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summary: you and nancy used to be close—now, all you get from her are drunk dials in the middle of the night. but tonight is a little different. tonight, she actually wants to see you. 11k words.
warnings: 18+ MDNI. messy resentful traumatized closeted lesbian drama... reader is implied lesbian or heavily prefers women and is not aware of the plot of stranger things. discussion of grief and survivor's guilt irt barb. nancy has a drinking problem and also lots of other problems. there's definitely some fluffy/silly bits but this is overall an angst fic, hurt with meager comfort. internalized homophobia, comphet. it's sort of unclear how drunk nancy actually is. a little bit of making out and grinding. reader is implied to be larger than nancy, can be read as height and/or weight, and she refers to your chest as "big," but compared to her, that could be a lot of sizes.
a/n: HAPPY PRIDE! 🌈✨ thank you so much to my dear @scarlet-bitch for beta reading! the title comes from the joan jett & the blackhearts version of crimson and clover. hanging on the telephone by blondie is huge inspo for the premise. edge of seventeen by stevie nicks is important to the story—you can queue it up to play the same time it does in the fic, if you want! and miscellaneous other song influences are: me & her by heavens to betsy, don't know why by norah jones, i know by fiona apple, and no tides by human people (thank u @petron-a 💞)
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Nancy Wheeler isn’t one to ask for help, even when she needs it.
She’s just stubborn like that, always has been. If asked, she’d probably tell you that she doesn’t need it, she never needs it, and you’re the one that's really in need of help, so you’d better not get in her way while she provides it. She’s the fixer, the coordinator, the one to get it done; the uncanny mind-reader who could unravel the root of a bad mood before you even noticed you were in one and push you head-first into a remedy with no room for argument. Nancy gives, delivers, obliges, and proudly bullies from time to time, but getting her to admit that she needs a single thing from anyone else is a hard fought battle she’s worked all her life to make seem unwinnable.
That’s why, when you get a call from her at nearly one in the morning on a Tuesday, she doesn’t ask you for anything.
You answer it on the second ring. It doesn’t wake you up, as you’ve been struggling at the precipice of sleep for the better part of an hour now, but the abrupt, shrill deletion of all your difficult progress is aggravating nonetheless. Your hand flies out blindly to pick up the phone on your bedside table, and you hold it to your ear with a squinty frown.
“Hello?” Hopefully you manage through tone to convey the sentiment of What the hell could possibly be so important at this hour?
There’s a brief, awkward pause on the other end before Nancy Wheeler calls your name with delighted recognition—as if dialing in every number of your landline was just some happy mistake.
“Nancy?” You're already sitting up, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. “...What’s wrong?” It only took the one word to recognize she isn't sober.
“What’s wrong?” she repeats with grave offense. “What’s wrong is…I miss you. And I wanna talk to you.”
“Okay,” you say, blowing a stale laugh through your nose. She’s pushed it further than you're used to, speaking at half her normal speed with maybe a third of its coordination. “...You’re alright, though? Did something happen?”
Nancy scoffs at your prodding. “You always think…something happened,” she accuses, and she isn’t wrong. You can hear the overblown eye-roll in her voice. “...What if I just like you? And I wanna talk to you all the time? Huh?”
Her words zap you through the receiver, piercing deep and stinging in the back of your mind—if you weren’t wide awake already, you sure are now. All the time? Really?
It used to be true, maybe, but ever since the quarantine began, you’ve been seeing less of her than ever, and significantly more of the bubbly alter-ego on the phone with you right now. You sort of want to toss the words right back at her with every ounce of soreness they evoke, but it’d be petty at best and pointless at worst with the state that she's in.
And, really, you should probably count your blessings. Some days you wonder if you’ll ever hear from her again.
“…Where are you?” you try. “...Is Jonathan with you?” His name leaves an odd residue in your throat.
“You sound like Mom,” she complains. “Oh, no, is it past my curfew? Am I in big trouble?”
“Are you at home, at least?” you sigh with a glance at your alarm clock. 1:07. It's not the latest she's called.
There's shuffling on her end; her voice fades and swells like she's switching from hand to hand. “Ugh. No way.”
That’s more than enough to get you out of bed. A deep frown engraves your features as you fling the blankets off of you and switch on the light. “Then where the hell are you?”
She stays quiet for so long you nearly ask again, impatient with stress. Usually, when she downs a few and decides to give you a call, it’s coming from the most secluded corner of the Wheeler house she can wedge herself into, half-whispering into the receiver until the concern of getting caught slips her drunken mind entirely. Once or twice she’s called from an undisclosed friend’s house, allegedly, and you can only hope that's the case for this one. Her next words are a mumble, quiet and slurred enough that it takes you a second to disentangle it.
“...I wanna see you tonight.”
Your brain stalls trying to filter out what she really means. “...If you tell me where you are, then you can see me.”
“You’re gonna come get me?” It rings out bright with a smile.
“Yeah, Nance, I’ll come get you.”
A deep thud resonates as you lose your balance trying to wrench your sleep pants off of your ankles and catch yourself against your dresser, banging it into the wall. It makes you suck in a breath, not from pain but in regret of the headache that would be waking your mother up at this hour.
“What was that?” Nancy asks.
“Nothing." Your ears are wide open and don't hear a thing, so you must be in the clear. "Can you tell me where you are?”
“Are you okay?”
She sounds so sad, it puts a dumb smile on your face. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” you laugh.
“…Okay." She lets out a little grunt of reluctance. “I’m…at the Hideout.”
One leg of your jeans scrunched up beneath your knee, you freeze in place as a little shard of ice lands in your stomach and splinters out in all directions. “...What the hell are you doing all the way out there?”
Nancy huffs at you. “Now you’re mad at me."
You move twice as fast now, jerking the pants up your legs, grunting in frustration while you wrestle with the stubborn button. “I’m not mad, I’m just— I’m on my way, okay?”
“...Okay,” she agrees airily. “...I don’t wanna go home.”
“You don’t have to go home. I can take you to my place. I just don’t want you wandering around drunk.” Especially not in that part of town.
“I’m not that drunk,” she complains, and you grimace. Both because she is, and because she probably wouldn’t be calling you otherwise.
There's no point in changing out of the tank top you were trying to sleep in, you decide. You'll grab your shoes and your keys and break as many traffic laws as you feel compelled to on your way across town. “…I have to hang up to come get you, alright? But Nancy, seriously, don’t go anywhere. I mean it.”
She hums in thought, rising and falling like a blow whistle, utterly carefree. “...Maybe I will.”
“Nancy, I—”
“Come and find me,” she laughs. “...And when you catch me, I’ll…give you something. So hurry up.”
…
Whatever's causing her to drink this much isn't getting any better.
It’s still weird to you, speaking to her like this. The Nancy you used to know would never have touched the shit—used to get on your ass for lifting a beer from your mom’s stash, or daring to take a swig from someone else’s flask, at least until her suburban ennui started to set in place. These days, you don’t have much taste for alcohol, but Nancy, on sheer frequency alone, could probably drink your ass clean out of the water. You wonder all the time when it started; if it’s as new as it still feels, or if she just hid it from you in its infancy with typical precision. You wouldn’t be surprised. She never was the same after what happened to Barb.
Neither were you, but you aren’t sure she ever noticed.
These drunk dials, on some nights, are pleasant surprises. It’s hard to feel mad at her for hardly ever calling anymore when the rare times she does are so sugary sweet; keeping her company over the phone as she stumbles through barely-comprehensible accounts of what she’s been doing lately, or waxing slurred poetic about how much she likes you and misses you in mushy, embarrassing language she could never squeeze out of herself sober, all with a familiar, nostalgic sort of innocence that hurts your heart. But trying to imagine what the hell she must be dealing with to make her feel like slamming back drinks in the dead of night is her only escape unsettles you in a way that’s hard to ignore. She never tells you anything, not even when she sobers up, but that bruise is well lived-in by now. If she wanted to keep you that close anymore, you’d know enough already to piece it together on your own.
What you really want to know is, where the hell is Jonathan? How hard can it be to keep track of her when they’re living under the same goddamn roof?
You don’t dislike Jonathan, or at least you know you have no good reason to dislike him; as a person, an acquaintance, as Nancy’s boyfriend. When his family spent a year in California, you even sort of liked him for it—he left a hole in Nancy’s life so glaring, she was willing to try and plug it up with you. For the first time since middle school, really, it was you and her again. Your hips weren't stitched together in the way they once were, busy as she was with college apps, the school paper, and other unspoken dealings, but she kept you more or less around. Lunch together now and then, studying after school; tagging along for the odd journalistic endeavor, late afternoon talks in your room or hers.
She still wouldn’t talk to you about it, what was obviously going on with her, making her so…short-tempered, vigilant. Apparently, you just wouldn’t get it. You heard it so often, you almost started to believe it. But once in a while, when you got lucky, she’d lower her overzealous hackles and drop the sweet burden of missing comfort and affection onto your shoulders, too, and none of your frustrations felt like a very big deal at all. The entire west coast could've plunged into the sea, for all you cared.
But then, of course, he came back.
It was different after that. Before, once in a while, she’d still want to catch up, if you could call it that. She’d have it all planned out, when and where and for exactly how long, with a thorough enthusiasm that you could never quite stop yourself from giving the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this time, she really means it. Maybe this time it isn’t just pity—she’ll open the door, clip her leash back to your collar and whisper in your ear all the secrets she used to think were wasted on you.
You aren’t sure if it was Jonathan’s return, the earthquake, or any number of quiet mysteries she’s been diligently hiding from you, but whatever it was, it crushed the little castle you’d finally started rebuilding into a thousand paling crystals. Now, all you get is this. Surprise calls in the middle of the night with a bottle close at hand.
But tonight might be the first time she’s said she wanted to see you and meant it.
You’d think that living under military quarantine would come with a hard curfew that's both stringently enforced and harshly punished, but the reality of the situation is, so long as you stay away from the center of town and the checkpoints at the very edges, you’ll probably have nothing to worry about. The ride is fairly eerie. No other cars on the street, no noise beyond that constant, distant drone that emanates from whatever sits where the library once was. Most houses are dark. It isn’t all that different from before.
The longer you drive, the hotter the cabin seems to get, and cracking both windows open doesn’t provide much relief. It isn’t very breezy tonight. You’d turn on the AC, but Nancy gets cold. Even with her drunken flush, you can already hear her whining at you to turn it down. No, not even that—reaching over silently to fiddle with buttons and dials herself until it goes off like she owns the truck, and you’re just the one driving it.
By the time the ragged eyesore that is the Hideout comes into view at the end of the street, your heart is pounding. You tell yourself it’s out of worry. When you see her, resting her entire body against the sole, crooked lamppost in front of the sketchy building, it forgets for a moment to keep beating. Her head is hung forward, dark curls obscuring her face, and she doesn’t look up as you stop the truck a little ways down the street and step out of it. With the Hideout’s windows snugly bricked shut, barricading in any signs of life, and the stillness of the grievously early morning only softened by the rustling corn field that the dissolving road plunges into, you’d think it was only her out here. The lone, lithe hauntress of a time-excluded ghost town. The only evidence to the contrary is the scattering of empty cars in the building's gravel parking lot.
“Nancy?”
The stuttered tug of a string seems to lift her lazy head, and as soon as she lays eyes on you, her face lights up with a smile. She pushes off of the post to meet you halfway with bouyant and hurried steps that raise your blood pressure. She’s wearing a long denim skirt with buttons down the front, a red tie-neck blouse, and a dark, patterned cardigan that swallows her up so egregiously, it isn’t hard to guess who it belongs to.
You hold your arms out in case you need to steady her, but Nancy misinterprets the gesture and clasps her cold hands around yours, spreading them wide to get a good look at you.
“Hi, pretty.” She smiles even wider as her glassy eyes flutter from head to toe and back up again. “You look so pretty.”
It isn’t true, so you don’t know why it makes you blush. You quite literally rolled out of bed to come get her. “I— What?” you sputter.
The next word you try to get out turns into a hoarse puff as Nancy releases your hands and lets herself fall right into you. As thin as she is, it still nearly knocks you off balance. Her arms enclose around your waist and her chin hooks over your shoulder, and you have a hard time doing much in return. She never hugs you like this sober. Hopefully, she's too drunk to notice your sweating.
"You came to get me," she murmurs happily.
"…Yeah, I came." Your voice comes out painfully stilted. "I wouldn't just…leave you out here."
Nancy shakes with a laugh that sends a chill down your spine. You wonder what's so funny. She never fully lets you go, her hands migrating to wrap tight around your arm instead as you guide her back to your mother's pickup truck.
You help her up the step and Nancy slumps into the passenger seat like her limbs have gone liquid, watching with bafflingly crinkled eyes and a big, dopey smile as you buckle her in, close the door behind her and hustle to the other side. As you settle into the driver's seat, she lolls her lazy head in your direction and stares up at you through thick and heavy lashes. She's so distant, the light in her eyes much more diffused than you're used to, but somehow, it's unnerving to meet her stare for more than a second at a time. Like allowing that connection means inviting her to glide the waters of every thought you've ever had.
You switch on the radio to relieve the pressure and drift right into Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You as you turn around and head for home. Nancy sucks in a soft breath as the melody kindles in her mind.
"Oh, I love this song," she sighs, and then she's singing along, endearingly off-pitch. Her eyes flutter closed, wispy and carefree.
It doesn't take long before it starts to drive you crazy—her voice, the state she's in, whatever the hell's gotten into her. "…Nance?" you call, gently cutting her off. She blinks her starry eyes back open and looks at you. “Why'd you drink so much?”
“I’m not allowed to?” she asks; neat brows pulling in, proud and skeptical. “I think I’m allowed to.”
You know as well as anyone that Nancy hasn’t cared what she is or isn’t allowed to do in a long time. “...But why'd you come all the way out here? You usually drink at home. Or—that's what you tell me, at least.”
She hums and thinks it over for a long moment—so long, you think she might be avoiding the question. Used to it as you are, you start to think on the next one.
“…Eddie worked there before,” she mutters. “And…his band played there. Mike told me. The old lady…Bev, knew his dad and…his uncle. …I had to go somewhere.”
“Eddie?” You don’t know any Eddies that she should be familiar with. The only one that comes to mind is, well… “You mean, Eddie the dealer?”
A puzzled glance finds her faraway stare pointed down at her lap, silent, and your brow furrows.
“...As in, the guy who killed Chrissy, and—?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about at all,” she cuts you off in a jagged heap, “so just stop.”
You blink at the intensity of it—she nearly sounded sober just then—and settle your eyes back onto the empty road with a shrug. Your best guess is, you wouldn’t get it.
“...You’re the one that brought it up."
The song changes. You roll your window a little further down and decide to let your tongue move of its own accord.
“...Where’s Jonathan?”
Nancy's head tips back like the question exhausts her. “You keep asking that.”
“I asked if he was with you,” you correct. “And you said he wasn’t.”
“Cause he isn’t.”
A dry laugh bursts out of you. “Yeah, I can see that. Why isn’t he with you? Why were you out there all by yourself? I mean, how the hell did you even—?”
“Stop asking me questions,” she groans, turning towards you in her seat—fighting awkwardly with the seatbelt to allow it. “Who cares? I just wanna hang out with you, and talk, and do things. I never see you anymore.”
And whose fault is that? you think. “...Well, it’s not like I went anywhere."
She reaches out to you, then. You aren’t sure where she was aiming, but her hand lands on your thigh and startles your foot into pressing down, lurching you both in your seats.
“Whoa,” she says, wide-eyed and delighted. “Did I scare you?"
“You startled me.”
“Can I do it again?” she asks; an empty gesture, no doubt. “You should go faster.”
“No, I—” She starts to drag her hand higher, watching your face with mischief and a loose-hanging smile. Your thigh tenses up just before she squeezes, and anxiety rips your hand off the wheel to shove hers away from you. “Nancy, what the fuck?”
It comes out excessively harsh—sincerely freaked out—but all she does is laugh until she snorts. “Wow, are you ticklish or something? I thought you weren’t ticklish.”
When you don’t respond to her teasing (too busy clenching your jaw so hard your ear starts ringing), her attention mellows out and wanders through her window.
“…We’re not going home, right?” she checks.
“No,” you huff. “I’m taking you to my place.”
“I can sleep over?”
“Yeah. Of course.” You wouldn't want to be in her house, either.
Her head lolls back in your direction, and there's that deep-probing stare again; eyeing you up like a puzzle she's already solved in her head. Empty or not, your focus should be on the road anyway. “And we can sleep in your bed together?”
The question briefly flushes out your mind. “…Don’t we always?”
The answer should be obvious, but you feel childish giving it anyway—like it hasn't been close to a lifetime since your last slumber party.
…
Nancy, oddly, waits for you to help her out of the truck. Inebriated or otherwise, you'd gotten used to being raced to your front door and losing invariably for her modest head start. Instead, with amusement that seems to be at your expense, she takes your arm and then your waist, putting all her faith in your center of balance and laughing at each stumbling step you struggle to balance out for the both of you.
You open the front door as quietly as you can with one hand and awkwardly usher her past the threshold, met instantly with the drone of the TV playing Three's Company reruns, your mother's snoring; the stale haze of hours' old cigarettes. You try to deposit Nancy against the wall while you turn back around to close the door behind you, but she won't budge—clings onto you even harder.
“It smells like you in here."
“Keep your voice down,” you whisper. The door closes a little louder than you mean it to, but not any louder than the blaring sitcom bouncing off the walls. You start down the hall as fast as you can with Nancy dragging her feet so horribly.
“Mmm," she laughs, and in a sing-song, repeats: "Smells like you.”
Without warning, Nancy veers around to curl in on you and press her face into your neck, her cold nose and hot breath ticklish against your skin. It stops you in your tracks, sends another chill down your spine; you scrunch up your shoulder to squeeze her out and the reaction sends her giggling again.
“You’re acting weird,” you grumble, hot-faced, continuing to drag her along.
“You’re weird,” she counter-argues. She adjusts her hand, grabs a fistful of your shirt. “You’re…the weirdest person I know.”
“I kinda doubt that.”
“Don’t ever doubt me,” she scolds, bumping her hip into you on purpose, nearly sending you both tipping into the wall, and you can't help but snicker.
“Fine, sorry.”
But you must be right, because she hums and corrects herself. “…Okay, you’re not the weirdest. That's probably… Well, you don't know her. But I still think you’re the prettiest.”
That word is starting to make your skin crawl. “Would you cut that out?”
“What?”
She plants her feet in stubbornness while she waits for an answer and you stifle an eye-roll, glaring down the hall in annoyance. Your room, the last stop, is just around the corner, but you don't think getting there will offer much relief.
“…You’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not!" she reels back and nearly shouts, face contorted in outrage, and you try to smother it with a firm shhhh. "…Why would I even do that?”
“I don’t know, Nancy," you huff. "I don’t know why you do anything anymore.”
Apparently, she has nothing to say to that. You take a step and pull at her, trying to urge her onward, but Nancy roots her feet even deeper in place with mischief.
“...Carry me the rest of the way," she demands.
A odd laugh bursts out of you in surprise. “No.”
"You can still do it, I bet," she insists, clinging tighter, slumping even more weight onto you.
"When the hell have I ever carried you somewhere?"
Nancy hesitates with a frown until something clicks and pops her expression wide open. "Oh!" she exclaims, and this time regrets her careless volume, throwing a hand over her sheepish smile. "…I think I was dreaming."
Your mouth falls open, stumped. Not a single thought comes to mind before Nancy decides to take the lead, forsaking your steady hold in favor of dragging you both haphazardly down the hall, tottering, giggling, all the more eager for your mounting, stiff-limbed dread.
Picking her up was necessary. Bringing her here, a willing inconvenience—if no one else could keep an eye on her, then obviously, you would. You wouldn't be able to sleep a wink otherwise. But inviting her into your room like this makes your chest feel thick with anxiety. There's something about her tonight, an odd spark beneath the stupor, ruthless and even less relenting than you're used to—when the door closes behind you, it almost feels like you've sealed yourself in with a restless lion.
The lamp is still on from before you left. You make a beeline to your dresser to find her some clothes to sleep in—an old, worn t-shirt, big enough on you that she'll be swimming in it, and some drawstring shorts. When you turn back to face her, Nancy's busy idling around, humming to herself as she trails her fingers all over your things. Book spines, picture frames. A medal from freshman year regionals. She picks up the conch shell your aunt gave you in elementary school and holds it to her ear as she turns around.
"Careful with that," you warn.
"I know." Her face dips into a pout. "I can't hear anything."
"Yeah, cause there's nothing to hear."
"You're supposed to hear the ocean," she tells you. "The waves, and… Is that for me?"
"Yeah. You can sleep in this." You toss the clothes onto the foot of your bed. Her eyes follow the trajectory, and she spins back around to put down the shell.
"I like it in here," she muses. "…You never change anything. It's all the same, since we were kids."
"No, it's not," you scoff.
"Yeah, it is," she giggles, and points a slender finger at your wall. "Look. You've had that Janis Joplin poster so long, it's getting faded."
"No, it isn't," you argue. "Jesus, just…get dressed. I wanna go back to sleep."
"You're such an old lady."
Even still, she lets the cardigan slip off of her angled shoulders without a care. You catch it for her before it hits the ground and toss it over the back of your desk chair. Nancy's hands raise to fiddle with the top button of her skirt, and it only takes a few seconds of watching her struggle for the dread to set back in.
"Do you…need help?" you offer, but your stomach gurgles at the thought.
"No, I got it," she mumbles.
But her shoulders tense up and her brow wrinkles as she tries and tries and never succeeds in getting a proper grasp on the very first button. You pray with all you have that she manages on her own, and you aren't surprised in the slightest that it goes unheard.
"Ugh," she groans and rips her hands away, scrunching them into twitchy fists. "It's…stuck. Just do it for me."
You roll your eyes at how spoiled she sounds and hope it distracts from how tight your own fists clench to dispel your nerves. She stares you right in your face as you approach her, and maybe it's just the dim lighting or the general bizarreness of the occasion, but in your eyes, she looks so plainly aware that an irrational voice in the back of your mind wonders if she's even really drunk at all.
You do your best to ignore how warm she is as you carefully undo her first button, then the second. You're grateful at least that the fabric of her shirt tucked beneath it prevents you from touching the skin of her stomach directly. The third button is all it takes for the skirt to fall from her hips, and you flick your gaze back up to her grinning face. She reaches for you, and your let her take your hands for balance as she steps out of the garment and kicks it aside.
Then comes the blouse. The silk bow slips loose with a single tug, and that's all you need to see to trust that she can handle the rest on her own. You turn your back to her and swiftly trade out your jeans for the sleep pants you were wearing earlier, hesitating only when a tangle of red silk streaks through your peripheral vision as she tosses it to the carpet with her skirt. Even once you're finished, you wait for long enough to safely assume she must be done as well (by the lack of fabric rustling or her little grunts of effort) before braving a glance, and you jump out of your skin to find her still undressed with both hands behind her back, toiling at the clasp of her Alice blue bra.
“Nancy!”
“What?" She flares her eyes at your outrage, but seems pleased by it nonetheless—like she'd been stalling on purpose to make sure you caught her.
Your eyes bore a hole in the wall over her shoulder. "Do you really need to—?"
"It’s not comfortable,” she insists.
This time, she manages it on her own, and as soon as those thin little straps start to fall from her shoulders, a surge of panic turns your back to her, your face flaring hot with shame.
“Seriously?” she cries out again, stretched wide and smiley with a laugh. “You act like you’ve never seen boobs before. I know you have.”
The feathery draw and release of each breath is all you try to focus on, more important than the newborn panic thriving, attention hungry, in the back of your mind. She knows, she knows and she's taunting you, and that's all that this is, and you're an idiot for thinking otherwise. You didn't save her. She's never once needed you, and she never will.
“...I barely even have any,” she goes on lightly. “Not big ones like you. …Steve liked the big ones. He didn’t say it, but… I think he did.”
You chew on your lip and wait and breathe. You don’t hear any fabric rustling.
“...Maybe you should’ve dated him.”
A tug on the back of your shirt makes you jump, twitching back in her direction on instinct, and you wince preemptively, but it isn't the transgression you expect. She’s holding the shirt's fabric up to lazily cover her chest, staring at you with big, guiltless eyes, and a smile so fine you aren't convinced it’s really there.
“What’s the matter?” she asks. “...Last time I checked, we're both girls. You don't have to be embarrassed.”
A ripple of goosebumps spills down the back of your neck, along each arm. The heat in your face expands, overflowing into your chest, and in a quiet voice, you ask, “Would you please just put it on?”
Nancy rolls her eyes, and you look away again as she finally does what you ask. She grunts as the collar pops over her head.
"There," she announces. "It's on, so you can stop being shy, now."
She didn't bother with the shorts, but you know a losing battle when you see one. Your eyes catch for a moment too long on her discarded bra, thrown indifferently over your footboard, but you wrench them away when she seems to notice.
"Jeez," she sighs again for show. "I thought I was supposed to be the prude."
Then, she snatches up the bra again, hooking a finger under each strap, and closes the distance between you with enough confidence to lock up your limbs in anxiety.
"What— what are you—?"
You go still as Nancy raises the dainty little garment and drapes it over your chest. Her smile grows sharper at the sight of it—much too small to be of any use for you, and certainly to preserve any modesty—and she stares for so long that your blood freezes cold enough to burn.
"…You should try it on," she teases.
You can hardly part your teeth enough to speak. "Cut it out."
With a sigh, she eases off of you, tossing the lacy little thing to the floor with the rest of her clothes—very unlike her—before sitting herself on your bed. No longer held hostage, you rush towards the lamp to turn out the light and put an end to this disturbing evening as soon as possible.
"No, wait!" she spits before you make it, and you stop in your tracks. "Don't turn it off."
"Nancy, it's like two in the morning."
"So what? I'm not tired at all. I wanna do something with you, like we used to."
"Well, I'm tired."
"No, you're not," she scoffs, and a moment later, she's batting her eyelashes at you. "…Bring the stereo in here. I wanna put on music."
"No way. My mom'll wake up, and—"
"Your mom doesn't care what we do," she groans, but a sudden spark turns her eyes razor-sharp. "We could be…snorting drugs and shooting guns and having sex in here, and she'd still be snoring in that ugly chair."
Your neck and shoulders tense up in stress and your heart tries sincerely to bust through your sternum. "Jesus, would you— Why do you keep joking like that?"
Nancy blinks her lazy eyes at you, no longer feigning innocence. The corner of her mouth twitches upward. "…Like what?"
She knows. How or when or why doesn't matter when it's this obvious, and, shit, it's Nancy, so maybe she's always known and just been kind enough to spare you. What the hell changed?
"Just…stop it, okay?" you mutter, as firm as you can manage. You feel about two feet tall. "You're freaking me out."
She pouts at you. Then, she stands up again and heads for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To get the stereo."
You dart towards her to wrap a careful hand around her arm and tug her back in your direction. Nancy turns back around with a proud little grin, like all she really wanted was for you to have to stop her.
"Fine, c'mere," you say, guiding her towards your dresser where sits your Walkman and your modest tape collection. "Just a couple songs, okay? What do you wanna hear?"
Nancy chews on a fingernail. "…You still have Bella Donna?"
Your heart sinks in your chest, but you nod and fish it out for her, wiping the dust off on your pajama pants. Nancy sets herself up on your bed, crawling to the other side to make room for you and sitting on her knees, and you slot the tape in place and sit beside her to place the headphones over her ears.
"You don't wanna listen?" she asks. You shake your head.
Nancy startles a little as the music starts playing, and you cycle through the tracks by memory.
"No, I wanna hear—"
"I know, I got it."
Edge of Seventeen starts to play and a ripple of nausea permeates your gut. You can't hear the song, only Nancy's clumsy, captivating rendition of it as she lays back on your bed and begins to sing along with a smile, but it's still enough to lurch you right back to the same night she must've been seeking to conjure.
Late summer nineteen eighty-one, all three of you together in Barb's bedroom, probably no earlier than it is right now. She was the first one to get her hands on the tape between you and her parents were off on an anniversary trip, so naturally, a sleepover was in order. Nancy went crazy for the song, even more than the two of you combined. It was probably nearing the tenth straight listen—performance, more accurately, with all the singing and shouting, dancing and miming, and pillow warfare sprinkled in-between—when Barb had to tap out, flopping onto her bed for a breather. You tried to join her, but Nancy dug her tireless nails into your arm to keep you up with her and sang to you (not at you, but to you) with a stubborn, ridiculous insistence that had you, as always, primed and spellbound to do her bidding.
"You don't have to listen to her, y'know," Barb had teased, and you couldn't even spare her a glance.
Your arm raised almost thoughtlessly to allow Nancy a twirl, and the pleasure on her face pleased you just the same. "Yes, she does," Nancy corrected, reaching one hand out to summon her back into the action. "And so should you. C'mon, you can't be tired already."
"Why should I get between the lovebirds?" Barb's keen eyes found yours and stayed there, and a beam of pure, impossible sunlight seemed to burn straight through the ceiling to set your face alight. Nancy scoffed and you aren't sure what else before she bullied you around to send you both swinging into a clumsy, giggling waltz.
Barbara scared the shit out of you at first, and it might be the greatest shame of your life. The thought that in that tiny piece of each day where you and Nancy had decided to be without each other—her time in yearbook, yours at practice—mere weeks into the seventh grade, she had gone and found someone other than you, completely outside of you, that she wanted to be around just as much. You decided internally, simmering like the child you were, that you hated Barb, and it took her months to convince you otherwise. By a year, you couldn't remember what you'd ever done without her.
You don't really know what happened that night, how the hell a ride to Steve Harrington's house could've possibly resulted in an accidental death by chemical spill, and if Nancy knows anything more, she hasn't shared a word of it with you. All you do know is that it's your fault. If, for a second shameful time, you hadn't been such a child—moping in the shell-shocking betrayal that was Nancy's first boyfriend, bitter, moody, and distant from the very first sign—and coldly turned down the invitation, it would've been you chauffeuring her there, and Barb wouldn't have been anywhere near the negligence that stole her. At the very least, she would've had someone watching her back while Nancy was preoccupied with King Steve.
Nothing at all was ever the same. You would’ve done anything to bring her back, to trade places with her, you still would. Sometimes you wonder if that’s the root of it all; if it’s hard for Nancy to look at you without wishing that you had.
Barb was the only one that knew—that you admitted it to, at least. She knew, and you know she never told her, and she should be here, and you should not.
Your thoughts shatter to pieces at the sound of the first sniffle. She isn't singing anymore, too overcome with it—her bottom lip bitten hard between her teeth and perfect little brows wrinkled up, reaching high; glistening beads of aquamarine collecting in the corners of her eyes, trembling along with the rest of her. The sight almost takes your breath away.
"…Nancy?"
And that's all it takes for her voice to burst out, a moan that stutters like a sob and makes the hair on your arms stand on end. It goes on until she's out of breath and then she gasps, drawing in a thick inhale that chokes back out of her as a laugh. It shocks you in place, fuses your joints rigid until the tears in her eyes well over and pure urgency knocks them loose again. You clamber up to your nightstand for tissues and return to her feeling completely useless.
"Nancy," you call again, but she either ignores you or doesn't hear it. Setting the box aside, you carefully reach down to ease the headphones off of her (the muted, tinny voice sings on: Sometimes to be near you, is to be unable to feel you… my love), and her eyes stay glued to the ceiling. Piercing right through it, too far for you to reach. Her chest still shakes with odd, muffled laughter, like something is desperate to burst out of it but she's fighting it with all she has. "…What is it? What's wrong?"
Her mouth opens with another inhale and stays there, choking out fragments of syllables until she grasps onto a sliver of her voice. "…I don't know what to do."
"About what?" It cuts you up that you even have to ask. You pluck a tissue from the box and, realizing she probably won't take it, you try to make use of it yourself, dabbing at tear trails that disappear down into her hair.
Her gaze finally recedes from the clouds and flickers to your face hanging over her, and she withers at the sight. She doesn't say anything, and her withholding does what it always does—wraps a tight, thorny vine around your throat.
"…Nancy, I'm begging you to just—"
"I can't tell you," she insists.
"Why not?" Her silence starts to grate on you, frustration building pressure between your ribs. How can she be this miserable in front of you, breaking down crying in your bed, and still refuse to let you in? She called you, she wanted to see you, and still, she won't even... "…It's been fucking years like this. I don't know…what I did, why you don't trust me anymore, but—"
Nancy's sullen face twitches in shock. "I trust you."
"No, you don't, Nance."
"I do!" she cries. Your hand falls away as she wrenches herself upright, and her eyes shake over your face, thrumming with an urgency she struggles to get out in words. "I trust you about…everything, and I miss you all the time—"
"Stop it," you cut her off. You ball up the tissue in your hand, let your eyes wander down to the wrinkles in your old shirt, shifting endlessly with her agitated breaths. "You don't need to try and spare my feelings. Maybe you do miss me sometimes, but if you trusted me or actually wanted me in your life anymore, I would know something, anything at all about what's going on with you, what's…doing this to you. You'd fucking talk to me like you used to. Not just when you're too wasted to think better of it."
She says your name, so distraught that it makes your eyes sting. "…I'm sorry."
"Whatever," you sigh, rubbing a hand down your face. You squeeze out as much tension as you can with a deep breath. "…I just wanna go to sleep."
"I wanna tell you," she says.
You slump with the weigh of it. Is it for your sake, or for hers? You aren't sure how much more you can take.
"No, I mean it!" she goes on before you can deny it. She pulls herself higher to sit on her knees again and holds onto your arm with both hands. "I wanna tell you everything, every day I think about it. About you, and what you would say and do, and I want you to…hold me, and tell me it's okay. And that I'm being paranoid, and dumb, but I'm not. It's all…real."
Whatever she's taking about, it has tears welling up in her eyes again, and they flicker all over your face with enough dread to make your stomach sick. Her hands might be trembling, but it's hard to tell when she's squeezing so tight, her nails gouging little crescents into your skin. "…What the hell does that mean, Nancy?"
She shakes her head. "It's all real, and I need you. I need you to…stay like this, and be here, so I have to… I have to. Even if it makes you hate me."
"I don't hate you," you let her know, but it doesn't quell her distress much. "I just…don't understand."
"That's good," she breathes. "I promise, that's good. I don't want you to."
"…Can you tell Jonathan about it?"
Nancy's face falls dim. Relenting on your arm, she raises one limp hand to scrub tears from her cheek. "It's different."
"How is it different?"
She opens her mouth and flounders. "I… It's just—it is. He…knows, already, and—"
"He gets it, right?" you jeer. "Did Steve get it, too?"
Reluctantly, she nods, and your tongue presses into your cheek. Everyone but you, apparently.
"…Christ. I know you like being the smart one, Nance, but I'm not as stupid as you seem to think I am."
You take your arm out of her grasp and stand up then, gather your discarded Walkman and set it back on top of your dresser.
"I don't think you're stupid. Not at all."
You pop the tape out, return it to its case. Maybe in the morning, she'll explain herself better, say what she's trying to say in a way that makes a little more sense. In a better mood, you might laugh at the thought.
"…It's not just that," Nancy says with another sniffle. "It's him, too. It's Jonathan, and…he doesn't know."
"What doesn't he know?" You start towards the lamp again, but she won't go on until you turn to look at her.
"…Come back," she asks softly, patting the bed beside her. "Please."
She won't let you sleep in peace until she's said whatever she needs to, so you figure there's no point in acting stubborn. You sit yourself beside her once again and resolve to keep your eyes on the duvet between you.
“…I'm mad at him all the time," she begins. The words come out low and breathy, like her lips are nervous to form them. "I don't mean to be. He…loves me, and I thought it was…good this time, and that I wanted it, but… I just get so angry.”
Already, you break—your eyes tear straight to hers as a pit starts to form in your stomach.
“What are you getting angry about?” She just stares at you, helpless, and a shiver goes down your spine. “...Is he doing something to you, or— Are you…fighting about something?” Is he hurting you? Is he hurting you, Nancy? It’s screaming on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t make yourself ask.
Her lip quivers. She shakes her head. “It's not him. …It's not because of him, I mean, he's— I like him, a lot. It's not his fault. It's because…”
She embarks again; her eyes travel, in one short moment, a million miles away, and her soft brow furrows in focus.
“It's…all of them," she decides. "I think it's just…all of them.”
You're…hearing things, seeing things; you must've fallen asleep after all, and this entire night has just been one horrible, sadistic, belligerent fucking dream, but your mouth opens anyway.
"…All of them?"
She nods and grounds herself again, focusing on the present, on you. Her stare curls over your lap, your stomach, the curve of your chest; streaks across your collarbone and seems to get lost in your face, swirling round and round. “…You get it," she says. "…Right?”
With nothing else to do—a thousand unbelieving questions on your tongue, wrapped and entangled too tight for even one of them to be spelled out in words—you nod. Her eyes look clearer and brighter than you've ever seen them; like in all the years you've known her, you've never quite been brave enough to look directly into them.
She reaches for you, no longer anxious. She wants it, she'll have it, she knows you want it, too. She grabs on to the strap of your tank top to pull you in and her name flies out of you, stilted, panicked. You don't know if it's a question, a warning, pure disbelief, or a desperate, bone-deep fucking plea, but she holds you by your jaw with her warm, warm hand, and you've never been less confident in your grasp on reality.
"Please," Nancy asks. Her eyes are caught unambiguously on your mouth. "Just…let me—"
Her lips don't taste like the watermelon chapstick she used to wear—the one you'd take a quick and shameful taste of every time you could convince her to let you borrow it—but nothing in the world could be less disappointing than the feeling of them pressed into yours. You don't know if it's real, but it feels real, so you thread your fingers into her hair the way you've always wanted to and you kiss her back like you're trying to etch the sensation into your skin, steal as much of it as you can before she comes to her senses. Nancy pulls back first, with hardly an inch of space between you.
"Oh, shit," she gasps like ecstasy. Bursting through the water's surface to take the first full, unimpeded breath of her life.
And you get it. You've felt it before; with an older woman, a librarian, nestled down in the restricted archives, and you remember well the relief, the vindication, the dizzy thrill that, in the moment, far outweighs the sinking terror it anchors in the back of your mind.
And when she kisses you again, you can't taste the alcohol on her tongue, so maybe it's alright, and it really is her, and this isn't some terrible, terrible joke that she's taken much farther than you'd ever be able to forgive her for. Your mind is a screaming void but Nancy knows what she wants. She eases you down and lays herself on top of you, and her tongue traces a needy map of the inside of your mouth even as yours remains too fearful to do the same, and it goes on, and on, and on. Endless wet clicking and smacking in the refuge of your silent bedroom. No amount of it seems to relieve her of the craving.
“You smell so good,” she whines, and she dips her face into your neck to breathe in and sigh. “So pretty.”
You don't know what to do with yourself, terrified that you'll ruin it, touch her wrong, break the spell, so Nancy decides for you. Her hands find yours and guide them to her thighs, drag them up, up until they rest on her hips, and all you dare to do beyond that is stroke the lacy trim of her panties with your thumbs, grounding yourself with the feeling.
Nancy kisses your neck, drags her tongue along it until your skin starts to buzz and a shiver rolls down your spine. Odd little stings of arousal zap down between your legs, warm and sensitive, beating in time with your heart. You start to squirm, unsure of how to deal with being touched by her like this, and your legs shift around until, by accident, your thigh presses hard between hers, and she gasps against your skin.
"Sorry." You jerk it away on instinct as your face floods with mortified heat, but her disappointed whine comes immediately.
"No, please."
So you put it back, press yourself into her, and with an eagerness that makes you feel like the world has fallen out from under you, she grinds the thin fabric of her panties into your thigh. Clueless and duty-driven, you use your grip on her hips to help her, and the breathy moan she lets out sends you soaring, your eyes itching to roll back into your head. How is any of this happening? Nancy kisses you again, wet and sloppy and uncoordinated in her distraction, but she can't keep it up for long. She shifts down to chase the pleasure and her hand climbs up to idly fondle your breast—even through the fabric, the brush of her finger over your nipple is almost more than you can bear.
“I think about you,” she admits. You've never heard her voice so frail and wrecked, pitching high with strain. “Every time, I think about you.” And then she whimpers; her thighs squeeze around yours, her cheek falls to your chest in weakness. “…It’s the only way it feels good.”
Her words click something into place—your staticky mind starts to race with tangible thoughts again. Every time, I think about you. It only feels good when she thinks about you, not just a woman, any woman, but you. She knows what you are and she's figured out that she's the same. She couldn't have just realized it tonight—she called you earlier, knowing.
But that can't be right. Because if she knows how she feels, if she has known for God knows how long and never said anything—treated you like this, held you at twice her wingspan, punished for the best friend you both lost; second to Steve fucking Harrington, a seven-month replacement for yet another boyfriend she left you out in the cold for, and she only ever calls you when she's out of her mind in the middle of the night, like speaking to you at all has become too shameful to face sober—and now that she's ready, she thinks she can just…have you?
Just like this, on a whim, dancing around it all night before springing it on you. Knowing she'd get exactly what she wanted, because she always gets exactly what she wants from you without even lifting a finger.
Years like this, waiting for her, making peace with the pure impossibility of it, and Nancy throws it all on its head in one night. Not for your sake. For hers.
And despite it all, the spell—the fucking fairy tale playing out on top of you—shatters and falls away.
"Stop it," you gasp. Your hands fly off her hips, grab onto her arm and her shoulder instead. "Stop, stop— Nancy, stop it! What the fuck?"
You push her up and off of you, held at arm's length, and she stares at you like a deer in headlights; panting, wet-lipped. "…What's wrong?"
What's wrong? "I can't…do this with you right now. Not when you're drunk, and confused—"
The word scalds her, makes her recoil. "I'm not confused!"
"I don't know that, Nance," you spit. "…I never see you, you only ever talk to me when you're—fucking plastered. I don't know."
The problem is, you believe her. Even if she isn't fully in her right mind, the distress, the anger, the desire—it's all laid bare with such clear truth that every bone in your body aches in recognition. Of course she'd need to drown herself in alcohol to come out with it. There's a reason you stopped drinking altogether.
It was a set-up from the start, and the realization smooths out all the knots in your flesh. She stranded herself on purpose, drank until her tight grip loosened up enough to call you. And she knows you, knows at least a fraction of how you feel about her, so she knew that you'd pick up, that you'd come find her and bring her home, take care of her. And maybe by then she'd be brave enough to admit it.
You pull yourself out from under her with a haggard sigh and Nancy falls beside you, something like fear in her eyes.
"…I'm sorry," she says, barely voiced at all. "…I just…wanted to—"
"It's not your fault," you cut her off. The wanting isn't, at least. "You want to…talk about it, we can. Just…not now. Not when you're like this."
With downcast eyes, she nods. You can hardly look at her like this, so you stand up and make your way towards the door. She doesn't try to stop you from going through it.
In the bathroom, you take your time and try to let the droning, whirring chaos in your mind settle down. When you wash your face, the skin feels almost numb beneath your fingers. You dry it off, brush your teeth, and return.
She's still sitting right where you left her—a sad-eyed doll that only animates in front of you. Without another word, you switch off your lamp and slip beneath the covers, laying with your back to her. It takes a while before Nancy is ready to do the same, but no sooner than she does, her quiet voice murmurs from behind you.
“...Can I hug you?”
There's no world in which you would be able to ignore or deny the request; not from her, not when she sounds so hurt and hopeless.
Nancy sidles up to you, a blanket of heat along the back of your body. She snakes her slim arms around you, and each warm, shuddering breath she takes wafts over the skin of your neck. The thin little hairs that emerge from it pull straight and tight, magnetized in her direction. You won't be able to sleep like this, but weren't really expecting to, anyway.
In time, she can't help herself. She fidgets with the hem of your shirt and eventually slips her fingers beneath it, stroking her warm hand over the skin of your stomach. She pushes it even further, gliding higher—slowly, so slowly, as if you might not notice—and you bite down on your bottom lip just as her finger brushes against the underside of your breast. You don't stop her so she keeps exploring, grazing along the underside and deeper, picking up sweat in the crease.
Your skin beneath her touch feels molten, and when she can't resist the urge to brush her finger against the hardened bud of your nipple, it hits you like lightning. You suck a gasp through your teeth and Nancy answers with an exhale of her own, and in the pathetic solitude of your mind, you beg her to keep it up as long as she can.
The gentle throb between your legs returns and Nancy does not disappoint you. She doesn't stop, caressing the underside of your breast and toying with your nipple, back and forth, driving you out of your mind. Now and then she cups and squeezes and your thighs do the same, and she doesn't stop, again and again, back and forth until, inevitably, she dozes off against your back.
…
You only briefly manage to pass out, and you come to with Nancy's hand still plunged deep into your tank top. It's like a game of Operation trying to extract it without rousing her.
On the way to the kitchen, you hear your mother in the shower and smell the coffee she set to brew beforehand. You open the fridge and sigh. There's a few eggs left, some ham you can fry. It doesn't take long. You plate the food and then make a call. On return, you fill up a mug, add a splash of creamer, take a couple bites off of the plate, and head back to your room.
As small as she looks like this, passed out in your oversized tee with her tousled and flattened curls, standing over her feels like approaching a sleeping bear. You're scared to touch her, scared you've lost your mind, that you really did dream it all up, or maybe that you didn't; terrified that she'll open her eyes and wonder what she's doing here, whether you laid beside her all night, what you did to her while she was indisposed. But the fear won't leave whether she wakes up now or later.
"Nancy," you say, about as loud as you normally speak. She doesn't react. "Nance," you try again louder, and when that doesn't work either, you decide to suck it up.
Setting the coffee mug on your nightstand, you reach out to shake her shoulder, moving slow with reluctance. Just before you connect, she jerks. Her face turns towards you and scrunches up like it always does in the morning with a quiet little "hm?" and you snatch your hand back to yourself, straightening your back as your heart starts to pound in surprise.
"Nancy," you say again, awkward. You aren't sure why.
She turns onto her back and stretches her entire body in a long, feline arc. With immense difficulty, she squints her eyes open and, at the sight of you, smiles. You let out your first full exhale of the morning.
"…Hi," she says, and the sight of your offering only makes her smile wider. "What's this?"
"Breakfast," you say. "The best I could scrounge up."
Nancy sits up and accepts the plate with an unusually bashful smile. "Thanks."
"Coffee on the table."
She glances towards it, then right back at you. "Aren't you gonna eat?"
"Already did," you lie.
Nancy frowns. "What? Why'd you eat without me? You could've woken me up."
"I figured you needed the rest."
She eyes you for a while; confused, suspicious. It's hard to tell what all she knows. Then, something hits her—she squints her eyes shut and grunts, grinds one palm into her eye.
"Headache?" You're already digging in the drawer of your nightstand for your bottle of Tylenol.
"Yeah." She smiles around her grimace as you hand it to her, and she tosses back twice the recommended dose, washing it down with coffee.
As she starts picking at her food, you're still stuck in place, standing there like an overzealous butler, waiting for her to give your existence meaning through some other task to complete on her behalf. You don't know how to bring up what happened, how to ask what all she remembers—how to tell her what you did. She watches you watching her as she takes another sip, amused and puzzled.
“Did I…say something weird last night?” she asks, and you receive it like a punch to the gut. Exactly what you were scared of. “You’re acting…weird.”
“…No,” you try to say, but your intonation takes on a mind of its own.
She makes a face at you, loosely smiling. “That doesn’t sound like a no.”
"What, um… Do you…?" There's no way to ask Do you remember how you felt about me last night? that isn't utterly humiliating, so you give up on it altogether. “…Are you and Jonathan still together?”
Her frown only deepens. “...Yeah,” she says. “...Did I say that we weren’t?”
“…Why?”
“What?”
“Why are you still together?”
“...What do you mean?”
You bite your lips between your teeth. If it’s all of them, then why are you still with him? If you can’t even get off without thinking about me, then why the fuck are you still dating him?
“...Nevermind.”
"…Okay," she agrees, pitch rising in uncertainty. "…Are you working today?"
You shake your head and a switch seems to flip. Nancy's face beams with a girlish little smile.
"Good," she says, and her eyes twinkle in thought. "…Do you still have that picnic blanket we used to use, the baby-blue gingham? Cause I was thinking later we could go down to Bradley's and pick up some things for sandwiches, maybe some fruit and those shortbread cookies you like, if they have any, and we could drive to that little clearing on Danford Creek to have lunch."
It shakes you up too deep to even process—there's no way she just came up with that on the spot. "…I don't think so, Nance."
"No?" she sort of pouts, but she doesn't lose any steam. "Well… Maybe we could rent a movie, just stay in and—"
"No, that's not—" You breath in as deep as you can. "I just… I think you should go home."
"What?" She seems to think you're joking. "…I mean, already?"
"You can finish eating, change," you assure her. "But, um… I already called your house. He'll be here in…thirty minutes, maybe."
"…What?" she gasps, mostly air, and her disappointment sinks and hardens into insult. You've said all you have to, so she scoffs, blinking her affronted eyes around like she can hardly believe what she's hearing. “…So, what, you're kicking me out? After all that, you're just gonna—?”
“All what, Nancy?”
It stops her short. She pauses, stares at you with her face taut and blank. You wait, and you wait—to hear that she's lying, pretending, that she remembers every moment or none of them at all, that she isn't ready yet but she still needs you anyway—and like always, she gives you utterly nothing.
You shrug your shoulders, helpless to help either of you. “...What did you think was gonna happen?”
A frigid pause and Nancy tosses her half-eaten food aside. She stares you right in the eye as she downs the rest of the coffee (some of it streaking down her chin, staining your shirt) and stands up in front of you. Your deep-fried, near-woozy brain provides the silly thought that she might kiss you again, but she doesn't.
Her face is strained with frustration that ebbs and flows in directions you don't recognize, and she gives you no warning before ripping your shirt over her head. You're startled by it, don't manage to flinch away in time, so the sight of her bare chest (sweet and supple, dotted with rose pink) singes itself in your mind like a brand.
"Christ," you mutter, eyes squinted shut, as she walks around you. When you dare to open them, she has her blouse on, collar untied. "…I'm still here," you offer blandly. "Not going anywhere."
She doesn't respond, just steps back into her skirt, yanking at the buttons with a violent urgency.
"…You should talk to him," you go on. "…About the drinking, too. I'm sure he's worried about you."
"Thanks for the advice," she bites. She whips around to leave without another word or glance.
"Nancy," you call at the last moment. And she waits in the doorway, hesitantly looking over her shoulder to meet your eyes. It takes a moment to swallow your heart down from your throat. "…If you need something from me, I need you to ask for it."
Still staring, she takes a breath, her head held high and proud. Her eyes are still as clear as the night before—different and more familiar than ever.
And then she leaves. The door slams behind her hard enough to make you jump.
"What the hell have I told you about slamming doors?!" your mother's muffled, croaky voice shouts from the other room. "You're goddamn old enough to—! Whuh— Nancy?!"
Her voice continues on, too quiet to hear distinctly. You tell yourself it's for the best. What really matters is that you know, now, but you can't figure it out for her if she still won't let you in, and you definitely can't sit around playing house like it's nothing out of the ordinary—like she hasn't hurt you in ways you're still struggling to wrap your head around.
You lift the plate off of your bed and start picking at her leftovers, cooling fast in the icy morning air. And when you turn around, with a single, disbelieving laugh, you notice what she left behind.
A thin, dainty, Alice blue bra, strewn out carelessly on the tawny brown carpet.
-
thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 if you liked my story, please like/comment/reblog!
those who requested to be tagged: @kentucky-criedfricken @writing-the-stars
The way I have been CRAVING some Nancy angst. This just filled my heart with so much glee (Don’t get it wrong, this is not a happy story. My brain is just wired weird and angst brings me joy). It is SUCH a good story. The tension. The emotional journey. The hurt. Gorgeous. Stunning story.
Summary: there aren’t enough seats on the hockey bus, so you end up sharing. Hockey player!Blaise x sports photographer!reader
Warnings/be aware: fem!reader, literally just tooth-rotting fluff, Blaise is so soft for reader, so much hockey slang.
A/N: thank you guys for baring with me while I literally scrapped a whole other story and wrote this one instead! I hope it was worth it. An extremely delayed submission for @i-await Blaise’s Banquet.
The energy on the hockey bus was electric as you climbed aboard, the purple LED lights that lined the interior adding a transcendental ambience to the crowded vehicle. You were grinning ear-to-ear as you walked down the aisle with your DLSR camera clutched in your hands. Around you, players and coaches reviewed the game excitedly, discussing their favorite goals and saves. Shifting your camera to your left hand so that you could pull out your phone with your right, you opened the team’s Instagram and selected the option to start a new story. As you held down the ‘record’ button, you filmed the raucous, invigorating scene around you.
“...and then Zab with the OT clapper!”
Mattheo Riddle, the team’s starting right defenseman, was having such a loud conversation with his blue-line partner, Theodore Nott, over the back of his seat that his voice somehow defeated the clamber around him. Several of his teammates turned eagerly at the shout.
“Zab with the OT clapper!” Lorenzo Berkshire repeated, pointing at his fellow winger next to him. The bus exploded in a thundering cheer for the man of the hour, Blaise Zabini, who’d won the night’s away game for your university with an unbelievable overtime shot.
“Top shelf!”
The noise was overwhelming, and you nearly pitied the opposing team as they filed out of the nearby rink’s entrance, but the feeling was quickly forgotten as you turned back to Blaise. He’d already been awarded a comically large plastic wrestling championship belt in the locker room for his efforts, and he was now laughing as he held the belt in his hand.
You ended the video as the cheering transformed into incoherent yelling and the occasional howl from one of the rookies, grinning at the team’s antics. Selecting the option to add text to the story, you typed, “Lots of love for number 7 on the bus tonight.”
Biting back a nervous grin, your stomach flip-flopped subtly at the sight of Blaise’s laugh replaying on your phone. You paused, taking a moment to push the thought aside before pressing the button at the bottom of the screen to post the story.
When you glanced up, you realized that Blaise had stood from his seat, the plastic belt laid across the armrests. Your smile widened when you realized he was starting a speech. Crouching down into the aisle, you ensured that all his teammates and coaches could see.
“...thanks, boys.” He flashed a little smirk that made his teammates chuckle and your chest flutter dangerously before continuing. “But I want to acknowledge that this game was an incredible team effort! We showed up tonight, we played from end to end, we beat the number one team in the league because we are undefeated!”
The bus erupted into another wave of deafening cheers, applause, and whistles that set the floor vibrating underneath your feet and made your lips crack with a grin. There truly was nothing like the spirit of this team, your team – although you didn’t play, they’d claimed you long ago. Nights like these, with an away game won, spirits soaring, and a long drive back to your home campus ahead of you, were your absolute favorite.
“Let’s hear it for your captain, Malfoy!” Blaise’s speech reached a fevered pitch as he yanked the blond boy from the seat he’d taken across from Blaise and Enzo. “Absolute beauty.” Despite looking slightly jostled, Malfoy grinned as his teammates cheered for him, offering the boys a wave like a movie star greeting a crowd of supporters. You giggled, setting your phone down on your knee and letting your camera hang around your neck so you could applaud. “Your tendy, Flint, with thirty-seven saves!”
“Woohoo!” You let out a cheer that was easily drowned out by the clamber of the bus as the team cheered Flint’s best performance of the season.
“Berky, with the hatty!” Blaise’s speech continued on as he shouted out the impressive performances of the night to raucous applause, from goals to puck blocks to Riddle’s five-minute fighting major after he’d dropped the gloves with a rival defenseman who’d cross-checked a rookie in the head minutes before.
Of all the jobs you’d had since high school, this one was by far your favorite. During your freshman year of college, you’d received a mass email that the university’s D1 hockey team was looking for a photographer and social media manager, and with the thought that you had nothing to lose, you’d submitted your portfolio on the application portal. You’d scarcely believed your eyes when, a few weeks later, you’d received another email from the team’s head coach, informing you that you’d been selected.
Initially, you’d been intimidated beyond belief. You were surrounded by future NHL prospects, after all. Your hands had shaken so badly during your first practice that nearly all the video you’d taken was unwatchable. But the boys had warmed up to you quickly, putting your worries at ease. By the end of the season, you were invited to team dinners and parties, basically an honorary member of the team. Three years into your favorite gig and you were inseparable from the hockey players.
“...and our photographer, who shows out, every. Single. Game!”
Your eyes widened as the gazes of the players and coaches suddenly trained on the space where you were crouched on the floor. Chuckling, Blaise reached his hand out to you and you took it, standing up with a sheepish grin as the team roared, applause and loud whistles echoing across the bus. You tucked your phone back into your pocket and stepped closer to Blaise, who immediately slung his arm around you. Nervous giggles slipped from your lips, your cheeks feeling fiery.
“Guys!” you protested, but Blaise shook his head, pulling you in closer to his chest.
“Half of you owe your profile pics to this one, don’t lie.” He nodded towards you and you laughed, knowing just how many of the boys around you had one of your hockey action shots as their Instagram profile picture. “You can thank her for all those DM’s, yeah?” You rolled your eyes at that, smacking him lightly in the chest. But as you looked up at him, you saw him beaming down at you, and for a split second you forgot how to breathe.
As quickly as it began, it was over. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” Grinning, Blaise released you and pointed up towards the front of the bus, where the bus driver chuckled back at him through the rear-view mirror. The team gave one last cheer as he tossed the plastic belt in the carry-on compartment above his head and sat back down in his seat. Then, the bus driver revved the engine and the vehicle grumbled to life.
After placing your camera in its case and setting it above with the carry-on bags, you glanced around and realized you’d committed a considerable oversight. In all the commotion as the team had boarded the bus after the win, you’d been so busy doing your job and filming content that you’d forgotten to find yourself a seat. Most of the athletics buses were huge – typically, there were far more seats than there were passengers on the bus, but as you looked around, there looked to be none available.
“Am I going crazy, or is this bus smaller than usual?” You tossed a worried glance at Draco, figuring he would know the answer. As the bus lurched forward, you stumbled, grabbing the edge of Blaise’s seat for support.
Draco shook his head. “One of the athletics buses broke down this morning, and apparently everyone and their mother had an away game tonight. The small ones were all they had left.” He rolled his eyes, an expression of deep annoyance crossing his face.
“What’re you so mad about?” Theo Nott scoffed in Draco’s direction, jutting his thumb at you. “She’s the one without a place to sit.”
“How were there enough seats for everyone on the way here but not on the way back?” You frowned in confusion.
Nott jerked his head toward the front of the vehicle. “Pucey rode here with his parents, but he’s coming back on the bus.”
You shrugged, letting out a wry laugh. “Guess I’m taking the aisle, then.”
“No way.” Blaise’s objection was immediate as he shook his head. “C’mon, Berky and I’ll pack it in.” He threw back the armrests cordoning off his seat from Enzo’s and began to move away from the aisle and towards the window, nodding for his seatmate to do the same.
“Uhh…” Enzo glanced over at you and then down at his and Blaise’s seats, where there was clearly little more room to be found. “Yeah, sure.” Scooting down as best he could, he managed to create approximately two more inches of room before being squished between his linemate and the window.
You eyed the sliver of seat by the aisle they’d managed to empty. If you really, really tried, you might’ve been able to fit a quarter of your left thigh in the available space. Hockey players weren’t generally small humans, and there was no way they were going to be able to fit two of them and one photographer in a space meant for two people. “Guys, it’s really fine.” You weren’t overly fond of the idea of riding home cross-legged in the aisle, but as long as the driver didn’t hit too many sharp turns, you were sure you would be alright.
“C’mere.” Blaise patted his thigh, nodding towards you. “Just sit on me, then.”
You could’ve sworn the entire bus heard the breath that got stuck in your throat. Swallowing it thickly, you gave your head a little shake as you tried to ignore the way that your heart seemed suddenly determined to run away in your chest. “I – what?”
He shrugged, shooting you an easy grin. “It’s fine, just sit here.”
“I’m a whole person, I’m heavy! I can’t just sit on you for a couple hours.”
“What, you think I’ve been slacking in the weight room?” He let out a little scoff, and he would’ve looked almost offended if not for the playful glint in his dark eyes. “Sit.”
Finally, you relented, shaking your head and trying your best to look exasperated despite the fluttery feeling in your ribs. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears as you let him pull you into his chest, settling you across his huge thighs. As strong as he looked on the ice, he felt even stronger beneath you, your skin tingling where you felt his muscles tense and flex against you. He smelled ridiculously good, the scent of his expensive musky cologne enveloping you. You hoped with every fiber of your being that he couldn’t feel the embarrassingly loud pounding of your heartbeat as you sat against him.
“Comfy?”
You could feel the way his voice vibrated through his chest, surrounding you and seeping through your skin. It was an agonizing bliss, as was the little smirk he flashed your way, telling you that he knew he was teasing you.
“Yeah, I’m good.” The words were rushed, shoved from your mouth before your voice had the chance to waver.
When exactly you’d caught feelings for Blaise, you weren’t certain. Maybe it was during that first practice, when you’d filmed all of the boys answering a question as they exited the locker room and he’d given you a great sound byte with a handsome grin before winking and welcoming you to the team. Or maybe it was after the team had won the championship during your freshman year and he’d declared you their good-luck charm, insisting that you hold the enormous trophy and snatching your DSLR camera to take a picture. Perhaps it was piece by piece, day by day, your crush taking shape with every little pre-practice hug, every arm offered to help you across the ice when you needed to film from the opposite side of the rink, every wink and grin and touch. All you knew was that one day at the start of last season, your feelings had hit you like a train, and ever since that day, you couldn’t think straight or even breathe properly in the presence of one Blaise Zabini.
He was your friend, just like any of the hockey guys. You were basically one of his teammates. But there were times when you wondered whether the two of you might be dancing on the edge of something more, glancing into the deep end and wondering whether you ought to jump in. You knew you shouldn’t make assumptions – all the hockey boys were flirts. It was probably just wishful thinking. Still, every time he wrapped his arms around you or complimented your photos after a game, you couldn’t help but get your hopes up. You were only human.
Trying to distract yourself, you leaned forward, trying to engage in whatever frenetic conversation Theo and Draco were having.
“...the Leafs are not going all the way this year!” Theo gave the bottom of his seat a frustrated smack. “You all wasted Marner, you’re wasting Matthews and Nylander, I’ll bet you miss the playoffs.”
“That’s rich, coming from the Oilers fan,” Draco scoffed. “McDavid’s walking the second he’s a free agent.”
You rolled your eyes, having heard this argument a million times before. “Canes are winning the cup,” you replied, your tone almost bored. “Anderson’s unreal, Slavin’s a wagon, they’ve got Aho, Ehlers, they’re getting a good season out of Taylor Hall…you can’t change my mind.”
The boys glanced at each other, then glanced at you, wordless. Draco frowned, his mouth opening and closing a few times in futility.
“That’s a good take,” Enzo finally said, breaking the silence with an emphatic nod. “That’s a really good take. Nice one.” He held his fist out for a bump and you obliged, laughing.
Glancing back at Draco and Theo, you shrugged your shoulders. “Your teams both suck.” You crinkled your nose playfully, keeping your gaze forward though you could practically feel Blaise’s eyes boring into the back of your head. Turning, you finally acknowledged him. “Sorry, Leafs fan.”
He raised his eyebrows, the intensity in his gaze sending a flurry of tingles across your skin. “Really?”
You turned around more fully to look at him, your weight resting on his right thigh as you moved in his grip. Shrugging, you widened your eyes in false innocence. “What? I’m just telling it like it is.”
Looking you up and down, he let out an incredulous little laugh. “You should keep in mind where you’re sitting before you go telling it like it is.”
The thing about your crush on Blaise was that you somehow couldn’t resist the urge to dig yourself in even deeper, even though you should’ve been trying to dig yourself out.
As you crossed your arms, you raised your own eyebrows. “What are you gonna do about it? Drop me?”
The edge of Blaise’s grin twitched, his nose scrunching playfully. “Nah.”
His strong arms were suddenly around you, pulling you all the way into his chest. You let out a little shriek of surprise, but then you felt the worst part – fingers digging into your sides, sending ticklish sparks through your stomach as a full-on scream slipped past your lips. Thankfully the bus was so loud that most people didn’t even turn around, but your cheeks burned as an unrelenting fountain of giggles poured from your lips thanks to Blaise’s torment.
“Blaise! Please!” You twisted and squirmed in his grip, but he was way too strong, and you could feel him smirking into your shoulder as his fingers teased your skin. “Pleaseee!”
“Who’s the best team in the league?” His voice lilted teasingly.
“The Leafs! The Leafs! I’m sorryyyy!” Finally, he relented, leaving you giggling and breathless in his arms.
“You heard it here first, boys. She’s a Leafs fan.”
Draco nodded astutely, glancing at you where you sat slumped against Blaise’s chest. “It’s for your own good.”
“No it is not,” you protested with a huff, sitting up. “And that was a sentiment provided under duress.” Turning, you crossed your arms as you pouted in Blaise’s direction. “You’re mean.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gave a low chuckle as he circled his arms around your waist. “You’re not going anywhere.”
You didn’t – you stayed perched on his thigh as Mattheo passed back a fifth of Fireball and everyone drank, fueling the loud conversations and card games spawning throughout the bus. With the help of the alcohol, your muscles lost their tension. You relaxed back into Blaise’s arms, occasionally piping up to contribute to the heated hockey debates and chaotic partying stories.
“I can barely drink this garbage anymore,” Theo groaned as he took another swig of the liquor. “Not after that post-'ship barn-burner our rookie year.”
“Wasn’t that the night you fell out the window of our Uber?” Blaise chimed in. Your eyes widened as you let out a giggle.
“Yes,” Theo groaned, looking as though he regretted bringing it up.
“Got his bell rung and he wasn’t even on the ice.” Mattheo’s face popped up in between Theo and Draco as he turned around in his seat, shaking his head in mock disappointment.
“Wait, pause, I have so many questions.” You held up one finger in Theo’s direction. “Please tell me the car wasn’t moving.”
“Nearly parked.” Theo winced.
“Nearly?”
“The back wheel only hit him a little.” Mattheo scrunched his nose, holding his thumb and forefinger slightly apart.
Shaking your head, you grinned. “That explains a lot.”
You felt the rumble of Blaise’s stifled laughter in his chest as Theo narrowed his eyes in your direction.
Enzo chuckled, nodding towards you. “You know, I always forget you weren’t around that night. Seems like you’ve been hanging out with us forever.”
“Didn’t think I was quite ready for a night out with you guys yet,” you mused. “I suppose I was right if Theo was falling out of car windows.”
“You sure came out after the next ‘ship, though.” Mattheo cracked an enormous grin as you groaned.
“Don’t even remind me!” You clamped your hands firmly over your face, shaking your head. “Never again. I can’t even think of gin without gagging.”
“Remind you of what?” Draco chimed in. “The drinking contest with Riddle? The arm-wrestling competition with the bouncer?” You aimed a swift kick at his shins and he dodged it, smirking. “Dancing on that table in the middle of the bar?”
“You’re the worst.”
“Zab carrying you home?”
You froze abruptly, your hands dropping from your face. Staring at Draco, you furrowed your brows in bewilderment. “Wait, what?”
Draco let out a low chuckle, a half-smile on his lips. “You don’t remember?”
Shaking your head, you thought back to that night. You remembered stumbling in the heels you’d foolishly worn as you walked back towards campus, but nothing after that. Shifting, you turned towards Blaise.
“What happened?”
He exhaled softly, a little smile tugging at his lips. “It was no big deal. You were wearing those huge heels and you tripped, I didn’t want you to hurt yourself walking back.”
“He was hysterical,” Theo added dryly.
“He yelled at me in the middle of the street for letting you drink so much,” Mattheo drawled.
“Blaise!” You let out an incredulous little laugh. “It was my own stupid fault for drinking so much. You shouldn’t have yelled at Mattheo.”
“See?” Mattheo gestured so intensely in your direction that Draco was forced to duck. Blaise scoffed before turning back to you.
“You cut yourself when you fell,” he added. “I just brought you back to your dorm, helped you clean up your knees, and made sure you weren’t gonna be sick. ‘S all.”
“The dishes in the kitchen…” you trailed off, remembering the soapy dishes you’d woken up to in your sink the next morning. You’d always figured you’d cooked yourself a meal in your blacked-out state, wondering at how you’d managed to avoid burning the whole building down. “Did you cook for me?”
A low, breathy laugh slipped past his lips as he gave you that little smile that could melt you in an instant. He shrugged. “You said you really wanted mac n’ cheese.”
Your lips parted but you couldn’t find words, your heart fluttering in your chest with such intensity that you knew Blaise could hear it. But if he could, he didn’t mention it, instead gazing at you with that impossibly soft smile.
“Zab, you’re such a simp, it’s unreal.”
Mattheo’s voice provided a profoundly unwelcome snap back to reality, his smug grin hovering over the back of Theo’s seat like the Cheshire cat.
Before you could respond, you heard Blaise scoff, his muscles tensing beneath you. “I’ll show you a simp, Riddle.” You watched as his eyes narrowed in his teammate’s direction and his lip curled. “I’ll put you through the glass at practice tomorrow, you hear me?”
Despite the former’s love for a good fight, you could tell Mattheo had no desire to go toe-to-toe with Blaise as his eyes widened. “Heard.” He disappeared back into the group of seats ahead of you.
You couldn’t help but giggle at the memory of the defenseman’s alarmed expression as you turned back to Blaise. “Could you really do that?”
He let out a soft chuckle. “I wouldn’t,” he clarified, nodding in Mattheo’s direction. “But don’t tell him that.”
As the bus continued to cut through the pitch-black mountain roads, a sliver of the moon shining down on its passengers, the effects of the alcohol began to wane and the inside of the vehicle grew quiet. Players began to put in headphones, snack, or close their eyes, the remaining conversations growing hushed. Enzo soon fell asleep as Draco read and Theo stared out the window, leaving you and Blaise the only ones softly whispering to each other.
You were completely cuddled up to him, sitting on his thigh with your knees pulled up to the seat, your head resting against his chest. His calloused fingers absentmindedly trailed across your ankle, his other hand wrapped around your waist. Your gaze was trained on the screen of your phone as you clipped the video footage you’d captured of the game, hoping to have a few posts ready for the team’s TikTok account by the end of the bus ride.
“Wow,” Blaise murmured, his eyes drifting down to your screen as you put the finishing touches on the clip of his game-winning goal. “You’re amazing at this, you know.”
You felt your cheeks growing warm, an irresistible grin tugging at your lips. “Says you, Mister OT-game-winner.” Giving him a gentle nudge in the ribs with your elbow, you giggled. “With goals like that, the posts make themselves.”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “There’s no way I could make that look like that.”
It was technically true – you’d added slow-motion and reverberation effects so the viewer could see every moment of the goal, every last second of buildup until he released the shot and the puck fired into the net. Still, you shrugged, a little smile on your face.
“Just a little editing.”
He laughed, the low sound a whisper in the night. “Whatever you say.”
You finished another video before abandoning your work, turning off your phone and gazing out the window to let your eyes rest. The feeling of Blaise’s fingers trailing across your skin and the delicious smell of his cologne lulled you into a state of relaxation, your nerves slipping away entirely.
Only time would tell what this night meant, but you didn’t want to worry about that yet. You felt nothing but safety, allowing your breathing to fall in time with his and your eyes to flutter closed as his fingers began to twine in the ends of your hair. Blaise had taken care of you before and he’d take care of you now. As you finally rested, you knew this was exactly where you were supposed to be.
Credits: images ltr: Pinterest by seapiscean here, Pinterest by rosegoldenhoney here, Pinterest by ggs_library here | divider by @saradika-graphics here
This was ABSOLUTELY adorable and amazing and off the cutest things I’ve ever read. I’m so in love. The writing is so immersive and you can just feel the friendship between them all leaping off the page. Plus, I love to see Blaise getting love. So well written. So fluffy. Just perfect. Truly.
can we please do black!reader feeling insecure and robin by fingering her in front of a mirror👀
thank you🤍
*aggrivating middle school teacher who everyone hates voice* i dunno, CAN we???
YES. YES, WE CAN.
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠
(Robin Buckley x Black!Reader)
warnings: insecurity, fluff, smut (fingering) and lesbian stuff. very gay.
a/n: this reader is black as stated above, while there aren't a ton of descriptors (read it over and was surprised at that considering i was imagining me while writing it lol) but the implications are very much so there and i just have to make it known. this was very therapeutic for me, Robin deserves a canon black gf ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ tagging also as robin x reader for my black babes who don't bother even using the black!reader tag since there aint much out there for us ♡
It had been a very trying season for you.VERY.
Band season, anyways.
See, nothing sucked more than seeing your girlfriend with her ex-fling and unfortunately, you had to deal with it a lot, making sure to always show up to Robin’s competitions and events (though those were kind of mandatory since you were also a high school student). And because life hates you, Robin was always placed like right fucking next to Vickie.
You knew about their past, had been forced to witness their—albeit brief—relationship until they both got tired of dating their personality clone and determined they’d be better off as friends. A couple weeks later, a lonely Robin finally opened her eyes and realized you were right there the whole time and it didn’t take long until you began seeing each other.
That short period of time was kind of the problem. Halfway through your friendship with Robin, you’d realized you were in love with her. You hadn’t known how to feel since you were coming to the realization you were gay, then she came out to you and you suddenly felt ecstatic about your secret. Mostly.
It was annoying when she began to pay attention to Tammy Thompson but you didn’t get a vibe from her so it didn’t kill you.
When Steve Harrington started sniffing around her, you weren’t all that bothered, knowing she’d never return his feelings. Then you came out to her.
You were kind of hoping you’d go right to the confessions of love, kisses and happily ever after but that hadn’t happened. It had been disappointingly realistic; she’d told you she was glad you trusted her and that was that.
Then V ickie was suddenly in Robin’s gravitational pull. She had a boyfriend her entire high school career then of course the moment Robin started liking her, suddenly he wasn’t in the picture anymore. It hurt to see her slowly take your spot in her life. Suddenly, sleepovers with Robin weren’t as frequent and then stopped altogether as she did them with Vickie instead—and it killed you to imagine what they were doing at those sleepovers. She stopped spending time with you, too. It was so noticeable, people would stop and ask you about why you weren’t with her or why she wasn’t around and you just had to awkwardly shrug it off.
When they broke up, she of course came back to you and like some stupid pathetic teenager, you acted like you had no dignity and welcomed her back with open arms, as if she hadn’t abandoned you for some pretty Molly Ringwald lookalike. Two weeks later, she invited you to the fair and kissed you at the top of the Ferris Wheel. And despite feeling very much so like the second choice, you had kissed her back.
Flash forward to the school pep rally and you were constantly looking over your shoulder, at the area of the stands the band was occupying, where your girlfriend was being chatted up by the pretty redhead. You knew they were still on friendly terms and you wouldn’t tell Robin but it bothered you.
It bothered you so bad, your eyes would always get a little shiny due to how stupidly butt hurt seeing them together made you, all because they looked good.
They looked like they went with each other. Sure, people wouldn’t look at the two girls and think they were a couple since that would go against, like, the homo sapiens agenda or something, but to those who were like you, it would be immediately apparent they made a pretty couple.
No one would think that about the two of you. Because you didn’t look like Vickie. Or like Robin.
You got so in your head about it, you started to feel sick. You’d informed the teacher whose class you’d come to the pep rally with you weren’t feeling well and quickly slipped off to the nurse’s office.
You hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Since she was just a high school nurse, she’d told you to lay down on one of the uncomfortable gurney-thingies until you felt better. You’d closed the curtain to your area and cried there for a good hour before she eventually called your parents to pick you up, only disturbing you to gently inform you on when they had arrived and were waiting for you at the front office. You huffed out a sigh and got up, grabbing your backpack, you yanked the curtain open.
You inhaled sharply when you immediately locked eyes with your girlfriend sitting on one of the chairs lining the wall. Suddenly, you were very conscious of the black mascara trails under your eyes and cheeks.
You made sure the nurse was in her personal office and out of hearing range before asking, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sick,” she grinned sheepishly, obviously not sick as she waved a note she’d received from her teacher. “I saw you leave the gym earlier and I got worried. As soon as we got back to class and I got out of that stank band uniform, I decided I was sick, which I mean isn’t totally untrue since I’m worried sick about you and I needed to make sure you were okay.”
You felt your face get hot, “Well, I’m okay.” Liar.
Robin pursed her lips, not believing you for one second.
“Are you sure?” Because it didn’t look like it, it was obvious to her you’d been crying and the fact you were attempting to play it off made her more concerned. You always told her when there was something wrong, always talked to her.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Was just . . . It’s nothing.” You didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. You’d done this to yourself, anyways.
She glanced around to make sure you two were still alone before she got up from the chair, leaning in to whisper, “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Robin even had the metaphorical balls to reach out and cup your cheek, thumb swiping along your cheek and smearing the mascara trail. Daring, considering neither of you were publicly out since the Midwest wasn’t so kind about it. Showing affection in public places was a dangerous move but Robin needed to touch you, comfort you.
You sniffled and caved, “I just—I saw you and Vickie together and you just looked. . .”
You trailed off as the stupid tears began to form on your waterline again, “You looked like you go together, like you belong together.”
Robin frowned, displeased with what you were subjecting yourself to. She had no more romantic interest in Vickie, it was purely platonic. Truth be told, she didn’t really like interacting with her all that much, it was kind of awkward since Vickie would just start word-vomiting. Before, it was endearing to her but after their relationship had ended, the word-vomiting wasn’t out of nerves, it was due to awkwardness. Neither one of them was sure how to continue on being friends since they hadn’t been friends in the first place so it was just terribly awkward and usually one-sided conversation.
“Well we don’t. I belong with you.” It was surprisingly firm, something you were unused to hearing come from Robin unless she was annoyed.
It looked like she was going to say more but the nurse popped her head out of her office and you both sprang apart.
“Dear, you’re still here? I thought you’d left to go home already.”
“I’m on my way out,” You promised, heart beating wildly at having almost been caught. It seemed to satisfy her, she disappeared again, leaving you and Robin to trade that was close looks.
“Can I come over tonight?” Robin blurted out, hands twitching at her side, wanting nothing more than to hold your face again.
You nodded, pulling the straps of your backpack on.
She looked relieved and almost leaned in, no doubt to give you a kiss, before she caught herself. “Okay, I’ll see you soon?”
“Yeah,” you whispered out before scurrying out of the room.
You’d told your parents your illness was just some bad cramps, so they had no problem letting Robin come over. It meant they didn’t have to deal with your mood swings since you weren’t notoriously friendly during that time of the month.
Later that night, when Robin walked into your room, the first thing she did was lock your bedroom door.
“Alright, you beautiful human being.” She awkwardly tried kicking her converse off and cursed under her breath when she couldn’t because of how tightly they were laced. After she aggressively pulled at the laces, she yanked them off her feet and fell back on your bed, leaning back on her arm. She parted her legs and tapped the space on your blankets between them. “C’mere.”
You immediately crawled over, ready to straddle her but she tutted, manhandling you until your back was to her chest and you were staring at your reflections in the mirror attached to your dresser.
“There we go,” She chirped, arms wrapping under your bust as her chin settled over your shoulder. “See, I don’t ever want to invalidate your feelings because I love you, but it’s mind boggling to me that you would think Vickie and I look good together when we so obviously look like soulmates.”
You frowned at her reflection, “We do?”
“Oh, we do. You and I look so good together. Of course, mostly because you’re so freaking pretty,” She didn’t break eye contact as she pressed a kiss to your neck. Her lips didn’t leave the area, “And it kills me that you can’t seem to see that.”
That does it.
You burst out laughing, nose scrunching and body shaking as you let your weight collapse back into her. Robin rolled her eyes, unwinding her arms from around you so she could lean back on her hands to wait for you to calm down.
“I’m sorry!” You croaked out, still laughing like a hyena. In your fit, you ended up falling of the bed, back to your carpet as joy filled every cavern of your chest.
Her lips pursed comically, obviously trying to hold back her own smile. She knew what had been the cause of your case of the cackles, Robin could be bossy and she was hot, you thought she was so hot, but.
But. But. But.
She could not be intentionally sexy. On accident? Sure. On purpose??? Not so much. And you didn’t mean the way she dressed, which was hot too. She just couldn’t be very dominating. It was cute when she tried, because you knew she was trying so very hard to not be awkward.
“I’ll wait,” The way she said it, like a substitute teacher who couldn’t wrangle their class was intentional, she even sat up and clasped her hands in her lap.
“I’m sorry,” You apologized once more, sitting up as your laughter turned to giggles. Once those were under control and you were smiling like an idiot, you knee-waddled back over to her. Robin made sure to keep you at bay with her hands outstretched to block access to her lap. “C’mon, tell me all about it!”
“No, you lost that privilege.” There was no sincerity to it, her pretty mauve lips were curled into a teasing smile. “Go laugh some more.”
“Please?” You asked, eyelashes batting up at her. She was a sucker for your eyes—and really looking forward to sex—so she caved immediately, though you didn’t climb back onto your spot, choosing to tackle her to the bed and pin her hands to the bed instead as the both of you laughed.
You were about to trail your hands lower, towards her armpits where you knew she was the most ticklish when your brain registered she wasn’t not laughing anymore. You blinked down at her, taking in the shift of the atmosphere.
Robin was staring up at you, blue eyes full of adoration, reverence, her lips parted a little almost like they were frozen around a soft gasp. She was looking at you like she couldn’t believe you existed, let alone existed as her girlfriend.
She’d had her fair share of crushes, dream girls, likes-at-first-sights. Had one prior relationship, one that made her long for the formers just because of how much work she hadn’t known went into relationships.
Vickie was nice, sweet and a little too much like her. It was annoying, she’d begun to think Vickie was annoying and that was when she realized how unfair she was being. Ever see those tv shows where the best friends are so in sync, they’re talking in unison? Constantly saying the same thing at the same time? Yeah, there was a reason why they were just friends. It’s cute the first couple of times, creepy and agitating the rest.
She’d felt like such a failure when they called it quits, though. Robin finally had one of the dream girls interested and it didn’t work out. It felt real shitty. She vowed to go easier on Steve, if he felt like that all the time, he deserved a break from her antagonizing.
Then you happened. Well, you were always there, swooping in when Barb had abandoned her in favor of being friends with Nancy—okay, that was a little mean, Robin could have easily interacted with both, she was just in her ‘I’m not like those girls’ phase, which you put up with—didn’t even seem to mind when she started hanging out a little more with Steve than she did with you (you did, just hurt in silence), always answered your phone when she needed you, like you had some sort of Robin Senses.
Yeah, you were always there. Hadn’t even been doing anything when she came to the realization. You’d been laughing at some memory Jonathan and Will had been telling, your hyena cackle echoing in Nancy’s basement and Robin had the most tit-clutching thought about how much she loved your laugh, how much she loved you.
And she knew she had a chance with you—or at least fit the demographic you wanted to appeal to—so she hadn’t hesitated, not willing to waste a single second. She’d been stupid in love and somehow gayer ever since.
“I do, though.” She rasped out into the tension filled air between the two of you.
“Huh?” Came your very in-sexy reply.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” your hold on her loosened as she rose from the bed and you found yourself once more perched in her lap as she whispered your name, “You’re . . . Everything.”
The emotion she conveyed behind it had slick pooling in the heat between your thighs.
You didn’t protest when she maneuvered you back into position, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
“Eyes on you,” She commanded and your gaze darted to the side, to stare into your own eyes. Your breath hitched as she undid the buckles to your overalls and you lifted your hips to help her push them down your thighs, body temperature rising the moment they hit the floor.
“Pretty,” She commented as she hooked a finger into the side of your yellow panties and you winced, wishing you’d gone with one of the few sexy pairs you had instead of just a cotton pair. They weren’t as easy to get off, you’d thoroughly soaked the center so they stuck to your labia. When she’d managed to pull them away, down the meat of your thighs, a thick, clear string of your slick refused to part with them, Robin had to run her fingers through it to sever the connection and her whimper did nothing to help with your waterpark down there.
“Okay—Jesus—I know I’m not really great at sounding super sexy with my words, but babe, thatwassofuckinghotohmygod.” She hadn’t even pulled your panties completely off yet, they remained just above your knees since she couldn’t be bothered to do anything but rub your excitement between her fingers.
Oh. Your mouth dropped open, as you watched her suck her digits into her mouth, eyes fluttering closed as she hummed around them before pulling them back out, tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth to savor the taste of you.
“And you taste so fucking good, too. It’s not fair.” She whined before she went straight to business, ring and middle finger reaching down to nudge at your clit and when you inhaled sharply, she began teasing it, rubbing little circles into the sensitive patch of nerves.
Your head dropped back onto her shoulder as you whimpered.
“Uh-uh, eyes on the mirror, babe.” Her ministrations slowed, forcing you to raise your head and stare at your disheveled reflection. Your forehead was beginning to shine, sweat already beginning to break through your skin.
The moan that came out of you when her fingers dipped low, past your clit to rub at your hole was near pornographic and Robin had to quickly slap her free hand over your mouth, refusing to stop the descent of her fingers but unwilling to have your parents ruin it.
“Shh, baby, you have to be quiet,” She whispered against your ear, pressing a kiss to the skin behind it.
“I can’t,” you whined against her palm, smothering another one of those moans against her palm when her middle finger slipped easily inside of you followed shortly by her ring finger. She was ruthless, plunging, curling and dragging them against your walls, “‘s so good!”
It wasn’t long before the sound was apparent, a delicious squelch every time her nimble fingers plunged in and out, never fully leaving the warmth of your cunt.
“Almost there,” she sighed out, breath hot against your neck. Robin licked her lips, brows furrowed as she reached a little deeper, fighting off a proud smirk when she heard you keen, chest heaving—and yeah, she kind of regretted not taking your shirt off so she could stare at your tits but another time—as she finally found that spongy spot inside of you, finger pads pressing insistently at it.
Just like magic, you melted; body going lax as you relaxed completely into her embrace. Robin loved to get you like this, you always became so pliant when she found your g-spot, like a ragdoll Robin could have her way with. It also meant she was finger fucking you so good you legitimately couldn’t form words, could barely make a sound, forced to pant out huh-huh-huhs as she bullied your pussy, thumb coming in to the mix to play with your clit and resume those tight circles from earlier.
“There we go,” she let out a breathless laugh and your head lulled to the side, body puddy in her hands and thighs quaking over hers. “You gonna come for me? Squeezing my fingers awful tight.”
You were about to try to tell her to shut up, or maybe beg for her not to stop when your eyes locked on the mirror again, gaze taking in your sweaty face once more before glancing at Robin’s reflection. She wasn’t staring back at you, no, her gaze was locked on the reflection of what her hands were doing between your thighs. That area of the mirror ended up attracting your attention, too.
It was completely obscene, you could see your slick coating your inner thighs, your mound and her fingers every time she pulled them out, pale skin and pink knuckles glittering with your wetness, a contrast to the dark shade of your legs surrounding them. Even her thumb was coated, pressing it into your clit as she massaged it. A beautiful mess, while it was clearly your body and you could simply look down to see her taking you so thoroughly apart, it was somehow more vulnerable to see it happening to your reflection, to the pretty, sweaty girl sat on your girlfriend’s lap.
You really were beautiful.
You choked on a moan, eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm hit you hard and Robin cursed under her breath as you pulsed around her fingers, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.
She didn’t relent even as she felt you get wetter, rubbing furiously at your clit to prolong it for you, didn’t stop until you whined and reached a hand down to yank hers out of you when it became too much.
Robin pressed a smattering of kisses to your hairline as you heaved, then turned her head to the side as she sucked your spend off your fingers like honey, making sure they were coated in her spit and she hadn’t let any of it go to waste.
You watched her reflection, took in how pleased she looked with herself before those pretty blue eyes were on you again, winking at you through the mirror.
i sat alone in bed until morning, i’m crying “they’re coming for me”
and i tried to hold these secrets inside me,
my mind’s like a d e a d l y d i s e a s e.
hiii, it's me!! just a little drabble that's been floating around in my head. it's kind of a sequel to this drabble, which is kind of a sequel to this fic but can be read standalone ♡ (1k)
soundtrack: control - halsey
Rain pattered against the window of the common room like tiny pebbles on the glass. You looked up briefly at the sound, but were soon drawn back to the book and the boy in front of you.
You held your novel propped in one hand while your other carded gently through Mattheo's curls where his head rested on your lap. The steady rise and fall of his chest told you that he'd finally finally fallen into a deep sleep, which he was in desperate need of after another restless night tossing and turning, succumbing to and escaping from nightmares.
You were glad he'd found peace here with most everyone else home for the short spring holiday, otherwise you knew he wouldn't be caught dead in such a vulnerable position. You smirked at the thought, at how angry he would be if anyone else saw him like this, peaceful, harmless, and innocent; you let your finger trace the side of his face, his cheek, and you wondered what he might be dreaming about.
He had the sneaky habit of slipping into your mind; tendrils of black velvet prodding at your awareness until you could hear the timbre of his voice in your head, most often with a joke, a snide comment or a compliment too heady for other ears. Just the other day you'd been studying in the Great Hall with some friends when you felt the caress of his mind in yours, "Your lips look impossibly kissable right now" he'd muttered. You'd looked up, searching for him in the sea of bodies as you blushed and subconsciously bit your bottom lip. "Mm, that's only helping sweetheart" he'd said as you turned every shade of rose.
You never minded it, it was an intimacy beyond anything you'd shared with anyone else but as you stroked the side of his peaceful face you stopped to consider why it was one-sided? Surely there was nothing he wouldn't share with you, and wouldn't you love to see the look of surprise on his face for once when you slipped into his mind to tell him exactly what you were thinking about him.
You bit your lip in contemplation. Perhaps while he was sleeping was the best time to try, a chance to practice, to see if you could even do it without him knowing; you'd never tried occlumency before but you were sure if you could do it with anyone, it would be him.
You let your eyes slide closed as your fingertips lingered near his temple and you tried to conjure the same feeling he gave you, then reversed it, like crossing back over a bridge he'd already built.
Almost immediately you could tell it was working, it felt like wandering into a house you'd walked by a million times but had never been inside. You searched for the soft darkness, the velvet warmth of his consciousness but only began to feel cold and clammy as a pressure settled on your chest like a weight, preventing you from taking a complete breath.
The image of a long, empty hallway appeared, black at the edges like a memory, a nightmare. You blinked frantically to try to orient yourself as you took in the details: a black and white checkered floor, ornate stone walls and a high ceiling that spoke of opulence. But it was empty, cold and lifeless.
The pressure on your chest increased and you reached out a hand to steady yourself against the wall as you gasped for air when the screams started, bone-chilling and torturous, reverberating off of the stone walls in a way that amplified them until you could hear nothing else. In seconds more were added and you began to lose your control, your limbs shaking with a desperate need to escape, with a fear so deep-rooted you could taste it, metallic and sour in your mouth.
You turned to flee behind you only to find a door that looked awfully like the sealed entrance to a crypt and yet you banged and banged and banged on it, your cries mixing with those around you until you heard the distinct sound of Mattheo's pained cry added to the mix.
Your knees buckled and you threw your hands over your ears as he wailed and called your name over and over and over again.
Distantly you felt his darkness though there was no gentleness in its touch as it approached you, pulling you to your feet, yanking, tugging, forcing you forward until your eyes fluttered open.
Somehow you'd switched spots – Mattheo hovered over you where he'd pinned you to the couch, his hands roughly grasping your upper arms as he shouted your name and shook you.
You gasped for air, panting, gulping in full fresh breaths.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" he shouted, in a barely contained yell. His amber eyes were wide and frantic and his curls were wild.
His anger caught you off guard as he'd never so much as raised his voice at you before and you felt the pressure of tears welling behind your eyes.
"I didn't–" you tried, "I wanted–" you stuttered and gasped.
"Do not ever, ever try to get into my head again" he reprimanded coldly.
"Okay" you murmured, the vision of him before you blurring in your tears.
"Promise me?" he said.
You nodded, your words lost as you squeezed your eyes shut.
"Say it!!" he urged, shaking you slightly.
"I promise!" you cried, your tears finally breaking free.
"Fuck" he exhaled, his shoulders slumping and his grip on you loosening for only a second before he gently pulled you into his arms, crushing you to him as his hand came to cup the back of your head.
"I'm sorry, fuck, I shouldn't have yelled at you like that" he said, holding you tighter.
Your only answer was a shuddered breath as you wet his t-shirt with your tears.
"It's just..." he started quietly. "The shit that’s in my head, it's too dark for you."
You remembered the tortured screaming, the crushing pressure on your chest and you tensed, grasping the fabric of his shirt in your hands, wondering if what you saw was a nightmare or a memory.
And in that moment he knew that he’d been too late, that you’d already seen too much, that he failed to keep you safe and then terrified you further by yelling at you; he felt the pain like a hairline fracture on his heart.
His mind was scrambling for a way to make it all better and he began pressing gentle kisses to the top of your head, taking your face in his hands, and pressing more to each wet cheek, to your nose until he could see a small smile, and then he pressed one there too for good measure.
Your teary eyes met his with an alarming amount of understanding that made him feel like you were right back in his mind again. "It's too dark for anyone, Matty" you said quietly before you lay your head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat as he held you in his warm grasp.
I absolutely ADORE the way Vee writes Mattheo. It’s literally so amazing every time. Honestly, one of my favorite writers on this app. I hope to reach a modicum of her talent some day. Anyway, as always, excellent Mattheo fic. Please give it a read. And if you haven’t already, might as well go through her entire masterlist. I PROMISE you will not be disappointed.
Summary: basically things I imagine him doing, either with you or just simple habits
Content: Fluff, themes of comfort, themes of angst
Warnings: Mentions of violence, smoking, drinking, and some suggestive hints
Note: I have so many thoughts about him so this is just a part one until I get everything worded tehe (NOT proofread)
W/C: 547 words
.・゜゜・❁・゜゜・．
Before you guys were dating, this guy had the most diabolical staring problem. Even after as well. You could be doing anything, and you'd still find his eyes trained on you, now filled with affection or need
His love language is definitely physical affection, he constantly wants to be touching some part of you. Which leads to quite a bit of kissing. Expect to find his mouth all over you 24/7
He will never admit it, but he loves it when you touch his scars. No matter where he got them from, it feels comforting. Like your fingers are soothing any bad memories.
On the same note, you're presence soothes anything negative within him. Whether he's frozen, convinced he's going to become just as awful as his father, or if he just had a bad day- when you're there, he can relax.
Now, he can sleep on his own, of course he can, but he very much prefers if you're there. He doesn't care how many rules he has to break and how many of his mates he annoys, he wants you in his bed. His arms are always tight around you, as if you might want to leave him while he sleeps. He also can't fall asleep without saying 'I love you'. Because he wants to remind you, but sometimes he needs to hear you say it back and assure him you still want him.
He could give you a quick kiss, but it takes self restraint. Because why would he only kiss you for less than three seconds when he could have you pressed against him, or a wall, or his bed, his mouth on yours?
He adores your name, and loves the feeling of saying it. But he will often call you by a petname. Angel, Love, and Pretty are his favorites.
In his free time, he likes to smoke, or drink if his friends manage to procure a bottle of something decent. It's not a life threatening habit, but he still does it often enough it's become part of his scent. But he would never consider forcing you to partake. He's glad you're healthier than him. But he'd be lying if he didn't say it wasn't sexy as hell if you ever did smoke with him.
It took him so long to become vulnerable with you, small steps and cracks in his mask that surmounted to him trusting you more than anyone.
He would do anything to protect you. Sometimes you think he would've made a fine Gryffindor with his loyalty and chivalry and bravery. He's fought Deatheaters and defended your name without being asked or expected to.
Honestly though, he's quite private about how obsessed he is with you. Some people might notice with how often he'd look at you. But the only person who really knew was Theo. And he doesn't often show it in public with grand words or makeouts in the corridor. Instead, he'll keep his knee pressed against yours, or an arm on the back of your chair. And if someone mentions you, he stops zoning out to listen. If it's an insult, he won't hesitant to make it clear that he does NOT play when it comes to you.
"Tonight, I'm in the hands of fate
I hand myself over on a plate now /
Come, pull my strings, watch me move
I'd do anything, please (I'm yours to keep)."
—Behind The Wheel - Depeche Mode
The red glow of your bedroom lights illuminates Mattheo's sharp features as he grins at you beneath the crimson hues.
(You'd insisted they're romantic. His mouth had been too busy to disagree.)
The relationship between you is still new; the giddiness of falling for someone lingers over your every interaction. His kisses sprout butterflies in your stomach. His smile knocks the breath straight from your lungs.
It's that very same smile that has your heart thudding with a nervous beat as his hand snakes around your neck and glides under your hair like it belongs. His thumb, left free, rubs circles into the side of your throat. His grip is firm; it makes you feel safe and secure in a way you never before knew anyone could.
Mattheo pulls you into a kiss, your lips brushing together—once, twice, more; so chaste it makes your heart melt. When he finally pulls back, his dark eyes are sparkling with playful joy, ruby-red from the luminance.
It's the most gorgeous sight you've ever seen.
"You know," he murmurs, swiping his thumb up and down your neck, "I keep thinking how pretty you would look covered in hickeys." His grin turns predatory as he leans in at an angle and turns your neck in the direction of his hand, leaving your throat exposed to him. He begins to press firm kisses on the skin, each one slow and deliberate.
"Don't you dare," you breathe out in warning, even as goosebumps rise on your skin from the sensation. Damn him, and his soft lips, and his sultry grin, and absolutely everything else about him.
He sucks on the tough skin, his lips light enough to create a vacuum but not quite rough enough to leave marks. "I won't, pretty girl, don't worry," he hums in reassurance, though he's already found a new spot to worship with his attention. He licks a stripe up your neck, his tongue hot and wet. "But maybe one day..." His teeth graze on your skin, nip teasingly to wind you up as he continues, "One day, when we're all alone and no one's around to see..."
Your breath hitches in your throat, and your mind grows hazy from lust at even these simple gestures. He sucks a little bit harder, enough to leave a red mark that would fade by the next morning. You gasp quietly as he continues, "One day, like maybe on our honeymoon..." He punctuates the statement with another nip, but you barely notice it.
Honeymoon? He was already thinking about a honeymoon? You freeze, swallowing the lump in your throat as you listen to his seductive drawl.
"One day," he repeats, "I'll cover every inch of your body with my marks, until you're red and purple everywhere I can reach. Then, finally, everyone who ever looks at you will know that you're mine."
It's a hauntingly possessive statement for a relatively new relationship, but you can't hide the heated shiver it sends down your back. And you definitely can't hide your quiet moan when he goes ahead and sucks a love bite into your neck anyway.
At least he had the decency to do it where you can hide it with your hair, you manage to think before you kiss him senseless.
p.s.—welp, my first post. big thank you to @puddlesoffrogs for the beta read, as well as my irl editor E. and huge thank you to everyone who put up with all my stubbornness in the pursuit of peer pressuring me to post my first fic/drabble, lol. love you all <3
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spending time with nancy soothes your nerves.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: gn!reader. friends w/requited feelings - nancy and reader are very in love. close proximity, cuddling, kisses. era is unspecified - up to interpretation ! a soft moment with nance, mindless chatting.
masterlist <3
Nancy smells of something subtly fragrant. Pink petals and chamomile, a note of harsh citrus beneath it all but sweet even so. Her fingertips sweep up and down your wrist and up once more to twist the beads of your bracelet.
"Nance," you breathe. She doesn't answer, lost in her head. "Nancy."
"Hm?"
Your heart swells as you tug her closer, and your mattress creaks quietly in half-hearted protest. "You smell good."
Her gaze flits away from your hand in favor of meeting yours. She's got a palm pressed to the space above your chest and a thigh sandwiched between both of yours. She feels very warm like this. She doesn't think the proximity is the only thing at fault.
It's you, too. Always you.
Her cheeks glow a pretty rose, only partly because of her applied rouge. Fingers stray from your beads and brush up along the length of your arm to find your cheek, and her thumb catches beneath the plush of your bottom lip. She smiles when you kiss it.
"Used your shampoo last night," she admits, voice a whisper. Just for you.
You hum and feel something warm and honey-sweet crack open and spread through your chest. It melts you down into a fool for her. "Oh. It's nice on you. Florals don't suit me."
"They do," she murmurs back. Her long lashes flutter and she presses her face closer towards yours, foreheads touching now. "You look pretty right now."
You want to deny it, and insist that she's the pretty one instead. But your mouth feels as if it's been stuffed with cotton. Dim light bleeds in from your blinds and envelopes her in a mellow glow, and it only works to make her look more than just pretty. Otherworldly, you think.
"Only right now?"
She huffs and her nose nudges yours in turn. "No. Not only right now."
Everything feels slow, quiet. Nancy makes it so; she manages to freeze you and fluster you and make you feel so special all at once. She sparkles and you're caught in her glitter. It never leaves and you can't rid of it.
You don't want to, anyway. You'd like her for... forever.
"Nance?"
"Mm."
You tilt up your head to press a chaste kiss to her nose. "Love you."
Her thumb drifts upwards and to your cheekbone, then your temple and brow. Tracing, memorizing. Maybe she's cataloguing this moment, storing it in a deep and special place of her mind. You hope she is.
♡ he's controlled; not cold - let's be real, blaise isn't emotionless - he's selective. he watchesfirst, speaks seconds and only reacts for things that benefit him or genuinely interest him. people mistake this for detachment, but it's not. honestly.
♡ he was raised in what he refers to as 'polished chaos' - prior to his father passing, blaise came from an absurdly wealthy family. with his mother now being the zabini matriarch; his life became a fulltime scandal tinted affair. this means that appearances are currency. he's used to smiling at things he doesn't respect and keeping his cool when others would rage.
♡ blaise has a very dry sense of humour. it's almost surgical. he doesn't joke often, but when he does the punchline lands late and is often an insult.
♡ loyalty is earned. blaise isn't the kind of guy who collects friends easily. he's deliberate. this means that information shared, doors opened and actions amongst those he considers in his inner circle, stay put.
♡ romantically detached? yeah, by choice. charming when he wants to be, he treats romance like a negotiation rather than a fairytale. when he does care about someone it is quiet, private and almost impossible to decode.
♡ blaise reads micro expressions and social dynamics with an unsettling accuracy. he notices who likes who, who is lying, who is pretending not to care and who can and cannot be trusted. all this is long before anyone ever says anything out loud... and he's always on point.
♡ he is unsettling attentive in small ways - the drink you prefer when you've had a bad day, the exact tone of voice you use when you're trying to hide something, the kind of flowers you like when you've received bad news. yeah - he knows, and if he doesn't; he's quick to work it out.
♡ flirt? yeah it's not the loud kind. he'll make sure you have a seat beside him. he'll redirect conversations to make sure you're included. he'll appear near you during classes by 'coincidence'. it might feel like fate, but it's not - control disguised as ease.
♡ slytherin but refined? yes darling. where others are sharp or volatile, blaise is polished. he's not the storm like everyone expects, he's that calm underlying pressure that lurks within the shadows and makes people reveal themselves without ever really having to try.
she doesn't claim you in public. you think it's because she doesn't care enough. it's because she cares too much.
written April 24-30, 2024
------------------------------
The press conference is still playing when you walk back to the couch. You hadn't meant to stop. You'd been on your way to get water, bare feet quiet on the hardwood, and then the television caught you, the familiar red of her hair against the backdrop of flashing cameras, the sharp line of her jaw, the way she stood with her arms at her sides like she'd been bolted there. Composed. Untouchable. Every inch the Avenger.
You tell yourself you're fine. You get your water. You come back.
You sit down and watch your girlfriend smile at a reporter like she doesn't know how you take your coffee.
On screen, someone asks about her personal life a journalist in the third row, young, eager, pen already moving.
The public has always been curious about the lives behind the suits, Agent. Romanoff. Is there anyone special?
You don't mean to hold your breath.
Natasha's smile doesn't waver. It never does. That's the thing about her, the smile is a tool, honed and precise, and it gives nothing away.
"No one. I think the work speaks for itself," she says, easy, practiced. "I'd rather keep the focus there."
The journalist nods. The room moves on.
You set your glass down on the coffee table very carefully and watch the rest of it in silence every question, every answer, every moment where you scan her face for something and find nothing. She is so good at nothing. That's the thing that gets you. Not the words. The nothing.
By the time Natasha gets home you've watched the clip four times. You don't know why you do it to yourself. Some stubborn, aching part of you keeps looking for a flicker some hal second where something crosses her face that says yes, there's someone. yes, it costs me something.
There isn't. There never is.
You're on the bedroom windowsill when you hear her key in the lock.
"Hey." Her voice from the hallway, still pulling off her jacket. "Traffic was—" She appears in the doorway. Stops. She reads the room the way she reads everything, instantly, completely, and with an accuracy that used to feel like magic until you understood it was just her, paying closer attention than anyone else ever had. "What's wrong."
"Nothing."
"Y/n."
"I said nothing, Nat."
She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, still in her press clothes, blazer on, collar open now at the throat. She looks tired around the eyes in a way the cameras never catch and part of you, the stupid, soft part wants to go to her just because of that. Just because she's tired and she's here and she's yours, except right now she doesn't feel like yours, she feels like something on loan that the world could call back at any moment and she'd hand herself right over without blinking.
"You watched it," she says.
"It was on."
She exhales slowly through her nose. "How many times."
You don't answer, which is its own answer. You watch something move through her expression, not quite guilt, not quite pain. Gone before you can name it.
"Come here," she says quietly.
"I'm fine where I am."
"Detka—"
"Don't." The word comes out softer than you mean it to and somehow that makes it worse. You look back out at the city. "Don't do the voice."
"What voice."
"The one that makes me feel like everything's okay when it's not." You press your cheek against the cold glass of the window. "I'm not — I don't want to be managed right now. I just want—" You stop. You don't know how to finish that sentence. You want something you don't know how to ask for. You want to matter in a way that shows.
She doesn't push. For a long moment the room is just quiet, just the low hum of the city and the sound of both of you breathing.
Then she says "Tell me."
And you look at her, and her eyes are on you with that particular quality of attention she only gives you, not the sharp tactical focus, not the measured professionalism, but something steadier and more frightening than either of those things, and your chest goes tight.
"I'm just tired," you say carefully, "of pretending."
"I know."
"I don't think you do." You slide off the windowsill, and you don't mean to start walking but you do, out of the bedroom, down the hall, because you need somewhere to put yourself and you need it not to be three feet from her while she looks at you like that. "I spend every day out there acting like I don't know you the way I know you. I run into your teammates in the lobby and I'm just — nobody. I'm just some girl you nod at." Your voice is climbing and you hate it, hate how much of you is right there at the surface. "And then I come home and I turn on the TV and I watch you stand there and tell a room full of people that there's no one—"
You hear her follow you. Of course she follows.
"—and you don't even flinch. You don't even—" You turn around in the middle of the living room. "Is it easy? Be honest with me. Because from out here it looks easy."
Something cracks in her face. Just slightly. Just enough.
"No," she says. "It is not easy."
"It looks like it is."
"I know what it looks like." Her voice is tight in a way you rarely hear, controlled the way something gets when it's working very hard to stay controlled. "I know exactly what it looks like from the outside, and I'm telling you — Y/n, I am telling you — that what you see on that screen is not what is happening inside me."
"Then show me what's happening inside you." Your voice breaks on the last word. Just a little. Just enough to humiliate you. You look away. "Because right now I need something, Nat. I need — I look at you up there and I need to know I'm not—" You stop. Breathe. "I need to know I'm not nothing."
"Don't say that." Her voice is sharp now, fast, like the words got out ahead of the composure. "Don't you dare say that."
"Then give me something to hold onto."
The apartment is quiet.
You turn back toward the bedroom because if you stand here one more second in the middle of the living room with your heart this close to the surface you're going to say something you can't unsay.
"Y/n."
Panic. That's what's in her voice stripped clean, unmistakable. Not the controlled urgency she uses in the field. Not the professional edge. Actual panic, low and rough, like something has come loose in her chest.
You slow.
"Don't walk away from me." Her footsteps are quick behind you. "Please. I'm — please don't walk away."
You stop.
She reaches you in the hallway and before you can turn around her hand finds your wrist, not grabbing, not restraining, just holding. Like she needs the contact to believe you're still there.
"Look at me," she says. Low. Rough. "Baby, look at me."
Slowly, you turn.
She looks undone. That's the only word for it. Not the composed woman from the press conference, not the Avenger, not the version of Natasha Romanoff that the world gets. Just her, standing in her own hallway with her blazer slightly wrinkled and her eyes very green and very serious, and something close to fear written all over her face.
You have never seen her look at you quite like this.
You don't say anything. You're not sure you could.
"I need to explain something to you," she says quietly. "And I need you to let me explain it before you decide what it means. Can you do that?"
You nod. Barely.
She exhales. Her hand is still around your wrist. She turns it gently, carefully, and laces her fingers through yours, and then she guides you the few remaining steps down the hallway until your back meets the wall. Not rough. Not urgent. Deliberate. Like she needs you exactly here, exactly still, exactly close enough that she can see your face.
She braces one hand against the wall beside your head and looks at you.
"I want you to think about what my life looks like," she says. "Not what you see on the news. What it actually looks like. The people I've put away. The people who know my name and would do anything — anything — to get to me." Her jaw tightens. "I have enemies that most people don't have nightmares dark enough to dream up. I have a list of people who would consider it a victory just to know someone matters to me."
Your throat is tight. You already know where this is going and it doesn't make it easier to hear.
"The second your name is attached to mine," she continues, low and even, "you are on every one of those lists. You become leverage. You become a target. And I—" She stops. Her hand on the wall curls into a fist. "I have trained for every scenario. I have a contingency for everything. I have walked into situations that should have killed me and walked back out because I knew exactly what I was doing." She looks at you, and what's in her eyes right now is something enormous and unguarded. "I do not have a contingency for losing you. That is not something I can train for. That is not something I survive."
Your eyes sting. You look down.
You feel her breath change.
Her free hand comes up slowly, slowly, like she's afraid a sudden movement will shatter something, and her fingers find your chin. Light. The barest touch. She tips it up, trying to bring your gaze back to hers, and when you resist she doesn't force it. She just holds you there, patient, gentle in the way Natasha is only ever gentle when no one else is watching.
"Hey," she murmurs. "Look at me, detka."
You keep your eyes down. If you look at her right now you're going to lose whatever is left of your composure and you are hanging onto it by the thinnest thread.
A beat. She swallows hard.
"Y/n." Her voice is soft but there's an ache in it. Her thumb traces lightly along your jaw. "I need your eyes. Please." She tilts your chin a fraction more, coaxing, careful. "Give them to me."
Something in that undoes you.
You look up.
She exhales like she's been holding her breath since you stopped meeting her gaze. Her eyes move over your face, searching, cataloguing, the way she does when she's making sure something she cares about is still intact.
"There you are," she breathes.
Your chest aches.
"Do you want to know what I think about," she says, voice barely above a murmur now, "during those press conferences? During the briefings, the meetings, every single moment I have to stand up there and perform?" Her thumb traces slow along your cheekbone. "You. I think about you. I think about the way you look in the morning before you've said anything. I think about the way you laugh when something actually catches you off guard. I think about coming home." She leans in slightly, closing the space between you by another inch. "I stand in front of those cameras and someone asks me if there's anyone and everything in me wants to say — yes. God, yes. There is someone. There is someone who is — " her voice drops further "— the only thing that feels like mine. The only thing that isn't about the work or the mission or what I owe the world." Her forehead nearly touches yours. "And then I think about what happens if the wrong person hears that. What happens if someone with a grudge and a long memory decides to find out who she is."
Your back is still against the wall. She is close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that when she breathes you feel it.
"If anything," she says, and her voice has gone very quiet and very certain, the way it gets when she means something completely, "if anything touched you because of me — because I couldn't keep you out of it—" Her jaw tightens and she shakes her head once, slow. "That would be the thing that finally breaks me. I would not come back from that. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
You understand. You understand completely, and it doesn't make the ache go away, but it rearranges it, turns it into something that doesn't feel like rejection anymore, feels like the opposite of that, feels like being held so carefully that she won't even let the world see she's holding you.
You don't trust your voice. You nod.
"I know it's hard." She brings her other hand up to cup your face, both palms against your cheeks now, cradling, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes where you're dangerously close to letting something spill. "I know what I'm asking of you. I know what it costs. And I need you to know that I see it— I see all of it — even when I can't say so in a room full of cameras. Even when I have to stand there and be nothing." Her eyes search yours. "You are not nothing. You are— Y/n, you are the most important thing."
A tear escapes. You can't stop it. She catches it with her thumb before it gets far, so automatic, so certain, like her hands already know you by heart.
"I love you," she says.
Two words. Simple. And the way she says them, quiet and unperformed, no armor around them, nothing careful about it, makes your knees go soft.
You look at her lips. You look back up at her eyes. You are trying to find your voice and it has completely abandoned you.
"I love you," you say. Barely a sound.
Something in her face shifts, something that was wound very tight comes loose. She lets out a slow breath and she almost smiles except it's softer than a smile, it's relief, it's the expression of someone who needed to hear that more than they knew.
She moves a fraction closer. "I love you," she says again. Quieter. Like it's only for this room, only for you, like she's been keeping it somewhere very private and she's finally letting it out.
You wet your lips. The air between you is barely anything at all now. "I love you." Breathless. Just breath.
Her eyes drop to your mouth. She tilts her head, just slightly. "I love—"
She kisses you.
It's not gentle for long. It starts that way, soft, slow, her lips against yours like a question and an answer at the same time, and then your hand finds the front of her blazer and you grab it, and she makes a low sound against your mouth and the gentleness is over.
Her hands slide from your face into your hair, cradling the back of your head, and she kisses you like she has been thinking about it all day, which, you now know, she has. Thoroughly. Like she's making a point. Like she is done, for tonight, with restraint.
Your back is still against the wall and she is pressed against you now and there is no space, no air, nothing careful or measured about any of it. She tastes like whatever she had on the drive home and she smells like her perfume fading into something warmer underneath and you have both hands in her blazer now and she is kissing you in a way that makes it very difficult to remember what you were even upset about twenty minutes ago.
Not because she's erased it. Because she's answered it. Thoroughly. Against a hallway wall, with both hands in your hair and her whole weight angled toward you like she can't close the distance fast enough.
You pull back just enough to breathe. Your foreheads fall together. Both of you are not quite steady.
"Baby," you manage.
"Detka," she says. Low, rough, slightly wrecked. Her hands slide down to your waist, grip there, firm and sure.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, your face, flushed, your eyes, dark and whatever she sees there makes something shift in her expression. Intent. Certain. The particular focus of Natasha Romanoff when she has decided on something.
She leans down and kisses you again, slow this time, deliberate, thorough, and when she finally pulls back she hooks one arm under your knees and lifts you without a word, easy as breathing, like you weigh nothing, like she has been wanting to do this since she walked in the door and she is simply done waiting.
You make a sound against her shoulder. She turns toward the bedroom.
Your lips find her neck before she's even fully turned toward the hallway.
She inhales sharply, not the controlled kind, the real kind, the kind that comes from somewhere below all that composure and her grip on you tightens instinctively, fingers pressing into the back of your thighs.
"Detka." A warning. Low.
You ignore it. You press another kiss just below her jaw, slow, deliberate, and you feel her swallow.
She keeps walking. Barely.
You drag your lips up the column of her throat, and she tips her head just slightly, just enough, involuntary, the kind of thing her body does before her mind can stop it, and you smile against her skin because Natasha Romanoff just gave you that without meaning to.
"You're going to make me walk into a wall," she says.
"Maybe that's what I want."
She laughs, low and a little rough, and it rumbles through her chest against you. Then she turns her head and finds your jaw with her lips, still carrying you, unhurried, like your weight is nothing, like she has all the time in the world and she drags a slow kiss along the line of it, from the hinge up toward your ear, and your fingers curl into her shoulder.
"Nat—"
"Mm."
She mouths just below your ear and you actually shiver, full body, and her arms tighten around you like she felt it and liked it.
The bedroom doorway. She turns sideways to bring you both through it, still with her lips at your jaw, still completely unhurried, and the confidence of it, the fact that she is navigating a hallway in the dark while taking you apart, does something embarrassing to you.
She gets you through the door and then she's laying you down, slow, controlled, one arm still under you until your back meets the mattress, and she looks at you for just a moment before she follows you down.
Just a moment. Just long enough.
Her hair falls forward, loose now, that deep red catching the low light of the room, and she looks, devastating, that's the word, she always looks devastating but right now with her blazer slightly disheveled and her lips already a little swollen and her eyes on you like you are the only thing worth looking at in any room she has ever been in, devastating doesn't even cover it.
She kisses you before you can say anything.
Deep. Unhurried. One hand flat on the mattress beside your head, the other finding your waist, thumb pressing in like she needs to feel that you're real. You kiss her back and your hands find her hair and she makes a sound low in her throat that you feel more than hear and that sound does something to you, something immediate and irreversible.
Her lips drag from yours down to your jaw and you tip your head back automatically, giving her whatever she wants, and she takes it, mouths down the line of your throat, slow, no rush, like she's learning something. Like she's been thinking about this.
Her teeth graze lightly just below your pulse point.
Your back arches off the mattress.
She does it again, deliberate, and her hand at your waist slides up to hold you there, steady, like she knew you were going to do that and she was ready for it. Her lips close over the spot after and she stays there and your hands tighten in her hair and the sound that comes out of you is quiet and completely involuntary.
"Nat—"
"I have you," she murmurs against your throat.
You pull at her blazer. Both hands, shoving it back off her shoulders, and she shifts just enough to let it go without ever taking her mouth off you, it drops somewhere behind her and neither of you care even slightly.
Her lips move lower. Along your collarbone, slow and purposeful, and you feel her breathe you in, actually breathe you in, nose dragging along your skin, a long slow inhale like you are something she wants to hold in her lungs. Her lips follow. Pressing into your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft skin below it.
Your hands slide down to her shoulders, her back, feeling the lean muscle through her shirt, and she is so warm, she runs so warm, and she is pressed against you like there is no version of tonight where any space exists between you.
She pulls back just enough to look at you. Your shirt. Her eyes come up to yours, asking, and you sit up to meet her.
She takes the hem in her hands and draws it up slowly, slowly, watching your face the entire time, not the fabric, and when it's gone she drops it and just looks at you for a moment. One hand comes up and traces, featherlight, down from your collarbone to your ribs. Following the line of you like she's memorizing it. Like she has time for this, like she is going to take all the time she wants.
"You have no idea," she says quietly. Not quite to you. Almost to herself.
Then she lowers her head and her lips are on your collarbone and you feel her exhale there, warm and slow against your skin, and her hands are at your back and she draws you up, pulls you into her lap in one smooth motion and you go willingly, easily, hands finding her jaw, her shoulders, anywhere you can reach.
Her lips drag up your collarbone to the curve of your shoulder and she breathes you in again, deeper this time, and her grip at your back is firm and certain and you are in her lap with her mouth on your skin and her red hair falling around both of you like a curtain and you think distantly that you would let this woman ruin you completely.
She mouths back to your throat and her hands slide up your spine slow, deliberate, and when they reach your shoulders, she pulls you in closer still and you feel every point of contact between you, her hands warm on your back, your knees on either side of her, her lips finding yours again and kissing you slow and deep like she has nowhere else to be.
Your hands slide down to the hem of her shirt.
You lift it and she breaks the kiss for barely a second, just long enough for the fabric to clear her head, and then her mouth is back on yours like the interruption offended her personally.
You pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at her.
She looks back.
Her hand comes up and cups your face, palm against your cheek, thumb at the corner of your mouth and something in the gesture is so certain, so deliberate, that it makes your breath catch.
Her lips drag back to yours. Then to your chin. Then down, slowly, to underneath your jaw, and she mouths there with an unhurried focus that makes your eyes close.
The sound that comes out of you is quiet and unplanned.
She sighs against your skin low, satisfied, like she needed that, like she has been waiting all day to hear it. Her hands press you closer and her lips find the same spot again, asking for it again.
You give it to her.
Her lips curve against your throat like she's smiling, and her hands slide up your back, and you tip your head back and let her have whatever she wants.
Natasha's fingers deftly unhook your bra with a subtle snap, the fabric loosening and falling away from your skin. Her hands slowly trail up your sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She pauses at the curve of your breasts, her thumbs brushing lightly against the undersides.
Your fingers slide up her back, tracing over the smooth skin until they find the clasp of her bra. You undo it with a practiced flick, the fabric going slack.
Natasha exhales against your lips, smiling as she lets the straps slide off her shoulders, dropping the black lingerie beside you. Her bare chest presses flush against yours.
"Better?"
"Yes" you whisper, voice breathless against her lips.
Your bare breasts press against hers, your nipples hardening at the sudden contact. You can feel Natasha's heart racing, her breath quickening as she runs her hands down your sides again, this time hooking her thumbs into the waistband of your panties
She slowly slides your panties down, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull them off completely.
Natasha throws them aside, her gaze lingering on your body with open appreciation before she captures your mouth again in a deep, claiming kiss.
You grind down against her lap, your wetness soaking through her slacks, and she groans deeply, your breathing comes out in shaky pants against her lips.
Natasha pulls back just enough to look down between your bodies, watching you grind against the bulge in her lap.
"Fuck—"
Her voice drops lower. "You're soaked."
"It's your fault," you manage to gasp out, your voice trembling as you rock your hips harder against her.
You bury your face in the crook of her neck, overwhelmed by how sensitive you feel.
"You make me this way, baby..." You look down at where you're grinding against her, seeing the wet patch forming on her slacks.
"Please..."
Natasha's eyes darken with lust as she feels your wetness spreading through her pants.
She knows exactly what you're asking for without you having to spell it out.
She shifts you in her lap so that you're straddling her more comfortably, giving you better access to grind against her.
"Nat..."
"Shh..." She hushes you softly, one hand gripping your hip to guide your movements while the other tangles in your hair. You can feel her hardness pressing against your clit through the thin fabric of her pants, the friction making your legs tremble. "Ride me..."
You obey, rolling your hips against her in slow, deliberate circles that make her buck up into you. The wet sounds fill the room as your clit grinds against the thick outline in her pants.
"Natasha—" You whimper, fingers clawing at her shoulders. "I need more, please..."
She groans, reaching for her belt buckle.
The buckle clinks as she frantically undoes it, pushing down her slacks just enough to free herself. Her erection springs free, thick and hard, and presses directly against your bare pussy.
Natasha groans, her head tilting back. "Fuck, that's—" She bites her lip, watching your wet folds glisten against her shaft.
You look down between your bodies, seeing how your swollen wet folds kiss along her length.
The sight makes you whimper, and you start to rock your hips again, this time feeling the delicious slide of her against your most sensitive parts.
"Oh god..." You breathe, feeling a trickle of wetness drip down her length.
Natasha wraps her hand around her base, guiding herself so that her tip catches on your entrance with every roll of your hips.
She teases you like that for a moment, just the tip dipping in before sliding back out, until you're panting and shaking above her.
"Natasha, please—"
"Please what, baby?" She teases, her voice rough. She lifts her hips to thrust up just an inch, just enough for the head of her cock to pop inside you before pulling back out. She repeats the motion, slowly working herself deeper with each pass. "You want it inside you?"
"Yes— fuck, yes," you beg, your walls clenching around just the tip. You don't just want it, you need it. You need her buried inside you so deep you forget your own name.
Natasha grips your hips tighter, fingernails digging in, and then finally, finally, pushes up as you sink down.
You both moan loudly as she fills you completely in one smooth thrust. You're stretched so perfectly around her, taking every inch without resistance. Natasha's hands slide to your ass, squeezing and spreading you wider as she holds you down on her lap, seated fully inside you.
You start moving immediately, lifting and dropping yourself onto her, taking her deep over and over.
Natasha's head falls back, eyes rolling slightly as she watches your breasts bounce with each movement. She meets your thrusts from below, hitting deeper spots inside you that make your vision blur.
"I love you—" She moans loudly, hips stuttering up into you as she says it, her green eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. Her hands grip your ass tightly, guiding your movements. "Fuck, I love you so much..."
Hearing those words in her throaty moan sends a bolt of electricity straight to your core.
You moan out, clenching tightly around her as you pick up your pace, riding her harder and faster.
"Natasha...oh fuck, Natasha...I love you.."
Natasha's eyes flutter open, locking onto yours with an intense gaze filled with love and lust. She lifts her hips sharply to meet your thrusts, hitting that perfect spot inside you again.
"I love you—" She moans again, louder this time, her voice breaking slightly.
She suddenly flips you both over, pinning you beneath her on the mattress without pulling out. She starts thrusting into you in long, deep strokes that make the bed creak. Her green eyes stay locked on yours, half lidded and hazy but never leaving your face.
Her hips snap against yours in a relentless rhythm, driving you into the mattress. Every thrust is punctuated by a low, broken moan from her lips, her green eyes swimming with emotion.
"My girl..." She breathes out, pressing her forehead against yours. "You feel... so fucking good..." She buries herself deep, grinding her hips.
"I love you," You gasp out between moans, wrapping your legs around her waist to pull her closer.
Your walls clench tightly around her every time she bottoms out, and you can tell she's getting closer, her thrusts are getting more erratic and desperate.
"Don't stop— please, don't stop—" You moan out as she hits that spot again, your back arching off the mattress. Your hands scramble for purchase on her shoulders, nails digging in. You're so close you can feel the pressure building, threatening to burst. "Natasha, I'm gonna—" Your voice cracks. "I'm gonna—"
"Cum for me," She groans, her voice strained as her thrusts become short, sharp jabs that hit deeper with each one. Her eyes are half lidded, mouth hanging open as she stares down at you with absolute adoration. "Let me feel you cum around me, baby..."
She grinds her pelvis down, pressing against your clit.
"Right there— right there—" You moan out, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clenches tightly around her, pulsing with each wave of pleasure. Natasha's eyes roll back slightly as she feels you coming undone around her cock.
"That's it, baby— fuck—" She groans, feeling your walls squeeze and flutter around her.
She can't hold back anymore, slamming into you hard and fast until she's chasing her own release. With a broken cry of your name, she buries herself to the hilt and comes, spilling deep inside you.
You both collapse against each other, drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
Natasha doesn't pull out, instead she just wraps her arms around you tightly, pressing lazy kisses to your jaw and neck. Her softening cock twitches inside you, and she lets out a shaky sigh.
"I love you," she murmurs again, softer this time, her green eyes finally closing.
"I love you too," you whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. You can feel her heart beating against yours, and you never want this moment to end.
You're both completely spent, physically and emotionally, and you just want to lie here in her arms forever.
6 months later
You knock twice before you push the door open.
"Come in," she says, and her voice is in full work mode, clipped, focused, the tone she uses when she's three reports deep and running on coffee.
You smile before you've even fully stepped inside.
She looks up from her desk.
And her whole face changes.
It happens fast, the professional composure just dissolves, replaced by something warm and unguarded and entirely yours, and she's already standing, already moving around the desk before she's made a conscious decision to do it. Her heels click against the floor and she crosses the office and her hands find your face first, cupping your cheeks, pressing a kiss to your forehead like punctuation.
Then she steps back just slightly and her hands slide down, down your arms, to your waist, and then lower, settling soft and reverent against the curve of your belly.
She looks down.
Then back up at you.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi," she says. Her voice has gone completely soft. Nothing clipped about it now.
Her thumbs trace slow across the curve and she just, looks at you, the way she does when she thinks you're not paying attention, like you are something she still can't quite believe is real.
"What are you doing here?" Not a complaint. The opposite.
"Thought I'd visit." You tilt your head. "Your team said you forgot to eat lunch."
She opens her mouth.
"Again," you add.
She closes it.
"Natasha."
"I was in the middle of something."
"You're always in the middle of something." You reach up and straighten her collar, which doesn't need straightening, just because you can. "She's been kicking since noon by the way. I think she knows when you're being stubborn."
Something moves across her face, that specific expression she still doesn't know she makes, the one she gets every time you say she. Like it hits her fresh every time.
Her hands press a little warmer against your belly.
"Hi, malyshka," she murmurs, low, just for the two of you.
You watch Natasha Romanoff, spy, assassin, Avenger, talk softly to her unborn daughter in the middle of her office, and your chest fills up with something so large you almost can't contain it.
She looks up and catches you looking.
"Don't," she says.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You have the face."
"I don't have a face."
"You have the face you make when you're about to say something that makes me—" She stops. Her jaw shifts. "Don't."
You grin. "Natasha Romanoff is soft."
"I will revoke your visitor badge."
You laugh, and she tries to hold the stern expression and cannot, and she pulls you carefully in by your waist and presses her lips to your temple and stays there.
"Lunch," she says into your hair. "Then I have to finish the report."
"Lunch," you agree.
Her hands are still on your belly. She doesn't move them.
summary; your best friend theo takes care of you while you’re sick
warnings; childhood friends too scared to admit their love, fluff, very soft theo
notes; yk that one scene from people we meet on vacation?
Some say that a connection that transcends feeble emotions is rare, that being able to completely understand another is a gift.
You didn’t remember when Theodore Nott, the quiet boy your parents would force you to play with while your families had dinner, became Theo, your best friend. But between the quiet moments of comfort he’d provide after another year of not receiving a Christmas gift from your parents and the careful one-sided conversations where you would listen to his worries about his future; that fickle bond strengthened into a friendship that fueled you like the blood coursing through your veins.
Perhaps your two beings were always meant to find each other. Maybe the universe had welded your hearts to beat in sync and curated your very souls to perfectly align. Like when you’re studying late one night and Theo immediately knows you don’t understand the Potions assignment but refuse to ask for help, so he calmly slides his notes across the table without even looking up from his own work. Attentive, careful, but inadvertent, as if his brain was wired to care for you.
Or how you can spot the clench of his jaw from a mile away—a telltale sign that he’s overwhelmed or that his social battery is just drained. You immediately latch onto his side and plan the smoothest exit possible, all while tracing your nails up and down the inside of his arm because you know it soothes him.
This silent understanding between the two of you stemmed from being around each other your entire lives.
You distinctly remember running around important galas with him, dirtying up the dress your mother told you not to. You two would play in his mansion’s garden until you’d get a rose thorn stuck in your skin and you’d both cry all the way back to his front door—you because the thorn in your finger would surely kill you, and him because seeing you in pain would surely kill him.
Your first couple years at Hogwarts, you’d think your souls were chained together the way you two refused to leave the other’s side. He was your anchor in a sea of change that you thought you’d drown in. You were his lifeline, his comfort, his reason to stay level while the world around him fought to turn him upside down.
Things never changed between you. Not when you got older and started going to parties, where he would drag you up to bed after and take off all your makeup because he knew you hated sleeping in mascara. Not when you’d hide his cigarette packs to slowly start weening him off of it, even when he grumbled about wanting a smoke.
Not even when your friend group, and potentially the entire school, constantly pondered when the two of you would get together.
That wasn’t usually a topic you two talked about. It only made your stomach churn and your feet tap with restlessness. Why would they think that?
“I swear, I tried to come sooner but these bloody chocolates are a pain to find.”
You blinked groggily, lifting your head up from where you were curled up in a mountain of blankets that had become your temporary home.
Summer break couldn’t have come quicker, but unfortunately, you had spent the first couple days of it feeling a sickness building in your system. Even worse, you’d spent the last few hours dealing with the brunt of it. Your parents condemned you to your room with some sour smelling potion and a notice that they’d be gone for the night at the gala that you had once been excited to attend.
Theo dusted off his pants as he stepped out of your fireplace, Floo Powder still clinging to his brunette strands and a paper bag clutched in one arm. When he looked up, the annoyed furrow of his brows immediately softened, and he lowered his voice slightly, waking over to your bed.
“Oh, cara mia,” his voice was gentle in a way you rarely heard anymore (or were sober enough to register) as he crouched beside your bed, lowering the bag in his arm to the floor. He reached out, gliding his knuckles along your cheek, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. “How are you feeling, hm?”
You could only stare blankly at him, partly because you were basking in the softness of his touch against your skin and partly because you don’t even remember telling him you were sick. Maybe you had and the hazy sensation that riddled your body was messing with your memory. It sure was messing with your vision, or had Theo always looked so soft and blurry around the edges?
The Italian accent that coated all of his words was a saccharine melody that trickled into your ears and down your body, sending tingles all the way to your fingertips. The daze that clouded the world was definitely toying with your thoughts and making you think ludicrous things like how soft his lips would feel against yours or if he would taste like the minty toothpaste he always left in your bathroom during sleepovers.
Slowly, as if scared to mess with the contents of a dream and watch it all vanish before you, you reached for him.
“Teddy? You’re here?” you murmured as your fingers made contact with the soft skin of his cheek. You felt it ripple beneath your fingertips as he cringed at the childhood nickname, though he still allowed your touch to linger.
“You know I hate that name, but yes, I’m here. Are you that out of it?” he smiled softly at you, teasingly, and you couldn’t help but trace the dimple that bloomed beneath his skin.
But then you frowned, retracting your hand and burying your face back into the blankets. “Haven’t had anything to drink tonight, seriously,” the words were jumbled and muffled into the thick cotton wrapped around you, your attempted eye roll turning into a prolonged blink.
Theo, sickening grin still painting his features, just shook his head. He gave your head a comforting pat, ruffling your hair, and stood, placing the bag he brought on your nightstand. He mumbled something about the foul potion that you’d drank but you couldn’t comprehend it over the deafening crinkle of the bag.
“Would you stop making all that noise, please?” you sniffled out, coughing between a few words.
“M’sorry, tesoro, but I brought your favorites,” he carefully pulled out an assortment of items, throwing the empty bag to the floor. “Cauldron Cakes, had the elves make your favorite soup, and…”
Theo trailed off, narrowing his eyes at you as he carefully nudged the blankets off your face to press his palm to your forehead. He frowned immediately, eyes flashing with concern.
“And that hoodie of mine that you like, but I’ll only let you wear it once this fever’s down, got it?”
You huffed, eyes half lidded and tracing the hard lines of his face only softened by your current state. You’d always known your best friend was attractive, how could you not? With the amount of girls that approached you each day asking if you were dating him, why you weren’t dating him, and if they could date him; it was hard not to notice.
Right now, though, he looked like the boy no one else got to see. The Theo that you didn’t have to share with the entire girl population of the school or pretend didn’t exist when he put on his indifferent mask to others.
This Theo was just for you. This Theo made it nearly impossible to control those ludicrous thoughts.
“Still with me, amore?” he asked, thumb brushing along your temple with a reverence one would save for fine china. He leaned in closer, jaw clenched in the way that told you his brain was working overtime to process all the thoughts he was sending it.
“Mhm. You?”
He chuckled, a sweet sound that, if supplied more often, probably could’ve cured your sickness right then. “You making fun of me?” his voice dropped an octave as his fingers began to run carefully along your scalp.
You just sniffled, barely managing a sleepy shake of your head that pulled another fond laugh from Theo’s lips.
“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten today,” he murmured, almost to himself, one hand still gently massaging your head and the other finding your own to fold your fingers over his. “Can you sit up for me, tesoro? You need some food in you.”
His voice, dipped in sweetness and with that gentle rasp, coaxed you to finally pull the blankets lower, allowing him to take in the red rim around your eyes, dark circles, and the coloring of your irritated nose.
“There you are,” he cooed, squeezing your hand once before letting it drop to slide his arms under yours, helping you sit up.
“Theo…” you huffed, blinking groggily at him, body limp in his arms. “You’re s’posed to be at that party…” Finally able to get a good look at him, your eyes trailed over his figure.
His hair was disheveled and you knew he’d been running his hands through it in that way he always did when he was stressed. He had a dress shirt on but the first few buttons were undone and the sleeves were wrinkled from where he’d pushed them up to his elbows. The soft pink of his lips tugged up again, pupils dilated and trained on you with quiet fascination.
“I was there, but I couldn’t find you. Talked to your parents and they said you were home with a fever,” he tilted his head closer, propping you up against your pillows. “What fun are those silly things without you, anyway?”
If your entire face wasn’t already warm from the fever, it scorched as his soft words hit your ears. He sounded so real and it shot a shiver down your spine. Quiet confessions like that, the ones he easily gave you like they were written in a constitution, nearly broke you every time. They made you spiral, made you rethink your decade long friendship.
They made your heart soar up to the clouds but made your stomach plummet. If he said those things to you so easily, how was he saying them to other girls?
Before you knew it, a steaming thermos of your favorite soup was below your nose as Theo stirred its contents. You frowned at it, not feeling an appetite at all but wanting to taste the savory soup that you cherished.
“I can’t…m’not hungry,” you grumbled sadly, fingers toying with your blankets.
“Just a few bites, per favore?”
You wished you could say no to him.
Theo spoon fed you nearly half of the soup before he finally closed it and put it back in his bag. Then, being the overbearing and protective best friend he is, he forced you out of bed and into a slightly cold shower.
“Leave the door unlocked,” he’d said, and when you asked why, he only smirked. “Can’t have you collapsing in the shower with no help, right, principessa?”
You merely rolled your eyes but obliged, returning a few minutes later to him cleaning your messy nightstand. Not only that, he’d replaced your sheets and left only one blanket from your previous pile.
“My blankets, Theo…!” you whined, throwing your dirty clothes off to the side.
He straightened up at your voice, taking in the sight of you, standing and less flushed after a refreshing shower. He smiled, reaching for a bundle of fabric and tossing it to you. “Speaking full sentences now, I see. Feeling better?”
The piece of clothing hit you square in the chest, and upon unfolding it, you smiled as you saw it was your favorite hoodie of his. It practically belonged to you with the amount of times you’d stolen it from his closet and kept it for weeks.
“I will get snot all over your hoodie, Nott,” you scoffed, pulling it over your head and watching it fall to your thighs.
Theo merely laughed as you trudged over to your bed and sunk into the fresh sheets, immediately curling up under the blanket and letting your eyes flutter shut.
When your best friend spoke again, his voice was gentle and right in front of your face. You kept your eyes closed, swallowing hard. “Need anything else, cara?”
You shook your head and felt him linger for just a second longer before footsteps retreated from your bed. At once, you snapped your eyes open.
“Where are you going?” you asked him, sounding almost panicked as he stopped in his tracks and turned, book dangling from his left hand.
“Letting you sleep,” he responded in a questioning tone, brows furrowed in confused amusement.
You shook your head, opening up your blanket. Maybe the haze that’d fallen over the world since you’d been sick was truly messing with your brain, but you knew for sure that you wanted him close. You always wanted him close. It wasn’t like you and Theo hadn’t ever shared a bed or anything, so there was no harm done.
“Tesoro…”
“Teddy…”
He scowled at you and you only gave your best desperate smile, patting the empty space beside you. “Please?” You added on, the juicy red cherry on top.
With a dramatic huff, Theo strode over to your bed, kicked off his shoes, and huddled under the covers beside you. He held out his arm expectantly and you immediately nestled in, cheek smushed against his chest, leg thrown over his waist, and arm splayed across his torso.
“I just can’t say no to you,” he mumbled, the arm around your shoulders pulling you in tighter while his other one reached for your thigh, dragging you partially on top of him.
“You love me, Theo,” you mumbled sleepily, already halfway into a deep sleep. “And I love you. Please don’t love anyone else.”
Theo’s breath hitched, arm pausing on its way around your shoulders, but you were already asleep.
“Ti amo anch'io, tesoro,” your best friend mumbled, lips pressed to your hairline as he slowly relaxed with your weight against him.
What you didn’t see was Theo’s fond gaze soaking in the sight of you so comfortable against him, the pads of his fingers tracing along the shell of your ear and down your jaw, rubbing your collarbone and finally finding a home in your hair. He soothed your scalp, fingers carding through the strands in that careful way he knew would only send you deeper into sleep.
The book he was supposed to be reading sat on your nightstand collecting dust. He knew he wasn’t going to so much as open it while you were in his arms. He’d stop the world from spinning just so you could rest uninterrupted a few minutes longer. Because his usually loud brain was silent when you were near. Because his future didn’t seem as daunting with you in the picture.
Just as long as you stayed there, by his side, like it always had been.
contains… blaise zabini x reader, suggestive material, ass grabbing based off this request (masterlist) (nav)
“blaise!” you giggle, running up to the tall man that stood less than a foot away from you. he had just finished one of the biggest quidditch matches of the season, obviously you went and supported him. blaise was the best player on the slytherin team in your opinion — totally not biased.
he embraced you in his warm arms, holding you tight as you hugged. you could feel blaise’s chin resting on your head as you tried to get as close to him as possible.
“you did great out there baby.” you get on your tip toes to whisper in his ear. “i told you,” he said back, you could feel his hands lowering greedily. “you’re my good luck charm.” he finally said with a firm squeeze of your ass.
a giggle left your lips as you hit him softly on the shoulder. “c’mon, we’re in public” you said quietly. blaise grabbed your ass like a man starved, all while holding you and peppering kisses to the top of your head.
“can’t help m’self,” he mumbled. “seeing you all excited in the stands, here for me. makes me go crazy.” his words made you smile, he always knew what to say.
“well, how about when we get back to the dorms i’ll give you a reward for how good you did out there?” you asked, already knowing the answer. within seconds, blaise had let go of you and swung you over his shoulder as he bolted for the dorms.
tessa’s notes… guys i’m so so sorry for how absent i’ve been lately:( may is gonna be a very busy month for me, but after that i should be back and writing regularly!
Theodore Nott. How does one even describe the absolute god of a man that he is? He was bold, strong, charismatic, magnetic, and undeniably beautiful— the way his dazzling sleepy blue eyes grazed over the misted quidditch pitch while he flew so swiftly, the way his chocolate brown waves lightly brushed over his forehead as he focused intently during Potions class, his broad shoulders that made his slender, but, strong frame intimidating yet, so alluring, and the beauty mark that was almost perfectly placed just above his cheek— like a soft angel’s kiss. That man had it all. Though you knew deep down…that he would never notice you.
Now, don’t get me wrong you were absolutely beautiful— stunning even. But you were a Hufflepuff— quiet, sweet, and shy. You couldn’t deny the infatuation that you had for Theodore, though you would never let it physically slip from your lips— especially to your friends: Astoria Greengrass, Luna Lovegood, and Hannah Abbott. It wasn’t because of the fear of being judged, but the rational and honest opinions they would likely bombard you with, but not Luna; she would most likely be the mediator.
Theodore Nott didn’t have the most…saint-like reputation. There have of course been rumors about him and the group of Slytherins he surrounded himself with; that they were womanizers, disloyal, and most of all, heartbreakers. But you saw past that when you looked at Theodore, and although you didn’t know him well- or should I say, at all, there must’ve been a reason for these rampant rumors…because that’s all they were to you; rumors.
It was the first day of spring; the sun beamed down and over the black lake as you laid on a gold and black plaided quilt with a muggle romance novel in hand— your hair gently pressed against the cloth covered soft grass, your Hufflepuff robes discarded on the side of the quilt, and your skirt ever so slightly hitched up your thighs. You were completely and utterly engrossed by the words you so eagerly read. As the climax of the delicate story approached and your bottom lip was just slightly tucked between your teeth— a deep and penetrating clearing of a throat cut through the singing of the castle ground birds and completely pulled you from your trance.
“Mi scusi” (excuse me)
The deep and thickened Italian accent made your stomach instantly flutter. You swallowed harshly as you slowly lowered your book— your eyes meeting those blue ones that you fantasized about thousands of times.
“Yes?”
You asked softly and lowly as you slowly shut your book over your thumb to keep your place— but to give him your full attention, before slowly sitting up and your book entirely forgotten as you held it over your lap. His eyes were now the only thing that you could think about— and not some bloody muggle romance story.
He noticed the way you looked at him— I mean of course he did. He was more than just a beautiful face, he was intelligent, and he knew how to read a person extremely well. His soft baby pink lips curved into a soft smile.
“I don’t mean to…disturb you.”
He spoke softly, but no matter how soft he spoke his deep and melodic accent made your entire body weak.
“N-no…you’re not disturbing.”
‘Stuttering. Charming, truly.’ You thought to yourself, as you mentally face palmed yourself. His smile widened a fraction, before he ran his well cared after hand through those brown waves that you loved ever so much.
“Bene.” (Good.)
He responded smoothly. Your eyes nervously drifting past him as you felt a hint of awkwardness overcome you. ‘Why is he talking to me?’ You kept thinking to yourself.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that book before.”
He then spoke smoothly as he slowly bent down to examine the book that rested on your thighs.
“Oh…it’s some muggle romance novel.”
You responded as your own eyes looked down at the book. He gave you another— almost knee buckling smile as he held his hand out. He wanted a closer look. You hesitantly handed the book over— I mean how could you possibly deny anything from this man? He was…other worldly.
He let out a soft breath of a chuckle as he read the blurb on the back of the hardcover book. It wasn’t particularly an erotic story— though it was intimate. You watched as his strong, veiny, hands gripped the book, and his fingers slowly glided over the opening of the book. He lightly tapped the tip of his index finger against his tongue before flipping through the pages— he stopped this motion closer to the end of the book as his eyes scanned the text. Another one of those soft breaths escaped his nose. You couldn’t help but feel extremely vulnerable in this moment— your life long crush was reading a book that someone from this magical world most likely had never read.
“You read this?”
He asked slowly as he finally diverted his blue hues back onto you. You slowly nodded your head with a simple hum of agreement that escaped your throat.
“It’s…different.”
He responded with an uncharacteristic soft smile. You could physically feel yourself grow hotter— embarrassed, or perhaps just being flustered. There wasn’t anything to be embarrassed by, and you knew it, though you couldn’t help it. Especially when you were face to face with a smiling Theodore Nott. You were at a complete loss for words— I mean how does one truly respond to that?
“Read to me?”
He spoke abruptly— and now suddenly you were pulled out of your own gear wrecked mind.
“W-what?”
You responded as his smile only grew wider— his teeth flashing in the sunlight. That fucking imperfectly perfect smile.
“If you don’t mind? I’d like to hear you read.”
He responded as he handed the book back to you and invited himself down onto the quilt beside you. You watched him get comfortable as he leaned back and interlocked his fingers behind his head— waiting.
“Oh…um. Very well.”
You spoke quietly and nervously as you shuffled beside him, your legs laying beside you as you fumbled to open the book. ‘I look a bloody mess’ you thought to yourself as you held open the book, peering over at him through your eyelashes. The sight of him looking so utterly relaxed before you whilst he watched your nervousness made you take a quiet deep breath.
“Sto ascoltando.” (I’m listening)
He spoke as he smiled up at you. ‘Whatever you say, handsome’ you thought to yourself as you then faintly smiled and finally— by the grace of Merlin, you began to feel calm as you read to him softly, the feeling of his presence as he listened with genuine interest.
Hi my lovelies! I hope you’ve all enjoyed this first short story. I wanted you all to have a little taste of what kind of writing style I have to offer! Please let me know if you have any requests, and or suggestions for me. (I am open to all kinds of suggestions!) Hope you all enjoy and have a fantastic week.
P.S. I do have smut coming soon if any of you are interested, don’t fret my little lambs. ;)
🤍 author's note: the duality of man. this fic serves both cute, fluffy matty and jealous, possessive mattheo.
For his upcoming birthday, Mattheo Riddle had one simple wish: for his best friends to get along.
It shouldn’t have been such an ordeal except for the fact that you and Theo absolutely hated each other. If it weren’t for Mattheo, the two of you would have no reason to cross paths. Theo was an arrogant, pompous, quidditch playing prick with a terrible nicotine addiction while the closest you’d come to physical exertion is carrying your weekly stack of books from the library to your dorm.
Needless to say, you were not a fan of Theodore Nott. You thought he was a bad influence on Matty, while Theo labeled you as the buzzkill, often talking your best friend out of doing things that would either land him in detention or the infirmary. You got the feeling that Theo hated the fact that he had to share Mattheo’s attention with you. Never mind the fact that you were friends with him first.
The origin of your friendship started long before your days at Hogwarts. The first time you met Mattheo, his father invited you and your parents over at Riddle Manor to celebrate a successful business deal between your families. Even at a young age, you remembered recognizing the coldness and distance in the Riddle household. The elder riddle, Tom Sr., was a stern and unforgiving man who kept his family under his thumb. Tom Jr. played the perfect heir; cool, calm, and collected as he stood by his father’s side. Mrs. Riddle had a severe and somber air about her that sent shivers down your spine as she flashed an empty smile at you.
Mattheo was different from the rest. There was a warmth to him that radiated outwards, pulling you in with his cheeky dimpled smile and soft bouncing curls. He marched right up to you, bowing at the waist like he was taught to, except he nearly tripped over his feet and gave you a crooked little grin before correcting himself.
“Hi, Y/N. I’m Mattheo, but you can call me Matt.” There was a mischievous glint in his brown eyes that you didn’t recognize as trouble until much later. “Do you want to play with me?”
As it turns out, his definition of playing meant chasing each other through the hedge maze out on the manor grounds and absolutely dirtying up your pretty pink dress as you rolled around in the grass. You laid side by side on your backs, giggling as you tucked a flower into Mattheo’s curls.
“You’re going to get me in trouble, you know,” you stated matter-of-factly as you rolled over on your elbows. “My dress is all dirty.”
“Don’t worry, we can ask Tom to help us. He knows lots of spells and hexes.” He leaned in conspiratorially, holding his pinky finger out. “But you have to keep it a secret, okay? Can I trust you, Y/N?”
You hooked your finger through his, not knowing that such a simple secret would forever solidify your friendship. “You can trust me, Matty.”
In the years that followed, the two of you were as thick as thieves. Most days were spent at either the Riddle manor or your estate, which Mattheo tended to prefer since it provided him reprieve from his father. As of late, his parents had made it perfectly clear that he was expected to follow in his brother's footsteps. Despite it being Tom's first year at Hogwarts, he was already proving to be a gifted and talented wizard. When his father wasn't outright ignoring him, Mattheo was forced to practice hexes and spells that were beyond the knowledge of an eleven year old. Without his older brother to protect him, Mattheo felt the walls closing in in his grand yet inhospitable home.
You were the only silver lining in his otherwise dreary days. Mattheo thanked Merlin that his father allowed visits to your estate. Unlike Riddle Manor, your family home was warm, lovely, and full of life. During the summers, the two of you would venture out to the edge of your property and set up camp at the creek. The sunny days were spent swimming, climbing, and picking flowers from sunrise to sunset. On one particular day, you sat cross-legged on the picnic blanket, absentmindedly picking at the sandwich in your lap.
Beside you, Mattheo nudged you with his knee. “What’s wrong, Y/N?”
You blinked, trying to savor the sunshine for as long as you could. “I don’t want summer to end.”
“We’ll only be apart for a year,” Mattheo said softly, correctly guessing the cause of your apprehension. You weren’t surprised. He always seemed to know what was on your mind. “You’ll be joining me at Hogwarts before you know it. By then, I’ll be an expert so I can show you the ropes.”
“A lot can happen in a year,” you stated. “What if you make other friends and forget about me?”
“I might make other friends, but I’d never forget about you. You were my first friend ever. That makes you the most important.”
You looked up and found yourself face to face with Mattheo’s earnest expression. The corners of his lips tugged upwards as he nudged you again. “Besides, you know I’m going to write to you every week. Now that I’m in the same castle as Malfoy, I can finally crack the great mystery of whether or not he bleaches his hair.”
“There’s no way that’s natural, right? Maybe Lucius has a special shampoo or something.”
Mattheo grinned and draped an arm over your shoulder. “I don’t know, but I promise to find out for you.”
“You’ll really write to me every week?”
“Of course I will,” Mattheo declared, holding his pinky finger out. “You trust me, right?”
You smiled and hooked your pinkies together. “I trust you, Matty.”
When the next year finally rolled around, you were so excited that you convinced your parents to take you to King’s Cross at least an hour before your departure. You hadn’t seen Mattheo since the previous summer because his family had been away on holiday in Spain, but he stayed true to his word and wrote to you every chance he got. You loved reading about the friends he’d made, the antics he got up to, and most importantly, the fascinating classes that awaited you at Hogwarts.
As you passed through Platform 9 ¾, you were nearly knocked off your feet as Mattheo ran full force into you. He had grown much taller since you last saw him, so much so that he now towered over you as he pulled you into a bear hug.
“Hi, Matty,” you giggled against his chest.
“Hi, Y/N.”
Mattheo pulled away, grinning as he tugged at your hand. “Come on, I want you to meet my friends.”
You looked back at your parents who merely smiled at Mattheo’s excitement. To his chagrin, your best friend remembered to properly greet them and asked if you could board the train early. After much fussing, they eventually said their goodbyes and allowed you to go with Mattheo.
The first friend that you met was Enzo. He was sweet, if not a little cheeky as he hinted that Mattheo couldn’t stop talking about you all year. Draco and Blaise needed no introduction given that your families were all fairly acquainted ever since you could remember. To your delight, Pansy was amongst the group as well. The two of you used to take ballet together, so it was a relief to have another girl to bond with. The older boys, Tom and Regulus, briefly greeted you before returning to their own cabin.
Last, but not least, was Theodore.
Whereas the others welcomed you with open arms, Nott was not as warm in his reception of you. The two of you clashed right off the bat. You weren’t quite sure what the root of your disagreement was. Perhaps it was his snarky comment insinuating that girls couldn’t be proper quidditch fans in reference to your Chudley Cannons scarf, perhaps it was your biting retort that he could stick his misogyny up his arse. Either way, the interaction set the tone for your strained relationship.
Being sorted into Gryffindor only contributed to the animosity between you as well. Given the longstanding rivalry of Slytherins and Gryffindors, Theo was determined to view you as his enemy. The harder you fought, the harder Mattheo tried to repair the rift. You were the two most important people in his life and he couldn’t stand to see you two tear each other apart.
For the most part, you tried to grin and bear it. While you couldn’t for the life of you understand how or why he was even friends with someone as unbearable as Theodore Nott, you tried to be civil for Mattheo’s sake. Tried being the key word. With Theo’s snark and your temper, the two of you became known for your infamous fights. Still, it didn’t stop your best friend from trying.
Over the years, Mattheo concocted countless plots and schemes to get the two of you to bond. If his favorite band was playing in town, he would magically have two extra tickets to bring both you and Theo along. If there was a book release you were dying to attend, Mattheo would invite Theo along to check out the record store next door. If the castle was dead during the weekend, Mattheo would suggest a trio trip to Hogsmeade.
As much as you cared for Mattheo, your patience only stretched so thin. Without fail, every outing that the three of you went on almost always ended in an argument between you and Theo.
“I don’t know how you’re friends with both of us, Mattheo,” Theo joked as he gulped down his burger. “I’m fun and Y/N is —”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll stick my fork right through your hand, Nott,” you threatened with a sickly sweet smile.
The hostility wasn’t anything new, but you supposed that after dealing with it for years and years on end, Mattheo had finally reached his breaking point.
Your best friend pushed his plate away and sighed. “Let’s just go.”
You nodded in agreement, gathering your things and following Mattheo’s lead. Theo trailed after, obnoxiously squeezing his way through the door of the Three Broomsticks and letting it close behind him. You yanked it open, nearly pulling the bloody thing off its hinges.
“How very mature of you. Though I’m not surprised that you don’t know how to hold a door open for a lady.”
Theo looked back, craning his neck behind you. “As far as I’m concerned, there aren’t any ladies around. Just an infuriating little Gryffindor who can’t handle not having the last word.”
“I’m infuriating?” You huffed, crossing your arms. “Clearly you’ve never suffered through the pleasure of your own company. Spoiler alert, the snarky arsehole bit stopped being funny in third year.”
“Well, the uptight and bossy bitch bit wasn’t ever funny to begin with.”
“Enough already,” Mattheo yelled. You reeled back in surprise. Usually, your best friend just let you and Theo fight it out until you both got tired of it, but he wasn’t having it tonight. “You two are the most important people in my life, but you’re acting like bloody toddlers. I’m tired of feeling like I have to choose a side, so either you two find a way to get along or risk losing me as a friend.”
For the first time since you met him, you and Theo were both stunned into silence. Mattheo took one last look at his closest friends and marched off into the castle without a word.
The next day, you woke up feeling weary. You hardly slept last night given Mattheo’s ultimatum. Your best friend wasn’t the type to make declarations like that lightly, so you knew he meant it. Especially since he went straight to his dorm without coming over to watch a movie or talk late into the night like the two of you often did.
The suspicion was all but confirmed when you sat through a particularly awkward and tense breakfast. Mattheo briefly acknowledged you with a nod, not bothering to speak as he cranked up the music on his headphones. As the Smiths crooned, you looked up at Theo who shook his head at your inquisitive glance. You knew that Mattheo had most likely given him the silent treatment last night as well.
Despite the fact that you and Mattheo had very similar schedules, he managed to avoid you throughout the entire day. By the time the last class rolled around, you knew that he was serious about you and Theo making up. It was a hard pill to swallow. Truly, you’d rather ingest a pill the size of a hippogriff than make amends with Nott, but it wasn’t like you had a choice. You didn’t want to lose Mattheo.
Deciding to be the bigger person, you went to the one place that you knew Theo frequented. You found him sitting alone in the Astronomy Tower, long legs dangling below him as he smoked a cigarette. Biting back a comment about the death trap pursed between his lips, you cleared your throat.
“Mind if I sit?”
Theo tensed as he looked up at you. He wore the sneer that he solely reserved for you, but his eyes were dull and dim. The argument with Mattheo obviously left him feeling lost as well.
“Do I have a choice?” You glared in response, but took a deep breath to calm yourself. Theo winced. “Sorry. Force of habit. Sit, I guess.”
Gingerly, you settled in the spot next to him. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“He wouldn’t talk to me last night,” Theo confirmed as he ashed his cigarette. “Just put on his headphones and went to sleep facing the wall.”
“He’s been avoiding me all day.”
Theo sighed. “What are we going to do?”
“Look,” you started, trying to muster up the strength to propose your next statement. “Obviously, we hate each other, but Mattheo’s important to me and I know he’s important to you, too. So for his sake, can’t we just put all this animosity behind us and try to get along?”
“What exactly does getting along mean?”
You shrugged. To be honest, you had no idea how to approach the situation, but you figured you had to start somewhere. “I don’t know. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat. Make polite small talk. Try not to strangle each other in the process.”
“I guess I can do that,” Theo conceded. “Why don’t we go to the new pub in the village? I heard they have fried pickles.”
You perked up. “You like pickles? I thought I was the only one.”
“I don’t just like pickles. I love them,” Theo stated.
“Me too,” you grinned. “Mattheo always gives me his cause he says —”
“They taste like feet,” he finished with a chuckle.
You nodded, laughing along. “Well, what are we waiting for, then?”
Theo watched as you stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. You offered a hand out to him, both literally and figuratively. To your surprise, Theo took the peace offering and let you pull him to his feet.
An hour later, the two of you were squeezed into a tiny booth by the makeshift stage. The pub was lively tonight and nearly packed to the brim, thanks to the happy hour deal on their drinks and appetizers in honor of their grand opening.
The pickles didn’t disappoint. You ate a good amount, but Theo scarfed the whole thing down like he hadn’t eaten in months. As he finished a sandwich and gulped the meal down with his second butterbeer, you gaped in surprise.
“Honestly, where do you put it all?”
Theo patted his stomach, which was unfairly flat and probably housed perfectly sculpted abs despite his eating habits. “I’m a growing boy. I need to eat a lot to offset the energy I expend. Especially when I’m sparring with you.”
“Oddly enough, I’m flattered by that.”
“You should be,” Theo quipped. “I’ve never had to put so much thought into insulting someone until I met you.”
“I bet you were pissed when I took your crown as the sassiest and bitchiest person in our friend group.”
“I’ve never experienced such heartbreak,” Theo said sarcastically as he placed a hand over his heart. “I mean, to be dethroned by someone who can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboard was truly the most humbling moment of my life.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have assumed that I knew nothing about quidditch just because I’m a girl.”
“I was a dick for that,” Theo admitted. “But I was also twelve. I didn’t even know what misogyny meant. I thought you were describing a disease.”
You snorted. “Well, the past is in the past. Even though I clearly won that argument, we should put it behind us.”
Theo rolled his eyes, but clinked his butterbeer against yours. “Cheers to that, Y/N.”
Surprisingly, you found that you and Theo had a lot more in common than you initially thought. When he wasn’t being a prick, he was actually quite nice to talk to. In a single conversation, you learned more about Theo than you had in years. The two of you possessed a knack for potions, preferred foreign literature, and shared a love for horror movies.
As the live band went on, Theo mumbled an obscure reference to an eighties muggle band that your mum used to blast when you were younger.
“I can’t believe they’re covering this song,” you shouted over the music. “I haven’t heard it in years.”
Theo’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know this song?”
“Of course I do,” you retorted. “Mattheo says I have the music taste of a divorced country club trophy wife.”
“You and me both.”
By the end of the night, you found plenty of common ground with the boy you once thought of as your enemy. It was quite alarming to realize that you hadn’t argued once all night and even more so when you found yourself actually enjoying Theo’s company. Maybe Mattheo was right after all. When you stopped viewing Theo as competition, he was actually not that bad. You now understood what Mattheo meant when he said that you and Theo were more alike than you cared to admit.
On the walk back to the castle, Theo pulled out a spliff but glanced at you before lighting it. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Knock yourself out.”
The moon was silver and bright against the cloudless sky as the two of you sauntered through the beaten path. You listened to Theo recount Tom’s disastrous attempts at asking Chloe out, all the while giggling to yourself because he was a bigger gossip than you and Pansy put together.
“Don’t let Tom hear you talking about his love life,” you teased. “He’d probably feed you to his basilisk.”
Theo grimaced. “Half of Hogwarts would weep at the loss of such a handsome face.”
“However will we survive without your wit and charm, Nott?”
He chuckled as he blew a ring of smoke up into the sky. You watched it float before holding your hand out. “Care to share?”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Who do you think taught Mattheo how to roll his first blunt?”
Theo stared in disbelief as you took the spliff, inhaling deeply. You held the smoke in your lungs effortlessly before blowing rings of smoke in quick succession.
“Damn,” the brown haired boy exclaimed. “Who the hell are you, Y/N?”
You smirked as you tapped the joint. “Someone much cooler than you, Theo.”
After that night, you and Theo got on more and more. The banter and bickering was still there, but it was more playful now. Mattheo was glad to see his two best friends getting along so well. Since first year, it was all he had ever wanted.
The days of forcing you two to hang out together was long gone. Now, you were practically as attached to the hip with Theo as you were with Mattheo.
When Mattheo went up to the Astronomy Tower for a smoke break, he would find you sitting cross-legged across from Theo as he filled you in on the catfight between Lavender and Cho. When Mattheo visited you at the library during his free period, Theo was already there working on his History of Magic homework beside you. When Mattheo arrived at the Great Hall for assembly, he slid into the seat next to Theo as his friend craned his neck to peer at the crowd.
“Looking for someone, mate?”
“Yeah, Y/N said she was running late,” Theo answered distractedly. “I saved a seat for her.”
At first, Mattheo loved the fact that you put your differences behind you and became such great friends like he always knew you would, but as time went along, your best friend noticed that you and Theo were becoming a little too close.
On one occasion, Mattheo briefly excused himself from the common room party for a smoke only to come back to find you and Theo annihilating Draco and Blaise at butterbeer pong. He walked in right as you made the winning shot, witnessing Theo picking you up and twirling you around as Malfoy stomped off, grumbling something about an unfair play. A cheat of sorts.
Mattheo couldn’t help but agree. Seeing you in Theo’s arms made Mattheo feel like he was being cheated. The interaction unearthed all sorts of strange emotions that he usually kept buried deep. It didn’t help that every time the three of you hung out, Mattheo noticed that you and Theo now had little inside jokes and references that he didn’t understand. Being jealous of his best mate was ridiculous, but yet he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that only grew stronger and stronger with each passing day.
As you grew closer, Mattheo felt stranger. One morning, he nearly smashed his muffin to pieces when he saw you wearing Theo’s hoodie.
“Why are you wearing that?” he asked through clenched teeth.
You looked down in surprise as though you’d forgotten that you were wearing another man’s clothes. “Oh, I was cold so Theo let me borrow his hoodie.”
Mattheo frowned before pulling his sweater over his head. “Here, wear mine instead. It’s warmer.”
The gesture was confusing, but you merely shrugged and exchanged Theo’s hoodie for Mattheo’s sweater. “Thanks, Matty.”
Later that week, Mattheo found you in the stands in your usual spot before the game. He smiled when he saw his number painted on your right cheek. The brief moment of happiness was shattered when you turned and revealed that you had also painted Theo’s number on your left cheek. Mattheo nearly fell off of his broom. He was used to seeing his and only his number on you. First the hoodie, now this?
The green monster reared its ugly head during the game itself, motivating him to play as brutally as possible. The Hufflepuffs weren’t safe from his rage and neither were his teammates. As he soared around the goalpost, he hurled the quaffle as hard as he could, fully knowing that Theo was within the ball’s radius. Thankfully for him, Theo ducked at the last second before shooting a baffled glance at his friend. Mattheo simply ignored it and kept playing.
Despite their sweeping win, his bad mood failed to lift. Mattheo frowned as he slipped into the booth next to you, glaring at Theo’s head as the two of them sandwiched you on both sides. Across the table, the rest of the team sipped their celebratory milkshakes.
The waitress set down a vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate milkshake in front of the three of you. Mattheo watched as you and Theo tasted your drinks before promptly taking out the straw and switching flavors.
“Told you that you’d like strawberry more,” Theo said with a fond eye roll.
“But vanilla sounded good.”
“I know, but you always end up going back to your favorite.”
Mattheo clenched his jaw as you stuck your tongue out at Theo before turning towards him. “Aren’t you going to drink your milkshake, Matty?”
“I don’t really have much of an appetite.”
“Maybe it’s just the chocolate. Do you wanna try mine?”
He shook his head, crossing his arms. “No, that’s Theo’s milkshake.”
“Oh, well if you want the vanilla one instead, I can switch back.”
Mattheo wrinkled his nose. “No thanks, Theo’s mouth has already been on it.”
“Consider it a privilege,” Theo butted in. “Most girls and boys at this school would kill to swap spit with me.”
“I’ll pass.”
You cocked your head at your best friend, looking concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay, Matty?”
He nodded rather unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”
As weeks passed, Mattheo only grew more jealous.
Granted, he was fully aware that he had no right to feel this way given the fact that he had practically pushed you and Theo together, but he just couldn’t help himself. The closer you grew, the more he regretted issuing his ultimatum in the first place.
Before you became friends with Theo, Mattheo never had to share you with anyone. He realized now how much he had taken it for granted. Your best friend missed the times that the two of you spent alone. He missed having you all to himself. Mattheo was determined to get it back one way or another.
When Saturday night rolled around, Mattheo made his way up to Gryffindor Tower, glaring at anyone who balked at the sight of him on this side of the castle. After shoving McLaggen out of the way, Mattheo made his way up to the highest turret and let himself into your dorm.
You were perched in front of the vanity table, swiping your signature cherry lip gloss on in the mirror. Mattheo made himself at home, sprawling out on your bed. He knew you had plans tonight, but he was hoping to convince you to hang out with him instead. Mattheo eyed your dress, his gaze sweeping along the red fabric like a lover’s embrace. You flushed at the intensity of his stare as his brown eyes flickered back up to your face.
“Why can’t you hang out tonight?” Mattheo asked with a pout. “Are you going on a date? Is that why you’re leaving your best friend alone to perish?”
You shook your head in amusement before leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be so dramatic, Matty. I’m not going on a date. Theo and I are just checking out this new band.”
Mattheo stiffened as you sprayed perfume on your wrists. “Why didn’t you invite me?”
“Theo did. He said you weren’t interested in listening to country club wife music.”
While that may be true, Mattheo would’ve gone if he knew you were coming too. “He didn’t tell me he was going with you.”
“Probably because he knew you’d feel obligated to go,” you responded. “But it’s alright, we won’t make you suffer through it. Theo will keep the creeps away.”
Mattheo did not like the sound of that. It was his job to watch over you, not Theo’s. Besides, he never thought of it as an obligation. Even if he wasn’t a fan of the music, he loved watching you jump around and have the time of your life. Spending time with you was the only reason why he insisted on coming to every concert. Keeping the creeps away was just an added bonus.
Now, Theo was taking away both. The realization put him in a foul mood, but he couldn’t let it show. Mattheo wanted you to have a good time, even if it wasn’t with him.
“Okay, but can we at least watch a movie and cuddle when you get back?”
“We’re going to be out pretty late. I don’t want you to lose sleep because of me. I know you have a Charms exam tomorrow morning, but I promise we can have a movie night tomorrow.”
Mattheo only nodded as you patted his curls and kissed his cheek again. He watched as you left your dorm, frowning into the mirror as he touched the two cherry gloss marks on his face.
The kiss prints were already fading, serving as some sort of sick metaphor.
To your credit, you did make good on your promise on movie night. It had been a while since the two of you hung out alone, which is definitely the only reason why Mattheo felt needier and clingier than usual. While his touchiness wasn’t anything new, he seemed determined to make it obvious to those around you. Especially with Theo.
During breakfast, Mattheo silently laid his head on your shoulder and placed your hand atop his curls. Across the table, Theo continued gnawing away at his croissant while you told him about the new horror movie that had apparently been banned in twenty countries.
“I wanna watch it,” Mattheo mumbled as you scratched his head.
“But you hate horror,” Theo responded.
“So? I still want to see it.”
“I’ll ask my mum if she can send me a copy this weekend,” you said as you playfully tugged at his curls. “We can watch it in your dorm, okay?”
He leaned in, nuzzling against your neck. “Just the two of us?”
“Of course, Matty.”
Mattheo brightened at that, happy with your response. Perhaps it was petty of him, but he didn’t care. He wanted to send a message. You and Theo could be friends, but he’d always be the most important person in your life. Mattheo was your person, just like you were his.
The others were beginning to pick up on things, despite his constant denial. It was sort of a moot point anyways, given the fact that he was single handedly proving them right with his actions. Nowadays, your friends would find Mattheo lounging on your lap, wedging himself in the small space on the common room couch just so that he was next to you instead of Theo.
Every time you went out to Hogsmeade, he’d make a point of holding your hand and carrying your bags. Mattheo would stop mid-conversation and rub your cold hands in his, blowing on your fingers because he knew how cold you got even in the heated pub.
“Your hands are cold. Let me heat them up, princess.”
As you blushed, Enzo would shoot Mattheo a knowing look, which he deflected by focusing all his attention on you. Even Tom made a passing comment at all the sickening nicknames Mattheo had taken to calling you lately.
“Hi, sweetheart. Is this seat taken?”
“Morning, love. Do you want to go for a walk with me?”
“Here, give me your bag. I’ll carry it for you, darling.”
Though his older brother might disagree with his methods, Mattheo was quite convinced that it was working. Until it wasn’t.
During the last week of December, you and Theo began acting strangely. Every time he walked into a room, the two of you would fall uncharacteristically silent. When he tried to bring it up, you evaded his questions and changed the subject instead. The secrecy didn’t sit well with him.
After the last class of the day, Mattheo usually walked with you to the library, but every time he tried to find you that week, you had all but disappeared.
“Berkshire, have you seen Y/N?”
“Oh yeah, she left with Theo a few minutes ago. Seemed urgent.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
Enzo shrugged nonchalantly. “No clue, mate.”
Frustrated, Mattheo walked away before succumbing to the urge to throttle his friend. It wasn’t Enzo’s fault that you and Theo were acting so weird. Throughout the week, Theo would be out of their dorm for hours and hours. Sometimes he wouldn’t even come back until the wee hours of the night.
When Mattheo checked your dorm, you were also nowhere to be found. He was trying his best not to spiral, but the nagging suspicion that the two of you were hiding something from him was too big to ignore. It was all but confirmed when he caught you sneaking out of the dungeons one night.
You poked your head out from behind a marble column, watching students pass. Clearly, you didn’t want anyone to know that you were down here. Unfortunately for you, Mattheo had already seen you.
“What are you doing here, Y/N?”
His voice startled you, making you jump a step back as you glanced up at him with a nervous expression. “Oh! Hi, Matty. I was just — I was just, um, walking back to my dorm.”
“I can see that, but what were you doing in the dungeons?’
“Just…hanging out…”
Mattheo could feel his blood boiling. “With Theo?”
You gulped, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, he had my book.”
“So where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“Your book.”
“Oh,” you said softly, avoiding his gaze. It was a tell-tale sign that you weren’t being honest. You always looked away when you were lying. “I guess I forgot.”
“You forgot the thing that you came down here for?”
“Hm? Did you hear that?” You mumbled, despite the fact that the corridor was silent. “I think Pansy’s calling me. I gotta go, Matty. See you later!”
Your best friend watched as you sauntered off to Salazar knows where with a frown. Confused, Mattheo walked back to his dorm and found the answer to his dreaded question. As soon as he opened the door, the familiar scent of strawberry and vanilla filled the air. Mattheo felt downright murderous. That was your perfume. He’d recognize it anywhere.
Mattheo glared at his best friend, who was laying in bed with a book perched on his chest. He eyed the rumpled sheets and Theo’s disheveled hair while trying not to assume the worst.
“Is that the book Y/N lent you?”
“Huh? What book?”
Though he wanted very much to punch his mate’s teeth in, Mattheo restrained himself. “The book she came down here to get.”
“She wasn’t here for —” Theo closed his mouth before nodding reluctantly. “Oh, right. Yeah. This is Y/N’s book. I should — I should return it.”
“You’re acting weird, Nott. Both of you are.” Mattheo narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
“Blaise? Yeah, be right there, mate! I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls. See you later, man.”
Theo hightailed it out of the dorm, responding to an imaginary summon. Y/N and Theo. Theo and Y/N. His two closest friends. Sneaking around. Lying to him. Fooling around in his dorm. Mattheo didn’t know how to feel. He was angry, he was sad, but most of all, he was hurt. His girl and his best friend? It was the ultimate betrayal.
Never mind that Mattheo had spent the past decade denying his feelings for you. Anyone with an ounce of common sense could see that he’d been in love with you since you were children. It was clear as fucking day.
When Friday rolled around, Mattheo decided that enough was enough. He was going to confront the two of you. After quidditch practice, he followed Theo through the castle. The git buggered off to some dark, secluded area of the school that Mattheo had never stepped foot in. He kept a safe distance, peering around the corner when he heard whispered voices.
“I’m telling you, he’s getting suspicious,” Theo whispered frantically. “He asked why our dorm smelled like you. I didn’t know what to say, so I bolted!”
His heart dropped when he heard you sigh in frustration. “For Merlin’s sake, Theo! You couldn’t make up an excuse?”
“Me? You were the one who got caught sneaking out of the dungeons. It’s not like you’re an expert on stealth, either.”
“You know I can’t lie to him,” you exclaimed. “I’ve never been able to, ever since we were little. He knows all my tells. But, Theo, he absolutely cannot find out about this!”
Mattheo didn’t need to hear the rest. His heart had already been crushed into a thousand pieces. He couldn't believe it. The two of you were supposed to be his best friends, yet here you were keeping this terrible secret from him.
For the rest of the night, he sulked in his room. He was in the middle of brooding while listening to the Smiths when he heard a knock.
“Piss off!”
“It’s me.”
Part of him wanted to send you away, but a bigger part — the stupid, idiotic, part of him couldn’t. With a sigh, Mattheo peeled himself off the carpet and opened the door. Since the secret rendezvous with Theo, you had apparently found time to get dolled up and changed into a pretty party dress.
Mattheo frowned and crossed his arms. “Theo’s not here.”
You frowned, cocking your head in confusion. “I’m not here for Theo.”
He scoffed in response. “You don’t have to lie to me anymore. I know.”
“You know what, Matty?”
“I know that you and Theo are…sneaking around. Lying to me. Hooking up behind my back.”
“What on Godric’s green earth are you talking about?”
“Don’t try to deny it. I heard you in the corridor upstairs. I’ve had my suspicions all week. The two of you have been acting weird and avoiding me. More than that, you have your own stupid little inside jokes and you take him to concerts and you share milkshakes! Those are things we used to do together, but now you’ve gone and replaced me.”
“The only reason Theo and I became friends is because you asked us to, Mattheo.”
“I know that!” Mattheo exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I regret it so much. I wanted you to get along, but not like this. Now Theo’s making you laugh and walking you to class and doing god knows what else with you in our dorm!”
Your features softened as you tried to reach for Mattheo, but he took a step back. “Don’t try to deny it! I know you were in here the night I caught you sneaking out of the dungeons. I could smell your perfume.”
Realization flooded you all at once. “Are you…are you jealous, Matty?”
Your best friend crossed his arms and huffed. “Of course I’m jealous! I don’t want you doing any of those things with Theo. You’re my best friend. Mine, not his. I had you first. I loved you first.”
The confession stunned you into silence. You blinked, processing the information before holding your hand out. “Come.”
Mattheo looked like he was about to argue, but you just stared at him with determination. “Just come with me, Matty. I promise it’ll all make sense in a minute.”
The logical side of him wanted to refuse, but he knew it would be futile. Mattheo would’ve ripped his heart out of his chest if you asked him to. You were his weak spot.
Following you out into the corridor, Mattheo staggered a few steps back as you slipped into the dark and empty common room. With a snap of your fingers, the lights came on and voices echoed in unison.
“Happy birthday, Mattheo!”
Startled, Mattheo blinked at the sight before him. The common room was decorated with streamers and confetti, complete with a bright birthday banner that covered nearly half the room. There were tables filled with food and drinks, all of which were his favorites. All of his friends were present, including Tom, who stood to the side with his arms crossed. The pretty blonde beside him — Chloe, the girl Theo swore his brother was in love with — elbowed Tom, who sighed and flashed Mattheo a rare smile. Now that was something he needed to revisit at a later time.
For now, one shocking revelation was enough to deal with.
“Surprise!” You exclaimed beside him as you pulled him into a hug.
At first, he was too stunned to return the gesture, but eventually he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in for a bear hug. With everything going on, Mattheo nearly forgot his own birthday, but he knew that you wouldn't. You did all of this. For him.
When you broke apart, Theo clapped him on the back. “Happy birthday, mate.” Relief washed over his friend’s face as he spoke the words. “Thank fucking Salazar that Y/N pulled this off. Hiding this from you for a week has been absolute hell.”
“So…this is what you two have been up to?”
You nodded in confirmation. “Mhm, Theo and I spent all week planning it. We wanted everything to be perfect.”
“But it was hard because you were being such a nosy little git,” said Theo.
The pieces started to click together. All that secrecy between his two best friends hadn’t meant what he thought it did. “So you two aren’t…you haven’t…you’re not hooking up behind my back?”
You and Theo stared at each other in horror.
“Ew!” Theo dramatically exclaimed. “Y/N is like my sister. You don’t hook up with your sister. That’s gross.”
“But I thought…you were hanging out together so much and you had all these jokes and it seemed like…”
“Please,” Theo scoffed. “Anyone with half a brain cell can see that you two are clearly in love with each other.”
“Surprised you figured it out then, Theo,” you quipped.
The brunette rolled his eyes at you before breaking out into a shit-eating grin. "Wait. Is that why you've been acting like such a twat lately? You thought I was making a move on your girl?" Theo's eyes widened as Mattheo shifted uncomfortably. "I'm right, aren't I? First of all, I'm flattered that you felt threatened by me."
"Threatened is a strong word," Mattheo countered.
"Please, you nearly took my head off with a quaffle." Theo wiggled his eyebrows. "Second of all, I'm quite frankly offended that you'd think I'd ever go for Y/N. I would never break your trust like that."
"I know, I know." Mattheo said with a sigh. "I was being stupid, but for a second I was truly convinced that something was going on between you two. I mean, you've been hanging out so much lately..."
“Matty, do you even know what we talk about when we hang out? You. It’s always about you. You were right that we both have a lot in common. We were just too stubborn to see it, but the main thing that brought us together is that we care about you so much.”
“Well, Y/N cares for you a lot more,” Theo teased with a smirk. “She’d like to care for you all night long.”
You flushed as deep and red as your party dress. “Oh my gods. Shut up, Theo!”
“My work here is done. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to hit on that Ravenclaw who looks like she wants absolutely nothing to do with me.”
“Sorry about him,” you said as you turned back to Mattheo. “And sorry that we’ve been acting so shady all week. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t suspect anything.”
Mattheo chuckled. “Well, consider me surprised.”
You wrinkled your nose in disgust. “I can’t believe you thought I was hooking up with Theo.”
With a boyish grin, Mattheo pulled you to his side and kissed your temple. “I’m sorry, princess. Jealousy just got the best of me.”
“There’s no need to be jealous. If it wasn’t already obvious, I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.”
“I’m a bloody idiot.”
“Yeah, but you’re my idiot.”
Mattheo beamed and kissed the tip of your nose. “Thank you for doing all of this for me.”
You smiled softly, cheeks heating as he stared at you with bright, brown eyes. “Course, Matty, I just want you to have the best birthday.”
With a smile, Mattheo leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your lips. There was something familiar about the gesture, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Kissing Mattheo was as natural as breathing. It felt like coming home.
“Wish granted, princess.”
Later that night when he blew out his candles, Mattheo didn’t bother wishing for anything. You leaned into him as he hooked his pinkie through yours, making a silent promise. Even if it took a little jealousy for him to realize it, Mattheo embraced the truth wholeheartedly. You were his person and he was yours. As the flames died out, he smiled.
Mattheo Riddle had no use for wishes now that he had you.
I am really hoping you guys can help me with this otherwise I WILL lose my mind. It’s been driving me crazy trying to find this fic.
ANYWAY, there is a Nancy Wheeler fic out here that is super soft and fluffy. Reader and Nancy live together and they’re engaged and Nancy has to go to work and Reader’s like “Nooooooo, don’t go to work” and Nancy’s like “I have to.” And it’s just like this perfect domestic bliss, slice of life fanfic. I love it so much and I think at this point it might be my favorite Nancy fic of all time and I have been SEARCHING, but I can’t find it.
Please someone tell me they know what fic I’m talking about and can lead me to it. I’m begging. I’ll love you forever if you can
summary; mattheo hates being touched, and he especially hates being patched up after games. but what can he do when you insist?
warnings; reader is a bit whimsical but she’s a genius, modern au, high school au, fluff, mentions of blood
note; everything i know about hockey is from lynn painter so
Mattheo Riddle had little interest in anything that wasn’t hockey.
More often then not, he’d forget the names of the many girls who approached him at parties, turn in assignments weeks after their due dates, and ditch class just to get more time on the ice.
With a full ride to the university with the best hockey team in the nation and a varsity squad bound to take the championship, Mattheo was content to cruise through senior year with just his stick and a few bruises.
Those cuts and bruises especially didn’t bother him, and he’d much rather add on to the plethora of scars littered across his skin than have anyone’s gloved fingers poking around his body.
That was one more thing that didn’t concern him, having his injuries treated by the snobby nurses who creeped around the bench during games.
Which is why after a particularly violent game where he’d been sentenced to the penalty box more times than he could count, he veered away from his teammates heading towards the locker room. His head was pounding, and the cut on his lip was stopping him from moistening them. The slash above his eyebrow stung every time he scowled at a passerby.
Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown his helmet to the floor to launch himself at the guy who’d shoved Nott into the boards. Maybe the purpling bruise under his eye and the throbbing in his nose was a telltale sign that, after knocking a tooth out of one of his opponent’s mouth, he should get his injuries treated.
But he never did.
Instead, he slowly let his shoulders relax with every step away from the arena. The noise settled as he turned corners, the sounds of excited fans packing up and the buzzing of the Zamboni became muffled.
He climbed the steps of the most hidden staircase in the rink, his hidden staircase, each heavy thump of his foot a reflection of the exhaustion creeping into his veins.
Finally, he could relax and hide away from the medical staff in peace.
Then he stopped.
Still staring down at his shoes, he noticed he’d almost stepped on a textbook. A textbook that looked very much like it belonged in a doctor’s office with the cover featuring a color coded skull and the word anatomy in big letters.
Last time Mattheo checked, there were no textbooks in his secret stairwell.
His eyes finally drifted upwards and landed on the anomaly.
You were curled up in the corner, back against the wall, headphones on with loud music leaking out, laptop in your lap and another open textbook by your feet. You typed mercilessly like the keyboard was on fire and each letter burned your fingertips.
He’d seen you around school before, big eyes always searching the world like you were seeing words in the sky that no one else could. You walked like air swept under your feet with every step and you talked with the lightness of a leaf falling off of a tree. Of course he knew you, he just didn’t know why you were in his corner.
You hadn’t even noticed his arrival, so absorbed in your work that the over 6 foot, broad shouldered hockey player managed to slip from your vision. Until he took a step closer and his shadow loomed over you like you were something he had to conquer to find his peace.
You peeled the headphones off your head, which he finally noticed were bedazzled with an absurd amount of glittering gems, and looked up at him with those big eyes.
Mattheo was sure he looked as intimidating as ever, maybe even more so due to the blood dripping down his temple and the pure irritation he felt.
But the craziest thing he had possibly ever seen happened. You blinked. Once. Twice. Pressed your lips together in a polite smile. Then put your sparkly headphones back over your ears.
Mattheo Riddle was speechless.
Usually, one look from him was enough to send people running, especially delicate little things like you.
Never had he been dismissed.
He furrowed his brows, but he was sure he looked more bewildered than angered, and crouched down to your level, waving a hand in front of your face.
You huffed out a small breath and pulled the headphones from your ears again.
“Hi,” you said, voice drifting into his ears like a gust of wind had personally delivered it to him, all airy and soft. Your lips pulled up into that polite smile again, and he didn’t know what effect that simple gesture was supposed to have on him, but he felt it in his chest.
Mattheo parted his lips to speak, then closed them. They were chapped, his throat was dry, and his knees were aching from being crouched before you. He licked his lips, then immediately winced as he felt the sting of his cut and the iron taste of blood hit his tongue.
He opened his mouth to try again.
“You’re in my spot,” his voice was gruff, but his tone wasn’t the intimidating drawl he was going for. He sounded almost… confused?
You glanced around the landing of the stairs where you had set up camp, then back at him. Your eyes were quizzical, calculating, like you were seeing things only you could see and reading his very thoughts. Then you spoke again, and his chest clenched with that unfamiliar feeling.
“You’re bleeding.”
Without his permission, Mattheo’s hand reached up to the side of his head, wiping the drop of blood that had been seeping across his skin. He stared at his bloody hand, then smeared it on his dark jeans, internally cringing at the action.
He scowled deeper. When had he ever cringed at his own actions? What were you doing to him?
“I know,” his voice wavered, the words leaving his lips in an uncomfortable murmur. Then he swallowed and looked back at you. “You’re in my spot.”
“I really think you should get that treated,” you squinted up at the cut above his brow, then your eyes trailed to his split lip. “It’ll get infected soon, especially that one if you keep licking your lips.”
You pointed briefly to his mouth, then settled your hands back on your keyboard, still watching him.
Mattheo shook his head, “I don’t care. You—”
“You should,” you continued, cutting off what was meant to be a violent consequence if you didn’t evacuate his spot immediately. “Split lips can be particularly painful, especially because we use our mouths pretty often. And that eyebrow cut will just keep bleeding, since our faces are highly vascular.”
He aggressively wiped away the blood dripping down his face again, scowling fully at you this time.
“What are you, my personal medical nightmare? Can you leave?” he spat, standing from his crouch to glare down at you, crossing his arms.
You frowned, and immediately he felt his glare falter. That didn’t look right.
“I’m waiting for someone,” you said simply, toying with a ring on your finger.
“You can wait somewhere else,” Mattheo grumbled, running a hand through his sweaty mess of curls. “Students aren’t supposed to be back here during games anyway.”
“Your eyebrow is getting pretty bloody now.”
He clenched his jaw so hard he thought maybe some of his teeth would fall out and join those of his opponents.
He walked to the opposite end of the landing, which wasn’t very far, and slumped against the wall. He sighed as he dropped to the floor, letting his head fall back against the wall and his sore arms rest against his knees.
Maybe he could ignore you just like he ignored his teammates and the medics and the teachers who always nagged him. Maybe he could sink into the hard ground where no one would bother him or touch him or breathe too close to him again.
Maybe his thinking was too wishful.
“I could help you,” that voice, a sound like waves crashing into a sandy shore and birds singing on the first spring morning. It warmed his cold skin, made him involuntarily unclench his jaw, and his eyes blink open.
You were standing over him now, boots nearly touching the toes of his shoes, jackets sleeves dangling over ringed fingers, and smooth lips pulled up into a smile. This one didn’t look as polite and dismissive though, it looked more welcoming, like maybe you weren’t just annoyed with his presence after all.
He narrowed his eyes at you, head still tilted back to meet your determined gaze.
“I didn’t come here so you could play doctor,” he scowled, wiping away another drop of blood. “I came to get away from all that shit.“
You pursed your lips thoughtfully, humming, and your eyes did that thing where they evaluated his very existence. Then you nodded, turning away from him to pick up your backpack.
He watched you skeptically as you rummaged through its contents before pulling out a first aid kid, a water bottle, and some napkins.
You walked back over and occupied the floor right next to him.
His scowl deepened and he shifted away, but it didn’t seem to deter you as you folded your legs underneath you and cracked open the plastic water bottle.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Mattheo’s question went unanswered, so he was forced to watch as you dribbled water onto the napkins. Every movement was calculated and careful, even the way your earrings dangled back and forth was methodical. Your lip was pulled between your teeth, hands steady, and he wasn’t exactly sure why he’d noticed all this about you. Or when you’d scooted closer.
He blinked when the cold, wet napkin hit his temple, jaw tight, gaze locked on you, but he couldn’t find it in him to move away.
You carefully cleaned up the new and dried blood, then folded it and dabbed at his lip.
Your hands weren’t gloved, your words weren’t nagging, and your touch was gentle as a breeze.
“This kinda stuff makes you nervous?” you asked softly as you set the napkin aside and opened up your first aid kit.
His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, arms falling away from his knees to allow you to lean closer.
It was like his usually loud brain had been taken out and rewired to only play static.
Mattheo could only look at you. You and your delicate features, like they’d been watercolor painted onto a canvas. You and your tender voice, a sweet, simple melody in the chaotic orchestra that was his thoughts. You and your calculating eyes. You and your dangly earrings. You and your bedazzled headphones.
“I guess,” his voice wasn’t gruff or even annoyed. It was like the electric force field that guarded him had faltered. He wasn’t showing you the violent hockey player that kept bruises as trophies. He wasn’t showing you the arrogant playboy who went through girls like dirty socks.
He was just Mattheo. The Mattheo that no one had ever cared to know. The Mattheo that was being treated with the gentlest of touches and sweetest of words.
“I don’t like their gloves. Or their prodding,” he continued, eyes still searching your face, not even registering the alcohol pad that you’d pressed to his cut. “They ask me too many questions and use words I’ve never even heard of.”
You slowly lowered the bloody wipe and let your eyes meet his.
“What’s going on in that head of yours when you do that?” Mattheo muttered, fingers twitching in his lap.
“Do what?”
“That look. Like you can read my mind or something.”
You grinned. You grinned and either the dim lights in the stairwell suddenly brightened or that simple pull of your lips had casted an unearthly glow that had him squinting to see.
And you had dimples.
Mattheo felt a smile of his own making his cheeks ache.
“Well, I can’t read your mind, but I will say that those are all valid things to be uncomfortable with,” you laughed slightly, a honeyed tune that he wished he could save to his pregame playlist. “Though, gloves are standard.”
“I don’t like the squeaking,” his voice lowered to a teasing drawl and he leaned slightly closer.
“You’ll like an infected wound even less.”
“That’s debatable, doc,” he bit the inside of his cheek to stop his stupid grin from growing even more. Apparently, only soft-spoken thieves could bring that smile out of him. “How d’you know all this stuff, anyway?”
You glanced back at your textbooks lying on the floor and your closed laptops. “I’ll be pre-med next fall,” you shrugged, pulling out a weird looking bandaid from your first aid kit. You then stopped and looked up at him. “That make you scared of me?”
He laughed, head falling back against the wall. “Don’t think that’s possible, doc. You’re too gentle.”
You rolled your eyes, hovering your hand over his forehead, bandaid dangling from your fingers. Mattheo picked his head up, smirk softening, and carefully took hold of your wrist. “Aren’t you scared of me?”
You froze, focusing your gaze back on his. His words were different, vulnerable in a way. Like he wasn’t teasing anymore.
You shook your head, matching his fond smile.
“You’re too gentle.”
His hand fell from your wrist and he could only watch as you patched up his cut.
Mattheo Riddle, gentle? Never in his life would he think that could be a word used to describe him.
But maybe that was the Mattheo that no one knew. Maybe this was a version only you could know. One you were already becoming accustomed to.
“It’ll pinch for a bit, but it should heal up fine. Wasn’t too deep. Take this off in the morning, clean it again, and let it get some air,” you muttered, face close to his as you smoothened the bandage over his skin.
“Hey, doc?” he shifted towards you on the cold floor, voice low as if he was afraid anything louder would disrupt whatever fog had fallen over them.
You met his eyes, thumb still tracing above his eyebrow, feet still folded underneath you, knees pressed into his thigh.
“Why’d you steal my secret spot?”
Mattheo found his gaze glued to the way your throat moved as you swallowed and your eyelashes fluttered as you blinked. You were nervous for a change, and he could’ve patted himself on the back for being able to notice. Or punched himself in the face, maybe.
When you pulled away, he decided that being deprived of your tender touch hurt worse than being slammed against the boards by his opponents.
He could only watch in silence as you packed your stuff away, eyes anywhere but on him. The floor felt colder when you stood up.
“My ride wanted to watch the hockey game and I needed to study,” you said, voice shaky as you shoved textbooks in your backpack.
Mattheo stood, watching you scramble. His demeanor oddly calm for the deafening thoughts that had begun to buzz around his brain again.
“What’s wrong?” he sounded devastated, taking hold of your wrist again, stopping you from packing up. “What did I say?”
“Nothing,” you blinked fast and he watched the apprehension flicker across your face. “Nothing, but since the game’s over, I should probably go find my ride.”
He barely tightened his grip on you and tugged, but it was enough for you to face him fully. He lowered himself slightly so he wasn’t looming over you, so maybe that anxiousness would seep away from your features and he could see his gentle doctor again.
He didn’t say anything more, he knew that if you didn’t want to tell him, you wouldn’t. But he hoped that the small sliver of himself he’d presented to you would be enough for him to know this one thing that bothered you in exchange.
You frowned and his heart clenched.
You sighed and his fingers twitched around your wrist.
“I like treating injuries, I don’t like seeing them happen,” the words came out like they were stuck to your tongue, and you shied away from his gaze as you continued. “Hockey is…well it’s very violent.”
Mattheo suddenly felt shame wash over him like a bucket of cold water being poured over his head, but he didn’t know exactly why. He saw your eyes flicker up to his cut, flashing with panic as you thought about how it could’ve happened. Your frown deepened, and he knew he couldn’t look at it any longer.
With his other hand, his knuckles brushed your chin as he gingerly turned your gaze back to his. His voice was soft, almost coaxing.
“M’sorry, doc,” he crooned, rubbing his thumb along your jaw, watching the muscles unclench and your frown even out. He smiled at that, pulling at the end of your lips with his thumb. “It didn’t even hurt. Besides, that alcohol pad of yours stung more.”
You chuckled, shaking your head as your shoulders relaxed again. “You didn’t even flinch when I cleaned your cut, I’m not convinced,” you countered, watching him with those calculating eyes he’d begin to grow quite fond of.
“Yeah? How do I convince you then?” Mattheo glanced down, loosening his hold on your wrist to intertwine your fingers with his. He listened to your breath hitch, those big eyes of yours getting even bigger as his other hand fully cupped your jaw. You were so sweet, like candy he knew he’d be addicted to once he had a taste.
And Merlin did he want a taste.
You smiled, almost playfully, and squeezed his hand.
“Maybe you should go back to being scared of doctors.”
“But I really like this one.”
“You just met this one.”
Mattheo’s smirk widened into a full, cheeky grin. He nodded, eyes gleaming like you’d presented him with a challenge he couldn’t turn down.
“Alright, we’ll go slow,” he decided, rubbing his thumb along your cheek one more time before reaching down to take your backpack from your other hand, shrugging it over his own shoulder.
You furrowed your eyebrows as he tugged on your hands that were still connected, following him down the staircase.
“We’ll do what?” you squeaked, nearly jogging to keep up with his long strides.
“We’ll go slow,” he echoed, glancing back at you and slowing down his steps, smile softening. “Until I haven’t just met you. Until I know more than that you blink fast when you’re nervous and spin that cute ring on your finger when you’re thinking really hard.“
You blinked quickly, big eyes staring up at him, and he didn’t even know if you’d done it on purpose, but he laughed.
He brought your intertwined hands up to his lips, pressing them against your knuckles with a gentleness that resembled reverence. “I want to be able to recognize every expression that crosses your face, angel. I want to know every little quirk you have. Until then, we’ll go slow.”
SUMMARY: You and Mattheo have always existed somewhere between friendship and something sharper. It only takes one mistake from Cormac McLaggen at Slughorn’s party to make his feelings painfully clear.
You had been part of the Slytherin inner circle since first year. As a pureblood who could keep up with their sharp wit and sharper ambitions, you fit seamlessly. Draco’s dry sarcasm, Theo’s quiet observations, Enzo’s easy humor, Blaise’s effortless charm, Pansy’s bold confidence, and Daphne’s calculated grace—you matched them all.
But out of all of them, you had always been closest to Mattheo.
It started with late-night smokes at the Astronomy Tower, where conversations drifted from homework to heavier things. He copied your notes more often than he’d admit, and you let him, pretending not to notice how his handwriting improved whenever he sat beside you in the library. There was an unspoken understanding between you two: comfortable, steady, and deeper than either of you ever named out loud.
Seventh year brought the usual chaos, including Slughorn’s infamous Christmas party.
You stood near the refreshment table in your deep green dress, nursing a glass of sparkling wine, when Cormac McLaggen appeared. At first, it was only annoying—him stepping too close, leaning in when he spoke, his voice overly loud and confident as he tried every tired pickup line in his repertoire.
“You know, you Slytherins always look so serious. You should smile more… especially around me.”
You gave him a polite but tight smile and tried to step away.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he said, moving with you.
When you turned to leave, his hand shot out and gripped your wrist. Not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to make your stomach twist with discomfort.
“Just one dance. I don’t bite… unless you ask nicely.”
You tried to pull your hand free, heart beating faster than you liked.
“Let go, McLaggen.” You spit out, tone heavy with disgust.
Thankfully, Professor Slughorn called for a toast at that exact moment, giving you the chance to slip away into the crowd.
Later that night, back in the dorm you shared with Pansy and Daphne, you told them everything while removing your makeup.
“He just wouldn’t take the hint,” you muttered, rubbing cream into your wrists. “And when he grabbed my hand… it felt gross.”
Daphne looked thoughtful. “We should tell the boys tomorrow. Mattheo especially, he’ll want to know.”
You shrugged, trying to play it down. “It’s not that serious.”
But the next morning in the Slytherin common room, near the roaring fireplace, Daphne brought it up anyway.
The whole group was there—Draco lounging in an armchair, Theo reading, Enzo and Blaise chatting, Pansy painting her nails, and Mattheo leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed.
“So apparently Cormac McLaggen decided to get handsy with our girl at the Slug Club party last night,” Daphne announced casually.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
You made a face at Daphne. Theo lowered his book. Draco’s eyebrow rose. Enzo frowned. And Blaise's eyes narrowed immediately.
“What do you mean, ‘handsy’?” Mattheo asked, his voice deceptively calm.
You sighed. “He got too close, made some stupid comments, and grabbed my wrist when I tried to leave. Nothing terrible, but…” You made an awkward gesture with your hands. “Uncomfortable.”
Mattheo’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything else, but you caught the dark look that passed over his face.
Classes dragged on as usual.
When the final bell rang, you were heading back to the common room through one of the quieter shortcuts—an empty hallway lined with old tapestries—when you saw him.
Mattheo was standing near a window alcove, knuckles split and bloody, a fresh cut on his lower lip. His shirt was slightly rumpled, dark curls messy like he’d run his hands through them too many times.
He looked up. Your eyes met.
A quiet understanding passed between you—no words needed.
You realized what he’d done. Pansy had already told you how Cormac had been admitted to the Hospital Wing with a broken nose and bruises, though he kept refusing to tell Madam Pomfrey who had hit him. This only confirmed your suspicions.
Without saying anything, you walked over and sat down on the cold stone floor beside him. Mattheo lowered himself slowly, wincing slightly.
You conjured a small bowl of Murtlap essence with a flick of your wand, along with a clean cloth. Gently, you took his injured hand in yours and began dabbing at the torn knuckles.
The silence stretched—comfortable, but heavy.
“Why did you do it?” you asked softly, not looking up from his hand.
Mattheo watched you work for a long moment before answering, his voice low and rough.
“Because the thought of him putting his hands on you made me want to burn the entire castle down.”
He paused, then added quieter, “And because no one gets to make you uncomfortable. Not while I’m still breathing.”
Your hand stilled. You finally looked up, meeting his dark eyes.
There was something raw and unguarded in them—something that went far beyond friendship and late-night smokes at the Astronomy Tower.
“Mattheo…” you whispered.
He gave a small, crooked smile despite the split lip.
“I’ve spent years letting you share your notes and your cigarettes with me. Figured it was about time I did something for you.”
You finished cleaning his knuckles, the Murtlap essence already working its magic. Instead of letting go of his hand, you kept it gently in yours.
“You didn’t have to get hurt for me,” you said softly.
“Maybe not,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly over your fingers. “But I wanted to. For you… I’d do a lot worse.”
The hallway was quiet except for the distant echo of students far away.
You smiled at him, and he smiled back—small, warm, and real—the kind of smile he rarely gave anyone else.
You noticed how Mattheo’s gaze softened as he looked at you, the usual sharp edges of his expression melting away, his guard lowered.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
He leaned his head back against the stone wall, still holding your hand.
“Anytime, love.”
You stayed there on the floor together, shoulders touching, the bloody knuckles and split lip feeling strangely like the start of something you had both been waiting for without realizing it.
And for the first time in a long while, the dungeons felt a little warmer.
