His breath stirred the hair at your temple as the chaos unfoldedâGabriel retaliating by flicking flour at Kimi, who retaliated by dumping an entire clove of garlic into Ollie's abandoned smoothie.
The ragu simmered as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the galley in gold and long shadows.
Kimi, now sprawled across the breakfast bar with his head pillowed on folded arms, watched the steam curl from the Dutch oven with rapt attention. "Smells like home," he mumbled, half-asleep.
The moment you lifted the Dutch oven's lid, the scent of slow-cooked raguârich with tomatoes, red wine, and the faintest hint of cinnamonâflooded the galley. Kimi shot upright like a bloodhound catching a scent, nearly toppling off his stool.
"Holy shit," he breathed, scrambling toward the stove with the single-minded focus of a man who'd forgotten food could taste good after Gabriel's saffron disaster.
You handed him a wooden spoon before he could stick his fingers in the pot. "Stir," you ordered, nudging him aside to retrieve the fresh pappardelle.
Kimi obeyed with unnatural focus, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scraped the spoon along the bottom of the pot.
Behind him, Ollie sniffed the air like a cartoon wolf. "Is thatâ"
"Ragu day," Isack confirmed solemnly, materializing at Kimi's shoulder to peer into the pot. His eyes widened. "That's⌠a lot of beef."
Kimi's stirring grew more aggressive. "Deserved."
The plating turned into a competitive sportâKimi meticulously arranging each pasta twirl like it was pit stop tire change, Ollie sneaking extra pancetta onto his own plate when he thought no one was looking, Gabriel critiquing the plating symmetry with the intensity of a race engineer.
You barely had time to blink before Max confiscated the serving spoon from Kimi's third attempt to heap an impossible mountain onto his plate.
"Portion control," Max muttered, swatting Kimi's wrist when he tried to sneak more.
Kimi pouted. "Butâ"
"You'll make yourself sick," you interjected, nudging him toward the table where Isack was already seated, his fork poised like a weapon.
The first bite was comically synchronizedâfour sets of eyes widening in unison, four forks freezing mid-air. Kimi made a sound halfway between a whimper and a prayer, his fingers tightening around the table's edge like he might levitate.
Ollie, sauce smeared across his cheek, pointed accusingly at Gabriel. "This is what eggs should taste like."
Gabriel flipped him off but didn't stop shoveling pasta into his mouth.
Max's knee bumped yours under the table, his expression softening when he caught your gaze. "Good?" he mouthed, though the way Kimi was practically vibrating out of his seat answered for you.
Isack, who'd been uncharacteristically silent, set his fork down with deliberate precision. The scrape of metal against porcelain silenced the table.
Everyone turnedâGabriel mid-bite, Ollie with noodles dangling from his lipsâas Isack leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His dark eyes flicked from the empty Dutch oven to your face, then to Kimi's sauce-smeared chin.
"Next time," he announced, voice smooth as the yacht's wake, "I'm racing for this."
Kimi's fork clattered onto his plate. "The fuck you areâ"
Ollie lunged across the table, nearly upending Gabriel's water glass. "Winner's privileges!" he shouted, brandishing his napkin like a white flag. "Antonelli doesn't get monopoly on raguâ"
"You don't even like Italian food!" Kimi hissed, gripping the table edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
Isack arched one eyebrowâa silent, devastating counterargument. The sauce smeared across his own plate told its own story.
The argument crescendoed around you like a badly tuned orchestraâKimi jabbing his fork toward Ollieâs stolen pancetta, Gabriel muttering about "portion justice" in Spanish, Isack calmly dismantling Kimiâs entire argument between bitesâbut you just twirled another forkful of pappardelle and let the chaos roll over you.
The ragu was rich and velvety, the kind of meal that settled in your bones, and for once, Max wasnât the only one stealing glances at you between bites.
Kimi, mid-tirade about Ollieâs "theft of sacred beef," paused to swipe a crust of bread through the sauce on your plate without asking. You didnât even flinch, just nudged the bowl of grated Parmigiano closer to him.
His eyes flicked up, surprised, then crinkled at the corners as he dumped half the bowl onto his pasta with a defiant glare at Isack.
"Youâre enabling him," Max muttered under his breath, but his hand found your knee under the table, his thumb rubbing absent circles over the inside of your thigh.
Ollie, mistaking your silence for neutrality, lunged across the table to brandish a noodle at you like Exhibit A. "Mom, tell him sharing isâ"
"Bearman." Gabrielâs voice cut through the chaos like a scalpel. He didnât look up from meticulously arranging his last bite of pancetta onto a fork. "Swallow before you speak. Or donât. Either way, we win."
The resulting squabbleâOllie spluttering, Kimi cackling into his wineglass, Isack calmly stealing Ollieâs abandoned bread basketâshouldâve been exhausting.
But the weight of Maxâs palm on your leg, the way Kimiâs foot knocked against yours under the table like a Morse code thank you, the sheer warmth of it all settled in your chest like the ragu in your stomach: deep, slow, undeniable.
You reached for the wine bottle at the same time as Max. His fingers brushed yours, lingered.
The look he gave youâhalf exasperation, half helpless fondnessâspoke louder than the rookiesâ cacophony. Look what youâve done to us, it said. Look what weâve become. . . .
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dirty little secrets â part one [t.r]
â summary: You spent six years at Hogwarts perfecting the art of invisibility. No friends. No enemies. No one ever looked close enough to notice you, to question you. To see you. You learned to embrace the arms of loneliness in the hallways of Hogwarts, and now, in your final year, you thought it would be no different. You would focus on your studies, drown in your quietness, and make it out of the hellhole you called home. Get a job as a healer apprentice. Get a place of your own. You had it all planned out. But once you catch the eyes of the infamous Tom Riddle, everything changes. Catching the eyes of the devil leaves you tangled in webs of dirty little secrets, ambition, and now that you've unlocked the monster's cage, he won't stop until he's corrupted you. Now it's only a matter of time before you'll give in to the darkness or let it swallow you to your destruction. MINORS DNI PLEASE. please remember to reblog and leave a comment if you can, it helps a lot. thank you âĄ
â pairing: tom riddle x reader
â genre: series, eventual smut, angst, dark, 18+
â warnings: ominous tom riddle, reader is a loner and some dark shenanigans, but nothing much.
â word count: 13k
â links: series masterlist đৠmy masterlist đৠinbox
â author's note: it has been years since i wrote anything, so i'm quite nervous pushing this baby out. but here it is! this fic will be quite lengthy and if you would like to recieve formal updates, i have it cross-posted on wattpad and ao3 âĄ
The room was dark. Morbidly silent. It belonged to the void, and you were cursed to live inside these lifeless walls.
Days bled as you counted the hours until you could finally leave. You muttered "Lumus" so quietly, not even the wind barging in through your window could catch your words. Your wand lightened up, and you glanced at the clock beside you for what felt like the one thousandth time.
It probably was.
2:57 am.
Eight hours and three minutes until you could finally breathe freely again, much to your aunt's dismay.
You sighed and turned once more on your already scrambled sheets. The only sound you could hear was the wind whispering through the night.
You were jealous of it. The way it weaved through the skies was so free.
You turned once more, your eyes awake, counting the minutes, seconds until you would finally hear the sound of whispers and talk of magic everywhere. You could almost hear it: the leather seats, the taste of magic jelly beansâ
"What the fuck are you still doing awake, girl?! Bloody hell, it's three in the morning!"
Your aunt's voice tore through the quiet, sharp enough to make you jolt. You snapped your wrist, whispering, "Nox." The light vanished instantly, leaving only the black.
"Don't you dare use that freakish magic inside my bloody home, you wench!" she snarled from the other side of the door. Her words dripped with that same venom she'd been feeding you for years.
You didn't answer. You'd learned long ago that replying only prolonged the attack. Silence was your only defence. You only turned the other way, waiting for her to get tired and slither away. A pause claimed the room. You could hear her breathing â quick, irritated. Then the slow retreat of her footsteps down the hall.
"Be awake at six," she called over her shoulder. "One minute late and you'll miss that freak train of yours. I wouldn't mind keeping you here for chores."
The house swallowed the sound of her voice, leaving you with the whispering wind once more.
You turned back onto your side, pulling the blanket tighter, pretending it was something warmer, safer.
Eight hours and three minutes.
The thought looped in your head like an incantation, steady and stubborn, keeping you anchored. Because no matter how long the night felt, morning would come. And with it, the train. The scarlet steam, the gleam of brass, the smell of sugar and coal, and the voices of those like youâgifted in magicâfilling your ears.
You closed your eyes and clung to that image until sleep finally claimed you.
The first light of the month consumed the attic as you zipped your suitcase. The warm September breeze slithered into your roomâit was finally that time of year again, to head back to classes. To remind yourself, life isn't limited to monotone wooden walls and the annoying screams of your aunt.
You grab your suitcase and carefully help yourself down the stairs. Truly, your aunt's 'no magic' ban made life so hard for no reason. You could easily float your suitcase with a wandless charm instead of struggling with its weight down the delicate wooden stairs. Your aunt was already in the kitchen, arms crossed, a chipped mug of camomille tea steaming in her grip. Her brown eyes flicked to the suitcase, then to you, her mouth curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.
It never was.
"Don't scratch the banister," she muttered through her mug, and sipped her tea monotonously. Just like everything inside this house.
The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and yesterday's fried onions. You slipped past her, heading for the front door. The sooner you were outside, the sooner you could finally breathe fresh air instead of the poisonous smoke you had to live with all summer long.
"You've got money for the train, I hope," she called after you. "Not that I'm giving you a knut. And don't come back early â I'm not feeding you extra this year."
"It's not like I want to head back early." You murmur, and your aunt sighs. You were used to it, the breaths of disappointment. Dread. The flicker in her eyes whenever you were nearâfear, disdain, regret. You were a reminder of everything wrong in her world.
"You should be grateful. I feed you, let you live here for free." Your aunt clicks her tongue, "Ungrateful, wench. Get the bloody hell out of here before I kick you out myself."
With that, your aunt slithered out of the room, taking the air pollution with her. You sighed in relief, and when you opened the door, your lips formed a small smile, one you were sure your lips had forgotten how to do.
The morning air wrapped around you like a balm â cool, clean, alive. It chased away the stagnant scent of the kitchen and the stale summer you'd been drowning in.
London was stirring awake â the groans of buses, the hiss of opening shop shutters, the faint chatter of your neighbours doing their chores. None of them looked at you, of course, they wouldn't. You were Mrs Halloway's strange niece. The quiet void no one dared look, or talk to. People feared the unknown, and nothing was quite as strange as a woman who kept to herself.
Your journey to King's Cross was a blur of grey streets and impatient traffic lights. You kept your head down, hair shielding your face as always. You never were one to gather attention. Not that you liked it.
Life was... comfortable in the shadows.
By the time you stepped inside the station, the chaos hit you all at once â the echo of train whistles, the shouts of platform announcements, the blur of Muggle travellers rushing in every direction.
You marched through the crowd, and your eyes twinkled as you found platform nine. You grabbed your suitcase tighter, and walked through the brick barrier, the sound of muggles fading away as the image morphed into one you'd awaited for weeksâplatform nine and three-quarters.
You breathed in deeply. Ah, fresh air. All summer, you've craved itâthe smoke in your lungs to finally be healed.
No one glanced at you. Every young witch and wizard was either saying their farewell to their beloved families or happily entering the train, anxious to find a cabin with their established friend groups.
You watched for a second longer than normal, those who were lucky enough to earn hugs from their loved ones, to receive eyes twinkling in affection and care. Your eyes narrowed in anger, in envyâwhy did they all have what you couldn't? Why were you just...never worthy?
Before you could open the door to more suffocating thoughts, the train announced that it was almost time to depart. You quickly picked up the pace, shrugging those words away to the depths of your head.
You walked through the cabins, the sound of chatter and laughter thickening the air. You reached the far end of the train, where seats were scattered through the room. You've become accustomed to this quiet part of the train, where introverts thrived and silence prevailed as everyone stuck to their little worlds.
You sat in your usual seat, in the far end corner, and picked up your beaten-up book inside your backpack to ease your boredom throughout the train.
The train swayed gently as it pulled away from the station, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks filling the silence around you. You let yourself sink into the book, its pages a shield between you and the world beyond.
But thenâmovement.
A flicker in your peripheral vision that made your eyes shift from the world of Dostoyevsky's 'Crime and Punishment.' Two tables ahead, on the same side of the carriage, sat a student. Not just any student, though.
Tom Riddle.
Even without the neat emerald-trimmed robes or the badge glinting on his chest, you would have known him. Everyone knew him. The Head Boy. The model Slytherin.
It was unusual, seeing him alone, without his pure-blooded friends surrounding his figure, or any other ass-kissing student hoping to get something out of him. Whether it was help with a certain spell or a date to Hogsmeade.
Girls whispered his name in giggles and blushes, professors referred to him with awe, boys looked at him in admirationâyet there was one emotion that bound them all. Envy.
Envy of the way he travelled through the halls with practiced ease, shoulders poised to perfection, and hair styled to the last strand. The way magic came to him so easily, some classes were like child's play. Of how he seemed to have anyone and everyone hanging onto his last word, hypnotized by his charming smile.
You observed him sometimes, on the back of classes, through the peripheral vision of your book during break times. On the other side of the lunch table, where most Slytherins sat and competed to get into.
He always made the hairs on your body turn upright, not through shivers of pleasure, but of unease. No one could be that perfectly poised. His words were almost so rightly said, perfectly timed, it seemed calculated. Scripted somewhere.
No one was that perfect with nothing to hide. And observing long enough, you could see flickers of a void when he thought no one was watching. Of a blankness so sinister it made crows flee in fright.
He sat with the poise of someone who knew they were being watched. And he was. He was Tom Riddle, after all.
A book lay open in front of him, its spine perfectly aligned with the edge of the table, his slender fingers resting lightly against the page. There was nothing casual about it. Every page turn was deliberate, like each word demanded his full, surgical attention.
You told yourself to look away.
Not that you would ever catch his attention. But the mere thought of it sent shivers down your spine. But curiosity was damning, and yours had always been sharper than it should be.
His head lifted slightly, as if he'd felt the weight of your gaze.
And then his eyes found yours.
Dark, steady, unreadable.
The noise of the train seemed to fade, replaced by the soft, unbearable hum of awareness. You'd expected that, perhaps, he would look awayâpolite, disinterested, dismissive.
He didn't.
Instead, he held your gaze, not with hostility, but with something colder. Calculating. As though he were sifting through your skin, your bones, peeling back the layers to see what was underneath. And they flickered with something dangerous. Something you never expected to see.
Recognition.
Your grip on your book tightened. It wasn't possible. You never uttered a word to him. Never let your gaze fall to him long enough for him to feel its heaviness. You navigated lightly when it came to observing him, and never let it go deep enough that he could find you through the crowds.
No one ever noticed you. Not even the damn professors knew your name. Professor Slughorm, for instance, referred to you only once, as the 'girl in the back' to grab a potion beside you. To your peers, you were another ghost that roamed around the hallways. And yet, the way he looked at you now, it wasn't the idle glance of a passing curiosity.
It was deliberate.
Like he knew you.
Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, each pulse counting out the seconds you should have looked away. But you couldn't. There was a gravity in his gaze â not pulling you closer, but pinning you exactly where you were. Holding you prisoner like a suffocating insect beneath glass. Captured.
The corner of his mouth shifted, but not into a smile. It was subtler, stranger â as though some private thought had amused him. Then, just as sharply as it began, his eyes fell back to the page before him, leaving you to wonder if that fleeting moment was a fragment of your insanity.
Tom Riddle's attention was hazardous, and you could hope to avoid getting poisoned.
The sounds of clapping filled your side of the great hall as the last child came out of the sorting hat a Slytherin. The other houses rolled their eyes or scrunched their faces in utter disgust as the child giggled innocently and fled to the green table.
Headmaster Dippet went on to his usual first speech of the new semester, going through the rules for first years and latest announcements, nothing that you ever really paid any attention to. However, one part in particular caught your ear. "As you all might know, Grindelwald is still on the loose, spreading darkness wherever he goes. The ministry speculates that his next target might be Hogwarts, and so new regulations have been implemented. Dementors will now be roaming around Hogwarts skies, and some places shall no longer be available for the time being. Those include the Forbidden Forest, the Owlery tower after sundown, the Astronomy Tower outside of class hours, and the far eastern courtyard leading toward the old greenhouses. In addition, the lower dungeons beneath the Slytherin common room are now strictly off-limits to all students."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the tables. Students glanced at each other with mixed reactions, some shocked, some afraid, some smirking with plots of mischiefâyet one remained impassive. His face was set to stone as he heard every word coming out of the headmaster.
Tom's facial expressions were limited, never showing more than what he wanted to. Sometimes, a charming smirk adorned his face; other times, a cold look of concentration whenever he was focusing on classes. Most times, though, his face held an impassive, cold look, as if every detail of the world bored him to pieces.
You shifted your eyes away from his, your spine shivering in fear of the thought of him holding your gaze again. It was odd, and it haunted you all day. All you could think about was the way his eyes kept you pinned and how he smirked knowingly.
Strange, strange guy, he was.
The feast began in its usual grand fashionâgolden plates gleaming, goblets refilling with every sip, and platters of roasted meats appearing suddenly. The scent of warm bread and spices curled up toward the enchanted ceiling, where a thousand floating candles swayed against the illusion of a star-streaked night sky.
You ate alone, as always, and revelled in the peace of knowing no one would bother youâ
"Hello."
The word was soft enough that for a moment, you weren't even sure it was meant for you. You looked up from your plate, half-expecting to find someone leaning past you to greet someone else. Instead, a girl stood thereâpale skin catching the flicker of candlelight, dark hair falling in a silky wave over one shoulder. Green eyes looked at you, not past you like they usually did.
You recognized her instantlyâOphelia Lestrange. Cousin to one of Tom Riddle's infamous gang members, Lestrange, who murmured curses toward Muggle-born students when they passed him in the hallway. He always seemed to have a smidge of hatred in his eyes, anticipating something. Unlike him, Ophelia kept to herself. She didn't swagger through the corridors or spit poison in the way the others did so outwardly. In fact, you'd never heard her raise her voice, besides the backhanded jab towards Muggle-borns here and there.
She was, however, revered for her intelligence, beauty and was especially admired for being the only woman inside Slughorn's little secret club. The professor thought all students remained oblivious to it, but walls could talk. Nothing ever really stays a secret within Hogwarts' walls.
The club was rumoured to gather only the smartest and most gifted students in potions through years five to seven, and have secret gatherings and parties in the students' honour, to add a spark of exclusivity to Slughorn's best students. Everyone wanted in, of course, and the secrecy of it all added a sense of achievement to whoever got in.
She glanced at the big gap beside you on the bench, then back to your face. "May I?"
You nodded, unsure why she'd want to sit here when there were plenty of open seats closer to the center of the table, nearest to Tom Riddle and his friends.
"I couldn't face sitting near Lestrange and his lot tonight," she said matter-of-factly as she set down her plate. "They're already making bets on which new first-year will be the first to fall victim to one of their childish pranks. It's... exhausting."
You blinked, surprised by the blunt honesty. "You could've sat anywhere else."
"I could have," she agreed, delicately cutting into her roast beef. "But I've seen you around. You're...quiet." A small, almost conspiratorial smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That's rare here. And something I'd rather have tonight."
For a moment, you weren't sure how to respond. It wasn't a compliment exactly, but it wasn't an insult either.
What caught your attention was the fact that she knew you. That meant she was looking in the shadows. You didn't know how or whyâand yet she sat here, plainly separating her meal, as if you'd known each other since the first year.
"I suppose not," you murmured.
"Good," she said simply, as if that settled it, and turned her attention to her meal.
It was strangeâshe didn't press for conversation, didn't probe with idle questions the way others did when curiosity struck. She simply ate in comfortable silence, a quiet presence beside you in the otherwise chattering hall. No one had ever noticed youâsave for that strange interaction with Tom Riddle hours before.
Had the water been hexed this year? It was your last, and you were certain it would be just like the others, yet... the atmosphere was thicker than usual; eyes were starting to notice you...
Perhaps the seventh year would be a change in your mundane days.
A change you didn't know was good or bad.
Your eyes flickered toward jet-black curls on the far corner of the long wooden table again. Tom was slowly and quietly eating his meal, a stark contrast to the noise of his friends around him, either gossiping or cursing another Muggle-born student in the other houses.
"Tom Riddle, huh?" A soft voice took you out of your thoughts: "Wouldn't be the first to have a crush on him."
Your cheeks flushed hot, a faint crimson creeping up your neck. You stared at her, wide-eyed. "I don't have a crush on him."
Ophelia's smile was slight, almost knowing. "I didn't say you did. But you looked at him like you were... curious." She speared a piece of potato with her fork.
"I was justâ" You paused, searching for a word that didn't sound like a confession. "observing."
She hummed quietly, eyes flicking once toward Tom before returning to her plate. "He's quite a catch, honestly. Too bad he's never given any girl a chance." Ophelia continues, her eyes focused on splattering butter on her bread. "Word is Darya Vasilieva is thinking of asking him out. Honestly, it would make sense, in a way. Both are pure-blooded, ambitious, cold, and whatnot. Though if you ask me, she's a bit of a stuck-up." Ophelia shrugged, "She acts as if she's better than everyone, even the other sacred pure-blooded families. She's a prissy bitch, honestly." Ophelia snorted, "Tom would never like her, though he probably should, right?"
Ophelia tore a piece of bread, her movements neat and deliberate, before adding with a shrug, "My cousin tells me he thinks Tom doesn't have any romantic interest at all. Not in girls, not in boys. Just... nothing. Creepy if you ask me."
You swallowed, unsure if the warmth in your cheeks was from embarrassment or the way her words made a chill creep up your spine. "Maybe he just hasn't met the right person," you offered, though your voice lacked conviction.
Ophelia snorted, "Please. Honestly, it makes sense. I think you'd have to be either a stone or a masochist to handle someone like him. I mean, can you imagine him ever giving a woman some flowers?" Ophelia chuckled lowly as she continued to conspire with you. "It's devastating how handsome he is, though, isn't it?"
You narrowed your eyes. "Didn't you say you wanted quiet?"
Ophelia's lips curved faintly. "I did. But sitting in silence doesn't mean I have to turn my brain off. Besides..." She leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. "Quiet people are the best at noticing things. You should know that."
You tilted your head, unimpressed. "Noticing and gossiping are different."
Her smirk widened, though her eyes stayed cool. "Really? I mean, you hear everything and eavesdrop on every conversation. I notice things, you know. Even you. The only difference is that you have no one to tell what you know. But it's still gossiping, in a way." Your eyes went slightly wide before you could stop yourself, and Ophelia caught it immediately. She chuckled under her breath, the sound low and knowing.
Ophelia sighed and got up from her seat. "Well, this has been fun, but I fear I must retire for the night. I'm happy we became friends...." She raises an eyebrow, expecting to hear your name, which you murmur.
"Who said anything about us being friends?" You verbalized your thoughts before you could catch them, and Ophelia smirked.
"I did." And just like that, she walked away with ease, leaving you dazed and confused about the whole interaction.
The space beside you now felt colder, the conversation still echoing in your ears like a broken record.
You stared at the empty spot on the bench, trying to piece it together. Why now? Why you? For seven years, she'd been just another Slytherin ignorant of your presence, and suddenly she'd decided to talk like you were intimate enough to gossip.
She said she noticed you, but that wasn't possible. Your presence was weightless, unlike Tom Riddle, who thickened the atmosphere when he entered the room, leaving no space for any other thought. Were you not as invisible as you thought you were?
Or perhaps Ophelia wanted something, though you couldn't figure out what or why. A loveless life with a smidge of traumatic events was all you had to offer, really.
The hall around you blurred into a dull hum. Lestrange's laughter cut through the noise like a knife, a burst of sound from further down the table, followed by the cruel snicker of someone else you didn't care to identify. It only made Ophelia's earlier words press harder in your mind.
Time bled out, and finally, it was time to head to the dorms. The remaining Slytherins on the table gathered and walked in sync towards the dungeons, and as usual, you kept your head low at the far corner. Tom Riddle led the crowd as the head boy, barking rules to the wide-eyed first years.
His friend group stayed just a bit further, murmuring to themselves before swiftly changing their course, so smoothly that no one seemed to notice. But you did.
You noticed it instantlyâthat deliberate shift in their route. It wasn't random. The way Mulciber glanced over his shoulder, the way Rosier's smirk twitched, and the way Lestrange fell a step behind to shield their little detour from prying eyes.
You slowed your pace, pretending to fuss with the strap of your bag, letting the crowd move ahead. Riddle continued walking, and that made your confusion all the greater. Why were they taking a detour without the main member of their group? Something didn't seem right, yet you picked up your pace; you didn't want to feed your curiosity tonight and instead followed your gut.
By the time you reached the common room, students were laughing by the fireplace, the air thick with the warmth of the flames. You slipped past them, heading straight for the staircase that led to the girls' dormitories.
The room was still empty as your roommates caught up with each other downstairs.
You changed into your nightwear and dropped your bag by your bed. You lay awake, reading a copy of your book as you used your wand as a flashlight. The quiet was heavyâthe kind of silence that feels almost staged. Your eyes tried to follow each word and make sense of every sentence, yet your thoughts screamed louder this time.
Why did Ophelia talk to me? Why did Tom Riddle smirk at me on the train? What the hell is going on today?
Then, suddenly, you heard faint bursts of laughter drifting up the stairwell, muffled by the thick stone walls.
Within minutes, the door opened and your roommates filed in, the energy of the common room clinging to them. You didn't look up, but you didn't need toâyou could feel their presence and their sheer unawareness of you without a single word spoken. The rustle of robes, the clink of hairpins on the nightstand, the quiet thunk of a trunk lid.
"...did you hear?" One voice whispered, barely muffled by the sound of a wardrobe opening. "Darya Vasilieva's going to ask Tom out. Tomorrow."
Another sweeter and high-pitched voice chirped out, "Gosh, the fact that he'll probably say yes makes me want to fucking strangle her. It's not fair!"
"Life isn't fair, love. Who told you to be born in a half-blood family, eh?" the first one giggled. "But honestly, she's perfect for him. Russian pure-blood, rich family, top marks in everythingâ"
"And creepy as fuck," the other cut in. "I saw her torturing a mouse the other day by hexing it. Talk about psychopathy."
A third voice joined in, soft but venomous. "You know her family keeps those creepy cages in the basement? My cousin swears they're for torture, since, you know, her family is rumored to have joined Grindelwald."
The laughter that followed was muffled by blankets and pillows, but it still prickled your skin. You didn't move, pretending to be absorbed in your book, though you'd been stuck on the same paragraph for five minutes.
The truth was, their words wormed into you. You knew Darya, or well, knew her from a distance. She had pale, porcelain skin and sharp eyes as blue as the ocean, and similar to Tom, her eyes held a shivering coldness too. Yet, the whispers couldn't be more wrong; they weren't so similar. Tom calculated every move, every smile, every step he took down the hallway, whereas Darya didn't have such motivation. She was ice-cold, yes, but her movements weren't scripted to the whim, and her reactions were always genuine, if there ever was one.
You thought of him again, the depths inside those chocolate eyes. It was easy to get lost in the riddle of his stare, trying to puzzle out the pieces of his being and every movement he made. He had a motivation behind everything he did; you could see it, but you could never decipher what it was. A more realistic outcome would be that he wanted to become a minister one day, perhaps a powerful Auror. But his gazeâit held something far darker than any other average ambition.
You snapped your book shut, the sound making one of the girls glance over before quickly looking away. You waited. You always waited.
And just like every other night, they eventually settled, their voices trailing off into yawns and mumbled goodnights. The dormitory shifted into that in-between quiet, where you could hear the soft rise and fall of sleeping breaths.
You sighed and shook off the thoughts of a certain dark-haired boy before drifting into a dreamless sleep.
For once, normalcy plagued your day.
You'd woken before most of your roommates, save for a couple of early risers who were already gossiping in hushed tones by their wardrobes. You strolled through the common room like a ghost, ignored and greeted with silence like every other day for the last seven years.
You hummed to yourself, familiarity splattering through your veins as you walked down the hallway towards your breakfast. You sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, where the chatter was quieter, and began serving yourself the same balanced breakfast you had every morning at Hogwarts: pancakes with a drizzle of honey and dark, decaf coffee. You found comfort in the mundane and were glad that things were finally going back to your sense of normal.
Your eyes wandered for a moment, catching the regular suspects in their usual places, but your eyes didn't linger long enough to decipher the emotion, or lack thereof, of his handsome face. You told yourself you would avoid looking at him at all costs and find another interesting figure to observe and piece out. Tom Riddle was...too much of a threat to your plans.
Classes went in their familiar order.
Transfiguration was first, with Professor Dumbledore. He was wise beyond his years and sometimes talked in what seemed like sophisticated riddles, but you were quite fond of him. It was a shame he never noticed you, though, but it did make sense. The only ones worthy enough to gain his favor were Tom Riddle, Darya Vasilieva, and Ophelia Lestrange. Their magic was of such excellence that it even succeeded his expectations, as he once said before, though his eyes always did linger on Tom's figure longer than most.
Dumbledore's voice carried that gentle authority that seemed to gather everyone's gaze. You followed his instructions, and after a few tries, transfigured your brass button into a beetle, then back again, with practiced precision. The insect twitched in your palm before reforming into a dull, round button, and you placed it on the desk without fanfare. Dumbledore barely glanced your wayâhis attention drawn, as always, to the select few.
"Ah, Mr. Riddle, a first try, as always. Well done." Tom Riddle only nodded at the praise, his face impassive as he transformed the beetle back with an almost sinister ease. He wasn't fazed by the praise, of course not. He received the same compliments every hour of the day, whether it be from professors themselves or through loud whispers and giggles in the hallways.
"Miss Lestrange," he added next, his tone warm but slightly amused, "excellent, though your beetle seems determined to glare at me." Ophelia's soft chuckle answered him, a sound like a secret being shared.
Your gaze shifted to Ophelia, a glimmer of something stirring inside you. Would she notice you again? Perhaps start a conversation once more, take you away from the arms of silence, and slice the monotony out of your day? You were relieved with the ignorance of other students, sure, yet when Ophelia said she noticed you, hell, even said you were friends... You couldn't help but feel something close to warm. Something you only ever felt when near a fire during London's harsh, cold nights.
But her eyes never landed on you; instead, she went to the Ravenclaw student beside her, her eyes flashing with a glimmer you couldn't decipher yet.
"Miss Vasilieva, a clean execution as always," Dumbledore commended, and you didn't need to look to know she was smiling in that poised, distant way that made her seem carved from ice.
Darya smirked and thanked the professor. The glow in Ophelia's eyes when she looked at Darya was intriguing, something more than jealousy, deeper than envy...but it was still an enigma to you. Maybe you could observe their interactions for longer and pick apart every word exchanged between them to come to a suitable conclusion.
Or maybe you could mind your own business, and it would get you out of the clutches of Ophelia Lestrange's attention. It was for the best, staying invisible to her peripheral vision, avoiding the threat of letting more people become aware of your presence. Being quaint and invisible was a superpower, one that came with its price, of course. But still a superpower, nonetheless.
The rest of the classes passed without incident, though you caught yourself glancing more than once at the empty seat beside yours, wondering ifâby some strange alignment of fateâOphelia would slip into it. She didn't.
Dinner finally arrived and came in, and the Great Hall was its usual noises of endless chatter, and you sat with your plate, the voices around you fading into static.
A flicker of movement drew your attentionâOphelia passing behind you on her way to the prefects' table. She didn't say anything this time, brushed through you like she would a piece of furniture, and plastered a fake smile when sitting next to Tom and his usual gang.
What was it about yesterday that made her want to talk to you? By the way things were going, it was a piece of anomaly never to be repeated. But why?
Unsatisfied with unanswered thoughts, you walked toward your dorm, the paintings going about their business and ignoring you, even ghosts passed through you without trying for conversation or tease. You grumbled as you shivered and went about the same path you did every night, when, suddenly, a movement of a dark cloak made you stop in your tracks.
This wasn't a path to any dorm room, and by now, most students should be retiring to their respective rooms. The torchlight ahead flickered, and the corner where you'd seen the cloak's movement was now still, empty... but the air felt heavier.
You told yourself to keep walking.
And yet, your feet betrayed you, pulling you closer. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, maybe it was the fact that a part of you â the same part that lingered on Tom Riddle in clandestine glances â wanted to know who was out here.
When you reached the bend in the corridor, there was nothing. No one. Just the whisper of the draught sliding along the stone. But the air was thick, threatening to cut the oxygen from your lungs. Your spine shivered, and you turned around, but again, nothing.
You exhaled slowly. "Fuck."
You cursed yourselfâyou should have walked by it, and you would have been in the dungeons by now. The you from the past years would have walked right through it, seeking the safety of your thin blankets and the stretch of your imagination. Why were you now looking out for something to burst the walls of predictability you built? It didn't make sense.
Again, you liked the mundane. You wanted the silence and the comfort in knowing every day would be the same as before. Following a plan laid out in your mind ever since you were a first-year student.
Stay silent. Stay invisible. Graduate. Find an apprenticeship. Become a healer by twenty-six.
One glance into dark pupils, and he made you question your own goddamn timeline. But no more!
You shook your head and followed the path to your dorm room. No more goddamn distractions.
You couldn't sleep. It was hours past curfew, and every roommate of yours was sleeping soundly, reaching the peak of their sleep. But you lay awake like an owl, eyes wide and no sign of sleepiness threatening to come.
You turned onto your side. The mattress creaked, a small, accusing sound. Sleep still didn't come. Not even close.
You tried everything.
Getting lost in Dostoyevsky's words, trying to figure out what Raskolinikov would do next. But not even your book could take you away from your rushing thoughts.
You then tried deep breathing, counting numbers to see if your body would surrender to slumber, but all you did was get lost in your counting as the voice inside your head morphed into the same buzzing thoughts of before.
Then you just closed your eyes, your worst trial yet, and to no surprise, it failed. Miserably.
Your eyes flicked to the gap in your curtains. The faintest sliver of greenish torchlight from the dungeon corridor seeped through, and if you listened closely enough, you swore you could hear footsteps, distant but deliberate. And some sort of slithering movements, too.
You pressed your lips together. This was stupid. You had no reason to get up, no business wandering after curfew. But, fuck, your brain was buzzing with energy, and your eyes weren't closing any time soon.
And so, you got up with delicate movements, trying not to wake your roommates as you made your way out of your dorm.
You just needed some movement to finally sleep, you told yourself as you walked out of the Slytherin common room. No one would even notice you, like always. Only this time, it would be under the night sky.
Your slippers brushed the cold flagstones as you made your way down the empty hall. Shadows moved with the black lake's sway from the tinted windows, and you shivered as you watched them. They looked like monsters dancing under the moon.
You told yourself you'd only walk for a bit. Just enough to tire yourself out. But the further you went, the more that restless itch under your skin grew.
Then you heard it again.
Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Deliberate.
You froze. The sound didn't come from behind you â it came from ahead, somewhere in the deeper stretch of the corridor. And beneath it, the faint scrape... no, not scrape... that slither again.
"You shouldn't be here."
Your blood chilled.
You knew that deep voice.
He never spoke too many words, but it was hard to forget such velvet wrapped in a unique timbre.
It was him.
Tom Riddle.
You swallowed thickly, nerves shivering as Tom stepped out of the darkness, like a shadow coming to life. His face held that same coldness it always did, but his eyesâthey glimmered. Was it amusement? Curiosity? Or was perhaps your brain trying to find something that was not there once again?
"Excuse me?" You shrieked out; your voice sounded much steadier in your head.
"You are not supposed to be here." He takes a step forward, his fingers caressing his wand slowly. "You cannot wander off in castle grounds past curfew. And Hogwarts is full of mysteriesâyou never know what you might find at night..." His voice was deep; it carried a tone so eerie that shadows fled from the darkness. Your spine shivered, and you hesitantly took a step back.
Your breath hitched. "What the hell do you mean?"
His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "It means," he said, each word a precise cut of a knife, "you're straying into places you don't belong."
The silence that followed was toxicâit was ashes to your lungs. Tom then took another step forward, thickening the air like carbon monoxide.
Your fingers twitched at your sides, struggling to catch any breath as your eyes never left his figure. He circled you like a snake would its prey, eyes glistening as if he held a knowledge only found in the deepest trenches of the forbidden library.
"I should deduct points from you for wandering past curfew. Notice the professors and give you the detention you deserve." His words painted the air green, each syllable a cursed magic to the walls, which seemed to shake in his wake. Your feet felt the trembling ground and twitched for freedom, to leave before your lungs collapsed.
"I should," he repeated, tilting his head just slightly. His fingers reached the tip of his hand as he narrowed his eyes. "But I won't. This time. But let this be a warning." He spits your name out, and you gasp. It sounds so illicit coming from his lips. Like a dark spell created just so your ears could bleed.
He knows your name. How? After all these years of passing by unnoticed to him, was his ignorance an illusion? Did he always know you existed? Purposefully ignored you? But you were certain you never uttered your name next to him, nor did any other professor. Never your name.
The promise of a threat hung in the air around you, the unspoken words in the air tightening your throat in a cruel grip. You waited for a hex, an announcement of detention, but he only looked at you. His gaze burned like acid on your skin. Laced inside his pupils was a promise written in spilled blood.
"Go," he murmured. He didn't need to raise his voice to demand obedience. His presence commanded the air, mastered the atmosphere with one simple, heavy clack of his boot. "Stay out of the corridors after hours," Tom's face returned to his neutral, impassive mask as he strolled the hallways with, "Or next time, I won't be the one who finds you."
Before you could even dissect what his words could mean, Riddle turned on his heel, the smoke of shadows leaving with him, releasing the taut grip it had on the air.
You let out a gaspâyou could finally breathe. The ground stood static under your feet, the air finally returning to its peaceful nature.
Nevertheless, inside you, peace was a ghost long gone. A seed of unease seemed to have been planted in its place by the monster Fear and its ominous hands.
You hesitated for a second before walking away, your steps painted with dread and utter confusion of the scene that had played out moments before. You didn't pay attention to where you were going, your mind replaying the threat inside those dark eyes of his while your feet worked alone to drag your body to your dorm.
You realized your nails were digging into your palms as you entered the room. Slowly, you unfurled your fists, forcing the tremor to leave your fingers. The air was quieter now; the only sound was the soft breathing of your roommates as they dreamt, while you curled on your bed, heart hammering inside your tortured inside from the nightmare you had just witnessed.
You pushed your book aside to make room for your body on your scrambled sheets. The pillow was the same as every other day, the blankets were the ones you slept with for the last seven years, but today they felt stiff. Like a rock under you, poking your flesh every time you tried to close your eyes.
You attempted one more time to ignore the discomfort, but it only seemed to scream louder when you did so.
Sleep was never your friend, more like an acquaintance that sometimes greeted you with a soft, hesitant wave. But tonight, it seemed to grow into a monstrous foe.
Thoughts were a plague that swallowed you that whole night, binding you to the prison of a certain Riddle you could never solve.
This year wasn't going to be like the others, was it?
Your face stung from the slap. You couldn't move, your body pinned in place by some invisible force. You wanted to scream, to flee, but it seemed you had no mouth. Or better yet, it seemed your body chose to stay in its prison.
A shadow appeared behind you, its slender fingers caressing your shoulder. It appeared to be soft, but its touch was...empty. "So weak. So pathetic." A voice echoed in your ear. "You cannot run away, can you?"
Another slap to your face, shouts from the other side of the room. You know that wretched voice; you know its venom from a mile away. You've felt it every day for your whole life, swallowed it down until it corroded your soul.
"Stupid fucking wench! Damn my fucking sister for leaving me with you. Not even she wanted you." Your aunt chuckled bitterly. The shadow behind you chuckled, its touch cold and lingering on your shoulder as its ominous voice reached your ear again.
"Ahh, I see why you don't want to leave." It squeezed your shoulder, and you whimpered, "She's the only family you have, hm? Don't want her to leave you, too?"
You tried to retaliate, to scream, to attack. But you stayed frozen, lonely tears spilling down your cheeks, and the shadow seemed to revel in your misery. Observe it.
The shadow whispered, "Pathetic little mouse."
You woke with a gasp, your face sweating as you grabbed the sheets beside you. It had been a while since you had nightmares. They didn't usually taunt you on castle grounds; they preferred to cage you when you were in that dirty attic, sleeping on a rough mattress during summer nights with closed hands.
But that shadowâthat was new. It seemed too real to be a part of your imagination. Your body recoiled at the thoughtâyou could still feel its freezing touch lingering on your shoulder. You could still feel the emptiness that possessed you when its fingers grazed your skin.
You groan and stand up from your scrambled sheets. You only got two hours of sleep, and none of it was successful in leading you to that vibration of peace. Your thoughts fogged you all night longâof those dark green robes and words dripping with threat.
And when you did sleep, shadows decided to corrode your mind and trap you in a nightmare.
Your eyes refocused and scanned the room, and you gasped when you saw none of your roommates on their beds. You always woke up before them to avoid any stares or the awkwardness of getting ready together when you had no affinity.
"Shit." You cursed and quickly grabbed your wand to float your clothes toward you. After putting them on with frantic movements, you seized your bag and hurried down the stairs, your steps bordering on sprinting and utter desperation.
"Shit, shit, shit." You could only hope your first class hadn't started yet, and you only missed breakfast. Your stomach could deal with one less meal for a day, but you just maybe couldn't survive the acid if you arrived late to class. Eyes would be upon you, scanning you like they would prey, and you would become visible for the first time in seven years. You couldn't possibly afford that.
It was already enough that a certain Riddle had picked you apart from the crowd you so thoroughly blended inâyou couldn't have the same knowledge bleeding into Hogwarts' whispers and gazes. And so, you always arrived on time to avoid this very scenario.
The staircase to the Great Hall came into view, and you pushed yourself to sprint faster, harder, your lungs aching to keep you from collapsing. Maybe you could slip in unnoticed as you always did, grab a crust of bread, and make it to class without drawing attention.
But when you passed under the archway and into the hall, the tables were nearly empty, the clatter of cutlery replaced by the murmurs of lingering students finishing their meals.
"Goddamnit." You sigh and turn away, running through the empty halls to your first classâherbology.
It was one of, if not your favourite, classes. Not because you were particularly skilled at itâthough you held your ownâbut because there was something undeniably grounding about it.
Herbology didn't demand the sharp, cold precision of Potions or the focus on mastering your wand in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Instead, it was alive. The plants didn't care who you were or if you spoke too little. They didn't ignore you. They simply grew. If you tended them well, they thrived; if you neglected them, they withered. It was a relationship you understood.
It was also the class you needed the most to become the healer you wanted, along with potions, of course. Though Slughorn's class was one that never adhered to your skills, never bent the way plants did. Slughorn, for his part, tended to show blatant favoritism, like Dumbledore.
However, under his chirpy mood lay a strictness that demanded more focus, and his instructions could be quite... nonsensical most times. It didn't make sense how students like Riddle just knew what ingredients to use, its metrics precisely, to make potions sometimes even better than Slughorn himself. It earned him the title of teacher's pet, though Tom made no effort to earn the professor's favor.
You gulped thickly as you reached the wooden door. It made a creaking sound, and once you opened it, the scene was one straight out of your nightmares.
Every eye was on you.
This never happenedâyou never caught any attention, and you did everything so meticulously that no one would. Why were you becoming so careless? It didn't make sense; you still craved the quietness. The invisibility. It was all part of the plan that was written on the stars the first time you entered the wizarding world.
The students' eyes weighed down on you as you quietly walked to the only seat available, on the back, next to...You turned beside you, and it was Ophelia Lestrange.
Her eyes were on you again, noticing you just like that one time during dinner. She smirked and whispered, "Late, are we?"
You didn't answer, and instead, opened your herbology book quietly with slightly trembling hands as Professor Sprout continued the lesson. The eyes of students finally shifted toward something more interesting than an unknown girl arriving late in class.
Your quill scratched lightly against the page as you tried to keep your head down, copying the diagram Professor Sprout had charmed onto the board. The earthy smell of damp soil and crushed leaves filled the greenhouse, usually a comfort to you, but today it only made the air feel heavier.
You could feel a pair of green eyes on you, and you looked at the culprit. "What?"
Ophelia Lestrange's smirk widened. Her chin propped lazily on one hand as she sighed, "Oh, nothing," she said, voice dripping with mock innocence. "Just curious. You don't usually make an entrance."
"Not that it's any of your business," You tightened your grip on the quill, eyes flicking back to your parchment, "but I overslept."
Ophelia hummed, "Well, it's a good thing you're next to me in this class. I could use some quiet. I was getting tired of Arthur's constant attempt to charm me. It's cute that he thinks he has a chance with me." Ophelia huffs as if it were the most preposterous thing in the world.
Ophelia was a beautiful, cunning woman, and everyone knew thatâespecially the boys. Most either crushed on her or Darya, and Arthur Greene, the Gryffindor keeper, was no exception. He was an American exchange student from Ilvermorny, and like many guys in Hogwarts, looked at Ophelia with rose coloured glasses.
Ophelia, though, never really paid any mind to the love letters on her desk or the roses each man wanted to give her. She never gave any boy the attention they craved, and that made them want to take the challenge even more.
You couldn't understand it; their fascination with trying to claim her. She showed them she was interested, and that only motivated them to try harder. The same was for Darya. However, Ophelia was notorious for blatantly ignoring advances; Darya, to her end, was known to coldly reject and humiliate anyone who tried.
Professor Sprout's voice cut through the earthy hush of the greenhouse.
"All right, everyoneâpair up. We're working with Venomous Tentacula today, and I expect you to keep all your fingers intact by the end of class."
You kept your gaze low, avoiding saying anything, hoping Ophelia would just ignore you, like she did the day before. But to your dismay, you heard her voice again, "Guess we're together. I should tell you, I'm quite bad at herbology. Honestly, I don't even know why it's a discipline. It's so...useless, really." Ophelia sighed and dragged her seat to be nearer to you. "It doesn't deserve my expertise."
"It's not useless." You simply said, and she huffed in reply. "And it certainly requires a level of attentionâevery sten, every petal, every root, is precious to its own life. You need to tend it with caution andâ"
"Gosh, didn't know you were such a bore. Keep talking like that, and I might prefer Arthur's boring American stories to dealing with you nerding out about plants." Ophelia said mockingly, and you could only roll your eyes. You kept your mouth shut; you didn't have the patience or energy to form a reply, though all you did was beg Merlin to stop this torture. So much for being 'friends'.
Your fault for ever believing, for even a second, such a blatant lie.
Her green eyes then shifted, and she chuckled bitterly, "Ah, of course Darya's already claiming her place at Tom Riddle's side." Ophelia rolled her eyes, "She said she was going to ask him out yesterday, but I guess she chickened out. Pathetic, honestly."
Your eyes moved to that familiar jet black hair, and his face was the same as it always wasâcold and impassive. Observing him long enough, you could gather that his face could never hold any emotion for long.
Darya shifted her seat closer to him as she babbled about something Tom was not paying attention to. His eyes were distant, his thoughts elsewhere, but it seemed Darya didn't watch him like you did and stayed oblivious.
Your eyes lingered on Tom for a fraction too longâlong enough for Ophelia to notice.
"Staring at Tom again, are we?" she said, a sly grin curling her lips. "You should give up already, honestly. He never looks at anyoneâhe'd never look at you."
You sighed in annoyance, "I don't want him to." You stopped taking notes of the diagram and slid your book inside your bag. "Honestly, do you always talk this much?"
Ophelia narrowed her eyes, "Do you always talk this little?"
"Yes. I do." You muttered under your breath as you prepared the table for the spiky, hungry plant that was about to come. "Now, do you know how to tend to a Venomous Tentacula?"
"What do you think I am? A moron? I am not Stephen Longbottom, as you can clearly see." Ophelia scoffed and narrowed her eyes, "You should know I'm one of the best students in this damn schoolâ"
"One of." You reply without taking your eyes off the table you cleaned, "Not the." Your eyes flicker toward Tom's back and Darya beside him, who still didn't stop talking. Truly, you never saw her talk this muchâshe usually had either her signature cold smirk or was out and about cursing Muggle-borns with her friend group.
Ophelia's eye twitched, "You insolent littleâ"
"Now, students, each of you shall grab a Venomous Tentacula," Professor Sprout announced, clapping her hands to pull attention back to the front. The large wooden crates beside her creaked as the lids slid open, revealing the writhing vines that didn't waste any time and immediately lashed outward, hungry for a target.
The classroom filled with a chorus of nervous shuffling, a few gasps. A loud yelp when a vine nearly snagged Stephen Longbottom's sleeve, the first victim of the plant's aching teeth. Ophelia's lips curved into a cruel smirk as the class filled with laughter, "See? You truly think I have that level of idiocy? Even the plants canâ"
You ignored Ophelia's nonsensical babbling and walked toward the end of the classroom where each tantactula writhed slowly, their vines moving with precision, waiting for a vulnerable prey to satiate their hunger.
"Careful, they can sense fear," Professor Sprout warned, wand raised to keep the Tentacula at bay. "Remember what we learned in class, everyone. You all need to learn about these beauties for your N.E.W.T.S, and what better practice than learning hands-on?!"
A few hesitant students hissed as the plants aggressively thrashed towards them, confusing them for easy prey, and the sound of wood scraping against stone filled the greenhouse. You tightened your grip on your wand and swallowed the tension rising in your chest.
Ophelia strutted after you and, with far more confidence than reason, her long hair swinging as she snatched her gloves and tugged them on with a flourish. "Oh, didn't you say you were the herbology master, darling? " she smirked with the cockiness of a master.
Professor Sprout's voice rang clear above the chaos, "Firm hands, calm movements! They respond poorly to hesitation!"
"Hear that?" She whispered, and her smirk widened as she shoved you backward, "Watch and learn why I'm one of Hogwarts' best students."
She grabbed her vine with gloved hands, forcing it down against the table. She chuckled in confidence, but something about it was fake, and the plant could sense it, tooâher stiff shoulders, the tremble on her breath she desperately tried to hide, and the way her chuckle bordered on something else.
In a sudden lash, its vine coiled around her wrist and yanked. Ophelia shrieked, stumbling forward as the teeth on its stem snapped dangerously close to her face. "Ah, ah, fuck! Get this nasty thing off of me!"
"Ophelia!" Professor Sprout cried, raising her wand, but you were faster. You didn't think; you only raised the wand in your hand in a swift movement. For the first time in forever, you didn't think of the repercussions of your actions, of the weight of eyes on your figure. You acted on instinct and whispered an incantation under your breath so fast, no student even flinched. The vine recoiled, smoking slightly where the magic seared its bark. Ophelia tumbled backward onto the floor, pale and breathless, her eyes wide with shock.
Students gasped; nothing of the sort had ever happened to the Ophelia Lestrange. She was a statue of reverence, of posture and confidence; girls envied and boys sought her for dates. She didn't miscalculate, nor did things not usually go the way she so intended. Nor did unknown girls like you ever save her.
Reality washed over you like a bucket of ice-cold water, and you instantly looked at the scene before you. Attention was all over your stubbed figure. Oxygen slipped out of your lungs, and their weight gripped your tongue so tight all you could do was stare, unmoving, at your own nightmare.
You searched for that ominous shadow again, to ground you into knowing this was only a part of a reality inside your mind. That none of this was flesh and bone. But no avail.
This was real, and you could feel bile ruining your throat.
You could hear the faint sound of murmurs, widened eyes, and ripples of gasps, but two figures were unmoving. Unflinching.
Darya stared at Ophelia with a malicious smirk on her face, her eyes looking down at the Slytherin with a mockery laced with a deep meaning. As if she won a silent battle.
Your eyes then found his familiar dark ones, those that haunted her thoughtsâthose that were the reason for her mind's unwillingness to shut down. For once, no one paid attention to Tom, and he knew it. His lips curled into a menacing smirk, one only meant for your eyes. His deep chocolate eyes glinted with a darkness that made your spine tremble.
Within all pairs of eyes on you, his was the heaviest. The darkest. The darkest diamond in a sea of only gold.
You couldn't understand why his orbs found you only now, why they seemed to burn through the fog of faces, and find your unknown one. You couldn't decipher why they lingered.
You could never be of use to himâyou were a silent breeze that had steps as light as a feather, wandering unnoticed through marble floors. You were a body in the background of those who held importance, like Riddle did. You were certainly not a part of the sacred, pure-blooded families that Tom seemed to save his interactions for.
The memory of the night before crept back unbidden, tightening around your chest.
This time, it wasn't a flicker that made you question if it was real or not. This time, he grabbed the advantage as no one seemed to pay attention to him, for once.
So he stared. Entirely. The way one studies an unsolvable enigma. The way you look at him under the fig tree during break times.
But the moment was gone within a second, as one student took the courage to break the thick silence. "Happens to the best of us. Welcome to the club." Stephen Longbottom reached out his hand toward Ophelia, and she growled in response and stood up by herself, leaving an embarrassed, red-cheeked Longbottom to retreat his friendly arm.
Ophelia's cheeks were blotched crimson, her breath still uneven as she straightened her robes with a furious snap of her wrists. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, eyes blazing like twin emerald fires as she hissed, "I don't need your stupid help, I can fend for myselfâ"
"Clearly," Darya muttered through a false cough, and you could see Ophelia's ears turning red, while students held their breath at their comment. Tension corrupted the air as the two women glared at each other, before Professor Sprout cleared her throat.
"Enough chatter! This is precisely why we practice, Miss Lestrange. Even skill means nothing without humility." The professor cleared her throat, "Thank you for your fast thinking, Ms...."
"Hawking." You murmured through a nervous breath, and for once in your life, a professor's eyes lingered on you, glinting with satisfaction.
The students scrambled to their respective seats, each one dealing with the plants with caution, taking Ophelia's incident as a lesson. You leaned in and grabbed one of the plants, trying to ignore the light twitches in your hand and the heavy gaze on your shoulders.
Your gloved fingers brushed over the slick, pulsating vine, and you forced your breathing to steady. Though they sometimes could evoke fear, plants were easy to understandâeven aggressive ones like the one before you. They weren't like that by will, but by the circumstances of their environment and hunger for survival.
A twitch of nervousness was all it took to mistake you for prey, and so, you gripped the pot with a firmness you didn't know you had and led it to yours and Ophelia's table.
Ophelia, for once, stood in silence on her chair, her eyes fixed on the table. You cleared your throat and placed the tentacula in front of you both. Ophelia's gaze fixed sharply onto you, and she growled out, "Don't you ever do that shit again, you hear me?"
You blinked, pulse still hammering from before, "I merely helped you, Ophelia. If I didn't do anything, the tentacula was going to rip your face off." You crossed your arms, "You should know by now arrogance will get you nowhere."
Ophelia's pupils were so sharp, one movement, you were sure they would cut you like a knife. "I don't need help, I can do it myself." She snarled and stood up, "You do that shit again? You can expect to be promoted from friends to enemies."
You sighed, but kept your mouth shut. You didn't need a smart response to lead you to become a target to Opheliaâsome people couldn't see past the fog of their own ego, and you didn't waste energy trying to force clarity in their minds.
And, of course, were you to try, you would become a target of her bitterness; it would certainly make you more visible than you already were after the tentacula incident moments ago.
Ophelia tossed her hair over her shoulder and flipped a switch inside her mind, her voice conspiratorial once more, filling your ears with nonsensical blabber. "Anyway," she chirped, "did you notice how Longbottom nearly tripped over his own feet trying to be chivalrous? Disgusting. Touching his slimy hand would certainly give me boogers."
You ignored her as she kept on ranting your ears off, and focused on tending to the tentacula before you. Every stem, every root, crippled with life and movement. The wild plant soothed under your firm touch, allowing you to wrap it up in dirt and water it after.
The lesson went on smoothly, yet whispers lingered around the roomâof Ophelia's incident, of Longbottom's pathetic attempt at being a saviour, and how Darya and Riddle seemed to work on the tentacula in an uneasily smooth together. It was like the tentacula was a slave and they were their master; however, you knew whose doing it was, and it certainly wasn't Darya. She didn't have his commanding presence, an aura that demanded attention and obedience. Though everyone seemed to think it was a shared effort, Tom didn't seem to bother to correct them and solely continued to tend the plant with an eerie calmness.
Thankfully, talk of you vanished faster than a blow of a candle, and you were grateful for it. Better to be blown off than burn to your end under their judgmental whispers.
After such a storm of events, classes, luckily, unfolded seamlessly until finally, the last subject of the day came. Potions.
This time, there was no green-eyed Slytherin gossiping beside you. She, of course, avoided you for the rest of the day, blending into the crowd, and like everyone else, ignored your presence. As if your existence didn't exist in her life.
You were relieved, of course, after the horror in herbology, of that daytime nightmare of having people's attention on you, people asking themselves who you were, you couldn't afford her weighing presence next to you. Whispers would fly faster than an owl, questions about who you were and what you were doing with Ophelia would spark.
One spark was enough for a fire to spread.
A torment would then ensue. The dark shadows of your dreams would come alive to haunt you in reality, and not be stuck inside your mind anymore.
You would lose the power of observation, of slipping under everyone else's radar. And you couldn't have that. It would disrupt the vines you so carefully constructed around youâdismantle the plans you so carefully created for your future.
Slughorn was going on his usual lecture on how potions were a mastery selected for a few, but then one part caught your attention, "And by next week, we will have a test on your potion skills. It will be a one-hour evaluation of every ingredient we learned this year, and of course, one extra unknown one. If any of you get it right, then, well, you will get my personal congratulations."
The room erupted in the usual groans and sighs. Some students scribbled furiously in their notes, others slumped back in defeat at the very thought of another test for another lesson, and in the worst subject of allâpotions. However, most students' eyes glinted in ambition at the thought of perhaps becoming a member of the elusive slug club, which only existed through whispers in the school's hallways and after-hours gossiping sessions in the common rooms.
Being a member meant being the best, and everyone wanted to shine the brightest.
You, however, only groaned internally at the thought of an evaluation. You already had N.E.W.T.S. coming at the end of the school year, the one evaluation that would set you on toward your planned futureâyou didn't need Slughorn's crazy tests to add to the mixture.
Slughorn chuckled and tapped his cane twice against the flagstones. "Don't fret! The goal is not perfection. Potions are a form of art, a way to express yourself and create something extraordinary out of the ordinary. I want to see your instinctsâyour creativityâhow you think when you don't have all the answers." Slughorn grinned and, finally, started the lesson.
Slughorn's voice boomed again, this time, holding a small green transparent glass in his hand. "Now, does anyone know what I am holding here?"
Some students raised their hands, and Slughorn pointed toward Ophelia, "Veritaserum, sir."
Slughorn smiled and walked toward Ophelia's desk, "Ah, well done, Ms Lestrange. 5 points to Slytherin!"
Ophelia let out a smug grin, and Darya stared at her with clear, burning envy. It was known that Darya had never entered the Slug Club, the only female member being Ophelia. No one understood whyâboth women had similar outstanding skills, and every professor seemed to shower both with the same amount of praise. Except Slughorn.
"This is Veritaserum â a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear." The professor went to the other side of the class, eyeing each student with a twinkle in his eye. "Unfortunately, none of you shall see use for the fruits of your labour today, as this potion is strictly controlled by the Ministry. However, you do need to know its ingredients precisely for your N.E.W.T.S. And, of course, your evaluation next week." Slughorn chuckled. "Now, turn your books to page 51, and start!"
Students scurried away from their seats in order to try and gather the necessary ingredients. The cupboards groaned as jars of roots, powders, and dried herbs were pulled down in a frenzy, each person grabbing the needed ingredients as said in the book.
You moved slowly, careful not to be swept into the current of scrambling classmates. Keeping to the edges, you searched the shelves with steady hands, preferring to observe which jars were taken too quickly and which ones remained untouched. The potion demanded an art of observation even you hadn't mastered yet.
From the corner of your eye, you caught his figure again. It seemed to pull you in, no matter what he did. He stood apart from the chaos, unaffected by the rush of bodies around him. What caught your eye, though, was how he was gathering different ingredients than everyone else, meticulously picking them apart and carrying them in his hands.
You narrowed your eyesâTom Riddle never went against instructions, against the rules so meticulously ingrained within Hogwarts' walls. Or perhaps, your art of observation was not as advanced as you thought it was.
But that couldn't be possibleâyour watching skills were up to par with the hands of DaVinci when he painted. You had the eyes of an astronomer charting each star in the night sky. You noticed patterns. You lived off of details. And Tom's movements didn't fit the pattern.
You grabbed the ingredients the book so clearly said, and strolled quietly toward your seat at the back. You had no wit to diverge from the book's clear rules like Tom hadânot that you knew how to, anywayâbut your gaze never left a certain Slytherin's back. Normally, you would go for flickers at a time, a soft kind of watching, so no one would feel that eerie sense that someone was watching them. But this time, you were like a hawk behind him, not paying enough attention to how heavy your gaze could be.
You followed the book's instructions step by step, though it was nearly impossible to catch some ingredients. The rose thorns poked the sensitive skin of your fingertips, the peppermint made your, and many other students', noses itch, and the rose petals Slughorn had provided looked faint, almost begging for their death.
You stirred your potion with caution, but it didn't turn transparent like it needed to. Instead, a purple hue glanced at you mockingly. How could your potions never turn out likeâ
"Tom, m'boy!" Everyone looked up at Slughorn's voice, who walked toward a still Tom Riddle with his signature impassive face and hands behind his back.
"Merlin's Beard, it is perfect!" Slughorn leaned over the cauldron with unrestrained awe, "I have never had a student able to brew Veritaserum this flawlesslyâit's up to par with the Ministry itself!". Slughorn clapped his hands, "15 points to Slytherin."
A wave of whispers overflowed through the room. Eyes swiveled, some gleaming with envy, others with admiration, and most Slytherins had a competitive grin on their face. You, however, stood with your lips parted, your mind's signals stopping their function. You couldn't fathom how he knew what ingredients to deviate, how to use them with such precision that it was as easy as breathing.
Slughorn, then, continued making comments and checking each student's potion, and of course, none up to par with Tom's brewing. Slughorn gave a few points here and there, post notably to Ophelia and not Darya, whose potion had a tad of colour, according to the Professor.
Darya kept her composure, of course, replying that she would become better, though Slughord nodded awkwardly. You, though, could see the twitch in her hands, the subtle, yet poisoned, gaze at the green-eyed Slytherin beside her.
Class ended, and Tom quickly closed a black book he held in his hands and put it inside his bag. Your eyes furrowedâwasn't that one of Slughorn's class books? Why was he carrying one with him? You were supposed to hand it over after class, just like every other student. And he always did so, faster than othersâhe never stole school property.
His case was a mystery set for decades, and you were transforming into an obsessed detective. But you knew such curiosity could lead to your demiseâan obsession with Tom could lead to vines spreading to each witch or wizard's ears, whispering your name.
Not to mention, you didn't want a repeat of the night before. You couldn't have his somber eyes on you again, gripping the air you breathed with one single look. His and his clique's attention was a death you were certainly hoping to avoid. Metaphorically, of course.
And so, you headed to the great hall with curiosity, punching inside the prison you forced it into, trying to bleed inside your body like a virus.
After lunch in familiar loneliness, you headed to the library, an hour or so before curfew. You needed to study for Slughorn's exam next weekâyou knew if you didn't, your grades would wither away and you would then only have scrambled flowers for the graveyard of your dreams.
The library was a cathedral of silence at this hour, the perfect place for a soul like yours. Most students were either in the common room socializing with their established friends, and first-years were taking tours of castle grounds with that glimmer of innocent awe in their faces. It was rare to find feet roaming the library so early into the yearâit was only the second day, and no normal student with a social life would even dare to enter the library at this point.
Only those peculiar odd like you stepped inside the library with eager feet. The library was the only one that welcomed those with a shade of grey in their eyes with open arms.
Here, they existed.
The librarian's sharp gaze lifted from her desk as you entered. Her name was Madam Irma Pinceâshe was known to be strict, a no-nonsense kind of woman. And was particularly guarded of the restricted section.
She was one of the few people, if not the only one before this year, who picked you out in the shadows. To her, your face wasn't a blur in the background. And it was comforting to be known without malice in another's eyes, have an attention that didn't send shivers of terror through your spine.
The librarian nodded as you entered, but she did not smile. She didn't need to. The look of recognition was more of a conversation than any words could make.
You slipped into the stacks, the air cooler here, perfumed with ink and the faint musk of leather binding. Your fingers brushed across rows of titles, your mind busy reciting them all inside your headâPotions Compendium for the Practicing Alchemist, Advanced Elixirs of the 19th Century, Theories of Metamorphic Mixtures.
"These are too advanced for you."
You knew that deep, baritone voice anywhere. You heard it in your dreams, in your daytime nightmares, and whenever curiosity tried to spark a fire inside you enough to follow it. But now, well, it seemed his deep chocolate eyes were the ones following you.
Your lips turned dry within the second you lifted your head to meet his eyes, a ghost of grey flashing through his pupils. His face was as impassive as always, but this time it wasn't an act, a mask for people's eyes that always seemed to find him through the crowd.
"Excuse me?" You huffed as your fingers left the books, your attention fixing on his demanding figure.
Tom didn't flinch, "I said, those are too advanced for you."
You narrowed your eyes. Your body screamed for you to find an excuse to flee, avoid the cherry wave of attention. An earthquake like Tom Riddle would swallow you, but you couldn't ignore the diesel inside your stomach, rumbling. Aching to let curiosity spark a fire.
And with the next words, you sealed your fate, "And what do you mean by that?"
pitch a (his) tent
synopsis. when your brother mattheo brings his new girlfriend on the annual boys-only camping trip, you're invited along to balance out the dynamic. everythingâs fine... until your old tent gives out, forcing you to share one with the only person staying alone â theo nott. insufferable yet maddeningly hot theo nott. letâs just say⌠they should be making warning signs of him too, not just of bears.
pairing. brother's bsf! theo x reader
content/mdni. fem! reader, brotherâs bsf! theo, very mean! theo, switch! theo energy (he's losing it), pent-up! theo, pussy-drunk! theo, messy-eater! theo, enemies-to-lovers tension, Â allusions to male masturbation, handjob (assisted), clit stimulation, oral (f receiving), dry-humping, cum play, allusions to overstimulation, allusions to edging (m receiving), dirty talk, pet names (amore, good girl), p in v implied but doesnât happen, smut with ton of plot, one freddy fazbear joke
word count. 4k
a/n. hello, honeybuns! as promised, i came back to theo, specifically brotherâs best friend! theo. this fic is also part of the first week of @acourtofchaos âs event (although i am late oopsi). let me know what you think about this theo piece! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
the harmonious sounds of the crickets were the only hums spilling over the camping grounds. the joyous laughter and the ongoing chatter of daylight toned down little by little, falling prey to nighttime, vanishing entirely.
four tents were pitched around a put-out campfire, all jet black and covered by a thick layer of drowsiness. one lonely tent was perched farther from the cluster, partially hidden behind a sturdy tree.
a glowing beam of light emerged from one of the four tents, hauntingly hovering â fast yet quiet â towards the isolated one.
some might say that was a forest spirit, making its appearance at midnight to prowl around the mortal word.
some, against such meager fairytales, would suggest the yellowish orb to be but a tiny firefly, aimlessly flying around the camping grounds.
you would confirm that it was actually the light of your portable lamp, dangling from your hand and swinging according to the whim of the forestâs chilly wind. and the trajectory was not arbitrary â even before youâve emerged from your tent, you decided to stick to the quickest route towards nott and his secluded shelter.
your feet, clad in simple flip-flops, crushed the dry dirt of the pathway, stepping with swiftness through the cold air of the night. the distance between the tents was not that far, yet your pajamas and your almost bare feet were not enough to protect your body from the temperature change.
hurrying your pace, you finally arrived before nottâs enclosure.
no inside light pierced through the thick material of the tent, a clear signal that theodore may be asleep. soft murmurs could be heard here and there, but you were not sure those came from inside.
you stretched out your arm by reflex, pushing the lamp forward, closer to the tent, trying somehow to see what theodore was up to. however, the additional light did little to nothing, making only the dirty green colour of the tent more vibrant; the inside was still a mystery.
ânânott?â you whisper-yelled his name, testing the waters, still hoping he was awake.
it would make your life so much easier.
your call and the silence following it made the entire moment feel eerie. you were suddenly more aware of your singular existence in the middle of a sleeping forest.
the air felt harsher, cutting into your lungs. the light of your lantern was suddenly too bright, blindingly so. urgency spiked throughout your body, making goosebumps appear all over your skin.
fuck it, you will wake him up.
reaching out your free hand, you tightly gripped the outside slider of the zipper. and, with a final intake of air, you dragged it in the opposite direction, slowly revealing the entrance.
but it immediately flew away from between your fingers, fastly separating half the length of the zipperâs teeth.
âwhat the fuck is wrong with you?â
theodore's voice boomed in your ear, hitting you before his dishevelled appearance did. his voice sounded exhausted, although he did not seem to have been sleeping before your intrusion. yet, his visible grimace and his hand shooting upwards to shelter his eyes from your stupid lantern gave away the fact that he has been staying with the light off for a while.
âumm, i-â
âput that shit away, will yaâ?â
his words were harsh and rude, thrown at you with no second thought. that's usually how he is when it comes to you; your brotherâs best friend barely holds back, and if he must restrict his vocabulary, he colours his speech through intonation.
intonation showcasing annoyance and displeasure.
âyeah, yeah, my bad.â
you mumbled a half-hearted apology as you flipped off the switch of the lamp, the light slowly dimming in your hand until there was no more.
your surroundings were yet again swimming in darkness, and your eyes â not yet accustomed to the lack of brightness â seem to betray your disadvantage in the face of nott.
âwhat do you want?â
you could barely distinguish his silhouette, the contour of his body slightly blending in with the shadowy insides of the tent. you could see, however, the way his tent was partly open, a sign you were unwelcome in his vicinity.
that and his venomous words. he clearly wanted you gone.
you sucked in a breath, hammering down your ego, and carefully answered theodore.
âmy tentâs ripped. didnât notice until nowââ
âand? the fuck do you take me for? bob the builder?â
oh, his patience was wearing thin. with your vision slowly adapting to the darkness, you registered the way his hand dragged the slider back down by a quarter of the length, wishing to separate the two of you for good.
âwait, wait.â panic surged into you and your hands jumped out instinctively, clutching theoâs fingers, stopping his movement altogether. your lantern long forgotten, dropped somewhere on the dirt path. âi canât sleep there.â
âoh, please. you think a ghost will eat you?â
theo bit back at your reasoning, poking fun at the silly horror stories the group told right before bed and mocking your childish fear.
you can insist all you want, he doesnât care.
his other hand ushered yours away to prove his stance, pulling the slider further down.
âyouâre so ughââ you were using all your power to stop yourself from kicking the supports of his tent and have it collapse over him.
âBEARS. i am scared of bears. actual animals that are in this forest.â
âjust har har back atââ
âcan i please stay in your tent?â
please. you never say please to him. please, thanks, and sorry are three words youâd never redirect at him unless you were extremely desperate.
and, shit, you seem to be needing to share his tent by the way youâve swallowed up your pride and begged.
âfine. hop in.â
he does it for mattheo, he convinced himself as he pulled back the slider, revealing the full width of the entrance for you. he does it so your brother wonât rip his skin off if something does happen to you in your ripped tent.
yeah, thatâs the only reason.
you slowly crawled into the tent, careful not to touch anything in your wake; theo seems to be in a bad mood, and you did not want to aggravate the situation further. so you propped yourself at the opposite side of him, sitting with your legs crossed one over the other, observing how he zipped back up the entrance.
you were now irrefutably stuck in a small tent with theodore nott.
after securing the slider, theo turned around to locate you. and when his eyes landed on you, all stiff and unmoving, he just sighed and slapped his forehead with his own palm.
âi hope you wonât stay like that all night.â
âlike what?â
âlike a creep, watching me sleep.â
âa creep? what doââ
âjust lay down and sleep.â
theo issued his command and moved away from the topic at once, crawling back to his sleeping bag and sliding right in. ignoring you. even if you tried to continue the discussion, him turning his back towards you was enough evidence he did not want to interact with you more than necessary.
âokay, okay.â
you still answered him, sighing with exasperation at his bitchy attitude.
why was he so irritated tonight? indeed, theodore nott was not a big fan of yours, but his patience was never this fragile. maybe you angered him during the day? you donât really remember talking to him at all though, more interested in spending time with mattheoâs girlfriend away from the boys.
the reasons behind his shitty behaviour will remain a mystery, as theo seemed to be adamant to go to sleep. you conceded too, finally laying down, closer to the edge of the tent, taking a similar sideway position as him.
the tent was warmer than yours, no rupture disturbing the temperature of the insides, yet the lack of covers did make your body curl into itself and seek more warmth. you did so for a few minutes, twisting and turning from side to side, searching for the optimal position.
theodore seems to be aware of it all as a long exhale emerged from his side of the tent. all loud â exaggeratedly so â and purposeful, acting as a warning, as a replacement for a verbal complaint.
you bit down on your bottom lip, hoping you were just reading too much into it, and shifted the position of your legs again. the loud whoosh sound of your pants across the tent material resonated around the entire shelter.
âmove one more time and i am kicking you out.â
he spat the threat at you in a heavy tone, seriousness latched onto every word of his. he even betrayed his initial position and turned around to prove it, facing you for a third time that night.
âi am not doing it on purpose.â you hissed back at him, encircling your arms around your torso and pushing your knees further into your stomach, hoping he will realise cold was making you so restless.
âoh, so your body moves on its own?â
sassiness. mockery. rage.
âi am cold.â you blatantly stated, more of a whisper than a fully articulated sentence.
this will soften his resolve, right?
ânot my problem.â
no.
you huffed out a shaky breath, curling tighter into yourself. your body was visibly shivering against the cool air, air that was sneaking underneath your pajama and pinching at your skin. you did not dare to spoke another word to him, certain his coldness will only worsen your situation; so, trembling into yourself deeper and deeper, you hoped your body will just heat up on its own.
silence stretched between the two of you, heavy and palpable. you paid theo no mind, completely averting your gaze from his emotionless face and closing them with an unspoken wish for sleep.
âÂfuck, fine. câmere.â
your head snapped immediately at his words, your eyes locked in on theodore in an instant. âwhat?â
âyou wonât sleep otherwise, right?â he muttered, reaching for the edge of his sleeping bag and pulling at the zipper just enough so you could slip in. âjustâ get in.â
your heart stuttered, nerves, confusion, and something else colliding inside you. carefully, you inched closer to him, joining him into the sleeping bag as instructed.
it was cramped. too cramped.
it was obvious the sleeping bag was made for one person only. yet you couldnât complain. wouldnât complain.
your thighs shifted against his, pajama pants brushing against pajama pants, and your chest pressed against his arm. the space between you two was almost non-existent, your bodies mushed under the too-small sleeping covers.
it was so strange, but it felt so good.
a sigh of pleasure slipped past your lips as your body soaked in the warmth of the sleeping bag and of theodoreâs body. unconsciously, you even drew closer into him, dipping your head towards his clothed chest andâ
âback off, weirdo.â
his hand emerged from underneath, pressing against your forehead and regaining some distance between the two of you. your upper body might have been pushed away towards the edge, but your lower body was strongly opposing theo by latching your legs to his own and keeping your ground.
âbut youâre warm.â
âi donât offer cuddles, so stopâ ughâ
his complaints were interrupted by a deep loud groan. you would have said you hit a nerve with your forwardness, and that was his reaction.
but no.
you hit something else, something in the nether regions â your knee aimlessly nudged between his thighs in your attempts at trapping him, brushing against his cock.
his hard cock, if you were to be specific.
âoh my god, is thatââ
âi told you to backââ
âis that why youâre so bitchy?â
you suddenly had a moment of epiphany: theodore nott was so irritated by your arrival because you ruined his jack-off session.
âyouâre so weird, geezâ ah.â
you kneed him again, this time applying more pressure to his cock. you did it to stop his mindless ramble, but also to see that raw reaction again. to see how his lips parted, quivering in pleasure, to see his annoyed eyes roll back at the slightest touch.
to feel how his shaft twitched against your leg.
âwere you mid-stroke?â
oh, you were so taking advantage of his weakness, taunting and humiliating theodore for his previous actions. yet, your knee never stopped its ministration, shifting around his cock and applying just enough pressure to take theoâs breath away.
âand because of me, you didnât finish?â
âfâfuck.â
his hand dropped completely from your head, slipping down your body and sliding right over your problematic knee. and with a harsh thug, he removed your leg altogether, forcing it in the opposite direction.
any sort of control you had over him disappeared.
âi really hate you, yâ know?â
he was angry. really angry. his hand on your knee was strong, pushing at your leg hard enough to hurt. the muscle stretch indeed burned, but so did his eyes. they were focused on your face, part of his gaze wishing to light you on fire and turn you to ashes, part of it to ignite a similar flame within you.
âgive me one good reason why i shouldnât throw you out, hm?â
his beautiful orbs betrayed him, but his tongue still spoke in lies.
he managed to captivate you fully, and for a moment you did not register his question. you only stared back into his eyes, forming a link with the hidden yet burning desire in them. that blazing lust was pouring out of his gaze straight into yours, only to slowly expand all throughout your entire body.
you were submerging in undeniable arousal, and his big hand pressing into your knee was keeping you underneath it all.
âi can help you out.â
so charmed by your own unwavering stare, theo did not registered the movement of your own hand, slowly creeping down his pajama top and sliding downwards to the band of his pants. your fingertips, still cold from theoâs negligence, dipped underneath the waistband in no time, only stopping their trail when reaching his cock.
âsâshit, fuck.â
his cock was heavy and hot in your palm, trembling at the mere contact with your cold fingers. his hips jerked upwards instinctively, his cock slotting deeper in your grip. it was all wet and sticky, covered in precum and what you assumed was theoâs own spit from before, so his shaft glided along your palm nicely.
âso cold, damn.â
a shaky exhale joined his remark, puffed against the crown of your head, as you slowly started to stroke him.
âtold you so.â
you merely retorted, smirking against his clothed chest, allowing your hand to pick up a lazy, teasing rhythm. now it was the perfect time to torture him, carefully twisting your wrist and applying more pressure to the underside of his cock, or shamelessly thumbing at his weeping slit.
theodore couldnât even complain, his tongue caged by a plethora of grunted moans and nonsensical babbles. his incoherence betrayed him, and so did his hand, leaving your poor knee alone and slapping itself on your ass.
with fingers spread out across your pants, he grabbed with vigour your left buttcheek.
âshut it.â
he growled low in his throat, all his pent-up frustration and need vibrating through both of your bodies. his hand was becoming greedier and greedier, groping and squeezing your ass at every harsh tug on his cock. and you had no mercy, sliding your hand up and down his shaft, with so much dexterity.
but when you dipped your other hand lower to his balls, fondling them at with a gentle touch, he too dipped his fingers into your pajama pants.
âoho, what do we have here?â
his warm fingers dragged downwards along your skin, smacking your ass one last time and, finally, dipping lower to your cunt. the tip of his digits pushed underneath your thong, all slutty and wet against your pussy, parting your sloppy fold with a single calculated stroke.
âdirty fucking girl.â
you moaned against his chest loud, unrestricted, taken by surprise by theoâs lack of hesitation at exploring your messy cunt. you could feel his fingers brushing up and down your slit, swimming in your arousal and collecting as much of your wetness as possible.
âall this just from jerking me off?â
he was taunting you, grinning like a little devil into your hair, somehow forgetting how needy and touch-starved he behaved just minutes ago.
you would have reminded him, really, but you couldnât form one single coherent word as his fingers pressed down harshly on your clit.
âso so needy.â
tight little circles followed soon, his fingers toying with your little bundle of nerves to his heartâs content. theo finally found your irrefutable weakness â as long as he played with your quivering pussy, you were less annoying.
âi kind of like you like this.â theo mused, humming against your head as he peered down at your face. âlook at me.â
you were less annoying and more obedient. you immediately listened to his command, raising your gaze up to his eyes, looking at him with your glassy orbs, so full of lust and desperation. your lips were caught between your teeth, already bruised and bullied in the process of quieting down.
but your tiny whines were loud enough for his ears to pick up.
you were so fucking cute.
âis that what it takes, huh? all i have to do is toy with your cunt to keep you in check?
his hand sped up, flicking your clit with the pad of his fingers. your hand on his cock stilled a while back, so overwhelmed by your own pleasure, but theo seems to not care about his release right now.
âwhat if i eat you out, hm? will you be a good girl for me?â
âtheo! good god, yes.â
and here it was, your beautiful cracking voice, finally making its appearance after a good period of only moans and whimpers, accepting theodoreâs proposal in a heartbeat. your pleading eyes were a nice touch to it all, making theo conform to your wishes without additional fuss.
âno takebacks.â
itâs all he says, like a warning, before retracting his palm from between your legs. and what he does next makes another glob of arousal gush out of you.
theodore nott removed his hand and directed it towards his mouth to lick it clean.
to lick it clean.
your wetness was all over his lips and tongue as he diligently lapped up all the stickiness from his hand.
âplease, god. pleasepleaseââ
âyeah, amore, i got you.â
pulling his fingers away from his mouth with a squelching pop, theo then completely discarded the covers of the sleeping bag, throwing the piece somewhere to the side.
âon your back, let me see that pretty pussy.â
you conformed to his words immediately, plopping yourself on your back and even discarding your pants and panties in the process. the garments joined the forgotten covers, the ones youâve craved since the beginning of your intrusion.
but warmth was no longer important now, as you were practically burning with lust underneath theoâs predatory gaze.
his hands joined your knees again, applying enough pressure to part them away and create a passage for him and his hungry mouth. and no great effort was needed, your legs complying and allowing theo to finally see the mess between them.
âfuck, youâre soaking wet.â
his voice was gritty, disbelief laced with something darker, something feral. he was no longer mocking you â his gaze was locked between your thighs like a starved man, as if the gates of heaven have opened at the same time as your legs.
theo pushed your knees a bit more, just enough for him to slot himself between them. and you gasped as you felt his warm breath fanning over your pussy, your hole twitching in anticipation.
âspread wider for me, amore.â
you didnât hesitate â again. your thighs stretched further apart for him, your muscles burning yet again from the pressure. but this was something you could handle for the sake of ultimate pleasure.
âfuckinâ perfect.â he muttered briefly and thenâ
his mouth was on your cunt.
his slippery tongue licked a long stripe from your pulsing entrance to your hard clit, savoring every drop of your arousal just like he did with his hand. your hips jerked upwards into his face, chasing his mouth â yet his arms immediately snaked around the upper part of your thighs, locking you in place and making you take every single flick of his tongue, every single kiss to your swollen pussy.
and when he sucked your clit in his mouth, between his plush wet lips? you sobbed.
âtheoâ that feels so good, fuck.â
your fingers clutched at his hair, tugging at his messed-up curls, needing something to hold onto as pleasure washed all over you. and that only made him delve into your cunt more, groaning in between your folds and making such vibrations travel straight to your clit.
your enjoyment was clear from miles away, but so was his. if you got extremely wet from fisting his cock, theo also got excruciatingly horny from licking your pussy. his hips were grounded into the sleeping mat, humping the surface in desperation as he lapped at your core.
he has been edged for quite some time now, and he was no longer patient.
he too needed to cum.
âalways wanted to eat this pussy.â
theo was so pussy-drunk, god. you would have never in a million years expected theodore nott to announce between slurps and kisses how much heâs dreamed about your cunt.
âyâyeah?â
âyeah. i knew youâd have the tastiest fuckinâ cunt.â
his clothed cock was moving faster against the mat, the wet squelches of theo messily making out with your pussy being joined by the swish-ing sounds of the two materials colliding.
he was definitely close, and so were you.
âthisâ and he placed a kiss right against your clit. âhaunted me all day.â
âshiiit⌠wâwhy?â
âyour dress was so goddamn see-through, and fuckââ
theo was already picking up the pace, his tongue working harder to make you cum at the same time as him. his fingers even joined in, pulling your pussy lips apart for him to feast better on you, while his nose continued to poke and prod at your bundle of nerves.
âhad a boner all fuckinâ day.â
and there it was. the full story on why theodore nott was jacking off before bed and why he was so irritated by your mere presence in his tent: he was affected by you all day and you had no idea.
ââm sorry, âm sorry, âm soâ ughh.â
you had no time to give him a warning, retorting to weak apologies as you creamed all over his face and tongue. thighs clamming around his head and convulsing from the immense pleasure.
theo, your brotherâs best friend, just made you cum in his tent, on a camping trip with all of your close friends.
and that wasn't all.
âah, shit, wait, wait.â
he didnât stop.
no, no, no.
theodore continued to lap at your pussy, slurping up all of your release as he continued to jut his hips into the sleeping mat. and, finally, after a couple more seconds, with a guttural moan, he too came, spilling his release inside his boxers.
filthy, pathetic, and so so hot.
he pulled away from your pussy only after his own hips stabilized, moving up from the ground and away from between your legs. his face was wet, incredibly so, yet he was smiling bigger than ever.
with glistering lips and blown-out eyes, you expected theo to say something meaningful about the entire ordeal.
but alas, he was still the idiot friend of your brother.
âsomeone did eat you. but it wasnât a bear.â
âoh, shut up.â
you were so done with him and his idiocy. if it werenât for your shaky legs, you would have kicked him in the shins by now.
âwhat? you make a tasty meal.â
ânott, stop! youââ
âcome tomorrow too.â
oh?
âi will steal condoms from mattheo and fuck you all night, amore.â
your breath hitched.
â⌠and the next night.â
your legs instinctively parted.
â⌠and the next night.â
your cunt was already pulsing with need.
 â⌠but only if you want to.â
âhow could i refuse such an offer, nott?â
Šdearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.
tags: @downbad4reid, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove
SLYTHERIN // fic recommendations
note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works
REGULUS BLACK
le lendemain matin
the salt and the sea
forever
the better of two bad options
a pen
the door
the black heir
distraction
THEODORE NOTT
love is sour grapes
by netws & nott
something stronger
like snow on the beach
the only heaven i'll be sent to (is when i'm alone with you)
TOM RIDDLE
desiderium
love again
from the glue
salted caramel, metal, strawberries, vanilla, and ink
midmorning
effects of amortentia
DRACO MALFOY
our little secret
honeydukes
firsts
how could i ever forget?
makeup
draco malfoy with shy!male!reader headcanons
cherry juice
MATTHEO RIDDLE
the cat
puppy eyes
the game
rainy nights m.r
LORENZO BERKSHIRE
like nobody else
What's in my bag ?
Summary : While filming a âWhatâs In My Bag?â video for TUMI during a dreamy shoot in Lake Como, Lando Norris proudly shares his favorite travel items: headphones, cinnamon mints, lucky charms⌠and a stack of Polaroids of his girlfriend.
Until one very private photo slips into the mix, and suddenly the internet sees a whole lot more than he meant to show.
Genre : suggestive, fluff, oneshot
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Warning : mature content, allusion to nude and sex activities
Main Masterlist
Author notes : funny and soft oneshot to bring a little bit of joy after the race of Sunday. Everyone please stay safe and if you can, stay away from social media if it gets too hard after this week-end race, love you all <3
Lake Como glistened in the soft morning light, its surface scattered with diamonds of sun as gentle waves rolled against the dock. A light breeze rustled the cypress trees lining the waterâs edge, carrying with it the scent of pine and polished wood from the nearby villas. Birds chirped, water lapped, cameras clicked.
And somewhere on a private terrace above the lake, Lando Norris was trying not to sweat through his linen shirt.
âAlright, weâre rolling in three, two, one...â the cameramanâs voice faded into silence as the red light blinked on.
Lando sat back in the sleek director-style chair, a black TUMI backpack resting on his lap. He adjusted the strap, cleared his throat, and gave the camera his signature, cheeky grin.
âOkay. Letâs go.â
His voice echoed softly against the terracotta walls behind him.
âThis is my TUMI backpack. I take it everywhere, especially when Iâm traveling. Itâs kind of like my...survival kit,â he chuckled, unzipping the top compartment. âYouâll see what I mean.â
One by one, he began pulling items out, placing them carefully on the small table beside him.
âFirst up: my headphones,â he said, holding up a sleek black pair. âCanât live without these. Whether itâs music, Netflix on the plane, or zoning out in the paddock, these save me.â
He paused and smirked at the camera. âThey also help when Iâm pretending not to hear Oscar.â
The staff behind the camera chuckled.
âNext... passports. Plural. Yeah. I have three.â He fanned them out like a hand of cards, laughing. âIâm international, baby.â.â
He dug deeper into the backpack and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Opening it carefully, he revealed several stone bracelets in warm earthy tones.
âMy mum got me these for Christmas,â he said quietly, his tone softening. âI donât always wear them on track days, but I keep them close. Just⌠makes me feel a bit more grounded.â
He placed them gently down and then brandished a small tin.
âCinnamon mints,â he declared proudly. âFor the sweet tooth. Helps with cravings. Or when you want to pretend you donât eat like a raccoon at midnight.â
More laughter. The atmosphere was warm, friendly. Lando was in his element, somewhere between boyish and bold.
âNow weâre getting to the fun stuff.â
He pulled out a tangled mess of keychains, one shaped like a tiny McLaren helmet, another a fluffy orange pom-pom, and the last: a piece of tissue with the initials LN sewn into it.
âA fan gave me this,â he said, holding it between his fingers. âIâve had it for years. Itâs falling apart but... canât travel without it.â
He smiled at the memory, then paused as his hand slipped into one of the deeper side pockets. His brow furrowed.
âOh... wait,â he muttered, pulling something halfway out before immediately stuffing it back in.
He looked up at the camera, suddenly sheepish.
âUhh...yeah. Some stuff I definitely canât show you,â he said, grinning and scratching the back of his neck. âLetâs just say... it's better to stay protectedâ
The staff broke into laughter. One of the camera guys let out a dramatic âooooohhh.â
âWhat?â Lando laughed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. âYou never know, okay? I like to get prepared.â
Still grinning, he reached again into the bag and pulled out a small, silver disposable camera.
âThis guy comes everywhere with me,â he said. âI take film photos when I travel. Stuff thatâs just for me, you know? Not for Instagram. Just memories.â
He held it up with affection, then reached in again and began pulling out little mementos: a handmade skull keyring from Mexico, a folded receipt with something scribbled on the back, a broken friendship bracelet.
âIâm kind of a hoarder,â he admitted. âThese are all... pieces of places. People. Moments. I like keeping them close.â
His hand brushed against something in the side pocket. A small, rubbery bottle.
He pulled it out before he registered what it was.
There was a beat.
He stared at the camera.
The bottle gleamed in the sunlight. Bright pink. Labelled clearly ' Lubricant: Strawberry flavor' .
âOh. My god.â
He blinked, went pale, then immediately turned red.
âI...okay, thatâs not, this is not...this wasnât meant to be in here.â
He stuffed it back into the pocket, eyes wide.
The cameraman wheezed behind the lens. A staffer covered her mouth.
âI swear this is not... I didnât pack this bag this morning!â Lando stammered. âOkay I did, but not, like, not with this interview in mind so I didn't know I had to show it.â
Lando groaned. âCan we cut that out? Please? Itâs for...dry skin.â
âOh wich part of your skin?â
He buried his face in his hands and trie to change the subject.
Still flustered, he grabbed one of his tech pouches and unzipped it, desperate to pivot.
âOh!â he beamed. âOkay. These are my favorites.â
From the padded pouch meant for a laptop, he pulled out a neat little stack of Polaroids tied with a red ribbon. He untied them quickly, holding the first one up to the camera.
âThis... is my girlfriend.â
The way he said it, like he couldnât believe his luck, was soft, sincere.
He flipped through the pictures with reverence.
âThis is her in Spain last summer. Look at this, she was trying to take a serious photo and I made a face behind her.â
He laughed.
âThis is us in Monaco. Donât ask how I convinced her to get in the pool. She hates cold water.â
Another.
âThis is her sleeping. And this... this is her at breakfast, in my hoodie.â
His smile melted into something private, like a quiet sunrise behind his eyes.
âAnd this...â
He held up the next Polaroid to the camera without looking at it first. There was a beat. A pause.
From behind the camera, someone made a choked noise.
Lando glanced up. âWhat?â Then looked at the picture.
âOh...oh, no. No, no, no...â
He yanked it back quickly, his ears flushing bright pink.
âShit, this isnât...this was not supposed to be in that pile.â
He stuffed it deep into the side of the bag, clutching the remaining Polaroids protectively.
âOh my god, please can you blur it,â he groaned, covering his face. âThatâs from the other pile. Like...the private-private collection.â
The entire crew burst into cackles.
âI swear to god if that makes the cut, Iâm a dead man. Sheâs going to kill me.â
âWas that a nude?â someone asked, not even trying to hide the glee.
âI am not answering that.â
âWas it?â the assistant pressed.
âI plead the fifth,â Lando said dramatically, still red-faced. âBlur it. Blur it, please. Iâm begging you. I have a career. I have a relationship.â
He tried to laugh it off, but his smile was flustered, eyes wide and nervous.
Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to move on.
âAnyway. My phone. My wallet. You know. The boring stuff.â
But even as he listed the rest of his items, he kept glancing at the camera, haunted. Regretfully boyish. Still blushing.
âAlright. Thatâs whatâs in my bag,â he said quickly, snapping the backpack shut. âAnd apparently... a reason to get murdered by my girlfriend.â
He groaned again. âCan we cut that part? Please? I swear, sheâs gonna make me sleep on the balcony.â
The red light turned off.
The staff burst into applause.
âBest interview yet,â one of the directors laughed, clapping. âGonna break the internet.â
@TUMIofficial
WHATâS IN MY BAG with Lando Norris: Lake Como Special Catch our exclusive behind-the-scenes interview with what Lando really carries with himđ
@_user1 WAIT. Did he just⌠show a nude of his gf on camera?? đđđ
@_user2 THE WAY HE PANICKED. omg that was NOT staged. He looked like he wanted to die đđđ
@_user3 No bc I NEED to know what was on that Polaroid. Was it like artsy nude or nude-nude?
@_user4 LMFAO he had the audacity to hint at condoms, then literally WHIPPED OUT A NUDE LIKE ITâS A FAMILY VACAY SNAP đđ
@_user5 He carries cinnamon mints for his sweet tooth AND spicy pics of his girl?? manâs layered fr
@_user6 Not Lando Norris accidentally exposing his thirst for his gf on a sponsored ad đ someone check on the TUMI PR team
@_user7 Lube AND nudes of his girl?? Lando Norris is not packing for a trip. Heâs packing for a weekend of sin.
@_user8 He really said: âthis is her being pretty, this is her sleeping⌠and this is her NAKEDâ lmao LANDO WHYYYYY
@_user9 This man is not traveling. Heâs on a mission.
@_user10 Lando really opened that bag and gave us: emotional support bracelets, cinnamon mints, protection, lube, porn. He's got range.
@_user11 âSome stuff I canât show youâ and then five minutes later accidentally shows us đ this man has NO filter and NO chill
@_user12 This isnât a âwhatâs in my bagâ this was a âwhatâs in normally in my bedroom drawer but I somehow take it everywhere in my backpakâ
@_user13 He said âI like to be preparedâ and I believe him now
@_user14 âThatâs from the other pileâ UM. HELLO????? THERE IS A PILE??
@_user15 Protective AND obsessed with his girl?? I need a man like Lando
@_user16 He really said âwhatâs in my bag?â and the answer was: horniness
Texts messages
Y/N Just watched the TUMI video đ
Lando Oh no.
Y/N The one where my nude photo makes a guest appearance in front of 1.2 million people? đ¤
Lando BABE It was an ACCIDENT But don't worry it's blur we can't see a single thing I didnât mean to pull that photo I meant the cute ones!! The breakfast one!! The one where youâre wearing my hoodie!!
Y/N So you show the one where iâm wearing nothing at all?
Lando Iâm sweating Iâm actually sweating Iâm gonna get sued. by you. By TUMI. By your parents
Y/N My mum did text me She said âinteresting campaign... very modernâ
Lando NOOOOOOOOOOOO Iâm crawling into the lake
Y/N Also âi like to be preparedâ? Really? What exactly are you preparing for mid-flight with lube? đ¤
Lando Dry skin!!! I said it's for my dry skin!!!!!
Y/N Right Because when i think of skin hydratation i think of edible lubricant đ
Lando Iâm scared to check twitter Someone called my bag âfrat boy coded" Theyâre not wrong
Y/N You do carry condoms, lube, candy and a Polaroid of me naked in the same backpack Youâre like Dora the Explorer if she was addicted to sex
Lando DORA?!?!?! đ
Y/N âWhatâs in my bag?â Everything but self-control
Lando Okay, first of all, RUDE Second of all⌠the lube smells nice Third of all⌠You didnât complain last time
Y/N Oh so now youâre doubling down??
Lando Just trying to make the best of my public humiliation Besides Whatâs so wrong with carrying a few... essentials? A manâs gotta travel prepared
Y/N You sound like a horny boy scout
Lando âAlways be readyâ is a valid motto đââď¸
Y/N Valid until you drop a bottle of lube in front of a camera crew
Lando They laughed so hard i thought someone was gonna need CPR
Y/N Youâre lucky i love you And youâre lucky the nude was actually a good one
Lando Thank you 𼺠i almost show the one where youâre biting the sheet but i had... instincts
Y/N INSTINCTS???? You mean your last two brain cells had a moment of clarity
Lando Pls Do you still love me?
Y/N Debatable Might depend on whether or not you bring me almond croissants when you will come back
Lando Deal But only if you let me take a new Polaroid⌠One just for me to seeđ
Y/N ⌠Good luck on media day tomorrow Norris
Lando Oh no god I forgot about that
The paddock was already buzzing by the time Lando arrived, hoodie up over his head like he was trying to go incognito. Not that it helped, cameras turned as soon as he walked through the gates.
Media day.
He kept his head down, offering a few tight-lipped smiles to passing crew and journalists. He could feel the looks. The barely contained smirks. The PR team had already warned him to "expect commentary.â He hadnât realized commentary meant the entire motorsport world was now intimately familiar with the contents of his bag.
He reached the McLaren hospitality unit and headed straight for the driver lounge.
Oscar was already there.
He looked up from his phone the second Lando walked in, and the smile started immediately.
âMorning,â Oscar said, way too casual. âSleep well?â
Lando didnât answer. Just dropped into the chair across from him and stared at the ceiling.
Oscar waited half a beat.
Then: âSo⌠whatâs in your bag today?â
Lando groaned, eyes closing. âNo.â
âNo what?â Oscar asked, blinking innocently.
âIâm not doing this with you.â
Oscar nodded slowly, tapping his phone against the table. âRight. Of course. Strict media day focus. No time for lube talk.â
Lando didnât move but look at him shocked. âOscar!â
âYes?â
âI will actually fight you if you keep talkingâ
Oscar continued, unfazed. âIâve learned a lot about you this week.â
âPlease stop.â
âYour skincare routine. Your travel essentials.â
âItâs for my girlfriend,â Lando muttered.
Oscar nodded slowly. âRomantic.â
Lando looked at him. âI didnât mean to show half that stuff.â
Oscar took a long sip of his water bottle, then added, deadpan: âYou were really sweating.â
âI was panicking, Oscar.â
âYeah. I noticed.â
There was a pause.
Oscar looked back down at his phone.
âI just didnât know you were the type to carry⌠souvenirs.â
Lando threw his head back and groaned. âItâs private. Itâs supposed to stay private.â
Oscar raised an eyebrow. âYou handed it to a camera crew.â
âI didnât know it was that one.â
Oscar hummed. âRisky system.â
Lando covered his face. âIâm not coming out for media. Tell them Iâve combusted.â
Oscar leaned back again, shrugging. âMight be safer. Someone from Williams asked if youâre sponsored by Durex now.â
Lando didnât respond. He was too busy trying to crawl into his chair.
Oscar gave a tiny, satisfied nod.
Then, after a beat: âAt least the mints were normal.â
âThanks,â Lando said miserably. âReally comforting.â
Oscar took another sip from his water bottle, then looked back at Lando, who was still sulking in the chair across from him, hoodie half over his face.
After a moment, Oscar spoke again. Calm. Curious.
âOkay, but... I actually have a question now.â
Lando didnât move. âPlease donât.â
Oscar ignored him, tone completely deadpan. âWhatâs in the pile?â
Lando sat up slowly, blinking at him in horror. âWhat the hell, Oscar?â
Oscar stayed relaxed, perfectly composed. âYou said it yourself. There's the normal Polaroids. And then thereâs the private-private pile. So⌠whatâs in it?â
âI am not...â Lando pointed at him, absolutely done. â...having this conversation with you.â
Oscar raised a brow. âJust curious. For science.â
Lando stood up instantly. âIâm leaving.â
Oscar shrugged. âFair.â
Lando stormed toward the door, muttering something about changing teams, changing sports, maybe even changing names.
He was halfway out when,
âOi!â Oscar called after him. âDonât forget your backpack, Norris.â
Lando froze mid-step.
Oscar was already grinning.
âYou left it,â he added, far too casually. âYâknow⌠the one with your precious things in it.â
Lando turned around like a man walking back into a crime scene, snatched the bag off the chair with one hand, and glared.
âStop talking about it,â he muttered.
Oscar just smiled. âIâm not saying anything.â
âYou are thinking them.â
Oscar leaned back, unfazed. âIâm not.â
âYouâre being insufferable.â
Lando slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out without another word.
As the door shut behind him, Oscar shook his head slightly and let out a quiet laugh, just enough to himself, just loud enough for it to echo in Landoâs memory for years to come.
taglist : @bunnisplayground, @vampgege, @chocolatemooncoffee, @sashisuslover, @gold66loveblog, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @h-rtsnana, @anonomano, @guacala, @charlotteking27, @ninass-world, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @dustie-faerie
boyfriend? - theodore nott
all characters written aged up 18+ tw: slut shaming if you squint, 3rd base, sharing is caring. part two coming.
youâre trembling in theodoreâs arms, right where he wants you. body stripped bare and pressed so tightly up against his own that thereâs barely space for either of you to breathe. itâs late. long after curfew has kicked in. you came by to drop off a book of his youâd borrowed for an assignment and then small talk began.
why not get comfortable and sit on the bed right?
he had that look he always wears when he wants something â eyes glistening a soft baby blue and a half smirk as he watched your lips shift as you spoke about everything and then nothing all at once. before you knew it, hours had passed and one thing led to another â a look, a chuckle, rough fingers caressing your cheek, a âwhat ifâ, a âwe shouldâ, the ill fated âno one needs to knowâ and now this. the dorm room is silent. almost. the other boys are fast asleep â not that youâve given them any thought.
thereâs a quiet hum of waves from the black lake crashing against the windows of the dorm which only just masks the wet and filthy sounds of theoâs hardened cock sliding back and forth between your thighs; the thick length dragging through your slick folds again and again and again as you both struggle between kisses to try and remain quiet.
every forward thrust has his swollen head catching on your clit, making you jolt against the him; digging your nails harder into his shoulders as he breathes hard into your ear, hands gripping your ass in a pathetic attempt to control the rhythm â pulling you onto him, pushing you back, using your thighs like they were made for this. made for him. and oh, youâre fucking soaked; embarrassingly so. theo knows it â hell, he can feel every inch of how wet you are for him and how your arousal is damp on the sheets.
if only your boyfriend knew what you were up to.
ânott â fuck, please..â, your words are whimpered as you bury your face into the crook of his neck and whimper, not being able to bear the idea of him seeing how desperate you look. theo groans low, the sound rough and predatory as he turns his head to nip at your ear, one hand sliding up the curve of your spine to tangle through your hair.
âcareful bella â keep squirming like that and iâll end up inside of youâ, he groans as if itâs not the worst thing tonight that could go wrong. âwe both know youâre not ready for that yet, are you? what would your boyfriend think?â
your boyfriend? fuck â you were loyal. loyal to a fault right? thatâs the reason theodore wasnât fucking you. you were just.. fooling around. this was harmless. surely. like he said and like you agreed â nobody had to know. his words make your body clench involuntarily, thighs tightening around him and he manages a hot hiss through his teeth.
âfuck â donât do thatâ, he warms but thereâs no real threat behind the words; only want, only hunger, only.. need. âyou have no idea what youâre doing to me principessa; no idea how often i think about you. having you. claiming you. taking you away from him.â
at the though of his admission, you whine; high and needy â the sound flooding the dorm room that causes one of the boys to stir. you hear someone roll from a bed across the room and settle comfortably again. you hold your breath and start shaking your head into the crook of his neck because fuck â this is too much; too intense, too filthy, too wrong, too right, to everything. you manage to stutter out a word that sounds like please, but itâs broken into so many syllables you canât actually make out whatever it is.
âi know baby girl, i know..â, he sooths; fingers tightening into your hair. he tugs at the strands with a quick yank that makes you yelp feebly as the thumb of his other hand strokes the curve of your ass, keeping you close as he rocks into your thighs. âitâs not fair is it? that i canât fuck you. god, i wish i could. but this feels good right? being this close. letting me use you like this?â
nodding frantically, youâre unable to stop yourself; hips rocking to chase a little more friction. god it does; it feels so fucking good. the slick heat of your cunt causing his cock to glide over your pussy, allowing you to feel every ridge, every vein, every inch drag deliciously across your swollen clit. itâs almost overwhelming. you begin to pant; nails clawing into his back now as you manage weakly to nip tiny kisses across his warm skin.
theo murmurs out a hum and you try to hum in reply but canât answer. oh how badly you want to. youâre mortified, youâre aching, youâre desperate. he can feel you getting wetter and wetter; your bundle of nerves throbbing against his shaft with every stroke. âthatâs itâ, he rasps with a smirk, âfucking soak me. love the fact iâm getting this cunt wet and desperate. should i wake the others? we could pass you around. make good use of these thighs..â
and lord â does that not make you even wetter. a broken sound escapes you â this one sounding like a half moan, half sob.
âshhh, itâs okay bella; iâve got youâ, he cooâs; lips brushing your temple almost tenderly as your thighs clench tighter again. âand so will they, trust me. who should we wake up first? draco? mattheo?â
you roll your eyes back hard as your body trembles further, giving you away as your hands scramble to his shoulders, desperately trying to hold on.
âthatâs a good girlâ, he moves to kiss you, nipping at your bottom lip. âkeep those thighs tight yeah? let me feel how much you want this. how much your boyfriends missing out on. how much we might be able to break you.â
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Virgin Fucking Mary - M.R.
she told you sheâs celibate, but she told me I can rail her shit
Theo had been your best friend since before either of you could properly walk, a bond that never wavered, even as you grew older and Hogwarts became your shared stomping ground. Your friendship was simple, easyâeven if he did have a habit of oversharing details of his sex life that you could really, really do without.
You were sitting with Theo, Enzo, and Blaise at the Slytherin table, picking at your food while Theo recountedâfar too enthusiastically, might you addâhis latest escapade.
"Mate, I swear, I had her beggingâ"
"Merlin, Theo," you groaned, stabbing a piece of fruit with your fork. "Honestly, I donât know why you put yourself in these positions when you know you're leading these girls on."
Theo just grinned, unbothered. âCanât help it, darling. You know how they get when Iââ
"You ever try talking to these girls first? Or is it straight to sticking your dicks down their throats?" Before you could roll your eyes, a presence dropped into the seat beside you. The scent of smoke and something inherently masculine curled around you, the unmistakable cologne of Mattheo Riddle invading your senses.
"What's this, then?" His voice was low, amused as he reached over, stealing a chip off your plate. "You giving Nott a lecture on morality, princess?"
You exhaled sharply through your nose, refusing to turn toward him. âJust asking if you whores ever have a conversation with a girl instead of thinking with yourââ his hand reached over your plate once again, taking another chip.
"Now, whereâs the fun in that?" he mused, popping it into his mouth.
You rolled your eyes, refusing to engage. "Of course you would say that, Riddle."
Theo let out a loud, amused groan, smacking the table. "Alright, alright, calm down, Thou Holy Virgin Mary"
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
Blaise shook his head, laughed under his breath. Enzo snorted into his drink.
But MattheoâMattheoâpractically collapsed against the table, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his seat. "No fucking way," he wheezed, pressing a hand to his chest as he recovered.
Your cheeks burned. The heat spread down your neck, prickling against your skin, but you refused to let it show.
"You lot are laughing at me," you huffed, tossing your fork onto your plate, "but at least I donât have to worry about pushing a fucking kid out of me anytime soon."
Mattheo snorted, his amusement shifting into something more smug. "Yeah, okay, princess," he drawled, leaning into your space. His voice was low, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, glinting with something dark. "No wonder youâre so uptight. Explains why youâre such a bitch."
That pissed you off.
You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing, expression carefully composed despite the way anger coiled hot in your gut. The others had already lost interest, falling back into their own conversations.
âOh, Iâll have you know, Riddle,â you said, voice low, syrupy-sweet. âA girl can take matters into her own hands.â
Mattheo blinked. Just once.
You didnât wait for a response. You stood smoothly, grabbing your book bag, and just for good measure, you leaned down just enough to let your lips ghost near his ear.
"Youâd be surprised what I can do without a man."
And then? You walked away. Swaying your hips. Feeling his eyes burn into your back.
By the time you reached the door, you dared one last glance over your shoulder.
And there it was.
Mattheo, still seated, still staring, his expression caught somewhere between surprised and fuck, Iâm turned on.
It was late, the library was completely empty with the exception of those in the moving portraits keeping you company. Most students had long since gone to bed, leaving only a dim glow of candlelight flickering between the shelves.
And you werenât stupid. You had felt it.
The shift in the air. The way the back of your neck tingled. The weight of a stare burning between your shoulder blades.
You knew it was him.
Still, you pretended not to notice. You turned the page of your book, eyes trained on the words, untilâ
âTaking matters into your own hands, huh?â
His voice was low. Smooth. Dark with something predatory.
You didnât jump. Didnât react. Just hummed, dragging your gaze lazily up to where he stood.
Mattheo leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, dark curls falling into his eyes.
You raised a brow. âSomething you need?â
His lips curved. âI think you know exactly what I need.â
A slow heat curled in your stomach. You tilted your head, feigning innocence. âWhat, Riddle? A book? Help with your homework?â
Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, caging you against the table. His hands found the wood, fingers curling against it as he leaned downâso close you could feel his breath against your cheek.
You refused to look up. Refused to acknowledge the warmth pooling low in your stomach.
But Mattheo? He knew.
âIâve got a better idea,â he murmured.
His fingers brushed your thigh.
You swallowed hard. âAnd whatâs that?â
Mattheo tilted his head, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth.
âYou can show me,â he murmured. âHow you take matters into your own hands.â
He saw the way your fingers twitched against the table. The way your lips parted just slightly, as if debating whether to let yourself fall or run. And, like the smug bastard he was, he waited.
âNothing to say?â he mused, his breath brushing the side of your jaw. His fingers drummed against the wood, lazy, slow. âFunny. You had plenty to say at lunch.â
The heat between you was unbearable. His knee pressed between your legs, just enough to send a spike of need through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache building low in your stomach.
Mattheo saw.
Felt it.
And thenâhe pushed deeper.
âI bet you like it,â he murmured, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw. âBeing the good little princess. The one no one can touch. The one no one fucks.â
Your breath hitched.
âBet you get yourself off thinking about it, donât you?â His lips brushed just against your ear. âHow desperate theyâd be to ruin you?â
You clenched your teeth, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted.
He saw it anyway.
Felt the way your body betrayed you, thighs squeezing around the knee heâd wedged between them, the pulse of your breath, the heat rolling off you in waves.
Mattheo hummed, pleased.
Then, before you could react, his hand slid under your skirt.
You gasped. âMattheoââ
But he wasnât listening.
âI mean, letâs be honest, yeah?â His knuckles brushed the inside of your thigh. âA girl can take matters into her own hands, sureâbut itâs not the same, is it?â
He leaned in, lips barely brushing your ear. dragging his fingers higher, pressing against the damp fabric of your underwear.
âLook at that,â he mused. "Virgin Mary isnât so innocent after all."
Your fingers curled against the table. "I will kill you."
He just laughed, dark and low. "Yeah? You gonna do it with my fingers in your cunt, or after I fuck you stupid?"
Your brain short-circuited.
Mattheo used your stunned silence to his advantage, slipping his fingers beneath your underwear, dragging them through the slick pooling between your thighs.
"Fuck, Mattheoâ"
He hums, watching your face, the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together in pleasure.
"Youâre soaked," he smirks. "Thought you didnât like me."
"I donât like you," you pant, back arching as his fingers move faster, working you open, leaving you breathless.
He laughs. "Sure, princess."
He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss, at the emptiness. But then heâs undoing his belt, pushing his slacks down just enough, and your stomach tightens at the sight of himâthick, hard, leaking at the tip.
Mattheo catches your gaze, smirking. "Youâre staring."
You roll your eyes, even as you hook your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Are you gonna talk all night, or are you gonnaâfuckâ"
Because heâs already sliding inside, pushing into you inch by inch, stretching you open in the most devastating way.
"Shit," he groans, hands gripping your thighs. "So fucking tight."
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, head falling back as he fills you completely. You feel everythingâthe way he pulses inside you, the way his breath stutters against your neck, the way heâs holding himself back, barely resisting the urge to ruin you.
"Mattheo," you whisper. "Deeper, pleaseâ"
Something in him snaps.
His grip tightens, and then heâs fucking youâhard, deep, brutal. Every thrust shoves you harder against the wall, knocking the breath from your lungs. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, thighs trembling.
"That what you want?" he rasps, snapping his hips forward, making you cry out. "You want me to fuck you deeper?"
You canât answer. Canât think. All you can do is take it, take him, let him fuck you so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.
"Shouldâve known," he mutters, biting down against your shoulder. "All that attitudeâjust a needy little slut underneath, huh?"
You whimper, gasping his name, digging your heels into his lower back, urging him closer, deeper.
Mattheo groans, pulling back just enough to look at youâyour lips swollen, your pupils blown wide, your expression absolutely wrecked.
"Fuck," he mutters. "You look so good like this. Bet Theo would kill me if he knew."
Youâre too far gone to care.
"Donât stop," you plead, voice breaking.
He doesnât.
He fucks you through it, fucks you until youâre falling apart around him, nails dragging down his spine, thighs squeezing tight around his waist as your orgasm rips through you.
"You feel that?" His voice was wrecked, panting, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he buried himself inside you. "Thatâs what itâs like when a real man fucks you, sweetheart."
Mattheo groans at the feeling, his pace stuttering, his grip bruising. And then heâs spilling inside you, breathless and wrecked, pressing his forehead against yours as he cums, his thrusts erratic as they slowed.
You were still catching your breath, skirt bunched around your waist, Mattheoâs hands gripping your thighs with a possessive kind of desperation. As he finally pulled out, breath heavy against your ear. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back, taking in the sight of youâdisheveled, marked up, and absolutely wrecked beneath him.
His fingers brushed over your thigh before he whispered, âWas that your first?â His voice was dripping with smugness, already assuming he knew the answer. âDid you like it?â
You tilted your head up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. Oh, MattheoâŚ
âDo you really think Iâd lose my virginity to you?â you mused, voice laced with sweet mockery as you reached for your skirt, slipping it back on with slow, deliberate movements. You adjusted it, smoothing out the creases, completely unfazed by the way his expression darkened.
Mattheoâs smirk faltered. âWhat?â
His expression shiftedâsomething sharp, something dark. "What the fuck does that mean?"
You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder with an easy smirk. "It means, sweetheart," you said, voice dripping with faux sympathy, "that you really should have a chat with Theo sometime."
His brows furrowed, confusion flickering before realization settled in like a slow-burning fire.
"Oh," you mused, tapping your chin like you were deep in thought. "You donât know about him, do you? About how he doesn't really get the whole 'kiss and donât tell' thing?"
You slung your bag over your shoulder, taking your time fixing your hair in the reflection of a nearby window. turning to face him, "I donât kiss and tellâbut unfortunately for you, Theo definitely does." you said sweetly.
His brows furrowed. "Theoâwhat the fuck are you talking about?"
You leaned in, just close enough that he could smell the faint hint of perfume on your skin, the remnants of whatever sin you two had just committed. "Ask him about me sometime," you murmured, a smirk playing at the edges of your lips. "Iâm sure heâd love to share the details."
You turned to leave, but not before tossing one last dagger straight at his ego. âOh, and Mattheo?â You glanced over your shoulder, giving him one last look-over. "Next time, try lasting longer."
Then you walked out, leaving him alone in the dim glow of the libraryâjaw tight, fists clenched, drowning in the bitter aftertaste of his own egoâbecause for once in his life, Mattheo Riddle wasnât the one doing the ruining.
⌠. ăâş ă . ⌠. ăâş ă . âŚ
a/n: slut me out
hereâs part 2 for you whores
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MASTERLIST
oneshots | á´á´á´ ĘÉŞá´ á´ Ęá´ X ę°!Ęá´á´á´ á´Ę
âËđ Perfect Little Doll.
Short Summary: Tom Riddle is quite laid-back when it comes to youâbut under the effect of a Lust Potion, he just takes what he wantsâhowever he wants.
Warnings: 18+ only! consensual non consent. somno, sex under the effect of a lust potion, rough sex, choking, unprotected p in v, sex with little to no prep, creampie
A/N: I got the highest grade possible for my thesis, you get filthy smut! Win-win.
wordcount: 1,2k
âNo, stayâ stay like this.â
Itâs the first thing you hear when you stir awake in the middle of the night. You try to moveâbut something, or rather someone, is making sure you have no choice but to stay trapped beneath them.
âPlease, noââ panic rises in your chest as you struggle under their weightâbut itâs no use.
âShh. Itâs me. Be good and stay still.â
This time, you recognize the voice, and you exhale a shuddering breath, relaxing just slightly.
Itâs Tom.
Lying on your front, you donât get to meet his expression, hell, you donât even get to fucking ask what heâs doingâ
Because you already feel him pressing against your entrance, tip hot and flushed, leaking with needâand with a single, measured thrust, he pushes inside. Deep.
âFuckââ you shriek at the sudden, stinging stretch. âTom, that hurts!â
As you reach behind you, trying to push him away, give you time to adjust, he instantly pins your wrists to your back.
âI knowâ fuck, I know.â He grumbles, yet shows no intent to stop. Instead, he pulls out, pushing back inside immediatelyâdrawing another sharp gasp from you. âGo back to sleep, sweetheart.â
You donât know exactly whatâs gotten into him. Yes, you both agreed upon this, that he could use you when you were asleepâand that you could tell him to stop whenever you actually wanted toâbut never had he been this eager.
âTom, pleaseââ you try again, whimpering at the burning, unrelenting stretch. His hand finds its way into your hair, lifting your head slightly just to push you into the pillow beneath youâmuffling your whines.
His hips rock forward once more, testing, trying how much you can take.
âYou will be quiet and take it, alright? Be a good girl for me?â He mumbles, voice coming out raspy, laced with need. He withdraws then, only halfway this timeâ
Just to snap his hips forward again, tip harshly ramming against your sensitive cervixâa feeling that has you biting your lips so hard, you taste blood.
âGod, Tom!â You yelp, hips involuntarily bucking against his in an attempt to free yourselfâbut it only results in him slipping deeper, drawing a low groan from the brunette.
Slowly, he starts rolling his hips against yours, still buried deep, brows furrowed, breathing heavily through his slightly parted lips at just how tight you feel around him.
Finally, his hand leaves your hair, allowing you to inhale a deep breathâlungs burning from the lack of oxygen as you do. Just a mere second later, itâs wrapped around your neck instead, pushing you down once more.
Heâs got you exactly how he likes youâone leg angled to your side, his body trapping yours between him and the bed, fingers pressing into your pulse point, enough to make you feel light-headed. Hips flush with yours, ass pressed against his pelvisâit makes his head spin. He needs to have you, take youânow.
âSlipped me this potionâ told me it was for sobering upâ fuck, sweetheart, youâre tight.â He groans, a deep, low sound somewhere from the back of his throat, feeling him twitch inside you.
It all comes crashing down onto you. Why he is like this.
They made him drink a Lust Potion.
Judging by the fact that he didnât even second-guess before downing itâmust mean heâs had a decent amount of drinks as well.
All of that, combined with the effects of the potionâturned him into this.
You donât get to think about the situation for much longer and what you could do to ease the effectsâthe slow drag of his cock against your walls as he starts thrusting into you efficiently short-circuiting your brain.
He doesnât ease you into it. After one or two thrusts, he picks up his pace, hips snapping against yours as though itâs the last time he gets to have you.
Tom usually isnât the most vocal. Yes, he enjoys itâloves it, evenâwhen he can pin you down and fuck you into the mattress until you are begging for him to let you come. But, just like outside of your sacred four walls, he likes to keep his composureâeven during the most intimate acts.
In short: he hates losing control.
But nowâheâs moaning, whimpering even at how sensitive he isâat how good and warm you feel, wrapped tightly around him.
Itâs making your brain fuzzy. Everything about it. How you are slowly loosening up for him, allowing him to increase his pace, how your own arousal makes it even easier for him to thrust deep.
âTaking me so well, sweetheart.â Tom praises, breathless, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the otherwise quiet bedroom. âLike this pussy was fucking made for me, fitting me like a damn gloveââ
And at this point you are praying you would survive this.
His thrusts grow rougher, punishing almost, brushing against your cervix with every single snap of his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, cutting off your airflow once more as he feels himself getting close.
âFuck, darlingâ going to let me fill you up, hm? Make you nice and full of me?â He grits out, staying pressed flush against you for a second, making you feel all of himâevery vein, every ridgeâevery. single. inch.
You nod as best as you can, clenching down tight around him.
âPlease Tom, please fill me upâ need it, fuckââ
He groans at that, cursing under his breath.
âGood girl. Such a perfect little doll, all nice and pliant for meââ
Itâs not long until his pace falters, hips stuttering against your ownâand he groans lowly as he starts spilling deep inside of you, coating your walls with his warm release.
He collapses on top of youâbreathing heavily against your neck, chest heavingâand although your mind is still hazy with your own pleasure, your thoughts drift back to what happened before he returned to your home.
Knowing them, you guess itâs Rosier and Mulciber who did it. Probably thought it was hilarious, too.
You arenât sure if you should feel bad for the fact that you donât know what Tom would come up with as punishment.
Because hellâthey are not the ones who have to put up with him like this.
Meanwhile, Tom is still buried deep, keeping his release right where it belongsâbut then, when his breathing returns to normal, he gives you the slightest roll of his hipsâ
âSaid it would take three hours to wear offââ
And you already feel him growing hard again.
Fuck, you are screwed.
âTom, pleaseââ
He shushes you with a kiss on top of your head.
âNo. Stayâ need youâ need you again.â He rasps, back to thrusting into you, fucking his cum even deeper as heâs back chasing his next climax. And you? You are right there with him, on the precipice of your own orgasm.
Merlin fucking help you.
If he wonât kill them for this, you might just do it yourself.
thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 â masterlist. | oneshots.
Š2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.
âđđđđđ đđđâ
âââ⢠tom m. riddle x reader
synopsis. a lesson on amortentia right before valentineâs day sets off an unfortunate chain of events once you realize tom riddle had set his sights on you.
𣲠content. MDNI, fem!reader (she/her pronouns), smut, dubcon/noncon (youâre under the influence of amortentia), oral (fem!recieving), p in v at the end, drugging aka use of love potions, slughorn is lowkey a scheming mf lmfao, you reject tom, itâs love day!!, reader lives on white chocolate (cause i do lol), she also appreciates tomâs pretty face, tom riddle is and will always be his motherâs son, slight homophobic themes (era accurate), youâre very woke for the day and age (youâre a good person with morals), kinda angsty (bad ending? you still get dicked down on the floor of the astronomy tower during a storm though), virginity loss, on the nose religious themes.
𣲠word count. 13.9k (sorry)
𣲠authorâs note. this just in folks, tom riddle takes advantage of local chocolate lover on valentineâs day. my first long fic with smut eek iâm nervous! i hope you guys like it and happy hearts day dearests <3 based on this headcanon i wrote ;) also, new graphics for long fics. iâm in need of a little something different. and i may or may not have given readerâs bsf the same name as my fav character from my little pony⌠i pull the strings here (rubs hands together like a mischievous fly). not proofread. i suck at writing smut so bear with me if it isnât tasteful. finally finished, i will go devour banana pudding now. lordlist.
Potions class had started as it always did in Professor Slughornâs dungeon â humid air heavy with the scent of herbs and simmering cauldrons, glass clinking softly as students returned with their ingredients from the storeroom. The room felt warm and sticky, as usual, from all the steam curling towards the ceiling. It clung to your robes and on your hair, making a sheen of sweat appear on your skin before class had even begun.
Outside remained a similar gloom as February rain tapped faintly against the windows of the castle, the sky a familiar sight of grey as if foreshadowing a coming storm. And the day after tomorrow would be Valentineâs Day â a muggle holiday that had somehow infected the wizarding world enough for Professor Slughorn to make a spectacle of it.
A wise choice? No.
One that would prove to have interesting outcomes right before Valentineâs Day? Yes. And Horace Slughorn liked to see results.
âNow, now,â Slughorn drew the attention of students just walking in with barely concealed excitement. âA special lesson, just in time for the season of romance! Today, weâll be studying the most powerful love potionâ,â a ripple of giggles spread across the room, ââin existence,â he finished with a grin.
âPurely academic, of course,â Slughorn had declared, lip twitching along with his mustache in delight as he presented the shimmering contents of his cauldron he had prepared himself before the beginning of class. âOne must understand the theory of such things in order to defend against them. Amortentia, my dears â the most powerful love potion in existence. Banned to distribute in Hogwarts, naturally, but perfectly permissible to brew under supervision according to the curriculum.â
As if that was a plausible excuse.
The potion glimmered like liquid mother-of-pearl on the wooden workbench, spirals rising from it in hypnotic coils. One by one, the students (mostly consisting of girls) leaned over to inhale, unable to help but be pulled in â as was the nature of the brew. Amortentia carried a different scent to each person. You watched some of your classmates continue to crowd around it eagerly, faces flushing, expressions turning curious. Some laughed whilst some went oddly quiet in consideration.
You didnât think much of it personally, staying in your seat, wafts of clean linen and chocolate drifting in your direction. Love potions were rather grotesque things â manufactured obsession masquerading as affection. There was something fundamentally wrong about them, no matter how pretty they looked or how good they smelled. You still felt it was wrong that they werenât outlawed, or that they were sold in shops at all, making them accessible to the public.
Knowing how reckless some teenagers were and how insidious the minds of some worked, it made itself an easy solution in order to prey on the vulnerable. It was â ânaturallyâ â a recipe for disaster.
Completely and utterly barbaric, in your opinion.
Now, the classroom buzzed with chatter and the scrape of ladles against cauldrons as students got to work. Your peers talked over one another, arguing over measurements or comparing notes in low voices.
The potions professor wandered around the room, observing each student at work and complimenting a few on his way through. His waistcoat strained over his stomach as he waddled between tables. âObserve the pearlescent sheen â yes, exactly! Thatâs what weâre aiming for. And the steam should rise in spirals. Spirals, Mister Avery, notâ oh dear.â
You wiped your hands on a cloth and leaned over your own brew. The cauldron in front of you shimmered faintly, the surface of the Amortentia swirling with a soft, luminous glow. It was beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. You leaned in closer despite yourself. The steam brushed your face, warm and sweet with notes you were very pleased with.
Decadent and creamy white chocolate, the scent of cleanliness, your favorite perfume, sugar, and obviously more sugar. Your mouth curved slightly, both in satisfaction at your successful potion making skills and amusement at the predictability. You liked simple comforts. You liked things that made you feel safe.
You swallowed and straightened at the insidious prospect of that.
âI bet you smell a candy shop,â your best friend, Cadence, murmured from where she stood beside you, leaning over your shoulder.
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â
âIâm saying,â she smirked, âthat anyone who ends up giving you sweets may have a chance,â she sang.
âOr they could try a conversation,â you shot back lightly, throwing Cadence an unimpressed look and an arch of the brow.
âAh, yes. Conversation. How revolutionary.â
You rolled your eyes. Around you, students were murmuring and nudging one another. Giggles broke out near the Hufflepuffs. A Ravenclaw boy turned pink to the ears as he stirred quietly. Even a few Slytherins were smirking more than usual as they hovered close near their cauldrons, unable to resist the temptations. No one seemed particularly concerned about the fact that what they were brewing was so dangerous that it was prohibited to use inside of these walls. There were different types of love potions, but Amortentia was the most potent.
âHonestly,â muttered a flushed Gryffindor, stubbornly, in hearing range. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she peered into her cauldron, âwhat possessed him to teach this now? Itâs practically Valentineâs.â
What possessed him indeed. Slughorn was clearly having way too much fun with this lesson, doing rounds and asking each student what they smelled, smiling knowingly at the flustered ones who stumbled over their words as if this all had been a ploy, a gentle nudge to some to confront their feelings for a special someone right before the holiday of love â which he would deny and deem it was for research purposes only, of course.
âI think itâs romantic,â the Gryffindor girlâs seat mate sighed almost dreamily.
You almost snorted. Romantic wasnât the word you wouldâve chosen. Your potion reached completion faster than you expected. You glanced up, searching for Slughorn to signal that you were finished. The man was currently bent over another station, fussing over someoneâs âalmost adequateâ consistency before going to the next batch, circling like a pleased bee.
Your gaze wandered mindlessly now that you were done with your brew, and you knew itâd be a while before Slughorn made his way over here. So, you slowly dragged your eyes over the students around you before they collided directly with anotherâs.
Across the room, through rising steam and flickering torchlight, a boy stood at his station. His sleeves were neatly rolled to his forearms, revealing pale skin and long, steady fingers guiding the ladle through his potion. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes immaculate as always. There wasnât a single fleck of ingredient out of place near him. Even here, in the damp heat of the dungeon, he looked composed â untouched by the chaos around him.
And he was staring at you.
Tom Riddle was staring at you.
His expression was calm, almost blank, a void that sent shivers down your spine. It was unlike any expression youâve ever seen him make, completely unnatural on a face as handsome as his â not that youâve watched him much. His eyes did not falter even when you met his unblinking gaze, not flustered whatsoever at being caught gawking so noticeably.
Riddle didnât look away. The steam rose between you like a thin veil and still â he held your gaze.
The noise of the classroom seemed to dull, your pulse stuttering. For a moment, you forget to breathe, his dead stare like a hand on your throat.
This look wasnât one of interest in the way other boys sometimes looked at girls. There was something unnerving there unlike the easy charm he wore so well, the one that he showed professors and students alike.
This felt almost⌠predatory.
Creepy.
Your fingers tightened and whitened around the edge of your desk, body frozen from the uneasiness that washed over you. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked away. Riddle adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron with a smooth, unwavering movement as if heâd merely been lost in thought, face now taut in concentration.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, though you werenât sure why.
He probably zoned out, you told yourself. People stare without realizing it. It doesnât mean anything, right? Why would he be looking at you? It was easy to drift in a class like this. And you had never spoken more than a passing word to him. You werenât one of the girls vying for his attention. You didnât trail after him in corridors or sigh when he walked into a room.
If anything, you made a point not to. You barely paid him mind beyond the general awareness everyone had of him. It was impossible not to at least notice someone like him. Riddle was top of every class. Professors adored him. Students either worshipped him or resented him for numerous reasons.
And yes â he was handsome. Painfully so. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But admiration from afar was one thing; interest was another. You preferred to know someone before you decided how you felt about them.
Even if he had dark hair that fell just slightly yet perfectly over his forehead. Blessed with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and tiny beauty marks on pale skin that added to his devilish looks. Pink lips that seemed permanently on the verge of a polite, measured smirk that made girls swoon. Riddle was the kind of boy that had them whispering and preening and inventing foolish excuses just to brush arms with him in corridors.
But at that moment, he looked like he was out for your blood. Like you were nothing more than an animal in the wild and he was the hunter, pinning his sights on you.
You had better things to think about. So, you forced your attention back to your station, exhaling slowly and capping the flame beneath your cauldron. You willed your shoulders to relax with the release of breath before you frowned faintly to yourself.
You wondered, annoyingly, how long he had been staring before you had even noticed.
Across the room, Professor Slughorn beamed, hovering near Riddle like always.
âSplendid, Tom! Simply splendid. Textbook perfection. A natural talent, as always. Twenty points to Slytherin!â
Different reactions swept the room â admiration and heart eyes from some, irritation and jealousy from others. Riddle only inclined his head modestly, unbothered by all the attention. âThank you, sir.â
His voice was smooth, distinct from everyone and anyone elseâs, and positively heart throbbing in itself. You risked another glance at Riddle, just to reassure yourself that youâd been mistaken.
He was no longer looking at you, thankfully. Slughorn stood at his side while Riddle wore that soft smile that made people melt. He nodded his head at precisely the right moments, listening attentively as the professor praised the clarity of his brew of Amortentia, how it was the perfect viscosity and shade. He didnât even seem all that delighted, more so expectant like he was used to it and confidently knew he wouldâve had the best one in the room before walking in; like clockwork.
Nothing about his demeanor suggested he had just been staring at you like he wanted to devour you alive. You felt faintly foolish for thinking like that. Perhaps, you hadnât seen him properly? After all, the abundant amount of steam in the room did make it rather difficult.
Lost in your thoughts, you briefly think about what Riddle must have smelled. Tom Riddle had never shown any interest in dating anyone in all his time at Hogwarts, much to the dismay of many pretty girls. Maybe he had a muggle girlfriend outside of school?
You remembered, faintly, a memory from a few months ago.
A girl you knew, Wendy, had asked him out and like always, he politely let her down. He had declined each and every love confession he had ever received with courtesy. And yet, people still had the audacity to be slighted, as if they were entitled to him and his feelings.
She had regaled to you and a few other girls the story in the library. You were all supposed to be studying, but the topic eventually drifted, like always â to boys.
âAnd then he said, âThank you, but Iâm afraid Iâm occupied.â Occupied with what?!â Wendy scoffed, clearly hurt that she decided itâd be better to gossip badly about Riddle, red in the face.
âHonestly, he acts like heâs above everyone. Itâs exhausting. And not natural.â Then, her eyes widened in realization. âYou donât think heâs⌠you know?â
It had bothered you, what she said.
You donât know why to this day. Maybe itâs because you imagined a boy talking about you like that just because you didnât feel the same way, and how it wouldnât sit right with you, how it wouldnât be fair for them to speculate. That you shouldnât be forced to like specific people because thatâs what was socially acceptable.
So, you defended him without thought.
âOr maybe he just doesnât want to go out with you specifically,â you mutter, flipping a page.
Three heads turned toward you.
âThatâs not the point,â Wendy scoffed, offended by your words but trying not to show it. âItâs rude. He acts like no oneâs good enough for him.â
âOr,â you started, âhe isnât obligated to entertain you.â
âYou defending Riddle now?â A familiar voice asked in an amused tone after a moment of silence â your best friend, you realized, when looking up from your book at last.
âIâm just saying, you canât call someone arrogant for having boundaries.â
âWeâre just talking,â another one of them snapped, some girl you didnât know the name of to this day.
âSo talk,â you replied calmly. âJust donât act like he owes you his attention.â
A few of them exchanged glances. One shrugged. Then, the conversation shifted.
You shook your head faintly, dismissing your thoughts. It wasnât your concern.
The bell chimed faintly in the corridor beyond the door just in time â five minutes to the end of class. Slughorn clapped his hands together to get everyoneâs attention. âTime, my dears! Cap your potions, label them, and leave them on this table right here. And remember â no sneaking a sample. Iâll know.â
That resulted in a few groans and bits of laughter.
Students began tidying their stations, including you â corking bottles and wiping spills. Slughornâs back turned as he hurried to inspect a few remaining students brews of the love potion. In the chaos â with robes swishing, chairs scraping against the floor, chatter rising â no one paid attention to Tom Riddle.
His back was angled toward the class, body shielding his cauldron from view. Slughorn was still preoccupied, none the wiser.
Tom moved with hurried precision, covered by the ruckus and cluster of students. One hand slipped into the inner pocket of his robes. The other lifted his ladle. A small, glass vial appeared between his deft fingers. He tilted the utensil ever so slightly and a thin ribbon of pearlescent liquid slid into the container. Not enough to be obvious and change the level in the cauldron, the right amount for him to take.
He corked it carefully and quietly before it vanished into his robes. By the time Slughorn turned back around, Tom busied himself with packing up his things unhurriedly; entirely innocent. He gathered his books neatly, cleaned up his area with a flick of his yew wand, and stood waiting for dismissal like the exemplary student everyone believed him to be â even bidding a polite farewell to the Professor like he does at the end of every class, receiving an oblivious smile from the man in return.
Slughorn clearly did not know.
Soon enough, youâre next to step out into the corridor with your friends.
As you walked with them, curling a strand of hair behind your ear whilst complaining about your next class â behind you, footsteps followed at a distance.
Tom Riddle was staring at you again.
And you walked away, unaware.
Valentineâs Day arrived like a fever spreading inside Hogwarts.
The dormitory had been awake before dawn. You awoke to whispers around you and the rustle of tissue paper. The sharp, sweet scent of perfume clouded the air. Ribbons were tied, taken down, and then retied into hair to perfection. Girls were already sitting cross-legged on their beds in silk nightgowns and perfectly brushed hair, opening velvet boxes and parcels tied in satin ribbon. One girl squealed while another flushed and tried to pretend she hadnât been waiting for this day all week when opening her package. Someone even shrieked when an owl tapped the window with a parcel of sugared candies.
You rolled onto your back with a sigh, lying still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above your bed as you listened to the excitement around you.
It wasnât that you cared about today or longed for a boy. It was your decision, countless times, to not have a boyfriend. And you wouldnât want just any boy approaching you today with trembling hands and a rehearsed declaration of love. In fact, the thought of a public decree made your stomach tighten since you would have to gently decline â and that was humiliating enough for one party. You had no desire in entertaining feelings you did not share like some of your acquaintances.
Still.
It would have been⌠nice. To be chosen.
You smiled when appropriate as other girls showed off their Valentineâs gifts; a small, traitorous pang in your chest. Ridiculous. You werenât interested in anyone. You shook it off, rising from the mattress to wash up in the restroom and get dressed for classes that day.
Your uniform was pristine like always, white blouse pressed and colored tie straightened. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs, stockings reaching just below the knee, shoes polished. You brushed your hair until it shone and left it down before fastening your cloak. You dabbed a faint touch of your everyday perfume on your wrists because for you, it was just another day.
When you made your way into the common room, you saw girls clutching bouquets of all different types of colors and chocolates wrapped in boxes.
The corridors were no different, buzzing like a beehive. And by the time you reached the staircases, the castle was alive more than it has ever been â even during the Christmas holidays. Enchanted cupids flitted about and abundant laughter echoed against the stone walls of the castle.
You adjusted the strap of your satchel and eventually met up with your friends at your usual spot, walking towards the Great Hall together, their chatter echoing around you about the latest drama: who got what and from who or who hadnât gotten anything and ended up splitting on today of all days. You tuned them out until a different name cut through the noise.
âDid you see him?â a pair of Slytherin girls hissed in hushed excitement as you passed. âWith a whole bouquet of flowers, I swear! And chocolates too â the expensive kind.â
âWho?â
âTom Riddle.â
Your steps faltered before you could stop yourself.
The other girl gasped. âYouâre lying.â
âIâm not! He was coming up from the dungeons. He had them transfigured so it wasnât obvious, but I know what I saw.â
You didnât turn your head. You kept walking before you could linger too long and appear obvious. You had no right to be curious. You barely spoke to him. And you most certainly were not one of the girls who trailed after him like moths to a flame.
Tom Riddle with roses.
With chocolates.
It was almost absurd.
It sounded absurd.
You truly hadnât meant to listen, truly. Riddle had never shown interest in anyone publicly. He seemed the private type and further more, was single to the point he had never even been rumored to have dated anyone because everyone would know it to be untrue in a heartbeat. But, perhaps he did have someone this entire time. Someone worth keeping a secret of.
You found, to your irritation, that you were curious. It must be someone in school, then.
But who? Who had finally stolen his heart and had the Tom Riddle so enamored?
The Great Hall doors opened to an alive spectacle of owls swooping low through the high windows and dropping parcels into waiting hands, charmed doves fluttering between floating hearts that drifted lazily beneath the enchanted ceiling which had been charmed to a pale pink sunrise with pearly light despite the real one outside being dull and grey like it had been for the last few days, anticipating a storm.
The House tables were louder than usual, scattered with unwrapped sweets and floral arrangements that clashed with everything else in a nearby vicinity.
You scanned the Slytherin table without meaning to.
Riddle wasnât there.
You exhaled harshly through your nose, annoyed with yourself for searching.
You took your usual place at your table â the same bit of bench you had claimed since first year with your friend group, the same place anyone could find you in the mornings. Predictable. Safe. Like everything you choose. You spooned whipped cream onto your waffles, adding sliced strawberries and a drizzle of syrup on them.
Cadence lightly nudged you with her elbow, a mischievous gleam in her eye. âIf someone asks you to be their Valentine today â hypothetically â youâre saying yes, arenât you?â
âI would hypothetically decline,â you retort dryly, cutting through your waffle.
âHow cruel you are to every boy who would be lucky to have you.â
You lifted an unimpressed brow. âI have standards.â
She laughed. âYouâll end up alone at this rate.â
âIâm not afraid of being alone.â
That much was true.
You were about to take your first bite when a shadow fell across your plate.
You looked up, pulse jumping.
A Slytherin boy stood there. You donât think youâve ever seen him before. Cute, but not your type. And he looked⌠nervous. His fingers flexed at his sides with a kind of strained urgency. For a fleeting, mortifying second, you imagined him clearing his throat and announcing â loudly â that he would be honored if you would accompany him today. In front of all these people.
Your heart gave one uncomfortable thud.
Please donât let him do this here.
âYes?â you asked slowly, lips drawn in a tight line, already preparing the polite apology on your tongue.
He swallowed. âErâ sorry to interrupt.â
âItâs fine,â you said, your fork hovering midair, frozen like a statue as you wait for the inevitable.
âProfessor Slughorn would like to see you.â
Relief washed over you instantly, your features softening and shoulders relaxing. Thankfully, it wasnât a love confession. Still, your brows knit together. âNow?â
âYes. In the courtyard.â
You glanced instinctively towards the staff table. Slughorn wasnât there. Though, a flicker of doubt continued to brush against your mind.
âWhat for?â you asked, turning your head back to the boy.
He hesitated. âI-I donât know. He didnât say.â
Your friend chimed in. âThatâs odd.â
You agreed.
Still, there was no obvious reason to refuse. You hadnât done anything wrong. And if it were truly important, you couldnât very well ignore it. Maybe it was about schoolwork. You set your fork down with visible reluctance, eyeing your plate with mild mourning and a pout. The whipped cream was already softening into the waffle, syrup pooling at the edges.
A waste.
âIf Iâm not back in ten minutes, eat that,â you told your friend, gesturing with a tilt of your chin.
âSo selfless,â one of them replied solemnly.
âI know.â
You rose, smoothing your skirt, adjusting your cloak over your shoulders before leaning down to grab your bag from the wooden seat and hook it around your shoulder. The boy stepped aside at once to let you pass, relief evident in his posture â as if he had been afraid you might refuse. Though, you canât imagine what was so frightening about Slughorn that made him tremble so.
The corridors beyond the Great Hall were quieter now, the morning frenzy thinning out as you stepped out into them.
Chatter faded behind you, replaced by the echo of your own footsteps against the stone hallways of the castle. Light filtered through the high windows as best it could with dark skies as you walked further down. When you made your way to the courtyard however, your steps slowed at the sight that greeted you.
You stepped through the arched doorway into the open space. The cold bit at you at once, stealing the warmth from your cheeks. The fountain at the center trickled faintly as water spilled over marble into its basin. Grey clouds sagged overhead, heavy with unshed rain, the stones beneath your shoes damp.
It was completely vacant.
There was always a student or two loitering around, but now, it was unnaturally silent. Not like the peaceful kind you preferred. And there was no Professor Slughorn bustling about. You frowned, uneasiness coiled low in your stomach and sliding beneath your ribs. The courtyard was never empty â even on a day like this.
You shifted your satchel higher on your shoulder, glancing toward the archways as if the professor might appear from behind a column.
You found yourself almost turning back. For reasons you couldnât explain, you wished you were still at your table in the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends, scarfing down sugary waffles. Thunder clapped overhead like a bad omen.
âIâm glad you came.â
You startled violently despite yourself, breath catching, spinning around too quickly. It unsettled you more than you cared to admit that you hadnât heard him approach at all.
That voice was unmistakable.
Tom Riddle stood a few paces behind you as though he had always been there. Your heart leapt traitorously in your chest.
Riddle looked striking and flawless as always. Dark hair combed neatly with a curl falling deliberately over his forehead. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes falling straight and sharp along his lean, slightly muscular frame. The faintest flush from the cold touched his pale skin, but he did not seem to feel it.
In one hand, he held a box of chocolates wrapped in ribbon. In the other â a bouquet.
Your favorite flowers.
Your breath caught.
It could be coincidence, you told yourself. Flowers were flowers. Anyone could like them. Perhaps he had chosen them at random. Perhaps he was waiting for someone else and you had merely wandered into the scene by accident. Your mind scrambled for reasons because you had a feeling this situation was headed a certain direction that you werenât sure how to deal with.
Riddle held your gaze steadily, as if he could see each frantic thought as it passed through you.
âIâm waiting for Professor Slughorn,â you said too quickly, the words tumbling out before he asked anything. âHe sent for me.â
Why were you explaining yourself?
You avoided his eyes, studying instead the collar of his robe, the way his fingers curved around the base of the bouquet. You felt awkward and absurdly aware of how alone you were with him. Riddleâs gaze rested on you, assessing. There was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth â and not the warm kind. More like, he knew something you didnât.
âIâm afraid,â he started gently, âthat Professor Slughorn will not be joining you.â
The words prickled at your skin like a bite.
You blinked, looking up at that.
âWhat?â
âI asked Nott to fetch you.â He tilted his head slightly like he had a habit of doing, studying your reaction with dark brown eyes, ones that felt too intense on you. âI wanted a moment alone.â
For a second, you could only stare at him.
âYou lied?â The accusation left you before you could soften it.
Riddle did not falter. If anything, that faint amusement deepened on his gorgeous features, dark and unfairly perfect brows lifting a fraction. âWould you have come if I had asked you myself?â
Your lips parted automatically, ready to retort with something sharp or clever, that he didnât need deception or to intimidate someone enough to do his bidding â but the truth remained stuck in your throat.
Because no. You wouldnât have.
You didnât know him. Not really. You had exchanged perhaps a handful of words in passing. If Tom Riddle had approached you openly in the Great Hall, with half the school watching, you would have declined out of instinct alone.
You pressed your lips together in defeat.
Riddleâs smirk deepened with satisfaction.
âI thought not,â he murmured. He stepped closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could feel his intensity.
Then, âHappy Valentineâs Day,â he said suddenly.
It wasnât a stammering confession you had braced yourself for from some nervous boy. His voice was steady, like a statement rather than a request. He extended the bouquet and chocolates toward you, waiting.
The gesture was immaculate, private, considerate. Exactly the sort of confession you would have preferred without a spectacle or an audience.
The courtyard felt even quieter. Somehow, you couldnât even hear the single chirp of a bird.
You were acutely aware of the space between you. The way Riddleâs eyes did not leave your face, as if he was deciphering your every thought just from your expressions like how a snake would assess its meal before lunging. He seemed entirely certain of himself.
Then, it hits you that he must have been the one to clear the courtyard. Of course. Who else could have that type of power? Your pulse thudded in your ears, heat creeping up your cheeks. He had orchestrated this entire thing.
And he had done everything right.
For a tiny moment, you imagined accepting. You imagined walking back into the castle at his side, flowers in your arms. You imagined the looks. Too many looks. Too many whispers. Because Tom Riddle was always being watched. Either out of admiration or envy. If you stepped into his orbit, you would not be permitted anonymity again. There would be jealous girls, speculation, and endless scrutiny from every direction. The resentment from those who had tried and failed to get close to him. Your life would no longer be quiet at school.
And beneath that practical reasoning, there was something else â the simple truth being that you did not know him.
And under that, the memory of that look in class â the way he had stared at you through the steam as if claiming something that did not yet belong to him.
And Tom Riddle did nothing without purpose.
So, why you?
You were not one of the girls who trailed after him in corridors. You didnât blush when he entered a room. You didnât whisper about him.
Perhaps⌠that was precisely why.
âTom,â you began carefully, fingers tightening around your bagâs strap like a lifeline as you swallowed. âRiddle, I mean,â once you realized how familiar you sounded unintentionally. You noticed he straightened a little at that. âI-Iâm sorry.â
And you truly meant it. But the next few words caught in your throat when you saw the flicker of the same expression from the dungeon â the one that had frozen you in place. His cold eyes sharpened with displeasure and something possessive. A chill shot down your spine. But, then it was gone, vanishing almost instantly â as if itâd never been there. The polite mask slid back into place so seamlessly that you almost doubted you had seen his other face at all.
âI canât accept this,â you finished softly. âI didnât know⌠I mean, weâve never evenââ You huffed, frustrated with yourself. âIt wouldnât be right.â
A silence so deafening stretched between you.
You couldnât meet his eye. Riddle hadnât moved at all from your peripheral. But then, he spoke at last, âI see...â
Surprisingly, he hadnât looked embarrassed or wounded. There was not a hint of a tremor in his voice or a trace of bitterness â and somehow, it unsettled you more than pure anger might have.
âI appreciate your honesty.â
He sounded thoughtful. So, you found your shoulders loosening.
âI hope there arenât any hard feelings,â you added carefully, brows furrowed.
âNone,â he assured you with a flutter of his dark lashes, polite and unbothered as ever like the proper gentleman he was. Then, almost as an afterthought, Riddle lifted the box slightly to you. âAt least take these.â
You hesitated.
âI know how fond you are of them,â he continued, tone mild. âIt would be a shame to let them go to waste.â
Your brows drew together faintly. âHow did youââ
He gave the smallest shrug. âIt isnât a secret.â
It wasnât. You were rarely without something sugary in hand. Anyone observant enough could notice. And Tom Riddle was observant. You studied him one last time before slowly reaching out and accepting the chocolates, the edge of the box cool against your sweaty fingers.
âThank you,â you said, offering a small, apologetic smile. âTruly.â
His gaze dipped briefly to your hand as it closed fully around the container of chocolates, a small smile on his lips.
âYouâre welcome.â
âAnd⌠I am sorry,â you added once more for great measure.
Riddle smiled reassuringly. âThereâs nothing to forgive.â Then, he adds with a tone that sounded innocently hopeful, âBut, if you do happen to change your mind, Iâll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.â
The statement seemed so casual that it hadnât even hit you that itâll be storming all week, that the skies wouldnât be visible for the next few days. But, you nodded anyway just to be nice. You had just rejected his feelings after allâŚ
With a step back, hands folding neatly behind him, the bouquet remained there, hidden from your view. He inclined his head with quiet courtesy. You nodded in return, already turning, eager for the warmth and noise of the Hogwarts corridors. With each step away from him, your lungs seemed to fill more easily. You slipped the chocolates into your satchel and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. By the time you reached the archway, you had almost convinced yourself the entire encounter had been harmless. Unfortunate, perhaps â but civil.
You were lucky Riddle was so understanding.
As you walked off, behind you, Tom did not move. He watched you until the stone walls of the school swallowed you from sight as if he could still see you through them.
The polite expression dissolved the instant you disappeared. His jaw tightened, broad shoulders becoming rigid beneath his robes. And behind his back, his fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet until his knuckles turned white. They bent and snapped under his unforgiving grip. The pretty flowers blackened at an unnatural pace right at the edges before gradually bleeding inward at an alarming speed. The delicate petals wilted, reduced to something lifeless and small.
Tomâs remained eerily calm other than that. A petal fell soundlessly, and he watched as it reached the wet stone at his feet.
He smiled.
Then, he threw the bouquet to the ground like dirt before turning, his cloak sweeping behind him.
Thankfully, the rest of the day passed by in a haze.
The castleâs Valentineâs fever broke slowly but surely. By afternoon, the romance had dulled. Very few couples still walked too close in the corridors, smiling and holding hands. Girls with broken hearts huddled with blotchy eyes while their friends stroked their hair and whispered assurances. The enchanted decor had long since tired themselves out.
You drifted through it, lost in your own head as your mind wouldnât stop circling back to him.
Tom Riddle had wanted you.
It still felt crazy, but you knew it now. That in Potions, he must have smelled you.
âAre you even listening?â A friend hissed at you during Transfiguration, nudging your knee under the desk.
You blinked, snapping out of your daze, quill hovering uselessly above parchment, dripping ink from the tip in large blots and ruining your work. âWhat?â
She stared. âProfessor Merrythought just asked you a question.â
Heat flared in your cheeks, eyes darting around the class and then apologetically to the Professor.
âRight. Sorry.â You forced your attention forward, ignoring the low ripple of snickers.
Your mind felt like it was moving through syrup, and you kept it all to yourself. In Arithmancy, you lost track of numbers you usually handled with ease. In History of Magic, you stared through Professor Binns as if he were smoke.
You had never truly noticed how many classes you shared with Tom Riddle before today. Now, it felt excessive. Potions, Transfiguration, Defense, Ancient Runes. He had always been there â but you had never catalogued the frequency of his presence until now. Riddle always sat with his back straight. His quill moved with elegant strokes as he took notes. He answered every question asked of him and was always correct.
And he did not look at you once.
Not even once.
A part of you bristled.
It bothered you more than if he had glared across the room because he was unbothered as ever. It was as if the courtyard had not happened. As if he had not offered you your favorite flowers and waited for your answer. Why ask if he did not care?
You caught yourself watching the side of his face during Transfiguration, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint hollow beneath it, the way his long and skillful hands worked his wand. You noticed he liked to fidget with it a lot â running his fingers along the side, caressing, holding it delicately like it was an extension of himself. Riddle suddenly shifted slightly in his seat, and you looked away at once, heart pounding madly in your chest.
You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, you reminded yourself. You would have hated his scorn. You would have hated whispers and pointed stares. This was the better outcome. You didnât want to be known as the girl who rejected Tom Riddle even when your chest tightened unpleasantly each time he gathered his books without so much as glancing your way.
So, why did it feel like something was terribly wrong?
By the time late afternoon crept in and you finished your classes for the day, you were already making your way to the Hogwarts library.
It was quieter than normal. Valentineâs Day had drained the castle of its usual studious population. Lamps glowed in warm, cozy pools of gold across long wooden tables. The smell of ink and old books welcomed you like an embrace. The tall windows were darker than they were before now. And most of all, it was silent in the way you liked. The library had always been your refuge.
You passed a few stragglers who also had nothing better to do on Valentineâs Day as you made your way to the back of the huge reading area, shrugging off your cloak and draping it over the armrest before sinking into a wooden chair.
As the minutes passed, books started to accumulate around you on the table. You diligently studied for your next exam, burying yourself in the library as evening settled over Hogwarts. The light outside the tall windows dimmed so slowly that you hadnât even noticed until you took a glance and realized how much time had passed. You rolled your shoulders, flexed your aching fingers, and leaned back over your notes. You read the same line three times, finding yourself unable to focus as hunger gradually gnawed at your stomach.
It hit you that you had not eaten at all today.
Your plate at breakfast had gone unfinished, and you skipped lunch entirely to come here. The dining hall would be closing soon. You considered getting something from the kitchens later. Though in truth, your appetite had vanished after the encounter with Riddle, your mind preoccupied with other things.
Then, you remembered.
The chocolates.
You stilled, hand hovering over parchment. A small feeling of guilt bloomed in your chest. You had nearly forgotten about them.
At least I wonât starve, you thought dryly.
Thanks, Riddle.
When you reached into your satchel, your fingers brushed against something smooth and rigid. After a second of hesitation, you drew out the box. It was elegant, with dark packaging and a perfectly tied ribbon. It felt nice and cool against your warm fingers that had been working for hours.
You set it on the table, undoing the carefully knotted bow, and lifted the lid almost excitedly. You loved chocolate, and you were always curious about the taste of different ones. A container like this would surely hold varying types that you were interested in trying. Some could have a filling of jam, or caramel, or a different flavor chocolate inside. The possibilities were endless.
Where others sought spontaneity in their real lives, you found it in chocolate. Because chocolate was the one thing that could never hurt you.
When you set the top aside, you saw that inside lay neat rows of white chocolates, each one ornate and delicately crafted, faintly glossy under the light. Your breath caught at how stunning they were, and you inhaled. A smile curled onto your lips despite yourself, giddy in your seat like a child.
They smelled exquisitely divine. They looked like the sweet and rich type, very expensive â just as the Slytherin girl from this morning had claimed. Too pretty you didnât even want to eat them. You didnât question how he knew of your preference. Because you rarely went a week without white chocolate; anyone paying enough attention could have noticed.
And Tom Riddle paid attention.
Your stomach gave a sudden, sharp pang at the enticing scent.
With the grace of an eager child, you picked one up and brought it to your mouth. The smooth chocolate melted instantly on your tongue, silky and decadent. A soft, pleased moan escaped from your lips before you could stop it. Embarrassed heat rushed to your cheeks, and you glanced around.
Merlin.
You hope no one heard that.
You swallowed quickly, your hunger starting to satiate bit by bit, before your fingers reached for another without thinking. The second tasted even sweeter. A warmth like no other continued to spread in your chest, like something had been wound tight and was now loosening itself. You leaned back slightly in your seat, tilting your head and humming in satisfaction as your eyes shut for just a moment.
Tomâs face suddenly surfaced in your mind with startling clarity, but not with the typical unease that came with it before.
You only remembered the charming curve of his soft, pink lips. The single, adorable curl that always falls over his forehead like itâs dying to be tamed, fixed back into place by your gentle hand. His strong, broad shoulders and the confident, attractive way he carried himself. The way his voice had dipped almost sensually, eyes smoldering when he told you Happy Valentineâs Day.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box.
Why had you said no?
You were confused.
Tom had been awfully considerate earlier today. He had known exactly what you would prefer. He had arranged everything so carefully. The lie, the empty courtyard, the timing to give you peace of mind.
Your pulse quickened.
Tom had looked at you like you were the only person in his world.
A soft, almost aching pressure built beneath your ribs. You could picture him so vividly now that it made your breath shallow. He was extraordinary. Brilliant in every class. Admired by professors. Feared, even, by some. There was something absolutely magnetic about him â something no one else had.
And he had chosen you.
A sharp wave of regret washed over you, sudden and consuming. How foolish you must have seemed. How cold. You had rejected him without even trying to understand him. You wanted conversation, you told yourself. You wanted to know someone first.
Tom had been trying to give you that chance.
And you had hurt him.
The realization struck with surprising force.
He had stood there â perfectly composed â while you rejected him. Tom had offered you your favorite flowers and you felt a pang of regret now at not taking them when you had the chance.
Your heart began to race in earnest, a dizzying rhythm that made your fingers tremble slightly. The warmth in your chest deepened, spreading into your throat and then to your limbs like fire. You felt unsteady and lightheaded. The thought of him alone somewhere in the castle, alone because you had sent him awayâ
No.
The idea of it twisted painfully in your heart like a knife.
âBut, if you do happen to change your mind, Iâll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.â
You glanced toward the tall windows of the castle library. The sky outside was darkening rapidly, clouds thick and dark grey. It might storm soon tonight. Tom had said the stars would be beautiful. But perhaps he had only meant it as an excuse. An offering. It didnât matter.
You had been so careless. Of course you had feelings for him. How could you not? Every glance heâd ever given you now felt charged in retrospect. Potions class â earlier, you figured out he had smelled you. That was why heâd stared. Tom was drawn to you. He hungered for you.
You released a soft gasp, your heart thudding harder.
Better yet, he understood you like no one else did. You were sure of it now. He had watched quietly, learned your preferences and your habits. The thought of him doing just that, of staring at you for long periods of time without you even realizing just to understand you made your heart soar, a flush blooming on your cheeks. Taking his time, he had waited for the right moment to confess. You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, trying to steady your rapid breathing that sounded almost like panting.
You needed to see him. A need that felt important above all else.
You needed to go. You needed to fix this. Not tomorrow. Now. He must have thought you didnât care. He must have believed you dismissed him as easily as the other boys who tried.
Standing abruptly, your chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few students glanced up from distant tables, annoyed â you even earned a soft shush from somewhere to your right â but you barely registered it. Your pulse hammered in your ears now, loud enough to drown out reason. Every thought circled back to him â his voice, his eyes, the way he had said your name.
How had you not seen it before?
Tom was perfect.
Handsome. Intelligent. The very idea of him made your stomach flutter and your pulse quicken. Of all the girls who trailed after him, who whispered about him, who would have fallen at his feet if he so much as glanced their way â he had only looked at you.
A soft ache spread beneath your ribs. You had mistaken him. He hadnât looked unbothered today because he didnât care. Tom was giving you space.
Your throat tightened.
Tom was waiting for you.
He had said he would be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. It was evening. He might leave. The idea filled you with an unreasonable urgency. What if he thought you truly meant your refusal? What if he decided you were not worth pursuing? What if someone elseâ
No.
Your stomach twisted at the notion.
Your books and parchment lay forgotten as you close the lid of the chocolate box with careful, trembling hands and slipped it back into your bag, clutching it close as though it were something precious. You didnât even bother with your cloak. The thought of missing him made your chest constrict. He would understand. He always seemed to understand. Tom was always so understanding.
You loved him.
The realization felt less like a question and more like an admission of truth you had been avoiding. It explained the awareness of him and the irritation at his composure. You had been afraid of wanting him. But he wanted you.
And you wantedâ needed to see him desperately. If you didnât, you think youâd die. You may have wasted the day, but you wonât make the mistake of wasting the night. You belonged with him. And you would not let him slip away.
The staircases seemed endless.
You didnât remember leaving the library. You barely felt your feet striking stone as you ran, the slap of your shoes against stairs you nearly missed, fingers clutching freezing stone banisters to swing yourself around corners. Students cursed with startled protests as you shoved past without apology; one boy nearly dropped his books.
Someone may have called your name. You werenât sure. The only thing you were sure of was Tom. Nothing mattered in the moment except him.
The castle was extremely chilly after sunset. Cool wind slipped through narrow slits, raising goosebumps along your bare arms through your thin blouse, yet heat pulsed under your skin â feverish and burning. You had left your cloak draped over the library chair. It did not occur to you to go back for it. So, you had forgotten it. Forgotten your books. Forgotten everything except him.
Tom.
Every minuscule and unimportant thought curved back to him. Your mind whispered his name like a prayer. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs as though you had been running for miles. Up spiral staircases. Through corridors and past suits of armor. The storm had begun outside; you could hear it building â wind battering the windows, distant thunder rolling like a warning.
None of it mattered.
There was only one fixed point in the world, and it was at the top of the Astronomy Tower.
You took the final staircase, breathing shallow in uneven gasps, heart rate frantic and desperate â fingers gripping the metal railing to steady yourself. The tower door loomed ahead, iron latch glinting at you mockingly. You shoved it open with strength you werenât even aware you possessed just to get to him.
The wind struck you fully at once, brisk and furious, carrying the faint scent of rain washed stone. It whipped your hair around your face, but you paid it no mind. The sky was ominous and frightening, nothing like what he had promised.
Yet, amidst it all was your North Star. Your guiding light. Funny, wasnât it? That he was in the Astronomy Tower of all places.
The clouds hid the heavens, but Tom glowed as he stood in the dark of night at the balconyâs edge, facing the horizon with his back to you, hands resting lightly on the railings. The storm swallowed the sky, but in your vision he was lit from within. The only thing illuminated. The only thing that mattered. His dark robes stirred with the breeze, the fabric clinging and releasing against his lean frame. You could only see the elegant line of his neck and the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked carved from shadow and pale marble, perfectly still against the raging weather.
You could only stare in awe.
He looked like he belonged to the night.
The beauty of what lay in front of your eyes made your breath catch in your throat.
âTom.â
The name left you with reverence and breathlessness, almost disbelieving â like you had stumbled upon something sacred.
He turned.
At that moment, thunder cracked overhead. Lightning split across the sky in a violent flare of white, bathing Tom in a sudden light. For a heartbeat, your world froze with that flash. He looked like an angel. The light carved his high cheekbones, hollowed shadows beneath them, kissable lips curved in something that was not quite surprise.
His brown eyes found yours instantly before the faintest smile touched his lips â and somehow, you felt like you could breathe again. Like your entire world had rightened itself under your feet. Because Tom looked so happy to see you.
Rain began to mist in the air, cool against your flushed cheeks.
âI wondered how long it would take,â he finally spoke, voice carrying easily through the harsh winds. Your heart trembled at the melodious sound.
The implication in his tone flew right over your head. You only heard his voice, smooth like velvety chocolate on the tongue. It wrapped around you like warmth which you were in desperate need of.
Tom knew you would come. And he waited, so patiently. He knew you better than you knew yourself.
You stepped toward Tom before you even realized you were moving, like he was a magnet. Then again. And again. The distanceâ the separation between you felt unbearable.
And Tom watched closely the entire time, tracing over you slowly in a way that made you shudder from the intensity. He took note of everything, studied you. The lack of a cloak and your thin blouse which did nothing against the chill as if you had rushed over here. The flushed cheeks and your heaving breasts. The wild shine in your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.
Tomâs gaze darkened with something akin to pleasure.
âYouâre cold,â he observed, though his voice carried no real concern.
âI donât care,â you whispered.
Every step closed the space and yet it was never fast enough. The wind tangled your hair across your face, but you did not brush it away. You could not look anywhere except at him.
âYou were right,â you choked out, your voice unsteady. âAbout the stars.â
Tom paused for a moment, faintly confused before his lips tugged at the corners in amusement at your state of delirium. It was, after all, an effect of the Amortentia he put in the chocolates you took from him this morning. It was also the last thing he had said to you in parting, and so, it wasnât surprising you would be fixated on it.
âIâm usually right.â
You know that now, down to your marrow.
âYouâre beautiful,â you breathed instead, unable to help yourself from commenting on it. Up close, he was overwhelming. And that smile on his face was devilishly handsome. It gave you butterflies. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes â eyes like dark chocolate. You loved chocolate and you loved Tom.
You reached for him to steady yourself as though you had been falling all along. And the second your fingers touched the fabric of his robes, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. He was real. And he was yours. Tom stood at the center of your universe â like the stars, burning and eternal.
âIââ Your voice trembled suddenly. âIâm so sorry. I didnât see it,â your words tumbled over one another. âI didnât understand earlier. I was foolish. I thoughtâ I thought I didnât know you. But I do. I must. I justâ didnât want to be⌠like the others.â
A huff of amusement came from Tom.
âYou are nothing like the others.â
By the look on Tomâs face, he seemed to be telling the truth, so sure of himself and what he had spoken to you. Of course he was. Tom would never lie to you. He did earlier today, but that was because he knew youâd be too stubborn to listen then. Again, an example of how well he knew you.
Another roll of thunder swallowed your words.
You closed the final, treacherous inch between you and collided into him like a supernova, fingers fisting into the fabric of his robes, pressing yourself against his chest as though proximity alone could steady the storm inside you. Your arms wound around his waist, clutching him tightly as though he might vanish into a black hole.
Tom went rigid beneath your touch.
A subtle tension rippled through him as if your unrestrained contact took him by surprise. But it was gone almost instantly. His arms came around you with one hand settled at your lower back, the other sliding possessively at your nape, fingers threading lightly into your hair.
You melted into his burning touch. His hands felt like a furnace on a cold night. You took advantage of the situation, inhaling the scent off his clean clothes. And God, he was the best thing you ever smelt â better than chocolate. Better than the ones he had given you that tasted sweeter with every bite you took. You wondered if Tomâs lips tasted the same.
âI thought I didnât need anyone,â you continued, your voice breaking as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. âBut when I left you this morning, i-it felt like I couldnât breathe.â Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his back. âIt felt like something was crushing my chest.â
Tomâs hand at your neck flexed with subtle pressure, guiding you closer. His chin lowered slightly â so tall, so tall â resting against the crown of your head. He did not hush you. He only listened. Oh, Tom. He was perfect in every way.
âDid it?â He murmured softly in return, voice near you ear. His thumb brushed upward along your spine in a slow, absent movement. Safe. You felt safe in his arms. You only nodded against him hysterically, fingers clutching at his robes, wrinkling the immaculate fabric.
Tomâs gaze lifted to the stormy, dark horizon in the background as you spoke into his chest. He had known you would come. The amount of love potion he put into the chocolates were enough to tilt you gently in the direction you were meant to face. Toward him.
âI couldnât focus. I couldnât think. I kept seeing you. And I realizedâŚâ Your breath hitched. âI realized I canât be without you. I donât want to be. I need you,â you finally confessed, cheeks hot, fisting his shirt. The words trembled as they came out of you, but they were certain. You were afraid for him to leave you, to be alone.
âI need you like I need air, Tom.â
The wind howled faintly around the tower, tugging at your hair and at his cloak with fiercer ferocity. The storm clapped mercilessly above, rain starting to pouring heavily into the balcony which you both stood near at an angle. Tom stepped closer inside to avoid being hit much by it, leading you backwards with him.
You barely noticed, eyes locked on his face like you couldnât look away; entranced.
Tom tilted your chin up with two fingers. You looked at him through tear blurred vision, cheeks flushed, lashes wet, lips parted and wobbly. Devotion was written plainly across your face. Worship and unwavering loyalty. Tomâs gaze swept over you slowly, drinking you in. He couldnât help but swallow, pale throat bobbing.
Perfect. You were⌠perfect like this.
âYou want me? You need me?â He repeated very quietly, voice raspy as he cupped your cheek. It sounded like gospel to your ears. You leaned into his hand. Honestly, you could hear Tom speak all day. You almost hated yourself for having to respond because he went silent just to hear you. But Tom wanted you to talk to him, and you would do anything to make him happy.
âYes,â you gasped, your response immediate and absolute.
Tomâs thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the edge of a tear as he collected it onto his finger. He examined the moisture on his skin briefly before letting his hand fall.
âI donât give my attention lightly,â Tom hummed. âYou know that.â
âI know.â
âAnd when I decide something belongs to meâŚâ His eyes held yours, unblinking. You inhaled sharply. âI do not let it go easily.â
A shiver ran down your spine.
âI donât want you to,â you whispered.
Tomâs hand slid from your jaw to the curve of your waist, fingers spreading there as though testing the shape of you, claiming you. You leaned into him further. He drew you impossibly closer than that, your body pressed against his fully now. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. It wasnât beating erratically like yours.
Your fingers slid higher along his chest, curling near his collar. He doesnât stop you.
âI want you.â
The statement hung in the air as Tom simply looked down at you.
âYou have me,â Tom said at last, and your heart swelled painfully at that. He understood. He always understood. You buried your face against his chest again, tears barely dampening the front of his rain soaked clothes. His hand moved to the back of your neck once more.
âAnd you wonât run again,â he murmured, and it sounded like seduction.
âNo.â
His thumb pressed lightly at the base of your throat, just enough to feel the frantic pulse there, tilting your head back up ever so slightly to meet his eyes.
âSay it.â
You swallowed, and he felt it against his finger. You were completely vulnerable in this position. And yet, your breath shook wildly, eyes dilated.
âI wonât run from you.â
The faintest hum left him, almost content.
âGood girl.â
Your breath hitched at the praise. Good girl. You wanted to hear it again and again until it was etched into your bones. Your lips parted instinctively as if asking for more without words. Lightning flashed again, closer now. The harsh breeze mauled at your damp hair, whipping it across your face again. He reached up and smoothed it back with unsettling gentleness.
âYou belong with me,â you practically begged. âDonât you see? I belong with you.â
âI was hoping,â he started carefully, pausing to look over your expression, âthat you would come to that conclusion on your own.â
Your heart seized at that. He had believed in you. He had waited.
âI love you,â you hiccuped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.
Silence followed. Droplets of rain striked the stone around you.
âYou couldnât live without me?â Tom asked.
You shook your head helplessly, enamored with him and hanging onto his every word.
âNo.â
A faint exhale left him â almost a laugh, but not quite. For all his contempt of love potions, Tom could not deny their elegance.
He had always despised them â weak little instruments for those too pathetic to command any type of devotion on their own merit. The irony of his own conception had burned that hatred into him early. A foolish girl from a crumbling line, infatuated with a filthy Muggle, desperate enough to drug him into counterfeit affection. A love potion slipped into a drink. A Muggle man ensnared. And from that humiliating farce â him. His mother had begged for love. And when it slipped through her fingers, she had withered.
Lord Voldemort would never wither.
Lord Voldemort would never be weak.
He would never beg a filthy Muggle to stay. He would never cling to someone who did not choose him freely. He would never lose control of himself the way his mother had. Tom did not feed you this potion because he lacked control over you. He brewed it because power â which was neither good nor evil â meant using every bit of magic available.
Tom Riddle was nothing like his stupid mother.
Merope had dosed Tom Riddle Sr because she feared he would leave. Tom had dosed you because you would not have the good sense to stay. Because you were stubborn in that infuriatingly, principled way. Because you required⌠encouragement.
And now?
His hand tightened subtly at your nape, thumb pressing into the pulse at your neck just beneath your skin as if testing it. You trembled for him. You burned for him. You had run through the castle, abandoned dignity, abandoned sense, abandoned warmth â because you needed him.
A memory flickered through his mind.
It would be months ago from now. He had not meant to linger in that aisle longer than necessary, running a simple errand for a professor before he heard his name. Now, Tom was by far not an uncommon name, he admitted to himself with bitterness. But, he recognized the voice. Out of pure instinct, he peeked through the shelves, curious and silent, gaze sharp through the narrow, emptied out spaces between spines of ancient books in the castle library.
Tom saw one of the girls who he had turned down the day before. Clearly, she was not as okay with it as she had pretended to be and would gladly tear him apart for sport in front of her pathetic friends. Not that he cared about such trivial matters. The concept of love was the least of his concerns. He knew what to expect. Tom could read people like an open book. Resentment and hurt; he had grown accustomed to nurturing it in others every time he said the word no.
But then, he heard you.
Defending him.
You hadnât known he was listening. You had no idea he stood on the other side of that shelf, watching you. You had simply said what you believed to be true. That he owed no one his affection. That boundaries were not arrogance. You had sounded sincere, not a single trace of want in your tone.
It had stuck with him.
At first, he assumed it was typical teenage girl pettiness. A little rivalry using a clever remark to wound another for competition⌠until he realized you never once looked at him in class or in corridors. You did not smile at him shyly. You did not linger near in hopes of getting his attention. You did not even seem to care that he existed.
It wasnât always obsession.
That was when curiosity took root.
Then, curiosity became irritation.
Tom Riddle was accustomed to being watched. To the whispers. To the desire and lust in other peopleâs eyes. But you â infuriatingly â refused to orbit him. Never preened. Never sought him out. You rejected boys without hesitation, as if their offers were minor inconveniences. Including Tom too, apparently.
What did you want, then? What standard did you hold that so many failed to reach? He couldnât figure you out as easily as anyone else. And ironically, Tom Riddle hated riddles.
After closely watching you for months, he had figured out plenty about you. You lived quietly, guarding your privacy like treasure. You liked silence, he did too. But not the eerie kind like Tom did. You preferred the type that consisted of at least some natural noise. You disliked spectacles, stiffening at anything that would draw attention to you. Like him, you valued control. In some ways, you and him were not so different.
You tucked your hair behind your ear when irritated. You frowned faintly when concentrating, a look heâs seen many times when you never noticed him staring right at you. You were kind. Tom first saw it in the way you protected his name in conversations that did not concern you and he hasnât forgotten it since.
And then, there was the chocolate â always white chocolate. It was your weakness. He had catalogued it months ago, when you unwrapped one absentmindedly. The faint smile you wore when you thought no one was looking, how you so easily lost yourself in it, brain going numb â the sight made him hungry in a way he never was growing up as a poor orphan. It made him want to ravish you where you stood. He had been looking. He was always looking at you. And you were blissfully unaware.
Tom had known you would eat what he gave you. Your sweet tooth was abominable. How could something so simple bring you so much joy? You lacked restraint when it came to sugar. He had measured the dosage of Amortentia carefully â enough to turn the tide of your stubbornness, not enough to dull your mind completely. He did not want a puppet. He wanted something that felt real, that sounded real â as real as a love potion can get.
Tom had given you the illusion of choice; in a manner of speaking. And when you still rejected him in the courtyard â just as part of him knew you would â cold fury had flared inside him, bright and violent, beneath his composed exterior. You had dared to believe there was someone better suited to you than him? How dare you find him insufficient? Who could possibly surpass him?
No one.
No one would have you.
He had orchestrated every detail to make you comfortable.
And still, you said no.
How ungrateful you were.
He had even planted the seed with Slughorn weeks before, during a late Slug Club gathering. It was a casual suggestion, an offhand remark about the curriculum timing what with Valentineâs Day approaching. Wouldnât it be amusing to align love potions with the season? Slughorn had beamed at the brilliance of it, utterly unaware he had been maneuvered.
The pieces had arranged themselves beautifully. As they always did, the stars shone in his name â for he was the universeâs favorite. Everything would work out for Lord Voldemort in the end.
As you clung to him now, pliant, Tom felt no guilt. Only confirmation that you were not like the others â he had been right about that from the beginning. You had defended him when you owed him nothing. You had shown him something dangerously close to loyalty before he had even asked for it.
And loyalty deserved to rewarded.
In all honesty, your trust had always been your flaw. You defended him when you did not know him. You believed in goodness where others would not. You believed in him.
You were too good for your own good.
And goodness, in this world, required protection. He would be that protection. Deep down, even a god like him craved to be seen as a man from time to time. So, you would love him like one. Tom would show you how. And you would never stop.
Tomâs lips crashed onto yours with bruising force, a hand fisting in your damp hair. Deep and claiming, his tongue swept into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. Like heâd been starving for weeks, months, years. Like this was his first taste of life and death all at once. You gasped against him, overwhelmed â and Tom took the opportunity by deepening the kiss, your body arching instinctively into his chest, a hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.
He backed you against the stone walls of the Astronomy tower, thigh nudged between yours, pressure settling exactly where heat pooled most desperately. You whimpered, a broken sound swallowed by another searing kiss.
Tomâs hands were everywhere â rough, impatient, possessive. He shoved your skirt up past your hips without breaking the kiss, wand calloused fingers dragging over bare skin before finding your panties soaked with slick. He growled into your mouth at the feeling. A dark, satisfied sound that made you even wetter.
Tom didnât let up, your whimpers going straight to his groin. He fed off every breathless sound you made, every tremble that ran through your frame at his touch. When he finally pulled back an inch, his brown eyes burned down at yours, flashing red almost. They were feral.
âSo wet,â he rasped against your lips, tone thick with something between disbelief and satisfaction with you. âFor me?â
You could only nod frantically as his thumb circled once over swollen flesh like a loving caress one would absentmindedly give an animal, a slow tease, before taking them away. Before you could complain however, without warning, Tom dropped to his knees before you on those cold stone floors drenched by windblown rainwater pooling near your feet and gently pushed up your soaked skirt once more. The second his cold, powerful fingers brushed your inner thigh, you shivered.
Tom looked up at you through dark lashes. Droplets of rain streaked down his pale face. His hands were steady, skillfulâ too calm for a prodigy that was about to do something so filthy on a magical tower where anyone could find them.
But then again, Tom had never cared about rules when it came to getting what he wanted.
And right now?
He wanted you.
With deliberate slowness, torturous, he hooked one long finger under your soaked panties before he pulled them aside. A cool gust of wind swept over your exposed heat just as his warm breath ghosted across sensitive skin. A soft gasp left your throat at the sensation before your lips parted further in surprise.
Tom had licked once â a long, slow drag straight up your slit â and groaned like it was honey on his tongue, the sound making you clench around nothing. He was starting to understand why you lost control of yourself when it came to sweet things.
All you could focus on was the mouth suddenly sealing over your core like a man possessed. His tongue worked in ruthless circles, relentless and straight to the point, plunging inside before licking back up again with just the right pressure to make your knees buckle.
You cried out, a high pitched and desperate sound as one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against damp stone wall behind you. You wanted him. You wanted all of him. Anything heâd give you, youâd take in a heartbeat. The wind continued to howl around you, drowning out your noises, rain slashing sideways onto your faces â but neither of you cared.
All that existed was Tomâs mouth devouring you like ripe fruit offered to a god â the wet sounds obscene as he sucked at your clit between sharp nips of his teeth â a low growl vibrating from his chest and against your folds, sending shocks through the sensitive flesh every time another whimper escaped your lips.
Everything about this was borderline animalistic, something you never expected from Tom.
Tom.
Tom.
âTom, Tom, Tomâ!â
Your voice was a broken melody as you worshipped his name like it was the only word left in your world, dazed and drunk from the love potionâs magic. He was the only thought in your head. It confused you how you could love someone so much so suddenly. But you guess thatâs what it meant to love someone so great. Each utterance of his name dripped with reverence, laced with the love potionâs haze and raw pleasure as his tongue worked magic between your thighs. And though he despised that name â Tom Marvolo Riddle â hearing it fall from your lips like this? Like you were praying to him?
It undid something in him. Tom reveled in it.
His eyes stayed locked on yours even as he feasted on you, dark pools of hunger and possession flashing with each clap of lightning outside. Rain slicked every inch of his face. His cheeks dusted faintly pink from exertion â but it hadnât compared to how utterly wrecked you looked above him.
Fingers tightening further at your hip while the other curled under your thigh, lifting it effortlessly so he had a better angle. Tom was relentless. Every lick, every suck â each one was born to ruin you. His tongue dragged up your slick folds with agonizing slowness, the tip playing with your tiny clit just enough to make you whimper before pulling away completely and doing it again. And again; like he had all night.
It was just them, like it was always meant to be â the breeze whooshing around their bodies that were pressed together â and Tom was worshipping at the altar of your cunt like it truly was sacred ground only meant for him.
Tom groaned against you when you ground down harder onto his mouth, hips rocking helplessly as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. One hand shot out instinctively to brace against his shoulder while the other still clung desperately to his hair â pushing his face deeper without meaning to.
The vibrations of another low growl rumbled through his lips straight into your throbbing bundle of nerves. You were so close, rutting against his pretty face in tandem.
âTom,â you whined pitifully. Tom knew. He always knew.
He could feel it, from the way your thighs tensed to how your breaths turned into frantic little gasps that dissolved into moans. From the moment you tilted your head back, baring that delicate throat to the sky, breaking eye contact with him although he knew it pained you to do so. Because all you ever wanted to do was look at him now.
Without breaking rhythm, his tongue circled your clit while two fingers suddenly pushed inside you without warning, long and deft, finding that spongy spot deep within instantly, filling you up deliciously.
âTomâ oh! Oh Godââ
Tom smirked up at you. Your back arched off the wall while thighs shook around his invading hand. It burned, stretched you too fast â but god it was good, especially when Tom curled them upwards just right. He sucked hard on your puffy little nub and the combination of everything all at once was too much.
A scream tore from your throat, his name ripping out of you in a sob as the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You didnât even recognize your own voice.
Your back arched violently off the wall. Your hips jerked against Tomâs mouth and fingers like a delightful seizure as pleasure washed through every nerve ending in your body. You could see it behind closed eyelids â flashes of light, stars bursting across your vision just like heâd promised.
Tom didnât stop.
He let you ride out your high, feeling every pulse of your pussy as you clenched tightly around his fingers, slurping gently now to prolong it while his digits kept pumping inside you at an achingly slow pace meant to wring every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling body. You let out a shaky breath, hands carding through Tomâs wet strands endearingly, the wet look making him look even more attractive.
From the rain or your juices, you didnât know. All you could do was gasp for air and whisper his name again between shuddering gasps as Tom kept going until the last tremor had faded from your body, ignoring the strain in his trousers for now.
Only then did he finally pull his fingers free with a wet pop â lifting them to his lips and licking every drop of you clean without breaking eye contact. Your cheeks grew hotter, eyes glassy and dazed as you peered down at him, pupils dilated and practically the shape of hearts. His expression was pure sin, dark eyes heavy lidded and mouth glistening with your slick and cum.
âDelicious.â
You were still slumped against the wall, legs weak and breath ragged, completely wrecked.
But Tom was far from done with you.
In one fluid motion, he stood up â towering over you again before he yanked off his soaked cloak in one impatient tug. The fabric hit the wet floor with a heavy splash as rain dripped down every sculpted inch of him. His thick cock already painfully hard beneath his pants. Your gaze devoured him, tracking his bulge specifically as he begins to unbuckle his belt without breaking eye contact.
You barely had time to acknowledge how your back ended up on the cold stone floor, or how your clothing now lay torn in shreds, exposing your entire body to him â Tom looming over you like a predator about to claim its prize. His eyes looked wild and free. Your heart skipped a beat.
The cold stone bit into your bare skin but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of Tomâs body when he blanketed yours, even when his clothes were soaked and you lay entirely bare in contrast before him. Rain pounded down harsher than before as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock, his beautiful cock already glistening at the tip from precum, pulled out from between his zipper. It tapped against your soaked entrance before circling it almost teasingly. You donât remember seeing him taking it out.
One hand gripped your hip tight while the other braced beside your head. Tomâs breath came ragged now too, control fraying at every second spent not inside you.
Tom didnât give you time to overthink as his hand guided himself between your slick folds already swollen from his earlier attention. His mushroom tip pressed hot and heavy against your hole and you clenched involuntarily, eager to suck him in. It leaked precum onto your sensitive skin. So close. You could feel how big he was, thicker than your wrist, longer than expected â and a pit grew in your gut before it went away like it had never existed.
âBreathe,â he murmured, not unkindly. He must have sensed you were nervous. But, Tom was also impatient as he proceeded to press the tip inside without warning.
As his cock pushed in, stretching you impossibly wide â a groan, deep and guttural, was wrenched from his throat. You were tight. So tight it nearly stole his breath.
âMmnnââ
You whimpered at the burn. Every inch of him was slowly sheathing itself in your slick heat, gooey walls fluttering around him like a heartbeat. Virgin cunt untouched until now. Until him.
His glorious cock speared into you further like a divine sword until he bottomed out inside you fully. Full. Your lips parted in a silent scream, brows furrowed and eyes fluttered shut. You never felt this good, this full, even though it stung a little in comparison, when you ate chocolate.
You were delirious, lost in your head. On top of you, Tom didnât move again right away.
Couldnât.
Just braced above you with trembling arms, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin, drawing a hiss that sounded unnatural for a human to make but it made you clench around him all the same. His forehead pressed to yours as rain dripped from his face onto yours like holy water. His hips twitched involuntarily â a shallow grind that dragged a whimper from your lips.
Then slowly. So. Fucking. Slowly. He pulled back, your head tilting as your eyes rolled back to your skull, toes curling, until just the tip remained before pressing in again.
Thunder and lightning clapped in your ears, splitting the sky in jagged bursts that lit your upturned face for a few seconds. The world above was chaos, black storm clouds swallowing the sky as the heavens raged. Rain hammered down mercilessly, turning the stone floor beneath you into a slick mirror. Your soaked hair splayed across the stone floor like a halo.
You stared up at that upside down horizon with hazy eyes, each thrust from Tom rocking your head back further against wet rock as he rutted into you.
And yet, all you could think about were those stars that you saw behind closed lids whenever pleasure crested too high â the ones only he had shown you.
You smiled dreamily.
Tom was right.
You had seen the stars tonight.
And they were beautiful.
KINKTOBER 2025 | ęąá´á´á´ĘĘá´á´Ęá´Ę!á´á´á´ x ę°!Ęá´á´á´ á´Ę
đ SWEET AND OBEDIENT.
SUMMARY: you thought sneaking out to go to a party would be easy when your parents werenât homeâbut Tom had different plans for your night.
WARNINGS: 18+ only, MDNI. NONCON, questionable plot tbh, drugging, choking, he refers to himself as your brother, slutshaming, unprotected p in v, creampie, this is the most fucked up fic Iâve ever written. never doing this again.
AUTHORâS NOTE: this is really short and really messed up, I might just delete this later đ
wordcount: 2,1k
!!! MIND THE WARNINGS BEFORE READING. IF ANY OF THEM MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT PROCEED. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION. !!!
He had told you not to go. Told you to stay home just like your parents ordered you to after youâd begged them for weeks to let you go to a house party close to you. They said noâand of course, their decision was final, as always.
You were tired of it. After all, you were an adult who could make their own decisionsâyou just happened to live at your parentsâ house.Â
And you certainly did not buy that one expensive dress youâd been hiding at the back of your wardrobe for nothing either.
It played into your cards just right when a close family member called for an emergency the evening of the party and you were left by yourselfâif there wasnât Tom.
Although he liked to order you around the same way your parents did, he did not hold any authority over you. You simply wouldnât listen to his threatsânot when you applied your dark red lipstick and he burst into your room, nor when he scoffed as he scanned your form.
Half-naked in his eyes. When did you even buy that dress? The flimsy material barely reached over the curve of your ass, and if you bent over just a littleâ God, your tits too would spill over the low cut at the front.
If he had seen it earlier, itâd have long disappeared.
âDonât you dare go. You heard what dad said, yeah?â Tomâs voice echoed from the doorframe he was leaning against, watching you hastily apply your makeup.
You didnât spare him a glance as you repeatedly dipped your brush into your expensive setting powder and evenly applied it on your face. âI am going. End of discussion. You donât get to tell me what to do.â
Silence stretched before he answered.
âLeave that damn house and watch what happens. I will know, trust me.â he said, tone sharp and close to threateningâbut to your surprise, he didnât even wait for a reply. Didnât bother you any further, didnât comment on what you were wearing for onceâjust left.
You inhaled a relieved breath and sank back against your chair, watching yourself in the reflection of your makeup vanityâa victorious smile creeping onto your face.
Youâd be attending, definitelyâand nobody was going to stop you.
ăťăťăťăťăť
A car coming to a halt in your driveway, engine left running, caught Tomâs attention as he was skimming through one of his textbooks, sitting at his work desk in his room.
He rose from his seat, lifted the blinds with his finger and peeked outsideâand to his surprise, or notâhe saw you. Almost stumbling over your own feet due to the heels you wore, dress slipping up so far it revealed half of your ass in the same motion.Â
His gaze drifted to the driverâs seat as soon as you adjusted the fabricâeyes narrowing at the sight.
Even in just the dim glow of the streetlight, it was apparent that not one of your friends was drivingâinstead it was a guy, someone from your former school he had last seen years ago.
Tom caught his wandering eyes when you got into the car, drinking in your body with hungry eyes he could recognize from miles away.
And when youâd barely shut the door, he didnât waste a second before driving offâengine roaring in the distance and splitting through the silence of the night.
But thisâthis was not how this night would play out for you. If you didnât believe in your parentsâ worries, he figured heâd just have to show you what happens to girls who sneak out of the house to go to parties they have no business attending.
ăťăťăťăťăť
Tom arrived an hour and a half later, perhapsâalready regretting his decision to wear one of his expensive pairs of dress shoes when he stepped into a puddle of spilled whiskey barely inside the house.
The air surrounding him as soon as the door closed was nothing less than sickening. It reeked of alcohol, sweat and whatever drugs these people could get their hands onâclouds of smoke stuck to his clothes, a smell he knew he wouldnât get out of the fabric even after three consecutive washes.
Heâd let you take care of that, thoughâafter he took care of you.
Finding you wasnât necessarily difficult. Loud giggles he recognized all too well led him straight to you, a cocktail in your hand as you leaned onto the very guy whoâd picked you up.
Tomâs jaw tightened, and heâd have preferred to tear you from his side a second sooner rather than laterâbut heâd have to play smart and wait for the right moment to strike.
He knew you wouldnât come back home with him that easilyâor not at all. You never listened to him. But still, it was his duty to look after you when nobody else was home.Â
So, who was he to blame if he used a little help to get you to comply?
His fingers played with the tiny flask heâd taken with him in his pocket as he watched you being pulled onto the dance floor by one of your friends.Â
Tom hated how you always sought after the centre of attention, how you were able to do so with irritating easeâbut what he hated most were the prying eyes leering at you from all sides. Especially those who followed your every move when your dress hitched up high enough to reveal the lace of your panties.
And how you failed to see it. The danger looming in their eyesâlike a predator stalking its prey.
You were lucky to have your big brother looking after youâeven if you didnât want to believe it.
Tom quietly made his way over to your abandoned cocktail left on one of the bar tables, pulling forward his solution to your overconfidence.
One to give a slight headache.
Two to make your ears thrum.
Three to make you dizzy.
Four to make your vision blur.
Five to relax your muscles and slow your reaction time.
Six to cause extreme tiredness.
Seven to put you to sleep.
Five drops would do, Tom figuredâhe wanted you compliant, not passed out, after all.
He managed to disappear right before the song ended. Watched as you laughed, tipsily returned to your drink and took the first sip.
In your drunken state you did not taste the slight difference, how your sweet cocktail had a bitter aftertaste to it or how it left a tingly feeling on your tongue. None of it mattered to youâif anything, it gave you an energy boost.
Shortly.
Approximately twenty minutes after you finished your drink, a rather strange feeling spread throughout your body. Suddenly, you felt hot all over and extremely exhaustedâbut not the usual kind you felt after many consecutive songs on the dance floor. A feeling so strong, not even a big cup of coffee or a vodka tonic could cure.
What you craved was a bed, sleep, or a shoulder to lean onâ preferablyâ
Tomâs?
You werenât sure why he was here, why he was arguing with your best friendâs brother to let you leave with himâbut you didnât complain. You couldnât complain if you wanted toâears ringing, vision blurry and his voice distorted as though you were trapped in a vast forest and only the echo of him reached you.
The last thing you remember is him tugging you along and letting you drop into the passenger seat of his black Mercedes. Thenâyour vision went dark, and you slumped back against the seat.
Unaware of what would await you once youâd wake.
It wasnât his faultâit was yours. For testing him, for defying his orders, forâ fuckâ for dressing this way and letting everyone see it.
It wasnât his fault that your dress had slipped up so far once he had you inside the house, nothing was left to his imagination either. And neither was it his fault that you sounded so sweet when you mumbled his name and weakly clung to his shoulders when you almost stumbled over a pair of your many pairs of shoes youâd left splattered across the floor.
Youâd been testing him too long. Asking to go back to the party after he helped take off your heels, kicking him in his shins when he said no.
He would teach you manners just right.
ăťăťăťăťăť
You werenât entirely sure where you wereâbut you faintly registered the smell of your motherâs perfume, your dadâs cologne, and beneath you the softness of silk sheets.
When your eyes slowly blinked open, your vision was blurry, conveying a distorted image of Tom. A Tom whose dark brown eyes locked onto yours as soon as he saw you come to your senses, his hand around your throat pinning you to the hard mattress beneath you.
Then, although slowly, you felt him move above you. You felt a dull ache between your thighs which only grew when the thick fog wrapped around your mind began to fade, and it became a stabbing sensation rather than a mild pain.
âTom? Whatââ you croaked, your fingers tightening around his wrist as you struggled to free yourself from his grasp. At that, his grip only strengthened, nearly cutting off your airflow entirely.
âShh. Go back to sleep.â he murmured, hovering over youâbut at that point you were too awake, too conscious to close your eyes again. Especially not when realisation dawned upon you and you felt what was happening, your brain finally connecting the dots between the pain and the sight before you.
âN-noâ what are you doing?â You tried wriggling yourself free, though your strength was limited, and your muscles soon protested beneath his holdâhis fingers digging into your flesh so roughly, you felt bruises blooming beneath your skin.
âThat hurts, Tomâ youâre hurting me,â you whimpered, teary eyes meeting his own in the faint light the lamp on the nightstand cast on the both of you.
It didnât stop him, thoughâif anything, he became rougher with you.
âThis is what happens to girls who donât listen to their big brother. They get hurt.â
The next minutes faded into a blur, moments where you vaguely remembered what happened, and also the oppositeâseconds you had such vivid memories of, you were sure you wouldnât ever forget them.
Tom loved when your eyes fluttered closed and you relaxed around him, when you for once were sweet and obedient. He loved your small whimpers when he thrust deep and your weak grip around his wrist.
âDressed like this and still complaining,â Tom rasped, dark curls falling over his sweat-damp forehead as he chased his pleasure in your compliant, slick walls.
âIf anything, you should be grateful itâs me who got you first. This could have been anyoneâand yet, itâs your brother. You feel safe with me, donât you?â
Yes, yes of course you did, butâ
âY-yes,â you slurred, reluctantly giving in to him. âI do, butââ
Good.
âI always took good care of you, didnât I?â Tom continued, one hand on your hip making sure you stayed in place even when he slammed into you, your entire body rocking forward.
And with one final, sharp thrust, he spilled himself inside of youâwarmth flooding you, mixing with your own arousal.
You didnât notice heâd finishedânot until he withdrew from your cunt, and you whimpered in protest, combined slick trickling down your swollen folds.
âT-Thank you, Tommy.â you murmured, sniffling. He momentarily froze in place as he got dressed, his gaze wandering to your spent body. âFor picking me up when I felt bad. You always know whatâsâ whatâs best for me.â
Tom merely scoffed under his breath, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sly smirk when he caught sight of the soaked fabric beneath you.
âLook at the mess you made. Go and change the bedsheets. Theyâre going to be back in less than half an hour.â
You barely even registered his wordsâonly when heâd long shut the door behind him did you realise who âtheyâ were he was talking about.
Your parents.
Fuck.
With unsteady, trembling legs, you lifted yourself from their bed, thighs slick with the shame of his release. You retrieved new bedcovers from the closet, taking nearly double the time to put them on before you stumbled up the stairs.
Barely in your room, you caught the sound of the front door creaking openâthe last memory before dozing off in your own bed, your expensive dress stained, seam torn in some places.
And the next day, when you woke somewhere in the late afternoon, every memory after Tom picking you up from a party you clearly shouldnât have attended had vanished.
Next time, youâd listen to your big brother.
He always knew what was best for you, after all.
thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 â masterlist. | kinktober.
Š2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.
đ¤ friends - theodore nott đ¤ mdni. just the tip. making out. masturbation. vodka redbull. not edited - 1k.
Youâre friends. Just friends. Best friends, actually.
Best friends who every now and again, when youâve had a few one too many drinks after parties in the astronomy tower that you swore black and blue that youâd never attend, like to kiss. Itâs just kissing, right? A couple of pecks on the lips while you whisper goodnight to one another after he walks you back to your dorm on late nights where youâll fall asleep next to your boyfriend and heâll go off into his own little safe haven to tug one out over the thought of you. Whatâs the harm, right? Kisses are nothing.
But tonight, the kisses have turned a little more heated and now youâre on your bed. Well, actually; Theodoreâs on your bed - back firm against the mattress, you perched up over him; straddling his lap like itâs a perfectly normal place for you to be comfortable in. Your tongue slips in past his lips, ready to devour him. Heâd mentioned earlier during the night that heâd eaten a girl out so well during a game of seven minutes in heaven that he could still taste her. Mhmm, you think you might also.
He runs his hands down your sides to your thighs, flicking up beneath the fabric of your skirt to rest on your plump ass and digs his fingers into the soft flesh your panties cover, urging you to rock your hips. Okay, grinding - yeah, nothing wrong with that. Itâs just a step up from kissing. Something totally normal. Absolutely something that best friends would do. Oh god, does it feel fucking good. Like so good. Your thighs begin to warm. Itâs just his jeans yeah? The friction. It has to be. Warm, rough; hard.
Hard.
Holy shit, heâs hard, and all you can think about is how this is all now just too much. Too much desire coursing through your veins. Too much fabric separating the two of you from each other. This would feel better without the extra layers on. The denim Theodore is wearing is really, really in the way. Inconvenient. Your hands fall from his face; one that was cupping his cheek, the other knotted into his hair and expertly fumble with his belt buckle to assist him in undoing it. Not that youâve practiced this move on your boyfriend before while thinking of Theo instead.
He takes the hint; zipper undone and jeans pushed down so itâs just his boxers and your panties caught in a heated friction against one another. Theodore breaks the kiss; head tilting back as a groan escapes him, and you nip at the crook of his neck, savouring the salt on his skin. With how youâre rolling your hips against his hardened length, his boxers shift, cock springing up to hit his stomach and oohh, the tip is glistening. Beads of precum oh so pretty, that you consider for a moment dropping your head down to lick.
âTheoâŚâ
His name comes out as a whimper from the back of your throat and you begin to wonder what his cock would feel like⌠â skin against skin. Itâs innocent enough right? The thought. Itâs not like youâre fucking. Itâs not cheating. You love your boyfriend but god, Theodore right now just feels so god damn good so you reach down and pull the dampened fabric which covers your core to one side so that you can feel his cock slide between your folds. Amazing. Youâre beginning to see stars burst from behind your eyes.
âBaby?â âYeahâ.â
Your clits sensitive. He can tell from the way your expression shifts from at peace to confused and how your lips quiver as you try to speak but the words youâre thinking die at the graveyard on the back of your tongue. Theo rocks against you harder; hips lifting off the bed as his tip catches your entrance. You let out a yelp; not because it hurts but because youâre well and truly crossing the line now, right?
Technically - youâre not fucking; but it makes you freeze anyway; questioning your morals for a split second. Before you have time to sort your thoughts out, Theodoreâs flipped you over so that youâre now beneath him; caged in by his body feeling warm and secure and sultry.
âPlease..â
It isnât a question, Theoâs begging. How unusual. Youâre actually considering it.
âJust the tip..â
Friendships are about communication. And compromise. The two of you right now have seemingly executed both.
Theo reaches down between your bodies but not before spitting into the palm of his hand and lining up his cock at your entrance.
âJust the tip, just the tip, just the tip â.â
He repeats the restrictions you gave him like a prayer. Tip dragging warm between your folds; he settles the head of his cock a half inch in and instead of thrusting in, he pumps his length; teasing you. You glance down, watching as he masturbates to the thought of you, into you. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth and you bite down at first just enough to colour the flesh a pretty cherry red before hard enough that you almost draw blood.
It feels good. You want more. But you know that the two of you shouldnât. Friends donât fuck friends.
They just⌠â release a load into them.
Warm. Sticky. You want to wrap your legs around his back and trap him but donât.
Not because you canât but because thereâs no time.
His cum is dripping down the inside of your thighs; staining your sheets and the way the shadows and lights which filter through your dorm room window hit Theodoreâs face make him look like a fucking angel. He rolls off of you and stares up at the ceiling. So do you. Thereâs no way that just happened right? Thereâs no way that your best friend just came in you.
Youâre just friends. You know him better than to presume heâd be a saint.
Heâs a sinner. You've heard his stories.
Maybe next time; when your boyfriend isnât around and Theo just happens to offer to walk you home.. youâll let him stick it in you.
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đ¤ best friends- theodore nott đ¤
mdni. masturbation. p in v. cheating. not edited (its 3.06am, i'm sorry!) strawberry daiquiri. not edited - 1.7k.
find part one here.
Youâre friends. Just friends. Best friends.
Friends who made an honest, simple mistake. Just once. It was an accident. Right?
Or at least, thatâs what you tell yourself; the lie that youâll happily choke on until the day you die as you strip away the sheets off your bed to change them â the inside of your thighs still sticky with whatâs left of Theodore inside you.
You both made a promise that it wouldnât happen again. Well, whatever âitâ as. It wasnât sex. No. well, not really. More of a slip up. A stupid lapse in judgement. A little âtoo muchâ heat of the moment. A blurred line in the middle of the night that neither of you had intended to cross.
When Theodoreâs eyes catch yours across the common room however, or when you feel his hand, warm; brushing against yours as the two of you pass in the corridor while heading towards classes â you think about it. That night. That blurred line. And when his tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip, his expression schooled not to darken when he hears your boyfriend say your name like it should be illegal to roll out of his mouth, you know that he thinks about it too. About you. About how you felt clenching around nothing while he spilled inside of you. About how perhaps â the two of you could navigate this little dance you were having into something more.
But youâre friends.
Friends who swore black and blue to each other that nothing would happen, again.
You lied. Oh, what a surprise.
The second time it happens, you donât even need the assistance of social lubrication. Thereâs absolutely no excuse for the behavioural pattern the two of you are about to fall into.
Youâre revising for exams. Just the two of you. After hours in an empty classroom; parchments and text books sprawled out across the desks. Itâs almost 7pm. You promised your boyfriend youâd head into town with him just after 8 for an early anniversary surprise. Youâd been thinking about it all day. Sort of. Your boyfriend in your fantasies had been replaced by your best friend. Fuck.
Theodore is twirling a quill lazily beside you as his eyes trace of the same paragraph of a textbook youâd read a few minutes earlier. God, he looks so fucking gorgeous â jaw sharp, hair a mess from how heâs run his fingers through it, forearms on display curtesy of rolled up sleeves which honestly just felt like a perk at this stage.
Youâre so smitten with your stolen glances, that you donât even notice when he slides his seat across a little closer to you. The legs of the chair had made a scraping sound against the stone floors, but you hadnât even registered it. Placing the quill down, Theodoreâs hand drops to land on your thigh beneath the desk and you donât stop it.
Itâs warm. Itâs attention. Why would you?
You should push him way. Honestly, thatâs the smart and sensible thing to do. When though, have you been either?
Instead, you part you legs like a bitch in head and invite his touch in against better judgement. Before you know it, youâre panting into his mouth hot and heavy as a single kiss turns into something animalistic. One of Theodoreâs hands has knotted into the back of your hair, keeping you still and exactly where he wants you to be, his other slipping beneath your skirt to rub soft circles against the dampened panties you were that are meant to be a boundary for modesty.
âFuck â youâre dripping. Is this all for me baby doll?â
Theodoreâs fingers donât bother wasting time as he lets them slip past your panties and slide between your slick folds earning a moan from you that he swallows without hesitation. Sinking two fingers in, they curl up sharp and perfect; hitting that spot which makes your hips jerk forward as his thumb begins to circle your clit ruthlessly. Your eyes clamp shut. Theodoreâs moves are steady; one of your hands finds its way to wrap around his wrist â both keeping it there as well as half pushing him away and your spare slaps over your mouth; trying to contain the melody of your whimpers as your thighs shake uncontrollably.
Theodore doesnât let up. This is fun. A game. He keeps the strokes going as you shamelessly grind on his hand, soaking his fingers, muffling desperate cries into your palm. He pulls his fingers out just before youâre done â chuckling maliciously at your pathetic state while lifting his fingers up to lick them clean with a smirk.
âTell me if your boy has ever made you fall apart like that. Bet he hasnât.â
You donât answer. You canât. Because heâs right. Motherfucker.
You call in a raincheck on your anniversary. An excuse of ânot feeling wellâ fake sobbed to your boyfriend so that you can buy enough time to rush off to your dorm and finish yourself off with your vibrator.
It spirals from there. Youâre done making excuses.
First, itâs the library, where he pins you hard up against the shelves by the runes section; teeth nipping at your throat, his cock straining hard up against your ass for friction while you bite your lip so hard it bleeds in an attempt to keep quiet.
Then, the common room. A party. Slytherin has won the last 3 consecutive quidditch matches and while everyone else in attendance is caught up in their own worlds, youâre perched up on Theodoreâs lap; looking the picture perfect essence of innocence while he slides his hand up the back of your skirt to hold your hip and have you grind slowly against his thigh as he continues his conversation with team mates about strategies for the next game.
The astronomy tower is where Theodore finally loses it. All patience, all control â shoving your panties aside and rutting his cock warm between your soaked folds until your arousal slicks his length until itâs gleaming. Instead of your own hand clamping over your mouth, itâs his to make sure that you donât scream as you bite one of his knuckles and he groans like an animal against your shoulder.
âFuck, baby â I love how wet you get for me.â
Never your name. Never something sweet. Just âbaby.â
Everywhere the two of you meet, itâs the same ritual lie you tell yourselves. Or a slight variation.
âJust this once.â âJust like this.â âJust until I cum.â
And letâs be honest â itâs never just.
Six weeks later is the night Theodore finally fucks you. For real. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Absolutely deliberate. Youâre back in your dorm room â for some reason, itâs always yours. He has you on your back, sheets twisted and clutched in your fingertips, Theodore hovering above you with his hair damp, falling in in face, bare chest heaving as he lines the head of his cock up where it belongs and a long time ago should have been.
The first push is slow. Glorious. It causes your back to arch off the bed. His cock drags your walls apart inch by inch deliciously, your cunt fluttering around him like it isnât sure whether to resist the pressure or beg for more.
Your breath hitches. Sharp. Needy. So does Theodoreâs. Not for the same reason.
It takes a few, short; gentle thrusts before heâs buried to the hilt, stretching you so wide you swear you might just break.
âFuck â look at you.â
Theodore is only able to groan again, this time; breathless, with no force behind the sound as he pulls halfway out only to slam himself in again. Your hands let go of the sheets; clawing at his shoulders instead. Your nails etched in hard enough that you draw blood to the skins surface.
The wet slaps echo throughout the dorm obscenely.
âSo tight â taking me so fucking good my girl.â
Theodore sets a rhythm; his snapping against yours â each and every thrust plucking a moan from the back of your throat. Your hands shift to his back, scoring red lines down it as he grinds deep, hitting a spot that your boyfriend never has which makes you see stars.
Your boyfriend. Oh. Him?
He hasnât even crossed your mind. You canât even think of his name right now. Not an issue â itâs Theodoreâs youâre screaming instead.
Over and over, throat raw, tears stinging your eyes and flooding your lashes.
Theodore watches you unravel beneath him; eyes storming dark, his lips parted to lick a finger and spell out his name on your clit over and over again until youâre convulsing around him, cumming so hard that your vision whites, until your gritting your teeth, until your expression turns to one of pain which he knows is just the ecstasy building up within your body that has been pleading for release.
âThatâs my girlâ, Theodore schools with a growl; head dropping to rest against your own. âSqueeze my cock baby. Fucking milk me.â
And then heâs gone. Not physically. The momentâs just expired.
Theodore falls apart above you. His cock twitching deep inside as he fills you; a heat flooding into you in messy pulses. He groans one last time into your mouth, devouring your whimpers like they begin to him â like theyâre payment for the service heâs just given you. When Theodore finally collapses beside you; youâre ruined â new sheets damp, thighs sticky once again, pussy throbbing and greedy for more.
You stare up at the ceiling. He half turns, rolling in towards you to press a soft kiss to your shoulder before panting out a few other obscenities while he catches his breath.
You should feel guilty. You should. Should. Thatâs the key word.
The only thought your head can muster up however is â âwhen can we do this again?â
Because thatâs the kind of girl you really are. And this is the kind of person you become when Theodoreâs around you.
Youâre friends. Best friends. Friends who canât keep their hands off of one another. Friends who fuck.
âŚ
âŚ.
âŚ..
âŚâŚ
And youâve stopped pretending that you donât want Theodore as much as it seems he also wants you.
what a crush is | oliver wood
fandom ; Harry Potter
summary ; The whole Gryffindor team thinks you, one of their friends, is a good luck charm. Why? Cause everytime you come to games, Gryffindor always win. Meanwhile, Oliver Wood is spiraling with thoughts of you.
pairing ; Oliver Wood x Reader
a / n ; hello guyssss guess whose backkkk â YES ITS MEEE!! sorry for being such a chud on my stories, college has been actively kicking me in the ass, but iâm almost done!
ALTERNATIVE TITLE ; oliver wood figures out what having a crush is like lmao
word count: 1.2k
Oliver Wood wasnât the type to deal with superstitions. He didnât like the fact many of his teammates did a special âritualâ before matches to hopefully win. He fully believed that if you played good, you were going to win matches.
Thatâs how itâs been all his life. If he wanted something to happen, he was going to have to work for it. He canât just say some words and hope for the best. This guy wanted results and he wanted them now.
Even when his teammates would drag him into their silly rituals, he wouldnât pay any care to them. He would play along then get his game face on and hop on his broom. Never in his life did he believe something could give him good luck.
That was until he met you.
You were his teammates friends; Fred and Georgeâs. He would always see you with them always doing something the three shouldnât be doing: pranks, coloring random students hair, anything.
At first, you wouldnât come to the Qudditch games. He reckon itâs because you have better things to do than see your peers flying around on broomsticks. The real reason? You were just too tired.
Oliver found out that you were tutoring some of the younger students at Hogwarts. You were a smart student, top of your classes, and you decided to share some of that smartness with the younger generation. Oliver admired you for that.
So, when you started coming to the games, Gryffindor won every single time. 10 second to the clock? Some miracle happened and Gryffindor wins by a long shot. One time, a chaser from the other house was about to grab the snitch, but Harry thankfully snatched it up in time.
At first, Oliver didnât think of you as a good luck charm. You were just somebody who started to show up to games every now and then. You were the teamâs biggest fan because most of your friends and your two best friends were on the team.
It wasnât until Angelina mentioned it.
âSheâs always there when we win, right?â Angelina asked, peaking from out of the Gryffindor tent into the Quidditch pitch, which currently held more than half of their house members for todayâs game.
Fred looked up from his gloves, âWho?â George peaked from behind Fred. âYeah, who?â He asked.
Alicia snorted, âYour best friend, duh.â The Weasley twins both gave Alicia a look, before playfully rolling their eyes, mumbling a few âoohhâ under their breaths.
Oliver was standing with Harry, who was fixing his glasses. He was trying his best to not eavesdrop, but the mention of you caught his interest. He never thought of it, but now that they mentioned it, it started to suddenly clicked.
âSheâs always there when we win, sheâs like ..our good luck charm ..or something.â Katie chimed in, causing the twins to laugh. Angelina and Alicia joined, finding the whole situation amusing.
âSheâs just a big supporter. Maybe she is our lucky charm.â
Oliver could just focus on the fact they called you the teamâs lucky charm, that is what stuck out to him. He didnât know why it had an effect on him, but he couldnât boast on the topic any longer â the game was about to start.
Though, as he was in the sky, his eyes scanning the crowd, he recognized a familiar face: yours. Your bright smile, the recognizable Gryffindor scarf wrapped around your neck, the familiar house flag in your hand waving in the air.
He wasnât one about superstition, so if they do win this match, then maybe just maybe he would believe the others, believe the others that you are in fact their lucky charm.
The funny part?
Everybody else was right.
He stood there in the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by everybody else celebrating their 9th win in a row. Fred and George were on some table, Harry was getting passed around by different people, Alicia and Angelina were jumping, and Katie looked more happier than ever.
They won, and all he could think about was what they said in the tent before. You. You were their lucky charm. Ever since you been coming to games back to back, theyâve been winning nonstop.
He first thinks you had something for it. Did you hex the other teamâs broom so they wonât play as good? That canât be. The professors are there keeping eye like hawks. Did you charm their brooms? Canât be that either. They kept the brooms with them on always, especially since Quidditch season started.
So what was exactly the reason?
It doesnât click in his mind, and heâs getting stressed about it. He should be celebrating, not worry about the fact he thinks you have something to do with them wining constantly.
Heâs the captain for Merlinâs sake. He canât be stressed about a simple thing. Maybe they are just that good? They have been practicing more and more, earlier and earlier. He put them quite literally through hell.
Or is it something else? Or â
âOliver?â
Oliver was taken out of his thoughts, bearing a familiar voice. He was met face to face with Harry and Ron, with Ron looking weirded out and Harry looked worried. âWhy do you look so stressed out?â Ron asked, crossing his arms across his chest.
âI-I ..â He was quite literally, at a loss for words. He gulped, straighten his back. He was starting to notice a lot of things now. He realized that some of his teammates were currently drinking butterbeer, one of his teammates was doing flips, and one of them was worried for him.
âIs ..is she really our lucky charm?â
He breathed out, feeling pathetic. He felt like a young school boy, young and clueless. His body was growing warmer, and his cheeks started to get more red. Merlin, was he humiliated? What is wrong with him?
âDude? You talking âbout my brothersâ best friend? Why are you red as cherries? Are you okay?â Ron threw question after question at Oliver, causing him to groan.
âLike her? I donât even know her! Iâm just asking â is she our lucky charm or something?â
Before he could get an answer from either of the two, the weird scent of butterbeer mixed with blueberry muffins hit his nose and he realized Fred and George were hanging onto him, one of their hand on each side of his shoulder.
âTalking bout our gal?â Fred snickered, âSheâs just over there!â George pointed, and unfortunately for Oliver, his eyes followed.
Truth be told, there you were, holding onto a glass of butterbeer, laughing with Ginny about somethingâanything. It was a simple gesture, but the way his cheeks got even more warmer, he felt even more weird.
Harry and Ron looked at each other, seeing the captain of the Gryffindor team who was usually so strict and collected being completely undone by someone? It was weird it itself.
Oliver himself, just feels so weird. Itâs a good type of weird, but the type of weird he never really experienced before. It makes his stomach feel weirder than when heâs flying down on a broom, or when he is upside down. Before he could even think any more, Angelina speaks.
âDude, you have a crush on her.â
UNFORTUNATELY THE STORY IS ENDING ON A CLIFF HANGER đ thatâs how i intended to end the story originally in my drafts đ but hope you enjoyed !!
