#fancast

Mattheo’s own drink has grown neglected after the past few songs playing through a muggle c.d player, magically amplified to fill this whole part of the dungeons. Theo and Blaise have pretended not to notice the expression he’s wearing, recognizing the polite indifference as something else.

Though what he really felt, he didn’t even know.

Anger? Jealously? Hunger? Perhaps all three of them and more. Because he wants to be the one with his hand on your waist, pulling you against his chest while you laughed and danced. It shouldn’t be that lousy Ravenclaw bloke you were chatting with earlier. Were you thick? Could you not recognize the desire he had for you despite his obvious habits? Even Enzo, who rarely criticized Mattheo—opting to cheer on his foolish decisions—pointed out how stupid he looked in this one sided pining. Which he couldn’t even blame Enzo for. You’re his friend—one of the few people outside of his circle that he likes.

You’re funny, smart, and you bicker back without letting him cross a line—fuck it’s so sexy when you tell him off if he accidentally goes too far. And he spends all of his time flirting with you.

Touching you, whispering things that border on indecent. Naturally, you only respond with laughs to those—but the touches you return, dragging your hand down his chest teasingly, cupping his jaw or scratching his scalp with your manicured nails.

And he couldn’t stop. How the fuck was he supposed to stop when he could be staring at you? When you look so perfect dancing with Astoria and one of your other mates. Your collarbones are sparkling underneath the floating lights—had you dusted glitter on your skin? His jaw feathers as he imagines smudging that glitter over your mouth and throat.

“Mate,” Theo stands, nudging Mattheo’s foot with his own from where he sat manspreading on a divan. “Come get a drink you’ll actually finish. You’re not doing yourself any favors acting all pathetic.”

Mattheo glowers at his best friend, the comment irritating him more than it would if he weren’t already half drunk. But he stands nonetheless and follows Theo through the moving bodies around them. Half of them weren’t even Slytherins, just other students who had been snuck in for the party.

He drags a hand through his curly hair, loud music and the sound of people having fun filling his ears. He and Theo find the table haphazardly laden with drinks and Theo busies himself while Mattheo continues brooding. He’s unable to stop himself from finding you in the crowd.

You’ve moved.

And now bloody Cormac McGlaggen’s hands are on you, groping your waist, his head bent towards your ear. You’ve never even talked about McGlaggen, never shown a shred of interest or care.

But at the moment your head is thrown back in laughter, neck exposed.

He feels like he’s moments from stomping over there and declaring his love for you when Theo shoves a cup into his hand.

“Drink,” he says, his voice lazy and slow as ever. Mattheo gives him an unimpressed look, certain he’s going to be smashed afterwards, but tips his head back, swallowing the searing concoction.

Theo obviously made no effort with taste, just trying to distract Mattheo with a high ass alcohol concentration. And he complies, downing it all before tossing the empty cup at an overflowing bin. He begrudgingly returns to the divan with Theo, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. Loud bass is all he can focus on for a while, his eyes heavy as he glares at the crowd of people. Things blur, his few fleeting thoughts are about you, specifically pressed against him.

He’s drawn from his stupor when a person suddenly drops down on his right. Astoria, her eyes so dazed she looks like she’s on fucking drugs rather than being drunk. Blaise immediately slides a protective arm around her shoulders despite them not being close, wordlessly keeping her safe from any fuckass perverts.

And slowly, his gaze slides from Astoria to you standing in front of her. Your posture is slightly relaxed as well, too calm for a party, and he knows the firewhisky has got to you at least a bit. His throat physically tightens—he can’t even talk to you.

Theo fills the silence between you five though, his ankles crossed and arms stretched across the divan. “What the bloody hell happened to her?”

You sigh, looking at your passed out friend. “Drank too much too fast, had to hold her hair back over the bin.” You shake your hair off your slightly sweaty forehead, fixing your top as you look at a mirror above Mattheo’s head.

His breath slows slightly, his thoughts fighting to remain respectable.

“Could you just watch her for a bit? I don’t want to leave her for too long but I might pass out myself if I don’t get cold air soon,” you say, fanning your shiny face. A bead of sweat rolls down your neck from behind your ear and Mattheo swallows thickly, looking away, feeling like a creeper.

“‘Course, love,” Blaise assures in his deep voice. “Need one of us to walk you? Don’t want you falling over.”

Mattheo tenses. He’s not even looking at you

“No, I’ll be okay.” There’s a smile in your voice—he can hear it, imagine it on your pretty face. “Be back soon.”

You walk away.

And bloody hell does he try—he really does. But after ten minutes of sitting there, resisting the urge to follow you and do Merlin knows what, he shoves up from the couch.

He has no ears for Theo’s questions, shoving through couples and out of the expansive common room. Immediately the dungeons air feels ten times better, cooling his heated body. He hadn’t even noticed how shitty he felt, the alcohol and his desire for you causing it.

He doesn’t even have a clue which way you went, and maybe it’s for the better. He’d look like a bloody fool, following you, his breathing heavy, about to blurt out every feeling he has for you.

Through the stone hallways he passes a few whispering couples, some snogging, others giggling. And suddenly—he sees you.

You’re leaned against a wall, eyes closed, obviously just trying to cool off. And like a prat, he’s intruding on your silence.

“Matt?” Your voice is so beautiful he feels a shock go through his drunk self, and he blinks slowly, seeing your now open eyes. “What are you doing?”

But he can barely even focus past the nickname youve adopted for him. You’ve called him Matt a million times, but it felt just as intimate as the first. And it takes every ounce of will power for him to not rush over there and press you against a wall.

“Sorry, pretty,” he all but rasps, “just checking on you.”

“Oh,” you whisper, and he’d be damned if that wasn’t a flicker of disappointment in your eyes. But you smile that pretty smile. “I’m okay, Matt, don’t worry about me.”

fuck fuck fuck

Without even processing what he’s doing, he’s stalked over, standing in front of you now. And his dumbass isn’t filtering shit at this point.

“What’s going on with McGlaggen?”

You quirk an eyebrow, still conversational and perfectly witty when you’re drunk. “Dancing with him is all.”

“He’s a twat.” He has no idea why he says it, but makes no effort to take it back, continuing to look at you with sleepy eyes.

You smile again. “He is.” You tilt your head now. “But we were only dancing.”

He huffs like a pissy child, taking a hand through his hair as he glances away. How the hell does he tell you he’s jealous? Because if he does you’ll understand everything—every touch he’s given you. “I don’t like seeing my mates hang around arseholes.” It’s a shitty response, but he can barely think at the moment. Through the alcohol and buzz of feelings, all he can think of is you.

You nod, smile shrinking ever so slightly. “Right, of course.” You push off the wall. “You’re just looking out for a friend.”

“Yeah.” He nods as well, dazed, cursing Theo for giving him that drink. You step further away from the wall, that same flicker flashing through your eyes. “I’m going to head back then. You might want to cool off for a bit—you look piss drunk.”

And then you turn, footsteps carrying you a short distance before he reaches out, catching your wrist in his hand. “Pretty—wait.”

What the hell are you doing? He thinks, but it’s already too late, you’ve turned around.

Fuck it.

He tugs you closer, breath held as he manages to properly focus for one second, searching your eyes. When you don’t pull away, when you don’t ask him what he’s doing—when you press closer—he crashes his mouth against yours.

You let out a sound, something between a gasp and a sigh, but his mouth swallows it. Hands shifting, he lets go of your wrist, wrapping an arms around you hips, the other cupping the back of your head as he backs you against the stone wall.

Your own hand slides up his arm, burying in his curls, and he groans into your mouth. His body slots against yours, tilting his head and deepening the kiss. He can taste the firewhiskey on your tongue, and it makes his head spin. His hips press against yours, lips moving to drag down your throat, tongue tasting your sweat from dancing. “Matt—” You breathe out his name, hand tightening in his hair, eyes fluttered shut. His teeth scrape a patch of skin beneath your ear, soothing it with a kiss.

Footsteps sound from down the hallway and for one terrifying moment, you fear this will end.

But Mattheo grips your hip, pulling apart only to push open a heavy wooden door. Through the faint light creeping through the crack under the door you realize it’s a storage closet but that doesn’t stop him.

He’s kissing you again, hand cupping your neck, brushing the skin with his thumb. “Fuck, Pretty,” he rasps against your lips. “Tell me we aren’t just friends.”

Something tightens in your stomach and your eyes open to meet his in the dimness. He’s waiting, you realize. You let out a breath, fingers trailing from his hair down his spine, feeling the heat of his skin through his long sleeve shirt. “We don’t have to be anymore,” you whisper, unable to come up with something intelligent and sexy to say.

He groans, kissing the curve of your jaw, arm tightening around your waist. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Pretty. Drives me mad when you flirt or fancy anyone else.” His admission is softer than his actions, lips bruising a spot on your neck, leaving a mark.

Your lip catches between your teeth, fingers gripping his shoulders. “You should’ve told me sooner, Matt. We could’ve been doing this much earlier.”

“I’m realizing that now,” he says darkly, pulling back to watch your flushed face in the darkness. “I’ll just have to make up for lost time. Find a way to sneak you into my dorm tonight.”

You can see his swollen lips, his dilated eyes. “What about the others? Theodore? Lorenzo?”

“They can shove it,” he says, simply, his voice ragged. “Theo will probably congratulate me for growing the balls to kiss you.” You let out a soft laugh, and he wants to drink in the sound. So he settles for the closest thing by kissing you again, mouth dragging against yours, his brain dazing as he’s surrounded by your scent. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

And Theo does congratulate him.

When you two return to the party, lips swollen, a pair of hickeys on your neck, he smirks. And it only widens when you two ignore everyone else and sneak up the stairs to his and Mattheo’s dormitory.

Mattheo spent the rest of the night kissing you, holding you close, and assuring both you that friendship was not in the question any longer.

.・゜゜・❁・゜゜・．