[redeemingvillains]

hi, i'm vee. ♡ daughter (†), daydreamer, bad boy apologist, fanfic writer, flangst queen, sunshine chaos. lover of books, music with a good beat and autumn.

⚲ mentally in the slytherin common room on mattheo riddle's lap. ⚲ spiritually in dutch harbor with sea captain!mattheo ⚲ emotionally backstage with rockstar!mattheo

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ ⟶ masterlist ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ ⟶ fic recommendations ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ ⟶ 5k celebration // 6k celebration

#on worship | #on writing

[redeemingvillains]

the black lake - mattheo riddle

summary: mattheo is hogwarts' triwizard tournament champion, and he's proven that he can crush the competition. but when the stakes are raised, and you're involved, nothing will get in his way.

word count: 2.3k

author’s note: this was was so fun to think about! lots of references to goblet of fire! lots of swearing, matty is not a happy camper in this one. enjoy ♡

Obviously this boy would put his name in the Goblet of Fire (all of the boys did) and there would be a lot of feelings about him being chosen as the Hogwarts champion, lots of accusations about him rigging the selection (he probably did). But he'd definitely crush the competition, especially when he had the right motivation...

ˋ°•*⁀➷

It's the morning of the second task, the day crisp and frosty, creating puffs of air as Mattheo huffed in exertion, marching down to the Black Lake surrounded by his friends. Suffice to say, he was pissed. It was fucking frigid outside and he hadn't seen you all morning, the combination enough to set him dangerously on edge.

You'd told him you'd come spend the night with him, and if nothing else you always ate breakfast together, so when you didn't show up last night and you were nowhere to be found this morning he was furious that you'd blown him off. Now he was spending his entire walk from the castle to the lake ruminating over it, piling on every perceived slight over the last few days, including the way he saw you talking to a group of guys from Durmstrang in the Great Hall yesterday, causing him to involuntarily curl his hands into fists at his side.

His friends walked beside him, surrounding him in a sort of semicircle, but moving in complete silence; they knew better than to try to say anything to him when he was in a mood like this. Before long, Pansy came running to meet them, nearly out of breath as she said, exasperated, "I couldn't fucking find her. She's not anywhere in our dormitory, in the library, I don't know where she's gone." Concern and frustration laced her voice as she looked at the group and then up at Mattheo.

This wasn't like you.

You had been Mattheo's #1 supporter throughout the whole tournament, helping him prepare, cheering him on, jumping into his arms the moment he'd defeated his dragon, and generally always glued to his side. In fact, you were always glued to all of their sides, the group of you being nearly inseparable, so having you missing made all of the boys feel shifty and on edge as they looked at one another.

Fear bloomed in Mattheo's chest. And the feeling of fear when it came to you did not sit well with him. He didn't want to feel afraid, to feel vulnerable when it came to you, so he opted to shove the feeling down, keeping instead with anger which was much easier and more natural to him.

"I don't have time for this" he muttered, quickening his pace as they all scrambled to keep up with him.

The biting wind whipped through his dark curls and stung his cheeks as he stood on the platform above the lake, staring into the middle-distance of the dark and choppy waves. Students and staff alike were cheering and shouting their encouragement for their champions, but he was completely zoned out, his mind bouncing back and forth between your lingering absence and the task ahead of him. He only perked up when Dumbledore's loud voice rang out over the crowd.

"Welcome to the second task!" it radiated.

"Last night something was stolen from each of our champions, a treasure of sorts—"

Mattheo's heart plummeted so fast into his stomach that he subconsciously grasped at his chest. A treasure? There wasn't a thing he owned that he valued enough to call a treasure, not a single thing in his life that held that much weight... except you. You were undeniably his treasure. He looked back into the murky water of the Black Lake... it couldn't be... he thought ... surely they wouldn't... as Dumbledore's voice continued.

"—These four treasures, one for each champion, now lie on the bottom of the Black Lake—" Mattheo's stomach lurched with what little breakfast he'd been able to eat as his eyes shot to Pansy's in the crowd in enough time to see her clasp her hand to her mouth as she pieced the situation together.

"—In order to win, each champion need only find their treasure and return to the surface. Simple enough. Except for this. They will have but one hour to do so and one hour only. After that, they'll be on their own. No magic will save them."

Mattheo's feet were moving before Dumbledore said another word, sprinting towards the water because fuck this stupid tournament, and fuck the geezer for thinking he could take you away from him, that he could put you in danger.

"You may begin at the sound of the cannon."

BOOM!

Mattheo heard the blast as his body hit the water, diving headfirst into the waves without bothering to cast a spell, without a care to what he'd find within the foreboding depths.

The cold shocked his system, but his heart was hammering for plenty of other reasons as he pulled his body through the fierce current, his strong arms and legs working against the waves.

For a minute he was surrounded in dark nothingness. He could feel rather than see that he wasn't alone in the water, occasionally sensing something moving on either side of him, but he didn't have time, you didn't have time for him to care. His lungs started to burn and he pressed his wand to his neck, casting a spell frantically so as not to waste another second.

After swimming at an impossible pace for so long he wondered if there even was a bottom to the lake, he heard an ethereal sound, like singing and changed course to swim towards it, which brought him to a large clearing where he could see merpeople swimming around. The few nearest him whipped their heads toward him, surprised at his presence as they turned to face him fully. He dared them, dared any fucking one of them to come near him, welcomed it actually, a chance to take out his rage, but they steered clear, perhaps sensing it would be a losing battle despite the tritons they carried and their razor-sharp teeth.

He swam on, his muscles straining, aching with the exertion of pulling his weight through the thick water at such an unwavering and desperate pace, but the feeling faded, drained from him, as four distinct figures came into view, four bodies, tethered and floating in the water, their hair moving eerily around their faces, their bodies stiff and still, like corpses.

He identified you immediately and he swam harder and harder until he was close enough to touch you. He brushed a hand against your cheek; your skin held a blueish tint and your face was expressionless, void of the smile that you always had for him, that reached your eyes, that lit up your face, the absence of it was enough to make his eyes sting in a way that had nothing to do with the brackish water.

He grasped your stiff form, the resistance of your body against his continuing to mess with his mind as he sent a spell to sever the rope that secured you and tried not to think about how rigid you felt in his arms.

His ability to breath underwater didn't matter for shit, because he was certain he didn't breath the entire way back, climbing harder and harder as he carried your weight with him, desperate to reach the surface, desperate to save you, thinking the entire time how fucking foolish he'd been to spend even one second mad at you today.

Finally, he could see the light of the surface, the grey clouds in the sky reflecting in the waves, and after a final series of strong kicks he broke through the current.

Immediately, he felt you come alive again in his arms, spluttering and coughing as you grasped for him.

"M-Matty!?" you said hysterically, the cold and fear in your voice setting his heart in a vice as your eyes fluttered open and you looked around in confusion at your surroundings. "What happened?! Where—?!"

"—It's okay, you're okay, you're safe" he said, pulling you against him, keeping you both afloat even as you rocked in the waves and he gasped deeply for air.

"C'mere, c'mon" he said, swimming with you in his embrace towards the platform, anxious to get you out of the freezing water.

The crowd had erupted into cheers when you'd breached the surface, and they were announcing that Mattheo was the champion by a long shot, not having been in the water for more than 20 minutes, the other champions still completely unaccounted for. But hearing talk of the competition and seeing everyone's ignorance about the whole situation as they clapped and smiled was pushing him to his limit as he hoisted you up to Pansy who greeted you with a thick towel.

Mattheo pulled himself out of the water, barely taking time to wrap a towel around his shoulders before grabbing three more and pulling them around you. You laughed under the heavy bundle, even as your shivering continued uncontrollably. "I-I'm okay, I-I'm okay" you said, trying to reassure him, even as you noticed that he wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Buncha fucking idiots" you heard him muttering as he rubbed your arms before he stooped down and swept you off your feet bridal style, one hand around your waist, the other holding on to your legs. The crowd cheered again, erupting in a sigh of "awws" at the gesture until he began barreling towards them.

"Matty?" you asked, concerned, "Where are we—?"

"—Anywhere but here" he growled as people began pushing each other to get out of his way.

"Mr. Riddle!" McGonagall chided, chasing after you both as you watched her from over his shoulder, urging him to stop as a couple of other professors followed in pursuit.

He veered towards the raised platform where the headmasters were seated, coming to a brief stop in front of Dumbledore who had stood to his feet.

"You are out of your fucking mind!" Mattheo spat at him.

Several people around you gasped, even Igor Karkaroff had the wherewithal to look surprised, impressed even, before Mattheo walked away, marching right off the platform and back towards the school as the entire crowd watched you go.

You could tell Mattheo was tired, beyond tired, physically, emotionally; you could feel his arms shaking against your weight.

"Matty, I can walk, it's okay" you said quietly, but he wouldn't let you go, wouldn't set you down, wouldn't even respond to you or meet your eyes. So you resigned yourself to resting your head on his shoulder, nuzzling against his neck which seemed to relax him a bit.

He carried you all the way to his room, making his way to the bathroom where he finally set you down and immediately began running you a hot bath. Wordlessly, he found a towel and a set of his clothes for you to wear, placing them at the edge of the tub before leaving without a word, closing the door gently behind him.

You looked anxiously at the closed door, aware that something was very very wrong, but also acknowledging that he might need a minute, and that you still couldn't feel the tips of your fingers or toes, so you resigned yourself to the hot water.

It felt heavenly, as did washing the muck of the lake off your skin and out of your hair. You reveled in the smell of his soap, like cedar and evergreen, but you were too anxious to sit there any longer than necessary, quickly pulling on his sweatpants and sweatshirt that engulfed your frame as you toweled your hair dry and pushed the door open.

Mattheo was seated at the edge of his bed, still dripping wet, his body shaking noticeably as he stared at the ground. He glanced up when he heard you, visibly relaxing a bit as he took in your warm, rosy cheeks and your soft smile, his mind flashing for only a moment to your unsmiling rigid form floating in the water, trying to reconcile that version of you with the one in front of him.

You approached him slowly, moving to stand between his legs as you took his face in your warm hands, tilting it to look at you. He had a strained, puzzled expression on his face as his eyes drank you in before his hands came to rest on your waist.

"Babe—" you started.

"—I love you" he said.

Your heart somersaulted over the words you'd never heard him say before as you let out a small breath, your hand moving to cover your mouth in shock as your eyes widened.

"I'm-I'm a fucking wreck for you" he continued, laughing humorlessly as he shook his head. "Today... really fucked me up. I thought I'd lost you, I thought..." he paused, getting quiet "...The way you looked down there, alone, miles under the water, surrounded by all sorts of shit" he shook his head harder like he could unlive the memory of it all.

"I should have told you sooner, because I've known for awhile, for a long fucking time, but I've been too scared to say it, too scared that you don't remotely feel the same way, but that doesn't matter anymore, nothing fucking matters other than you hearing me say it, today, every day, I love you, YN." His eyes met yours finally, wide and sincere. "With everything I've got, I love you."

"I love you too!—" you whispered, and the words were barely out of your mouth before he pressed his cold lips to yours, pulling you into him so tightly you let out an involuntary squeak as your arms moved to wrap around his neck and he fell backwards onto his bed, continuing to mumble against your lips "Iloveyou, loveyou, I loveyou", smushing your kisses with his affectionate words until you were laughing with joy, the sound finally reassuring him that you were his, and that you were okay.

♡

@kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii, @darlingshecried, @girlblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen

[l8vrgrll]

sometimes i just need to come back here🙏🏻

[redeemingvillains]

you’re so sweet honestly like 🥲 having my fics be someone’s comfort/re-read is such high praise.

[redeemingvillains]

berkshire blue - lorenzo berkshire

summary: you and lorenzo are...exclusive... or so you thought... but as the days before the berkshire winter ball dwindle and he deftly avoids asking you to be his date, you're left wondering what you really mean to each other. word count: 3k author's note: heavily inspired by my obsession with the fairytale vibes of once upon a broken heart by stephanie garber and the delicious prince energy that louis partridge gives in house of guinness.

You watched as snow fell in thick flurries outside the large windows of the Great Hall. The sky was a clouded grey that hung heavy with the winter storm which was mirrored in the enchanted ceiling, making you feel as though you were inside your own snow globe.

The candles in the large sconces that lined the walls flickered with the low hum of conversation in the late afternoon and your eyes trailed lazily to Lorenzo’s figure as he leaned in the doorway, mid-conversation with several of his friends.

You'd been together nearly a year, but you didn’t think you’d ever stop reveling in just how beautiful he was; his sharp witted smile on plush lips, made all the more perfect for the knowledge of how they felt against your own: heady and urgent, his effortlessly tousled hair, the way he carried himself with confidence and ease and a permanent air of insouciance, his muscular arms that trailed to veined forearms, strong hands and long fingers—

“—You’re staring” a deep voice grumbled.

“Sue me.”

Blaise let out a breathy laugh but your gaze didn’t waiver, like maybe you could understand the boy you were staring at the longer you looked at him.

“He’s really not going to ask me, is he?” you said quietly, releasing the thought that had been running you ragged over the last month.

Blaise blew out a long breath this time, perhaps steeling himself to come up with some sort of excuse that could make it all make sense.

“Figured” you surmised.

“YN, come on. You know how he is. You know, labels, formalities, talking about feelings, s’not really his thing.”

You looked on at him, all lazily crossed arms and a devil-may-care smirk, considering that the Lorenzo he was to everyone else was entirely different from the one you knew so well.

⋆꙳❅*❆*⁀➷

You had had a lot of preconceived notions in the beginning, going so far as to consider the entire thing a mistake, a one-time lapse in judgement on both of your parts, given his reputation with girls.

You shared many of the same friends though were never close, but slowly you began to notice an increase in his attention: a brush of his hand against yours in the hallway, the lingering weight of his gaze that didn’t lift even when you caught him staring, earning a lopsided grin laced with a heat that made your heart thump insistently in your chest; a flirty comment here, a not-so-subtle compliment there and then you were walking back from the library together late one night... by this point you’d spent enough time together that you chatted amiably about quidditch, potions, and perhaps a few other things you couldn’t remember because after a moment you realized his footsteps had stopped beside you and then you felt his hand, gentle but insistent grasping your own and pulling you back towards him.

You had tried to say something, anything, to form a sentence, but he’d pulled you into his chest and his thumb was grazing your cheek, his eyes locked on yours with a depth and sincerity that made your stomach drop and your cheeks heat, and at the sight of the flush of pink he smirked mercilessly, tilting your chin as he brushed his lips against yours with a softness you had no idea he could possess before he was cupping your face with both hands and kissing you like it was the last thing on earth he’d ever do.

It took one heartbeat, two, for your mind to process what was happening before you were kissing him back, feverish, as your hands grasped at his robes, pulling yourself closer into him until you could feel his smile on your own.

He didn’t stop kissing you until your lips were tender and your chest was heaving. He pulled back to look at you, really look at you before he ran his thumb over his bottom lip and then pressed two, three, four more kisses to your swollen lips.

Things were different after that.

Much to the great dismay of the four houses, he stopped talking to other girls completely; he was permanently fixed at your side at meals, in class, with an insistence and consistency that you reveled in. His hand was fixed on your lower back in the hallway, his arm was around you on the common room couch, and his lips were on yours on every possible opportunity in between, which left you and everyone around you to surmise that you were … exclusive.

Before long, you were spending every night in his bed, walking around in his quidditch jumper, it was all but certain.

So, with the Berkshire Winter Ball approaching, it felt all but certain that you were going together.

In fact, you’d seen his suit and you'd even got a dress to match, your own surprise for him.

But then the weeks before the ball became days, and every one of your friends had dates, and he didn’t say a word to you about it.

You felt like you were going mad.

You’d tried several times, of course, to bring it up, but you certainly weren’t going to beg, so when he expertly skirted the topic every time, when he smirked, kissed you, and made you forget what it was that had you so worked up to begin with you, you let it go.

But a still, small voice in the back of your head left you wondering if it meant that you were good enough for a fling at school but nothing more.

⋆꙳❅*❆*⁀➷

“You’re still going to come though, right?” Blaise urged.

Your eyes narrowed, finally pulling away from Lorenzo long enough to acknowledge him.

“I’ll be there.”

The Berkshire Manor on Christmas Eve put Hogwarts to shame.

A veritable forest of live fir trees lined the long drive, perfectly looped with strings of twinkling white lights and a natural dusting of the still-fluttering snow. The house itself wore wreaths in each of the windows the size of small cars, adorned with large velvet bows in an arctic pale blue, Berkshire blue you thought with a forced wry smile as you looked down at the matching hue of your dress.

The iciness in the air did nothing for your nerves as you shivered, resenting every couple ahead of you that stepped out of their carriages hand in hand while you were resigned to ride alone.

You let out a shaky breath.

Lorenzo had texted you today like everything was completely normal and you had begun to think that either he was the biggest idiot you knew, or you were.

The door to your carriage opened and a footman offered a hand to help you down as your eyes trailed up the broad stone stairs in front of you, hoping against all hope that maybe Lorenzo would be there, waiting for you, saving you from the stolid humiliation of walking in alone.

But no.

There was a smattering of other guests, all arm in arm and your continued solitude made you icier.

The train of your dress fluttered behind you in waves of pale blue tulle adorned with innumerable silver gems that caught the starlight and made you look like the winter sky itself. You had opted for a sweeping sweetheart neckline with a bold plunge and barely-there straps that hung off your shoulders, like they were mid-slip, begging to be tugged all the way off. All of that paired with the snowflake diamond-and-pearl designs wound into your hair gave you the confidence to stride up the palatial steps alone, as your heels met marble and the steep slit of your dress parted your way.

You stepped inside to a packed greeting hall, opulently large and draped with live garland entwined with more velvet blue ribbon.

The room echoed with string instruments and the buzz of dozens of small conversations as hundreds of candles hovered in the air. You took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm your nerves as you looked for a familiar face, trying to remain the perfect picture of serenity despite the anxious patter of your heartbeat that you could feel all the way in your fingertips.

“Fucking hell is Berkshire an idiot or what?!” a voice carried, causing a few nearby heads to turn as you saw Blaise smiling at you with open arms, and your friends trailing behind him.

Your eyes swept over them anxiously, but you didn’t see Lorenzo as Blaise pulled you into his grasp before releasing you with your hands intertwined so he could twirl you as you laughed and blushed. You knew he was hamming it up for you, but you couldn’t deny your nerves were melting off of you like the lingering snowflakes on your skin.

“I mean, really, bella, this is …” Theo let out a deep breath as he eyed your form in your dress and dragged a hand over the lower half of his face, eyes transfixed as they smoldered at you, teetering into the territory of eye-fucking you.

You cocked an eyebrow at him before he raised his hands defensively, though you noticed his eyes trailing back to you several times, even as Mattheo’s arm wrapped around your waist as he presented you with a delicate flute of champagne, nearly full to overflowing.

“Say the word” he muttered, his lips pressed to your ear as you turned slowly to meet his eye. “Just say it and I will happily, gladly, unceremoniously tell my date she can fuck right off so I can have you on my arm tonight.”

You elbowed him in the ribs.

“I’m not kidding” he laughed.

“I know you’re not!” you chided.

“Can’t blame me for trying” he said, grabbing another flute of champagne from a passing waiter and nearly draining it.

“Where is he…?” you asked quietly, letting the question drift as your eyes searched the room for him.

“Last I saw him he was with his parents somewhere over by the fountain” he nodded towards a towering fountain of enchanted champagne near the other end of the hall.

“Hmpf” you said, considering that as you took your own large sip, the champagne bubbles tickling your tongue.

“Ahh fuck, there’s my date” he said, slamming the rest of his drink as he unwound his arm from you. “Offer still stands!” he said hopefully, glancing back at you before you waved him off.

Your friends followed with wistful waves of their own as they made their way to the dancefloor with their dates, making it feel like the entire ball was pairing off for a perfectly choregraphed dance you’d been doing for as long as you could remember.

You watched the sea of smiling couples with resigned sadness, envying the sweep and whoosh of dresses that fluttered with the music, the way everyone was smiling, overcome with the seasonal joy of being in love.

You swallowed, wondering for the thousandth time what the hell you were doing here, dressed for a date you didn’t have, for the prince of the ball that had no problem pulling your clothes off but couldn’t deign to ask you to be his. You let out a shuddered breath as your fingers tapped nervously against the glass in your hand.

“Forgive me for being so forthright, but you standing here by yourself is an absolute disgrace.”

Your head turned quickly to the voice that had appeared beside you to see a tall, slender, beautiful woman with rich amber hair who took her own deep sip of champagne, her eyes fixed forward, and you felt you should do the same to keep from staring.

“I—well, thank you, I suppose” you muttered.

“You’re every bit as beautiful as Lorenzo described in his many letters.”

Your head turned back to her, slower this time, as the realization sank in and you took a quiet, deep breath.

“Mrs. Berkshire?”

She smiled, her eyes never leaving the crowd in front of you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you” you said firmly. “Lorenzo speaks very fondly of you, and I’m honored to be here tonight.”

She smiled deeper, her eyes crinkling.

“Beauty and manners” she mused.

You smiled demurely and blushed.

A moment passed.

“He is very like his father—” she said, breaking the silence and tilting her glass across the room as the crowd parted enough for you to see him, finally, dressed gorgeously perfect in a rich arctic blue of his own standing next to a man of nearly equal height who was unmistakably related; it was obvious in the way they carried themselves, affable, magnetic, with sharp dazzling smiles.

“—Handsome, whip-smart, cunning… stubborn…”

You laughed lightly.

“...Generous when he wants to be. Tender and affectionate…”

You felt your cheeks burn as your eyes flitted to the ground shyly.

“…Though not many know that side of them. But given the way Lorenzo has stared at you all night, I think that you do.”

Your face scrunched in confusion as you looked up. Stared at you all night?

“He didn’t ask you to be his date tonight, did he?” she asked.

You swallowed, debating the most tactful way to respond and figured there was no use in lying.

“No, m’am.”

She smirked and you felt a sinking feeling, like you were the butt end of a cruel family joke as you bit down on your lip and tried to find something in the middle distance to focus on.

“I shouldn’t say anything” she shrugged, and took another sip from her dwindling champagne. “But you should know it’s not because he’s uncertain about you. Far from it.”

You turned to her then and her eyes slid slyly to yours.

“He didn’t ask you because he needs to know you’re strong enough to stand on your own, confident enough to command a space without needing his invitation, sure enough in him to show up regardless, and pure enough not to take his dismissal in spite, to show up with someone else or try to make him jealous. It is a longstanding, infuriating Berkshire tradition” she said rolling her eyes. “Marco did the same thing to me—”

You couldn’t hide the smile on your face as you glanced back at Lorenzo and realized he was staring at you now, his gaze heavy with heat as he shook the hands of those around him and began to make his way in your direction.

“—And then he asked me to marry him four weeks later.”

“W-wait, what?” you asked, your head snapping back to her, certain you couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“YN Berkshire” she said quietly, so quietly you thought you’d imagined it as she took a loose strand of your hair and brushed it away from your face letting her eyes roam over you with tenderness and affection as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek before whispering, “It has a nice ring to it,” as she brushed past you.

All you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears as you turned after her only to find she’d disappeared into the crowd.

You had less than a second to process it all before you turned back around to find Lorenzo in front of you and now your head was fuzzy for a hundred other reasons; he smelled fresh like cedarwood and vetiver and despite how furious you’d been with him, every frustration melted away and you leaned in, desperate for his proximity.

“You look….” he sighed like he’d been holding his breath for hours and then subtly rolled his bottom lip into his mouth, biting it like a restraint, a reminder of where he was and the decorum he needed to keep as he shook his head, drinking in every inch of you, his gaze lingering on your plunging neckline, your collarbone, before his eyes inched up to meet your own.

“Gods I’m so fucking lucky you’re mine” he muttered, the words barely escaping him before he leaned in and kissed you like there weren’t two hundred people watching, as he held your face and his tongue instantly slipped past your lips.

Your hands found the lapels of his suit which you clung to for purchase as you matched his insistence. You could hear a few murmurs and a surprised laugh but they faded like background music as you let him nearly sweep you off your feet, feeling boneless in his arms.

“And you wearing fucking Berkshire blue” he growled, the words tangled between his kisses as one hand wandered down to your side, resting at your hip where he squeezed you into him possessively.

He pulled back, pressing two, three more kisses to you but letting his lips linger near yours.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re here, that you came. I wanted to ask you, I just… it’s… complicated” he breathed.

You nodded against his lips, causing them to brush, to tingle against each other as you smiled.

“You’re not… mad?” he asked cautiously.

You pulled back a little further and feigned like you had to think about it rolling your lips into a pout as you half-shrugged and he held you a little firmer in defense.

“I think, maybe, you can find a way to make it up to me?” you said slow and teasing as you leaned in again, letting your lips waiver against his, letting your warm breath fall on him as you stared at him under lidded eyes and his hands held you even tighter as he bunched the fabric of your dress in his hands, his body rigid though his expression was calm and warm.

“I intend to” he muttered back against your lips before he kissed your bottom lip, subtly sucking it, nipping on it dangerously in a way that made you feel like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

“Over and over and over again” he promised until he kissed you again, deep, unabashedly.

You have no idea he thought, as you smiled.

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

[rositxespinosa]

obsessed with the way mattheo and theo were ready to take over for enzo 😝 but as stubborn as enzo is, i have to admit that i do love these two together 🩵

[redeemingvillains]

i will always write enzo and/or mattheo thirsting after you in every universe because that’s how it needs to be. i lowkey never want to pick just one 😛😛 hehehe love you meg!

[redeemingvillains]

why is my weather forecast such a vibe

[redeemingvillains]

me?!? actually writing a request!?! 👀👀

[liberalsarecool]

Cosign.

[thefawnatplay]

pick up!

in which the president gets a late-night drunk call from an ex-situationship.

young!president!coriolanus snow x ex-situationship!reader

warnings: intoxication, mild angst, hints at slightly toxic relationship but not rlly?, smoking, attempts at initiating intimacy while drunk, situationships

reblogs appreciated ♥ ↺

angst | fluff | ex-situationships | drunk calls | in vino veritas | late-night drives

Coriolanus was awake. He was always awake. He'd been at his desk for the past two hours pretending to read a trade proposal from District Six, which amounted to the same stack of paper shuffled from one side of the desk to the other while he smoked and stared at the middle distance and tried, with middling success, not to think about her.

He was getting better at it. He thought. Some days.

A buzzing caught his attention. He saw his phone, vibrating on the edge of his desk.

With a sigh, he picked it up. Probably Tigris or Grandma'am.

But no. It was her.

His chest did something he refused to name. His thumb hovered.

She never called. Not since— not since it all went wrong. He'd half-convinced himself she'd deleted his number. He'd considered deleting hers. More than once. Hadn't.

He picked up on the third ring. "Hello."

"Coriolanus." Her voice was warm and slightly blurred at the edges. Loud music somewhere behind her, the clink of glasses, the ambient roar of a crowded room. "Hi."

Oh.

She was drunk.

"Hello," he said again, because he was apparently capable of nothing else.

"I—" A giggle, soft and helpless. He had never heard her giggle before, not like this, at least. It did something catastrophic to him. "I'm out. With my friends. It's— we went to Marchetti's. You know Marchetti's?"

"I do not frequent Marchetti's, no."

"It's on the Corso," she whined, as if trying to convince him he did in fact frequent the club. "The one with the— the hanging lights, all gold, it's very pretty. You'd hate it."

"Probably."

"I had four drinks," she announced. "Maybe five."

"That's very forthcoming of you."

"I'm a forthcoming person." She enunciated the word as if he'd made it up. A pause. The music swelled behind her and then muffled, like she'd moved into a quieter corner. Her voice got softer. "Corio-laaaanus."

"Still here."

"Can you come get me?"

He was quiet for a second. Just one. "Is something wrong?"

She gave a dramatic sigh. "No, not really. My friends are all with guys, and… well the guys are annoying, and the drinks are expensive…" She cut herself off with a little hiccup.

He was already closing the trade proposal, already reaching for his keys — not his driver, he decided without fully examining why. Not tonight. He grabbed his coat off the chair.

"Stay where you are," he said.

"Okay," She sounded relieved in a way that he could tell she was smiling. "Thank you."

He hung up before she could say anything else.

Marchetti's was exactly as advertised.

Gold hanging lights, yes. A crowd of well-dressed Capitol C-listers and twenty-somethings brushing up on each other as some artsy DJ mixed songs he'd never heard but sounded vaguely synthlike. Something with too much bass. Not somewhere he could ever go. Not elite, not tightly exclusive enough to avoid paparazzi, stares, whispers. At least it was less suffocating, in that way.

The coat check girl recognized him immediately and had the grace to look terrified.

He found her at the bar.

She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, head tipped back, one hand loose around a mostly-empty glass, her dress a short thing with a low back, the color of deep water. She hadn't seen him yet. He watched her laugh for two seconds longer than was defensible and then crossed the room.

She turned, some instinct, and her face—

There it was. That thing. That specific, involuntary opening of her expression, like something released.

"Coriolanus," she said, too brightly.

He stepped close, quick, dipped his head toward hers. "Keep your voice down," he murmured, low near her ear. "I'm not exactly dressed for an anonymous Tuesday night at Marchetti's."

She blinked. Then looked him up and down — the coat, the cufflinks, the general unavoidable fact of him — and pressed her lips together against a smile. "Right," she whispered. Conspiratorial. Delighted. "Sorry. Hi."

"Hi." He straightened. "Ready?"

Her friends were watching with enormous interest. He was aware of the whispers even if he couldn't make out the words. He didn't need to. He'd been in enough rooms to know the specific frequency of wait, is that—

"—is that actually—"

"—yes—"

"—but she said a friend was picking her up—"

"—she voted against him in the general—"

One of them, a girl with silver-dusted cheekbones, was very clearly trying not to visibly react to the President of Panem appearing at their bar to collect her friend. He appreciated the effort."She called the right person," she smiled.

"Apparently," he said, which made her laugh.

He helped her off the barstool. She came off it sideways, heels not entirely cooperating, and his hand went to her waist automatically — steadying, nothing more, just making sure she didn't pitch forward onto the marble floor of Marchetti's, which would be unfortunate for everyone. She grabbed his lapel with her free hand and looked up at him and smiled, slow and warm.

"You came inside," she said.

"I wasn't going to have you standing on the street."

"You said—"

"I said don't wait outside," he reminded her as he guided her forward gently, hand still at her waist.

"Oh, yeah," she giggled.

"Say goodbye to your friends," he murmured, gently turning her to face them as she clung to the arm he had politely at her waist.

She faced them, beaming as she waved. Her friends waved with the barely-contained energy of women who would be dissecting this the moment the door closed behind them. He kept his expression politely neutral and his hand on her back and got her out the door.

The night air hit them and she inhaled deeply, tipping her face up for a second, and then turned to him and tucked her arm through his without asking, her hand curling around his forearm. He let her. She came up to his shoulder and she leaned into him slightly as they walked, compensating for the heels on the uneven stone, and he adjusted his pace accordingly and said nothing about it.

"Cold," she declared.

"Yes, it is. I told you to take my coat."

"You're warm though."

He said nothing. She pressed fractionally closer.

The car was a block down. She managed it, mostly — one near-stumble off a raised curb that his hand at her arm caught before she noticed it herself, and one pause where she stopped to look at a floral arrangement in a closed shop window with an expression of profound interest that had him waiting with what he privately considered extraordinary patience.

"Come on," he said eventually.

"They're beautiful—"

"They're carnations."

"Well yes," she said, as if this proved her point entirely. "I love flowers," she sighed dreamily.

He watched her. Allowed her to watch the flowers as he watched her.

He eventually got her to the car, and opened the passenger door. She looked at him and then at the seat and made a small deliberate effort to get in gracefully, which he tactfully pretended to observe nothing about. When she reached for the seatbelt and the buckle evaded her twice, he leaned across, took it from her hands, and clicked it into place himself. His face was approximately six inches from hers in the process.

She looked well. That was the problem. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and the drinks, her lipstick mostly faded, a few strands of hair falling across her forehead. She looked soft. Happy-drunk, not sloppy. Which was its own kind of torture.

"Tell me your address."

She gave him the address in pieces, losing it twice before getting the cross street right.

He pulled out into the road.

Twelve seconds of silence.

"Where are we going?" she said.

He exhaled through his nose, which was the closest he'd come to laughing in weeks. "Your apartment."

"Oh." A beat. "Right. Yeah."

He drove carefully. He didn't usually — on his own, the car was the one place no one was watching and the roads in the Capitol at 2AM were empty and long, and he drove the way he did most things when no one could see: without restraint. But with her buckled in beside him he kept both hands on the wheel and the speed reasonable and took the turns smooth, none of the sharp decisive cuts he usually took through the Corso.

She didn't seem to notice, her cheek dropping against the headrest as she watched the Capitol lights smear by through the window. Gold and neon. He'd driven this route a thousand times and never looked at it. She was looking at it like it was beautiful.

"Coriolanus?

"Yes?"

"What if I don't want to go to my apartment?"

He hesitated. "Then you can tell me that."

She turned her head on the headrest to look at him. He could feel it. Kept his gaze forward.

"I want to go to yours," she said.

He said nothing.

"Coriolanus."

"I heard you."

"Then—"

"No."

She was quiet. He felt her shift in the seat, resettling, and he made the mistake of glancing over. She was looking at him with those eyes — wide and soft and slightly glassy from the drinks — and the expression on her face was not the face of someone asking a casual question. It was the face of someone asking something they'd been not-asking for a long time.

He looked back at the road.

"You've wanted to for months," she said. "I know you have. And I—" she stopped. "I want to. I really want to, Coriolanus."

"I know," he said. Evenly. With great effort.

"So why—"

"Because you're drunk."

"I'm not that drunk—"

"You are." The light changed. He drove. "And we're not doing this."

"We were doing it fine for—"

"That was different."

"How?"

He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "Because now you're drunk and I'm stone cold sober and the answer is no."

She was quiet for a moment. Thinking, he could feel it. Then:

"Come on," she said, and her voice had dropped into something lower, something deliberate, and he felt her hand settle on his forearm where it rested on the gear shift. Light. Warm. "Don't you want to?"

"Take your hand off my arm."

She didn't. She traced one finger along the inside of his wrist instead, barely anything, and he was suddenly aware of every individual nerve ending in his left arm.

"Please," she murmured. "It's not complicated, you just—"

"I said no." Firm. Final. He kept his voice even. "And if you do that again I'll pull over."

She withdrew her hand. Sat back.

He turned onto the Corso, the familiar stretch of it, the lights of the mansions bleeding gold across the road. "Go to sleep."

"I don't want to go to sleep, I want—"

"I know what you want."

She went quiet at that. Something in his tone, probably. He hadn't meant it to come out like that — too tight, too much in it. He pressed his teeth together.

"Are you angry at me?" she said quietly.

Shit. "No."

"You sound—"

"I'm not angry." He glanced at her. She was watching him with something gone uncertain in her face, the confidence of a moment ago folded back, and she looked suddenly younger, softer. A little worried. "I promise."

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." She pulled at the hem of her dress absently. "I just— I thought maybe— I mean you're so—" she stopped, and laughed at herself a little, embarrassed. "God. Sorry. I know this is weird. It's weird, right? We're so weird right now. We're in a weird place and I just— I saw you and I—" she pressed a hand briefly over her eyes. "You're just very big and gorgeous and I've wanted to for so long and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have— I don't want you to be uncomfortable, I'm being mean—"

His voice came out gentler than he intended. "Stop apologizing."

"I just—"

"I'm not uncomfortable," he said. "I'm not angry. I'm not— " he paused, choosing. "I just don't want you to wake up uncertain about it. Something you have to piece back together the next morning and decide whether you regret."

Silence.

"I wouldn't regret it," she said, quieter now.

"Maybe not. But I wouldn't know that, would I?" He turned onto her street. "And I'd like to know."

He could feel her looking at him again. He didn't look back.

"Okay," she acquiesced softly.

When he looked at her she was smiling at something outside the window again.

He finally parked on the street outside her building, and came around to her side before she'd fully negotiated with the door handle. She took his hand getting out and then didn't quite let go of it, which he allowed.

She made it across the pavement fine. It was the stairs that presented the problem.

There were only six of them, leading up to the building entrance, but somewhere between the third and fourth her heel caught the lip of the step and she lurched forward with a small sound of surprise and he caught her from behind without thinking — arms around her, her back against his chest, her weight light and sudden in his hands.

"Oh," she said.

"Mm," he said.

She turned in his arms to look up at him, their faces close in the lamplight, and for a moment neither of them moved. He was very aware of his hands at her waist. She was very aware of everything, by the look on her face.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Can you walk?"

"Probably."

"Probably," he repeated. He looked at the remaining stairs. Then he bent slightly, tucked one arm behind her knees, and lifted her. If she had any protests, she didn't voice them, letting her head drop to the crook of his neck.

He carried her up the remaining stairs without particular effort and set her down at the top with complete composure, as if this were something he did regularly. "Key."

She stared at him for a second, puzzled.

"To your apartment," he said again.

"Right." She opened her bag. Found it on the third attempt.

Her apartment was dark and warm, the particular specific warmth of a lived-in place. Something came barreling out of the dark with a scrabble of claws on the floor. Fig launched himself from somewhere with absolutely no sense of occasion, skittering on the floorboards in his frantic bid to reach her. She caught him, laughing breathlessly, burying her face briefly in his curls. The dog then transferred his attention to Coriolanus with equal enthusiasm, apparently harboring no grudge about the months of absence. Then the animal transferred itself entirely to him, paws on his knee, looking up with an expression of immediate and unconditional faith.

Coriolanus looked down at him.

The dog looked up at him.

He crouched and allowed it.

He crouched, because apparently that was happening, and let it sniff his hand and then his face when it decided to go further than invited. Its paws on his shoulders were slightly damp. It smelled like biscuits.

"He likes you," she noted, from where she was tugging off her shoes.

"He likes everyone."

"He really doesn't, actually." She stood, slightly wobbly, and padded toward her bedroom. "Fig hated my last boyfriend. Barked every time he came over."

"Good instincts."

She laughed from the other room.

He found a glass in the kitchen, filled it with water, found another and left both on her nightstand. She was sitting on the edge of her bed looking approximately forty percent asleep, her coat already discarded somewhere in the hallway. He picked it up on his way in and hung it over the chair in the corner.

"Here." He handed her the water.

She drank, obedient, looking up at him over the rim of the glass with those sleepy, soft eyes. The room was dim. One small lamp. She looked— he didn't finish the thought.

"Thank you," she mumbled sleepily, suddenly leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around him loosely.

He hesitated, but cupped the back of her head and rested a gentle hand on her shoulderblades, just for a second. Her embrace brought in the cold air and the faint smell of something floral and sweet — her perfume mixed with whatever she'd been drinking.

"Lie down," he said.

She did, rolling sideways, and he pulled the blanket up over her with perhaps more care than was strictly necessary.

"Sleep," he murmured.

Mm." Her eyes were already closing. Fig circled three times at the foot of the bed and settled against her legs. "Coriolanus."

"What?"

She sighed, paused long enough that he thought she'd gone under.

"Don't go yet."

He stood there for a moment longer than he needed to.

The lamp made everything warm. She looked— she was—

He looked at her and the thing in his chest that he'd been pressing down for months sat there quietly, waiting to be named, and he refused. He refused, and he turned off the lamp, and he stood in the doorway for exactly one second.

Then he let himself out.

He sat in his car for eleven minutes.

He knew because he watched the clock without meaning to, the numbers cycling in the corner of his vision while he sat with his hands loose on the wheel and the engine off and the city doing its indifferent, glittering thing around him.

She'd asked him to stay. She'd asked him to come home with her in the car and he'd said no, and she'd apologized, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, you're just so— and she'd looked at him with those drunk-honest eyes and he had stayed firm and unmoved and driven her home and carried her up the stairs and pulled her blanket up and it had been the right thing, it had absolutely been the right thing.

He started the engine and drove home through the gold-lit empty streets.

Did not sleep.

He went home, poured two fingers of something he didn't taste, sat at his desk with the trade proposal still open in front of him, and watched the city lighten incrementally from black to grey to the pale, reluctant gold of early Capitol morning.

At 5:30 he changed and went out.

He ran the Corso route. Six kilometers, the same circuit he'd run since coming home from his Peacekeeper days when his body had gotten used to the exertion. The city was quiet at this hour, just his security detail, the street cleaners and the early delivery vans and the occasional dog walker. He ran hard, fast enough to make his lungs work for it, and it helped him shut off his mind for at least forty minutes.

He'd been on a poster on this street. The infrastructure one. He passed the spot without meaning to — the column where it had been plastered, replaced now with something about the Spring Civic Festival — and his pace faltered for half a stride before he corrected it.

She'd rolled her eyes at it, probably, she hated his campaign. Told her friends she wasn't voting for him.

Then called him at 1AM because her friends were all with guys and the drinks were expensive and she wanted him specifically, for some cruel reason, to come get her.

He ran harder.

The gym was in the lower level of his building, private, nobody in it at this hour. He went through the routine mechanically — weights, then the bag, then weights again until his arms ached in that productive, emptying way. He was good at this. Discipline. Routine. Giving the body a problem it could actually solve.

He was not good at the other thing. The thing where someone tucked their head against his neck in a dimly lit hallway and said don't go yet and he stood there wanting to stay more than he'd wanted anything in recent memory.

He hit the bag.

She'd only reached out because she was drunk. That was the part he kept returning to, the part that sat worst. Sober, she kept the distance. Sober, she was careful, managed, aware of everything between them. It was only when her defenses went down that she reached for him. Which meant that reaching for him was something she was actively, consciously choosing not to do.

He couldn't blame her. He'd given her reasons.

He hit the bag again.

He thought about her waking up. Right about now, probably — the particular grey of early morning coming through her curtains, Fig shifting at the foot of the bed, that slow reluctant return to consciousness. He thought about the moment she'd piece it together. The shoes by the door. The water glasses. The blanket tucked. His name in her recent calls.

He wondered what she'd do with it. Whether she'd text. Whether she'd pretend it hadn't happened.

Probably the latter.

He wrapped his hands, started again.

He hadn't meant to come inside the bar either. He'd meant to wait outside, and then he'd pulled up and thought about her sitting alone on the street in a dress in the cold and had gotten out of the car instead.

He hadn't meant for any of it, if he was honest. Not the months of her. Not what she'd become in them. Not the fact that he'd sat outside her building for eleven minutes like some— like some—

He stopped.

Stood with his hands against the bag, breathing.

The gym was quiet. His reflection in the mirror across the room looked back at him, shirt dark with sweat, jaw set, and said nothing helpful.

He showered. Changed. Went back upstairs.

His phone was on the kitchen counter where he'd left it. He looked at it the way he looked at things he wasn't going to touch and then made coffee and stood at the window and watched the Capitol do its morning thing, all pale gold and pigeons and the distant sound of the city waking up.

He picked up the phone.

One notification. Her name.

He looked at it for a moment. Put the coffee down.

Opened it.

hi :) sorry for calling so late you really didn't have to come all the way out but i'm very glad you did

thank you for being very gentlemanly about everything lol. and fig thanks you too probably

are you busy this morning? do you want to get breakfast?

He read it twice.

Then a third time.

She'd woken up and pieced it together and her first instinct had been — this. An open door. Are you busy this morning. Like it was simple. Like she was choosing, clear-eyed and sober, in the morning light, to reach toward him.

The thing in his chest that he'd been refusing to name did something he was going to have to deal with eventually.

He typed back before he could think about it too hard.

I'm not busy.

Where do you want to go?

[lexamiele]

Long Way Home

Blaise Zabini x reader

Word count: approx. 4k

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

[redeemingvillains]

🗣️🗣️🗣️ THIS. THIS RIGHT HERE IS HOW YOU WRITE ACTUAL HOCKEY FANFICTION!!!! i expected nothing less from you lexi but i am soaring!!!!!!!!!!!! gawd am i exhausted of reading about hockey from people who don’t know what they’re talking about. you are god’s gift to this fandom. you captured the boys, the lingo, the vibes perfectly 🤌🏼

nobody talk to me until you’ve read this ✋🏼

PS: kindly begging for more??? a series??? 👀👀

[lexamiele]

Veeeee 😭🥰 you’re the sweetest ever, thank you!! The vibes on the hockey bus are truly impeccable and I had to put in the work to do them justice. So happy to have your endorsement as a fellow hockey girlie 🫶

(A series may be in order 🤭)

[redeemingvillains]

hockey bus vibes are unmatched and i love that we’ve both experienced this very niche delicious thing 😋 you making this into a series is the definition of christmas in july 😍

[redeemingvillains]

the hit list - mattheo riddle

been through some bad shit, i should be a sad bitch. —— who would've thought it'd turn me to a savage?

summary: 'girls come and go, but boys are forever?' mkay. we'll see about that. word count: 2.5k soundtrack: sorry not sorry - demi lovato author's note: @puddlesoffrogs thinks this reader is toxic. i personally think her actions are completely reasonable 🙂‍↕️

The words spilled from Mattheo’s mouth like poison, and three things happened immediately.

First, you couldn’t remember how to breath; the single thing your body was designed to do automatically was suddenly broken.

Next, you felt a scream, a cry in your throat ripping through you, gaining momentum as it pinged off every place you felt pain, which was everywhere.

And third, you felt the molten hot touch of anger, of rage, of shame for being hopelessly, soul-crushingly in love with him when he could turn around and say, “You’re great, I’m just… not feeling it. It’s about to be summer, you know? Better to let us have our own fun.”

As if this somehow benefited you too.

As if he wasn’t crumbling the very walls of the world around you as he confirmed what you’d always feared: the two of you were grossly mismatched. He was the prince of the school, he was smirked lips, a cigarette between his fingers, ice cold stares and hands that ran hot over your body. He was stolen glances and whispered promises, lies you now realized.

"You’re fucking perfect."

"You’re all I can think about."

Though never those three big words. And by the grace of Salazar you’d held them in too, even though you felt them, and would have sold them to him for a kiss and a prayer.

And you?

You were lovely in your own right, relatively popular, but it was no secret that you and Mattheo had caught everyone by surprise. You had been cautious, careful, wary at first but logic and reason soon gave way to desire, too content with his attention and the way his lips captured yours, the way he’d hold your chin in place, captivating you, to think through the consequences.

So you came to define yourself by him. Who were you? Riddle’s girl. A Slytherin, a libra, sure, but you were first and foremost Riddle’s girl.

Until you weren’t.

People walking by eyed your conversation with low whispers as they passed and Mattheo took a quick drag of his dwindling cigarette before dropping it to the floor and crushing it, like your heart.

You still couldn’t find your breath and you still couldn’t find your words and the world began to blur behind fat tears you didn’t want him to see, so you held your head high, pushed past him, and walked away.

If you’d learned anything in your time as his girlfriend, in the year spent with his group of friends, it was the art of hiding your emotions behind an implacable facade.

Mattheo stuck his tongue into his cheek, his eyes narrowing at your reaction, as he watched you walk away from him, forgetting that there were several other things they had taught you as well.

Anger.

How to hold a grudge.

And revenge.

You stumbled into your room, slamming the door behind you and wiped furiously at the tears that refused to stop pouring, hiccupping as you fought against your body’s every desire to break down.

You were taking gasping breaths, trying to find your air as you paced back and forth, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a whirlpool of painful memories, trying to dissect what had ever been true and what had been a lie and failing miserably.

Then, a particular memory appeared like a spell.

Enzo breaking up with some girl last year, her running from the Great Hall, the way her cries echoed off the stone walls as he nonchalantly grabbed a roll and stuffed it in his face. Your eyebrow quirked; were they really all so heartless? "Better to cut if off now," he said, emotionless. "She was far too into me. I mean, do I look like I’m settling any time soon?" He'd laughed. The guys had laughed along with him. You rolled your eyes. "Girls come and go," Theo agreed, "But boys are forever" he smirked, raising his glass as they all shared a toast. Mattheo had at least had the decency to press a kiss to your cheek, which made you think you were somehow exempt, above their rule of law and the loyalty that held them together.

You stopped pacing and slumped into your chair as you stared out the window, tears drying as you watched the late spring sun settle into the highlands.

Slowly, ever so slowly as you watched it disappear, setting the world in an unforgiving darkness, your agony gave way to something new, something iron hot.

You stood, grabbed your quill, and ripped a piece of parchment haphazardly as you steadied yourself enough to write with such force you nearly tore through the page.

1. Blaise 2. Draco 3. Lorenzo 4. Theo

A slow smile crested your lips.

Mattheo was well practiced in exuding indifference. But he’d be lying if he said your reaction didn’t bother him.

He thought he was ready to let it go, to get on with his summer, to get the fuck out of Hogwarts and get into some proper debauchery with his friends. But he’d been with you longer than anyone else and as such he’d been steeling himself for you to scream, to cry, to fight back, to call him names, to hex him, to beg him to stay. But he got nothing. And that left him in a mental pretzel.

He twiddled with his lighter.

He’d already checked and you’d blocked him on every social.

He nudged Blaise. “Give me your phone.”

Blaise side eyed him, ready to argue, before Mattheo plucked it out of his hands.

He opened the first app he could find and searched your name.

Nothing.

“She’s off the grid, mate. Think she deleted everything.”

"Hmpf." He tossed the phone aside and lay his head back on the common room couch.

Two nights later you were home, sitting amongst your trunk and a pile of clothing, unpacking for the summer, when Mattheo texted you.

"Ifcked up. Canwe tkl?"

Drunk.

Your fingers hovered over your phone and you thought about it, really thought about it for several moments, because isn't this exactly what you wanted? To talk? To get him back?

You bit your bottom lip.

No.

What you wanted was never to have had your heart shattered in the first place. What you wanted was for the ache in your chest to dissipate, to go fifteen minutes without crying, to stop replaying every moment of the last year with him on repeat.

What you really, truly wanted was for him to feel a modicum of the pain you felt now.

(1) BLAISE ZABINI.

Blaise was easy.

He was the kindest of the group, the one you were closest to. It almost made you feel bad.

Almost.

He had texted you immediately the day Mattheo had broken up with you to make sure you were okay, and within a week he stopped by your house to check on you. You opened the door, a wobbling pout on your lips.

“Ah, dammit, come here” he’d said, welcoming you into his strong arms.

He was warm from the sun and smelled clean and fresh. You found genuine comfort in his embrace but you pulled back slowly, your cheeks brushing, and you turned your head to press your lips to his before either of you could think about it.

You waited for him to pull back.

He didn’t.

You let it linger, feeling him return the gentle pressure. And then...

“Oh, gods, I’m-I’m so sorry, Blaise. I’m such a mess” you said, pulling back and covering your face with your hands, feigning embarrassment. "Please let’s forget that ever happened."

“Yeah, n-no worries, it’s alright YN” he conceded, a smile on his lips.

(2) DRACO MALFOY.

Draco was going to be harder.

He was shrewd... but he was also soft and it was far too easy to bump into him in the small town not far from his parents' place.

He, too, managed to have compassion for you in his cloudy grey eyes and one drink together at the pub on the corner turned into two, as you gently, easily stroked his ego, and fed him the praise you knew he so desperately adored.

“Surely they’ll make you head boy next year, Draco, there’s no one better suited to it. You’re the smartest, most cunning of our class.” You smiled at him under lidded eyes, moving to adjust his collar, letting your fingers brush his throat where you saw his adam’s apple bob.

You reached onto tiptoes and let your lips slide over his, soft and warm. He squeezed your waist, clearly struggling to decide whether to pull you in or push you away.

You stepped back, enjoying how starstruck he looked as you bit your lip flirtatiously.

“Enjoy your summer, Draco” you said, before sauntering away.

(3) LORENZO BERKSHIRE.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t leaving Enzo as a little treat for yourself.

You planned a girls' night out that just so happened to be at his favorite club in London on the same night that his favorite DJ was playing. What were the odds!?

Then, you bumped into him like it was the purest coincidence on the outskirts of the dancefloor and he forgot not to stare as his jaw dropped and eyes blew wide. He’d never seen you like … this: skin aglow, a carefree smile, flushed cheeks and glossed lips, bright eyes that twinkled when they saw him, and as predicted he was thinking with his dick long before he knew what hit him. You were hot, like hot hot, he’d always thought so but now … now you were broken up, single, right? And you were looking at him like maybe the exact same thing was going through your mind.

It went a little further than you expected.

One minute you were hugging each other, laughing at the coincidence, and within 22 minutes his tongue was down your throat as he lifted you and pressed you into the wall as his hand swirled beneath your dress.

You left that night laughing, dizzy, and buzzed.

(4) THEODORE NOTT.

Theo was always going to be the hardest.

He wasn’t your friend like Blaise, he wasn’t soft like Draco and he wasn’t easy like Lorenzo; he was Mattheo’s best friend and he wasn’t going to fall for your bullshit.

But a year in his presence taught you exactly what made him tick; you knew his likes, his dislikes, his weaknesses, his fantasies, it’s amazing what guys will say after a few too many whiskeys late into the night.

So on a Sunday afternoon at the coffee shop in Little Italy next to the best bakery in town while wearing a dress that screamed summer in Positano that sat high on your thighs, with strappy sandals, a tinted lip and winged eyeliner you knew you had him the second he saw you.

"YN?" He asked. "What are you doing here?"

His voice was accusatory like you had encroached on his space, but he couldn’t hide the way his dark eyes landed on every inch of you, like he wanted to look away but couldn’t.

"I was thinking of you, actually" you admitted sheepishly. "You always talked about this place, I thought I’d tried it and see if the espresso was as good as you said it was..." You paused for dramatic effect, let your eyes fall, your lip quiver. "I can get it to go–"

"–No, no, sit, you can’t drink it out of plastic" he said vehemently, pulling out the seat beside him.

For a few moments it was uncomfortably quiet. You took small sips, set your cup down. The cafe was small, and you were pressed nearly shoulder to shoulder. You mustered your courage and turned to look at him; at this distance you could smell him like cigarettes and cologne, could feel his warmth against you.

"Theo," you started quietly. "For what it's worth, I never believed what Mattheo said about you."

He reared back, confused.

You continued, mirroring his confusion. "You know, that you only get girls because your Italian? And they think it’s exotic and–"

"–He said that?" He muttered, genuine hurt in his voice that you told yourself you'd feel bad about later because that hurt, that vulnerability was all you needed.

You leaned in quick, chaste, pressing your lips to his and then pulling away, even though you felt his fingers lingering on your thigh.

"I said too much, I should go" you muttered, rising to leave before he could stop you.

You waited until you rounded the corner to smile.

Your silence that summer drove Mattheo absolutely crazy.

And for some reason his friends seemed awfully quiet too.

He was actually looking forward to coming back to school, to getting his head on straight.

Until you passed him in the hall.

"YN?" he said before he could stop himself, more of an outward expression than an effort to get your attention, because you looked… great.

“Hi, Mattheo” you said, warm and genuine.

“Have a good summer?" he asked.

“A really great summer, actually! Just busy, full of fun, tried a lot of new things" you swallowed your smiled. "You?"

“Yeah, a bit quiet" he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know, the guys were busy..."

Got him.

"Yeah, Enzo’s trip to Ibiza sounded amazing though" you quipped.

His eyes shot to yours. He didn’t know Enz went to Ibiza.

"And Theo finally getting to see his family on the Med?" you continued, unwavering, "Plus Blaise and Draco seeing Mumford and Sons? I die! About time, don’t you think?"

Mattheo's eyes narrowed. He didn’t know any of that. And if you weren’t even on socials… how did you...?

You could see the gears turning.

“...I didn’t know” he admitted.

“Oh!” you feigned a look of genuine surprise before you pursed your lips innocently. "But Mattheo," you said curiously, stepping towards him, getting right up in his grill as you reached to straighten his tie, "I thought you and your friends were inseparable? What was it? Girls come and go but boys are forever? Or is that that just what you tell yourselves about your loyalty to one another?"

Your eyes met his and burned hot with a fire he could feel coming off of you that made his heart drop into his stomach.

“Perhaps they’re not as loyal to you as you think” you whispered against his ear, before letting go of him with a light shove and brushing past him.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” he shouted after you.

You smirked without turning around.

That night each of the boys sat on their respective four poster beds in amiable silence; on their phones, flipping through the Quidditch Times. Mattheo twirled his lighter in his fingers, faster, faster, faster, stewing as he side-eyed the boy to his left.

If looks could kill, there would be nothing but a pile of ash on Lorenzo Berkshire’s bed, because Mattheo knew it was him who betrayed him. He knew he eye-fucked you constantly, knew he had next to no morals to begin with. His fingers itched for his wand but before he could think better of it he erupted.

“The fuck happened with you and YN?” he said loudly, angrily, like a growl. His hands and eyes stayed on his lighter in an effort not to kill his alleged best friend.

The room quieted to the creak of a single floorboard and the echo of laughter down the hall.

No one so much as breathed.

And then.

“Look—”

“Mate—”

“She!—”

“Amico…”

His head wrenched up to see all four of his friends, eyes wide, staring back and forth at each other, before looking back at him.

Draco was as red as an apple.

Blaise was visibly sweating.

Lorenzo wore a lazy pout, not nearly as upset as he should be.

And Theo looked down at his hands.

The sum total of everyone Mattheo cared about, everyone he trusted was in this room. And as an uncomfortable silence echoed around him he realized with an aching heart that in a single summer he’d not only lost the only girl he’d ever loved, but he lost the loyalty and trust of the only brothers he’d ever known.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco @wybieivy @cipheress-to-k-pop @aur0ral1ghts @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him @mishtay @ccbear5000

[h3artw3ll]

This warmed my maneater heart

[redeemingvillains]

*siri play maneater by nelly furtado* love you for this!

[rubenniall]

this website really is you and your seven mutuals

[redeemingvillains]

only for you - mattheo riddle

summary: mattheo is certain he knows what affection is, until he meets you. word count: 1.4k author's note: just another random drabble 🤷🏼‍♀️

Mattheo Riddle was not starved for touch.

Far from it, actually.

He was intimately familiar with the feeling of a cold palm across his cheek, of the choking jab of a wand at his throat, he even knew the shock of a fist in his stomach; his father had taught him that much.

He also knew the feeling of a broken nose beneath his fist, the echoing ache of a black eye, the distinct burn of a split lip.

But not everything was so dark, he told himself, for he also knew frantic hands that tugged and pulled at buttons and zippers, the scratch of nails down his back, wet, messy, meaningless kisses; affection, surely.

He'd been touched plenty.

So he couldn't fathom why when your hand met his arm, he pulled back.

You'd leaned casually over him at breakfast, steadying yourself against his arm with a gentle touch to reach for the coffee and he'd yanked back so hard you nearly dropped the carafe and toppled off the bench beneath you.

"S-sorry!" you said genuinely, pulling your hand off of him and meeting his gold-flecked brown eyes that looked at you with alarm.

He held his arm close to his chest, protectively, like you'd burned him. Because, in a way, it felt like you had.

Your palm had radiated warmth, a gentle pressure, a rush of sweet serotonin that made his head feel like he'd sucked helium. It was perhaps the only touch he didn't have a framework of understanding for and his brow furrowed in confusion before he turned from you, intent on ignoring the feeling you'd stoked inside of him.

But it was as if his body was seeking you out after that, perhaps craving the unknown and unfamiliar, because suddenly you were everywhere.

He was leaving the quidditch pitch after practice, head down, fumbling with the fabric wrapped shoddily around his swollen fingers, cursing quietly as they twinged when he nearly ran straight into you.

You came up short in front of him, your breath caught in your lungs as you blinked up at him; he noted the tint of blush on your cheeks and the flutter of your long lashes.

Your eyes caught the movement of his hands and with a quick searching glance you slowly reached forward to help.

Your hand came to his large palm and though he didn't intend to, he jerked away again. Not far, but in some sort of automatic reaction to whatever it is that you were.

You paused, your touch lingering until he held his hand forward again and you gently adjusted the wrapping, careful, patient, and unrushed.

He forgot how to breathe.

Your fingertips brushed his palm, delicately danced around his swollen fingers and his pain was long forgotten as he felt something much stronger swelling in his stomach, a blooming, an unfurling, a hurricane of pixies.

You pinned the medical wrap with exceeding care and looked up softly and smiled.

"That should at least get you to the infirmary" you said quietly.

There was his furrowed brow again.

"Thank you..." he said with a lilt at the end, like it was a question, because you were a complete enigma to him.

"You're welcome, Mattheo" you said kindly, and then slid past him without another word.

He turned to watch you go.

You didn't want anything from him, he didn't think. You weren't coming on to him, though he wouldn't have minded it. So what the hell was your deal? He couldn't figure it out.

All he knew is that if that is how the gentlest brush of your fingers on his palm made him feel, he desperately wanted more.

Mattheo found small ways to get close to you after that; conveniently running into you between Potions and Divination, so you'd have a long walk through the castle together.

Then, bumping into you in Tomes and Scrolls after he'd heard you talking about a new book you wanted the previous night at dinner. He had to act like he knew what the hell you were talking about as you eagerly explained the plot; all he knew is that he liked the way you smiled, and liked the way being close to you made him feel; a contact high that he rode the entire afternoon by your side.

When you both returned to the castle, feet shuffling over the cobblestones at the clocktower courtyard you slowed beside him and he turned just in time to catch you as you threw your arms around him, looping them over his shoulders in a hug.

He froze, tense, his hands held out awkwardly on either side of you, unsure of what to do until you nuzzled in closer, your cheek against his and his body folded into you, his automatic defense system dropping and his arms circling you, daring to hold you against him.

He took a breath.

Another.

And he felt your warmth radiating through him in a type of magic he didn't understand but vowed never to stop seeking.

"So, you and YN, huh?" Theo mused as he twirled an unlit cigarette between his fingers that night in the common room.

Mattheo cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You hitting that, orrrr?"

"What?" No!"

He wasn't sure why the insinuation infuriated him, though perhaps it had something to do with the glint in Theo's eye, like he'd thought about it himself.

The spinning stopped and suddenly Mattheo had Theo's full attention.

"Are you... with her?" he asked.

"I — no?" Mattheo answered, confused. Because you weren't together, right? Yet everything with you felt so incredibly intimate, stripping him bare from the inside out. It was more intoxicating than anything he'd felt for or done with anyone before you.

The thought alone made him panic.

Because he realized suddenly he didn't want to share you with anyone else.

On one of those afternoons where the sunset seemed to linger, sending bursts of peach and orange over the oaks and pines as they swayed in the warm breeze Mattheo walked by your side as you admired the wildflowers in the field past the greenhouse. Because, of course that's what you were doing; he didn't even know this field was here, but you saw beauty everywhere, even where he was sure none existed.

He knew he needed to say something; he felt like he had a swarm of bees in his throat that he couldn't swallow as the words danced and garbled in his mouth; he didn't even know where to begin.

"What...—" he tried, his feet stopping as he looked down at them and rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar furrow in his brow returning, scrunching his face in a permanent look of uncertainty you'd grown accustomed to.

"What are we? What is this?" he asked with a hint of exasperation.

You smiled softly and looked up at him in the pink-peach filter of the waning day. His face was both puzzled and pained and you reached up to smooth the ever-present crease in his brow.

He tensed, rigid beneath your touch before relenting, the confusion on his face giving way to compassion, his amber-gold eyes searching yours.

"What do you want this to be?" you asked.

I want you all to myself. I want to feel this way every single day. I want to make you feel the way you make me feel. I want, I want, I want.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Slowly, he reached for you, trying to emulate the way you touched him: reverent, unrushed; not greedy, not hungry, not harsh. He reached to cup your face and let the pad of his thumb brush your cheek, tender and sweet.

He felt pressure like building nausea in his stomach that he knew well enough now to call nerves, and a thumping in his chest he'd learned was care, a tremble in his hand that you taught him was the effort to be gentle and an ache in his bones that he knew was longing and perhaps the beginning of something akin to love.

He leaned forward, pulling you towards him, and he brushed his lips over yours.

Sunshine erupted inside of him.

You forgot how to breathe — a night's-worth of summer fireworks between your ribs.

Your palm came to rest on his cheek but he didn't pull back, and your other hand fisted his shirt but he didn't tense; you laughed against his lips and he laughed back, carefree and weightless and he realized all at once that he was never starved for touch, only for you.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco @wybieivy @cipheress-to-k-pop @aur0ral1ghts @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him @mishtay @ccbear5000 @mooniez

[redeemingvillains]

ahhh lexi thank you so much for your kind words! obsessed with you and your writing so this means everything to me! smooching you!

[scribeherself]

seeing people say "this trope has been done to death" as if that's ever stopped anyone from eating bread. BREAD HAS BEEN DONE TO DEATH FOR LITERALLY THOUSANDS OF YEARS AND WE STILL WANT MORE BREAD. write your chosen one AU. write your coffee shop meet-cute. write your 47th iteration of "there was only one bed" because guess what??? we're still hungry.

[cosimads]

"So, I blow my whistle and the merriment begins!" "Merriment?"

HOUSE OF GUINNESS Season 1, Episode 8

[redeemingvillains]

the one with the amortentia - mattheo riddle

she’s in her silly, soft drabble era ♡ just a little twist on the classic amortentia trope (1kish?)

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

“Alright, I’ll say it,” Draco started, breaking the relative silence amidst the group around the table at breakfast.

“I can’t do it anymore. I refuse to spend another morning choking on my pumpkin juice while the two of them…ogle each other like that. It’s deplorable,” he spluttered as he watched you and Mattheo walking out of the Great Hall, his arm around your shoulders, holding you tightly against him. He leaned into you and pressed a kiss into your hair.

They could hear you giggle softly.

Enzo gagged.

The boys didn’t hate love, far from it. But this? This was something else entirely. Because before you Mattheo was smug smirks and one night stands, careless hookups and relentless flirting. And now? Now he was heart eyes, soft kisses, intertwined hands and sweet whispers, nuzzling noses, pink roses, monogamous. And if that could happen to Mattheo? It could happen to any of them.

Terrifying.

Theo shook his head with his own look of disdain that slowly transformed into an irked confusion.

“It’s like he’s been drugged, like he’s on Amortentia.” He paused, a brief look of shock on his face. “Wait, you don’t think?…” He let the sentiment hang and looked around at his friends.

They all thought for a moment.

Then collectively shook their heads at the notion.

You weren’t that kind of girl. And if they were completely honest with themselves they didn’t blame Mattheo, though they’d never admit it. You were the kind of girl any of them would fall for, too sweet for your own good, with a beautiful smile and a kind heart. No, you didn’t need to drug anyone to make them fall for you.

“Can you imagine him on it, though?” Theo laughed. “I mean, what’s left? Would he stand on the table and serenade her?!”

“He’d probably propose,” Blaise said flatly.

“There would be tears involved—“ Enzo added.

“—Poems. Sonnets,” Draco snickered.

They laughed.

Then, a collective moment of silence ensued as they all imagined the utter humiliation of their lovesick friend. Slowly their thoughts permeated, and it was like small lightbulbs clicked on over each of their heads as they shared sly, mischievous smiles with one another.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Two weeks later you slid into breakfast beside Mattheo, your thigh pressing against his, close enough to feel his radiating warmth, to be wrapped in his scent like vetiver and pine. He looked over to you and smiled so wide his eyes twinkled and a small dimple formed in each cheek.

“Good morning, YN!” Draco said eagerly, pulling you from the moment. You were taken aback at his unusually chipper energy.

“Hi, Draco,” you said, turning to smile across the table at him.

You looked around and realized all of the boys were smiling back at you, which was slightly confusing but ultimately a very welcome change; you knew your presence irked them, they were never subtle about it. So this felt… nice.

“Drink up, mate!” Blaise said, pushing a goblet towards Mattheo. “Got a big game this afternoon, don’t want you dehydrated.” Mattheo snorted but acquiesced, accepting the goblet and taking several gulps before you both busied yourselves with your breakfast.

In a moment you could feel Mattheo’s hand under the table gently squeezing your thigh and you looked over to see him smiling at you, his amber eyes twinkling and his mouth quirked in a perfect grin that you immediately mirrored.

“Hey, I love you,” he whispered and pressed a quick warm kiss to your lips. It lingered with heady pressure and your eyes fluttered closed before they opened again as he gently pulled away.

Theo and Draco were batting each other’s arms in anticipation.

Blaise was holding his breath.

But that was it.

One sincere statement. One chaste kiss. And then the morning continued in relative normality. Sure, you ogled each other, finished each other’s sentences, giggled at each other, blushed. The boys watched the two of you intently like a tennis match back and forth waiting for Mattheo’s impending implosion, his grand, drug-induced outburst. It never came.

“You fucking twat! You got a bad batch,” Theo whisper-yelled to Draco.

“Excuse me who couldn’t be bothered to go get it himself? I assure you it’s the best money can buy,” Draco rebutted.

“Clearly didn’t work…” Blaise muttered under his breath as the three of them continued to argue, each too busy bickering to notice Lorenzo sliding in beside Mattheo, half-asleep, mid-yawn reaching for the wrong goblet and taking a swig. Then another.

He felt his cheeks flush and set the goblet down very very slowly. He let out a deep breath. And then he calmly stood and sauntered down the table next to you, nearly pushing a third year off the bench to make space beside you.

He sat backwards, leaning against the table so he was facing you directly. Closely. Mattheo looked up briefly, clocking his movement.

“Hey,” Enzo said, smoothly running his hand through his hair, tousling it in the effortless way he liked to do to get attention.

“Hi Enzo,” you giggled.

“Fuck I love how my name sounds on your lips” he said, low and sultry.

“What?” You laughed again, your giggle a bit more unstable.

“What the fuck did you just say to her?” Mattheo echoed, the rising edge of his tone finally catching the others’ attention.

But Lorenzo only had eyes for you and your lips… his lidded eyes locked on them as he bit his own like he was indulgently imagining what you tasted like.

“You’re so fucking hot, YN. I’m crazy about you,” he said, breathless.

Mattheo was on his feet. “Berkshire you have two fucking seconds to back the fuck away from her before your face meets the table.”

You looked quickly between Enzo and Mattheo, trying to diffuse the situation.

And now Theo, Draco, and Blaise were paying attention for an entirely different reason.

Blaise reached for Mattheo’s goblet, confirming it was empty. “Enz,” he asked. “Did you drink this??”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”Mattheo snapped, his eyes never leaving Lorenzo whose eyes never left you. He couldn’t look away from you, his cheeks swirling pink with flustered desire. He couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you; you, you, you, your gorgeous hair, your delicious perfume, your laugh, your perfect laugh, your goddamn lips, all of you, right there in front of him this whole time. He had to have you. He reached for you.

And was yanked off his seat and flung to the floor.

“—No no no!!” Theo shouted.

“—Wait!!” Blaise yelled.

They tried to intercede, leaping over table.

“—You don’t fucking touch her!” Mattheo roared as he pinned Lorenzo down.

“Matty!!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

“I love her!!” Enzo shouted valiantly. “She’s everything to me, Riddle you’ll never understand the way I feel!”

Mattheo’s fist flew and Enzo let out a yell as he grabbed his face, blood gushing between his fingers.

“Say that shit again!” Mattheo dared, just as his friends managed to grab ahold of him, barely holding him back.

“ILUFFHER!” Enzo cried, the sentiment muffled in tears beneath his hands and his blood.

Mattheo tried to swing again.

“Mattheo!!” Theo shouted as they held him back. “He’s drugged! He’s on Amortentia!!”

Mattheo’s attention finally snapped to his friends. “What?!”

“We put it in your goblet” Blaise admitted quickly.

“Why the fuck?—“ Mattheo started.

“—Come on,” Draco said, pushing the group towards the door as he nervously eyed the nearby professors.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

All of you sat side by side on a bench outside the infirmary.

Blaise was rubbing his temple.

Draco had his arms crossed as he pouted.

Theo looked down at his hands in his lap.

Mattheo flexed his split knuckle which was slowly mending itself as you held his other hand.

And on the far end of the bench, Lorenzo held a rag to his bleeding nose, staunching the blood there as the side effects of the Amortentia wore off, leaving him confused and very grumpy.

“What doesn’t make sense is that you drank it too, didn’t you?” you asked Mattheo quietly.

“Yeah, I mean I remember feeling warm in my chest, like I wanted to be near you and tell you how I felt,” he said.

A pause.

“Maybe that just means I can’t possibly love you more than I already do?” he concluded, glancing at you with a lopsided, lovesick smile.

Lorenzo gagged.

Draco sighed.

Theo groaned.

And Blaise ran his hands down his face as you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mattheo’s lips with a satisfying smack.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco @wybieivy @cipheress-to-k-pop @aur0ral1ghts @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him @mishtay @ccbear5000 @mooniez @rulosinquietos @yourstargirlyyy @ashgh-diary

[ashghdiaryentries]

“'ILUFFHER!' Enzo cried, the sentiment muffled in tears beneath his hands and his blood." IM FUCKING CRYINGGGG

[redeemingvillains]

hahah the way i can see this so clearly in my head and it has me dying laughing like why aren’t all the sbs confessing their love to me and fighting about it at all times 🥲

[redeemingvillains]

the one with the amortentia - mattheo riddle

she’s in her silly, soft drabble era ♡ just a little twist on the classic amortentia trope (1kish?)

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

“Alright, I’ll say it,” Draco started, breaking the relative silence amidst the group around the table at breakfast.

“I can’t do it anymore. I refuse to spend another morning choking on my pumpkin juice while the two of them…ogle each other like that. It’s deplorable,” he spluttered as he watched you and Mattheo walking out of the Great Hall, his arm around your shoulders, holding you tightly against him. He leaned into you and pressed a kiss into your hair.

They could hear you giggle softly.

Enzo gagged.

The boys didn’t hate love, far from it. But this? This was something else entirely. Because before you Mattheo was smug smirks and one night stands, careless hookups and relentless flirting. And now? Now he was heart eyes, soft kisses, intertwined hands and sweet whispers, nuzzling noses, pink roses, monogamous. And if that could happen to Mattheo? It could happen to any of them.

Terrifying.

Theo shook his head with his own look of disdain that slowly transformed into an irked confusion.

“It’s like he’s been drugged, like he’s on Amortentia.” He paused, a brief look of shock on his face. “Wait, you don’t think?…” He let the sentiment hang and looked around at his friends.

They all thought for a moment.

Then collectively shook their heads at the notion.

You weren’t that kind of girl. And if they were completely honest with themselves they didn’t blame Mattheo, though they’d never admit it. You were the kind of girl any of them would fall for, too sweet for your own good, with a beautiful smile and a kind heart. No, you didn’t need to drug anyone to make them fall for you.

“Can you imagine him on it, though?” Theo laughed. “I mean, what’s left? Would he stand on the table and serenade her?!”

“He’d probably propose,” Blaise said flatly.

“There would be tears involved—“ Enzo added.

“—Poems. Sonnets,” Draco snickered.

They laughed.

Then, a collective moment of silence ensued as they all imagined the utter humiliation of their lovesick friend. Slowly their thoughts permeated, and it was like small lightbulbs clicked on over each of their heads as they shared sly, mischievous smiles with one another.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Two weeks later you slid into breakfast beside Mattheo, your thigh pressing against his, close enough to feel his radiating warmth, to be wrapped in his scent like vetiver and pine. He looked over to you and smiled so wide his eyes twinkled and a small dimple formed in each cheek.

“Good morning, YN!” Draco said eagerly, pulling you from the moment. You were taken aback at his unusually chipper energy.

“Hi, Draco,” you said, turning to smile across the table at him.

You looked around and realized all of the boys were smiling back at you, which was slightly confusing but ultimately a very welcome change; you knew your presence irked them, they were never subtle about it. So this felt… nice.

“Drink up, mate!” Blaise said, pushing a goblet towards Mattheo. “Got a big game this afternoon, don’t want you dehydrated.” Mattheo snorted but acquiesced, accepting the goblet and taking several gulps before you both busied yourselves with your breakfast.

In a moment you could feel Mattheo’s hand under the table gently squeezing your thigh and you looked over to see him smiling at you, his amber eyes twinkling and his mouth quirked in a perfect grin that you immediately mirrored.

“Hey, I love you,” he whispered and pressed a quick warm kiss to your lips. It lingered with heady pressure and your eyes fluttered closed before they opened again as he gently pulled away.

Theo and Draco were batting each other’s arms in anticipation.

Blaise was holding his breath.

But that was it.

One sincere statement. One chaste kiss. And then the morning continued in relative normality. Sure, you ogled each other, finished each other’s sentences, giggled at each other, blushed. The boys watched the two of you intently like a tennis match back and forth waiting for Mattheo’s impending implosion, his grand, drug-induced outburst. It never came.

“You fucking twat! You got a bad batch,” Theo whisper-yelled to Draco.

“Excuse me who couldn’t be bothered to go get it himself? I assure you it’s the best money can buy,” Draco rebutted.

“Clearly didn’t work…” Blaise muttered under his breath as the three of them continued to argue, each too busy bickering to notice Lorenzo sliding in beside Mattheo, half-asleep, mid-yawn reaching for the wrong goblet and taking a swig. Then another.

He felt his cheeks flush and set the goblet down very very slowly. He let out a deep breath. And then he calmly stood and sauntered down the table next to you, nearly pushing a third year off the bench to make space beside you.

He sat backwards, leaning against the table so he was facing you directly. Closely. Mattheo looked up briefly, clocking his movement.

“Hey,” Enzo said, smoothly running his hand through his hair, tousling it in the effortless way he liked to do to get attention.

“Hi Enzo,” you giggled.

“Fuck I love how my name sounds on your lips” he said, low and sultry.

“What?” You laughed again, your giggle a bit more unstable.

“What the fuck did you just say to her?” Mattheo echoed, the rising edge of his tone finally catching the others’ attention.

But Lorenzo only had eyes for you and your lips… his lidded eyes locked on them as he bit his own like he was indulgently imagining what you tasted like.

“You’re so fucking hot, YN. I’m crazy about you,” he said, breathless.

Mattheo was on his feet. “Berkshire you have two fucking seconds to back the fuck away from her before your face meets the table.”

You looked quickly between Enzo and Mattheo, trying to diffuse the situation.

And now Theo, Draco, and Blaise were paying attention for an entirely different reason.

Blaise reached for Mattheo’s goblet, confirming it was empty. “Enz,” he asked. “Did you drink this??”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”Mattheo snapped, his eyes never leaving Lorenzo whose eyes never left you. He couldn’t look away from you, his cheeks swirling pink with flustered desire. He couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you; you, you, you, your gorgeous hair, your delicious perfume, your laugh, your perfect laugh, your goddamn lips, all of you, right there in front of him this whole time. He had to have you. He reached for you.

And was yanked off his seat and flung to the floor.

“—No no no!!” Theo shouted.

“—Wait!!” Blaise yelled.

They tried to intercede, leaping over table.

“—You don’t fucking touch her!” Mattheo roared as he pinned Lorenzo down.

“Matty!!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

“I love her!!” Enzo shouted valiantly. “She’s everything to me, Riddle you’ll never understand the way I feel!”

Mattheo’s fist flew and Enzo let out a yell as he grabbed his face, blood gushing between his fingers.

“Say that shit again!” Mattheo dared, just as his friends managed to grab ahold of him, barely holding him back.

“ILUFFHER!” Enzo cried, the sentiment muffled in tears beneath his hands and his blood.

Mattheo tried to swing again.

“Mattheo!!” Theo shouted as they held him back. “He’s drugged! He’s on Amortentia!!”

Mattheo’s attention finally snapped to his friends. “What?!”

“We put it in your goblet” Blaise admitted quickly.

“Why the fuck?—“ Mattheo started.

“—Come on,” Draco said, pushing the group towards the door as he nervously eyed the nearby professors.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

All of you sat side by side on a bench outside the infirmary.

Blaise was rubbing his temple.

Draco had his arms crossed as he pouted.

Theo looked down at his hands in his lap.

Mattheo flexed his split knuckle which was slowly mending itself as you held his other hand.

And on the far end of the bench, Lorenzo held a rag to his bleeding nose, staunching the blood there as the side effects of the Amortentia wore off, leaving him confused and very grumpy.

“What doesn’t make sense is that you drank it too, didn’t you?” you asked Mattheo quietly.

“Yeah, I mean I remember feeling warm in my chest, like I wanted to be near you and tell you how I felt,” he said.

A pause.

“Maybe that just means I can’t possibly love you more than I already do?” he concluded, glancing at you with a lopsided, lovesick smile.

Lorenzo gagged.

Draco sighed.

Theo groaned.

And Blaise ran his hands down his face as you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mattheo’s lips with a satisfying smack.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco @wybieivy @cipheress-to-k-pop @aur0ral1ghts @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him @mishtay @ccbear5000 @mooniez @rulosinquietos @yourstargirlyyy @ashgh-diary

[lasagna-nuggets]

awwwhh my babies this is so cute <3

[redeemingvillains]

daww thank you angel! ♡

[prythiansprincess]

CRUEL SUMMER | chapter one.

“manchild, why you always come running to me? fuck my life, won't you let an innocent woman be."

word count: 5,066.

summary: at hermione and draco's engagement party, you return to london expecting a calm reunion with friends—only to run into the man you've spent years trying to forget. what starts as sharp banter quickly unravels into buried history, old wounds, and the unsettling realization that some people are harder to outrun than you thought.

author’s note: buckle in babes it's gonna be a wild ride between these two. we're officially landing in greece next chapter and I truly can't wait for all the fun summer wedding romcom vibes 🥥🌴🌺🍍🌸

♫ manchild - sabrina carpenter. nav. chapters. more enzo.

Two Weeks Before the Wedding

Malfoy Manor — Wiltshire, England

The champagne was expensive, the flowers were excessive, and Draco Malfoy somehow looked unbearably smug even at his own engagement party.

Honestly, it was comforting. 

Malfoy Manor practically glowed beneath enchanted chandeliers and floating candles while a string quartet played somewhere near the terrace doors. The entire estate smelled faintly of roses, expensive liquor, and old money, which felt deeply on brand for Draco. 

Hermione had softened the manor considerably over the years. Warm gold accents replaced some of the harsher silver décor while floating fairy lights wound themselves through ivy climbing the stone walls, giving the estate a warmth it never possessed during your Hogwarts years.

It was still unmistakably Malfoy.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Slightly intimidating.

Which, honestly, suited Draco and Hermione perfectly.

You stood near the champagne tower with Ginny watching Draco arguing with a waiter over a canapé presentation like it was a matter of national importance. 

“I can’t believe they’re actually getting married,” Ginny said, sounding genuinely emotional about it. 

You took a slow sip of champagne. “I can. Hermione’s been reorganizing Draco’s life for years. Marriage was just the final hostile takeover.” 

Ginny snorted loudly enough to attract attention from several nearby guests. A passing waiter nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks trying not to laugh.

Hermione appeared beside you moments later looking stunning in dark green silk and deeply exhausted already. There were at least six wedding planners orbiting her at all times these days, which honestly felt excessive considering Hermione Granger could probably organize an international summit with nothing but a clipboard and sheer force of will.

“Why is my fiancé terrorizing the catering staff?” she asked.

“Because they displeased his lordship,” you answered smoothly.

“To be fair,” Hermione said tiredly, “they put fig jam on the wrong side of the cracker.” 

You blinked. “Well, now I’m on his side. Execute them immediately.”

Hermione rolled her eyes while Ginny dissolved into laughter.

The ballroom buzzed with familiar chaos.

Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini were arguing near the fireplace over quidditch statistics neither of them actually cared about. Pansy Parkinson reclined dramatically across a velvet sofa like a queen holding court while Harry and Ron stood nearby wearing identical expressions of patient suffering.

You hadn't realized how easily you'd slipped back into this.

Paris had been beautiful. Exciting. Liberating, even.

But there was something dangerously comforting about slipping back into old friendships. These people knew every embarrassing version of you that had ever existed. They knew the seventeen-year-old who cried over exam results, the twenty-two-year-old who accidentally set an entire flat kitchen on fire attempting to make pasta, and the woman who packed up her life four years ago and left England with a one-way ticket and a bruised heart.

Hermione suddenly stopped walking and turned toward both of you with a suspiciously bright smile.

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“Absolutely not.” 

Ginny groaned.

"See? This is why she's impossible."

"You made the face," you defended.

"What face?"

"The face that means you're about to ask me for something unreasonable."

Hermione looked offended.

"I don't have a face."

"You absolutely have a face."

"It's the same one you made before forcing us to reorganize your entire library because apparently alphabetical order is a lifestyle."

"It is a lifestyle."

"It's a cry for help."

Hermione ignored you beautifully.

"I know magical weddings don't usually have bridesmaids," Hermione began, her voice softer than usual, "but I can't imagine standing at the altar without the two people who have stood beside me through every version of my life."

Her eyes flickered between you and Ginny.

"You’ve been there for the late-night study sessions, the disasters, the heartbreaks, and everything in between. You're not just my best friends—you've been my family for as long as I can remember."

Ginny's hand flew to her mouth.

You felt your own throat tighten.

A watery smile appeared on Hermione's face.

"So, if you'll let me, I'd like the two witches who helped me survive Hogwarts and everything that came after to stand beside me one more time."

Her eyes shone with tears.

"Will you both be my bridesmaids?"

Ginny squealed first before launching herself at Hermione. You laughed and wrapped your arms around both of them a second later, feeling something unexpectedly warm settle in your chest. 

“Of course we will.”

Hermione squeezed you tighter. 

“Thank Godric. Pansy’s been trying to appoint herself maid of honor for three weeks.” 

Across the room, Pansy lifted her champagne flute.

"And I would've done an exceptional job."

“You wanted swans,” Draco said flatly.

“I still want swans.” 

“You wanted black swans.” 

“They’re moodier.” 

The room dissolved into laughter while Draco looked like he regretted every life decision that brought him to this point. 

You smiled into your champagne glass. 

Merlin, you had missed this. 

Not London specifically.

London was grey and crowded and smelled vaguely like wet concrete for most of the year. This felt different. Easier. Familiar in a way that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed gently.

Home wasn't a place anymore.

Home was Hermione stealing control of every situation she entered.

Home was Ginny creating problems for sport.

Back at Hogwarts, it had always been the three of you.

Hermione with her terrifying competence.

Ginny with her reckless mouth.

And you somewhere in the middle trying desperately to keep up.

You remembered late nights in the Ravenclaw dormitories with Hermione sprawled across your bed ranting about Draco Malfoy before she realized she was hopelessly in love with him. Ginny sneaking firewhisky into study sessions and convincing all of you to make catastrophically bad decisions afterward.

The three of you survived exams, heartbreaks, career crises, and one truly horrific shared flat in London after graduation that nearly ended in homicide over labeled sugar quills. 

Then life happened.

Hermione became Hermione Granger, future Minister and general force of nature.

Ginny built a career that somehow suited her perfectly because apparently getting paid to fly around on a broomstick and terrify people was a legitimate profession.

And you...

You left.

At twenty-two, while everyone else was building lives in England, you'd accepted an offer from Maison Celeste, one of the most prestigious magical luxury houses in Europe.

What began as a temporary contract in Paris quickly became something much bigger.

The work was demanding, creative, and occasionally chaotic. You spent your days developing campaigns, overseeing collections, and modernizing one of the most influential magical luxury houses in Europe. Every year seemed to bring another promotion, another opportunity, and another reason to stay.

Somewhere between fashion weeks, product launches, and endless meetings conducted in three different languages, Paris stopped feeling temporary.

It became yours.

You found a tiny apartment overlooking the Seine and slowly filled it with books, plants, and furniture that cost far too much money. You built friendships, dated men whose names your friends still couldn't pronounce properly, and learned that there was something deeply satisfying about creating a life that belonged entirely to you.

For four years, that life had been enough.

Then your boss offered you something impossible to refuse.

Maison Celeste had been planning a London expansion for years, and when the time finally came, there was only one person they trusted to run it.

You.

The promotion came with more responsibility, a significantly larger salary, and an office overlooking the Thames that still felt vaguely ridiculous every time you walked into it.

Coming back to London hadn't been part of your original plan.

Yet the moment you stepped off the train three months ago, something inside you settled.

You missed Paris.

You would probably always miss Paris.

But you had missed this too.

Sunday brunches with Hermione. Ginny showing up unannounced and eating everything in your refrigerator. Harry and Ron arguing over absolutely nothing.

The familiar comfort of people who knew every version of you and loved you anyway.

For the first time in years, your life felt balanced.

You had a career you loved, friends you adored, and a future that belonged entirely to you.

It almost felt too good to be true.

Which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign of the evening.

Ginny linked her arm through yours as the three of you drifted toward the bar where several waiters passed around trays of drinks and tiny desserts that looked too pretty to eat. 

“So,” Ginny began casually.

“No.” 

Ginny blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.” 

“You were about to attempt matchmaking and I’m choosing to spare us both the embarrassment.” 

Hermione appeared beside you again as though summoned by the scent of meddling. 

“You’re not seriously telling me you’re not dating anyone,” Ginny said. 

“I’m not dating anyone.” 

Hermione frowned suspiciously. “That feels like a lie.” 

You accepted another champagne flute from a passing waiter. “Thank you both for your continued confidence in my ability to attract men. Unfortunately, I value my peace and quiet.”

“You’ve been back in London for three months,” Ginny pointed out. “You haven’t gone out with anyone.” 

“Maybe she’s secretly married,” Harry offered from nearby.

Ron looked horrified. “Can people do that?” 

“Yes, Ronald,” Hermione sighed. “People can secretly get married.” 

Ginny turned back toward you with renewed determination. “Harry works with a curse-breaker who’s gorgeous.”

“Fascinating.” 

“He owns a bookstore,” Hermione added.

You gasped softly. “Oh no. Not a bookstore owner. My one weakness.” 

“He’s genuinely lovely,” Ginny insisted.

“I’m sure he is. Unfortunately for him, I’d rather throw myself into the Thames.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You’re exhausting.” 

“I’m selective.”

“You haven’t dated anyone in two years.” 

You smiled into your drink. “Maybe I’m the problem.” 

“Definitely,” said a familiar male voice behind you. “But I actually think it’s your best quality.” 

Every muscle in your body locked up.

No. 

No, no, no.

Absolutely not. 

Of all the people in the room. Of all the disasters the universe could've chosen to inflict upon you tonight.

Him.

Realistically, you had always known this moment was inevitable. Your friend group overlapped far too much for it not to happen eventually.

You had just been hoping for it to happen much, much later.

Preferably years from now.

Ideally sometime next century.

Maybe after one of you had moved to a different continent.

Or been swallowed by a Hungarian Horntail.

You weren't particularly picky.

Slowly, you turned around and found Lorenzo Berkshire standing a few feet away with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of a perfectly tailored black suit. 

His tie hung loose around his neck like he’d already given up pretending to behave tonight and his dark hair fell messily across his forehead in a way that looked artistically effortless. 

He looked older than the last time you’d seen him.

Sharper somehow. 

Still devastatingly handsome in the most irritating way imaginable.

The softness that used to linger around the edges of his features had disappeared over the years, replaced by something more defined. More dangerous. 

Girls used to follow him around Hogwarts like it was the most natural thing in the world. Boys wanted to be him, professors liked him despite themselves, and Enzo carried himself with the kind of effortless confidence that only existed in men who had never once doubted their own charm. 

Unfortunately for him, you had. 

Frequently.

Your hobby throughout sixth year had essentially been reminding Lorenzo Berkshire that he was not, in fact, God's gift to women.

The fact that you'd eventually fallen in love with him felt deeply embarrassing in retrospect.

You watched the exact moment recognition hit him properly.

Recognition crossed his face before he could stop it. The smirk disappeared for the briefest moment, only to return slower this time.

More deliberate.

More dangerous.

"Hello, little raven."

For one horrible moment, your chest squeezed.

The nickname.

Ten years later and the stupid nickname still landed exactly where it wasn't supposed to.

You smiled pleasantly.

"Hello, dickhead."

Theo burst out laughing somewhere across the room.

Ginny made a strangled choking noise beside you that suggested she might've inhaled champagne.

Enzo laughed. 

Actually laughed—a warm, surprised sound that was entirely too pleased with itself.

The noise hit you with the force of an unpleasant memory, dragging you briefly back to late nights in the common room, shared bottles of firewhisky, and his arm draped over the back of your chair while he laughed at something ridiculous Theo had said.

You quickly shoved the memory into a mental bin and set it on fire.

"Merlin," he murmured. "Paris really did a number on you."

You took a sip of champagne.

"Thank you. Therapy and foreign men helped tremendously."

Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes for half a second before the amusement returned.

Then, just as quickly, the amusement returned, smooth and practiced as ever.

"You know," he said conversationally, taking another step closer, "I liked you better when you weren't such a bitch."

You didn't even hesitate.

"I'm sure you did."

His grin widened.

You smiled sweetly.

"She was easier to get into bed."

The silence that followed was immediate and razor-sharp.

Theo promptly choked on his drink.

Blaise muttered, "Holy shit," under his breath.

Pansy looked openly delighted by the unfolding disaster, and somewhere across the ballroom, Draco lowered his champagne glass with the unmistakable expression of a man who had no intention of missing what happened next.

And Enzo— 

Enzo froze. 

The reaction lasted less than a second. His smile never slipped, and his posture remained loose and relaxed, as though your words hadn’t affected him at all.

But you saw it.

You’d spent years memorizing Lorenzo Berkshire without ever meaning to. You knew the tiny tells he thought nobody noticed.

The hit landed.

Just enough to crack the polished composure he wore so effortlessly.

Something ugly and petty inside you felt satisfied.

Good.

You hoped it hurt.

Not out of lingering anger, not in any way that made sense after all this time, but because ten years ago he had walked away from the wreckage while you had been left standing in the aftermath, holding every broken piece.

And seeing even the faintest crack in that carefully maintained composure felt, against your better judgment, deeply satisfying.

You took another slow sip of champagne while holding his gaze.

The thing about Lorenzo Berkshire was that everyone assumed he was impossible to embarrass. Nothing ever seemed to stick to him. A bad joke, a rejection, a room full of people turning against him—he always recovered with another smile, another quip, another effortless display of charm.

But years ago, you had discovered the flaw in that carefully polished confidence.

Enzo didn’t handle indifference well.

Everyone else gave him something—laughter, attention, irritation, affection. You were the exception. The one who didn’t always laugh. The one who walked away first. The one who refused to play along.

Most people never noticed the tiny cracks that followed: the fraction of a pause, the sharpened look, the brief slip in his composure before he smoothed it over.

You did.

And you knew exactly what it meant.

Enzo hated being dismissed.

Especially by you.

“Well,” Hermione said weakly into the silence. “I’m going to go make sure Draco hasn’t declared war on the waitstaff.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ginny said at once.

Cowards.

Within seconds they disappeared into the crowd, abandoning you to your fate.

You watched them go before letting out a quiet sigh and turning back toward the single most annoying man in England.

Unfortunately, Enzo appeared entirely unbothered by the fact that you'd just publicly humiliated him. If anything, he looked entertained, as though the exchange had gone exactly the way he'd hoped it would.

Enzo watched you carefully for a moment before speaking again. 

“You disappeared.” 

The words caught you off guard—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. There was no teasing edge to his voice, no flirtation lurking beneath the surface. For once, it sounded like a simple observation, and somehow that made it harder to dismiss. 

You tilted your head. 

“Aw. Did you miss me, Berkshire? How cute.” 

"Cute?" he repeated.

Amusement flickered across his face.

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart."

You smiled sweetly.

"And there he is."

His eyebrow lifted.

"I was wondering how long it would take for the asshole to emerge."

His grin widened immediately.

That was the irritating thing about Lorenzo. Most people got offended when insulted. Most people developed better self-preservation instincts. 

Lorenzo Berkshire looked personally delighted every single time you verbally assaulted him.

"You've changed."

"So have you."

"Hopefully not as much."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"From where I'm standing, you're still impossibly full of yourself."

His eyes sparkled with amusement, and you instantly regretted giving him the reaction.

God, you hated when he looked at you like that.

Like every conversation between the two of you was a private joke only he understood.

"You know," he said, still smiling, "you used to smile when you saw me."

You stared at him for a beat.

"That was before I knew better."

The bastard laughed again, loud enough that several nearby guests glanced over. Across the room, Theo looked positively delighted by the exchange.

"You’re meaner now."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I haven't decided yet."

Something in his tone made your pulse give one traitorous little stutter.

Irritating.

Deeply irritating.

He shifted a little closer, not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that you caught the familiar scent of expensive cologne mixed with whiskey.

Your stomach, unfortunately, betrayed you.

For one brief horrible second, a memory tried to surface.

Sixth year.

Sunlight spilled through the Charms classroom windows while Enzo sat beside you, completely ignoring the lesson. There had been ink smudged across his fingers, a folded note appearing on your parchment when the professor wasn't looking, and his knee pressed casually against yours beneath the desk.

Then his laugh.

Soft. Close.

Yours, once.

You shoved the memory away immediately.

The past could stay exactly where it belonged—dead and buried.

Preferably set on fire.

“You’re staring,” you informed him coolly.

“I’ve decided I like it.” 

You blinked once. 

Enzo seemed absurdly pleased by that microscopic reaction. 

“You’ve always been a little intimidating,” he continued lazily. “You’re just not pretending otherwise anymore. Bit terrifying, honestly.”

You folded your arms and fixed him with a look.

"I'm not intimidating."

His laughter came instantly, low and entirely too amused.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Your eye twitched.

“That’s the most insulting thing you’ve said all night.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Enzo replied, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Then you’re even worse at compliments than I remember.”

He placed a hand dramatically against his chest.

“Impossible.”

You pointed at him.

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What?” he asked, all practiced innocence.

“The arrogance.”

“It’s confidence.”

“It’s insufferable.”

His grin only widened, as though proving your point was the highlight of his evening.

"Yet here you are."

“Maybe I enjoy danger.”

“No,” you said thoughtfully. “I think you enjoy being irritating.” 

“Only for you, love.” 

The words settled between you, light and careless and entirely too familiar.

For a brief moment, something strange flickered through your chest—a feeling you refused to examine too closely.

Then Enzo ruined it immediately by glancing toward your martini.

“Third one tonight?” 

You stared at him. 

“Are you counting my drinks?” 

“I’m observant.” 

“You’re intrusive.”

“You still hate olives.” 

Your eyes narrowed immediately. 

“Why do you remember that?” 

His expression remained infuriatingly casual. 

“Because you always used to pick them out of your salad and hide them in your napkin like a child.” 

“That was ten years ago.” 

“And?” 

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. 

You hated that he remembered the little things. 

Worse, your own traitorous memory immediately answered with a dozen details you'd never managed to forget about him either.

The way he leaned back in his chair during Charms with his wand spinning lazily between his fingers, the stupid grin he wore whenever he answered questions correctly, and the sound of his laugh late at night in the common room after one too many drinks. 

You remembered that he preferred mint chocolate, the faint scar beneath his jaw, and the way he always cracked his knuckles before Quidditch matches as though it were some strange pre-game ritual. 

Falling for an older boy with too much charm and nowhere near enough emotional intelligence had felt very glamorous at sixteen.

At twenty-six, it mostly felt embarrassing.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” Enzo said softly.

You blinked. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re debating murder.”

You smiled. 

“Maybe I am.” 

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again, and there it was.

That look.

The one that used to make your heart stutter when you were sixteen and stupid enough to romanticize emotionally unavailable boys.

Only now it felt different. There was something darker beneath it, something hungrier and far less careless than you remembered.

It wasn't the familiar glance of someone revisiting an old memory.

It felt as though he was seeing you.

Not the girl he'd known at Hogwarts. Not the version of you he'd left behind ten years ago.

You.

The realization settled uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

“Try not to ruin the engagement party by throwing me off the balcony, sweetheart.” 

You held his gaze just long enough to make him think he’d won.

Then you stepped smoothly around him.

"Go to hell, Berkshire."

His laugh followed you across the ballroom, warm and familiar in a way that felt far more dangerous than it should have. The sound lingered behind you, entirely too pleased with itself, and annoyingly difficult to ignore. 

You spent the next hour aggressively avoiding Lorenzo Berkshire.

Unfortunately, Lorenzo Berkshire appeared to view avoidance as a personal challenge.

No matter where you drifted in the ballroom, he always seemed to be somewhere nearby. Every time you glanced up, you spotted him again—talking to Draco near the bar, standing with Theo by the dance floor, or leaning casually against a doorway looking entirely too comfortable in his own skin.

It was infuriating.

At one point, you caught him watching you from across the room while Blaise was in the middle of saying something to him. Enzo didn't even pretend to be paying attention. His gaze remained fixed on you, and when your eyes met, he made no effort to look away.

The audacity.

Your stomach gave an unwelcome little twist, and you immediately looked elsewhere, pretending to be far more interested in the decorations than the man currently watching you from across the room.

"He's staring again."

You nearly jumped.

Pansy had appeared beside you without warning, champagne flute in hand and wearing the expression of a woman who had just discovered her favorite television show was getting another season.

"Who?"

Pansy gave you a long, unimpressed look.

"The fact that you're asking that question is honestly insulting to both of us."

You sighed heavily.

"Pansy."

"No, seriously." She took a sip of champagne, eyes still fixed somewhere over your shoulder. "Has he always looked at you like that?"

Determined not to give her the satisfaction, you refused to turn around.

"Like what?"

"Like he's considering devouring you whole."

You promptly choked on your drink.

Pansy nodded with alarming seriousness.

"Good. So it's not just me."

"You're insane."

"Probably."

She tilted her head thoughtfully, as though genuinely considering it.

"Still though—"

"No."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were going to."

A slow smile spread across her face.

"I really was."

You rubbed a hand over your forehead.

Merlin.

Four years in Paris and somehow these people had remained exactly the same.

"You know what your problem is?" Pansy asked.

"I have several. You'll need to be more specific."

"You still react to him."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Not a polite chuckle. An actual laugh.

Mostly because the alternative was admitting she wasn't entirely wrong.

"I assure you," you said dryly, "the only thing I feel toward Lorenzo Berkshire is irritation."

Pansy's gaze drifted over your shoulder.

"Oh."

The single syllable suddenly filled you with dread.

You already knew what you were going to find before you turned around.

Slowly, and with all the enthusiasm of someone approaching their own execution, you glanced over your shoulder.

Enzo was standing directly behind you, looking entirely too pleased with himself, like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

Because apparently the universe had a personal vendetta against your peace.

"What are we talking about?"

Pansy’s smile widened at once, far too entertained for someone who had just helped ruin your day.

You, meanwhile, were briefly considering several creative forms of violence.

"Nothing."

"Interesting."

The corner of his mouth twitched, amusement settling in like it belonged there.

"Because it sounded suspiciously like my name."

Pansy made a delighted little noise and conveniently decided this was no longer her problem.

"Good luck," she said cheerfully before slipping away into the crowd without a shred of guilt.

The second Pansy disappeared into the crowd, silence settled between you.

It wasn't awkward exactly, which somehow made it worse. The string quartet continued playing near the terrace, their music weaving through the steady hum of conversation and laughter that filled the ballroom. Around you, the party carried on as though nothing had happened, while you found yourself standing there with Enzo, painfully aware of his presence.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then his gaze dropped to the champagne glass in your hand.

"Fourth."

You stared at him.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

His grin appeared immediately.

"You switched from martinis."

"You can't possibly be tracking my alcohol consumption."

"I absolutely am."

"Why?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Something shifted in his expression. It was subtle—so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed—but you did. You always had.

His answer came a beat too late.

"Professional curiosity."

You narrowed your eyes.

"That's not a thing."

A hint of amusement flickered across his face.

"It is if I decide it is."

"Piss off, Berkshire."

His laugh followed you as you walked away for the second time that evening.

You hated that the sound still did strange things to your chest.

Much later, after dinner had been served and speeches had begun, Enzo stood near the balcony doors nursing a glass of whiskey while the ballroom glowed gold around him. Music drifted through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter from every corner of the room.

He barely noticed any of it.

His attention kept returning to you.

Across the ballroom, surrounded by Hermione, Ginny, and Pansy, you were laughing at something one of them had said, smiling in a way he hadn't seen in years. The sight made something in his chest tighten.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years.

And somehow seeing you again felt exactly like getting hit by a Bludger.

He'd spent years convincing himself he was over it. The lie had been easier to believe when you lived in another country. Paris had made avoidance simple. You were out of sight, out of reach, safely untouchable.

Then Draco had casually mentioned that you'd be attending the engagement party.

Enzo had spent the entire week pretending that information hadn't completely derailed him.

It hadn't worked. Not even slightly.

The problem was that you hadn’t really changed at all.

You were sharper now, more confident, more self-assured. Paris had polished some of your edges and strengthened others, but underneath it all, you were still you.

Funny.

Impossible.

Still the only woman who had ever looked at him and seemed entirely unimpressed by the fact that he was Lorenzo Berkshire.

His grip tightened slightly around his whiskey glass.

Across the room, you tipped your head back laughing at something Ginny said, and for a moment he found himself staring.

Beautiful.

Untouchable.

Different.

And somehow exactly the same.

You were a far cry from the girl he remembered, though not because you'd become quieter. You had never been quiet. Even then, you'd been sharp-tongued beneath the softness, funny in ways that constantly caught him off guard, clever enough to cut straight through his ego whenever you felt like it.

Back then there had been warmth too.

You used to look at him like you trusted him.

Like he was safe.

That was gone now.

And somehow that was worse.

Because anger he could handle. Hatred he understood. Even indifference would've been survivable.

But the disappointment he saw every time you looked at him?

That was the one thing he'd never figured out how to live with.

Theo appeared beside him carrying two glasses of whiskey.

"You look tragic."

Enzo didn't bother looking away from you.

"Go away."

Theo followed his gaze and knowingly grinned.

"Oh."

"Don't."

Across the ballroom, you smiled at something Hermione said, and his chest tightened all over again.

Theo watched him for a moment before some of the amusement faded from his expression.

"Have you ever considered talking to her?"

Enzo let out a short, humorless laugh.

"About what?"

Theo raised an eyebrow.

Enzo looked back toward you.

Toward the woman he'd spent ten years trying—and failing—to forget.

The woman who still occupied far more space in his head than was remotely healthy.

The woman who currently looked ready to hex him into another dimension every time he opened his mouth.

His jaw tightened.

Theo grinned.

"This wedding is going to be an absolute shit show."

Enzo drained the rest of his whiskey in one burning swallow.

Across the room, as though sensing his attention, your eyes lifted unexpectedly and found his.

For a moment, the noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into the background. Neither of you looked away. The distance between you remained crowded with people, laughter, and music, yet the connection felt strangely direct.

Then Ginny said something that made you smile, pulling your attention back to the conversation around you.

Your gaze slipped from his first.

The loss of it settled over him immediately.

Enzo looked down at the empty glass in his hand and exhaled slowly.

It was amazing how quickly ten years had disappeared.

One conversation.

One smile.

One look.

And suddenly he felt seventeen again.

Fuck.

🐚TAGLIST

@puddlesoffrogs @redeemingvillains @lucyysthings @flowersarcute @hockeyismylife5 @certisdoesthings @pagesangels @scatteredstardustt @hxnnybxn @littleoceanss @mrrayjay @r0zu0 @ruthie31e @zephinirr

[redeemingvillains]

i was equal parts excited and terrified to read this i’m not going to lie to you because girl you actually have me soo emotionally invested like i went through this breakup with the LOML euuughhh. okay.

what makes a fic god tier to me is the richness of its side plot and characters and you are delivering in heaps. i love the trio of reader ginny and hermionie like hellooo? BADDIES! i love their banter and friendship.

ALSO not you lowkey giving me a lorenzo berkshire x emily in paris crossover i am squealing this is the daydream i never knew i wanted??? stop making me love this even more i am soooo emotionally fragile like 🥲🥲🥲

i heard a record scratch audibly when he called me a bitch because i’m sorry ahwhaaat????

but reader clapped back so hard i didn’t stay mad long. 🗣️make him cry! make him cry!!

their banter was flawless. don’t think i breathed once while reading it.

THE POV SWITCH! the gasp i gusped. he’s soooo down bad likeeeee ahhhahaa please i need him on his hands and knees begging and pleading i need them back together more than i need oxygen you have me in such a chokehold babe.

in conclusion: bags are packed and i’m ready to get my coochie on this plane to greece!

[redeemingvillains]

me reading a ballad of songbirds and snakes: snow is disgusting. unforgivable. cancelled.

me watching a ballad of songbirds and snakes:

because LISTEN as long as we are casting villains that look like THISSSSS:

i’m going to be questioning my morals.

and this blog isn’t going anywhere.