the blue hour 𓇼

between blue and green

[fadedlagoon]

|𝒻𝒶𝒹𝑒𝒹𝓁𝒶𝑔𝑜𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉|

𖦹 mattheo riddle

blood and sweat (x f!reader)

friends 18+ (x f!reader)

𖦹 theodore nott

• silence 18+ (x f!reader)

𖦹 lorenzo berkshire

𖦹 draco malfoy

𖦹 tom riddle

double trouble (x f!reader x mattheo riddle)

part 1 | part 2

[fadedlagoon]

warnings: 18+, author is allergic to dialogues, unprotected p in v, choking, slapping, brief mention of pussy slapping, angry (ish) sex, spitting, swearing.

author's note: i'm realising that if you want to write good smut, you actually have to write it... yeah, i'm working on it.

Lioness. That was what they called you. The Quidditch star every Gryffindor was immensely proud of. Indomitable. Bold. Trained by Oliver Wood himself. And determined to vanquish all evil with her beaming smiles and derisive remarks.

In your eyes, evil wore green, had sly smirks, and a very annoying trait of… breathing. Mattheo Riddle. Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Your number one enemy. Godric, the mere sound of his voice, carried by the Hogwarts’ windy corridors, was enough to make your skin prickle! Beware, anyone within a ten-yard radius, for your hatred spares no one.

When the Captain position was passed to you, life divided into ‘before’—oh, we’ll win next time, guys!—and ‘after’—we win now. So, your team won. Against Ravenclaw and their flawless strategies that lacked a feel for the game. Against Hufflepuff, who were just happy to be there. But never against Slytherin.

You were almost there. Every fucking time you were there: a couple of points behind, fingertips brushing the golden wings of the Snitch, the taste of victory teasing your tongue. Just two inches, one… And whoosh Mattheo Riddle stealing it right from under your nose, leaving you with nothing but a raging blaze inside. He would have the audacity to wink at you, as if he just didn’t commit a bloody crime.

Again and again, over three years, the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup would please the eyes of a snake, rather than glint off a lion’s claws. This year you were sure to put an end to the losing streak at all costs.

Fair or not—be it a non-verbal spell or a trap carefully laid for the Slytherin Seeker—who’s going to care once their reign is over? Oh, and how sweet it will be to see the look on Mattheo’s face as your teeth sink into his throat. Metaphorically, of course.

***

This was the time of year you anticipated most—the end of the Quidditch season! Forget about homework, drama, and the gnawing dread of graduation; only the simmering rivalry brewing between the houses as the warmth of May began to seep through the centuries-old stones of Hogwarts.

First game, Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor, was defined by your catch of the Snitch thirty minutes in. Nothing extraordinary, just a lioness in her natural habitat: speed, strategy, teamwork. You had the whole school wrapped around your finger.

The second one, Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin, was a true sight to behold. You had to hand it to Ravenclaw’s new captain—he had definitely knocked some sense into their Beaters. That game had everything you loved about the sport: entertainment seasoned with the crunch of bone after a nasty collision with a Bludger. And amidst the blur of blue and green, cutting the misty air of an afternoon drenched in light drizzle, Mattheo Riddle was gliding across the pitch with his signature Inspired Broom-Surfing. An incredibly difficult move, executed only by ones hungry for the crowd’s attention (female part especially).

“Look-look!” Lavender Brown tugged at your sleeve like a child on the verge of combusting, her eyes fixed on the green dot. “Oh, girl, I don’t understand how you can hate someone so illegally sexy! He could choke me and I’d say thank you. Just imagine those strong, veiny hands wrapping arou—”

Your face contorted in disgust.

“Lavender, keep your fantasies to yourself, will you?! Or I’m gonna puke into your popcorn,” you snapped, your chin resting on the wooden railing.

Riddle indeed looked scorchingly hot in a Quidditch uniform that hugged him tightly in all the right places. Lean muscles, long legs, cute dimples, and wild curls ruffled by the wind. Those brown eyes seemed to strip you naked… Why was he like this? Ugh, this was all Lavender’s doing!

“We’re talking about Riddle here,” you reminded her, sparing a brief glance for the Bludger that was about to smash into Malfoy’s head. Your attention was solely on the small, golden ball zigzagging in the distance; your fingers tingled with the phantom weight of it.

“Yes, it’s the Riddle we are talking about!” She squeaked. “Like, if you ask me—”

“I’m not asking you, that’s the point.”

Lavender fell silent and clicked her tongue. Apparently, not lusting over the Slytherin’s Seeker was a barrier between sanity and madness. A thin ice, ready to crack every time you two crossed paths—be it on the pitch or in the school corridors.

He flew right past your stands, the hem of his robes whipping in the wind and carrying the scent of grass, sweat, and an inflated ego. The girls’ ecstatic cheers were loud enough to reach the Forbidden Forest; you silently envied the creatures there for not having to deal with this collective infatuation with arrogance in green and silver. How could they like him?!

With your fingers crossed, you prayed and prayed that Ravenclaw would finally beat Slytherin—that the cycle of endless defeat would be broken, and you’d be able to look at the Cup in your common room with pride one last time before leaving Hogwarts forever. The gods must have been on vacation, or perhaps your true intentions had darkened your prayers, for you had no other explanation for why Mattheo Riddle caught that fucking Snitch! He had nearly snatched it out of the other Seeker’s grasp and shook it over his head as if the past hour of mindless circling, while his team fought tooth and nail for every point, had never ever happened.

The stands roared, green sparks shot, and the game was over; a sense of dismay settled heavy in your stomach. So be it. You would face him again and demolish that smirk from his mouth with your bare hands.

Lavender, despite being draped in blue, screamed and waved when Mattheo flew closer to the stands. His forehead glistened with sweat, cheeks flushed, and as he wiped his face with his Quidditch jersey, revealing a toned, defined stomach (you heard someone faint nearby), chocolate eyes found yours. You glared daggers at him, nails biting into the swell of your palms.

If he so much as opened his shitty mou—

“This one’s for you.” His voice carried over the shouts, breathy and taunting. “Dying to see you sobbing and whimpering once I’m done with you, lioness. Get your pretty ass ready.”

Teeth flashed white, and he winked. He fucking winked. You nearly fell off the stands, the buzz closing in around you and pressing until the feeling of your blood boiling cut off the rest of the world.

Riddle, you’re going to regret ever touching a broomstick.

Lavender watched you stand there fuming, almost seeing the steam coming out of your ears. She only smiled—a playful, knowing expression. This was going to be so good.

***

The big day had come. Struck you with red and gold plastered on every student you passed in the corridors. Everywhere you turned, a new chant echoed, growing bolder with each minute counting down to the game of the year—Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. A tale as old as time, yet just as thrilling: who will win? Lions or snakes? Or, better put, you or Mattheo Riddle?

A rhetorical question, of course.

Ginny and you exchanged a look—she had welcomed your idea with a sharp smile and blazing eyes a week ago. In your hands, power nestled; in your head, thoughts swirled around the upcoming game. Maybe your team hated you a little for exhausting practices and countless laps around the pitch, but they would be thankful soon. They had better be.

Slytherin will fall.

“What if he gets hurt?” Hermione, still the voice of reason in the chaos, followed close behind as your team glided smoothly through the ruby-red sea of the bustling crowd. Students cheered and beamed at you; your ego reaching its peak, still far behind Riddle’s, though.

“Let’s go!”

“Make them suffer!”

“Our lioness takes it slow—one, two, and the snake is no more!”

Oh, how you thrived on the attention! Your nervousness receded, but that feeling of something inevitable still scratched at your insides. You pushed it down deep and grinned.

“Don’t worry, Mione. It’s nothing he can’t handle,” you answered with a cold smile. She only shook her head. What else can she expect from you?

Ginny tightened her grip on her bat, thumb brushed the runes etched into the handle. Might as well put that Ancient Runes knowledge to good use, right? Your lip twitched, blood flowed in your veins like a liquid fire.

A warm breeze brought the thick, honeyed scent of wildflowers, its gentle fingers threaded through your hair, playing with loose strands. Bright and proud, the sun watched as the two teams moved across the field towards the center. Madam Hooch was shielding her hawk-like eyes with her hand, a Quaffle balanced on her fingertip. It was a perfect day, with lovely weather to brutally destroy them all.

You looked up at the stands, which were packed and split into two equal halves: the scarlet and emerald blinding, while the unfurled, enchanted banners fluttered in the wind. Snake, snake, lion, snake, lion, lion, lion. Snake—your gaze drifted to the Slytherin captain.

Mattheo Riddle was staring at you the whole time, a charming smile plastered across his handsome face, making his dimples even more prominent. New broomsticks (thanks to daddy’s money, Merlin damn them!) were polished to a mirror shine, green uniform clung to their bodies, and Riddle’s captain badge gleaming. Your own was pinned right where your heart thundered.

No words were passed, yet the conversation started the moment your foot landed on the lush grass: he asked, you answered, he taunted, you snapped back. And not a single sound left your lips! You two had mastered the skill throughout the years.

“Teams, mount your brooms!” Madam Hooch shouted, her commanding tone shushed the stands.

Silence settled over your shoulders, anticipation hummed, vibrating in your bones. If you had any thoughts left, they were soon replaced by the clear image of the strategy your team had been absorbing every chance given—during lunches, late-night study sessions in the common room, and while walking from class to class. Every. Fucking. Day.

No slow, measured moves, only ruthless annihilation.

Two teams formed a perfect circle with their captains in the middle. Madam Hooch waited for the two of you to come closer and shake hands. Mattheo offered his gloved palm with a smile that promised nothing good—he was so certain of his victory it made your lips curve with disdain.

“Come on, princess. Show some respect.” He waited, and you felt the weight of every gaze on you.

Reluctantly, you gave him your hand, and he instantly covered it with his, thumb caressing your knuckles. A jolt of electricity surged inside, and Riddle definitely saw your reaction. It was just the start, but you already felt the rush of adrenaline igniting every nerve, sharpening your senses and dulling the worries that had haunted you at night.

Sunlight painted his dark brown irises in gold, high cheekbones dusted with pink—he could have been mistaken for an angel, were it not for the demons dancing in his eyes.

The contact broke as quickly as the Quaffle was thrown into the air; your silent conversation ended with a fading of his smile and your frown. Harry snatched the ball and rushed towards the Slytherin goalposts, kicking up a storm of applause from the Gryffindor stands. Lee Jordan was already busy praising your team.

The broom’s handle was warm under your grip, and the wind whistled in your ears as you bolted into the blue sky to seek a better view of the Snitch. You had the twenty-twenty vision, so finding it shouldn’t be much of a problem… if only Mattheo weren’t just as skilled.

Below, the battle began: green and red dots scattered across the pitch like gemstones. One of them—a diamond in your collection—shot you a brief look, as if saying, I’m ready whenever you are, then zoomed after Harry, ginger hair blending with her red robes.

You remained up high; the sun was hot against your skin, and from there you could see the Black Lake shimmering, while Hogwarts loomed over it, likely empty. It was… peaceful. No rushing, no Bludgers. You and the sky. Open your arms and—

A golden speck appeared out of nowhere. Your reaction was instant, feral, like a predator stalking its prey. Left and right, up and down—your movements smooth against the air resistance. Mattheo had been circling the pitch just enough to avoid the chaos of the passing Quaffle and raging Bludgers. But as soon as he noticed you bolt, his usual smirk melted. Riddle’s hands gripped the broom, and he chased after you as if the Snitch weren’t what he was looking for.

Everything ceased to matter; the students’ screams and Lee Jordan’s commentary reduced to white noise while your focus narrowed, forcing you to dodge goalposts, weave between the beams under the stands, and swerve around your teammates.

The Snitch led you high into the air, far enough to feel how soft the clouds could be. Riddle materialised at your left shoulder. Together you tore the sky, the world falling away until only the two of you remained. So close your shadows blurred; so close his racing heartbeat thrummed against your own ribs, and so close his voice echoed inside your head.

Having reached the highest point where your breath hitched and your blood ran cold; a single look passed between you. Time stopped—a small reprieve before diving back into the wildfire.

“You are not winning this one, lioness,” he murmured, his lips crooked into a pitying smile. “You never will.”

“Watch me.”

With that, you chased the Snitch, reaching for the golden glimmer. Lungs tightened, muscles coiled like springs—you were about to become as one with your broom. Mattheo was right there, a constant pressure against your side, and now you were truly complete. House pride and bitter grudges vanished, none of those weird feelings crawling under your skin—the ones neither of you could admit—mattered now.

Wind. Sun. Speed.

When Ginny saw your signal, with a graceful flick of her wrist, the Bludger was sent. To the audience, it looked like she was just doing her job as a Beater, when in reality… well, sometimes, things are not what they seem.

The ground was approaching rapidly; the whole pitch held its breath, watching as the two Seekers were about to face their death. You heard the whistle even before you saw the Bludger closing in at a breakneck speed. You had suffered the broken ribs before, the memories still vivid. But this time, thanks to Weasley’s gift for Ancient Runes, you were sure it had a completely different target. The one whose hand had almost covered yours.

He was about to say something, to throw an insult maybe. Oh, the Bludger had different plans—it tore you apart, forcing Mattheo to jerk his broom away to keep the ball from crushing his skull.

“You fucking—!"

Your foot almost skimmed the grass as you pulled up into a steep climb and clamped your hand around the Snitch. It was cold against your palm, tiny wings fluttering and tickling your skin.

The stands erupted in a roar of cheers and applause; red and golden sparks shot into the sky, and the lions on the Gryffindor banners threw open their maws. That was it—the glory, an invigorating breeze after years of humiliation at the hands of the Slytherins.

You turned back, still clutching the trembling Snitch to your chest. Amidst the flurry of confetti, your eyes met Mattheo Riddle’s. For Merlin’s sake, the way he looked at you made you do the one thing you had dreamed of every single match.

A slow wink. Arrogant, provocative, ending the challenge that had started the moment you mounted a broom a couple of years ago. From then on, the rivalry between you and Mattheo had twisted into something wicked, cruel.

He was tearing you apart with his gaze alone, piece by piece, bone by bone—nothing could be hidden from him. It should have scared you, really. Because when Mattheo Riddle looked at you like that, trouble was inevitable.

But what could he possibly do to you, a Gryffindor lioness?

No-fucking-thing.

***

The humid, warm air of the locker room clung to you like a second skin. You scrubbed off everything that day had brought down on you—starting with the morning’s anxiety, ending with Riddle’s proximity. It felt amazing to be on the winning side; even Snape’s ‘Acceptable’ couldn’t compare to the immense pleasure of securing a victory against your enemy.

And Mattheo Riddle… hell, you would gladly go back in time just to see the look on his face again! Completely crushed. Humbled. Degraded? Oh, embarrassed! Also… Yeah, you had better stop there before your mouth started hurting from grinning too hard.

You came up to the small, foggy mirror at the sink, bare feet padding softly on the tiles. Gryffindor’s common room must already be celebrating, but here, in the private locker room for captains only, you could finally breathe freely. Alone.

Little droplets slithered down as you wiped the mirror; you watched them splat onto the chipped paint before looking at your reflection. Where you expected to see happiness, two black pools of pure hatred stared back instead.

“What the f—” your heart skipped a bit, dropped, then leaped so high your throat constricted.

In a matter of seconds, you spun around, eyes wide and right hand already raised to strike. Mattheo’s own palm closed around your wrist, pushing you back against the cold sink, its edge biting into your spine. The towel loosened dangerously, threatened to spill everything you kept secret from the unworthy blokes.

Mattheo Riddle was a perceptive boy, but it certainly didn’t help him foresee your free hand lashing out and landing on his cheek. His head snapped to the side, brown curls, damp with sweat and humidity, veiled his eyes. And then, as he slowly turned back to you, an all-consuming fire danced in their depths.

“Feisty.” He touched his split lip with the tip of his tongue and smiled. Nothing good came from those types of smiles.

A hot, heavy wave surged low in your belly at the sight.

“What are you doing here, you moron?! Get the hell out before I—”

Riddle seized both of your wrists and jerked you towards him, forcing you to collide with his chest. The scent of him—sweat, the sharp bite of his cologne, and the crisp tang of broomstick polish—made your head spin more than any alcohol ever could. You liked your showers scalding, but the heat radiating off him felt like stepping into a dragon’s lair.

“Before you what?” His mouth brushed your ear, voice low and dark, laced with mockery. “Before you call for your redhead bitch? The one who’d charm a Bludger to kill me?”

With a violent tug, he made you stumble, and your lips parted to scream. Before you could, Mattheo slapped you across the cheek, not hard, but enough to stun you. Payback for your lucky attempt, you realised.

Still, it stung. Not with pain or fear, no. With something that screamed, I can do whatever I want to you. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you struggled again, more fiercely this time.

“You hit me! You fucking hit me! Get out, Riddle, I swear to Merlin I will…”

He gripped your hair so hard a weak gasp escaped; nails scratched at the iron hold he had on you.

“It was such a bad move, captain. I thought we were playing fair.” Mattheo thigh wedged in between your legs, the hard muscle pressing firmly against your cunt. You shook; goosebumps scattered over your body like a thousand dropped needles. “You know how much I want to fucking strangle you right now?”

Never in your life had you seen him in such a state of rage. He was high on adrenaline—the match lingered in the back of his mind, a ghost he couldn’t shake off. Pupils dilated, fingers trembled where they gripped, chest heaved with every breath he took. Or, perhaps, a raw desire? No, better yet: a mix of both, as addictive as a drug and just as devastating.

Mattheo knew you better than any person alive. Years of quiet observation, while you were busy with whatever reckless bullshit Gryffindors did. Desperation led to questionable acts, and winking after such brazen cheating… Who the hell do you think you are?

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” you groaned, baring your teeth.

Fuck, his cock twitched in his trousers—he liked you all furious.

“You don’t?” Mattheo tilted your head back. His gaze drifted to your chest pressed against his, where the beads of moisture were trailing down your collarbone before hiding behind the towel. He licked his lips, a leering smirk taking shape. “Look me in the eyes and tell me it’s not true.”

Anything but that! You were a pathetic liar, the worst in the world. They could use your blood instead of Veritaserum—it would work wonders.

The back of your head prickled; Riddle could see the crimson forming a light imprint of his fingers where they had landed. He almost felt pity. Almost! You deserved more than that.

“Come on.” Nails dug into your scalp, and you hissed. “Do it.”

You obeyed, so delectably flushed for him to revel in. To look was to drown in the welcoming darkness that easily replaced your blood with molten metal.

Mattheo stared back; wild curls sticking to his forehead, his Quidditch jersey drenched in sweat from the laps he’d run around the pitch. He wondered if a simple run would help him to tame the beast inside. As it turned out, no.

That’s how he’d ended up in your locker room, opening the door with a simple spell (what a stupid little thing you were). At the very least, he wanted to argue; at the very most—to punish.

“I didn’t do it,” you muttered.

“Oh, yeah?” Mattheo’s mouth hovered over yours; the breath you shared tasted of blood and your shampoo. He inhaled the sweetness. “Are you sure? Let me see, then.”

You shrieked, struggled again. Pointless. The towel slid down, pooled at your feet, and was kicked away by his boot. Mattheo grabbed your face, his forehead pressing into yours as a probing sensation flooded your mind. Insistent, pressing heavier on your brain with every passing minute. It was agonizing; your skull was being pried open with a blunt knife, only for rusted nails to go rummaging inside.

“Please… Yes… I did it! Stop, I can’t!”

He didn’t stop; he delved deeper, let himself relive the moment of your victory. One memory after another; one picture after another. Your strategies, exhausting trainings, long evenings in the library. Then… His own smile, his own eyes, his hands around the broom, muscles rolling under his skin. Riddle saw it all.

“Easy.” Mattheo chuckled. His hunger worsened after those little secrets of yours. How sweet of you to notice his new family ring a month ago! “Our little lioness worked so hard to win the Cup, it’s even kinda cute.”

“Fuck you.” Your head lolled back, too heavy to hold upright. “I’m going to kill you. Just wait until I—until…” you trailed off, the threat dying in your throat.

His thigh was moving against your slick folds; your breathless whimpers shot right into his cock.

“Okay, okay, sweetheart.” He watched how the green fabric of his trousers turned dark from where your wetness seeped. “Keep talking. Kill me, yeah? I like the sound of that.”

The curses continued to spill from your tongue, each one cruder than the last. And he couldn’t stop grinning, working his thigh against you like he wasn’t the one being degraded. Only when your breath hitched and eyes fluttered shut, did you realise how actually fucked up you were. The sting on your cheek dulled, the humiliation melted into something white-hot.

The price of victory was to lose. Again. With the war switching its battleground.

Mattheo forcefully dragged you to a narrow, wooden bench. The view he had claimed for himself was breathtaking: your weakened body, your hard nipples beckoning for his teeth to bite into, your arousal glistening between your legs. Everything about you was perfect, even if you were a little minx sometimes.

Your back met the bench with a loud thud, and you winced. He loomed over you, broad shoulders blocking out the small orb of light under the low ceiling. As if he were waiting for this, his hand closed around your throat, thumb stroking the fluttering pulse.

“Might’ve just let my team fuck you,” he rasped, drawling out every syllable. “A little reward for the best Seeker, hm? How would you like that?”

Where your body lost.

“What, Riddle? Can’t do anything without your little lapdogs? I would take Malfoy, you know? I always had a thing for blondes.”

Pride took place.

His grin deepened; it wasn’t hard to spot the flaring of his nostrils or how he squeezed your throat so tightly you feared the bones would snap.

Releasing your wrists, Mattheo worked his trousers open; the strain became so painful he barely could think of anything you had said to him, only of how tight your pussy would be gripping his cock, so wet and needy.

You flinched when his hand reached for your face again, bracing for a hit, but he only pressed his thumb into your chin to pry your mouth open. Anger flared in your half-lidded eyes, and the path they took to where his cock, leaking and throbbing, rested against your stomach, burned. Heat crawled up your body, painting your skin in a delicious shade of desire. You swallowed.

Merlin’s beard… Maybe that explains his ego, though.

Mattheo’s lips twitched at your thought. Legilimency was a gift he claimed to hate. However, in moments like this, he found the intrusion rewarding.

A few lazy strokes to his cock, and the milky drops of precum hit your navel. The swollen, angry-red tip smeared it all over your stomach. What a fucking bastard.

“Had a thing for blondes,” he mocked your voice, making you roll your eyes. “Sure, princess. Try to say his name with my dick inside you, see what happens.”

What a selfish fucking bastard. They don’t make captains out of any other kind. Add to that being the Seeker! The amount of jerkiness was unmatched.

He thrusted in between your folds, coating himself in your slick. The teasing was maddening, but so Riddle-like. You prayed he would prepare you. Maybe a brief fingering? Or, perhaps, some careful rolls just to ease your nerves?

Yeah. Of course.

The sudden, cruel shove was what made you squirm helplessly, a searing heat spreading through your belly, though you couldn’t deny the traitorous ache of pleasure. So full of him, so good... Mattheo’s head reeled, intoxicated by the triumph of finally having you. It hurt, he knew. But this was a punishment, and punishments weren’t meant to be sweet. Why was it supposed to give you pleasure? You had your fun on the pitch, now he would take his due from your body.

Long fingers forced your mouth wider, your hot breath ghosting over his knuckles. How beautiful you looked beneath him—struggling, overwhelmed. His.

“Let’s put that mouth of yours to good use, hm?”

Your brow furrowed, jaw hurt. Mattheo closed the agonising distance between you two, his nose gently brushed yours. A kiss? From him? You could… you could work with that, definitely! You wondered how he tasted like. That infuriatingly expensive cologne? Coffee? Cigarettes?

Every dream was crushed as he spat into your mouth. Sticky, warm saliva landed on your tongue, trickled down your lips and chin. What the actual—

“Swallow.” He forced your mouth shut and pressed his palm until he made sure you swallowed every drop.

You had no choice but to comply. Mattheo felt the moment your resistance snapped, your thoughts fading into a quiet, stuttering hum of submission.

Then, as if you weren’t gone enough, he kissed you, catching the soft mewls spilling from you. His hips snapped forward, filling you to the brim. The pace he set was sure to shatter the very existence.

“So good, you feel so fucking good,” Mattheo murmured against your swollen lips.

Your trembling hands pulling him closer by his shoulders, your hoarse voice breaking around his name, your eyes shining with tears… Fuck the Quidditch Cup. The most precious prize was you. All his. Now.

Riddle hooked your thighs over his forearms—the new angle driving him impossibly deep. His moans echoed through the room: unrestrained, loud, demanding. And the answer came pretty quickly with your nails scratching at his back as you hitched his jersey up.

“Show me your claws, lioness. Just like that.” The encouragement was both embarrassing and arousing.

Every sense was sharpened; every heartbeat collided with his. You clenched around his cock; the pain had long since bled into torrid pleasure, one that would soon flood your entire system with a cloying dizziness. Mattheo felt his release approaching, too.

As his last, violent thrusts pinned you harder against the bench, you were already crying, writhing in his hold. Pushing him away did nothing to stop the overstimulation he forced with ruthless circles over your clit. Even when his cum seeped out of you, the torture didn’t end.

“You thought I was done?” A hard slap against your pussy made you whimper. “No, princess. I’m still very much angry.”

So, the question remained: who had actually claimed the victory?

[fadedlagoon]

warnings: 18+, friends with benefits, jealousy, possessive and soft mattheo (please ruin me), yearning, fingering, unprotected p in v.

author's note: poor Theo lol ugh, Mattheo Riddle is SO Arctic Monkeys coded. i hope you liked it xoxo

At first, this whole idea of ‘friends with benefits’ felt like a perfect opportunity for Mattheo to be as close to you as possible. Not like he wasn’t already spending sixteen hours a day with you—his closest, most cherished friend! If sleep wasn’t necessary to function properly, he would spend the whole day in your company, given the chance.

“Where is Riddle?” was the question you’d been hearing more often than “how are you?”. That’s how both of you were. Inseparable. Tangled in a way that even your hearts began to beat in sync.

It was casual, truly. Just having sex with your best friend because you understand each other like no other person will. A rough day? Let me fuck you in the abandoned classroom with my hand around your throat. A lost Quidditch match against Gryffindor? Let me suck you off in the locker room. Snape gave you detention for blowing up a cauldron? Let me sneak in the Trophy Room to finger you.

It was casual, you thought. Little did you know you were the only one oblivious to his true feelings.

Or so he believed.

For Mattheo, it was a pathetic crawl through hell. He would burn, growl, and try to rip his chest open to cool the raging storm inside, all because you were getting ready for another date in Hogsmeade.

Not with him, apparently, but with his help—if one could even call it that.

…

“Black or green?” You pursed your lips and held the two pieces up against your body.

The cool, murky light of the Black Lake glinted off the jewels scattered along the neckline of the black dress. It would definitely draw attention: not a shy ‘look-at-me-please’ kind, but a commanding ‘yes-look-at-me’ one! Though, your eyes would really pop against the deep, velvet green of the other dress, and its mid-thigh cut… Yeah, more of a ‘look-at-me-and-be-jealous’.

“Black.” Mattheo didn’t even look up from the book, still lazily sprawled across your bed.

His dark curls, damp from the shower he had after Quidditch practice, fell over his chocolate-brown eyes, long lashes fluttering every time his gaze lazily skimmed over the pages. He had been reading the same page for twenty minutes straight; the ink bled into his brain in a mess of formulas and equations he had no interest in. The restless mind of his craved something to focus on rather than on your nervous fidgeting before the mirror.

“Why? Theo likes black?”

A muscle in Mattheo’s jaw ticked at the name, yet he only shrugged—a perfect picture of nonchalance, even as his knuckles turned white from the grip he had on the poor Arithmancy book. Should he push any further, the cover would crack under the sheer force of his irritation.

I don’t give a fuck about what he likes, I just want to see you in black.

“Yeah,” he grumbled.

The green dress was thrown over your shoulder and fell onto the floor beside your open trunk. You carefully placed the black dress on your bed, smoothed out every crease, and smiled to yourself. A small, dreamy grin of a girl excited for a meeting with a handsome boy. Maybe Theodore Nott wasn’t the best option, but—your throat tightened—at least it was something tangible, real.

Mattheo briefly glanced at your face in the reflection as you returned to brush your hair. It was less than a second, but you could feel the chill prickling on the back of your neck where his eyes lingered.

“You don’t look very happy. Nott is not a bad guy, you don’t have to worry about me.”

I’m worried about his nose staying intact. Plotting behind my back… what a fucking bastard!

“Theo is my best mate.” Mattheo turned the page, the letters seemed to stick to each other, while diagrams danced under his scrutiny. He was growing tired of pretending the Arithmancy was more important than the girl in front of him. “But he is a bloody asshole. He will use you, I guarantee.”

You looked at him in the mirror and clicked your tongue, that dreamy smile turning playful, impossible not to fall for. And Mattheo had failed a long time ago.

“I thought I was your best mate.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Finally, his eyes drifted to you. The intensity in them was almost palpable, dangerous to touch if you valued your life. Your pulse quickened, a hot flush rushed through your body.

“It’s just a first date. And I can handle assholes,” you said.

He set the Arithmancy book aside, his full attention locking on the way your hips swayed as you walked to the desk.

“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be a skill you should be proud of.”

You were glad he couldn’t see how your smile dropped at the sight of the picture, small and worn-out by the years, of you and Mattheo as children, beaming at whoever was out of the frame. It was taken outside your house just after an intense battle with the garden gnomes; that’s why you two were covered in dirt and mom’s ruined hydrangeas. Always together. No matter what. Merlin, when did it all get so complicated?

“You sound just like my parents.”

“I sound like the voice of reason you, as I noticed, weren’t born with.”

His thumb traced the small jewels of your dress. In his head, he had already punched Nott a dozen times until the vivid images of Theodore’s hands on you turned to ash. Mattheo knew his friend’s strategy all too well. Naive little thing... He should’ve never let you out of his sight in the first place.

“I thought you would be happy that your two closest friends are hanging out with each other.”

“Were you happy when I was seeing Parkinson?”

Your teeth ground unpleasantly; the distant echo of his stupid fling with Pansy brought up the memories of tears soaking your pillow. A secret you vowed never to tell anyone. A secret that would bleed anew every time Mattheo was seen with another girl. Flirting, laughing. Touching. Your makeup brush groaned in protest under your grip.

“She is a bitch.” The mirror greeted you with a scowl plastered all over your face.

“And Nott is a dickhead,” he retorted. “So?”

“So?”

“Did I convince you?”

Mattheo slowly rose from the bed, stretching with a grace rarely seen in Quidditch players. In the mirror’s reflection, the defined lines of his stomach flashed; you had to force yourself to drag your focus back to the usual first-date routine—mascara, eyeliner, and soft smokey eye.

“Not in the slightest.”

He had to do something. Should he chain you to your bed? Nah, you’d probably like that. Maybe he should just go and actually punch Theo in the gut? Still no. He’d be stuck spending his final year with Malfoy and Zabini—even bigger jerks than Nott.

You noticed how Mattheo’s fists clenched, how the usual arrogant mask slipped, revealing a coldness so profound the winter itself would have to struggle to outdo him.

Nevertheless, the date was set, sealed with not-so-subtle glances from across the Great Hall, or the occasional hand brushing against your lower back when Theodore let you pass by.

At this, Riddle blamed himself for teaching his mate how to talk to girls and make them fall at his feet. Ironically, Mattheo’s own techniques never seemed to work on you. For whom he had learnt them initially.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You applied your favourite chocolate lip gloss; he didn’t even need to kiss you to feel the sweetness dripping onto his tongue.

Now, reaching you in one stride, he had the pleasure of being blinded by the tiny sparkles littering your skin from the enchanted lotion. How many times had he told you not to use it because the stains it left were nearly impossible to Scourgify? And how dumb he felt right now, eager to drink the whole ocean of that shimmer to prove how much he actually liked it…

The thin strap of your nightshirt slid down, and Mattheo’s breath hitched in his throat; the school trousers became uncomfortably tight.

“Like what?” His voice came out a little raspy, scraping against your shoulder.

He was too close, his heat seeping into you and leaving you desperate to take more. In Mattheo Riddle’s presence, every coherent thought would soon be devoured by a single desire—to possess what would surely destroy you. Taming dragons was a skill you never knew was required in order to exist alongside him.

The whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing was a fragile line of defense against the force named Riddle. You would either let his love drown you or suffocate from the lack of it. No in-between. Burn or die.

“Like you don’t want me to go.”

The silence fell over you like a heavy blanket you lacked the strength to cast off. He smelled of cigarette smoke and citrus soap, of home and childhood memories, of late-night walks and crushing hugs after a summer apart.

“Because I don’t want you to go.”

A loud chime of the clock informed you that another boy was waiting for you with a bouquet of flowers stolen from the greenhouses (hopefully not poisonous). One could picture a gentleman offering you his arm, kissing your cheek, and telling you how stunning you looked in that black dress.

A gentleman like Theodore Nott.

Not Mattheo Riddle.

“Give me my dress.” You peered at him through the mirror, too scared to turn around and face the real storm brewing behind your back.

Riddle remained where he stood—a heartbeat away from crossing the line.

“Give me my dress, Mattheo,” you whispered, however the words were strangled by the lump in your throat. “Please.”

Only then did he reach for the dress and hand it to you, his eyes tracing the curve of your shoulder, your arm, and waist.

The girl he had promised to always keep for himself now was slipping from his grip.

“Turn away.”

Mattheo reluctantly obeyed, but you both knew it was a hollow gesture: he had seen you naked countless times. Salazar, he had even held your hair after the Slytherin party and cleaned you up when you were too far gone to even speak! Why were there all these boundaries you two had already torn down a long time ago?

A soft rustle of fabric whispered secrets in his ear, and a muffled curse screamed at him when the zipper refused to yield.

Would you be happy to play some Muggle games? I can help you paint your nails! Or I’ll steal the Chocolate Frog cards your precious collection is missing. You call the shots.

Just don’t leave.

I’m so, so in lo—

“Fuck!” you spat angrily, and he flinched; your gruesome battle with the dress ending in defeat.

Like a knight who was always ready to serve his princess, Mattheo turned around.

“Do you need help?” he offered carelessly; the chocolate of his irises had long since transformed into the darkness of the Black Lake. One wrong step, and the cold waters would fill your lungs with ice.

A single thought of his hands on you was all it took to send your heart hammering against your ribs.

“No!” you blurted out in panic.

So, you fumbled and fought with the stupid zipper. Ten minutes late, flushed and furious—oh, the night promised to be eventful. Meanwhile, Mattheo, the very embodiment of malice, stood there with his arms crossed; his ruffled curls did little to hide the spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Help me,” was all you managed to hiss before a boiling tirade could spill from your mouth.

You lost. And where did that lead you? Right back into the arms of your best friend.

“Stay still, okay?” Mattheo murmured, biting back a ghost of a smile.

His delicate fingers rescued a stuck patch of fabric from the zipper’s teeth. You should be thankful, really, if it wasn’t for the solid weight of his chest pressing into you from behind. So broad and comfortable, the kind of place to sleep or to cry on.

In the mirror’s reflection, you saw a boy dedicated to bringing the world to your feet; every single touch of his hand along the length of your arm, every single ghost of a breath that made your skin tingle—the most devastating punishment for ignorant girls like you.

“Mattheo… I’m late.”

As if deaf, driven only by a relentless craving to touch, he ignored your words.

Late? No, no, no. You were where you needed most.

“I like this dress, you look so breathtaking in it,” he purred, the affectionate note made your heart do a little flip.

Wait a minute. Did you hear that right? Riddle and ‘affection’ couldn’t exist in the same sentence. It defined every law of nature! Mattheo was anything—possessive, territorial, selfish—but never gentle. He would rather kiss you with his fist than his lips.

And a rule it was—no kissing—forged out of both anguish and thirst. As long as Mattheo kept his mouth from yours, you were safe.

The air in your room grew thick, thunder roared, clouds darkened.

A whirlwind was approaching.

His fingertips grazed the slope of your shoulder, collecting the specks of glitter.

“I hate that fucking lotion.”

You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the reflection of his hand tracing your collarbone before moving your hair aside. Mattheo’s lips, still swollen from nervous biting, found your pulse. The eye contact was pure torture you didn’t want to end.

“I know,” you sighed, the thrum of blood in your ears muffling all other sounds: the soft lap of water against the glass, the distant chaos of the castle, and Theo’s impatient groan as he checked his wristwatch again. “Don’t do this, I beg you.”

Mattheo slowly, as if you two had all the time in the world, pulled your dress down. Inch by beautiful inch, your skin revealing for his hunger to savour.

Astronomy wasn’t his favourite subject, but it sure could be if mapping the constellations of your birthmarks were on the curriculum. There, under your ear, he marked one with his lips. There, on the back of your neck, another with the tip of his nose. And, of course, the one between your shoulder blades, which took quite a bit of concentration to find.

“I’m not doing anything.”

The dress pooled around your feet.

“Mattheo, I have a date with Theodore! We can’t...” You bit your lower lip; the tickling sensation of his curls made you squirm.

Letting him into your room was a cruel mistake you kept making over and over. You knew how it always ended—with him fucking you or with you riding him until your worries melted into the bitter aftertaste of sex with your best friend.

“Let me touch you. Just once. And you may go.”

Or twice. Or forever?

Asking was never his strongest suit. He took what he wanted, claimed what belonged to him, and made it his duty to keep it forever. Mattheo Riddle in all his glory.

“He isn’t good for you,” he breathed. Your hands found an anchor in the mirror’s metallic frame.

“Who is… oh, shit—” You were shoved against the mirror, your cheek meeting the cold surface as a pair of very insistent hands roamed over your chest and waist, before stopping at your hips. “Who do you consider good then?”

Me.

“Definitely not him.”

It was familiar in a way that should have been concerning—the click of his belt, the underwear pulled aside enough to see your glistening folds, and a silent promise to make you forget every name except Mattheo’s.

You braced yourself for a wild ride. Hell, walking was going to be a struggle tomorrow. And the bruises… Ugh, Pansy would give you an earful for stealing her healing unction!

The world must had tilted on its axes, because you had no other explanation on why you still weren’t brutally fucked. One eye fluttered open, then the other. Only to catch, at the last second, Riddle leaning in to cover the column of your throat with small, butterfly-like kisses. The confusion was written across your face and that unmistakable jolt in your body brough a treacherous smirk to his lips.

His cock twitched with the need to be buried inside of your tight, dripping pussy, to feel your walls closing around him, to hear your screams filling the room.

“Why are you shaking, sweetheart?” he cooed.

“I’m worried that… that Theo would leave without me.”

A flash of white teeth in the mirror, and Mattheo gripped your chin, forcing you to look in the reflection. Already wrecked before he’d even begun; your form was swallowed by his, tall and imposing. Mascara smudged, hair disheveled, the fresh bite pulsating.

“Don’t be, he would find another thing to play with.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I would think you were jealous,” you muttered through the cloying haze of Mattheo’s fingers on your clit. It was as maddeningly captivating as watching his eyes devouring you.

“Jealous? You wish, sweetheart.”

In fact, he was dying from the fangs of the green monster. An agonizingly painful death of a man who didn’t realise the ambrosia had been kindly offered to him on a silver platter. Yet, he bit the hand that fed him. Just as he did to the side of your neck; Mattheo sucked on the sensitive skin before soothing it with a teasing lick of his tongue, leaving behind a blooming mark.

You moaned, and it was enough to send him reeling with the fantasy of you writhing in his hold, trying to adjust to his girth.

Instead, two long fingers delved into your cunt, so wet and ready for him to use. Your arousal coated his whole palm and began to trickle down the insides of your thighs.

“So that’s how you’re usually getting ready for dates, huh?” he groaned and rolled his hips into you.

The thick, aching length was proof of how much he needed you. Right fucking now.

“Shut up, Riddle.” You arched your back as he found your sweet spot with practiced ease. He knew you better than you knew yourself, even when it appeared you two spoke different languages.

Yours was a language of friendship you were scared to ruin, and his—the language of torment from running in circles.

“You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t lie.” He added a third finger, and you almost came on the spot. The heel of his palm was pressed against your clit, and the sparks of electricity was coursing through your veins.

The knot in your stomach tightened, and you mewled an answer Mattheo sneered at. Oh, you were falling apart from his hands alone. Years of observing, months of training. Maybe he wasn’t the best in academic pursuits, but he sure excelled in giving you what you wanted.

“Theo would never know what to do with you,” he chuckled; his tongue tracing the shell of your ear as his fingers left your pussy with a lewd squelch before Mattheo positioned himself at your entrance.

“Only I can give you what you want.” He pushed inside leisurely—a stark contrast to his usual rough thrusts that could easily turn you into a babbling mess within mere seconds.

“Only I know how to touch you.” At that, his palm slid up to rest between your collarbones.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his cock filled you to the brim, pussy already spasming and milking him oh so beautifully.

A knock on the door was a sudden, unwelcome intrusion into the amatory dream you two shared.

You froze; a memory of the date surfaced at the edge of your mind, just to be violently pushed away as strong arms locked you in a tight embrace, pulling you flush against Mattheo’s chest.

The second knock got lost in the sound of skin slapping against skin. His thrusts were deep, punishing in their slowness. Insanity never tasted so good.

With his chin on the top of your head, he was staring at your shared reflection. How perfect you looked: for him to use, for him to touch, for him to love.

Mattheo would never break your heart, he swore to himself. But your body wasn’t a part of the deal.

“Please, harder,” you cried, forehead pressing against the cool surface, your hands gripping the metallic frame. “I can’t… why are you doing this to me?”

He littered your shoulders and your temple with little kisses, the warm circle of his arms around you confused your heart and betrayed your mind.

It was Mattheo’s way of saying, see? I can be different—rough and cruel, or soft and tender. Anything you please. No Notts, no Malfoys, no whatever-other-prick you were dating.

Riddle.

“Come on, sweetheart, come for me,” he pulled out just to press himself all the way in. A perfect angle, and his cock was nudging that spot inside that would soon push you to the edge.

The knocks stopped after a couple of fruitless attempts and your obscenely loud moans. Whoever had intruded received the message Mattheo was so intent on delivering.

Later in the night, nuzzled into Mattheo’s neck with your eyes closed and body spent, you caught something that could only be meant for the looming shadows of your room. Something he would never say directly to your face.

“I love you,” he murmured; your lips broke into a smile, and your heart sang. As if you didn’t know already.

A confession so foreign to him, yet so right. Too bad that tomorrow would bring the usual: pining, tension, and Theo’s incessant whining.

So that’s what nights were made for.

[fadedlagoon]

warnings: 18+, filthy, threesome, fingering, slight voyeurism, unprotected p in v, riding, swearing, two bitches using reader... again, kinda OOC.

author's note: feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes! thanks for reading xo

part 1 | part 2

The dress was too tight, the heels were too pinching, and the necklace was too prickly against your heated skin. Having no urge to participate in this ‘event’, you had found yourself standing in the far corner where the lights were not blinding and the view was truly engrossing.

Parties weren’t exactly your thing, especially when the company was lacking. Haughty snobs with their stuck-up behavior nearly made your eyes stay glued to the back of your head. Yes, Slughorn’s gatherings were beneficial for someone who finds pleasure in basking in their own vanity. Wherever you turn, you stumble upon some self-important prick, or a person whose jewelry could be as old as Merlin’s knickers.

And there, amidst this sea of gold and viscid arrogance, stood the embodiment of those things. Tom Riddle. Oh, not solely Tom, but your boyfriend as well. Wrapped in black, the two stars could outshine even the sun itself.

Where Tom was a charm, Mattheo was… well. Present. By the look on his face, you could tell he was planning to abandon the party and spend the night between your thighs. It was Valentine’s Day after all, and he hadn’t laid a single finger (or two) on you the whole day! But being a good brother sometimes meant he was ought to show his support and encourage that master plan of Tom’s to reach the highest point of the mountain he called ‘Ambition’.

They almost looked alike. Almost! If it weren’t for the glances they both kept stealing every spare moment. Tom Riddle was more concerned with ensuring you didn’t cause another disgrace to their names, like the last time when you were so inebriated you confessed your feelings to Headmaster Dippet. Yet, you could notice something flickering in the depths of the darkness—it was neither cold nor hot. Since the day he took a taste of what was his brother’s, this thing began to… exist. You couldn’t stop questioning if ‘something’ had the same ground yours was standing on. Either way, he wasn’t watching. Observing.

On the other hand, Mattheo Riddle had a simple look of “i-want-to-fuck-you-right-now”. That was one of the names, the most clear and straightforward. If you try to peal off the layers of the insatiable boy he became with you, the glimpses of deeper feelings could be spotted under the sweet chocolate of his eyes: devotion, adoration, and your favourite—love.

You smiled over the rim of your glass, and Mattheo took it as a bait. Like a predator, he appeared instantly as if smelling his future dinner, all teeth and danger. You never had to open your mouth to let him know what you wanted—he already knew everything by the unmistakable tilt of your head.

“Is my lady bored?” he whispered, placing a small, lingering kiss to your temple.

A quiet purr of satisfaction rumbled in your chest.

“Actually, I was wondering when my boyfriend would finally notice his poor, lonely girlfriend suffering all by herself.”

Mattheo chuckled; his hand came to rest on the small of your back, fingers playing with the cool atlas of the dress. If not for the people around, he’d be biting and sucking on your neck like a man starved for a piece of a delicious meal—you.

“Ready to leave?”

You turned to face him, noticing how his pupils instantly consumed the brown irises.

“Since the moment we came.” Your lips brushed his cheek, and Mattheo’s eyes closed, dark lashes fluttered.

You were that close to doing the things his brother would not approve of. Pause filled with simmering intensity stretched itself far too long. Noises reduced to a faint, background hum, flickering lights paled, even the air became too thick it coated your tongue in spice and tobacco, Mattheo’s signature scent.

“I know, my love, I know. But we should be here for Tom, okay?” The spell broke with a sharp cut of the name you’d rather not hear at all.

It all hit you at once: the beat of the music, meaningless chatter, and the stinging in your bones that felt like shards of ice being driven deep inside by a blunt, rusted hammer. You jerked your shoulders, desperate to shed the weight of the heavy veil.

“He’s your brother, Mattheo. Don’t bring me into this.” His hold onto your dress tightened, the warmth was spreading through your system faster than the alcohol you had minutes ago. Double intoxicating, triple distracting.

“And you want to spare yourself the sight of Tom being awkward and miserable with a woman?” he murmured, pulling you closer to his side.

The devious charm definitely ran in their blood.

You both looked at the center of Slughorn’s office where the dancing began. A sea of shimmering silks surged; the waves swirled and parted like a retreating tide to reveal two figures: Tom Riddle and Lestrange’s younger sister. Luna? Laura? Lina? A beautiful girl with the grace of a swan and a radiant smile that sure had been stolen from the choir of angels to bestow the mortals below. Pure soul got trapped in a web of Riddle’s allure. Sounds familiar.

“She looks like she enjoys it too much,” you commented in a rather unpleasant tone; Mattheo’s attention returned to you. “I mean, she is ready to offer him her hand and the whole heritage. Too clingy, to my mind.”

“Are you scared to lose the source of your passable grades in Transfiguration?” He smirked, his lips left a kiss on your cheek, then moved to your ear, though the next phrase landed like a slap. “Or are you simply jealous?”

The uneasiness in your gut stirred with renewed force, it swept across your ribcage and seized your throat. What rubbish! You were jealous of how easy it was for this girl to blend into the elite, while your place in this circus was granted to you by way of a ‘plus-one’ privilege! You had too much alcohol to think straight—that’s the reason of this sick dreadfulness in your stomach.

“You are talking shit, Riddle.”

The attempt to flee was met with Mattheo’s hard but careful hand around your elbow. His rough fingers dug into your skin.

“Let me—”

“Shh, my love. I won’t judge you.”

You weren’t scared of his judging, but you were terrified of the bitter truth his words carried. Oh, the green-eyed monster, what have you done? Why did they look like a perfect couple destined to rule the world? It was wrong in every hideous way to imagine yourself in her place.

Music shifted, took that fluid, water-smooth turn, bringing every couple closer with its gentle notes. Your knuckles turned white where you gripped Mattheo’s shoulders, drawing out a huff of laughter from him.

Tom spun his companion and his gaze involuntarily found you; it traced very intently the arched line of your body that was pressed against his brother’s. You two were occupied with each other, even Tom could feel the sparks blowing around him. Or was it in his chest? He couldn’t tell exactly and the ambiguity of these fireworks remained hidden under the playful touches of his partner—Leona Lestrange. She could become a great asset being the part of the most ancient wizarding family; her silly infatuation with him could be used as a not-so-bad social ladder.

He should be listening to what this girl had been rambling about. He really should. Was it about her father’s latest achievement in the Ministry? Oh, or the newest French fashion? No, it was about the way you glanced at him with your tongue down in his brother’s throat. Like you held a secret he had yet to uncover. And Tom Riddle was skilled at unraveling them. However, what truly irritated him wasn’t your recklessness—it was the flush of your face, born from Mattheo’s teeth on your neck. Not Tom’s.

“What are you doing? We are in public!” you yelped, the path to your shoulder was burning, and the chilly air ghosted over the wet trail. “Matt—!”

Your voice lost its annoyed note the moment his whispered ‘look at him’ tickled the sensitive spot under your ear.

And there was certainly something to look at. Tom was still a little hesitant about where to place his hands, but he could never back down from a challenge flung in his face.

This girl was nothing like you. Her lips were not yours.

Tom Riddle wanted you. Even if you belonged to his brother.

Mattheo kissed your jaw—the tartness of coffee tainted the sugar, a flavour etched into you since that time (you switched your morning drinks right after). His lips curved into a sneer, half-lidded eyes cataloging every small frown, every curse silently crashing against his Occlumency walls.

They were complete opposites, two sides of the same coin, and you found yourself craving the sight of that razor-sharp edge flashing under the light of a thousand candles.

One could accuse you of being greedy, foolish, or even delusional, but they could never call you selfish. To Mattheo, your hand was the tenderest ever extended to him. Being the protective older brother—delivered a mere ten minutes before Tom—he had to ensure you offered him your other hand. Why? Because Mattheo Riddle was selfish. Still, he wouldn’t mind sharing with his dear brother.

“Is he doing alright, my love?” Mattheo’s rough whisper pulled you out of your thoughts. The twists and turns in your stomach became too unrelenting to ignore.

“How would I know? You interrupted my reviewing process.” Even if the smile you gave was sincere, there was no bit of honesty in the slight furrow of your brow.

He shook his head as if seeing right through your lie. Perceptive if he chooses to be, and assertive even if you’d rather he wasn’t.

“You were staring the whole time, of course you would.”

“I didn’t.”

A picture of the girl’s glassy eyes and swollen lips was painted red behind your eyelids. He used too much teeth—something you’d scolded him for last time. Mattheo made a joke about it being the Riddle trait: biting off more than you could swallow. A remnant of their childhood starvation, or simply that famous arrogance?

“You did.”

“No, I did not.”

He tilted his head to peer at you with a mocking grin, and his curls fell onto his forehead to hide the devilish twinkle.

“Yes, you did, my love.” Riddle gently pushed you out of your spot. “No need to play coy; we both know you were thinking about Tom kissing you again.”

Blush on your cheeks and neck deepened in embarrassment.

“Oh, fuck off.” You rolled your eyes but let him guide you to the door with his hand on your back. “You are an awful boyfriend. And I hate you.”

“Sure thing. We better find you a second one then.”

“I will kill you in your sleep,” you bit back.

Honestly, Azkaban wasn’t such a bad place to spend the rest of your life in, away from the insufferable boy who thrived on teasing the living shit out of you.

Passing Tom and Leona, the brothers nodded to one another in what seemed like a silent agreement. An agreement to make your life a misery? They, indeed, had succeeded.

…

With a loud thud the door to their dorm cut off the night’s stifling heat, plunging you into a familiar solitude where your every sigh tangled with Mattheo’s ragged grunts. The moment the lights were shut, he was all over you: fingers tugging at your dress, lips leaving a scorching way down the column of your throat. Bodies were pressing so close even your hearts began to pound in a synchronized rhythm.

“Where is my present, Riddle?” you managed to mutter while your hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s better be good, otherwise I’ll consider getting a second boyfriend.”

Your dress straps were pushed, the cool satin slithered over your skin like a snake, coiling at your feet in a mess of fabric. It wasn’t Mattheo’s bed—you realised it when your bare back met the thin blanket. His always had that warm, fluffy duvet, because Mattheo was cold all the time.

“You’ll get your present, love. Patience.”

The lake’s greenish light delicately outlined the sharpness of his cheekbones, the scar cutting across his eye, and the fullness of his lips, open in a tempting invitation. The black pools of his eyes were exuded magnetic force—you would forgive him for everything he had done or was about to do. There were no stars; the sheer darkness with its hungry maw captured you entirely. You even missed the creak of the door that let in another orbit.

“We are not fucking on your brother’s bed.” The way you said it against his lips made it sound like you wanted nothing more but to do the very act exactly.

Fuck me on his bed. Let him smell me every time he goes to sleep, fucking bastard.

“Why not?” Mattheo shrugged off his shirt and threw it over his shoulder.

You laughed; your skin was bathed in the shy patches of murky glow filtering from the high windows. Tom’s breath hitched, his palm tightened on the doorknob, but he remained a stilled shadow a few feet away. Mattheo glanced at him for a fleeting second before focusing back on what was important.

“We really shouldn’t stain our precious virgin’s honour.” You pulled him down to pepper his nose with butterfly kisses.

The hardness in his trousers twitched at the feeling of your hips rolling to release the tension that had been pulsing inside you the whole evening. His teeth grazed your nipple and gave it a hard tug; you cried out, fingers tangling in his wild curls.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek at those cute sounds. His restraint was wearing thin.

“I won’t come on his sheets, I promise.” Mattheo caressed your breast, his calloused palm cupping the pliant flesh, so perfect like it was made for his touch alone. Everything about you was made for him—even the small curse that carelessly slipped at the sting of his zipper against your clothed heat.

“I can’t promise that.” You smiled playfully.

“I know, Tergeo didn’t help us much back then.” Riddle easily turned you around, his hand pushed your head deeper into the blanket.

A rush of warmth coursed through you, so hot even your skin began to itch. Mattheo locked eyes with his brother and gave your arse a hard slap. The crack of skin-on-skin contact echoed in the room; it vibrated through Tom, sending blood down to his already rock-hard cock.

He knew he couldn’t stay away much longer. Not with the image of you sprawled on his bed, all needy and moaning, arching your back like you physically craved something only Mattheo could provide. No, he could help you too, he could make you feel good despite his inexperience.

Tom was gifted in every field: whether it was the Dark arts, Potions, or pleasuring girls like you.

Slick sounds of Mattheo’s fingers stretching your aching hole was the last straw Tom’s sanity was hanging by.

His steps, measured and calculated, brought him closer to the bed. He could see the beads of sweat running down your spine, beckoning him to catch them with his tongue. Small, pathetic noises were escaping your mouth, hands gripping the sheets as you rode his brother’s fingers.

Mattheo didn’t look at you, he was too focused on every reaction on that perfect face, so like his own. Knitted brows, reddened cheeks, lips swollen from constant biting, and the most prominent detail—the outline of Tom’s cock visible through the fine wool of the trousers.

Mattheo smiled. Tom stared at how your pussy was gripping Mattheo’s fingers, sucking them in to the last knuckles.

“And there I thought Mattheo spilled something on my blanket again.” Low rumble landed on your from behind, and your whole existence froze, shrank to the sound of another velvety voice. “Turned out it was you, huh?”

With wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights of the Hogwarts Express, you turned your head to find another figure standing beside your boyfriend. Two shadows, tall and uncanny, loomed over you—the muted gloom of the Lake casting a halo around their heads. Two fallen angels, the rightful guardians, and their… sin. All flushed, sweaty, and startled to find herself the center of their observation.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Your voice broke, hands flew to cover your breasts. “Riddle! I— You—!”

“It’s my room,” he said in a low, even voice, but a faint smugness flickered between the words like a glint off a blade’s edge. “And my bed.”

Mattheo’s eyes burned with strange, almost mad fire; the whole situation was a grand plan to gather you in one small space to see who would fall first. Obviously, it would be you.

Your first reaction was to bolt, then hurl them both off the Astronomy Tower, and stitch the broken parts together and drown them in their own blood after. How creative.

Tom’s gaze shamelessly traveled down your body, spotting the darkened patch on your underwear. His cock throbbed painfully, the lustrous images of what could be hidden under the thin layer of fabric flooded his mind.

“I don’t care whose room this is! Get the fuck out of here!” You threw a pillow at him, which he caught gracefully. Mattheo snickered, clapped his brother on the shoulder, and gave you a slow wink that irritated you even more. “This is not funny anymore.”

“Who’s laughing, my love?” A seriousness laced his raspy voice. “You wanted your present, here it is. And I’ve just killed two birds with one stone—Tom and Leona would eventually come across this part of the relationship. We can start our lessons sooner.”

He was lying to your face, all pleading eyes and charming smiles. If you thought the Imperius Curse was the most dangerous one, try talking to Mattheo Riddle for a minute and you’ll find yourself doing everything he wants, because he looks pretty manipulating you.

“Merlin, do you really think I am naive enough to believe this shit?” A bitter, humourless laugh escaped your lips, your nails biting into the swell of your palms as you stared into the void of Tom’s eyes, unable to turn away.

Tom took a step forward, you scrambled back onto the bed, clutching the blanket to your chest.

“No, I think you deny what you truly desire,” Mattheo said, the greatest mind-reader of all time!

“Doesn’t matter what I desire. What matters is that your brother is here! Get him out of here, or I’ll leave!” You almost growled like a caged animal caught between two predators. Hugging your knees was a fragile line of defense.

Your heart was hammering against your ribs—a violent, rapid rhythm those two could easily hear. Honesty was one of your virtues, and it didn’t help to ignore the dragon in the china shop of your anticipation and excitement. Thoughts of the two brothers touching you were no strangers. What would Tom be like in bed? Would he be rough and demanding, or would he prove to be far gentler, despite that icy aloofness—a detachment so absolute it felt clinical, shadowed with something manic.

However, ordinary boys were never your cup of tea. Now, you had no cups but two whole pots of childhood trauma and wrecked minds. And there you were, the almighty savior, ready to mend all the broken parts shattered by years of survival.

No! It was wrong. Mattheo Riddle is your boyfriend, so thinking about his brother in this… light was a betrayal of everything you had been raised to be. Indecent. Impure. Modesty had surely been thrown out the window.

Curiosity killed the Kneazle, they say. Though it was hard to refuse forbidden knowledge when it hungered for you itself.

Involuntarily, your eyes drifted to Tom’s trousers where the wool did nothing to conceal his desire. Slowly processing every reason why this was so disastrous, you lifted your gaze to his face, and then turned to Mattheo’s.

There was nothing to hold onto, no hint of sober mind in either of them. Only a ravenous craving to consume you, to get a small taste. To bite off a giant chunk. With Mattheo Riddle, it was obvious. With Tom? Perhaps he was driven by simple scientific interest. And you, a bit of a researcher yourself, could certainly find a way to collaborate. Well, literally.

Not a single conviction had yet taken root within you, still, you pulled down the blanket. It fell from your shoulders, exposing every inch of your skin to their scrutiny. Two pairs of eyes mapped out tiny moles, slight imperfections you were ashamed of—the very things your boyfriend held as evidence of your divine nature. To Tom, you were mere confirmation of the weakness of the flesh. A cruel, devastatingly beautiful proof of his own humanity.

“My girl,” Mattheo murmured with a satisfied purr. “See, Tommy? And you said I lacked your knack for persuasion.”

Tom watched how your chest heaved and licked his lips.

“It proves the two of you are completely out of your minds,” he muttered, taking off his jacket and draping it carefully over the edge of the bed. He sought a remedy in the mundane gesture but found a calamity in the crushing need to put his hands on you—to confirm all these carnal temptations were a diversion. Nothing more.

Mattheo shrugged, all nonchalance and calm confidence.

The awkwardness of the moment dissolved into raw, heavy lust. You could almost distinguish the bitterness of coffee and the fresh sting of mint on your tongue. Viscous, aching languor rippled deep in your stomach; thighs clenched.

“I guess, that is why we all gathered here for, isn’t it? A little madness,” said Mattheo like it was a simple tea-party.

“Yeah, and he is the most fucked up of the three of us.” Your eyes narrowed as you watched Tom. He began to unbutton his shirt with agonizing precision; his defined collarbones piqued your interest.

Never in your life had you wondered what was hidden beneath those crisp, ironed layers. Snake scales? A constellation of ugly pimples? Or was there simply… nothing? As if the existence of a man this ‘perfect’ was a lie you were all being forced to believe.

But to your utter displeasure—of fucking course!—he was handsome. Pale skin that seemed to glow in the greenish light of the Lake, a few old scars scattered across his ribs, and a trail of dark hair teasingly leading you down to the leather belt.

If Mattheo was brute force that commanded you through sheer will, Tom radiated a quiet, creeping danger, luring you into a dead-end trap.

“And you,” he rolled his eyes with that infuriating smile, “ever the portrait of politeness and obedience, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you, Riddle,” you hissed, raising your chin in what was supposed to be a pride.

“Never doubted.”

Mattheo shook his head, a grin playing on his lips. “I suppose you’re not lacking in the art of foreplay either, dear brother.”

You hunched your shoulders, knowing exactly what he was implying—your trembling fingers gripping the sheets, a wild sparkle in your dilated pupils, your shallow breathing, and the not-so-subtle press of your legs together.

A silent dialogue passed between the two brothers; these long, charged seconds were cracking with the certainty of the disaster waiting to happen. Yor blood was seething, your mind struggled in a swamp of contradictions that should, by all rights, have terrified you. Instead, they pulled you in, urged you towards them; the sheets whispered with every move you made.

The quiet lap of water against the glass was a soothing lullaby, numbing your nerves until a syrupy arousal, sweet as honey and dense as the air of the dungeons, remained.

“What are we going to do? You will, uhm… just fuck me?” Your snort made them arch their brow at once.

Mattheo brushed away a strand of hair with such tenderness you leaned into his palm, seeking refuge. Except it was a trap—one that snapped shut the moment Tom’s cool fingertips grazed your shoulder. With eyes closed, you could almost believe it was your boyfriend touching you so carefully, as though you were made of porcelain.

Then, you felt another pair of hands on your body. The first, firmer and rougher, seized your throat, fingers spreading possessively. The second, exploring and memorizing, glided down to your breast to gently circle a hardened nipple. An uneven gasp left through your gritted teeth.

No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes. To see the reflection of your insanity in them would make this enough of a nightmare—and this fervour—all too real.

“What a clever girl.” A whisper came into your right ear.

Hot air licked at your skin, and you bared your neck in silent surrender, offering up your most sensitive parts. At first, rough, wet lips found the curve of your jaw before dragging a line of heat all the way to your shoulder. It was Mattheo, no doubt; his curls tickled your skin, and a small grin magically appeared.

But that grin quickly turned into a shuddered sigh when a second set of lips—dry and almost cold—mirrored the gesture on the other side. Your entire being went rigid, poised like a prey before its jump. Liquid fire flooded your veins, every nerve ignited like a taut wire, strained to the limit and on the verge of breaking under the pressure.

“Look at you, all trembling…” your boyfriend mocked, his hands settling comfortably on your hips, calloused fingers tracing the curves.

“Is that a good sign or a bad one?” asked Tom, and you sensed his face getting closer to yours, noses almost touching.

A smug, patronizing smile crossed Mattheo’s features—he was glad to guide his apprentice through such a delicate lesson.

“It depends on how you look at it. If she’s leaning in,” confirming his lecture, you fought to calm your fingers, which had been seconds away from digging into Tom’s skin, “then it’s definitely a good sign, brother.”

A witty retort was ready to slip out. But then someone’s mouth was suddenly there, drinking in your protest before it could even begin. A tongue, insistent and demanding, slid past your lips to trace your teeth before claiming your own. It was Tom; you could tell by his textbook-like precision. He took your mouth with a hunger that held no argument—biting, teasing, and pulling at your lower lip with a hum.

His hair was like Mattheo’s, silky and easy to hold onto, and you couldn’t help but tangle your fingers in it, nails scratching at his scalp. Tom’s palm, in return, closed around your breast.

Time held no meaning for Mattheo who slowly parted your knees; he ran his fingers along the inside of your thigh, and your skin immediately broke into goosebumps. Where your mind struggled, the body had already given up.

Every sensation narrowing down to those tiny sparks at the very core of your stomach. Every eager kiss, every torturous drag of Mattheo’s finger along your drenched underwear flared more of them, forcing you to whimper helplessly between kisses.

With an obscenely loud smooch, he let go of you, and your eyes fluttered open. You wanted more, like a starving man who had finally laid his hands on the sacred water, desperate to swallow every drop of pleasure before it vanished.

Two polished obsidians gleamed in the shadows, and beside them, the eyes were dark like molten chocolate. You wanted to drown in its heat that often bordered on stifling. Confusion had clouded your mind, you found yourself lost in swirling thoughts, but you knew one thing for certain—an irresistible thirst that made your nerves scream and urged you to spread your legs further for Mattheo.

“Tell us what you want,” he cooed; his knuckles gently wandered over your slick folds, and he pulled your underwear to the side.

The answer came in a haste you had no time to consider. “You.”

A look passed between them, and then Tom spoke, his voice was a lingering drawl. The words had no intention to sound so filthy coming from him. Huh, if only the professors knew the true nature of their golden boy…

“Can I have her?”

Your eyes widened, breath hitching in your throat while you were gripping your boyfriend’s forearm for support. A wave of lava—you had no other description of that feeling—surged down your spine, pooling inside your lower stomach—a heavy, tight mass of excitement.

“Wha—?”

“Can I have her, Mattheo? I want her.” He wasn’t even looking at you, like you were no more than a piece of possession for his brother to grant permission for!

Mattheo gave a devious sneer, the chocolate of his eyes hardened into searing coals, ignited by interest and the thrill of a game with exclusive rules he knew too well. You were fucked.

“Ask her yourself.”

Finally, Tom turned to you. His Adam’s apple bobbed, gaze dropping to his brother’s fingers stroking your folds.

“Can I… hmm, take you?” he asked and tilted his head, patiently waiting for your answer, even though his tightly set jaw and twitching cock betrayed the storm beneath—a tension that had nothing to do with waiting.

“I don’t quite understand…” You blinked; your brain short-circuited.

He inhaled sharply, long fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Tom moved closer.

“I want to fuck you. Will you let me?” he pressed impatiently. His palm snaked around your neck, gripping with a force that made it clear: there was no room for anything but a ‘yes’.

But there was always a choice.

“Yes.”

And you made yours.

The atmosphere shifted. The playful, arrogant tinge was gone for good. The absolute focus Tom treated everything his attention came to stayed.

Even if the sky were to fall onto his head right now, he would never reveal how much your answer had relieved him.

The mattress groaned under the weight of another body taking its place behind you. The second one, muscular and littered with scars, loomed before your face; you were nudged back—softly, yet with an unyielding command that forced you to turn to Tom.

“We’re doing this once,” you grunted, watching with a growing unease how Riddle began to undo his trousers. Every move was calm, deliberate, drawn out to prolong your anxiety. He looked nothing like a man who was about to have his first sex. With his brother’s girlfriend. What a world to live in…

Merlin, the three of you were terminally unwell.

“Yeah, sure.” Mattheo nodded.

He kneaded your shoulders to… calm you down? To tease you a little more? His thumbs were expertly pressing into all the right spots, melting your resistance until it bled out. Your heart thrummed in your chest, and with every strong beat you thought it might find a way out.

“I’m sure this entire… thing is utterly… repulsive,” Tom said and pulled down his trousers along with underwear.

Each of you knew it was a lie.

Nevertheless, much more luscious than deception was the sight of his thick, twitching length; a pearly-white bead of precum trickled down the shaft. You stared like at it like it was the first cock you had ever seen in your life. Your insides fluttered at the sudden memory of the first time with Mattheo—awkward and silly, though it grew into a sultry passion, which echoed in your muscles with a dull exhaustion for days.

Hands, warm and familiar, gripped your waist and rubbed your fiery skin, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear.

“Be gentle with him, ‘kay?” He nibbled at your earlobe and pushed you up onto your knees, pushing you towards Tom, who was leaning against the pillows—the very picture of a god waiting to be worshipped.

You gulped and let Mattheo strip away your underwear in a single, practiced motion. He tossed it aside and began to work on his own belt.

“Why? Is she always this feisty?” Tom chuckled, watching how you hesitantly straddled him; his flushed cock twitched directly before you, the swollen tip reaching your bellybutton.

“You have no idea…”

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not even here, you idiots!” Your attempt to reclaim control was met with a smirk from Mattheo who settled beside you, his palms still resting on your waist—a grounding weight that should have diffused the tension. Instead, a heavy realisation that he wasn’t going to sit and watch washed over you. If anything, he made sure he was the one in total control of the entire process.

What a caring brother.

Tom couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his cock against your stomach. So dirty, vulgar, and lewd it sent his arousal peaking. Would it hurt? Or would, after all, a familiar hand prove to be better than anything you could offer?

Mattheo effortlessly lifted you up, Tom’s tip slid in between your glistening folds and teased your clit. A shameless moan escaped you; your hands flew to brace against his chest, nails raking across his thin, pale skin. Looking for an anchor, Tom grasped a handful of your thighs until the ropes of veins popped on his arms.

“How do you find my present?” Mattheo asked.

Carefully, he eased you down; his brother’s cock, inch by agonizing inch, slipped inside of your heat.

A strangled whimper, yours and Tom’s, cut through the charged air. The burning stretch made you recoil at first, but another grip on your waist prevented you from escaping the sweet torture of being split open. Your silky walls closed around him, and he found the feeling so overwhelming he forgot about his night in a company of the self-centered pricks. Just you and your hands on his chest.

“Salazar…” You wiggled in Mattheo’s hold and arched your back. Tom threw his head back, the muscles on his neck straining as his throat spasmed with every frequent intake. “I hate you s-s-so much.”

But your pussy, greedily swallowing his length, told an entirely different story.

Mattheo crowded in behind you to guide you further down, his cock pressing against your back. He was making you take more than you could at this state. And you protested, of course, squirmed, and mumbled something incoherent through a cloying fog of pain and pleasure.

Tom’s hands shot up to lock onto your hips to stop your pitiful fidgeting. With their combined strength, they managed to make Tom bottom out inside you, the tip probed your cervix. You shook violently, throat working to put together a single word, but what’ve been drawn out of you couldn’t even called ‘speaking’—silent screams and moans at best.

A lot. There were a lot of them. The Riddles.

“Such a good girl for me. For us,” Mattheo encouraged you; his lips peppered your shoulders with small, lingering kisses. He was fiercely bucking against your backside. “Do you like it, Tommy?”

Tom, lost in a haze, opened his obsidian eyes, long eyelashes fluttering; the strong, firm grip of his hands on you was sure to leave bruises. He went still inside you, relishing the way your pussy was gripping him like a vice, pulsing and clutching like your life depended on him.

“Is this supposed to be so wet? And tight... I can’t even move,” he stuttered and bit down his lower lip till it bled; you wiggled in their hands with a whine.

“Good, isn’t it, huh?” your boyfriend scoffed. “Wait until you try her mouth.”

Humiliation and shame twisted in a sizzling knot, tangled with lust. Heaviness in your lower stomach was tingling; the lack of movement was driving you crazy. Your shaky hands skimmed up Tom’s torso to find his shoulders.

“Please, let me… move. I can’t…” you pleaded, eyes locking with black pools of ice.

You searched for shreds of compassion only to find a hollow blackness filled with practical interest and that familiar, taunting mockery. Despite being on top, despite his lack of experience, he wasn’t the one beneath you in the slightest.

In contrast, you were in the weakest position.

A broken exhale left Tom’s lips; he surged to you, forehead to forehead. He kissed you again, teeth sinking into the plush softness with little to no tenderness. His hands were everywhere—squeezing, palming everything, intent on collecting the information about your every single curve or unevenness. The most riveting research he had ever had. A torrid rasp of ‘fuck’ wasn’t his own, that’s for sure.

Though Mattheo’s kisses were less messy, they marked every unscathed part of your neck with violent purple. The pain inflicted oh so exquisitely upon you caused a strong shiver to run through. Where your nails broke the pale skin of Tom’s back, his pained hiss did nothing to hide how much he really enjoyed it.

“I told you to be gentle, my love,” Mattheo mumbled into your ear, his hot tongue slowly traced the shell.

To that, you pushed Tom away.

“Like I’d ever be gentle with him. Just because he’s a virgin doesn’t mean I have to nurse him.”

“He was a virgin, dear.”

Every ridge, every vein caressed all the right spots inside; the musky scent of sex and their cologne entwined in the most intoxicating mixture. Your nails were relentless in their desire to leave a reminder for Tom about that night.

Mattheo couldn’t find the words to argue; he was simply helping by setting the pace he knew was maddeningly torturous for both of you. The control, a hard thing to maintain, was in his hands tonight.

Loud, squelching sounds flooded the room, your moans were the most beautiful music to their ears. Tom had always been indifferent to music, but after this particular one he might very well reconsider his tastes. Your boyfriend, frustrated to the point of grinding against your back, didn’t help at all with the rhythm you wanted to set.

It was a chaotic waltz for three, heady and tainted by the right wrongness of a dance that had no end. Your head spined, dizziness bloomed with copper on your tongue; fingers moved to your clit. But Mattheo, little shit that he was, swapped your hands with his own.

“Faster, please,” you sobbed, your empty head lolling onto his shoulder. “Fuck, Tom… I want to come.”

Never before had he heard his name spoken with such tooth-rotting euphoria. Usually, it was a weight on the lips of others—carried by fear, envy, or the bitter resentment. Tom Marvolo Riddle was a name for the history books, for the defeated, for the fallen. But to hear it in a cry of pure, undiluted pleasure… that was a language he had yet to master.

It sounded far better than fear. It was a flavor he hadn’t known he craved: addictive, tangy with the salty aftertaste of your sweat.

He was a quick learner, and he used that trait every now and then. For example, he used it to add his own finger to Mattheo’s to help him draw those tight, lazy circles over your clit. You rolled your hips, taking Tom to the hilt; your vision whitened, splintering at the seams of composure. The high was right there, you needed to reach for it.

Please, for the love of Merlin…

The orgasm approached rapidly, fast and cruel, driven by your eager bouncing and the pressure between your legs. Their tandem was so flawless it was terrifying—a practiced destruction they had done countless times. Together, they pushed you towards the peak that intended to obliterate you.

But you were left hanging when suddenly the hot spurts of cum filled you. Tom growled into your mouth, low and raw. He thrusted through the bliss into you, trying to push his cum back, so no precious drops would be wasted.

Mattheo’s smirk darkened; in one fluid motion he sat you atop him, damp skin of his chest slotted behind you like a riddle finally unraveling. Thick, creamy-white cum oozed out of you, and Mattheo didn’t even give you a much-needed reprieve as he slammed into your sopping cunt.

Tom found the conception of his brother pushing his release into you with every violent shove crude, nasty, and sickeningly… mesmerizing.

“What…” you mewled, spine curved into a taut bow at your boyfriend’s fingers rubbing your clit. “What are you…”

“You though I would let you come for my brother?” His damp curls smelled like fire and ashes of your consciousness. “Look at him. Look at him when you come on my cock. Maybe he will learn something.”

Your nerves, frayed to nothingness, numbed all shame, all humiliation of being watched by Tom Riddle while his brother used you.

Half-lidded, black eyes were tracking the sticky strings of mixed juices covering the both of you. It was sin in its purest form, a perversion so blatant and disgusting you wanted nothing more than to offer prayers to every god and beg for mercy. Honestly, you were enchanted by Tom: his flushed cheeks, ruffled curls, his chest, stained by your scratches, struggled to take a breath. Maybe the gods were already here.

The ecstasy fell upon you in a roaring flame. You pussy were pulsing around Mattheo’s cock; the jolts of electricity ignited every cell in your body. His strong arms wrapped securely around you to help you steady yourself in the slipping reality; his own cum, combined with Tom’s, began to stream down, soaking the sheets.

Love, passion, greed—it all intertwined till they become indistinguishable, leaving no room for guilt. For the first time, it felt like this was exactly how it was meant to be. Tom Riddle and Mattheo Riddle, a single form, so delectable it hurt.

“So… how was my present?” Mattheo kissed your tear-stained cheek.

“Fuck you both,” you panted, your tongue barely moving.

“Actually, you did,” Tom drawled lazily, his voice a low, vibrating purr that seemed to find its way under your skin.

Kiss your boyfriend’s brother? Check. Fuck your boyfriend’s brother? Check. What’s next on the list? Kill your boyfriend’s brother? Good luck with that.

[fadedlagoon]

warnings: 18+, oral (m!receiving), throat fucking

Theodore Nott was the type of guy who preferred silence. A quiet, perceptive boy, whose head was a neatly sorted library where each thought had its own shelf. And like any other library, it had a simple rule—no loud noises, no talking, and no ravishing his brain with waffle.

You, on the contrary, were the most infuriating, inveterate (and favourite) chatterbox in his life. You would rather die than stop your mouth from constant running. Professor Flitwick praised you for a perfectly executed spell? Pansy would hear an earful until she started begging with teary eyes for you to finally shut up. Daphne Greengrass nearly pushed you off the Grand Staircase and didn’t even look at you? Fuck, Astoria better be ready to hear what you think about her sister down to the smallest detail.

It was a mystery for everyone how two such opposites could even exist alongside each other. Oh, the answer was pretty simple—he was the only one doing all the talking when there were only the two of you.

Well, someone must do something with you. Killing you was not an option—your house would lose the greatest asset that could easily sweet-talk Professor Slughorn into calling off the test that, surely, nobody had been prepared for. Or defuse the tension between Draco Malfoy and Mattheo Riddle, who had gone at each other like two mad dogs again over yet another nonsense.

So, there was no better candidate to save Hogwarts from you—Theodore Nott would take that burden upon himself.

…

“Fuck, cara mia, just like that.” A raspy groan sent another heated, syrupy liquid down your insides. “Taking me so well... Your mouth was made for my cock, yeah? Look at me when I talk to you.”

It was hard to concentrate on Theo’s flushed face when hot tears were streaming down your cheeks. His hand gave your hair a harsh, impatient tug, forcing you to take another inch of him down your throat. Your nails were digging into his thighs, as if you were trying to push him away, allowing you just a moment to take a breath and not to choke around his thick length.

“Th—” your muffled grunts were so addictive to his ears, curving Theo’s lips into a wry smirk.

“I can’t hear you, tesoro. Is it too much for your little mouth? Tell me.” He bent down slightly, his grip on your hair tightened, a painful prickling scratched the back of your head.

You looked up at him—eyes gleaming in the dim light of his dormitory—and jerked in his hold, but Theo’s dark chuckle rumbled somewhere inside his chest.

“Oh, I’m starting to miss your voice since you’ve been so quiet lately.” A playful taunt added another layer into insatiable arousal that had been pooling in your lower stomach the whole evening and set your whole body on fire. Maybe even the cold stone floor against your knees was beginning to melt from the stifling heat in the room.

You sucked on his cock again, tongue tracing the throbbing vein just underside of it. Theo let out a deep growl, his free hand cupped your tear-stained cheek, thumb gently brushed away the remaining salty drop.

“I know you can do better that this, non è vero? Amore, don’t disappoint me.” He gave you an encouraging pat, only to push his cock further down your mouth afterwards. The tip grazing the back of your throat, a choked sob coursed violently through your entire body. Theo moaned at the vibration, his half-lidded eyes hungrily watching you drool all over your chin, bruised lips stretching around him so lovely he couldn’t stop grinning at the view before him.

You hollowed your cheeks just like he loved it; the head-spinning musky scent of his skin and his citrus cologne clanged to your skin. Merlin, you had so much to say right now—you could feel the bubble forming inside your chest, ready to burst out in strings of annoyance, complaints, and, of course, your oh-so-important opinion about him. He could see it too: in your glossy eyes, furrowed brow, in another pathetic attempt to push him away with your trembling palms on his thighs.

And he, like the true savior of Hogwarts, shut down your resentment with a forceful roll of his hips and a firm grip on your head. A surprised, very much angry gasp had never found a way out because Theo shoved his cock down your throat until you began to cough around it. You slapped him, and Theodore pulled out with a pleasant sigh and laughter. The milky-white, ropey saliva had connected you two just for a moment for Nott’s artistic nature to savor the sight, before he tapped your wet lips with the swollen tip.

“Nott, I fuc—” you hissed, wincing at the humiliating sound of skin-on-skin contact.

“Stare zitto, tesoro, stare zitto. Shut up.” Theodore rolled his eyes and with a fast, rough push silenced you for the second time today.

He gave you only a few moments to collect pieces of your shattered mind before he began to fuck your throat like his personal toy. You squeezed your tear-filled eyes shut; nails were clawing at his thighs, making Theo stiffen with a sharp intake of breath. But the welcoming tightness and those sweet whines of yours were dulling any pain, only bringing him closer to the edge.

“You have a perfect mouth, cara mia. I don’t know why everyone finds it so irritating. I think it was made for me to fuck it. Don’t you agree,my love?” His voice was thick with Italian accent, low and heavy, just like his cock on your tongue right now.

Theodore Nott, a quiet and perceptive boy, was reduced to a moaning, growling mess with his hands fisting your hair. Slurred murmurs of something like ‘cazzo’, ‘oh Dio, sì’ and ‘più veloce’ filled the small room; even though you didn’t understand a word, his broken mumbling was enough to damp your underwear with your own slick. A throbbing ache between your legs was only growing with every passing second of Theo’s grunts and the echoing, filthy noises of his battle against your mouth.

“Fuck, I’m going—cazzo… Let me…” His head fell back, entire body shuddering from the upcoming release. “Let me come in your throat. Be a good girl, tesoro, and take it.”

His cock twitched; the pace became erratic, almost aggressive while he used you just to chase that blissful peak. Your cute little mouth swallowed him almost fully, leaving only few inches untouched, but he fixed that grave mistake of yours with his own palm. A few strokes, a choked moan, and your throat, closing around his cock, finally sent Theo into hot ecstasy. He kept your head in place when the tangy ropes of his cum began to hit the back of your throat repeatedly.

You swallowed everything—you didn’t have a choice, to be honest. And when you realised that it was safe to finally push him away, you, much to your surprise, could only stare at him disapprovingly.

“Holy shit, tesoro…” he breathed out heavily, dark locks falling over his sweaty forehead, blue eyes foggy, and his body tingling in a sugary-sweet dizziness. “Now, do you have something to say?”

You pressed your glistening lips into a thin line; the bruised throat was raw and sore—every sound scraping against the abused flesh like a sharpened blade. You’d have to keep your mouth shut for a few days, that’s for sure.

“Silence, finally.” Theodore grinned, a triumphant note laced his voice.

Hogwarts was saved.

[fadedlagoon]

warnings: 18+ (ish), manipulation, two bastards using reader (she doens't mind tho)

author's note: i love the whole idea of teaching someone smth so much. feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes you may see! thanks for reading xo

part 1 | part 2

“You must be joking, Mattheo.”

Maybe it was the fifth time today you had repeated the same words—each time in a different voice. Horrification morphed into weariness; a bothersome weight pressed down your sore shoulders, even your boyfriend’s touch brought no relief. And now, caught in a small corner of the Slytherin common room, you were praying for the giant squid to burst through the glass and swallow your exhausted self. Along with the idiot in front of you.

“No jokes! Please, my love… You are the only one who can help us,” Mattheo pouted; his palms caressed your cheeks with such devotion, you felt guilty only for a fleeting second for refusing the most outrageous request you had ever heard.

It all started today—on the 2nd of February. You would even underline the day in your diary and put it in the list of things named ‘Why you should never date Mattheo Riddle’. You learnt to put up with that unbreakable bond between him and Tom, through countless arguments and bitter tears. You had no idea that by entering a relationship with volatile, loud-mouthed Mattheo, you were also signing up for his psychopath of a brother.

Tom Riddle—Merlin forbid!—never saw you as anything more than a stain on his idealistic view of the world. In contrast, you were the whole world to Mattheo Riddle, shining as bright as the stars he would knock down one by one, so you remained the only thing lighting up his darkness. That was why you never had the power to resist him.

…

“You know, Slughorn is throwing a Valentine’s Day party and planning to invite only the crème de la crème of Ministry.” Mattheo leaned in to your ear during breakfast; his hot breath tickled the flushed skin of your neck. The same skin he’d had the disrespect to paint with lovebites only twenty minutes ago. “So, we really need your help.”

You were pushing a piece of bacon from one side of the plate to the other, nibbling on your already swollen lip. The morning chatter of the Great Hall didn’t quite reach your secluded spot at the far end of the Slytherin table, and you were grateful again to have an aggressive guard dog by your side. Being a quiet and reserved girl was always a struggle but not anymore with Mattheo.

“Yeah, and?” You finally lifted your gaze from the plate and turned to study his face—the same black eyes bright with determination, the scar you loved to kiss every time the two of you were close, the disheveled curls that were so soft you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through them—simply to hear him groan and moan under your hand. Handsome, a little mad but undeniably yours.

“He only allowed those with a plus-one to attend,” Mattheo said, his knee bumped against yours under the table. “You know my brother—he would never pass up a chance to mingle with a crowd of self-centered snobs.”

“Mhm, he is blending in way too well for someone who grew up in the orphanage.” You shrugged.

The corners of Mattheo’s mouth twitched; the usual arrogance was shadowed by unpleasant memories, but he shoved them deep down instantly. It was yet another defining trait that set the two boys apart. While your boyfriend had found a way to numb that aching bruise and broke loose from the suffocating chains of the terrible childhood, his brother kept ripping at the wound until it was nothing but a bleeding mess of bone and flesh. The pain had seared away his feelings, leaving nothing behind.

“Always so charming, my dear.” A small peck on your temple melted the ice you started to build around yourself. “Tom and I thought that you can help him gain a certain… experience to convince everyone he had found the love of his life.”

You snorted and nearly spilled your coffee all over the table.

“Love of his life? Matty, he’ll surely find his one true love in the embrace of some nasty snake. Oh, I hope the poor thing survives his company for more than five minutes.”

Mattheo grinned, the flash of white blinded you for a moment. “He’s not that bad!”

“Yeah, he is not that bad, he is worse,” you groaned. “Spill it, Mattheo, what do you need? Don’t tell me you want me to go to the party with him.” The word appeared to hold more poison than you had intended to infuse.

And as protective as the guard dog, your boyfriend hated—he despised with his whole being—when you were around someone he didn’t trust. With trust issues so deep you could feel the void staring right back at you, he was always lingering nearby. Obviously, the rule didn’t apply to Tom.

“Hmm, it might sound a little odd…” he trailed off, his hand found yours on the table and squeezed your fingers. “But I want you to… uhm… teach my brother how to kiss so it will look natural between him and his…”

The scraping sound of your fork against the plate drew the attention of your housemates while you were busy trying to pick your jaw up off the floor. Mattheo cringed, furrowing his brow.

Slowly, as if the suggestion had rearranged something inside, you turned to face your boyfriend.

“I beg you pardon?” There was a blade-like edge to the words, cutting the tension that had seized you both. “You must be joking, Mattheo.” You sneered, the warmth of his palm became uncomfortable, and you pushed it away without second thought.

Mattheo’s expression went grim—the boyish facade cracked at the seams; you hurried to grab your bag off the floor and bolt from the table. You hoped your shaky legs could still take you somewhere peaceful. His unnerving focus between your shoulder blades felt like a guillotine, ready to chop off your head.

You loved Mattheo but that was too much even for the two of you.

…

You couldn’t stay mad at him for too long; a few hours without Mattheo’s presence at your side were agonizing, like a slow, painful torment. He gave you space, gave you time to collect the discarded pieces of your mind.

Riddle knew you would say ‘yes’ eventually—that’s how it always was. A few touches here, a hushed, flattering words there, and those puppy-dog eyes of a boy whose heart had been yours since you clashed over a failed potions assignment back in third year. But the heavy artillery he had up his sleeve was ‘persistence’. He’d take his time spoon-feeding you the idea that what he was proposing was perfectly normal—especially for your relationship, for which the word ‘normalcy’ had been wiped out of the vocabulary.

He knew that. You knew that, too.

“I promise it will be the first and the last time I ask you to do it.” He was kneeling between your legs, oblivious to the bewildered stares from every corner. “I’ll do anything for you… You want flowers? I’ll pillage the whole fucking greenhouse.” Mattheo’s lips grazed your jaw; the voice coated your senses with saccharine sweetness. “You want the fucking sun? I’ll bring it to you.” His palms slid down to your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the sensitive spots above your collarbones.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t been thinking about the suggestion the whole day.

“Mattheo, shouldn’t this whole thing of me kissing your brother make you sick?” Your question was an anchor that was supposed to ground you to the sane reality. “Because if it doesn’t…”

He pulled you closer to the edge of the armchair, burying his face in the crook of your neck to inhale your scent. Your hands stayed on your thighs, trembling with desire to wrap them around him. No, you must stay calm and collected—a beacon of sound mind amidst the collective madness.

“You ask if I should be jealous of my own brother?” he muttered; his teeth nibbled at the blooming mark he had left you today’s morning. “My love, he doesn’t even see you as a woman. That is like… being jealous of your family doctor. Absurd.”

Maybe Tom didn’t see you as a woman, but you surely saw him as a man. Tall, attractive and charming man that got the whole school wrapped around his finger.

Mattheo was the heat boiling your blood; Tom was the ice freezing down everything he touches. You had the chance to taste the cold when he grabbed your arm to yank you back from the Astronomy tower’s ledge, all because you were too captivated by another constellation. It took you two steaming cups of tea and a lot of kisses from your boyfriend to warm you up.

“What if I vomit?! Straight onto his perfectly ironed shirt? He will murder me.” You sighed, the fortification got hit by Mattheo’s breathy chuckle.

“He will never do this. Not to you. Look, he even likes you!”

“Likes me? Merlin, he was about to strangle me when I burst into your shared room without knocking. I didn’t know you weren’t there!”

Your boyfriend shifted to face you; his dark curls danced to the rhythm of his silent laughter, and you reached out to brush them away from his forehead.

Instantly, like he had been waiting for it the whole evening, he leaned into your cool palm and pressed a kiss to your wrist. You looked into his dark pools of adoration and rapture, that sent your head into a dizzying spin. And to the place where the idea gradually entwined itself with the tangled mess of your swirling thoughts.

“That was four years ago! He has changed.” Riddle grinned. “Please, my love, we will owe you. Please…”

As much as you loved your boyfriend, you also reveled in his desperation. Nothing thrilled you more than the sight of him begging on his knees—the fire was licking at your hand without leaving a single burn.

Oh, and add to that having the smartest, most intimidating person in Hogwarts in your debt too.

So, the fortress fell right at your feet, where Mattheo had found his place without a word of objection. The weapon gleamed in the poorly lit common room with the pearly-white of his teeth.

“Will you help us? Your dedicated boyfriend and his psychopath brother?”

You wanted to scream no with all your heart, let the dignity speak for yourself.

Each time it came to Mattheo Riddle, every doubt magically appeared to be silenced. After all, how could you refuse a man who would go to the ends of the earth for your sake?

“Yes, I will.”

…

When the door closed behind you, and the lock clicked into place, you realised there was no turning back.

There he was, Tom Riddle. Sitting on his bed with a rigid posture of a statue. Only the dark obsidians, same as Mattheo’s, were watching you very intently. The ache to claw your way back rose in your chest.

“Riddle,” you greeted him with a nod he ignored.

“Be polite, Tommy. She is the only one who agreed.” Mattheo gently pushed you to step deeper into the room.

If you had never been to their dorm before, you would never assume that Mattheo shared the space with Tom. It was neat: the usual mess of dirty socks or forgotten clothes you saw in the other rooms never marred the tidy space that smelled like the Riddles. Pain with a tint of their cologne, and, of course, the fading note of your own perfume that seemed to cling to your boyfriend.

“There were others?” you exclaimed, a little irritated.

“It’s a joke, my love. It had always been you, no one else.” Mattheo placed his palms on your shoulders and guided you towards his brother. “Am I right, Tom?”

Tom’s lips twitched. “You are the safest option, …” He spat your name with sharpness that always annoyed the living shit out of you.

“Okay, and who’s that poor girl you are planning to use?” You arched your brow and stared down at him. “Should we be worried to find another corpse in the bathroom after the party?”

Tom and Mattheo exchanged a quick glance, something sparkled in the void of their eyes; a few candles flickered, carving Tom’s features out of the darkness for a split second. Goosebumps littered your skin beneath the layers of warm clothes. What have you gotten yourself into…?

“It doesn’t matter.” He adjusted his shirt cuffs without breaking eye contact. “Stop talking and sit down.”

The command punched the air out of your lungs, and you opened your mouth to throw an insult—until your boyfriend kissed the top of your head “He is right, love. The sooner we teach that virgin how to kiss the better. I have my plans for you.” The intimate whisper lowered your guard and ruffled a few stray hairs.

You hesitated. Silence layered itself over your trio, making your nerves crackle as though bolts of lightning were shimmering around.

Whenever the slightest doubt sent a ripple across the still waters of your composure, Mattheo was there to take control and steer you in the right—to his mind—direction. Even now, he carefully seated you on the bed beside Tom and took the place behind you, tracing your knuckles with his thumb.

“You should know that I don’t even like you, Tom. And I do this because I love your brother and I was tired of his whining.” You drew the shaky line, the very line that should help you mark the boundary which was about to be demolished.

Tom’s face was pale, stripped of all emotion like the concept of kissing his brother’s girlfriend was the most ordinary thing he did every weekend. It was the first time you’d been this close to him, and your observant eye immediately began to seek out the tiniest resemblances between the two of them.

“Let’s start. I don’t have much time.” Tom cleared his throat and roughly grabbed your arms, forcefully pulling you close to his body.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You slapped his hands away. “That’s not how you act with the girl you fancy!”

Tom arched his brow and glared over your shoulder. “What’s wrong? Don’t girls like it when a man takes charge?”

“No!” you snapped. “I’m not ready to kiss you yet. You should… I don’t know… Tell me something sweet just to—” you waved vaguely, “—get me in the mood.”

Mattheo’s finger trailed along your arm before it reached your neck. “Yes, Tommy boy. Use your charm.” He pressed into the blooming lovebite; you shuddered.

The confusion smoothed out Tom’s angles, and you found him almost endearing for a moment.

“Uhm, your technique of cutting up the mandrake root is rather… adequate.”

Forget what you said.

“Wow, that’s the first compliment I have ever heard from Tom!” Mattheo grinned, his curls tickled your cheek as he rested his chin on your shoulder, his hands wrapped securely around your waist. “I told you he likes you.”

“Oh, Merlin… No, compliment my appearance! Anything but not my chopping skills, please.” You nagged.

You were ready to Bombarda the door, but the solid weights of the familiar body against your back stilled the roaring magic at your fingertips.

“Beauty is subjective; what matters is yo—"

“Tell me I’m beautiful and that I have a cute smile!” you blurted out through gritted teeth.

He chewed on his lip, glaring at his brother as if searching for support, but Mattheo only nodded.

“Fine.” Riddle smoothed down his already perfect robes, the ‘Head Boy’ badge shined in the thick gloom of the room. “You are beautiful. And you have the cutest smile.”

Had those words come from Mattheo, you’d already be melting, jumping into his arms and peppering his nose with little kisses. But Tom was begging you to poke his ribs with something sharp, only to see if there was anything inside besides an inflated ego. However, that was a fine start—at least he managed to string those letters together.

“Salazar, you’re not reporting to Dumbledore, you’re impressing a girl! Get closer and try to say it like you truly want to please her.” Mattheo shoved the two of you towards his brother, forcing your knees to touch. Tom attempted to pull away, but Mattheo’s intensity apparently spoke louder than any words; he accepted the proximity, albeit with a disgruntled scowl.

You remained silent, nervously gripping the hem of your skirt. Why nervous? Because you couldn’t brush off the atmosphere that left your skin tingling with little needles.

Surprising how easy it had been to convince Tom to do something he didn’t like (or perhaps, he was merely pretending not to). The party had to be very important to him.

“You are gorgeous.” A dangerous fire flashed in the bottom of Riddle’s dilated pupils as he loomed over you. You had braced yourself for a fervent cold, but instead, an unexpected warmth burned against your lips. “And your smile is so breathtaking, …” Your name slipped from his lips like sweet nectar, leaving you desperate to savour it once more.

Well, that was notable progress. Your heart fluttered in your chest, traitorously pounding inside your throat in a feverish waltz. A flush crept up your cheeks, and your earlier irritation slowly gave way to a shy confusion.

“Wow, Tom, she liked it!” Mattheo’s lips stretched into a predatory smirk, and his hands squeezed your hips. The possessive weight of his body turned the heat within you into a fire. It was so morally wrong, so surreal, that you could only wonder how quickly your wariness had blossomed into genuine interest. “She’s practically trembling! A couple more compliments and she will be ready.”

You grumbled a faint protest, flushing even deeper. The Slytherin badge on Tom’s chest suddenly became much more fascinating than his dark eyes, which were fixed on you with a mix of cruel amusement and mockery.

“There is no way I’m kissing him myself,” you hissed, giving Mattheo a sharp jab with your elbow.

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna cry.” Tom snorted, the curl of his lips seemed more like a sneer.

And someone actually fell in love with him?! You lost track of how many of your girlfriends had drooled over the Head Boy. The thought of intimacy with Tom had never—even in your wildest fantasies—crossed your mind.

Until that very moment. You would blame Mattheo for the rest of your life.

“Let’s get it over with and I’ll be free. You both make my skin crawl.”

Your boyfriend snickered. The sound vibrated through the length of your spine, echoing in your lower stomach with a sweet languor.

“What do I do next?” Tom kept his gaze locked on you. You stiffened, scared of the sobering cold that was about to clear the fog in your head. Without your consent.

Mattheo took his brother’s palm and placed it firmly on your thigh. You exhaled softly, meeting Tom’s gaze. Too close. Too close for your boyfriend’s own brother. Too close for anyone, considering how jealousy protective he was of any living soul who dared to step into your personal space.

“Be kind. Stroke her knee, look her in the eyes and then kiss the side of her mouth first. She enjoys a little teasing.” Mattheo’s instructions in that low, silvery voice made you uneasy; a hard lump rose in your throat.

“I’m still here.” You grimaced. The knot in your stomach tightened, you squirmed to ease your nerves. It didn’t help. “A lot of girls like a good foreplay, not just me.”

Dark, sinister smirks spread across both boy’s features. The realisation that this held more than a simple ‘help’ thrashed inside you, screaming a warning. Run. The door appeared impossibly distant, drowned in shadows until it disappeared from the view. There were only the three of you and a feverish arousal, for which the wrongness of the situation was no barrier. If anything, it was another spark into the coiling flames of exciting curiosity.

“What’s next?” Tom’s fingers tickled your exposed thigh, his thumb drew a small circle on the thin skin, where it immediately broke into goosebumps.

And next you’d wish the ground would swallow you whole.

“Kiss her. Slowly at first, no tongue. Then, once she parts her lips for you…” Mattheo cooed, his mouth hovered over your ear. He gave the lobe a playful bite. “Be confident, Tom—that’s all I’m telling you. Try it. She’s not going anywhere.”

Your blood seethed, ears buzzing from a poisonous swirl of fear and anticipation. You were terrified you might enjoy this, yet consumed by the wish to know what Mattheo would do next. Would he remain solely an observer? Or would he chime in with his stupid remarks? Either way, you had no intention of running anymore.

Tom nodded, a few of his curls fell onto his forehead, and you fought the crave to tuck them away. You thought it was ridiculous. And dumb. You came here for Mattheo and peace that, by the feel of it, was now leaving you for good.

He closed the distance; his stare, filled with nothingness, pinned you in place like you were nothing more than a test subject of a Puffskein. His cool lips brushed against your cheek, an inch away from your mouth, as though Tom was still testing the waters of his own intent. Your boyfriend purred against your other cheek; his rough fingers crept under your shirt to grip your waist. Mattheo played your body like the finest instrument, making you hum and vibrate with pleasure.

The strangest sensation of your life—the feel of two sets of hands—seemed almost crude, right out of those trashy Muggle romances that Parkinson girl was always hiding under her pillow. If one pair knew you better than you knew yourself, the other was beginning to memorize every curve.

A violent shiver ran through you as you released a low, shaky breath.

“Shh, be quiet, my love.” Mattheo nibbled at the sweet spot under your ear, soothing the fresh sting with the tip of his tongue. His palms went higher to your ribcage—tender and careful, a promise of what was to come.

Yeah, he was certainly preparing you for Tom who captured your bottom lip, grazing it with his teeth, not enough to swallow your broken gasp. He didn’t know how to kiss?! Merlin, they were messing up with you the whole time!

Riddle… Both Riddles smiled slyly, exchanging a tacit agreement; you couldn’t see the mutual understanding that passed between them—your world was reduced to the sight of the coloured spots behind your closed eyelids. The frantic thumping of your heart made it impossible to hear your shameless whimpers.

The first kiss with Tom was nothing like Mattheo’s. He took his time with you—far too precise and deliberate, like solving equations from an Arithmancy textbook, whereas your first kiss with Mattheo had been a wild battle of tongues and teeth. Tom’s hands skimmed over your hipbones before pulling you to his body; Mattheo pushed the collar of your shirt aside to grant himself an invitation to your shoulder. Between the agonizing heat spreading inside and the rotting-sweet ache twisting your core into a knot, a choked sob escaped your mouth.

Of course, being a quick learner, Tom used the advice and slipped his tongue between your parted lips. It was a bit clumsy, but his lack of experience didn’t matter when all you felt was dizziness and a raw pleasure.

Tom Riddle—your boyfriend’s brother!—was kissing you, while Mattheo was sucking at your neck, caressing your ribs with his palms. You were twisting Tom’s robes in your fists, scared that if you were going to let go, you would tumble over the edge and fall into hell. The one Muggles were so terrified of.

“You are a great teacher, dear! Watch out, your own student might outshine you.” Mattheo sank his teeth into the crook of your neck. You let out a muffled mewl, which Tom took as permission to intensify his pace. His tongue met yours.

Honestly, you prayed for the kiss to be gross and nasty. With every part of your heart and soul.

Ugh, unfortunately, Tom was proving to be as intoxicating as the scorching heat of Mattheo’s lips. He was demanding and relentless, forcing weak, breathless moans out of your chest. For a second, you almost thought they had swapped places, but Mattheo’s eagerness often consumed his reverent gentleness for you. Tom, on the other hand, held you with respect, never once touching the bare skin of your stomach, as if he intended to remain a gentleman.

Kinda funny knowing his tongue was ravishing your mouth. You, his brother’s girlfriend. All those intrusive thoughts could wait until later. Right now, there was nothing but the electrifying presence of the two bodies crushing you between them.

“How do you like it, sweetheart? Do you think he has a chance?” Mattheo brushed a strand of hair away from your shoulder and left a feather-light peck on your jaw.

You shoved Tom, and he grunted, digging his fingers into your waist. The kiss broke with an embarrassingly loud “mwah”; you shut your eyes again the second you saw Riddle’s flushed face and his bitten lips, trying to ignore the wave of arousal that rushed through your lower stomach—your panties were already damp, it would be a pity to ruin them any further.

“You set this all up… you don’t need my fucking help,” you rasped, the air returning to your lungs in sharp hitches. “Merlin’s beard, you wanted to make a fool of me, didn’t you?!”

Mattheo straightened your collar and hugged you from behind, thrusting his hips against your backside. It wasn’t a wand in his pocket, that’s for sure.

“How could you think such a thing? You’re a brilliant teacher, my love. Look what you’ve done to him.”

You reluctantly pried your eyes open, taking in the sight of Tom’s rumpled robes, his lips glistening with your saliva, and a deep blush staining his face and neck. Satisfied, as if his experiment had indeed been successful, he gave Mattheo a nod and checked his wristwatch.

“That was very educational, but I believe it’s time for you to go,” he spoke in a strained, uneven voice. “The party isn’t for another few days. So, I’m free on Tuesday and Thursday.”

Mattheo grinned, earning an irritated poke in the ribs from you. Still too lost and shivering, you tried to seek comfort in your boyfriend’s arms, wishing you could erase this entire day from existence.

“Perfect, Tuesday it is! Not bad for the first lesson.” He got up from the bed, pulling you up with him. “See, told you you’d enjoy it.”

Your legs could barely move. It felt like your skin was burning; Tom’s taste was taunting your tongue—coffee and those stupid mint sweets Mattheo was always filling his pockets with. The two of them definitely shared something. For instance, they both were absolute bastards.

“Yeah, thank you,” Tom mumbled.

“What do you mean ‘Tuesday’?!” you hissed, irritation evident in your voice.

“We still require a few practical sessions.” Mattheo shrugged, a wicked grin curved his lips. “You wouldn’t abandon your student, would you?”

You glanced over your shoulder at Tom, who covered his arousal with his robes. Something stirred and fluttered inside, and then finally calmed down.

“Of course not,” you muttered, slipping out the door with your boyfriend.

As you were heading down the stairs to the common room, you tugged at Mattheo’s hand. “He knows how to kiss. You only wanted to find out how it would feel to watch your brother kissing and touching me, yes?”

You stopped at the first step, and Mattheo turned around. He studied you for a moment, his gaze traveling from head to toe before settling on the angry, dark red lovebites on your neck and the tiny cut on your lip.

“Yes,” he accepted.

No secrets were staining your relationship. That was one of the things you were grateful for.

“And… what did you feel?”

“No one is closer to me than you and him. No one will ever be. And I want you to feel the same,” he replied with disarming sincerity.

His words resonated in your mind; you gripped his palm tighter in understanding. If this was so important to him, you’d give it a chance. Was it wrong? Utterly wrong. Did it feel good? More than anything.

[fadedlagoon]

warnings: blood, kissing, brief mention of harry potter x you, swearing.

author's note: feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes you may spot! thanks for reading xo

The temperature of your relationship with Mattheo Riddle had long stayed below zero. When you thought it wasn’t possible to sink any lower, the numbing coldness in your bones proved you wrong.

To put it simply, you hated each other.

You hated his voice, hated his face, hated his messy curls, and the arrogant smirk he wore like a trophy after breaking another girl’s heart. You despised Mattheo for ruining each of your attempts to get him out that deranged mind you called yours.

Mattheo Riddle hated your eyes, your lips, your sweet perfume he unconsciously sought in every classroom, and your lovely smile you wore like a trophy after those stupid, meaningless conversations with Potter. He despised you for ruining each of his attempts to obliviate the burning images of you from behind his eyelids.

But if you dared to pick apart the threads of this mess, you’d find the temperature had grown so searing you could no longer feel it at all. Meanwhile Mattheo was consumed by the cold flames of his own hypocrisy.

Who would have guessed that a simple healing spell was all it took? Magic, indeed.

..

You had no other words than ‘fucking idiot’, ‘I hate you’, ‘I hope you get expelled’ when you reached a courtyard filled with bewildered students. The prefect badge, proudly pinned to your robes, gleamed in the late sunlight; a thin layer of freshly fallen snow crunched beneath your hasty steps as you crossed the stone-paved path. The day was supposed to end in the prefects’ bathroom, where Pansy and Astoria had arranged a small girls’ night—you had already imagined yourself soaking in the frothy water. Not with the sight of Potter and Riddle pummeling each other’s faces within a circle of a cheering crowd.

“What the hell is that?!” You pushed through the mass until it spat you out a few steps away from the tangled boys.

Yor voice, high-pitched in worry and rising anger, was consumed by the animalistic growls, the sound of meeting fists, and encouraging shouts of your fellow Slytherins. Your trembling fingers closed around the handle of your wand, but the fight stopped immediately as if sensing your intent to kill every living being. No, you weren’t a psychopath, you were a tired girl longing for a bit of peace and quiet amidst the chaos of prefect duties and responsibilities.

“If I see you again with her, I swear to Salazar, I’ll fucking kill you,” a rough whisper felt like a final punch to Harry’s guts.

Mattheo released his bruising grip and stood up. He swayed on his feet, brought a hand to his mouth to wipe the blood from his split lip. The state he was in—tousled, furious, high on adrenaline—shattered the defensive fortress of indifference you had meticulously built around yourself.

Harry looked like a Kneazle after a fight for a scrap of meat: dark hair stuck out in every direction like someone had been tugging at it relentlessly, while purple bruises began to bloom across his face, paired with a bloodied nose and broken glasses. Though the determination in his eyes remained unyielding, sharpening his features to the harsh grimace of pain, hatred and spite.

“Can someone tell me what the actual fuck just happened?” Without a second thought, you rushed to Harry, but he pushed your outstretched hand away. Your open palm froze in the air, and a wave of regret washed over you—it was a foolish mistake to expect him to accept anything from a girl in green and silver.

Perhaps some of your conversations carried a hint of friendly exchange, but the divide never truly disappeared.

“Keep your dog on a leash.” Potter winced; the words ceased your concern and twisted it into irritation. Slowly you turned to face Mattheo, who was too smug for someone you would be glad to throw out of the Astronomy Tower. “Like father, like son.” He spat a glob of blood that seeped into the slushy snow between you.

Mattheo bared his teeth, a flash of something dark clouded his vision—the urge to tear Harry Potter apart became unbearable. If you hadn’t seized him by the elbow, who knows if the world would still have a ‘Chosen One’ tomorrow.

“Stop it!” You put your hands around Riddle’s waist. “Harry, please, don’t encourage him!”

“Let me go,…” Mattheo groaned; your first name slipping out involuntarily. “At least I have a father! You have no one, Potter, no one! So don’t you fucking dare try to take what will never belong to you.”

Hushed, surprised whispers rippled across the crowd—suddenly a daunting realisation fell on you. Not a single soul had tried to help or stop them; the familiar faces had melted into an inseparable mass of students eager for entertainment, for whom the presence of a prefect was but a delicious addition to the main course—the war between Harry Potter and Mattheo Riddle.

Your rivalry seemed like a child’s play.

“Fuck you, Riddle.” Harry finally managed to stand, though every movement was followed by a wet cough. “You don’t get to decide that.”

The thud of footsteps echoed from the bridge; you recognised Hermione’s nervous voice from the very first note and set your jaw, bracing yourself to face the Head Girl. Mattheo’s hand tightened around you almost instinctively—he was too observant for his own good, trained by the years of shared detentions.

“I decide what’s mine, Potter,” he stated.

“Shut up, Riddle. Shut your mouth.” You pushed Mattheo to the side; the crowd began to part for you.

“Nice work, Matt! This Gryffindor filth deserves a lot worse than that.” Crabbe’s hard pat on Riddle’s shoulder made you stumble, as if it wasn’t enough of a struggle to stay upright with the dead weight on your poor body.

“Minus ten points from Slytherin.”

“For wha—”

“For being a dickhead, Vincent,” you cut him off. “Now get the hell out of there.”

Mattheo smirked; his steps were unsteady—the balance had become a tricky thing to maintain. This wasn’t his first fight with the Potter-boy, and he didn’t plan on it being his last—only if it meant you would be the one hauling him away from the battlefield. Your smaller body, with its tensed muscles under his hand, felt like the embrace of Valhalla he’d read about in his childhood.

Potter had earned exactly what he had been asking for. Every glance in your direction, all the talking, every accidental brush of his fingers, that invitation to be his partner for DADA classes… Fuck, he could go on and on! The point was to mark Mattheo’s territory. Maybe he wasn’t as manipulative as his father wanted him to be, but violence was a language he’d known well enough even before Hogwarts.

Violence, fists and blood. His true nature.

Where magic had its limits, a good punch could smash any shield charm.

You heard Hermione’s commanding shouts when you approached the steps to the northern part of the castle but decided to ignore them. Either way, you’d face the consequences of Riddle’s short temper tomorrow during another grueling meeting.

The image of Pansy and Astoria waiting for you in the prefect’s bathroom had completely faded, giving way to the fight you had witnessed. Merlin, why does it always have to happen to me?

“I hate you so much, Riddle. You always know how to make me suffer, don’t you?” you hissed and pushed the doors open, stepping into the dim corridor. “Can you even hear me?”

Mattheo released a ragged, painful breath that sounded more like the creaking of rusty hinges. The smell of blood, cigarettes, and spice filled your nostrils. You hated his scent. You hated the lingering notes of his cologne on your clothes after five minutes of standing close. You hated yourself for inhaling it from your scarves!

Merlin, if peeling back your own skin was the right way to wash him out of you, you would have started right then and there.

“Mhm,” he murmured; the low vibration of his rasp sent a hot flush up your spine. “Then why are you helping me?”

You dragged him into the girls’ bathroom, your legs threatening to give out with every step; the weight on your shoulders could make you fold in half. The sound of his breathing and the distant hum of old pipes filled the humid air; the torches came to life, casting long, dancing shadows onto the stone floor.

“Who said I was helping? Maybe I want to drown you in the toilet.” You shook him off; a string of unflattering insults left unnoticed. Mattheo leaned against the tiled wall; the adrenaline had finally abandoned him, and his bravado beginning to crumble, leaving nothing but a bruise the size of the freaking castle. He brushed his curls, slick with blood and sweat, away from his forehead and fixed his half-lidded, chocolate eyes on you. Salazar, you were the hottest thing he had ever seen. Or had Potter beaten out whatever was left of his brain?

You gave yourself a second to regain your composure and find an answer to his question. Why the fuck were you helping him? Your fingers were twisting and tugging at a loose thread on your robes, as though it could help you unravel every thought and straighten them out. I’m a prefect, of course I’ll help those in need, you put that on the shelf you could easily reach. I don’t want to write another report on why you’ve beaten Potter again, that took the spot near to it. You look so fucking ravishing all bloody and in pain… oh, that one belonged to the darkest part of your mind.

“Okay, then I’ll choose the farthest.” Mattheo smiled. “My favourite—I quite like reading what you girls write about me on the stalls.”

The train of your excuses was smashed against his idiotism. You kicked him in the shin and yanked the stupid thread from your robes—it was useless anyway.

“Don’t even tell me how you found out.”

Mattheo chuckled, but the sound came out strained, breathless, nearly choked; he smeared the blood from the corner of his mouth and let his eyes drift shut. The gnawing ache in his ribs and face was too much to allow him to cling to consciousness—the pieces were slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. He had to give credit where it was due: Harry had definitely improved his right hook since their last encounter.

You called for Mattheo once, twice, and when no response came, panic began to set in.

A small cabinet always held a collection of potions the girls left for one another—was it pain-relief draughts, acne creams, or various Muggle things you couldn’t even name. Disturbed, the glass vials rattled; you opened a few, took a sniff, and immediately tossed them into the bin. Clearly, not everyone was destined to be a great potioneer.

“Riddle? Hey, it’s a shame to die in the bathroom.” Your lips curled into a humourless sneer; trembling fingers fought with the cork of the last potion— one you prayed hadn’t been brewed a decade ago. “What would your father say, huh? His son died after the fight with Potter—what an irony. He’d disown your corpse before it even got cold.”

You turned around to be met with dark pools of annoyance. The worry receded, replaced by a strange tightness in your chest.

“Shut up, …. I’m trying to fucking sleep!” Mattheo shifted, his sweat-slicked skin glistening under the warm light of the torches. You swallowed. “Help me for fuck’s sake.”

The vial gave a plaintive chime, strangled by your grip.

“Shouldn’t you say ‘please’?” You arched your brow and took a step, savoring the sight of his pathetic state.

Blood left a crimson path down his collarbones; his broad chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps while Mattheo fumbled with the top button of his shirt, desperate to cool his heated skin. Between the bruise under his left eye, the split lips, and a broken nose, Riddle looked like the classic bad boy—the kind every girl in school had a crush on.

You weren’t ‘every’, but you sure had a crush on him too. Though you managed to transform it into hate, because that was the easiest thing to feel. Hatred was simple, understandable. At least, it made sense.

Mattheo nodded. “Please.”

Fuck.

Your heart leaped high in your throat.

Carefully, you sat on the floor beside him, the grimy stone biting into your bare thighs like sharpened fangs. Mattheo made no effort to make room for you, on the contrary, he seemed to shift closer.

“You expect me to take some sketchy potion you found in a bloody bathroom?” Riddle narrowed his eyes, black pupils covering the brown irises.

“I could dump you here to mop your own snot and spit off the floor. And then I’ll send Draco, who will mock you until you start begging him to drown you in the damn loo.” You raised your chin; your cheeks flushed with anger and that undiscovered feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach.

Mattheo licked the blood from his lips and smirked. That fucking smirk that could easily make the entire female population swoon.

“I knew you were a freak, sweetheart.” His fingers brushed against your knee, and you punched him in the shoulder. “Ouch! Are you insane?! That hurts!” Mattheo inhaled sharply.

“Behave. Touch me again and I’ll break your jaw.”

He bit his tongue, trying to stifle a grin. He would let you break anything you wanted—just put your hands on him, and he’d be at your mercy for the rest of his life. Salazar, he must be going mad...

You shoved the potion into his hand, then pulled your wand. The familiar warmth met your cold skin; a spark of magic tingled on your fingertips—incantations of healing spells ran inside your head. That type of magic wasn’t your strong suit, to be honest… Uhm, actually, you sucked at it.

Once Mattheo downed the potion in a single gulp, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste of wormwood, he warily stared at the glowing tip of your wand. Muscles in his jaw twitched at your mumbled Episkey and a wave to recall the right movement.

“No,” he barked. “No, we are not doing this.”

The greenish light captured the look of utter terror on his face.

“What do you mean? The potion won’t help fix your nose!” You loomed over him, making him recoil and wish for a Basilisk to magically emerge from the nearest sink.

Yes, maybe you weren’t experienced, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try anyway! Walking to the Hospital Wing with Riddle at your side would be enough to fuel the rumours about your ‘true’ relationship with him—like the rivalry was only a cover for some heated romance. Ew. Absolute nonsense! Oh, and after that Pansy and Astoria would be utterly intolerable, so to speak, because they were the sole reason of those rumours! They’d have you married off and expecting his heirs by breakfast.

“I prefer it staying like this. But please, not Episkey. Want me to get on my knees for you? Please… don’t.” In any other circumstances, you would have relished his suffering and groveling, but now…

Was your healing that bad the Mattheo himself pleaded? No, you were a bright student, smart and intelligent—even Patronus was not a challenge anymore. Episkey, huh? It wasn’t exactly Arithmancy, was it?

“Why? I have mastered it!” No, you haven’t. “Riddle, let me fucking help you!”

Mattheo grabbed your wrists and yanked you towards him so hard you nearly tumbled into his lap. The smell of blood and cigarettes filled your every sense; his heat seeped through your school uniform until even the chilly floor felt like Fiendfyre opening its jaws for you.

“I saw what it did to Malfoy.” His breath ghosted over your parted lips, and his piercing gaze flickered down to them for a second.

You wrenched your hands from his rough hold and rolled up your sleeves.

Now it was a matter of dignity to perform a perfect Episkey that might fix his fucking attitude!

“It was due to a lack of focus and his resistance.” Your tone made Mattheo roll his eyes and slump against the wall with a look of total defeat. His face, contorted in pain and irritation, was pale; dizziness clouded his mind, coating it in a sugary-sweet syrup. Drop by drop, it fell onto his tongue to dull the feigned wariness Mattheo usually kept around you. “Tell me if it hurts—I want to be certain I’m hitting all the right spots.”

“Bitch.” If it wasn’t so hard to breathe, he would have laughed.

Mattheo Riddle accepted his fate in this vile lavatory he had a chance to visit with one of his girls. He could say that now you were one of them, too. But, oh no, he would never lower you to their level. He had built a perfect pedestal for you—one where he could see, hear, and control you. Fuck Potter, fuck that Hufflepuff idiot who thought he could get a piece of what had always belonged to Mattheo. And, of course, fuck you! With your hands and cute smiles! It was torture, really. The kind he had long ago learnt to endure.

Hatred was the easiest emotion for him. He’d known it since he began to think for himself, refusing to swallow the morals his lunatic family had force-fed him.

Every time you looked at him like that, as though he couldn’t see it, the hollow in his chest began to close. It was maddening, yeah, considering the one holding the needle was you.

Your wand hovered over his face. You started with his black eye first. Mattheo’s fists clenched against his thighs; his steady breathing helped him to bear the prickling sensation on the bruised skin.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.

“A little.”

Having no opportunity to touch you hurt even more.

Magic flowed down your arm; you could feel its pulse in your bones and the distant buzz of the raw power somewhere nearby. Shadowy figures moved; February wind clashed against the windows like it was chasing the fervor that left wet traces on your exposed patches of skin. Mattheo let out a soft moan—the wand nearly slipped from your sweaty palm.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, eyes closed for a few moments before he opened them to peer into your soul. You met his gaze. How you wished you hadn’t because the spark had ignited itself; the fire licked your cheeks and trailed down your jaw to your neck.

“Hurt?” you whispered, the tip of your wand pressing into his cheekbone.

“No,” he grunted. “Keep going.”

The wire had tightened, its vibrations coursed throughout every part of your body, settling into a searing heat in your lower stomach.

Never in your life were you this close to Mattheo. Never in his life was Mattheo this close to crushing his mouth against yours. He had his moments, especially when you were so caught up in your insults and curses that he had to think of Pomfrey’s knickers or Snape’s greasy hair to keep him from coming in his pants.

You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled. The magic sharpened your senses, and the light tickle of Mattheo’s fingers on your thigh felt like someone had dropped a fucking bomb onto your head—that was the sole explanation on why on earth did the rush of slick damped your underwear.

Episkey began to work on his nose.

Sweat glistened on Riddle’s brow, dark circles deepened under his eyes. The worse the wound, the more energy it demands to heal. Healing magic was drawn directly from the caster’s power, drinking in large volumes of everything you had to offer. Yet you held your ground; the grasp around your wand stiffened. All that was left was to set his nose, mend his split lips, and make sure you don’t collapse from the exhaustion. Pretty simple!

What a strange glint you noticed in the depths of his irises—an almost hungry, all-consuming void, greedy for a delicious meal. It was the same look you saw in the eyes of your cat begging for a treat. But far more dangerous and irresistible.

No, it was all your imagination! You hated him, he hated you!

Merlin, you wanted to lick the blood from his lips.

Salazar, he wanted to devour you until your throat was hoarse from screaming his name.

Ugh, that was disaster. You needed to finish this before it was too late. Before you forget how badly you craved him.

“What the hell did you make me drink?” Riddle’s palm snaked its way up your leg, his fingertips touching the hem of your skirt. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

“Riddle, don’t open your mouth.” Because I want it on mine. “And don’t distract me.”

You glanced at his hand, the one that had already nestled between your thighs.

A thick, sweltering silence settled over the bathroom for a while. It was going to be long, agonizingly unpleasant for both of you. You were trembling; the ringing in your ears grew so loud you couldn’t catch what Mattheo had said.

He suddenly grabbed you by the side of your neck for support; thumb hovered over the rapidly beating pulse point. His head thudded against the wall, and he moaned—loud enough to tear through the viscous haze. The shameless sound sent goosebumps across your skin, drew your free hand to clutch his shirt. Your mouth went dry, and your skull felt like a cage that had grown too small for the unrequited passion you carried for him.

Magic was everywhere: in every breath you shared, in every touch, in every whimper, and in that longing hanging between your mouths. His lips were wet, bloody, and so, so fucking soft. Merlin, you were just going to take a small taste, nothing more. Helping him wash away the grime, yeah?

“I told you not to use your Episkey on me,” he murmured, your lips almost brushing.

Giving the proximity you both welcomed, it felt like the walls had finally closed in, bringing you so close as physically possible. The electrifying tension made the hairs on your arms stand on end, heightened by the insistent pressure of his palm closing around your throat.

“And I told you to shut your mouth, Riddle.”

“I’m going to.”

The hideous crunch of bones setting themselves shoved Mattheo into you; his mouth captured yours in a bruising, hungry kiss that held no gentleness, no fondness. Only a deep yearning to taste you, a ferocious thirst for your soft moans and for the weight of your body in his hands. He snatched the wand from your fingers and threw it aside. It hit the sink with a loud clack.

You mewled when his teeth sank into your lower lip, forcing you to invite him in. His tongue slipped inside; a low growl was torn out his chest at the feeling of your hand tugging at his wild curls.

Magic in its purest form tasted like Mattheo’s blood, salty sweat, and a tinge of wormwood. The kiss deepened, hands wandered: gripping, pulling, caressing as if it wasn’t enough for the two of you. You remembered what your spell had done to Draco three years ago, and you still hadn’t quite understood why he’d been so flustered. At first, you’d thought he had a crush on you. Now, the pieces fell into place—you were terrible at healing spells.

So bad that Mattheo had to stop you torment.

He trailed his mouth down to your neck, grazing your skin with his teeth. You were panting, struggling to catch your breath.

“Healing was never your calling, sweetheart,” he purred in your ear.

“I hate you,” you repeated, more to yourself, still clinging to the lingering taste of his mouth. “That was the last time I help you.”

Riddle smeared the remains of the blood from your lower lip and licked his fingers. Your heart began to race, mirrored by a heady throbbing between your thighs.

“No offense, love. You are my favourite healer now, you know? The best one I’ve ever had.”

You looked into his lust-filled eyes and cracked a small smile. That charming smile.

“So, maybe I should go help Potter then? Practice my skills, gain some experience…”

Mattheo’s smirk faltered, his hand grabbed your hip possessively. “Go ahead, try me. If he so much as touches you again, he’s dead. I mean it.”