SUMMARY: in wich mattheo knew that the best way to piss off his quidditch rival was to fuck his girlfriend. WORDS. 5K+. english is not my first language. N/A. literally edited this 3 times.
WARNINGS. smut, mdni, face slapping, rough sex, porn w// plot, pnv sex, fingering (f!receiving), aged up characters, hair pulling, unprotected sex, dirty talk, infidelity (reader cheats on her boyfriend), pussy slapping, spitting, making out.
masterlist
It wasn’t that Mattheo hated him—no, hate wasn’t a strong enough word. It was more than that.
Mattheo despised him. The smug bastard had spent years turning Mattheo’s life into a personal hell. Every time they faced each other on the Quidditch pitch, he made it his mission to overshadow him, turning every match into a game—his game. It wasn’t enough to win; no, he had to humiliate.
Every cocky grin after a game, every pointed remark, every stupid joke that made the whole school laugh—it all stuck with Mattheo, eating away at him. It wasn’t just the humiliation; it was the way the bastard seemed to enjoy it, like making Mattheo miserable was his favorite pastime. And it worked. Every time he strutted off the pitch like he owned the place, Mattheo was left grinding his teeth.
Mattheo could handle a loss—hell, he wasn’t above admitting defeat when it was deserved. But losing to him? To someone who could barely hold his own on a good day? That was a different story.
It wasn’t about skill. It was never about the game with him. It was about making a show of it, rubbing it in like he’d actually earned it, like scraping out a win somehow made him untouchable. And that made Mattheo’s blood fucking boil.
Every time it happened, he could feel the humiliation sinking deeper. The bastard would parade around like a king, lapping up the attention, making sure everyone knew he’d won—even if it was by sheer dumb luck. It was humiliating, to say the least.
The idiot couldn’t just play the game. No, he had to make Mattheo feel small while standing on the podium, taking all the praise like he deserved it—like he actually earned it. But he didn’t. Merlin, he never fucking did.
He was average at everything he did. Most of the goals he scored were thanks to others guiding him like he was some damn toddler; the guy couldn’t even stay balanced on his broom without looking like he was going to fall off at any moment. It was embarrassing to watch. And Mattheo was sure he had heard it from a few of the players on his team that the idiot was late to practice almost every day.
He was overrated in every sense of the word. Yet, somehow nothing ever changed. Everything stayed exactly the same.
No matter how many times Mattheo outplayed him, no matter how many matches he dominated or goals he scored, the brainless bastard always ended up in the spotlight, receiving compliments that didn’t even belong to him. It was insane how the whole school fawned over him like he was some god.
The guy was an untouchable, an untouchable piece of shit, but still untouchable. Teachers, students, almost everyone seemed to worship his ass, and the more they praised him, the more power the idiot seemed to get and the more self-centered he acted, which only made Mattheo even more pissed off.
The idiot didn’t even work for it. Everything was handed to him, like the world decided he was going to be the best, and nothing could change that. They treated him like some fucking golden child, and he ate it up like it was his due.
And that infuriated Mattheo, because no matter how hard he worked, no matter how good he was, he never got the praise. He never got the recognition he deserved. Never got the praise he craved. It was always about his last name. Riddle. At the end of the day, he was just Voldemort’s son, a son of a monster, a reminder of a legacy soaked in fear.
People didn’t see him for who he was or what he’d accomplished—they only saw his bloodline, his father’s sins, the deaths that followed him.
He hated every fucking bit of it. His idiot rival was constantly showered with praise and compliments, while Mattheo was stuck with pitying stares, whispers of fear, and the way everyone treated him like a damn outcast. He wanted to beat him up.
But the worst part? It wasn’t the wins. It wasn’t the way the bastard walked around like he owned the fucking place. It wasn’t even how everyone seemed to kiss the ground he walked on. No, the worst part was that he had you.
You. His precious girlfriend.
It wasn’t just that he had you, no. It was the fact that Mattheo had noticed you long before your brainless boyfriend ever did. And truth be told, it was because Mattheo saw the things your boyfriend never cared enough to notice. He saw how you laughed with your stupid friends in the stands during the matches, how you cheered when someone scored a goal, too distracted to even notice if the person was from your own house.
Mattheo noticed the way your brows furrowed when you were confused in class, the small crease on your forehead that made you seem so real, so human. So easy to ruin. He saw how your lips curved into a smile whenever you talked about something you loved—something he was almost certain your boyfriend never even noticed.
The scumbag always too busy looking at himself to care about what you were saying, too caught up in his own reflection to actually listen to the things that made you you.
But Mattheo? Mattheo listened. He saw the way your voice changed, the rhythm of it when you spoke, how it picked up when you talked about things that mattered to you. The way your breath hitched when you were nervous, the way you fidgeted, the little shifts in your body when you got caught up in something exciting.
Mattheo Riddle noticed every fucking thing about you. Every. Damn. Thing.
And how could he not? You were fucking irresistible to his eyes, like a fucking magnet drawing people to you, pulling them in, making them want you. And Mattheo wasn’t any different. He craved you. He craved you so much that every time you were in the same room, he had to hold his breath, trying to keep himself in check, or else his cock would tear right through his pants.
He wanted you so fucking badly, it made him ache, but still, you weren’t his. You belonged to an idiot who couldn’t even know what to do with all that.
You were his trophy, his pretty little prize to show around like a fucking object, more like a shiny thing he could flaunt to boost his already inflated ego than an actual human being. And maybe that’s all you were to him—a thing to fuck and show off, but not someone to cherish. Just another accomplishment that his pathetic success brought him.
Mattheo was sick of it. It wasn’t just the way your bastard boyfriend treated you—no, that was long past the truth. It was the fucking audacity of him, thinking he deserved you at all. If he couldn’t even catch a damn Quaffle properly, how the hell could he know how to protect you? How could he possibly know how to fuck you properly?
He didn’t. And Mattheo couldn’t for the life of him understand how you could see anything in a guy like that.
Mattheo stormed through the corridors, his Quidditch uniform pulling tightly against his exhausted, sweaty body. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed, still seething after the match he had just won against your boyfriend. It had been an easy win—your boyfriend was a joke without anyone else carrying him—but the anger still burned inside him. He should’ve felt good about the victory, but all he could focus on was how much it pissed him off.
He knew exactly what the bastard of your boyfriend would do when he left the locker rooms. He knew. He’d come straight to you, expecting you to lift his spirits like you always did: riding his dick until he was completely satisfied, making you do all the work while the fucking idiot didn’t even move his hips.
But this time, Mattheo would be quicker. He’d find you faster, and unlike your boyfriend, he wasn’t going to treat you like some cheap consolation prize. No, he planned on using you as a victory prize, almost as valuable as the points his house had just won.
He had taken his win, so it was only fair to take his consolation prize, right?
He thought so, so that’s why he didn’t think twice before slamming his fist against the door, the sharp sound of wood cracking under his hand echoing through the quiet room while his palm smacked against the sturdy surface, the force enough to make the door rattle in its frame, and making you jump at the sudden noise, your heart racing in surprise. Before you could process what happened, the door swung open again, and there, standing in the doorway, was an angry Mattheo Riddle.
And for a moment neither of you spoke.
Nevertheless, you could feel his eyes on you, shamelessly scanning your body, and for a moment, you felt vulnerable, as if you were standing naked before him. Still, he didn’t look away; instead, he crossed his arms over his muscular chest, his gaze fixed on you, already calculating how to draw you into his plan.
Yet he couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips when he noticed the blush creeping across your cheeks and the way your eyes darted, desperate to avoid his. You looked so pretty, so easy to ruin.
“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?” His voice cut through the silence, startling you. You blinked, your gaze stubbornly fixed on his strong chest. The way his sweat-soaked uniform clung to every muscle was distracting—too distracting, and you noticed his dark curls fell messily over those piercing brown eyes, and for a brief, shameful moment, you couldn’t stop yourself from staring.
What the hell are you doing? You scolded yourself, your cheeks growing more red this time with shame.
You cleared your throat, lifting your head slightly to meet Mattheo’s gaze. His brow already arched as you looked, a mocking smile playing on his lips as he watched you closely. He knew his plan was falling into place, and so was yours.
“Yeah.” You stood up, trying to keep your voice steady as you looked at him. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
Mattheo scoffed, knowing full well your boyfriend was probably sulking in the locker room, making a scene about his loss and fishing for sympathy. He took a step closer to you, and it took everything in you not to back away or, worse, lean towards him. “He’s coming, he’s coming,” you kept repeating to yourself, almost like a desperate reminder that you had a boyfriend.
“Sure he will, sweetheart,” he said, the mockery in his tone impossible to miss, his eyes raking over you from head to toe again, a pretty little thing like you waiting for an idiot who doesn’t even know how to use his dick—sad, really. “He’s so reliable, isn’t he? Always putting you first. Always showing up for you,” he added sarcastically, smirking even more as you swallowed, knowing he had hit a nerve.
Mattheo’s words hit you like a slap, but the worst part was how much truth they carried. You bristled, refusing to acknowledge your failed relationship, and narrowed your eyes at him. “That’s none of your fucking business, Riddle,” you hissed, gripping your wrists tightly as he took another step towards you.
He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a smirk anything but friendly. “Isn’t it? I think it’s exactly my damn business.” His voice was calm—too calm—like he was savoring every second of making you realize the bastard was not all that. But even with that collected tone, you could still see the same anger in his eyes.
“You’ve been letting him walk all over you for too long, haven’t you? Always waiting, always hoping he’ll finally see you… really see you.” He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking, his dark gaze still piercing into yours. “But he doesn’t, does he?”
You swallowed hard, the tightness in your chest making it difficult to breathe. You knew he was right; the frustration of always coming second to your boyfriend’s ego, of never feeling truly seen or satisfied, was frustrating. But you weren’t ready to admit it—not to him.
You knew who Mattheo was—the son of the dark lord and a top player on the Slytherin Quidditch team. But that didn’t matter to you, not when your boyfriend filled your head with his hate for him, always trying to be better than Mattheo, and deep down you knew he would never reach that goal. Your boyfriend had recognition but no real talent. He always hid his insecurities behind a false confidence and a big ego, caring only about himself and putting others down.
He was a piece of shit; you couldn’t deny it.
You lifted your chin, trying to stay calm and ignore how close Mattheo was getting, his gaze intense, like a predator eyeing its prey. “I don’t need you to tell me about my relationship.” You shot back, trying to hold your ground, though his words still gnawed at your mind. Yet Matthew wasn’t looking into your eyes. No, his attention was lower, fixed on the curve of your hips, like he was already claiming it as his prize.
He lifted his gaze from your curves, his smirk deepening as he seemed to enjoy the way you squirmed, desperately trying to defend a lost cause like your brainless idiot of a boyfriend. “You don’t, huh?” His voice dropping, growing darker.
“Then why the hell are you still waiting for him? How long have you been sitting here, staring at that door like he’s gonna show up and treat you right… fuck you right?” He paused, letting the silence hang between you, thick and heavy. “You know he never will, at least not the way you want, sweetheart.”
You blinked, over and over, not realizing how he had moved closer until he was standing right in front of you, too caught up in the way your heart seemed to race at his previous words, the way they sliced through your mind. You knew he was right; you were just a precious little thing for your boyfriend to show off, nothing more, and the bastard never knew how to properly use his dick on you.
Mattheo didn’t flinch, his eyes darkening as his smirk widened. He took another step toward you, finally stopping just in front of you, making your heart race, your knees almost buckling as you noticed his Quidditch uniform clung to his body with every movement.
“It’s the truth, and you know it,” he said, his voice low. “Every time he brushes you off, every time he acts like he’s too busy for you, too busy to actually care. But not me.” He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “I see you. I’ll use you how you deserve to be used, and I won’t make you feel invisible.”
You weren’t stupid; you knew the difference between Mattheo and your boyfriend. Even though both saw you as something to be conquered, at least Mattheo knew how to use his cock. The temptation was there, the promise of finally being noticed, but deep down, you knew it wasn’t because he cared.
It was all part of his plan, and you were falling deeper into his trap.
His hand reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. The touch was light—almost innocent—but it sent a shiver down your spine, nonetheless. and you knew it wasn’t innocent at all. “Don’t,” you warned, your voice faltering as you tried to hold on to whatever little control you had left.
“Don’t what, sweetheart?” he whispered, his hand moving to your neck as he brought his face closer to you once again, this time only a few centimeters from your neck, his lips just millimeters away. “Hmm?” he hummed, a provocation, you noticed, his calloused hand tightening slightly around your neck as he placed a light kiss on the spot, almost as if testing the territory.
Fuck, that was easier than he thought, and at this rate he was going to get hard in no time; he wanted to feel your pussy so much.
“Riddle,” you said, your voice trembling as you tried to sound firm, yet the way you were trying to stand betrayed you. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he shot back in a whisper, his mouth still close to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His eyes bore into your face, craving for you to finally break, for him to finally claim you as a prize, to finally piss off your boyfriend and show you how a girl like you should be fucked. Yet, he knew he had to wait; wait until you were so absorbed in him that you wouldn’t want to turn back.
“Mattheo…” First name, good.
He chuckled, his breath coming against your neck, sending vibrations through your body. His left hand was now on your stomach, while his right rested at the back of your neck. “Tell me something, sweetheart. When was the last time he touched you like this?” he asked, his hand sliding down to your skirt, gently caressing your thigh.
You try to ignore the way your own body was responding to his touch, his breath, the traitorous wetness between your legs growing, making you feel a bit ashamed, as you knew he could feel.
“I—” you stopped, the words catching in your throat, your breathing growing heavier as his hand continued to caress your thigh and his mouth lingered on your neck, leaving small kisses on your sensitive spot. You were too lost in the sensation to even remember that your boyfriend could walk in at any moment.
Mattheo chuckled against your neck, gently pushing your legs further apart as he looked at you, noticing the way you trembled against his body. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction—not just from the sight but also from the realization that you were already so lost in his touch, there was just a little chance you’d turn back now.
You sighed visibly, your eyes remaining closed as you were too lost in the touch and embarrassment to even look at him. However, you couldn’t help but let out a small scream when, with a sudden movement, Mattheo pushed you against a small desk, positioning himself behind you. His hand still squeezed your neck, but this time lifting your chin slightly, holding you like a trophy.
“Such a needy girl,” Mattheo murmured in your ear, his groin pressed firmly against your ass, making you bite your lip as your cunt clenched at his words. “So needy already, and I’ve barely touched you,” he mocked, the hand that had been on your thigh now sliding to your stomach, his fingertips prodding you teasingly.
“Fuck you,” you hissed, your head spinning as he pressed his groin even more against you. Fucking bastard.
“Shhh,” he shushed you mockingly, almost chuckling as you kept your eyes closed, trying to curse him. “Don’t be so mean, sweetheart. I’m about to give you what that fucking bastard doesn’t have the balls to do,” he whispered in your ear, giving a small bite to the lobe of your ear as he did so.
You didn’t respond; instead, you pressed your clothed ass against his hips, making him groan as he felt his quidditch uniform tighten around his cock.
Mattheo continued to rock his hips against you, his right hand tightening its grip on your neck and tilting your chin up, exposing your face to the small window of the room. His fingers on your right hand pushed your skirt down, and before you realized it, both your skirt and panties were already at your heels, causing Mattheo’s smirk to widen even more as he saw how wet you were.
“You’re so wet already,” he chuckled against your ear, his fingers trailing down your lower stomach, almost reaching your already dripping cunt. “Such a desperate little thing you are,” he mocked you again, his hips pressing into your bare ass. “He doesn’t fuck you properly, does he?”
You held your breath at his provocation, a small part of your rationality returning after the truth he had spoken. Your nails dug into the desk in front of you as you tried to process what was happening, struggling not to look at Mattheo’s fingers still trailing along the lower part of your stomach.
For a moment, a part of your mind sobered, the image of your boyfriend flashing through your thoughts. A wave of hesitation threatened to take over, and you almost gave in to the doubt, but before you could pull back, Mattheo’s hand landed firmly against your pussy, the sound echoing through the room. The sharp sting caused you to gasp, but before you could even recover, his fingers slid deep inside you.
“Mattheo!” You moaned his name like a prayer, gasping for air as his other hand moved to your hair, pushing your head towards his shoulder as his finger continued to fill your wet cunt.
Mattheo chuckled, his hips pressing and rubbing against your ass as his fingers moved in and out of you without any delicacy, and he felt his cock getting harder as your pussy squeezed his fingers, making him imagine what it would be like when it was wrapped around his cock, squeezing it until he filled you with cum.
“That’s it.” Mattheo said in your ear, his grip on your hair tightening as his fingers thrust, making you moan and move your hips even more. “Such a pretty slut.” He moaned as well, feeling your bare ass rocking against his clothed cock.From the frantic movements of your hips, he knew you were close to your orgasm, which only made him more satisfied.
Holy shit, he barely touched you, and you were already a mess; your boyfriend was a joke.
“Oh my fucking God,” you moaned louder, the pain from his grip on your hair almost fading as his fingers hit your sensitive spot, making you clamp your legs together. “Mattheo!” You breathed out, your nails digging deeper into the wooden desk in front of you, and you bucked your hips against his clothed cock as your vision began to blur.
“Jus like that,” he groaned, moving his hips and fingers in the same ruthless rhythm, the wet sounds of your pussy muffled only by the sounds of your moans. “Cum,” he commanded, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he did. You moaned louder, your legs shaking as you obeyed his order.
Your eyes opened, and you looked down, trying to control your breathing, which only made you moan louder as you watched Mattheo’s cum-soaked fingers slip out of your pussy with a wet sound. Feeling his smirk against your ear, his hips now grinding slowly against your ass.
Mattheo looked at your state, the sweat sticking to his forehead and making his hair cling even more. His eyes fixed on his fingers for a few seconds, your essence evident on them. He should be satisfied right now, on cloud nine—but he wasn’t. Not yet.
His eyes scanned over you again, taking in your flushed cheeks, the marks on your shoulder, your tangled hair. You were a mess—a hot mess—but it still wasn’t enough. No, quite the opposite. You were a mess, but not a crying mess, and that’s exactly what he wanted. After all, you couldn’t be his trophy if you weren’t used the right way, could you?
Well, that’s what he thought.
His hand pulled your hair back further, which made you let out a sudden scream and widen your eyes, the previous adrenaline still present throughout your body, and although you were tired, your pussy throbbed even more with the sudden pull.
“What are you—...?”
“Do you really think this is over, pretty thing?” He asked, his voice filled with mockery as he pushed your hair even more, his other hand still soaked with your cum. “A slut like you needs more to be satisfied, especially if she’s not being fucked properly.” He groaned into your ear, and you almost moaned at the dirty words.
With a sudden movement, Mattheo turned you to face him, his hand still gripping your scalp, and sat you down on the wooden surface, spreading your legs so he could position himself between them.
You looked at him, your pussy blinking in anticipation as you watched the way his sweat made his Slytherin uniform stick to the defined muscles of his chest, and you couldn't help but bite your lip at the sight.
“Do you like what you see?” Mattheo asked, his grip on your hair still firm, his lips curling into a smirk as he saw you nod. “Such a pretty girl.” He paused, his eyes still fixed on your face. “Open your mouth.” His voice was firm, and you, too lost in your previous pleasure, obeyed him without hesitation.
Taking advantage of the opening, Mattheo brought his free hand to your mouth, his fingers covered in your cum, making contact with your tongue. Neither of you could control the moan as your tongue rolled around his fingers.
Mattheo stared at the scene for a few seconds, as if hypnotized by the sight. However, the hardness of his dick quickly snapped him back to reality, reminding him of what he needed from you. In an instant, he pulled his fingers from your tongue and used them to open your mouth. Before you could fully react, he took the opportunity to spit onto your tongue and pressed his lips to yours in a hungry kiss.
You both moaned into each other's mouths, your taste present as tongues and teeth collided eagerly, both of you wanting to take control of the battle that your mouths were trying to win at all costs.
Mattheo’s hand pulled your hair harder, taking control of the kiss as you moaned against his mouth. He mirrored your sound; however, while you were completely lost in the kiss, Matt had already pulled his waistband and boxers down to his heels, his hard cock exposed as he struggled to control himself, fighting the urge to fuck you right there.
Yet, he couldn’t control himself—not when your pussy looked so fucking pretty, not when the anger was still beating against his ribs, and not when he was still waiting to make the trophy completely his.
Mattheo gripped your hair even tighter, pulling you out of the kiss with surprising strength, making you moan in annoyance at the loss of contact. However, that moan quickly turned into one of pleasure when you felt another slap on your pussy, signaling for you to open your legs. This one was stronger, the wet sound reverberating through the walls.
Yet, you obeyed quickly, spreading your legs to give Mattheo the opening he needed to finally enter you and claim the trophy he felt he deserved.
You looked at his dick anxiously, your sensitive cunt throbbing. Mattheo grabbed your leg, placing it over his shoulder, and without a single warning, he slid inside with a single thrust between your wet folds, and a loud moan escaped your lips at the sensation. "Fuck, you're so tight," Mattheo groaned, feeling your tight walls squeezing his cock as he thrust even harder.
Fuck, he was big—too big, or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself, since the only dick you were used to was your boyfriend’s. And, honestly, you sometimes wondered if it was just for decoration.
Mattheo’s grip on you tightens harder, his breath coming in low gasps and whimpers almost as loud and scandalous as yours as he continues to push his cock deep inside your soaked folds, making the sound reverberate through the stone walls of the room.
You didn’t hold back, moaning and whimpering as you moved your hips with him, too lost in the sensation to care about your boyfriend.
Mattheo knew exactly what he was doing, stealing you from that worthless piece of shit you called your boyfriend and claiming you like a damn trophy. The satisfaction of finally having his hands on you, feeling your body around his, was like a fucking victory prize for him, an intoxicating one.
Yet, you didn’t care that you were being used as a pawn, not when you were being filled and used like a slut by a cock that actually did its job.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You whimpered, moving your hips even harder, making Mattheo groan and moan loudly and mimicking your actions, moving his hips with the same roughness as you, thrusting even further inside you. Your arms behind you, resting on the table, and you could feel your leg getting sore on top of Mattheo’s shoulder. You didn't care, though, as you continued to dig your nails into the table, leaving a mark.
“That fucking idiot has a bitch like you and doesn’t fuck her the way she deserves,” he growled, anger visible in his voice, his dick still moving inside your desperate, wet cunt, your flesh almost shining. “Such a good fucking cunt,” he murmurs, gripping your leg even harder, the sound of your moans and whimpers only fueling his ego.
He wasn’t just fucking you, you notice; the son of a bitch was claiming you in ways your boyfriend could never even dream of.
Mattheo took your leg off his shoulder abruptly, slapping your thighs roughly and then moving them apart so he had more access to your soaked pussy that was proudly swallowing his fat cock, which made him increase his movements even more, his fingers gripping your waist as he moved inside you, his brown eyes focused on yours for a few seconds.
“Mattheo!” You continued moaning his name loudly, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. You were so lost in the sensation, so caught in his intense gaze, that you had to close your eyes, shutting them tightly as you tried to regain control.
But that only seemed to anger him even more, and without warning, he thrust even harder into you, and in the next instant, his hand came down, slapping your face with force; the sound echoed through the room, making your head snap to the side, the force leaving a mark on your skin.
You moaned once more, opening your eyes and focusing on him again. Your pussy throbbed from the sudden contact on your cheek, and for a moment, you couldn't help but curse yourself under your breath, the sensation making you even hornier than before, your walls clenching even tighter around his cock.
“What a pretty little slut, squeezing my dick like this,” he moaned at the way your pussy tightened around him. “Look at your pathetic state,” he laughed through his nose, watching the red mark on your cheek.
His hips slammed harder against yours, making you moan when you felt his dick hit your sensitive spot, and he mimicked the sound when he felt you tighten around him, letting him know you were close to orgasm. You looked at him completely as you rocked your hips against his, trying to ignore the burning sensation his hand left on your cheek.
He looked fucking glorious; the way his curls clung to his forehead made him look even more irresistible.
Yet, you couldn’t help but notice how his muscled chest was still covered by his Quidditch jersey, and you couldn’t help but feel a little off, knowing that your boyfriend’s team lost to the house of the man who was fucking you right now.
The force in Mattheo's deep and rough thrusts increased, and you tried to use that to your advantage to try to take off the Slytherin jersey; however, when he noticed that your hands were going towards his uniform, Mattheo laughed dryly and brought his hand back to your hair, grabbing it and pulling you back, thrusting his dick harder into your pussy.
“No, no,” he forced a chuckle, trying to control a moan as he felt himself getting closer to his orgasm, the force on your scalp getting stronger. “I’m going to wear this fucking jersey until you cum.” He gave another deep thrust, and before you could even complain, he crashed your mouths in another bruising but sloppy kiss.
“Mattheo, please!” You moaned into his mouth, tears falling down your cheeks, making him smirk even more as he kissed you roughly and pressed his cock on your hole even more, satisfied that he was finally making you a crying mess and satisfied that you were so lost in the pleasure of his cock that you let him take you as a trophy, making you forget about your brainless boyfriend.
“Fuck, I’m close too, sweetheart.” He responded by thrusting even harder into your pussy, and not even ten seconds later you came moaning loudly against his lips, your pussy wetting his cock with your cum as you cried out.
Mattheo broke the kiss, moaning loudly, his goal accomplished. His mouth went towards your shoulder, biting the skin as he continued to thrust, guiding himself to orgasm. His hand tightened even more in your hair before finally cumming, filling your pussy with his release before taking it off you.
Both of you tried to control your breaths, your hearts still racing. Mattheo looked at you, his breathing still heavy, yet before you could come to your senses, he kneeled before you, his hand leaving your hair as he placed both of his hands on your thighs, looking at your expression, your eyes closed.
He licked a small part of your mixed orgasms, causing him to groan against your folds. The two of you were so distracted that you didn’t even notice your boyfriend standing in the doorway, looking at the scene with his jaw clenched.
Mattheo finally looked up, and when he noticed his asshole rival looking at the scene angrily, he moved his face away from your pussy, smirking in your boyfriend’s direction, while both of your orgasms ran down his chin, falling onto his sports jersey, showing your boyfriend that Mattheo had fucked the way he was never capable of.
And when your boyfriend finally stormed off, Mattheo turned his attention back to your pussy, not even telling you about his appearance.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmured against your pussy, enjoying his victory. Because, in the end, being a trophy was better than being a consolation prize, right?
And after all, Mattheo Riddle always took good care of his trophies, and you wouldn’t be the exception.
SUMMARY. in which mattheo seeks power and needs your help to perform a blood ritual. WORDS. +6.3K. english is not my first language.
WARNINGS. smut, mdni, porn w//plot, mean mattheo, aged up characters, friends to fuck buddies, blood play, blood kink, cuts, spitting, nipple sucking, oral sex f!receiving, pussy drunk mattheo, handjob, dirty talk, biting, marking.
masterlist.
He was insane. Truly insane. Almost unhinged. Mattheo Riddle was the definition of impulsive thoughts turned into reckless actions, actions that always led him to trouble. He was raw, magnetic, and dangerously unpredictable, the kind of person who attracted attention without even trying. Every move he made, every word he spoke, every breath he took was saturated with confidence and superiority.
He didn’t just attract trouble; he craved it, needed it like it was the only thing keeping him seen.
Mattheo was like a storm no one could outrun, an enigma without resolution, and that was exactly what made him so intoxicating. There was something in his presence that pulled people toward him, whether in admiration or fear, and no one could quite decide if it was for better or worse. He wasn’t just hard to ignore; he was impossible to overlook. He demanded attention simply by existing, and it was maddening, the way he could dominate a room with nothing more than a simple glance.
It could have been for a lot of reasons. Maybe it was the way he acted like he didn’t have a care in the world, the sharp, biting comments he always seemed to have ready, words that stuck like blood on stone.Or maybe it was the fights, the way he seemed to throw himself into them too often, always coming out with the same satisfied expression. After all, he was the only son of the Dark Lord, and that alone was enough to draw all kinds of attention.
Whatever was the reason, chaos seemed to follow him everywhere, like he thrived on it. Perhaps he didn’t care at all. No outsider really knew, and no one ever tried to figure him out. Nobody had the courage to do so.
Either way, there were always whispers about him, cruel rumors about his personality and massive ego, some saying he was just like his father, or maybe even a darker version of him, while others came from students eager to get close in obscene ways, hoping to spend a night with their bodies tangled in his.
Yet Mattheo didn’t show that he cared, always pretending to be focused on his own goals, moving through the chaos unshaken and unbothered, though deep down, the truth was different: he thrived on attention, bad or good, as if he needed it to keep himself whole.
But you had seen enough to know the truth. He was cruel, ruthless, and everything people whispered about him, perhaps even worse. And yet, here you were, trapped in his chaos, each moment with him drawing you deeper into the darkness.
You were trapped. Absolutely trapped.
Perhaps it was in the way he looked at you, his deep brown eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath away, leaving you struggling to keep your heart from racing, as if he saw something inside of you that you weren’t capable of seeing. Or maybe it was the way his words stayed in your mind long after they were spoken, carving their way into your thoughts like a knife you didn’t want to pull out, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were already in too deep.
If you thought about it more, you didn’t know what had brought you here. The main factor to why you were so attracted to an ongoing fire.
Could be the adrenaline from his strange proposal, or the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, his presence always glued to your mind. Could also be the need to be near him, the way your body moved toward his as if it had no will of its own, or perhaps it was the way he seemed to control your heart in a way you couldn’t even understand. It was twisted, even a little scary, but neither of you cared.
After all, you were friends.
You didn’t know when it stopped feeling like curiosity—just a lingering thought— but the doubt never really went away. Instead it became prominent, tight in your chest whenever he was around. There was something darker about him, something dangerous in the way he lived recklessly, only focused on his own desires, how he thrived on the attention he got, pulling you deeper without even trying.
And now, standing there, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever came next, there was no turning back. No escape.
The Room of Requirement was cloaked in dark shadows, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of flickering candles. Their soft, wavering light offered a fragile sense of comfort, though it did little to ease the tension hanging in the air. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of burning incense and something darker, almost unspoken.
Torchlight flickered across the cold stone walls, making jagged patterns that twisted and stretched with each almost shiny flicker. That night, the requirement room felt weird, unlike the form other students seemed to used—every corner seemed like an unsettling, cavernous form that resembled a muggle abandoned cathedral. It felt sacred in a weird twisted way, as if it were built to bear the weight of sinful actions that were too heavy to confess elsewhere.
The faint metallic scent in the air lingered, sharp and heavy, mixed with something even more heavy, felt almost like a warning. On the stone floor, crude runes spiraled out in precise, jagged lines, their edges glowing faintly as though alive and energetic, pulsing in time with the biting silence as if they were watching, waiting to know what was about to take place.
In the center of it all stood Mattheo Riddle, the one person who seemed to take up every space in your mind, his dark robes draping loosely over his strong frame, giving him an effortless air of power, his features, defined and almost angelic, partially hidden by his messy curls that always fell into his pretty eyes.
The flickering torchlight danced off his hair with every movement, making it seem almost alive; there was something strange about how his appearance seemed almost angelic, yet you knew Mattheo’s true personality, making him all the more dangerous, like a trap just waiting for you to step in.
He could look still, even controlled, but there was nothing controlled about this. Nothing about him was controlled.
Mattheo looked at the dagger in his hands, his gaze drifting over the blade, but it wasn’t the dagger that had his attention. It was you. Your eyes were on him, and it felt like he was being torn apart with just that look. It wasn’t like the attention he was used to—no fear or admiration in it.
No, this was different. It was more like an assessment. The weight of your gaze was almost suffocating, as if you were digging into him, getting under his skin in a way that made him feel stupidly exposed and making him feel a strange sensation tighten in his chest, choking his throat in ways he couldn’t understand, and he hated it.
He hated how you made him feel like this—torn between wanting to get closer and wanting to run away from that. And even if it was good or bad; neither mattered. He didn’t want to know. The only thing he knew for sure was that you almost had him entirely.
And for him, that was awful enough.
He never quite understood why his heart raced when he was in your presence, as if it might break through his ribs, his flesh, and fall directly into your palms, fully out of his power. At times he couldn't help but press his hand against his own chest, trying to stop it, trying to hold it back, but it only frustrated him further.
Nevertheless, there were times when he nearly wished his heart would simply give way and land in your hands so you could do with it whatever you pleased, whether that meant crushing it entirely or holding it tenderly between your fingers. He wasn't certain which would provide him with greater comfort, but he was certain that if you gave him that satisfaction, he will never be the same again.
Mattheo sighed and shook his head rapidly, making a dramatic gesture as he attempted to avoid your concentrated, evaluating stare on him once more. He concentrated on the tiny silver dagger in his hand, trying not to hold it too firmly in his palm, but nothing could take away the sensation, and even if it didn't cause him any discomfort, the pressure that made it was obvious.
He let out another sigh, this time frustrated, rubbing his forehead, but couldn’t help releasing another, this time a relieved one, when he saw your attention shift to the two circles drawn around him, almost like some kind of illustration, and he couldn’t help but smirk knowingly as he noticed the change in your expression; at the confusion in your eyes and at your furrowed brows as you tried to make sense of the strange symbols, carefully etched inside the circles on the floor.
Mattheo looked away, quickly shifting his focus to the symbol at his feet. In comparison with the other symbols, this one was far more complex, with each line and curve being meticulous and precise. As he raised his chin in satisfaction with what he did, Mattheo couldn't help but widen his smirk into a full grin, an equal amount of pride and arrogance coming across his expression.
This ritual, this moment—it was his, only his. Yet, for some reason, he felt a twisted satisfaction knowing he was going to share it with you. Even though you were there not completely voluntarily, you still had a place in it, whether you liked it or not.
This time, it was Mattheo who looked at you with an intense, almost predatory gaze, his hand tightening once more around the blade in his palm as he kept his eyes on you. He was already preparing to take the first step toward the power he would gain from what you two were about to do. All he needed was your final confirmation and for you to step into the middle of the circle with him.
“Are you ready for this?” His voice broke the silence, low and almost a purr, making you look up at him. Ready? Fuck no. In fact, you were terrified. Every part of you screamed to run, to get as far away from this room and this stupid ritual as possible. But your body didn’t listen to your brain. Your heart didn’t either. Instead, you stayed still, frozen, your eyes locked with his own, already filled with amusement and something darker, like a challenge.
You knew this was stupid. Hell, it was almost suicidal. A ritual to give him more power, cutting your own hand, spilling your blood, mixing it with his just to make him stronger. It was madness. More than that, even.
But then again, a part of you wanted it. A part of you wanted to leave a piece of yourself with him, to bind yourself to him in some twisted way. And for some fucked-up reason, you craved that. You wanted to be marked by him, to have a part of you inside him forever. Mattheo had already carved his mark into your mind, into the darkest corners of your heart, and now you wanted to do the same.
Stupid curiosity.
“Well?” Mattheo asked again, his voice dripping with amusement, though you could hear the faint edge of annoyance creeping in. He tried to hold onto his usual confident, relaxed demeanor, but it was slipping. “What’s it gonna be?” The same damn question. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to make him ask a third time.
“I…” You paused, your voice cracking, and you couldn’t help but curse yourself under your breath as you felt his gaze digging into you, waiting for the answer he wanted. “I think I’m ready,” you finally said, taking a step forward, ignoring the part of you screaming to get the hell out of there. Yet your body moved faster than your mind, and before you knew it, you took an unconscious step closer to him, making his eyebrow quirk in amusement.
Mattheo raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think?” he repeated, his voice thick with mockery. He almost laughed; if it were not for the situation you two were in.
“Fuck—” you hissed under your breath, cursing yourself again, and Mattheo’s smirk stretched wider. “I’m ready.” You corrected yourself, the words tasting wrong. “I’m ready,” you said again, this time to convince yourself more than him.
Mattheo let out a low, almost manic laugh as his gaze remained fixed on the blade in his hand. The sound sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, and your cheeks flushed as his voice echoed in your ears. When he looked back at you, his eyes were softer than before, though the usual intensity remained, as if he was offering something that, despite not being comfort, somehow left you feeling relieved in a way.
He stretched his hand towards you, his voice calmer than before but still firm. “Let’s go. The sooner we start, the sooner this thing is going to end.” The sooner he would have control. Mattheo called you again, and you let out a soft sigh before taking that first step.
Each step you took was filled with hesitation, but your body didn’t seem to care. It moved toward the circle, fighting the doubt gnawing on your mind. When you finally stepped inside, you couldn’t hold back a small sigh as your hand found Mattheo’s. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing as you saw the same smirk on his lips, the reaction causing a tug on your heart. He didn’t need to say anything; you could feel how much he enjoyed this, how much he knew the effect he had on you.
Sometimes you wanted to punch him.
As soon as you took his hand, Mattheo’s confidence wavered slightly; his heart pounded just by your touch. However, he couldn’t hide the dark amusement in his eyes as he watched your flushed cheeks and how your body betrayed you. It was too easy.
“This,” he said, gesturing to the intricate runes carved into the floor with the tip of his dagger, his grip tightening around your hand, not to soothe you, but to remind himself you were still there. “It’s going to hurt like hell.” He said it with such ease, as if the pain and the blood were just a minor part. You swallowed hard, the confirmation of what you already knew settling deep in your stomach. “At least for you,” he added with an eyebrow raised, his voice laced with amusement.
His words weren’t reassuring at all—not that you expected them to be. He didn’t care about calming you or making this easier to bear. That wasn’t his style, and it never had been. Mattheo thrived in chaos, in mess, and he wanted you to feel every bit of it. He wanted to pull you into the madness, to push you until you struggled to keep yourself together.
“You’re not exactly helping me calm down, you know?” you said through gritted teeth, barely stopping yourself from telling him to go fuck himself.
Mattheo chuckled dryly, releasing your hand to stop you from gripping it, from finding any comfort in his presence. “Glad to know, sweetheart.” He said casually, like it didn’t matter at all. “But who said I want you to calm down?” he murmured, and you might have thought he was joking if it weren’t for the fact that you had known him for years.
You scoffed at his lack of sympathy. It wasn’t surprising, though; his attitude was one of the things that drew you to him, even if it wasn’t exactly healthy. You watched as he lit more candles, the flame dancing with every step he took, highlighting the sharp lines of his features. He was an insensitive prick, but dear god, he was a beautiful one.
After a few seconds, Mattheo stood up, still holding the dagger in his hand. He glanced at you, and for a brief moment, something in his gaze made his heartbeat almost thud down his ribs. He took a few steps toward you, and your eyes met. His dark eyes were intense, unreadable, and the weight of the air between you made your stomach twist. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, with a hint of mischief in his tone. The corner of his mouth twitched, the excitement creeping slowly.
“Take off your shirt.”
You blinked, shocked, and for a few seconds, all your fear vanished. “Excuse me?!”
Mattheo observed you, almost as if he were stripping you bare. “Your shirt,” he repeated, his tone annoyingly dismissive. He spun the dagger in his palm with flawless precision, taking a step closer as if your hesitancy pleased him. “Take it off,” he said almost coolly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
You crossed your arms, feeling your heart race as your face flushed with heat. “And why, exactly, do I need to do that?” You snapped, your voice sharp. You had fantasized a thousand times about Mattheo asking you to do this, but you never imagined it would actually happen, especially not now, in this situation.
“For the ritual,” he said simply, tilting his head and giving you a smirk that bordered on taunting, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “I need access to your skin, sweetheart. The magic won’t work otherwise.” His words were smooth, but you couldn’t shake the feeling they held a hint of mockery.
You hesitated, studying him closely. There was something about his response that didn’t sit right, too casual in a way that felt almost taunting, like he wasn’t being completely honest. “You’re making that up,” you said flatly, letting your arms drop to your sides, your eyes narrowing as you searched on his face for a sign of truth.
His smirk widened, and he continued to twirl the dagger between his fingers, his eyes locked on you. The sight of your flushed cheeks only seemed to make him think with his other head. “Am I?” He took another step closer.
“Please, Mattheo, I know that’s bullshit!” you spat out, trying to ignore how his smug expression made your skin heat, though particularly of you couldn’t help but consider it.
Mattheo let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, the tension between you nearly unbearable. His voice dipped, rough and almost deliberate, as his dark eyes shamelessly trailed down your body before locking onto yours again.
“Alright,” he murmured, a smile laying wickedly on his lips. “Maybe it’s not entirely necessary. But it helps. A lot.”
The dagger moved lazily in his hand, the sharp edge skimming his palm without cutting his palm. His gaze never left you, steady and intense, like a predator watching its prey. “And we both know you want this to work out, don’t we, sweetheart?”
Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, a truth you hated to admit even to yourself. You wanted him to notice you—really notice you—the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare, peeling back layers you didn’t even realize you had. But the sharp flare of anger clawed its way up your chest, tangling with the strange pull he always seemed to have over you, leaving you somewhere between furious and helpless.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head, the disappointment cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. You weren’t sure if it was aimed at him or at yourself for falling into this moment—this trap. Probably both.
“And yet,” he said, taking another step toward you, “here you are.” He mocked you, making you bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him to fuck off.
The space between you two was basically nonexistent now, and Mattheo fucking hated it. Hated that it was him moving closer, like he couldn’t help himself. Hated how his body had a mind of its own, reacting to you in ways that made him feel like an idiot. The thought of you, without your shirt, without anything, was driving him insane, his imagination running wild no matter how much he tried to shove it down.
Fuck. He could already feel the strain in his pants, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. It pissed him off—how easily you got under his skin, how fucking hard it was to keep his cool around you.
“Fine,” you bit out, your voice rougher than you felt, and Mattheo’s smile twisted with satisfaction, practically waiting for you to do it. You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way his eyes were glued to you. Your fingers lingered at the hem of your shirt, heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to find the guts to go through with it.
Mattheo’s smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving you, and for a moment, it felt like he was inside your head, reading you like a damn book. His gaze dropped low, just enough to make your skin prickle with awareness. You seemed so fucking soft. “Need help?” he asked, voice dripping with mockery.
“Shut up, Mattheo” you snapped, yanking the fabric over your head in one swift motion, a shiver running through your whole body. Shit, you’re not wearing a bra.
The second the shirt left your body, the air felt heavier, but you felt the coldness against your exposed skin and nipples. Mattheo’s expression shifted, his smirk slipping for a moment as his eyes scanned over you, taking in more than you were prepared to show. You cursed yourself for not wearing a bra under the thin fabric, your chest bare under the dim torchlight and his searing gaze. Mattheo swore the zipper on his pants was going to break any second.
You couldn't help but feel trapped by his piercing stare as his eyes remained on you, shamelessly tracing your hard nipples. He seemed oblivious; nonetheless, his eyes burned with need as his mind wandered, thinking about the taste of his tongue on your nipples, sucking and biting until all you could think about was the feel of his wet tongue. He held the dagger tightly, only reacting when the blade cut into his flesh.
“Well,” he began, attempting to put the thoughts flowing through his head to the back of his mind, his voice rougher than before, “guess you were more ready than we thought.” He mocked you again, but it seemed like he was also mocking himself.
You could feel your cheeks burning, a mix of anger and something else boiling inside you. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to block him out, but the moment you saw the way Mattheo’s eyes were fixed on you filled with desire, your hands fell to your sides, betraying your own brain. You wanted this. You wanted him to see you, to really see you.
But as you realized you were staring at him in the same way, you quickly shook your head, trying to push down the desire and need, force some control back into your own voice. “Just get on with it,” you ‘snapped’, trying to hide how much it stung, how much you craved that attention.
Mattheo’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper, full with devilment. He took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, and gestured toward the circle with a lazy flick of his hand. “As you wish.”
His expression didn’t shift, his confidence simmering just below the surface as he stepped even closer to you, trying not to look at your bare chest. His eyes flickered to the symbols on the ground, their faint glow reflecting in the depths of his gaze. Without a word he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside without care. He didn’t look at you but still waited for your reaction. You had already drawn one from him—only fair if he returned the favor, right?
You, on the other hand, swallowed hard, your gaze shamelessly tracing the lines of his abdomen and bare, muscular chest. The candles and torchlight cast sharp shadows across the scars etched into his skin, and you held your breath without meaning to. When he glanced forward slightly, his eyes still on the ground as he did so, he had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of your clenched fists, trying to control yourself.
This was going to be fun, at least.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke or moved. The silence stretched thin, both of you consumed by the same thoughts, the same dirty images racing through your minds. Your chests rose and fell heavily, both of you struggling to regain a normal breath. It was fucking madness.
Mattheo quickly composed himself, standing at the point of the small symbol on the ground, making sure you mirrored his position on the opposite side. Your bare chests were almost touching, the air thick with tension, your hard nipples brushing just slightly against his skin. He gave a low sigh, words slipping from his lips in a language you couldn’t understand, his voice deep and commanding.
As soon as the words left his mouth, the symbols on the floor pulsed to life, glowing with an eerie light, while the candle flames flickered wildly, as though responding to his words.
He looked at the dagger in his hand, a proud glint in his eyes before letting his gaze drift up to your face. His eyes lingered on your features, the softness of your eyes, the way your lips parted just enough to drive him insane. He almost couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch you, but he stayed still, his jaw tight. “Are you ready?” he asked, his lips moving without sound. “I am,” you mouthed back, the hesitation in your eyes impossible to miss. But he ignored it, choosing to focus on the way you stood there—no turning back now, and honestly? He didn’t want you to cover up.
Mattheo gripped the dagger with steady hands, his brown eyes flickering briefly to the runes as if making sure everything was aligned. Without a second thought, he pressed the sharp blade to his palm, slicing through the skin with quick, practiced precision. The blood surged from the cut, dripping thick and dark onto the glowing runes below. They reacted violently, flaring brighter, more alive, as if the blood was feeding the symbols, feeding him.
You held your breath, knowing you were next. But you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the ground, watching his blood drip onto the floor beneath both of your feet.
After a few seconds, he lifted his chin, pride in his eyes, his curls moving like the magic around the circles. He grabbed your hand without a word, pressing the dagger into your palm, his gaze never leaving yours. He was waiting, daring you to cut yourself just like he had.
You felt his blood drip onto your wrist, the warmth of it sending a jolt through your veins. As the dagger pressed into your palm, a breath caught in your throat. The weight of the blade was more than you expected, and for a moment, your eyes lingered on the crimson stains left by Mattheo’s cut, almost hypnotic, tempting you.
Your heart quickened, your pulse echoing in your ears. You hesitated—for a moment. His eyes found you once again, a look that urged you to continue. The hesitation lingering in your heart suddenly dispersed; you wanted nothing but to mark him as yours.
With a deep breath, you pressed the blade to your palm, hissing softly as the edge cut into your skin, making you feel even more bare and open than you already did. The pain was sharp, fleeting, quickly replaced by the blood spilling down your skin, as the runes reacted violently to your action, their glow flaring in response.
It was instantaneous. The moment your blood touched the floor, the room seemed to exhale, the light flaring brighter and the air humming with a charged, almost electric energy as the ritual began. But the reaction was brief, for Mattheo’s focus shifted.
Mattheo’s gaze was fixed on the cut on your hand, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if he was mesmerized by the crimson blood streaks trailing down your wrist, mingling with his the drops of his blood already on your skin. His jaw clenched, and you swore you saw him swallow hard as he continued to look, his chest rising and falling with a depth of intensity you’d never seen in him before.
“Mattheo?” You called softly, your voice barely above a whisper, your heartbeat quickening against your bare chest. Yet, it was enough to break his attention.
His eyes naturally met yours once again, vulnerability flickering in his gaze, though the rest of his expression remained unreadable, like a contrast to the hunger simmering beneath. But Mattheo didn't step back. Instead, his calloused fingers brushed against the blood on your wrist, smearing it slightly. The contact sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, neither of you remembered how to breathe.
“Mattheo…” you called out again, but this time it was almost a plea for him not to stop. He obeyed your unspoken request, his fingers tracing your skin as if exploring new territory, so gently that it almost made you forget the lingering sting in your hand.
Mattheo’s hands moved deliberately, spreading the blood from the deep cut on your hand. He seemed oblivious to the matching wound on his own skin as he dragged the crimson trail up to your neck, smearing it across your skin. Without warning, his lips pressed against the spot, his tongue tracing the blood. He let out a low groan at the taste, and you couldn’t suppress your own when you felt the warmth of his tongue against you.
“It’s so sweet,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck, the crimson of your blood staining them as he pulled you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt almost inhuman. “So fucking sweet.” His teeth continued to drag along your skin, while his hand slid down your arm, seeking more of your blood. His fingers tightened around your palm, squeezing to draw out more of the liquid, making you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure as the burn surged through you.
“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Mattheo whispered, biting your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin painfully. He didn’t care about the grunt of pain that escaped your lips, not when more blood joined the one already staining your throat. Right after his first bite, you moaned, your thighs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the wetness in your cunt.
Mattheo chuckled in satisfaction, bringing his bloodied hand to your stomach, the crimson spreading across your exposed skin like a mark. “You like it, don’t you?” he murmured against your throat, pressing his lips to the marks he had left with his teeth. But when he noticed you hadn’t answered, he bit your neck harder than before and squeezed your stomach, causing more blood to spread across the area.
You swallowed hard, locking eyes with him as you tried to form a sentence, but the only words that escaped your lips were a barely audible, “Yes, fucking yes,” which only made him laugh harder. He tightened his grip on your skin, sending a sharp sting through your own body.
“Of course you do… such a fucking slut,” Mattheo chuckled again against your throat, his teeth sinking into the spot once more, making you moan. He mimicked the sound, feeling his pants tighten around his cock as he tasted your blood again on his teeth. His tongue throbbed with desire, savoring the metallic taste. Holy shit, he could cum just from the taste of your blood. “But you taste so damn good.”
He seemed to have completely forgotten the ritual, and you, too, had let it slip away. You didn’t want to remember, not when his blood stained your skin, not when your own blood marked him, and not when his mark lingered on you.
Mattheo pulled back slightly, looking at your state and the way your plush lips were parted as you stared at him, your eyes filled with the same desire he showed.
Without warning, Mattheo grabbed your cut hand with the one resting on your stomach, his blood mingling with yours as he guided your hand to your neck, then down to your breasts, trailing the blood like a map. Before you could react to the sting of your hard nipple pressing against the cut, Mattheo moved faster, pulling your nipple—now smeared with your own blood—into his mouth.
You let out a loud moan as you felt his tongue teasing the tips of your bloodied breasts, the taste of your blood on his tongue making him swirl around your breast more eagerly. The sensation only made him harder beneath his robes, each moan of his growing louder as he savored the taste of you.
You were lost in the pleasure of his mouth, concentrated with the way his tongue lapped like a hungry animal. The way his hands pushed your now bloody breasts together enough for his head to dive between them as he continued to whisper praises, words of hunger. You didn’t hear nothing but the sounds of his mouth nor saw how he desperately reached for release, your body causing him to react out of character.
“Fuck...” he murmured, his hand releasing the softness of your skin as he reached down towards his pants. Fast, uncoordinated, he released his cock from the restraints, his bloody hands wrapping around his cock that dripped with precum. His movements grew faster, driven by the growing intensity of the taste of blood on his tongue.
You looked down, catching a glimpse through the small crease of his neck as he dragged his palm over his hard cock while sucking on your nipples. You couldn’t help but moan louder, your bloody hand gripping his shoulders as you tried to ignore how your body was responding—the wetness between your legs that you knew he could feel.
“Your tits…”Mattheo moaned even louder, dragging a moan from your lips in response. Fuck, he was so close.
“Fuck, your blood tastes so fucking good.” He moaned louder, and as he sucked harder on your nipples, his mouth closing around the bud tighter. Your chest was now covered in his bites, the marks of Mattheo Riddle, almost like a sign of ownership. Your body quivered against his hold, rubbing pathetically against him as you felt the tingle flutter in your stomach. You were close, lost in the daze, you had no idea whether it was from pleasure or the lost of blood—or both. You were desperately clinging to his shoulders, his name falling from your lips like a spell.
The hold on his length tightened in his hand, and he came instantly. Another hoarse moan escaped his throat, and he pulled away from your chest for a moment, gasping for air. You gripped onto his shoulders once more, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. So sudden, so quick you fell against his hold as your body convulsed with pleasure.
Mattheo leaned against you, allowing himself a moment to relax. But when he noticed the blood still running down your throat from where he had placed your hand, he couldn’t help but let out a growl. He yanked your hair back harshly, making you gasp and exposing your throat, your scream barely escaping as he did so.
“Mattheo…!” You tried to speak, but he didn’t care; he never did. He only pushed you further against him, your nipples pressed against his bare chest as he licked your throat, letting out another groan as he tasted the metallic flavor again. His tongue traced the line of your throat, dragging the blood up to your chin, before he licked it off obscenely, making you sigh at the sensation.
Mattheo’s hand in your hair tightened, and in one swift motion, he turned you onto your back, pulling your hair even harder as your back arched against him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, an order you immediately understood. You obeyed without hesitation, and before you could react, he spat into your mouth and thrust his tongue inside, kissing you deeply.
The kiss was rough and erotic, the fire burning from the inside making it impossible to avoid it. You could taste your own blood on his tongue, and it only made your cunt wetter, the intensity overwhelming. It was too much—more than you’d ever imagined.
You had pictured moments like this, where you and Mattheo would kiss, tasting each other’s tongues, but this was different. It wasn’t the fantasy you had dreamed of; it was raw, wild, and rougher than anything you could have ever anticipated. His teeth clashed with yours, and your tongue tangled with his, as he unleashed his most primal side. He was giving you a taste of the part of you he had consumed, and you were trapped, just as you always would be.
You didn’t care about the pain in your scalp, only the hand that held you.
Mattheo’s hands were rough, touching everything he could. His mouth marking you over and over as he swallowed every small noise you released. He was warm, too warm, a sting feeling in your mouth as he sucked and bit into your lips, the softness of your skin tethering as his mouth was once again filled with the sweetness of your blood.
He was about to lose his mind.
Mattheo sighed against your now split lip, “Stop me… Tell me to stop, and I will.” He wouldn’t; you both knew it.
You held him against you tighter; you were already too deep into him—all you wanted was to devour him, mark him enough to show everyone he belonged to you, only you. You wanted to inflict a pain he would never forget, a pain similar to the pain he caused you, so you did. Your hands wrapped around his neck, your mouth tracing his lips, then his cheeks, then suddenly the warmth of his neck. Mattheo gripped you hard; he made no sudden movement, anxiously awaiting your motive. You bit into his neck, sucking the flushed skin as your teeth marked him with the same strength he did to you.
Another soft flow came into your mouth, you gasped, the metallic taste odd in your mouth but enough to send your heart thundering.
Mattheo whimpered, his dominant facade slipping as he sickly enjoyed the way you took control. You were so sweet, so delicate—you were completely the opposite. The idea he corrupted you twisted a sick, powerful thought in his brain. You were his.
Your tongue reached towards his mouth again, finding yourself eye to eye with the man you wanted nothing more than to control. “Don’t ever stop; I need you.”
Mattheo grinned, his lips bloody, his brown eyes becoming dark as he suddenly pushed you towards the runes that glowed against your body. The symbols glowed, vibrating with the blood that dripped onto it. As he stood over you, he wished to capture the moment forever. You looked so fucking pretty.
He leaned over, his knees staining with the blood smeared against the cold tiles. His fingers moved quickly, desperately. He watched as your body spoke to him, reacting to every touch. Your breasts covered in his marks, his blood and yours on them that caused his cock to twitch violently.
He wanted more than the taste of your breasts; he wanted to taste the juices that gathered in the silk of your panties. He wanted to feel the way your cunt twitched and throbbed against his mouth, and damn, did he want nothing more than to have you fuck yourself on his tongue. The sweetest angel from Hogwarts all displayed for him, to hell with the ritual; now he just wanted to swallow you whole.
Without warning, he hoisted your legs onto his shoulders with an almost violent urgency, a deep moan escaping his lips as he leaned closer to your wet pussy. The intoxicating scent filled his senses, making his bloodied hand tighten around your thigh, gripping it as if commanding you to choke him; a command you had no intention of disobeying.
Mattheo looked at your face, the dried blood around your parted lips, your cheeks flushed from everything he was doing to you, and your dilated pupils watching him anxiously. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, and you instantly bit your lip. Fuck, he was about to get hard again.
“Please, I need you, Mattheo,” you begged, rubbing your hips desperately, trying to get closer to his flushed face. You needed his mouth, and he was more than willing to be a good friend and give you exactly what you wanted.
“No need to beg like a slut, sweetheart,” he said, moving closer to your pulsing cunt, the light from the dunes making your wetness glisten even more. You held your breath as his warm breath ghosted over your slick folds. “I’m eager to give you what you want,” he murmured, leaning even closer, his nose brushing against your arousal as he took in your scent. Just as you were about to beg him to do something, his tongue was quicker—teasing, tasting, and finally giving in to the need to lick you.
Mattheo followed his instincts and hunger, his palms gripping your thighs even tighter, leaving bloodstained marks on your skin just as he had on the rest of your body. The sting of his own cut burned with the pressure, but he didn’t stop, sliding his hands to your hips as his tongue moved swiftly against your folds, savoring and memorizing every inch of you.
You could feel Mattheo’s cheeks pressed against your thighs as he buried himself in your pussy, suffocating himself in your scent and taste. He mentally begged some higher power to let him one day die like this—only after his hunger was completely satisfied. Your back arched, heat swirling in your stomach as Mattheo licked your pussy with reckless desperation.
He was ravenous, savoring every part of you, and when your nails dug into his scalp, he let out another growl, pushing himself even deeper between your legs, making you moan even louder.
“Fucking yes, sweetheart,” he murmured against your pussy, sucking harder as your cries of pleasure filled the room. “Keep moaning like a slut, keep saying my name.” He bit down on your flesh, making you moan even louder, your legs trembling around him. He chuckled darkly, the vibrations of his laughter sending shocks through your body and making you cry out even more.
Fuck the ritual, fuck the power—the only power he craved was the power he held over you.
“Mattheo,” you moaned even louder, rocking your hips against his face as your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him closer. “Right there, oh my—!” you cried out, feeling him lose himself between your legs, consumed by his thoughts and the blood still staining his lips.
Mattheo’s fast, steady movements continued, his almost feral tongue lapping at your cunt as his hands roamed your body. He could feel his cock harden at the sound of your sweet moans. Fuck, the taste of your blood mingled with your arousal was divine—almost too much for him to bear.
He continued kissing your clit, desperate to savor your full taste, his tongue messily exploring your folds, drinking in every drop he could. All you felt in the moment was him. The sounds muffled as if underwater. Your fingers dug into his scalp, causing him to flick his tongue against your bud faster, his fingers circling it, his grin plastered with pride as he heard you cry loudly.
“Such a pretty one you are,” he muttered, his words slurring into the juices of your cunt.
You only released a jumble of words, your bare back arching as you squirmed beneath him. You were on the edge, and you could feel it—both of you could. The anticipation was electric, and you were both eager for the release. All he wanted was to make you cum.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured against your folds, the scent of your cunt making him dizzy. “Come for me.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than you let out a final scream, the orgasm hitting you hard as your body arched, feeling your cum dripping from your pussy.
Mattheo groaned against your cunt once more, lapping at your release as he lost himself in your flavor. Quickly, he grabbed your cut hand, spreading its blood over your pussy to mix with the cum. When he felt it was enough, he ran his tongue over your folds, savoring the metallic taste of blood combined with the sweet remnants of your orgasm, only stopping when not a drop remained, and you pushed him away.
The runes still flickered on the ground, glowing brighter with the smell of your release in the air. Blood stained both your bodies, marking each other, marking the new connection between you that neither of you wanted to escape. Mattheo stood there, watching you, his brown eyes observing, shining with pride watching your state. His eyes traced the blood on your skin, lingering on the cut on your hand, before meeting your eyes again.
“We didn’t finish the ritual,” you managed to say, your voice soft, timid once again compared to the wildness you held as you let Mattheo control you, your body still shaking from one of the best orgasms you ever experienced.
Mattheo’s smirk grew, just a little as he continued to look at the mess he had done. “It’s fine, sweetheart. We can always try again.”
He was right; after all, friends helped each other.
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