Summary: you guys reconnect after 14 years! tew cute!
Warnings: ridgeway high reader, neil's death, charlie's expulsion, charlie breaks the news to you, brief mentions of sex in high school, carpe diem mentioned, old writng cleaning out drafts, i tink thats it
Ridgeway High wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed. There was plenty of ongoing drama that made people’s jaws drop and you had plenty of fun learning about it. Often there was overlap with Welton Academy. Many of Ridgeway students knew Welton students. They mingled with each other frequently. The students went to the activities put on by the other schools. Welton showed up for Ridgeway sports, and Ridgeway showed up for Welton theater shows.
You started dating Charlie Dalton after he ran into you as you were leaving Ridgeway High. He was chasing after Knox but once he saw you, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be. You two clicked immediately. His friends were introduced to you. It was you and Charlie that was the dream they all wished for. Was it a love like the one between you two? You sent him letters frequently and he wasn’t ashamed to show that the words meant a lot to him. Sometimes you tried your hand at poetry after he sent you plenty of the ones he wrote. You didn’t know it, but he usually read them in the cave, so all the boys knew you had a silver tongue.
That all came to a halt, like all good things from Welton Academy did, with Neil’s death. Charlie’s expulsion came almost immediately after. He knew his parents were on their way. A new school had likely already been picked out, if not he knew his aunt’s house three states over was waiting for him. He wouldn’t see Welton again. He wouldn’t see this town again. His parents moved faster than gossip it seemed. He wasn’t going anywhere without saying goodbye to you. It was likely you hadn’t even heard about Neil yet. He glanced around the school parking lot. Charlie’s feet started moving before he decided he needed to.
You spent the morning like usual, shower breakfast simple hobbies, and a lunch with your friends over for a study group. You had wished your two friends safe travels in the snow an hour ago, finally resting on the couch alone. You peeled open the book in your lap, scanning over the words. You jolted at the rash knock on your door. You stood, slowly making your way to the door. The knock roughly sounded on your door again. You groaned. You swung the door open, staring at the sight of Charlie. He was a complete mess.
His hair was misplaced, his chest was heaving, his eyes were rimmed with red. You furrowed your brows. Charlie slipped past you, standing behind you as you closed the door.
"Do you know?” Charlie asked, huffing. You chuckled at the absurdity, rolling your eyes.
“The muffin man?” You cracked, your laughter falling at Charlie’s scolding look.
“Neil,” Charlie stated, his voice breaking before he could finish the sentence.
"What about him?” You asked, tilting your head. Charlie stepped forward, cupping your cheeks.
“Last night, he shot himself. He’s dead. I’m being expelled. I won’t see you again.” Charlie rushed like the cops were at your fence. Your heart sank. You furrowed your brows, staring at him in disbelief.
“What!”
“It’s not the first time I’ve been in trouble; my parents already have a plan for when I get into something like this. They knew it would happen eventually. They’re taking me to my aunt. She lives hours and hours away. She’s got a ten-foot stick up her ass. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to see you.” You shook your head.
“No, Charlie. Neil, he’s fine. I mean we saw him just yesterday.” You muttered. Charlie nodded. He pulled you forward pressing a kiss to your forehead. You wished you were back in your bed before any of this ever happened.
“I promise you, no matter how far I am, it’s you. Do you understand?” Charlie asked, pulling back to stare into your tearful eyes. You nodded.
“It’s you, I swear.” He repeated. The engine of a car rumbled outside. The door squeaked on its hinges before a loud bang sounded at the front door of your house. You glanced over at it, staring at it in horror. That was Charlie’s parents certainly. They knew you were together. They knew if he wasn’t at school he was here. Charlie pressed his finger into your cheek, making you look at him again. He gently pressed his lips to yours, ignoring the salty taste of your tears. He was desperate to be anywhere else. Charlie wasn’t even sure if he would ever see you again or ever get over you. Another loud knock thundered next to you. You buried your hands into the button-up of his school uniform.
Charlie slowly pulled away, licking his lips like he was savoring the last bit of his dinner. He wiped at your tears, taking one step back. You stayed frozen in your spot, staring at him as he walked towards the door. His steps were slow like the bottoms of his shoes were coated in tar. Charlie moved with his eyes stuck to you. He pulled open the front door, finally breaking his look. His father stood at the door. You watched Charlie as he deftly walked to the car, slipping into the backseat.
Years on years have passed. As unfortunate as it is, Charlie’s image slipped from your mind. He was remembered as much as an old jacket was. You sometimes saw the outline of a stranger's face and thought back to the nights in the cave you spent tracing the features of Charlie’s face. Even though you dated a short list of others, something was still missing. You suppose you just weren’t totally the person who enjoyed dating. You found much more enjoyment in your work than in strangers' mouths.
Sleep was still stealing your focus from the menu hanging above the barista’s head. You yawned and shook your head in disappointment. You muttered an apology before finally relaying your order to her. She gave you a brief smile as you handed over the cash. As you turned away from the counter and towards the seating area, someone called out your name. It was too often for your happiness that a coworker caught you before you even got to work. You plastered on a customer service smile and turned around. Your eyes didn’t find a coworker but instead found a face that was lightly pulling at recognition. Your mouth dropped open when the bell finally rang.
“Charlie?” You asked, taking a step forward. He pulled his hands from his coat pockets and smiled.
”The one and only. It’s been forever.” Charlie muttered, dropping his eyes to the floor to take one full sweep up and down of you. You gave him a knowing look.
“Still a lustful bastard I see.” You jabbed, leaning against a nearby empty table. Charlie paused in his look, frowning at you.
“How long has it been?” Charlie asked. You stared at the ceiling as you did the math.
“14 years.” Charlie let out a low whistle. You nodded in agreement.
“Long time. Where have you been? What do you do for work now?” You asked. You knew his parents had plans for him but you hoped anything other than banking would come out of his mouth right now. Charlie’s smile lost a bit of its color.
“I’m an accounting manager. It’s actually a pretty high position, especially considering my age but-“
“It’s what your parents wanted.” You finished. Charlie let out a sigh through his nose.
“I learned to live with it. And I do a little volunteer work at community theaters. Simple things, budgets, advertising, things like that.” Charlie said. A flash of pain squeezed at your heart. You knew exactly why Charlie wanted to volunteer at theaters and not anywhere else. Neil.
Silence passed between the two of you. You lifted your eyes from the floor, staring at Charlie with a billion questions swarming under your eyes. Charlie still had a smile on his face, only it was small and simple. Not the usual bright dazzling one he had.
“I’ve learned to live with it. He’s not here. It’s okay. I see a hundred young faces like his walk through the theater doors every day. I make sure they all have the money for a costume and a set. It’s what I can do now to ease the pain of the past; help the future.” Charlie said with a tone as strong as a brick wall. You nodded, a joke in your mind making you snort before you even said it.
“All those nights in the cave sure did silver your tongue a bit, Mr. Dalton.” You whispered. Charlie grinned, huffing a laugh. You watched him as he unbuttoned his coat. The warmth of the coffee shop was finally getting to him. You hated that your eyes dropped to his left hand immediately. You hated the relief that followed the absence of a ring even more.
“So, did your parents finally get you together with that girl they lined up for you all those years ago?” You asked. Of course, it was to know more about him but really you wanted to know if you had a slim chance or no chance. Charlie snorted.
“Right to the point, as always.” You glared at Charlie.
“As I recall, you loved my bluntness in high school.” You countered. Charlie tilted his head to the side.
“I didn’t need much foreplay in high school, your bluntness usually worked in my favor.” The wrinkly old man behind Charlie glared at him as he walked past. Charlie looked over his shoulder, startled and stepping away from the old man. He leaned on the table next to you, lowering his voice.
“A bit judgmental for 7 am.”
“I don’t think it’s exactly proper to mention foreplay in a public coffee shop before 9 am” You whispered back. Charlie sighed.
“Well, clearly some people don’t know how to party.” You rolled your eyes.
“But to finally answer your question, no Diane pretty much was out of the question after Neil. Specifically, after I decided to rebel against the school and my parents. I ignored my mother’s persistent requests for grandkids by focusing on my work. Though I will say, very few days went by when I wasn’t thinking about you. Especially in my early years.” Charlie finally replied.
“Really?”
“I made a promise to you 14 years ago. At the time I planned to keep it. As time went by I thought I was waiting for a day that wouldn’t come. No matter who I dated something was wrong with the relationship. I had too much to catch them up on. Even if I did it was like I was missing a part of me. I don’t think I’ve been happy in a relationship since you. Not a single part of me wishes to go back to that time, I could never relive going to bed ignorant that night and waking up in horror. However, a relationship with you, that’s something I’d give a second shot to.”
“Charlie-“
“That’s why I’m town. I was staring at my clock in my office and I realized. Carpe Diem. What the hell am I doing sitting in my office daydreaming about a possible day when I could buy the damn plane ticket? Hours later in a very uncomfortable plane seat, fifteen minutes in a friend’s car, and I’m standing with you now.” You stared at him as he caught his breath. You felt a playful smile pull on your lips. It was an old look that you haven’t felt in years. Charlie’s eyes left yours to dip down to your lips.
“Charlie, I don’t think you’ve changed a lick since Welton.” You said, watching as chuckle left his chest. He rolled his eyes, inching his hand towards yours on the table.
“You still smile the same as you did before you tore me to shreds,” Charlie whispered. The old man seemed to find a fascinating dissatisfaction with you two. He glanced over again with pure disgust.
“You liked it.”
“Obviously. Praying mantises were my favorite insect as a child.” Charlie paused, sucking in a tight breath. He pulled at the strip of buttons down the front of his shirt.
“Jeez it’s hot in here, do you feel hot?” Charlie asked, waving at his face.
“Not real-“
“Do you maybe want to get out of here? So you’re less hot, of course.” Charlie finished. You swallowed down a grin, clicking your tongue. You’ve been had.
“That was good. You caught me while my guard was down. There won’t be a second time.” You pulled your eyes from Charlie as the Barista called your name. You walked to the counter and took your drink, meeting Charlie again. He seemed disappointed, you seemed to have no intention of leaving.
“So your hotel or my place?” You asked. Charlie grinned, stepping away from the table. He slung his arm around your shoulders, puffing his chest out.
“Your place, I haven’t gotten a hotel room quite yet,” Charlie said. You nodded.
“Maybe hold off on that. I think I’ll want you all to myself for a few days.” Your words made Charlie raise a brow.
“I might’ve been wrong about not needing much foreplay in the past. I think it’s just with you.”
summary: he had a hate-crush on you in high school, you guys grow into friends in college, you move away and he never got to tell you how he felt until nine years later he ran into you in a gas station
warnings: you both thought the other didn’t like you, Carmen lwk gets his foot in his mouth metaphorically, you’re so hot Carmen is obsessed a lil but ur kind of reciprocating that attitude, you’re a writer and an artist sorry, you had a bf in your past and he never made you finish, you’re a writer and Carmen discuss this bf for a while and talk about your sex life for a smidge, you’re both lwk awkward abt it but I attribute that to carm being a virg, you’re make like one comment abt you being too much but Carmen shuts it down, hes down bad, he gets a lil ooc at the end but like it’s wtv, okay that’s it I think
You were not popular in high school. You hardly talked to many people. You had a set number of people you grew close to. You were praised for your writing. Frequently. It was something Carmen noticed.
He noticed a lot about you. He sat behind you in your Senior English class. He sat at the table behind yours in Sophomore Chemistry. His back was towards yours in that class, but he memorized your laugh. You both shared an art class in Senior year, too. Carmen knew who you were long before you knew who he was. You greeted him as if you had never seen him before in your art class. He had to remind you that he had been sharing classes with you for years.
Carmen started the year hating you. You were too cocky. You giggled when people insulted your art. Its tone was screaming, ‘No, you’re just too stupid to understand it.’ You shrugged when your shared English teacher bowed their head down to your desk. You had this knowing grin before they even talked, like you knew they were going to say your writing was stunning. Your essay was outstanding. You thought about the offered passage in a way the rest of their students didn’t. All that was pushed away with your grin.
When you stood up for presentations, people laughed when you spoke. You’d chuckle with them. Then your eyes would shift around the room like you were looking for why they laughed. You were so funny, you didn’t even know it. You always had the perfect clothes. He could tell every morning you woke up and put effort in, enough to make yourself look complete.
Then, on the 14th of December, you stopped him on his way into art. You said you were mad at him because he didn’t wave back. How dare he? You greeted him. Carmen laughed it off and was astonished that you were even talking to him.
Damn you. Damn you for giving him that small morsel of attention and sparking his foul consuming desire for you. You were all he could think about for months. All he wanted was to catch your eyes again. To grab your attention. For you to just look at him and think he was the only one in the room.
His crush on you ebbed and flowed. It was like once you were out of his sight, he didn’t feel anything for you. Over Winter and Spring Break, he lost it. You slipped from his mind as the days passed. You’d only coat his mind once or twice a day by the end of the break. Then by the time he was back in class, any glance at you and it came right back. It washed completely over him, eating up every other part of his brain. It was astonishing how quickly you could become everything again when he really didn’t like you before you stopped him in art.
He thought for sure you’d be going to a prestigious school he had never heard of. Somewhere you’d go, and all those little giggles and chuckles of your self-assuredness would pay off. Some professors would teach you every word you needed to know, and you’d fall in love with the English language all over again. You’d write something so magnificent your professor would cry in your arms. You’d go to Magic-Land, and he’d stay right here in your shared hometown.
Your desk had been spun around to face his by the teacher. Group projects and all that. The desks were pushed together into groups of four. You didn’t really talk to him, just whispering with your friend next to you. Until the classmate next to him brought up college. You asked him before you said where you were going. He was certain you’d say a name so astonishing he wouldn’t even recognize it. He whispered the name of the local community college because he knew he wanted something bigger. He wanted to say the name and impress you. You lifted your eyes from the page in front of you. You smiled and nodded.
“Yeah, me too.” And he knew his life was over.
If you were going to the same college as him, he would never escape you. You would have this power over him until the day he dies. In fifty years, he’d bump into you, and he’d be consumed by you all over again. There was a line of hope, though, maybe your paths wouldn’t cross. You could have totally different classes from him.
He walked into his first class and saw you. You were sitting in the third row from the front, halfway down a page in your book. Then you showed up in another class of his, and he knew he was officially fucked.
You found him on the way out of class, and suddenly you were talking to him. You sat together and ate lunch after your classes. You laid in his dorm and tossed your legs over his. You tapped his arm when he made you laugh. You giggled in the way you did when people insulted your art when he asked you questions about the reading assignment. Like you were saying, ‘Carmen, you stupid, stupid little boy.’ It made his stomach swirl with something in between hatred and desire. Like he hated you so much it twisted back around into a severe urge to reach out and grab the back of your neck. You chuckled when he said he liked your essay. You knew he would, you just wanted to hear him say it. He knew that's what you wanted, but he still gave it to you. You both were so weird. Those years he spent around you, he never asked anyone out and rejected anyone who asked him. It was like he wanted to stay loyal to you even though he wasn’t anything to you. He knew that. He wasn’t anything. That was okay. He could be whatever you wanted. If he was a friend today, that’s fine. How many friends do you wink at like that? Whatever you want. Whatever you want.
You finished your basics and transferred. You never gave him your number. You never told him what school you were going to. All he knew was that you wanted to write. There wasn’t a breakup because you weren’t together ever. You just told him goodbye one day after you sat next to him for hours in the library, and it was the last time he saw you.
Until right now. Six years later, in a god damn gas station. He just wanted ramen. When he went down that aisle, he saw you walking past the end of it, straight to the drinks. Carmen froze, his heart dropping straight to the floor. There was no way he was getting to the seeing ghosts part of his age. It just can’t be happening. He had to have mistaken it. Carmen slowly made it down the aisle. He might lose his mind if he turns this corner and you’re not there. He thinks he’ll also lose it if you are.
There you were, pulling down a tea and turning away from the refrigerated section. You paused when you saw him, a grin pulling at your lips. He felt like you were about to laugh at him and say he hadn't changed a day over 19. You would be the person to make all that effort trying to change the harmful parts of his behavior seem pointless. You'd pull him right back into that obsession, and he'd be hopeless all over again.
“Carmen.” You sighed, with a high tilt like you were ecstatic to see him. Carmen tilted his head down to stare at the floor. He tried to wipe the grin off his face, but he couldn't. The Hate-Desire came rushing back.
You sat across from him in the under-cleaned vinyl booth. The gas station had a chain pizza restaurant attached for tired travelers to get a lunch that wasn't just chips. You seemed different. Not enough to make him not want you, but enough for him to wonder if you regretted him. You couldn't stop grinning. It was tiny, but it was all he could think about.
You had a book on the way to publishing. You wrote news articles for an online magazine now. It had nothing to do with food, and he was thankful to talk about something else. You had lived four states over for a while, but you missed home. You had an apartment now next to a rinky-dink restaurant he'd never heard of before. The dial for your hot water in your shower didn't work unless you hit it first, but you loved the place. You had a plant. Her name is Lee. And you still giggled the same as you did all those years ago.
He told you about himself. Carmen gave you a moderately realistic representation. Dead brother. Anger problems. Smoking habit. Restaurant. He got a haircut last week. That was all he could think of. Then the conversation went quiet, and all the questions he had thought of before going to bed for the past six years finally had a place to come out.
“Did you hang out with me because you pitied me? Back in college?” Carmen muttered. The clearly exhausted teen behind the pizza counter finally put her phone down. She might've decided that this conversation was much more interesting. Carmen had a feeling that his personal conversation would be rehashed to an Instagram group chat later tonight. You lifted your eyes from the table and furrowed your brows.
“No. I liked you, Carmen. You were funny and talented, and I didn't have to think when we talked. Being with you was easy.” You answered, your voice fragile like you were going to crack if he said something mean about himself again. Carmen nodded.
“I mean, yeah. I never dated when we were friends. I felt so weird about it, like I was cheating. Even though I know we weren't anything.” Carmen chuckled at his own words. It was so preposterous to even say out loud. There wasn't a single universe where you and him would be something. Especially not college. Your mouth parted, and you stared at him like he had reached across the table and smacked you. Your eyes darted away from him, staring at the stained table.
“You were something to me.” Your voice was so quiet he wondered if you had even meant to say it at all. Your head was pointed down, hiding your face from the shitty fluorescents. Carmen felt ice run through his body. Oh God, what had he said? Had he meant that, or did he just say it? It was like his mouth always ran away from him. He can't catch up to it and sit it down. Carmen shot forward in his seat.
“No. I didn't mean, I felt like- No, I really liked you, but I thought you didn't like me- when I said we weren't anything, Oh, I don't know.” Carmen deflated, flopping back against the booth. You lifted your head, and he felt like he could breathe again. You weren't crying, which was a good sign. Your lips had tilted up again.
“I understand. I never told you because I thought you wouldn't like me. I guess we probably should've just said something.” You mumbled, a laugh tickling the back of your words. Carmen hummed in agreement. Silence passed over you again. The only sound was the constant buzzing of the gas station and the heat lamps for the pizza. The teen cashier sniffed once like she was impatient for your conversation to start again.
“To speak or to die,” Carmen muttered.
“Yeah.” Eloquently put.
Carmen waited for you to speak as he stared at you. He wanted you to say that you had actually been in love with him since second grade. The whole time, his feelings were reciprocated. Even if it were true, the look in your eye told him you'd pick death.
“Did you ever write about me?” Carmen whispered. You tucked your lips into your mouth. Your eyelashes fluttered, and your chin jutted down just barely. You didn't nod because that would be too overwhelming. You'd have to confess to something you held as a secret for so long. Carmen pulled some kind of power over you because you couldn't stomach not giving him an answer. He wanted to know how much you wrote and what you said. How did you describe him? How did you think about him? Or fantasize? Carmen pressed his knuckles to his mouth and stared out the window.
“More than I should’ve.” You grinned, leaning closer to him across the table. Carmen raised a brow in question.
“Yeah?” You hummed a yes.
“My hands got cramps from all the time I spent typing. I actually ran through an entire pen’s worth of ink from all the poems I wrote in my journal. I spent so much time thinking about you, all my writing ended up being about you. Even the little parts. Every love interest knew how to cook and had tattoos. And, when I finally transferred, every man needed to be you. I needed them to be stoic and mysterious.” You whipped your head back and forth, dragging out your last S. Carmen snickered, looking down at his lap to hide the fact that his face was starting to burn. You chuckled as you sat back in your booth.
“Anyone who wasn’t Sexy Carmen Berzatto disappointed me. I was extremely picky there for a minute. I only ended up dating one guy, but he was lame.” You said, shaking your head in disgust. Carmen tilted his chin up.
“What made him lame?” Carmen asked. He hoped you said something he knew he had in the bag. He couldn’t make you an omelet. He didn’t know your favorite color. He didn’t know what your high school best friend was like. He didn’t understand your writing. All of those he won easily. He could emotionally regulate? Oh, Carmen’s at a net negative. You tucked your lips into your mouth and held your hand up. You pointed one finger down to your lap. Carmen widened his eyebrows, pinching his two fingers into a small space. You shook your head.
“No. He had plenty of size, but he couldn’t use it.” You sighed. Carmen squinted at you.
“So you never-”
“Not once.” You stated. Carmen leaned closer, raising a brow.
“How long-”
“Seven inches.” You didn’t blink as you spit it out. Carmen paused, parting his mouth.
“…were you together?” He finished. You started up, nodding.
“Oh! Um…” You squinted your eyes, staring at the ceiling. Carmen waited patiently as you did your math. Now, was that seven inches flaccid or hard? It would change his opinion on the man quite a bit, actually.
“Eight months,” You finished. Well, no, you hadn’t. At least not during those months.
“Not once? For eight months?” Carmen asked, staring at you with wide eyes.
“I did, it was just usually once he left the room.” You clarified. Carmen sighed, staring out the window again.
“He must’ve been really funny,” Carmen muttered. You followed his eyes, watching the parking lot.
“He wasn’t.” You were quiet, like you knew you were going to regret saying it. Carmen pinched his brows.
“Was he rich?” You shook your head.
“Kind?” You gave him a half-shoulder shrug.
“Not particularly.”
“What made you stay?” Carmen asked. You paused, your eyes still glued to the cars outside. You pressed your lips into a line. You didn’t meet his eyes as you opened your mouth.
“He looked like you.” You answered. Carmen could feel his resolve falling apart. You were everything he fantasized about for years since high school. Someone so far out of his reach he would never ever ever get a chance with you.
And now you’re sitting across from him, telling him you wanted him so bad you stayed with some lame ass boyfriend for eight months because he looked like Carmen. You wrote about him. You thought he was sexy. You thought he was Sexy.
Carmen sighed, lifting his hips to readjust. He shook his head, staring at the table. He felt like he needed a smoke. He couldn’t meet your eyes right now. If he did, he’d be climbing across the table. He had to hold himself together for the overworked teen. He’d make sure to tip well before he left. So that she might be just a little kinder when rehashing how pathetic Carmen was to her group chat.
“Carmen?” You asked, trying to pull his attention back to you. Carmen shook his head, clawing at his face with his hands.
“Oh, I’m really struggling right now,” Carmen whispered. You shuffled, but he couldn’t look at you. He kept his eyes squeezed shut.
“With what? You know, I get it if you don’t like me anymore. Things change. You can tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable. I know I can get a little…” You trailed off before kissing your teeth.
“Much.” You finished. Carmen dropped his hands, peeling his eyes open. He met your look, shaking his head.
“You’re not too much. I’m just trying really hard not to lunge over this table.” Carmen whispered, hoping you were the only person who heard him. You tilted your head to the side, a grin breaking out across your face.
“Yeah?” Carmen nodded. You smiled so wide he was sure you were going to burst. Carmen scooted closer to the table, leaning closer to you. He could feel your exhale from your nose on his cheek.
“I can be better than him,” Carmen murmured. You turned your head to the side, staring at him from the corner of your eye.
“You think so?” You asked, wanting to chuckle at Carmen’s brazenness. He wasn’t like this in high school or even college.
“I know.” You raised your brows at Carmen, glancing down at the table.
“He couldn’t feed you like I can. He couldn’t make you laugh like I can. He couldn’t put you at ease like I can. He couldn’t inspire you like I can.” You turned your head, hiding your eyes from him. Carmen tilted his head, following your eyes. You couldn’t run away from his eye contact. You sighed through your nose, making his face warm.
“Like I have. He couldn’t give you what you wanted like I can. He couldn’t make you finish like I can. He couldn’t. I can.” Carmen ranted, keeping his voice low. You poked your tongue out between your lips, wetting them. You stared at him in silence. You wanted to tell him he changed. You wanted to tell him he was psycho. You wanted to reach forward and shove his shoulders. You wanted to grab hold of his arm and drag him back to your apartment. You wanted him to take you to his apartment and make you dinner. You wanted him to sit down with you and your journal. You wanted him to read every poem you wrote about him and tell you what made him flush. You wanted to reach across the table and kiss him for the first time.
“I’m free Saturday.” You said, instead of the insults you wanted. Carmen nodded. He kept his eyes on you.
“I’ll make Saturday happen,” Carmen stated. His tone was so steady you didn’t question him at all. You had a date on Saturday. You couldn’t be happier that he ran into you. Carmen ran his finger over his bottom lip.
“I need a smoke.” He whispered. It pulled you both from your movement. You sucked in a breath as you sat back in your seat. You patted your hands on the table top. Carmen sat back, digging into his coat pocket.
“I need to get home, I have an article I need to finish,” you mumbled. Carmen held his phone out to you. You smiled at him before typing in your number. You handed him his phone back. You slid out of the booth, waltzing off to your car. He watched you as you pulled out of the parking lot. When your car was down the road, he finally bought his noodle cup and slipped the cashier 20 bucks.
Lmk if u hate me BE WHO YOU ArE FOR YOUR PRIDEEEEEE
summary: he tries to distract you from the clock w kisses
warnings: brief mentions of jason's red hood business, mention of wounds and scars!!, super duper fluffy, you keep jason on a short leash, dink mentioned, yall kiss?, he gives you a hickey, his pjs are just his underwear, use of baby nickname, it's a thousand words this is a cracker of a fic
You slowly pulled your pillow closer to your face, your movements weighed down by your slumber. As much as you hated it, you had grown used to falling asleep alone. Jason was often out at night during his nightly routine of blowing things up and shooting at terrible people. As much as you loved him, you didn’t have the patience to wait for him. He had his key. He knew the time you wanted him home by. You didn’t worry about him until after 4 AM.
There was only one night he came home past 4, and it was the day you used the scary parts of your first aid kit. You hated thinking back on it. That whole night, or early morning, left you sick to your stomach. You hated the feeling of his blood on your hands and the way his skin pulled and sagged. You left that night in the dark hole far in the back of your mind.
Your mind skipped from its dream when the front door shut with a bang. Your brows furrowed in your rest as your brain tried to pull your focus back towards another dream. Your ears perked at boots dropping next to the front door. You slowly woke up as you listened to the familiar sounds of Jason returning home. The door to your shared bedroom slowly creaked open as his feet padded into the room. You lifted your head, squinting at the large shadow staring over you. He watched you start to stir as he pulled his shirt off. He sighed as his pants dropped to his ankles, finally down to his underwear and ready for bed.
Jason stumbled over the edge of the bed, ungracefully falling on top of the blankets next to you. He reached out, tugging you closer. You hummed, telling him you were awake. He finally pulled his helmet off, tossing it off the edge of the bed. It thumped against his pile of clothes. He leaned his head down and pressed his nose to your neck. Jason sucked in a deep breath as he slowly dragged his nose down your neck. He gently pressed his lips against the curve of your shoulder. His hands pulled the blanket around you, fumbling around until he was tucked in too.
“What time is it?” you whispered, trying to turn back to look at the clock on the nightstand. Jason's hand shot out, slamming the clock down on its face. Jason cooed as he turned back to you. He peppered your back with kisses, hoping it was enough to convince you.
“It's only three. Go back to sleep, baby,” Jason coddled. You huffed and lowered your head back into your pillow. His hand traveled up your back, cradling the back of your neck. Jason kissed your shoulder.
“Are you sure?” You asked skeptically. Jason hummed, pressing his cheek to your shoulder.
“Positive. 3:15 on the dot.” Jason stated. He raised a brow at you, challenging you to question him. You turned towards the clock, reaching to pull its face from the nightstand. Jason pressed his hand over the back, pressing it into the wood. Jason clicked his tongue, shaking his head. He tilted forward, pressing kisses to your neck.
“Focus on me, not the clock,” Jason mumbled against your skin. The vibrations from his voice made you sigh. You turned away from the clock, rolling into him. Jason grinned against you. He pulled his hand from the nightstand and pressed his palms to your back. He wrapped his arm around the back of your neck. He caged your face between his bicep and his fingertips, digging into your cheek. You puckered your lips for him. Jason granted you your request. He tipped forward, meeting your lips. He tilted his hand down on your cheek, pressing his pointer finger into your chin. He gently pried open your mouth by pressing down on your chin.
You graciously welcomed his tongue into your mouth. You pulled your arm pressed to the mattress up, tossing it over his shoulder. Jason rolled his hips forward, making your brows jump in surprise. His kisses started to travel, passing over the edge of your jaw. Jason buried his face in your neck. He mouthed wet kisses to your bare skin. You buried your fingertips into his hair, keeping him pressed to you. You stretched your other arm out. Jason felt pride fill his chest at you squirming under him. He nipped at your neck, making you gasp.
“Jason!” You grumbled in irritation. You were so easy to work up. Jason smirked against your neck, pressing a gentle kiss to the bruise he left. Jason slowly lifted his head, cocky all the way up.
“Oh, baby. There’s no need to-” Jason froze. You were pressing the side of the alarm clock to your cheek. You were giving him a knowing look. Jason glared at the evil 4:52 blinking at him in that viscous red color. Jason frowned as it might convince you.
“You’re late.” You chided. Jason shook his head. He reached for the clock. Jason pulled the evil thing from your hand before setting it back on the nightstand.
“That clock’s wrong.” Jason fibbed. You glared at him. Jason leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your lips.
“That clock isn’t real. It’s a facade. This is a dream.” Jason mumbled. You narrowed your eyes at him.
“What held you up? You know how much I hate you staying past 4.” You reminded. Jason pressed himself closer to you. He whined at the pitiful look on your face. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, feeling at the raised scars. Jason shook his head, nipping at your puckered bottom lip. You tucked it back in, pulling the soft skin from his teeth.
“Dick being a dumbass. Nothing to worry about, I promise.” He explained, gently holding onto your elbow. You rolled your eyes.
“I think I need to have a chat with Dick about keeping you out past your bedtime.” You grumbled, rolling away from the clock. Jason followed your lead, tugging you closer to him.
“I hope you never have to be subjected to a conversation with Dick,” Jason whispered. He turned his head to the side and pecked a kiss on your temple. You huffed at that, pressing your cheek into his chest.
happy gays you pride! im not as think you drunk iam
barbie dolls: Mattheo riddle x gn!halfblood!reader
words: 6.3k
summary: he meets you at a party when you accidentally hit him in the nose with your elbow, he couldn't be happier about it (also you spend the night of the war w him and it's a traumatizing experience for you both)
warnings: mattheo's got the dark mark 😬, mentions of mattheo being abused, some small descriptions of it but not a lot, theres a lot of blood, draco is called a bitch by narrator, mattheo thinks tom will kill him in the future so he like j doesn't gaf abt life, mentions of heaven and hell and god mattheo doesn't really believe in it he's kind of j grasping at straws praying to anyone who might listen, you have loving parents, your mom is a witch dads a muggle, Your mom paints moving portraits and your dad is a therapist, mattheo feels nauseous there's a lot of like anxious stomachs mentioned in the beginning, he does not vomit tho, mattheo was shamed for crying but he cries w u, it is mentioned quite a few times that he cries 😁, mentions of sex but it's like a way that he's grown into himself, you'll get it when you read it trust, okay so pretend the war happened after graduation okay sick thanks so much, tom kills mattheo's bird but it's not described it happens off screen, mattheo's mark cause him a lot of pain the night of the war and he like is sobbing screaming, He bites you so hard you bleed and it leaves a scar and it is latter seen as a romantic mark so yk, you kept having to put mattheo to sleep the night of the war using your wand, you also have to restrain him, anyway, he scratches himself so hard he bleeds, hes a lil ooc but i think its fine
Mattheo was born from violence, and he was sure it was the reason his life had shaped out the way it did. His father didn’t believe in love. Love was a weakness as Mattheo had been reminded many, many, many times. His mother was told she’d be bringing the Dark Lord’s prince into the world. His arrival would mean the proper end of the world. It had nothing to do with love; it was a mission. This Dark Prince would be almost as powerful as the Dark Lord. That was their goal, anyway. His mother wanted to bring him into the world, but she had no interest in raising him. Much as The Dark Lord felt.
When Mattheo was born, he looked like nothing but a regular baby. The ‘Dark Prince’ was never born. Mattheo was a powerful wizard, but he didn’t shine a light on Tom Riddle at all. His plans fell through when his baby was not born with a wand in his hand and evilly grinning with no teeth. He was just a regular baby who giggled at his father’s face. Tom felt that he had wasted all this energy on some pathetic, stupid wizard baby. What was he supposed to do with a dumbass baby?
His disappointment quickly became aggression. Mattheo was beaten, screamed at, shamed, and starved. His father never gave him a warm look or soft hug. His mother didn’t care about him now that the whole ‘Dark Prince’ plan fell through. Leaving Mattheo in a basket on the side of a road or on a random doorstep did cross Tom Riddle’s mind. The thought of giving up his free punching bag made him reconsider.
In a few years, Mattheo had reached school age. His father partially hoped Mattheo's finally going to Hogwarts would awaken some kind of power in him. Aside from that, the only rule his father set for him was ‘Only Purebloods’. He was only allowed to spend his time with purebloods. Of course, given any chance to punish Mattheo, his father would take it.
So imagine Mattheo’s surprise when violence, the very thing that promised him a life of torture, brought the love of his life.
Mattheo had, in fact, found quite an enjoyment in parties. Especially with his group of friends. Despite his innocent looks, Lorenzo really was the partier of their group. He was rowdy after a few drinks, and he found fun with everyone. He loved the eyes on him when he started dancing, and he loved the hands on him when he’d grind with whoever wanted him.
Theo was the closest to Mattheo and would be the one to pull him out of his shell. He’d get him to let loose after a bit. Mattheo was eternally grateful for Theodore Nott. Theo himself would spend most of his time dancing or relaxing on the couches. Theo quite enjoyed it when the Mary-Jane lovers would join him on the couch. He was a low-energy enjoyer of life and all its pleasures.
Draco was a bitch when he was sober. He was a sap when he drank. He would drape himself over his friends and lament about how much he loved them and could never imagine his life without them. Draco would smear drunk kisses on their cheeks and whine when his friends tried to pull away from his hugs. But come his hangover, he was back to being a bitch.
Blaise would get giggly with just one drink. Blaise refused to get drunk or high like the rest of his friends. He always made comments about them frying their brains and ruining their future careers. Blaise had plans, and he was not going to let Hogwarts fun ruin that for him.
Mattheo didn’t plan a future. He doubted his father would let him live long enough to get a job or even consider one. He was honestly astonished that he was even this old.
Mattheo was similar to Lorenzo in that he found the highlight of his night was when his body was moving on its own on top of a coffee table. By the end of the night, he was like Theo and relaxed on the couch with him. He would laugh at every joke his friends made, like Blaise. And he got sappy, like Draco. He’d start following his friends around to make sure nothing happened to them.
He had been following after Lorenzo, on their track to the center of the dancefloor, when a cracking lightning struck his nose. He gasped as pain radiated through his face, pulling tears to his eyes. Mattheo gently cradled his nose with both his hands, his eyes widening when he felt something wet dripping into his palms. Mattheo could hear murmurs of concern next to him. He was sure whoever was talking to him was yelling over the music, but the rushing in his ears made it particularly hard to hear. Mattheo pulled his hands from his face, finding his palms covered in blood.
“Oh my god!” He heard from his right, in a voice he did not recognize.
“Ew, dude.” Said Lorenzo’s voice on the left. Mattheo glared at Lorenzo. He hitched his brows together as he still felt the blood rushing down his chin. It felt like his skull was vibrating under his skin.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you behind me.” The unrecognizable voice said. Mattheo glanced at the source, his mouth parting. He had met plenty of pretty people. He had met beautiful people. He had met cute people. But absolutely never had he met someone jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
Until this exact moment.
Your hands were flying around as you tried to apologize. Your brows were pinched together in concern as you stared at his nose. There was a light behind you, crowning your head. Mattheo had half a mind to think he was already dead, and you were the angel leading him to the staircase to hell. You paused when you saw his face, turning your head to the side.
“Hi.” He huffed out dreamily.
“Oh boy,” Lorenzo muttered. You furrowed your brows, giving him a confused smile. Mattheo grimaced at the taste of blood in his mouth. He was suddenly reminded of the pain buzzing in his face. He groaned as he tipped his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Okay, let me get you to Madam Pomfrey.” You said, your hand finding his shoulder again. Mattheo startled at that, tilting his head back down.
“Oh no, it’s fine. I’ll walk it off.” Mattheo muttered. It seemed a bit ridiculous to him that he should go to the medical wing just for a nosebleed. It wasn’t broken. He’s had a broken nose before, and this was not how it felt. His nose still has a scar on it from that time. You shook your head quickly.
“Absolutely not, I’m not leaving you until you go to the Medical wing.” You stated, setting your face in determination. Your friend started hovering at your shoulder, whispering in your ear. You kept your eyes on Mattheo. He wanted to tell you to get lost and find someone else to bother. But he didn’t want your face to leave his view yet, and something in his stomach was swirling. He must have drunk something bad, and now his stomach was threatening him with nausea. Mattheo looked to Lorenzo. Lorenzo raised his brows.
‘You’re seriously going?’ Lorenzo’s expression said silently. Mattheo bumped one of his shoulders.
‘Why not?’ Lorenzo shook his head slightly and pursed his lips.
‘Whatever, man.’ Mattheo ignored Lorenzo as he stepped up onto the coffee table, already finding a dance partner. He looked back at you, finding you staring at him expectantly. You flipped your hands at your side, raising your brows.
“Fine, I’ll go.” He grumbled. You nodded, leaning back to your friend and telling them where you were off to. You held onto the bottom hem of Mattheo’s shirt as you led him out of the common room. The blood from his nose had already stopped gushing. He could feel that the dried blood had clogged his nose, and the bottom half of his face felt dry and tight. He couldn’t wait to wash his face; he hated the feeling of dried blood.
He expected you to drop his shirt hem the moment you pulled him into the corridor. You didn’t. You just kept leading him like he was some kind of lost puppy.
“You know, I can walk by myself. It’s not like I’m going to faint.” Mattheo said, smacking his mouth in disgust when he tasted blood again. You glanced back at him, raising a brow like you hadn’t expected to find your hand still pulling him. You dropped his shirt and walked to the other side of the corridor.
“Is this better for you? We just happen to be going to the same place?” You asked. A smile pulled at your lips, like he was the funniest person you talked to tonight. It wasn’t better, now that Mattheo thought about it. He really wanted you to come back and keep dragging him. He was feeling sick to his stomach again.
“I know where the medical wing is. I don’t know why you think you have to escort me there.” Mattheo said. You grimaced.
“It’s the least I can do, since I might’ve broken your nose with my bad dance moves.” You said, glancing at the floor in embarrassment, just for a split second. Mattheo shook his head.
“It’s not broken.” He stated matter-of-factly. You reeled back at his bluntness, snorting a bit at him.
“How do you know? Are you a doctor?” You asked. Mattheo wet his lips with his tongue and immediately regretted it.
“My nose has been broken before,” Mattheo said mockingly, like it was obvious. You scoffed.
“Okay, well, sorry I forgot you get into fights every week. Some people lead other lives.” You giggled when you finished your sentence. He felt his stomach lurch again, and he was really starting to think back through his meals. Toast and oatmeal for breakfast.
“First of all, I’ve only been in two fights. People exaggerate. Secondly, I didn’t break my nose in a fight.” Mattheo corrected, immediately wishing he hadn’t. You were already tilting your head to the side with a follow-up question.
“So how did you break your nose? Falling down the stairs?” You half-joked, chuckling. It is ridiculous to think the well-known violent fighter, Mattheo Riddle, broke his nose slipping down the stairs. Mattheo huffed out his mouth, though he wished he could sigh with his nose.
“Something like that.” Mattheo grimaced. His father shoved him into a wall. Mattheo didn’t want to think about his father back home. He wanted to stay right here in this hall with you. His father would be upset Mattheo was at a party at all, much less one and a half drinks in. Or visiting the nurse for his nose. Mattheo stopped in the hall, making you pause and turn around. You were two steps ahead of him.
“She’s not going to contact my father, is she? Or tell the headmaster where we were?” Mattheo asked. You smirked, letting out a tiny snort. Mattheo would've grinned if he weren’t thinking about the punishment he would receive at home.
“Is The Mattheo Riddle worried about getting detention?” You mocked, slinking across the hall to stand in front of him. You pressed your lips into a tight line to hold back your laugh. Mattheo’s hand reached out without his consciousness, his pointer finger pinching the fabric of your shirt to him.
“I’m worried about my father. You know, the Dark Lord. You may have heard of him.” Mattheo whispered as if there was someone around to overhear. Even in his whispers, he dropped his voice at his father’s title. You paused, your smile slowly falling. Your eyes started searching his face like you just now realized he had scars covering his skin.
“You’ve only been in two fights?” You asked, your voice lacking all its humor now. Mattheo wanted to go back and tell you he was absolutely terrified of detention. Maybe then he would hear a full laugh pulled from you. Mattheo nodded.
“And they were only fists?” You furthered. Mattheo drifted his eyes down, suddenly aware of his hand pulling at your shirt. He was glad he wore a long sleeve to the party. You wouldn't have to ask about his tattoo. Everyone knew what that sign meant. It was branded into his skin like he was a cow being led to his slaughter. His father didn't even think he was helpful enough to give him tasks. His father just wanted to remind Mattheo his life was his fathers to take.
“I see.” You whispered. Mattheo doubted you really understood the severity of his situation. You could ‘see’ all you want. He didn’t want to see Pomfrey. You could take care of him. He wasn’t hating it so far. You hummed.
“No, she doesn’t tell anyone about what she sees. I’ve brought drunk friends here before, but she doesn’t say anything.” You tilted your head down, forcing him into eye contact. Mattheo lifted his head, staring into your eyes.
“I promise you.” You said, widening your eyes in seriousness. Mattheo raised a brow at you. He wanted to mock you. He could call you dramatic, but all he could focus on was the color of your eyes. He had a sandwich and an apple for lunch so it couldn’t be that causing his stomachache.
You turned back toward the direction of the medical wing, his hand falling to the back of your shirt. He knew he should remove his hand, but you had to be from heaven. You were a ghost or something. Whichever, you were going to disappear the second he took his eyes off you; he knew it. You were too good, too gorgeous, too smart, too kind. He should really turn and run from you. You could be lying to him; who's to say you’re not a part of some big, huge scheme against him? You glanced back at him, your eyes snagging on his hand pulling at your shirt. You smiled.
“You know, it’s not like I’m going to faint. I can walk by myself.” You parroted. Mattheo snickered, looking away from you to hide his amusement. He dropped his hold on your shirt, itching at his arm like that was his plan all along.
Pomfrey was annoyed to be woken up so late, but swallowed her annoyance when she saw Mattheo’s face covered in blood. She pointed him to one of the small beds set up for patients. She handed him a wet rag, letting him wipe his own face clean. Pomfrey left the two of you, turning to the medicine cabinet and working on something for Mattheo. You settled next to him on the edge of the bed. Mattheo knew how to wipe his face clean. This was clearly not his first rodeo. Yet you still watched his face intensely as he wiped at it.
You reached for his face, making him shoot back. You took the rag from his hand, slowly raising it to his face. You watched his eyes closely as you softly pressed it against his cheekbone. You swiped once, twice. Your finger slipped from the rag and grazed against his cheek. It was soft, gentle, and warm. Mattheo closed his eyes to savor it for just a moment before you took it all away again and handed him back the rag. Mattheo looked down at it, wiping his hands.
“You missed a spot.” You explained quietly. Mattheo raised his eyes, looking your expression over.
God.
God, please make there be no heaven or hell so he can spend all of his life with you and never worry about the two of you being separated in the afterlife. Though if there is no heaven or hell, there's no God.
Universe, please never separate him from you. Not after your death, or before. He can die first, but you absolutely may not.
He doesn’t know your name. Oh, he doesn’t know what to put on his marriage certificate. He doesn’t know what to whisper before he goes to bed. What to picture written into his skin in permanent ink. He could get a magical tattoo, one that’d never leave. But maybe this next one would mean more to him, with all the letters of your name.
“What’s your name?” Mattheo muttered, keeping his voice low so Pomfrey wouldn’t pull her eyes from the medicine she was making. You whispered back, glancing over his shoulder at Pomfrey. He liked that you followed his lead. He liked your name. It fits you well. If he had to work backwards and find you with just your name, he thinks he could manage. He whispered it to himself, feeling it on his tongue for the first time. It felt like he had been holding his breath underwater for years, and this was the first time his head popped over the waves.
“What are your parents like?” He asked, still keeping his voice low, but his eyes stayed glued to you. You smiled, glancing away from him. You sat up straighter on the small bed.
“My mom’s an artist; she makes moving portraits. It’s pretty cool. I’ve got a lot of portraits of my dad and me. My dad’s a therapist, so he always takes arguments at home very seriously. He’s always using big words and saying we need to communicate how we’re feeling during fights. My mom told my dad she was a witch three months into dating. He totally flipped. He thought she was kidding until she made him float with her wand. But after that, he started to love it. He kind of got a kick out of it. He’s totally obsessed with her now.” You squished your lips to the side like you were embarrassed that you said so much. Mattheo nodded as he thought.
Halfblood. He shouldn’t talk to you. He should actually be pulling his wand out and trying to hex you, as his father told him. He lifted his eyes from the ground, meeting yours again. He might need to call Pomfrey to get him a wastebin; he feels his stomach lurching again. He had a turkey leg- Its butterflies, isn't it? Oh man, he’s more lost than he thought. Mattheo tilted his head at you.
“I shouldn’t talk to you.” He mumbled weakly. He didn’t want you to go; he didn’t want to not talk to you for a day of his life. He wanted to grab onto your arm and tuck you both into the bed you’re sitting on. He wanted to wrap the blankets around you both so tightly that no one could pull you out. He wanted to hold onto your hand and jump into the Black Lake and learn to live underwater with the sirens. You snorted at him.
“I shouldn’t talk to you.” You repeated. Mattheo hummed. He glanced at Pomfrey behind him. He turned back towards you.
“Then I guess we’re both rule breakers.” He muttered. You cringed, pulling away from him. You looked away from him, laughing at his absurdity.
“Ew.” You held your palm at him, pressing your other hand to your mouth. He laughed at your reaction, finally laughing fully tonight. You joined him, giggling along. Pomfrey brought him a painkiller, but the pain had disappeared the moment you looked at him.
Your relationship was kept quiet. Few people were allowed to know about it. You were exclusive, obviously, but ‘my boyfriend’ was used rather than 'Mattheo'. His friends took a while to warm up to you, as most of them reminded him of his father’s rule. At some point, they started to notice the way he looked at you, and they began to understand the situation. After a few weeks, you were allowed to join their private hangouts. Public appearances were an absolute no, as anyone could send a letter to their parents, and word could get out to his father.
Your relationship was everything to Mattheo. He could breathe around you. Your hands were gentle with him and warmed him. He hadn’t realized that physical affection really did change his entire world. He felt incomplete without your hands on him. Mattheo just wanted to listen to your heartbeat for most of the day. You let him cry, which was a new feeling. He had only ever freely cried in front of Theo. That only happened once, and he thought he’d never cry in front of someone again. But you just pressed his head to your shoulder and ran your fingers through his hair. You didn’t shush him. You didn’t try to make him stop. You didn’t try to wipe them away. You just let him sob against you. When the cries stopped wracking his body, his mind was blissed out from exhaustion. He was so glad you were there to hold him.
He finally let himself dream. Mattheo pictured a home with you, a bright home. One with big windows and fuzzy blankets. One with warm furniture. One full of laughter. That’s what he wanted, not the cold, barren house he had now. He felt like he was growing into a new person. One who giggled. Mattheo learned new sides of himself. He learned that he could be gentle and soft. He never wanted his hands to scare you or make you flinch away. You always melted into his palms, your body following wherever they took you. You never frowned at him unless you were faking, and he was growing to truly appreciate your smile. Making you grin was his daily goal. He couldn't rest until you did.
Your head rested against his chest as you traced the scars of his forearm. You lifted your head, keeping your fingers pressed to one of his scars.
“Can I see all of them?” You asked. Mattheo opened his eyes, glancing at where your hand was.
“We’ll be here all night.” He grumbled, pulling your head back to his chest. He let his hand slip from your head to your shoulder. You sat back up.
“I have time.” Mattheo sighed, knowing he was such a pushover for you. He slid away from you, standing up from the bed. He stood in front of the bed, glancing over his shoulder to see you waiting patiently. His back was turned to you. He lifted his arms, digging his fingers into the back of his shirt. He tugged on it, pulling it off over his head. Mattheo straightened up, showing the expanse of his back to you. You sat up on your knees, gently reaching out for him. He startled when you touched his back, peeking over his shoulder. You hummed an apology that he ignored. You ran your hands over the lines and burns, gentle as ever. It almost made him sick how sweet you were to him. You slid your arms over his shoulders, pressing your chest to his back. You tilted your head, pecking at his cheek.
“Ugly?” Mattheo asked, tilting his head towards your touch.
“No.” You whispered. You slid your hand over his bare chest, digging your fingers in. “Show me the rest,” you added. Mattheo turned around in your hold. He leaned forward, messily kissing your mouth before dropping his hands to his pants.
Mattheo grew connected to his body. It wasn’t just a prison designed to hurt him anymore. It was something that brought pleasure to both of you. You have kissed almost every inch of him, and the few parts you haven't, you soothed your hands over. He could always feel every single part of himself. Like moments where he was bare with you were the times his soul finally spread throughout all of his body instead of the cage he kept it in. You moved together in a mesmerizing way. Your love went so far that he knew what you wanted and how and when. He felt completely tethered to you. You kept his world from losing its gravity.
Over winter break, he spent his time in your home. His father didn’t care if he spent his winter break at Hogwarts. So he did spend it at ‘Hogwarts,’ at least that’s what his letter said to his father.
Your family was kind to him. They weren’t overly touchy, but it was clear they wanted to be. He had a suspicion you had a private conversation with them before he came. Your mother kept rubbing his shoulder when she passed him. For the first few days, it made him jump, but he eventually grew fond of it. Your father seemed to hover his hand over Mattheo’s back and hand a lot. Like he wanted to pat Mattheo on the back when he did something well. Or pet his hand when he looked sad.
Mattheo had not met a Muggle, but he hoped they were all like your father. He always tried to include Mattheo in your conversations. He was not once called a name or hit. Mattheo realized the home he fantasized about sharing with you in the future was yours. Mattheo couldn’t be happier that he spent that holiday with you and your family. It taught him what he wanted for home.
Graduation passed, and Mattheo had to spend his time at home. He sometimes was able to waste some time at Draco’s, but it was short-lived. He kept in contact with you using your owls. He was cautious, only sending his owl out in the dead of the night and writing in a code only you know. He even jinxed the letters to only open for you.
He had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough.
He knew it wasn’t the second he found his owl dead on his bed.
When your owl tapped at his window that same night, he sent a letter with only four words.
Halfway?
Yours forever, Mattheo
He had no time to wait for a response. If he waited much longer, he’d be dead. He knew his father well enough to know he’d kill him for disobeying the only rule the second he caught the free time. So Mattheo didn’t waste time with a bag. He took his wand and Apparated into town. He kept his head down as he caught the nearest train. The further he got from his father, the better.
You dropped everything at the sight of the letter. You stuffed a bag full as quickly as possible before racing down the stairs. You kissed your parents goodbye and said you’d send them a letter the second you got to pen and paper. You had to do this. You’d be safe with Mattheo; there was no need to worry. Though you knew there was always a reason to worry with Mattheo, they didn’t need to know that.
You didn’t fly as that could bring attention. You would apparate, but you didn’t know the location well enough. So instead, you took train after train to finally reach the town halfway between your home and his.
You tugged your bag off the train, your head on a swivel as you searched for him. There were so many people there that you could hardly move your elbows without bumping someone. You started to worry that he had been stopped before he could flee. You thought of all the ways his father could kill him without any trace. Your eyes snagged on a curly head of hair across the station. He was facing the other direction, staring at the wrong train.
You yelled his name, making him spin around. His face broke into a grin when he saw you, already trying to squeeze through the crowd to get to you. You pushed past people, muttering apologies. A break in the crowd made you run for him, moving as fast as you could. You dropped your bag when you were only a few more strides from him; it was weighing you down. He broke from the group of people, finally running towards you as fast as you were. You held your arms out, not slowing your pace at all.
You finally collided with him, knocking all of the air from you. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing you closer. Mattheo rocked from side to side as he caught his balance. He gently held the back of your neck, pulling your head back. Your body followed his hands blindly. He pressed his lips to yours, slipping his hand from your neck to your cheek. You swept your arms around his shoulders, so glad to finally have him back in your arms. Mattheo pulled away from your mouth, gasping for his breath again.
“You okay?” You asked, no laughter in your voice.
“He killed my fucking bird,” Mattheo muttered. You sighed pitifully and gently rubbed his back.
“I’m glad you’re okay.” You said. Mattheo nodded, lurching forward to smack a kiss on your forehead.
He tugged your bag from the floor as you both walked to a more secluded area to apparate out of town. You would both be on the move for a while now. Mattheo whispered to you his plans in a quiet corner. You would be swinging from town to town, likely camping here and there. Until things were safe. If his father could track either of you down, he’d kill you both. Your parents would be safe. Mattheo had charmed their home before he left for vacation. He had an anxious thought peaking in his brain that this would happen.
You actually didn’t fully hate bouncing around all the time. Somehow, Mattheo made it feel like a vacation. He charmed a tent so it was massive inside and full of everything you needed. A shower and a cozy bed. It had a kitchen and a dining room. He gave you beautiful spots to spend the night. You took pictures with a camera your mother gave you a few years ago. You made him pose at every spot. You’d spend the nights on river banks, mountain tops, and next to waterfalls. You spent a few nights in a wooded area near the ocean. He made you special even when all you had was each other.
Then after a few months, The Night came. The night when his arm started to burn. So bad you pressed his head to your chest and rocked back and forth. There was nothing to do about the pain. He sobbed so loud you worried your silent charm would wear off.
Mattheo bit at your shoulder. The pain in his arm radiating through his entire body so violently, he bit down harder. He only gasped when he tasted blood. When met with the messy sight of blood and his saliva, he only sobbed harder, pressing his cheek to your shoulder like he could erase the wound with his tears. Blood smeared across his face. He seethed in anger, tearing at his arm with his nails. He made himself bleed, coating his hands and arms in red.
Only an hour or two into the night, you had to restrain him. You put him to sleep with a spell. You felt awful doing it, but he was in such extreme pain you couldn’t think of another way to stop it. You healed your shoulder using a spell Pomfrey taught you a while ago, though she advised it was for emergencies only. You watched as your skin scabbed over the bite mark, the scabs falling off into fresh, new scarred skin. It was sore and oddly soft but scarred nonetheless.
You had hoped the sleeping charm would keep him out until morning. But he woke up only a few forty minutes later, screaming in pain. When you gently touched his forearm, your hand shot back with the heat coming off the black ink. You tried to soothe him by wiping his tears away and humming to him, but it didn’t seem to help at all. The tears only kept coming, and he started choking on his sobs. You sent him to sleep again. You worried that if you used the spell too much, it might damage his brain. You sat next to him on the bed with your ear pressed to the radio.
Hogwarts was under attack by the Dark Lord himself. You wished Mattheo were awake. You set the radio down on the nightstand and pressed yourself into Mattheo’s side. You listen to the live updates as you lie against Mattheo. You kept your wand clutched in your hand and pressed it to his chest.
You wished your mother were there to pat your shoulder and tell you something encouraging. You wished your father were there to rub your back and tell you you were stronger than you thought you were. Or something else equally cliche and calming.
The moment you would feel Mattheo stirring, you’d whisper the spell to put him to sleep again. Every time you had to, you wished you were back home and in your own sheets. And maybe that the whole thing wasn’t happening and was all a dream.
After three hours, the reporter finally said He was dead. You lay frozen against Mattheo as the reporter quietly started listing off the deaths and missing persons. You pointed your wand over your shoulder, whispering to turn the radio off. You muttered a charm to release Mattheo’s restraints. You fell asleep with your wand still clutched to your chest and tears staining your cheeks. The waves crashing outside the tent calmed you down as best it could.
When you did wake up, Mattheo was not in bed. You shot up in bed, searching the tent with your eyes. When you found it empty, you stumbled out of bed and out of the flaps of the tent. He was sitting on the sand, with his knees pulled up. Mattheo’s elbows rested over his knees. He was staring out at the water. You slowly approached him, settling into the sand next to him.
He had bathed himself while you were asleep. He no longer had blood on him, which was good. You could still see staining under his nails, but you didn’t see the point in mentioning it. He was fiddling with your wand, twisting it back and forth between his fingers.
“I listened to the radio this morning,” he stated, keeping his eyes on the water. You hummed in response. Mattheo turned his head, meeting your eyes.
“I’m sorry you went through that without me.” He mumbled. You shook your head. It was hard, and you knew it would definitely be multiple conversations with your father. You’d need to spend a very long time working through it. You gave him a gentle smile. Mattheo’s shoulders relaxed a little.
“It was light work.” You joked, grinning at him. Mattheo chuckled, swaying to the side to bump into you. He sighed through his nose, looking back out at the waves.
“Funny.” He mumbled. You reached forward, tipping his arm to the side. You both looked down at his arm. His scratch marks had scabbed over, but they were still red and angry. You gently took your wand from his hands, whispering to his arm. His skin healed over, leaving the raised lines cutting through his black ink. They split the image in different directions, reminding you of when someone scribbled out their writing. You traced down the lines, almost worried you’d feel the same heat you did last night. You pressed your palm over the mark, settling your heart when it only felt like Mattheo’s skin.
You pressed a kiss to his jaw. Mattheo turned his head, meeting your lips properly. You couldn’t fight down your smile as you pulled away. He pecked your lips again, dropping his hand on top of yours.
“Can I see your shoulder?” He muttered, glancing at your shoulder on the other side. You turned to the side, pulling the collar of your shirt. He stared at the teeth marks. He reached out, running his thumb over the bumps. He sighed so deeply you felt like you could catch part of his lungs.
“I’m sorry, that looks like it was deep.” He whined, rubbing at it more like it might wash it away. You swatted his hand away.
“I don’t mind it. I think it looks kind of badass. Like I survived a cannibal.” You remarked, looking out at the ocean, so you wouldn’t laugh at the look on Mattheo’s face.
You returned home soon after that, hugging your parents tighter than ever in your life. You showed them every picture you took. You spent a long afternoon in your father’s study as you talked about your night of the battle. The next day, Mattheo spent more time with your father. Your mother was incredibly happy to let you both move back in. You were more than overjoyed that you finally had a home with Mattheo. You thought of your new scar as a sign of the permanence of his love. Mattheo was glad you could see the beautiful side of his bloody mess. Your mother painted a portrait of you and Mattheo standing on the beach. She referenced the background with your pictures and had you both pose for a few hours. You had your scar on your shoulder, and Mattheo had his scars and ink. In both your gazes was pure and complete love. You loved each other in totality. You looked happy on the beach, and that's how you remembered it.
laying down to bed tonight after doing my sudoku and I'm thinking ooo I'm so excited for my coffee tomorrow morning lit cheesing and giggling about it who turned me into a 90 year old woman
barbie dolls: john the footman x f!bridgerton!reader
word: 3.3k
summary: essentially that penelope and colin scene when penelope begs him for a kiss
warnings: yes i am unoriginal but idgaf rn, cleaning out my drafts lwk, no smut but i tease you a lil bit sorry, almost spinster reader, overuse of miss Bridgerton, a small little anti man comment but in my defense theyre awful so, you're uneducated on sex, virgin reader?, lost of virginity but it is not written, I did not write sex bruv i wrote the part before it and the rest of it happened off screen, insecurity because of lack of suitors but it's fine wtv, it is bridgerton reader but there is no description of race or hair or anything like that so you could spin an adoption background if you wanted to, i think that's it
The season after Anthony’s wedding was particularly suffocating. Your mother breathing down your neck about finding a husband was nothing new. You had surpassed the proper age that husbands looked for. You were approaching spinsterhood. You would be considered a spinster by harsher gentlemen of the Ton. Although by the books, you still had this last season of being Six and Twenty before you were officially a spinster. It did not bode well that you had not been called on since your debut. Once! Oh yes, Mister Darlington. Ironically, he wasn’t very darling at all. He had a stench about him, and despite you having very few suitors, your own mother understood your refusal.
Although you wished for more than a husband, without any interest in you from the Ton, you were beginning to feel a bit inadequate. You wanted to tell every family member who asked that you were quite excited to spend the rest of your days alone. In your mother’s home. Staring out the window. Extremely alone. Yet, for some reason you refused to admit, your throat would close when you thought of the sentence.
You did not have male friends. They did not speak to you. Often, the gentlemen around you seemed to fear catching whatever ailment you had, which made people avoid your conversation. It was particularly annoying in a home full of Diamonds, Rakes, and, put simply, attractive people. People with women and men chasing them. You did find solace in Eloise, but still you wanted more. The only men you ever spoke to were your brothers and the staff of your family. Though you truly found peace in only one.
John’s father worked for the family long before John was even old enough to hold a broom. Violet and Edmund had always had a soft spot for children, no matter their rank. So, despite the fact that it was definitely outside the norm, John was allowed to run around the home with you and your siblings. He was closest to your age, so it was natural that he spent most of his time next to you. By age twelve, the wall between you was built.
John was a servant, and you were a lady. Therefore, there was no running around. There was no playing tag in the gardens. There shouldn’t be, and yet. He chased you around the gardens. You had tugged your dress up, tying the extra material around your waist. The fabric made a bubbled skirt that ended at the knees. John scuffed his boots in the gravel paths and wrinkled his specially made work shirt when he tackled you into a flowery shrub. His father scolded him for the boots, shirt, and property damage. Your mother and father scolded you for exposing your legs and the inappropriate behavior between you and John.
Although you had felt embarrassed about the whole situation, the morning after John made you feel nothing but amusement. You had been racing down the stairs to beat Colin when you saw him standing by the door. He had the posture of a working man but the soft and attentive look of a friend. He watched you as you reached the final step. You felt your face warm at the memory of your scolding yesterday. And how you had unknowingly been particularly promiscuous with John. The corner of his lips pointed up, a half-baked joke whispered into the empty hall. It wasn’t very funny, but it relaxed you enough anyway. Colin stormed down the stairs behind you, giving you a shove.
All these years later, the barrier between your classes had become clearer and clearer. You were not to cross it. If you did, you would be shamed by the family entirely. You would not be crossing that line anytime soon, but you may saddle up closer to it. Many days, you would spend conversing with John halfway across the room. You would sit and work on your needlepoint while he waited next to the door for an order. He was likely not supposed to have casual conversations with you, but you didn't care too much. He definitely was not to leave his post, so he never did. You just talked loudly, which you would accept. He was not supposed to be the only person you talked to at balls, but sometimes you just stood in front of him, barely to the side. Sometimes you happen to whisper to yourself. And sometimes a whisper with a different voice responded. He was not to break his fast with you. But sometimes you become curious about what the servants' quarters looked like. Sometimes you happen to follow him around the hot and bustling rooms with a small breakfast plate. He absolutely should not speak to you without first being spoken to, but sometimes you just spoke really quietly before he did. He absolutely should never be in your bedchambers. Ever. But this morning you left your book in the kitchen, and you would definitely be in a sour mood tomorrow morning when you could not find it.
You had already been changed, and your candles had been put out. You lifted your head from your pillow at the sound of your door opening on its own. John quietly slipped in, completely avoiding your bed. He went directly for your dresser, gently setting your book on the wood.
“John?” You whispered, your almost sleep already twisting at your voice. He froze, his silhouette going rigid. The moon framed behind your curtains made him look a little ominous. He straightened up. You could actually see the moment he shifted back into his work stance. He held his hands behind his back, his head pulling away from his chest like he was on a string.
“Miss Bridgerton.” He responded, perfectly trained to be professional. You grumbled and sat up in your blankets. You tossed them from your body, revealing your white nightgown to the world. John startled, turning his cheek to face you. You could now see the line of his profile. If you could make out his face, you would put money on his eyes being closed. It was one thing to be in your room while you were buried under all of your blankets. To be in your room while your body was only one thin nightgown away was entirely different.
“I only came to return your book, Miss Bridgerton.” He whispered, dipping his chin down to his chest. You stared at him. This was odd. John was odd. You weren’t horrifically superstitious. You obviously did believe in the common sense of the modern era. Such as the full moon bringing fertility, and that the four humours of the body ruled health. But you did not believe in things like cracks breaking backs or men having souls. You did occasionally see your situation from an outside perspective and believe that a butterfly somewhere flapped specifically for this to happen. This was one of those situations. What small things had to happen for John to end up in your room at this time? Simultaneously, what small things had to happen for you to be awake when he entered?
“John?” You asked again. John lifted his head back into his straight as a board posture.
“Yes, Miss Bridgerton?" You pulled at the white fabric over your thighs, pulling it away from your knees. John’s hand flew over his face, covering his eyes entirely.
“I do not believe I should witness this, Miss Bridgerton.” You rolled your eyes at him, lifting yourself onto your knees and shuffling down to the edge of your bed.
“My promiscuous calves are covered, John.” You grumbled. His hand ran down his face, pulling at the skin.
“I should go, Miss Bridgerton.”
“I want to ask you something, but I need you to come closer. My voice will not last at this distance.” You muttered. John looked away from the wall in front of him and clenched his jaw. He stepped forward, standing in front of you at the foot of your bed. He kept a large distance between the two of you. He nodded, giving you the go-ahead to ask your question.
You thought of how it was likely you would be dying completely unmarried. You would never learn what happened on a wedding night or even what the big deal about it was. People started wars and duels over the thing, but never bothered to give you any inclination about what it even involved. You did know what it began with.
“Would you kiss me?” Your voice was quieter than before. Yet it seemed to have the weight of a boat on John. His work posture dissolved, his mouth falling open. John took a rapid step away from you, holding up his hands.
“Oh, Miss Bridgerton, I must leave immediately,” John whispered, taking a step towards your door. You almost tumbled off your bed as you reached out for him. You found purchase around his arm and held on tight.
“No. John, please listen to me. I will not say a word.” John turned around, pressing his hand over yours on his arm. His eyes were shut, his face twitching in different spots repeatedly.
“Please. I have been on the marriage mart for nine years. I have no suitors at all-”
“Darlington.”
“Oh, please! This is not a joking matter.” You chided. John pressed his mouth into a tight line, nodding at your demand.
“There is no hope of a husband for me. I see it in my mother's eye. She does not believe that a man will find interest in me. I-” Your voice croaked, the real, true fear of being left completely alone crawling out. There had to be something wrong with you. Why was there not a single suitor? Nine years and not one man.
“I have made peace with it.” You lied. “If I die alone,-”
“You will not die alone,” John interjected, shaking his head. You ignored him.
“Then so be it. But if I die without ever experiencing even a morsel of what it is like to be loved that way, I will regret every breath. I am not asking you to love me; that is obviously impossible, but I ask you to just give me one moment where I am desired. I only ask for a kiss.” You finished with a sigh. You wanted to move your hands from his arms and grip his shoulders. You wanted to shake him back and forth and beg with tears. You wanted to chain him to your bedpost and make sure you were never alone. Instead, you only dug your fingertips into his arm. John shook his head. With his casual movement, you felt your last fragile piece of hope shattering.
“I cannot compromise you, Miss Bridgerton. You are a lady. I am a footman. We must stay on our sides of the fence.” John whispered. You tugged him closer by his arm.
“It is not compromising if there is no future husband. I am not asking you for the night. Just seconds. I am a spinster, John. I am a hopeless case. Please.” You begged, pressing his arm to your chest.
“You are no spinster. You will find your great love, and he will be the one-”
“Do not mock me,” you ground out, yanking your hands from him and giving him a light push in the process. John pressed his hand to the spot on his arm that your hands had been. You both were quiet as he stared at you in shock. You wanted to take back time and use a little more self-control. All that happened was your eyes began to sting, and your face grew warmer. John moved closer to you slowly. He was advancing like you might shove him again. He reached his hands out for you, gently holding your face.
“I would not mock you,” John whispered, the heat of his breath hitting your face. You wanted to glare and call him something mean. You melted into his touch, your chest pressing against his.
“I know you feel hopeless. I know you think it's impossible for you to gain a suitor. I know it feels like spinsterhood is right upon you. I promise you, you will marry. You will find the suitor that makes you burn and laugh, and swoon. He will make you very happy, and he will be the man to kiss you. That man will not be me.” John’s voice was so quiet you might've missed half of what he said. But unfortunately for you, you heard every word. You held onto the back of his hand, your fingertips sandwiched between his palm and your cheek.
“That man is pure fantasy. I want you to kiss me. I will have this moment to think of when I am deep into my spinsterhood. I want you to kiss me, John.” You replied, your voice strained with the power it took to hold back tears. John breathed heavily through his nose, closing his eyes as he built his strength to tell you no again.
“Miss Bridgerton, we should not.”
“Please.” You whined. John squeezed his eyes tighter, leaning forward to press his forehead to yours. His breath was warming your lips. You could feel him panting. This was practically running up and down the stairs for him. This was truly taking much of his willpower. He could feel the presence of your mouth. Just millimeters away. John could feel the press of your exhale on him. He knew that if he just leaned forward, he would be kissing you.
“We must not.” He whispered to your lips. If he just tilted his head, he'd be living the multitude of dreams that were plaguing his mind for years. You nodded briefly against him. One of his hands migrated to the back of your head.
“Miss Bridgerton, if we are found out, you will lose your family,” he mumbled. You nodded again. And although you both were clearly in agreement that this was a terrible idea with far too much at stake, neither of you moved.
“You will be ostracized.” John reminded you. This time, you did not nod.
“Please, John,” you breathed. John only had so much strength. He tipped forward. His lips pressed to yours. You reacted fast, your arms swinging up from your sides. You caged them around the back of his neck. John pressed his fingertips into your scalp. Just as you were starting to get a handle on the pattern of kissing, John pulled away abruptly.
You steadied yourself using the wooden bedpost, catching your breath. John stepped backwards, shaking his head rapidly.
“I should not be kissing you, my lady. Not in your bed chambers. Not in your nightgown. Not without a chaperone. Not at all. I must go. I should not have done that. I will not speak of it, therefore it never happened, and you are not compromised.” John rambled as he stared at the floor. You could not reach him if you wanted to. He was too far from the bed, and at this point, you might be too dizzy to stand.
“Oh, John, please don't do this,” you respond. John quickly turned, stepping towards the door. You watched as he finally reached the handle. His hand was resting on the metal when you sighed. A quiet huff out of maybe frustration or maybe even disappointment. Maybe it was even dreamy. The little thing made him freeze. John spun back around, quietly making quick work of the room.
You did not have to beg for him to return his lips to yours. His nose dug into your cheek. His hand pulled at your chin, ebbing open your mouth. He invaded your mouth with his tongue. You buried your hands into the fabric of his coat, gripping onto his vest. John held you tighter to him with one hand at the back of your neck and the other by your back. You had never been kissed before, but you expected that John was a world-renowned kisser. There had to be a sign somewhere in the streets that said ‘Footman-John best kisser in town.’ You must have missed it, certainly. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. When you walked up the stairs, you always felt like you had a breath hovering right in front of your face and taunting you because you could never quite catch it. You could feel your lungs begging for relief. You couldn’t put the warmth he was causing in your body away for a breath. John pulled away from your mouth.
He was the only thing holding you up, your body held tightly to his. You dropped your head back from your neck, feeling like jelly. John’s hand traveled upwards from your neck and cradled the back of your head. He lifted your head slowly, making you meet his eyes again.
“This is completely unforgivable, Miss Bridgerton,” John whispered. You leaned your weight into his, ignoring every word.
“I should go, Miss Bridgerton.” You licked at your lips, hoping to memorize the feel of his spit on yours. You must’ve forgotten your sense at your pillow because at this time your world was nothing but John. You could not think of anything outside that door. All you had was John’s hands on your body and his breath puffing against your face.
“You are a lady of the Ton, Miss Bridgerton." It was dizzying how easily he was able to warm your body even through your nightgown. You wondered if his hands would be able to beat the chill of the room against completely bare skin.
“Miss-”
“Oh, do not call me that again.” You groaned, leaning your head back into his hand. John huffed in frustration. He did not remove himself from you. John leaned closer to you, his nose bumping into your chin as he breathed against your neck.
“If you will regret this come morning light, I will go. I must leave now if you do not want me to take every part-” He glanced down at your body pressed to his and sighed deeply. He lifted his eyes back to yours and remembered he had a point. “You will be fully compromised if I do not go now,” John whispered, his fingers digging into the fabric covering your back. You both stayed silent, your mind whirling.
“Stay.” You answered. John surged forward, pressing his mouth to your neck. You held onto the wooden bedpost next to you to keep yourself from falling. His hands left your back, trailing down the length of your thighs. He pulled at the fabric of your nightgown, raising the hem. The room’s chill met your legs, your mouth falling open at the feeling.
John was gone before the sun. You hoped he made it to his duties before anyone noticed that he was not in his own bed last night. You were casually asleep in your bed before your Lady’s maids entered your room. After your bath, you stood in front of the mirror. Your maids pulled your chemise over your head. You stared at your skin, the length of your neck, and your lips. You held your hands out in front of you and twisted them around to look at the back. You twisted to look at the way the thin fabric landed over your hips. There was no difference between this morning and the one before. You slightly expected your body to undergo a massive change. You thought, perhaps, your shape would change. Or maybe there would be some other sign attached to you that said ‘compromised’. You were just you, fortunately. And that made you square your shoulders back and grin. You had experience and knowledge.
summary: uh you guys get engaged basically idk not a whole lot goes on babe
warnings: youre a seer, you are really good at divination but bad at potions, draco is rich, you're rich boo, marriage talk briefly, lucius lwk sucks, you guys have a maid, but shes paid, unlike elves, getting married very young and very early into the relationship DONT DO THIS, i think that's it
Draco harbored a soft hatred for Divination classes. His grades were lower than he usually aimed for. They were by no means low, as he strived for perfection. A hair out of place or a B was unacceptable. You worked hard on your classes. You kept your grades high and your work done. You weren't exceptional in any class, except Divination. Your talents seemed to lie beyond the physical. Trelawney was frequently expressing her pride in you. You could find answers easily with your tarot deck, and she was frequently impressed by your accuracy. Your highest grade was always in that class, and so were your spirits. Though Potions often threw you for a loop. It always felt like the people around you had read something you hadn’t in the instructions.
It was late in your schooling when Trelawney made a new seating chart and altered your life forever. She sat you next to Draco in the hopes that your presence could help raise his grades. It was really only supposed to be for one project. Something clicked between the two of you. Draco wouldn’t admit it until later, but he had always found your talent in that class a bit impressive. Much as you found his skills in Potions. He obviously didn’t jump straight into your arms professing his devotion. Instead, he slowly started to realize that not only were you incredible at knowing what you shouldn’t know, but you had no intention to mock him for not understanding a lick of Divination. That, he found to be magnificent.
His grade began to rise, and he was second in class, only behind you. As a thank you and a pitiful attempt at keeping you near him, he offered his tutoring services in Potions. Which, much to his joy, you agreed to. Your grades in Potions leveled to your others, and suddenly, you and Draco were friends. When partners were needed for Potions or Divination, your eyes would lock, and without a word, Draco would join your desk.
After a few months, your conversations left the top of classroom desks and moved to the sticky tops of Three Broomsticks’ tables. Your whispers of explanations about the meaning of the Wish Card in tarot became muttering admiration. You were more than just classmates or friends. You didn’t bother giving your connection a name; you were what you wanted to be that day. That became a devoted bond every day. You were together through and through. Even after Hogwarts ended, you stood together.
You had a home together. It was financed with his trust fund, but when you slipped into your claw-footed bathtub, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. You had bigger problems than where the money for your mansion came from, such as living in a mansion.
Draco still held firmly onto his perfectionist ways, going through a whole line of maids before finally finding one who understood “the importance of details.” A painted portrait of the two of you stood over your mantle in the lounge. In case anyone came over and forgot whose house they were visiting. They’d have your cutting eyes staring down at them from your perch on a throne. With Draco’s frown reminding them to keep their feet off the coffee table as he stood behind you.
You had an obscene number of rooms. You both had your own walk-in closet. Your bedroom had an attached bathroom with its own chandelier. Draco had the billiards room converted into a practice area for your talents. It had sliding doors to a balcony that gave you easy access to the stars. He found your talents of the divine incredibly beneficial when he needed advice. Your deck of cards always knew his worst fears even if he kept them buried.
Some days, you really wondered if it was Trelawney’s fault you were together now or if the universe had decided it eons ago. You couldn’t imagine your life without him. If it wasn’t now, you’d have run into him on the way out of a restaurant, or on the way into a shop. Somehow, you would’ve met him. There couldn’t possibly be a world where he was not in your life at all.
His mother quite adored you. She said she knew it was love the moment he came home talking about tea leaves. He never quite fancied the class before. In fact, Narcissa informed you he’d talk about how much he hated the whole idea of the course. She liked to rave to her friends that her son was with a seer. How magnificent is that? Her own son has a front row seat to the future and the great beyond. Not to mention how amazing you were. Draco mentioned many times that his mother never stopped talking about how funny you were. You could always make her crack up after the worst day.
His father tolerated you.
Which you appreciated. You were cordial but mostly silent with him. You saw no need to waste your energy chasing his approval. He barely approved of his own son.
The hot water of your bath went up to your shoulders. Your arms rested against the porcelain rim. When you ducked your feet back into the water, it created small waves to your neck. Draco had been getting ready for bed since you started running your bath. He was still in his suit, though; now he was washing his face clean of his work. The crease between his brows seemed to slip away the moment he entered the same room as you. Getting ready for the night together was usually silent. Especially your baths. It was rare for him to speak up when you were soaking unless he was reading to you.
“What do you think of marriage?” Draco’s voice cracked the emptiness of the room. Your eyes opened, shifting to his figure bent over the sink. You closed them again, after making completely sure it was him who spoke up. As much as you deeply adored him, you’d only been together about two years. Less than one outside of Hogwarts. Much more, you didn’t realize you’d be considered a marrying type in the slightest. You kind of assumed Draco just wanted to live with you for as long as possible. You pictured maybe Blaise or Theo having children and bringing them to your house. You’d just be ‘together’ until the end, not married.
“I think it’s a legally binding contract between typically two people.” You replied, slipping back into your relaxation. Draco turned the sink off. You opened your eyes again, trying to fight down the grin. You almost laughed at the look on his face. He glared at you as you cheesed up at him from the tub.
“Yeah. Funny.” Draco muttered, patting his face dry with a hand towel. You jutted your brows up in a ‘oh, I’m well aware’ way. You tried to ignore his eyes on you from across the bathroom. Though your focus was on the wall in front of you, you could feel his attention on you. You turned your eyes back to him. He was gripping onto the sides of the bathroom counter.
“What do you think of marriage?” He repeated. You raised your brows.
“You’re serious?” You mumbled. Draco nodded. You straightened up in the tub, making the water slosh around. You draped both your arms over the edge, leaning your head against it.
“Well, for me or others?” You furthered. You were starting to hope he knew something you didn't know about Theo’s relationship. Draco crossed his arms over his chest.
“You.”
“Hmmm.” You stared at the floor as you thought over your future. You could see a small wedding. With your friends in a backyard or someone’s garden. You could see a few vows and a gentle kiss. You could see the look on Draco’s face when Mattheo reached over and pushed his slice of cake onto his cheek. And you could see the look on yours when Pansy tried the same and failed. You knew what flavor it would be and the color of the frosting. You could see the extravagant but gentle dress Narcissa would wear. You could see the large grin she’d flash you as you walked down the aisle holding Draco’s hand.
You thought of the marriage itself. You already knew you’d be spending all your time with Draco. It’s not like you’d have to move. He’s shown you nothing but care regarding your peculiar talents. He supported you when you decided to open your home to guests and have them pay for readings. He never once called such skills less than or silly. Unlike his father. You could see yourself sharing the same bed, only with matching rings. You could see yourself growing old and leaning on each other when your legs became more fragile. You could certainly see your face wrinkling as you grew with him. You could see the life you would live with him, rich in wealth and happiness. You couldn’t imagine a better picture.
“I think I like the idea.” You answered. Draco nodded, a secret sense of doom rolling off his shoulders.
“I think I do too,” Draco muttered. You smiled.
“Your mother would look good in a deep purple.” You added. Draco grinned, looking up from the floor at you.
“Yes, she would.” He pushed himself off the counter. Draco took two strides to reach the edge of the tub. He leaned down, giving you a quick peck. He turned back to the sink and pulled his toothbrush out.
A week later, he proposed. It was early in the morning, in your shared bedroom. You had left bed and shrugged your robe on, getting ready to have breakfast. He pulled you from the door. His hand dug into your stomach, pressing your back into him. You hummed sleepily as he pecked at your neck. He pulled at the collar of your robe, pulling it down your shoulder. Draco turned you around, cradling your cheek as he stared into your eyes. He pulled a velvet box from behind his back. Jewelry wasn’t a new gift in the slightest, but your face still broke into a wide grin.
Draco stepped back, settling down onto one knee. You froze, staring down at him with blown eyes. He cracked open the box, showcasing the most stunning and intricate ring you had ever seen.
“Please, marry me.” He whispered, his voice too fragile. You nodded, yanking him off the floor by his arm. You quickly pressed your lips to his, forgoing your concern about morning breath. Draco broke away, looking down at the box in his hands. He pulled the ring from the velvet, slipping it onto your finger.
Your maid was incredibly happy for you when you bounced down the stairs, waving your hand around.
Narcissa was even happier. She screamed when she saw it, startling both you and Draco. She cradled your hand to her face, investigating every centimeter of the ring. When Lucius came barrelling into the room at the sound of Narcissa’s scream, Draco stood from his spot on the couch.
“Father.” Draco greeted, straightening his suit before his father could comment on it. Lucius jutted his chin down. “We’re engaged,” Draco said. Lucius glanced down at you, then to Narcissa. His mouth turned down for a brief moment before he swallowed. He forced his face into a smile, though it still looked like a grimace.
“Pleasant news.” He mumbled before turning back towards the door. Draco stood for a moment like he expected Lucius to come back and start jumping for joy. You gently pressed your hand to his side, drawing him back into the moment. Draco settled back into his seat. Narcissa gave you a sad smile.
“He’ll come around when the day finally comes.” She soothed. Draco’s hand found yours in your lap, his grip tightening. You smiled at Narcissa.
“Of course, we’ll get him a bouncy house to jump all his joy out.” Narcissa chuckled at your joke, pulling her cup of tea to her lips again.
“So, what time are we thinking for the wedding?” She asked.
“We were thinking maybe Spring.” You answered. Narcissa sighed happily, pressing her hand to her chest.
“That will be so beautiful.” She said before shaking her head. She let out a quick squeal, clenching her fist next to her.
“I am just so excited! If you two need any help with the planning, let me know.” She said, laughing through her words. You patted the back of Draco’s hand, glancing at him. His shoulders had relaxed since he sat back down.
“Of course, I know how much you adore planning events.” Draco soothed. Narcissa smiled at him, staring out the window. She was fantasizing about the extravagant wedding for her son. You turned your head, smiling at Draco. You couldn’t be happier Trelawney sat you next to him.
I think George would prob name his son Fred the Third obviously the first would be Fred (twin) so then when ppl would ask "who's the second there's only two in the family?" he gets to make a terrified face and stare at the person in horror and say "we don't talk about what happened to the second." and then when his son goes to school Fred the Third is also going "yeah we don't talk about the second Fred so idk what happened to him" George thinks this is the funniest running gag in the family ever
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