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rottenherbs · 12 days ago

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Matchmaker // F.W x reader

Request: it would be an honor to have a Fred Weasley x Reader wherein the reader is a matchmaker and students would often ask her for their suitable partners. But the irony is, since she's a matchmaker she can't seem to find hers (if that makes any sense), later on Fred would suddenly pop in in her life (I honestly don't know if this plot is sensible but yeah, the scene entirely up to you to alter and modify to your likings).

Word Count: 2k

Authors Note: CANONICALLY I understand that Neville asked Ginny to the Yule ball but I am re-rewriting history. And I am half sorry and half not. Also I swear i write my imagines like they are the first chapters to full fledge fan fictions.

If you want to request a second part (or more) to ANY piece of writing please do! I’d love to continue any of my pieces <3

[masterlist] ((PART TWO IN MASTERLIST)

Much Love, Saige

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“I hope it works out for you.” You smile, ushering the young student off. “But if not, I'm not liable!” You mumbled lightly under your breath. They turned around for a moment, unsure if they heard you correctly; giving you a look of disbelief before quickly turning out of sight.

You relaxed your shoulders, letting your smile fall as soon as they left, closing your eyes for a moment before straightening your posture, ready to do it all again.

”Next please!” You adjusted the papers in front of you awkwardly as the next student walked in. A small brown haired boy, shuffling in short choppy steps, quickly making their way to your makeshift desk. They couldn't have been more than fourteen, visibly gangly under their uniform with charmingly large teeth hidden slightly by their pursed lips.

“Ahh Welcome welcome. What can I do for you?” You leaned forward, your elbows now resting on the desk watching them plop themselves in front of you. The young boys hands immediately covered his face, pausing before speaking.

“I don't know who to ask to the ball. ” He choked, his words muffled heavily by his hands. You cocked your head to the side, listening further. The Yule ball was a hot topic for most of the students right now, the idea of asking their peers to a dance gave most body chilling anxiety. This boy was no exception.

But you didn’t respond, allowing him to continue at his own pace.

“I think everyone thinks I'm a little weird. I act weird, I look a little weird.” He continued, his words only above a whisper. “I think it's a lost cause going to the dance.” He peered through his fingers at you, his face visibly red.

“Neville is it?” You asked, sorting through some of the papers in front of you. He looked up at you in shock, unaware how you knew of him.

“Yeah how did you-“

”You should give yourself more credit. From what I hear you have a lot of courage for a wizard your age.” You riffled through the papers some more, finding the roster of witches and wizards in the fourth year with him. You looked up momentarily to smile at him, noticing his posture shift in the chair, his hands now placed politely in his lap.

“I swear if Lupin had me do a boggart, it might as well of been Snape.” You chuckled, pulling a single paper out from the pile. You glanced at him again, a small grin growing on his face. “But that stays between you and me. Hmm?” You continued, raising your eyes slightly. Neville nodded his head quickly, becoming increasingly curious as to what you were about to reveal.

“Now. I know a little bit about the students of your year. You are a few years behind me but close enough.” You waved your hand haphazardly, attempting to keep the conversation light.

“Now you talked about being weird.” You set the paper face down in front of you, locking eyes with the boy. You wanted to give Neville a better sense of confidence in himself before matching him with one of his peers. “Weird is not bad. Weird is great. I’m pretty weird eh? I know everything about everyone in this school. I think that’s a little weird.” He laughed, listening intently.

“Now, I think you just need to find those who matches your weird” You smirked, flipping the page over, revealing a small image of a blond haired girl, silver eyes, and an odd yet charming sense of style. Nevilles eyes practically bulged as he grabbed the paper, unable to find the words.

”Eh eh eh! I keep the paper. You, on the other hand, keep the knowledge. Try it out. Talk to her. Something tells me you two have something mystical brewing.” You wagged your eyebrows sliding the paper back. Neville nodded his head, jumping from his seat out of excitement.

“Thank you! Thank you!” He reached out grabbing your hand, shaking it vigorously. You shook it back, feeling infected with the sudden burst of energy and confidence he now held. He turned and walked out of the empty classroom, head held high. His stride was a little less choppy and his hands a little less shaky.

You smiled to yourself, feeling an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. Collecting the papers strewn against the table, you hesitated over a few of them. Small cards with little tidbits of information scattered alongside images of students. Had their astrological signs, their hobbies, what their class records were. Everyone was intertwined in their own way and it fascinated you. Something that started as a fun joke between friends grew into something school wide. You watched students give their first attempts at love, bring relationships back from the dead, and matching unconfident teenagers with someone who understands them the most. It was your secret talent.

Shoving your book bag over your shoulder, you shut the classroom door behind you, content with another day's work. Turning on your heel, you immediately bump into a large mass, practically unmovable, knocking you to the floor. Catching yourself with your hands, your papers flew across the empty hallway.

“Oh god.” You looked up, noticing the mess now surrounding you. It would take hours to re-sort and categorize all these students. More focused on the papers, you didn’t notice a hand slipping under your elbow, pulling you to your feet. A small yelp escaped your lips, fear flowing through your body.

“Sorry! Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you — or make you drop all of your pictures. Wait, is that me?” The tall figure bent down, picking up a picture. Their back was towards you, only their gryffindor robes and fiery red hair noticeable. Quickly realizing who it could be, you gave yourself a 50% chance of guessing correctly.

Turning to face you, Freds eyes were practically shut, a grin growing on his face from ear to ear, wrinkling his face playfully. He held up the small picture of himself next to his head.

“ Quite a dashing image you chose.” He jokingly looked back and forth between the image of him and you, putting the pieces together,

”Oh! You’re the matchmaker! God George wouldn’t stop shutting up about you after he got Angelina to agree to go to the dance with him. Seriously, he is chuffed. They are inseparable.” He laughed, tossing the image back into the mess on the floor. “It’s actually quite disgusting really…. But hey, I'm a supportive brother.” He shrugged his shoulders, slightly kicking his feet on the stone ground.

You huffed, rolling your eyes at his lack of aid to your clutter. Bending down and beginning to pick up the papers on the floor, you ignored his comments, more frustrated with the large task in front of you.

“Oh god sorry. I got caught up.” He joined you on his knees, carefully picking up papers and pictures, cautiously making sure not to crease or ruin them further. You sighed, relaxing slightly at his help.

“Thanks. It's alright, mistakes happen. Now my whole night will just be fixing this jumble. Seems that 1st year Slytherin are mixed with the 6th year Hufflepuffs.’ You sat back, picking up two different students, shaking your head. Fred chuckled, pausing to read every now and again about the students he gathered.

“How come you never sent someone to me eh? No one matches my type?” He asked flirtatiously, his eyes focused on the floor. You halted your moments, looking at him in disbelief.

“Oh please. Look at the hundreds of students in your own hands. You’re not the only one. How come you never came up and asked for yourself.” You snorted, crawling against the floor, getting closer to Fred. His eyes watched you carefully, thinking about it himself. Why hasn’t he?

“You got me there. Guess I've been doing just fine on my own.” He shrugged, pursing his lips playfully. You laughed, sitting back down, your body tired already from cleaning.

“So who has the matchmaker matched with herself? Must be some fancy bloke who checks off all the marks.” He mumbled, a tone of sarcasm almost hidden behind his words. Almost.

You leaned your back against the wall, slightly saddened by his question. Most people didn’t know that you were almost cursed with your own lack of a love life. You could speak of it in heartbroken poetic love stories; the girl who always looked out for everyone else but never had the time to look inward. Fiddling with your hands, your silence said it all for you.

“If it's any consolation, I haven't had much luck either.” Fred spoke, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, setting the stack of papers down next to him. He sat crossed legged diagonal to you, his eyes now moving around the room, unable to stay still. You smiled lightly, feeling a small sense of relief.

“Is it bad if that does make me feel better?” You scrunch your nose, exhaling lightly, holding back a laugh. Fred looks up, taken back by your words. He laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the walls.

“If my unlucky status as a lone stag makes you feel better, by all means.” He lifted his hands, gesturing vaguely at the mess. You both sat for a moment, laughing with each other. The conversation relaxes back to normalcy.

Sighing lightly, you got to your knees, slowly making your way to your feet. Fred looked at you from the ground, wracking his brain on how you weren’t taken by anybody in this school. While he knew quite little about you, what he did know was that you were caring, kind, and thoughtful to those who came to you for help. Especially because you helped his brother earlier, he had a deep sense of gratitude for what you did.

Collecting the papers, you slid them into your bag, turning to face Fred. He was still on the ground, his eyes fixated on your every movement. You cleared your throat awkwardly, extending your hand, silently asking for the papers near him. Freds eyes widened, realizing he was just sitting and staring at you. He quickly turned, handing you the papers with a small smile. Getting to his feet quickly, he was now the one towering over you.

“So..” He reached up, adjusting his tie, the quiet corridor filling with anticipation. ”Do you need any help with sorting those?” He pointed at your book bag, quickly shoving his hands into his front pockets. He felt bad for creating the mess and wanted to help further, but he also wanted to spend more time with you. “I happen to know a lot of my clientele. Maybe we can join forces.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

For a second, you hated the idea. It was something that was special to you, something that was almost embarrassingly secretive you didn’t dare share with anyone. Yet when you looked at him, you didn’t feel judgement. You only felt genuine curiosity and a sense of complementary energy. Calibrating the pros and cons in your head, you reached a conclusion that you wanted to know more about him in any way possible.

“Yeah. I’d love that.” You affirmed quietly. The smile grew on Fred's face, a mix of mischievousness and mystery. You didn’t know entirely if you could trust him, but something in your heart pulled towards him. He was invigorating, charming, and smart. Whether he would be a helpful tool in your business — only time would tell.

Turning towards the hallway, Fred bowed slightly, his hands guiding you ahead.

“Ladies first.” He joked, his smile unwavering. You laughed, accepting his invitation. As soon as you passed him, he joined you in the hallway, only the sounds of your feet lightly pattering against the floor.

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley headcanons #fred #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley #fred wealsey fic #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasly x reader #harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter x reader #harry potter headcanon #harrypotter #harry potter fanfiction #hogwarts

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godihatethiswebsite · 3 months ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability.

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning.

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations.

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays.

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret.

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards.

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival.

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains.

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter?

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet.

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation.

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship.

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup.

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear.

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device.

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.”

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine.

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned.

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age.

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs.

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn.

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally.

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter.

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind.

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life.

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown.

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care.

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst.

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts.

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall.

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries.

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him.

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess.

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system.

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important.

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock.

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ��getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart.

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions.

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame.

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness.

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it.

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once.

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left.

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react?

How did she react?

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?!

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

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storiesfromafan · 10 months ago

Text

The Waltz

A/N: yes I am back with Part 3 (Dance Class 101 and Beautiful Swan). I have to say I've enjoyed writing this small series, and have enjoyed the comments.

I also want to thank everyone who has followed this story blog, I cant believe I have got 326 followers!!

Also, don't hesitate to request stories. Sometimes it helps with my writing block lol.

@littlebookbengal @bewitchingbrie @anehkael -unfortunatly I couldnt take a few people :(

The Waltz

The booming voice of Professor Dumbledore in welcoming all to The Yule Ball. Gathering with other couples, you and Lorenzo watched the Professor with everyone else. Dumbledore spoke about the ball and how it was a tradition that is kept up to bring Hogwarts, Beauxbatons Academy and Durmstrang Institute together. And it did bring you all together. Besides most of the males of Hogwarts being intimidated of the male’s students from Drumstrang, the female students from Beauxbatons had taken to the females of Hogwarts.

Once Dumbledore was finished, he introduced each of the school’s champions. They all entered in a line, before coming to stop in the open space of the dance floor. They opened The Yule Ball with the first dance for the night. You and Lorenzo sniggered at Harry Potter and his date, the only couple to stick out like a sore thumb.

“Looks like old mate has two left feet” commented your friend.

You snort laughed. “Don’t be so mean Enzo” you hit his arm softly.

You both went back to watching as your professor’s joined in. Of course, Snape and the female professor, who had been your dancing instructors, paired up and took to the floor. You and Lorenzo held it together as best you could. The female professor still looked like she wanted to run for the hills, while Snape was as rigid as ever. Only now the rest of the students got to bare witness to what the Slytherin students had been privy to for two weeks. You heard the whispers and the sniggers at Snape’s expense.

Once the dance was over, Snape left the dance floor in a sweep of his cloak, his dance partner moving off in the opposite direction. The champions all took their leave of the floor, while other students braved the dance floor.

Lorenzo shot you a smirk before taking your hand and dragging you to the floor. All the while you softly protested, which he chose to ignore. Coming to a spot on the floor, Lorenzo stopped and swiftly turned to face you. You on the other hand, staggered for a moment from his motions. But quickly you corrected yourself, standing tall shooting your date a glare.

The live band started up with the perfect melody for the dance you were all about to partake in, The Foxtrot. It was the second dance Snape taught Slytherin, it was easier to learn then The Waltz. Which made you wonder why he hadn’t started with that dance. Oh well, you had learned the steps in the end.

“Ready?” Asked Lorenzo.

You continued to glare. “No”.

He chuckled. “Well, you better get ready”.

And with that you both began to move along with the music, Lorenzo leading you around the floor in a medium tempo. At first your steps were unsure and a little sloppy, but after a little bit, you got comfortable and confident in your steps. And before long you and Lorenzo were moving smoothly around the floor. Lorenzo shot you a knowing smile, which you rolled your eyes at but none the less you sported a beaming smile.

Like the other students, Mattheo and Daphne watched on. Mattheo’s gaze following your every movement. He felt jealousy rise as he watched Lorenzo smile at you, to which you rolled your eyes but gave him a happy smile. That should have been him out there with you. Smiling at each other and laughing. But instead, it was his good friend with you.

“Who would have thought Enzo would pity (Y/N/N) enough to be her date?” Remarked Theodore as he came to stand next to Mattheo.

“I don’t think it was pity” retorted Mattheo. “He did it out of friendship. Enzo cared about her to give her a good night”.

Theodore shot his friend a bored look. “Whatever, he was the idiot to give up a night with any willing girl. What to ditch and hang out somewhere else?”

Feeling appalled by his mate’s words, Mattheo got serious. “He’s not an idiot. Enzo chose a friend over some conquest. He always cares about a person’s wellbeing”.

Theodore laughed with a hand up. “Alright, alright. Don’t need to get your knickers in a knot. It’s fine they came together, happy?”

Mattheo huffed turning back to you on the dance floor. He could see Theodore looking at him, then to you and Lorenzo, and then back to him. A look of recognition flashed on his face before he chuckled.

“How did I miss it” he mused, “how did I miss your crush on (Y/N/N)?”

Mattheo looked shock, looking to his date, who was busy chatting with Theodore’s date. He then turned to his friend and said in a lower voice, “you’re wrong. I don’t have a crush on (Y/N/N)”.

Theodore laughed. “Lie all you like mate, I can see it plain as day now. And quite frankly, it took you long enough”.

Mattheo shot his friend a confused look.

Theodore laughed hard. “Wow, come on I’ve known you a long time. I could see how close you and (Y/N/N)’s had gotten. I just thought you’d had worked it out by now. Both Lorenzo and I could see how you both were crushing on each other, even have a bet going on who would confess first”.

Shock and surprise crossed Mattheo’s face. You, crushing on him? No surely, they were mistaken. Not once had you ever shown any interest in him in that way. You never flirted, never dropped hints, never jealous of other girls. You had always seemed uncaring and uninterested.

“You’re wrong” Mattheo began, “(Y/N/N) doesn’t have a crush on me. She’s never shown signs of liking me like that”.

Once more Theodore laughed. “Oh, my friend how wrong you are. That beautiful creature out there” – he pointed in the direction of you on the dance floor – “does have a crush on you. And just because you haven’t seen the signs, I can assure you that Enzo and I have”.

Mattheo shook his head, not once taking his eyes off you.

“I can tell you firsthand that the look in her (colour) eyes when you would bring your latest conquest around the group, the evident hurt in those eyes as she watches you together. Or how she would ‘off handedly’ help you study, when really, she wanted to be near you. Probably hoped you would read between the lines of all her help to see that she did like you more than a friend. You my friend have been oblivious to how she show’s her feelings, as you are used to girls throwing themselves at you”.

If Theodore was right, then Mattheo had made a mistake, a big one. If he had been able to read you better, then he wouldn’t have had a reason to hold back his feelings. It would have been he who had escorted you to The Yule Ball. It would be him out there dancing with you, smiling and laughing.

Theodore clapped Mattheo on the back. “If I was you, I’d come up with a plan to get to (Y/N/N) and sweep her off her feet. Or else she might fall for Enzo instead”.

With that Theodore took his date and left Mattheo to his thoughts. Daphne brought him back when she asked when they would dance. He winced at the idea; his poor feet would hate him if he danced with her. Dancing, that was it. With a few words to Daphne that they would dance soon, the cogs in Mattheo’s head were turning, a plan coming together.

The song came to an end, you and Lorenzo stepped back from each other before bowing and curtsying to the other. Coming to fully stand once more, you both shot the other a warm smile. Lorenzo then took your arm before leading you from the dance floor, and over to a space by the wall. You both took the moment to cool off.

“I had my reserves about dancing but thank you for dragging me against my will. It was fun”.

He laughed. “You are welcome, any time I would happily drag you to dance”. Lorenzo winked at you, making you laugh.

Lorenzo smile at you before his attentions turned elsewhere. “How about I get us some drinks. I’ll be right back”.

Before you could say a word, your friend walked off, leaving you a little confused but looking forward to some refreshments. You decided to lean against the wall, hands resting behind your back and against the cool stone wall. It was grounding, the coolness against your warm flesh. Your eyes roamed over the room. You noticed couples and groups in conversation. Those on the dance floor that were strong dancers compared to those that were trying their best.

Finally, you spotted Lorenzo with drinks in hand, but it was the person walking next to him that he was in deep conversation with that made you stand up straight. He was talking with Mattheo, and they looked to be quite serious. But just as quick had you seen them, did Mattheo part from your date. What had they been discussing, you wondered.

Joining you once more, Lorenzo held out a cup with punch in it, you accepted the cup and took a gracious sip. Once the cup left your lips you turned your gaze back to your date, studying him. You wanted to question him, find out what led to their talking or what Mattheo had to say. So, you decided to just go for it.

“What did Mattheo want?”

“Hm?” Lorenzo asked before taking a sip from his cup.

“I saw you two talking before you came back with my drink. What did he want?” It might have sounded rude, but you were dying to know. Though it went against your not caring mantra for the night.

“Mattheo? Oh, he was just commenting on the dancing. Thought we looked good” Lorenzo said off handedly turning to watch those on the dance floor, while leaning against the wall.

“Oh really? Is that so?” You questioned further.

“Mmhmm, said you looked graceful. And had a glow about you. Which he’s not wrong about” he laughed.

You nudged his shoulder with your own. You left it that. Your heart swelled at Lorenzo’s words. Mattheo had complimented you. You felt the soft smile form on your lips at the compliment. But then reality set in. You were at the ball with Lorenzo, not Mattheo. He had chosen to take Daphne Greengrass and was probably having a wonderful time. He was probably being nice with his compliment. Possibly a ploy to get back in your good graces. The smile slipped from your face, the hallow feeling returning to your chest in realisation.

Silence rolled over you both as you continued to watch those around you and on the dance floor. Soon time slowly passed before Lorenzo moved from the wall, taking your empty cups, and setting them down on a table off to the side. He shot you a bright smile before holding out his hand to you.

“May I have the next dance my lady?”

You laughed. “Why yes good sir, for this time you did ask me”. And placed your hand in his.

Lorenzo led you to stand with those spectating the dancing students. You both stood there waiting for the current dance to end, so that you both could join the next dance. With the final notes of the song, the students on the floor stopped, bowed, and curtseyed to each other before vacating the dance floor. Sharing a look, you and your friend took to the floor, along with four other couples. Standing before your partner, it was the movement from the left side that caught your attention.

Making their last-minute appearance on the floor, both Mattheo and Daphne moved over to stand on your right side. You felt your body stiffen at the sight of them, a sight you had done best to stay clear of. But here they were, shoving it front of you. With the first few notes, you placed your left hand on Lorenzo’s right shoulder while his right hand was placed against your side, his left-hand taking hold of your right hand. Now you were ready to begin The Waltz.

Just like in dance class, Lorenzo led while you followed. You both followed the steps, graceful in your movements on the dance floor. Out the corner of your eye you would see Mattheo and Daphne, your heart sinking further from it. Moving to hold your head high you reminded yourself to not care about them. You didn’t need him.

Lorenzo shot you a warm smile, that you returned. “Forgive me or thank me later”.

You shot him a look of confusion before finishing the square, he then proceeded to turn you out before letting go of your hand. You wanted to protest to whatever he was doing, but the feeling of a hand taking hold of your own and spun you in to face the one person you were trying to forget. Mattheo moved you into position, without a thought you moved your left hand to his shoulder. Confusion written all over your face at what was happening.

Your gazed moved back to your original dance partner, who was now dancing with a confused and irritated Daphne Greengrass. Lorenzo looked to be talking to her, possibly an attempt to calm down the girl. You looked back to Mattheo, who wore a mischievous grin on his face. All the while you both moved in time with the music, steps just as graceful as you had been dancing with Lorenzo.

“What is going on?” You questioned with a sharp tone. “Why am I dancing with you?”

Mattheo chuckled. “I thought we should dance, and since you aren’t talking to me. I got Lorenzo to help me get my dance”.

You glared at the boy before you. “You had no right to swap me from my date”.

“Oh? I think Enzo didn’t mind” he retorted.

“Well, I mind. Not that you care”.

The look of hurt in Mattheo’s eyes at your words wounded you. Any time he was upset hurt you, and the need to cheer him up would kick in. But not this time. You were still hurting from what he has done. Mattheo needed to learn a lesson.

He sighed. “I’m sorry for stealing you away. But you have to admit you have avoided me. You aren’t talking to me”.

“And there’s a reason for that” you fired back looking him right in the eyes. “Until you work out what you done and what you need to do to fix it, I will continue to not talk to you”.

Silence rolled over you both after that. You had said what you had too. Mattheo knew exactly what you were talking about. He knew he had to step up and apologise, which is what he wants to do. He just wasn’t sure how to do it. He was worried he wouldn’t say the right words, and it would only make things worse.

You both continued to move in time with the music, fluid movements filling the remaining time with Mattheo. Without talking you took in the boy before you, now that you have a closer opportunity. Since arriving at the ball, his hair was now messy. Mattheo must have absented mindedly ran his hand through his brown curly locks, something he done when in thought. He had also loosened the tie around his neck, and the jacket of his dress robes unbuttoned. You could have laughed at the untidy appearance, but held it in.

As the song started its descent to an end, you both moved in a square one more time. Only the grip Mattheo held tightened, almost drawing you closer. Mattheo moved his left foot forward, as you stepped back on your right. He then moved his right foot forward, while you moved your left foot backwards. Then you both moved those feet to the side, before bringing their partnering feet to meet with them. Mattheo then led you as be moved his right foot back, as you moved your left foot forward. Then he moved his left foot backwards, while you brought your right foot forward, both moving them to the side and then closing with its partnering feet. Thus, completing the square.

Reluctantly Mattheo loosens his hold on you, as he stepped back. You step back from his hold, your hands coming to rest at your sides. Looking each other in the eyes, you see something unfamiliar flash in his eyes. But he bows to you, cutting eye contact. In a daze of mixed emotions, you curtsy back.

With reality coming back, you felt like there was no air in the room. Standing back up you try to take a deep breath but struggled. Feeling a panic rising in you, you gather up your skirt and quickly move from the dance floor and out of The Great Hall. It was all too much. You would rather have kept Mattheo at arm’s length.

That’s funny, as you just did. Your mind taughtened you. For you had just been dancing at arm’s length.

Exiting into a courtyard not far from The Great Hall, you held your head in your hands while taking a deep breath of cold fresh air. Releasing it slowly, you tried to work out what just happened. Your heart ached with a mix of happy and sad. Your mind a mess from all that has happened so far tonight. The one thing ringing in your mind was Mattheo, the one person who hurts you so much. Even if it was unintentionally.

“Bloody hell!” Huffed an all too familiar voice. “Why did you take off (Y/N/N)?!”

Mattheo had been oblivious of your leaving the dance floor till Lorenzo called out to him. Upon seeing your form missing before him, Lorenzo pointed in the direction you had taken off. And he took off in chase, not second guessing the choice to follow you. He heard Daphne call his name, but no doubt Lorenzo stopped her and would entertain her a little longer. All Mattheo worried about was you.

He watched you quickly walk before him; he did call out to you, but you ignored him. Coming to the entrance to the courtyard, he was greeted with the sight of you, standing with your back to him with hands on your head while looking up breathing slowly. Something told him it was some level of anxiety that had you making an escape. But he couldn’t help huffing out what he said to you.

“Matty…” you sighed. “Please, leave me be. Go back to the ball” you practically pleaded. It broke his heart.

“Talk to me” he took a step closer before stopping himself.

You laughed at his words. “There is nothing to talk about…not until you work out what you did”.

“I know what I did…” he said softly. “I’ve known since it happened”.

Your hands dropped from your head, slowly you turned around to face him with a hurt look upon your face. It hurt him to see you like this, it felt like that hurt was more than just from the other week’s hang out. You didn’t say anything, waiting for the boy before you to continue.

Mattheo took a deep breath, readying himself. “What Theodore said to you, how…pathetic” – he struggled to get the word out – “people would think you were if you didn’t have a date. And I am so sorry for agreeing with him”.

“Why did you agree with him then?” You questioned, guarding yourself to try and save yourself.

Mindlessly Mattheo ran a hand through his curls. “I was stupid. I didn’t want Theodore to turn his sights on me, teasing and running me down. But I hurt you instead. The one person who I hold close”.

The one person who I hold close… You felt warmth rise in you, but you told yourself it was because you were friends. That is all.

“Don’t say that” you pleaded, “don’t say you hold me close. It only gets my hopes up” you said softly, tears pricking your eyes.

Without a thought, Mattheo crossed over to stand before you. He wrapped his hands around your upper arms softly, subconsciously making sure you wouldn’t run from him again. Concern washed over his face as he looked you in the eyes. Everything Theodore said coming back to him.

“You are the one person I hold close (Y/N), you are the only person to be there for me. To help me study, to check on my mental state, to kick my ass if I step out of line” he chuckled. “Don’t ever doubt how highly I think of you”.

You shook your head. “I’m not that good a person…”

“Yes, you are” he pulled you closer to him. “Why do you say you aren’t?”

This was it, the moment of make or break.

“My intentions weren’t always innocent…” you started looking him deep in the eyes. “Sure, we are friends but over time things…changed. And I wanted more of your time”.

“Well, all you had to say was you wanted to spend more time with me” Mattheo butted in.

You shook your head. “Not like that…I saw how you were with other girls. Flirting and being your charming self. I was jealous of them. Then you would bring them around the group, lessening my time with you because you were focused on them”.

Mattheo swallowed. Hating to hear how you felt. Knowing he only did it to distract himself from you.

“Then this ball happened. Stupid me hoping, wishing you would ask me. That’s why in the courtyard I hinted at going on my own. Again, hoping you would ask me. But you asked Daphne…I wasn’t going to come tonight, you know?”

Hearing how you hoped for him to ask you was like a punch to the gut, bringing the guilt he felt back full force. “I-I didn’t know…” Mattheo breathed, hands dropping from your arms in thought.

That movement hit you hard, making you think he was pulling back from you. That he didn’t care for you. You felt a tear escape and make its way down your face, feeling rejected. Your shoulders started to shake while you tried to hold back the tears. Mattheo looked to you, only to see you shake. Thinking you were cold; Mattheo quickly removed his jacket before wrapping it around your shoulders. He pulled the jacket tight in front of you, you looked to the boy in confusion. He on the other hand looked at you with worry and care. Silently he was waiting for you to continue.

“Yeah…well I wasn’t going too; Enzo didn’t even know. But when I spoke to him earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to say I was not going. I didn’t expect him to offer to be my date, but I am grateful he did. He has made tonight bearable”.

Jealousy flashed in Mattheo’s eyes. But they softened when he saw a tear escape your eye, your second tear, before bringing his hand up and gently wiped it away. Both of you looked at the other, savouring this moment. Mattheo moved to cup your cheek with his hand, without missing a beat you leant into the warmth, all the while never breaking eye contact. Without missing a beat, Mattheo leant in and tenderly kissed your lips.

The kiss was gentle, innocent. He noted how soft your lips were, and a tad cold from the night air. Reluctantly, he pulled back and observed your reaction. Shock evident on your adorable face.

“Forgive me (Y/N/N). Forgive me for flirting and entertaining other girls, for parading them around you. Forgive me for spending less time with you, and for agreeing with Theordore’s idiotic notions” Mattheo confessed and pleaded. “And, most of all, forgive me for not being your date tonight. As I would have rather spent my night with you, then anybody else”.

You searched his eyes, looking for any sign that him or his words weren’t genuine. But all you saw was sadness, begging and hope. Not what you would usually see with the Slytherin heart throb. He was baring his all to you, and only you. So, you made your decision.

You raised up on your tippy toes, one hand grasping at Mattheo’s shirt, before you lent in to kiss him. As soon as your lips touched his, he knew you forgave him. No words were needed at this point. He leant down, releasing you from the uncomfortable position of standing on your tippy toes. Mattheo pressed his lips firmer to your own, but not enough it hurt. Soon he slowly pulled back, taking in the tender look upon your face, as you opened your eyes, that you don’t remember closing.

“I have liked you for years now” Mattheo said softly, afraid being too loud would burst this bubble around you both. “But I have been scared you didn’t like me, or it would ruin our friendship”.

You softly smiled at him, understanding how he felt. “I have liked you for years too…”

A bright smile formed on his sinful lips. “Then let us rectify it, what do you say?”

All you could do was nod your head. And once more Mattheo leant in and captured your lips, only this time it was a little more ungraceful. Which made you laugh. And to retaliate to your laughter did the boy before you poke your sides, making you squeal in dislike. Before long he was chasing you around the courtyard, you trying to escape his pokes and tickling. When he finally caught you, Mattheo spun you around before drawing you close.

That was the moment you knew you would have to thank Lorenzo. And it was the start of your personal relationship with Mattheo Riddle.

#mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo

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sarahthecoat · 2 years ago

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i've been knitting, for myself instead of anyone else (which i also like to do), and am considering reassembling the jigsaw puzzle that got started on the 25th and see if i can finish it. i do have one studio appointment this afternoon, though. sigh.

Eugene gets me

#happy liminal spacemas everyone #welcome yule #rest time

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starlight-sev · 22 days ago

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December 1: December Moon (Snape x Reader)

(Part of @deepperplexity’s Rickmas 2024 prompts)

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything, but I really wanted to participate in Rickmas this year!

Writing’s been tough as I have a new (much more demanding) job, but I’ll do my best to get as many prompts out there this month as I can.

Gender neutral reader as always for this one. It’s platonic too. Enjoy, and happy December!

The first hour of the Yule Ball had been fun, but now the novelty was starting to wear off.

The glamour and elegance that welcomed you when you first walked into the Great Hall was now gone; napkins littered the floor, chairs were haphazardly strewn here and there from students rushing to dance in excitement, and the music had changed to ear-blasting rock.

On any other day, you would’ve loved it. But sitting here at the teacher’s table, in shoes too narrow and a fancy outfit that was beginning to itch, you just felt like crawling out of your own skin.

You were technically still on supervision duty — Dumbledore had scheduled all the teachers in one hour shifts to ensure there were chaperones at all times. Casting a glance at the silver clock on the wall, your heart sunk as you realized you still had another 45 minutes before you could retreat back into the comfort of your own chambers.

Surely no one would notice if you left for a few moments though, right? If you left your jacket on your chair, you could easily pass off a quick absence as an emergency bathroom break.

You got up out of your chair and rushed out of the Great Hall as quick as you could. You forced yourself not to look back as you turned the corner and headed into a secluded spot in the courtyard.

The winter air was a welcome chill that crept across your skin as you settled down on a step. You could relax for a moment, finally. Even if it were only for a quick smoke break. You thanked Merlin for formalwear with pockets as you snagged a lonely cigarette out of your side pocket, and fumbled around looking for a lighter in the other pocket. You did bring it with you, didn’t you?

“Escaping duty, are we?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as a quiet, yet deep, voice spoke from behind you. You shot up to your feet quickly and whipped around to see Severus smirking at you.

“Bloody hell, you scared me.” You gasped, taking in his attire. You had to admit, even in all black, he still cleaned up nicely for an event as formal as this. He had on a wool coat, and what looked like a handknitted scarf. Though he wore his usual stoic expression, the way his hands were jammed in his pockets suggested he was just as cold as you were.

“Sorry.” You muttered. “I’ll go back in. Don’t tell Albus.”

To your surprise, Severus scoffed.

“I’m escaping as well, if it weren’t obvious enough. I’ve had enough of that music.”

You laughed at that. “I thought you’d like what they’re playing.”

“Why? Because of what I wear?”

You glanced away, and out of the corner of your eye, you swore Severus smirked at you.

“I didn’t know you smoke.” He observed with a murmur, quirking an eyebrow slightly as he nodded to the cigarette resting between your fingers. You shrugged.

“I usually don’t. I’ve managed to kick the habit for the most part, it’s only in situations like these when I need something to keep me sane.”

You searched your pockets again and swore under your breath. You had forgotten your lighter.

Severus almost seemed to read your mind, and with an unreadable expression, he took out a lighter of his own. You raised your eyebrows.

“You have Muggle parents too?” You asked, somewhat astonished. Most wizards would simply use their wand as a lighter, but something about having a physical object with only one purpose felt comforting to you. Familiar.

Severus nodding in response, rolling his eyes while doing so.

“Yes. My father. You?”

“My dad too.” You replied. You held the cigarette between your lips, and, to your surprise, Severus held the lighter up for you. It was a strangely intimate gesture, and your stomach did a little flip-flop as you locked eyes with him, before lighting your cigarette.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. He just nodded.

“I’d offer you a cigarette,” you continued. “But I only brought one. Sorry. I try to limit myself.”

Severus shrugged, slipping the lighter back into his coat pocket. “I don’t smoke.”

“Then why do you have a lighter?”

There was a thick silence that filled the space between the two of you as Severus pressed his lips together.

“It belonged to my father. I suppose I keep it out of spite.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but you caught the warning in Severus’s eyes as he shifted to gaze at you. You remained quiet, and turned your gaze upwards to the sky instead.

“It’s a nice evening. Full moon tonight.”

“Mm. Indeed.”

You keep your gaze on the moon as you smoke. Neither of you speak for a while, and as you finish your cigarette, you wonder if Severus glided back into the castle as softly as he came. As you finally tore your gaze away from the moon, you caught the shadow out of the corner of your eye.

“Oh. You’re still here.”

Severus smirked a little. “Do you want me to go?”

“No, no!” You mumbled quickly, shaking your head. “It’s not that. I just… didn’t think you liked me enough to stay this long.”

As if to challenge that statement, Severus stepped a little closer to you. “And what exactly brought you to that conclusion?”

You tried to mask the way your breath caught in your throat. “Nothing, I just… I don’t know. Seems you don’t like many people here. Me included.”

“I’m selective with my company.” Severus replied slowly. “The fact that I am still here should prove you wrong, should it not?”

You couldn’t exactly argue with that. You sighed, wrapping your arms tightly around your torso. The cold was starting to hit you.

Severus noticed your feeble attempt to stay warm. Rolling his eyes, he unraveled the scarf from around his neck and draped it around you without a word.

“Oh, no it’s okay-”

“You’re shivering like a damn dog. Take it.”

You go to protest, but the fire in his eyes shuts you up quickly. You give up quickly, and nod your gratitude.

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Two, actually. The lighter.”

His face is serious, but you could swear you see a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

“Okay,” you said sarcastically. “What’s your payment then?”

To your surprise, Severus actually considered your question. He cast his eyes back up to the moon and exhaled slowly before gazing at you.

“Tea tomorrow. Say, after the staff meeting?”

This wasn’t at all what you were used to from Severus. Maybe it was alcohol talking. Maybe it was the full moon. Nevertheless, you nodded slowly.

“Deal.”

Severus nodded, the faintest smile on his lips.

“Good. Now go back in there. Or else Minerva will have your head.”

You snickered, shaking your head. To your relief, you felt lighter than when you walked out fifteen minutes earlier.

“Are you coming in too?” You asked Severus as you began walking. He shrugged almost imperceptibly before following you.

“I suppose.”

“There’s still music playing. We could dance together.”

Your suggestion was a joke, but there was a part of you that was silently hoping he’d agree. Instead, Severus laughed and shook his head.

“Absolutely not. But I’ll share a drink with you.”

“Drink and a dance?”

“No. A drink. Two, maybe. But no dancing.”

You grin as the two of you walked back into the Great Hall. You slid into your seat at the teacher’s table, and Severus sat down beside you. You slide him a bottle of Firewhiskey from the middle of the table.

“How about two drinks and we sneak out of here for the night, for good this time?”

Severus smirked as he picked up a glass and held it out to you.

“Deal.”

#rickmas2024 #snape x reader #severus snape #snape imagine #harry potter imagine #harry potter #severus snape x reader #alan rickman #rickmas 2024

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