I’ll keep you my dirty little secret PT.2
Frat boy! Mattheo - Masterlist
MIDNIGHT RECIVER UNIVERSE - Master list
1/20/xx (9:35 pm) Same time as Theo and Sorority President! Reader
The dress Percy picked was too tight. The fabric clung to every curve, synthetic and unforgiving, digging into your ribs whenever you inhaled too deeply. It smelled like the back of Percy’s closet; for some reason, the sea and regret. You tugged at the hem for the third time, but it barely budged, riding up your thighs with every step.
Inside, the Omega house pulsed like a bad toothache. Bass throbbed through the walls, rattling the framed photos of past frat kings—Mattheo’s smug face among them, front and center. Someone had spilled something sticky near the door, and your shoe made a wet, peeling sound as you stepped in. Percy was already gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you stranded.
You were going to kill him. Percy had promised this would be "fun" his exact word, spat between drags of his vape while he tossed the dress at you like some kind of dare. Now, wedged between a sweating guy shouting about beer pong and a girl whose eyeliner was already smearing down her cheeks, you scanned the crowd for any sign of him. The air was thick with the sour tang of spilled liquor and bodies packed too close, heat radiating off strangers in waves.
A hand clamped onto your wrist. You jerked back, but the grip tightened; some guy with glazed eyes and a crooked grin, slurring something about dancing. Before you could wrench free, another hand—larger, rougher—closed over the drunk guy's forearm. "She's not interested." The voice was low, edged with something dangerous. Mattheo. Of course.
From far away Mattheo didn't look like all that but from up close? God, he was a deadly kind of beautiful; all sharp jaw and coiled muscle, smelling faintly of expensive bourbon and something darker, smokier. His fingers burned where they still gripped the drunk guy’s wrist, knuckles whitening just enough to make the guy whimper and stumble back into the crowd. You should’ve thanked him. Should’ve run. Instead, you stayed frozen, pulse hammering in your throat as Mattheo’s gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, like he was peeling back the too-tight fabric with his eyes alone.
"You're Percy's friend right? The one who keeps glaring at me from across the quad." Mattheo's thumb brushed your pulse point, his grip loosening but not releasing. The bourbon on his breath mixed with the humid press of bodies around you, making your head swim. His other hand came up, fingertips grazing the strap of your dress where it bit into your shoulder. "This looks painful."
You swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed to pull away, but the heat of his fingers against your skin rooted you in place. Over his shoulder, you caught Percy emerging from the crowd, his grin brightening, "Hey looks like you ran into each other—" His voice cut off when Mattheo's grip shifted, pulling you half a step closer. The movement sent Percy's eyebrows skyrocketing.
"You should pick better friends," Mattheo murmured, low enough that only you could hear, his breath warm against your temple. The words slithered under your skin, twisting something tight in your gut. Percy had promised this was just a dumb party, not whatever game Mattheo was playing.
Your noes scrunches and you pull away from him. Mattheo was drunk, it was obvious from the glassiness of his eyes, but not drunk enough to lose control, which was worse. His fingers tightened again, halting your retreat, pressing just shy of painful. "Percy's got bad taste in clothes too," he added, thumb tracing the ridge of your collarbone. The party noise faded to a dull roar, replaced by the rush of blood in your ears.
"You don't get to talk about him like that, aren't you two friends?" you snap, twisting your wrist in his grip as you raise a pierced brow. Mattheo's grin sharpens, the dim light catching the edge of his canine—too white, too pointed.
Mattheo's mouth parts to say something else, but he's dragged away by some dude, Theodore Nott, if you remember correctly. He's stumbling, barely keeping his balance, but Theodore keeps him upright effortlessly. A look passes between them—something predatory—before Mattheo's gaze snaps back to you, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle. Theodore pulls him further into the crowd, their shoulders bumping as they disappear behind a wall of swaying bodies.
Percy materializes at your side like a ghost, his fingers digging into your elbow as he steers you toward the kitchen. "The hell was that?" he hisses, dodging a girl spilling red wine down her front. The kitchen reeks of stale beer and burnt popcorn, the counter sticky under your palms as you brace yourself. Percy leans in, his breath hot and frantic against your ear. "You weren’t supposed to engage him—"
The music cuts out abruptly, replaced by the sharp crack of shattering glass. A hush ripples through the crowd before the bass kicks back in, louder. Over Percy’s shoulder, Mattheo reappears in the doorway, Theodore nowhere in sight. His tie is loosened now, his collar undone, and his gaze locks onto you with terrifying precision. Percy stiffens, his grip on your arm tightening like a vice.
"You need to leave," Percy mutters, but it’s too late—Mattheo’s already crossing the room, weaving through bodies with practiced ease. His knuckles are split, blood smeared across his fingers like ink. The sight sends a jolt down your spine. "Now," Percy insists, shoving you toward the back door.
Before being pushed out the back door you grab two big bottles of vodka off the counter—one in each hand—your fingers slick with condensation. Percy's panicked breathing hitches when he sees your grip tighten around the necks. "What the fuck are you—" The words die as Mattheo shoulders past a group of pledges, his bloodied hand outstretched toward you, pupils blown wide with something between hunger and fury.
"Time to go," you mutter, pulling Percy behind you as you bolt for the exit. The bottles clink together, their weight reassuring in your hands—if you weren't going to get drunk at a party you were going to get drunk in your dorm room. Preferably with Percy's explanations running through your ears.
When you're back at the dorm room you finally collapse into your bed, Percy panting behind you as he locks the door—twice. You toss him one of the vodka bottles without looking, and he catches it with a grunt. The cap twists off with a sharp crack, the smell hitting you like a slap: industrial-strength cleaner with a hint of regret. You take a swig, the burn searing your throat, but it's better than thinking about Mattheo's bloody knuckles, the way his gaze had locked onto you like prey.
God, you hated the way your body heated at the sight of Mattheo’s split knuckles; like violence was something that could be attractive if wrapped in the right package. Percy took a long pull from his bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "We’re never going back there," he declared, but the way his eyes darted to the door betrayed him.
You shove his shoulder, "You dickhead, you're so lucky you're my friend. Explain." Percy flinches, not from your shove, but from the muffled thud outside your door. Neither of you breathes. The silence stretches, suffocating, until some drunk idiot down the hall laughs, shattering the tension. Percy exhales shakily, his fingers tightening around the vodka bottle like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
"It’s complicated," he mutters, avoiding your eyes. You snort, kicking his ankle, hard. "Ow, fuck—okay!" He rubs his shin, scowling. "Mattheo’s got this… thing. About people who don’t belong in his world." His gaze flicks to your dress, still too tight, still smelling like regret. "And you, in that? You might as well have waved a red flag."
"You owe me so many fucking things, don't even get me started." You groan, but you knew you couldn't stay mad at him forever. Percy pulled out his vape and took a deep drag, the exhale curling like smoke signals between you, distress in the shape of blueberry menthol. The vodka was settling into your limbs now, blurring the edges of your panic, but not enough to erase the phantom press of Mattheo's fingers on your skin.
As much as you looked at Percy as a best friend, in that moment, you knew you loved him deeper than that, more than a friend should, but you'd never tell him, not when he was still hung up on the thing he had with his ex Jason. That's why you agreed to tutor Mattheo in the first place, wasn't it? Because you were so in love with him that you'd suffer through anything just to see him happy.
Percy sighed deeply, rubbing his temples like he could physically push the thoughts out. "Mattheo doesn't… he doesn't do casual interest. If he looks at you like that, it means he's decided something." The way Percy said it, like Mattheo was some kind of storm system moving in, made your stomach twist. You didn't want that, you hadn't even hooked up with someone properly yet, much less someone who ran the Greek kingdom on campus like a medieval warlord.
Percy's fingers twitched toward his phone, screen lighting up with a text notification that he immediately silenced. Jason's name flashed briefly before the screen went dark again.
Your lips purse, and you reluctantly have to let him go, "Go see Jason, I'll be fine here, just leave me the bottle," you say, gesturing towards the door. Percy hesitates, his fingers hovering over the doorknob like he's debating whether to stay or bolt—the vodka and Jason’s name tipping the scales. He mutters a quick apology before slipping out, leaving you alone with the half-empty bottle and the gnawing realization that Mattheo’s gaze had felt more like a brand than a glance.
Now you're throbbing, not just from the vodka, but from the way your mind keeps replaying Mattheo's grip, the rough press of his fingers. You drain another mouthful, letting the burn drown out the memory, but it doesn’t work. The dorm room feels suffocating, the walls too close, the air thick with the ghost of Percy’s panic. Outside, laughter echoes down the hall—normal, drunken laughter, nothing like the sharp-edged tension Mattheo carried in his silence.
Your fingers wander between your thighs before you can stop them, pressing hard against the fabric of your panties—already damp, already betraying you. The vodka bottle rolls off the bed with a hollow thud as you arch into your own touch, teeth sinking into your lower lip. It’s pathetic, how easily Mattheo’s face replays behind your eyelids, how vividly you feel the phantom scrape of his split knuckles dragging across your collar bone.
A sharp knock at the door jerks you upright, heart slamming against your ribs. “Percy, I swear to god—” The knock comes again, slower this time. Deliberate. The silence between each rap is worse than the sound itself. Your legs tangle in the sheets as you scramble for the empty vodka bottle, useless as a weapon, but it’s something. The doorknob rattles once. Stops.
When you open the door it's just your roommate, Hermione, holding two pizza boxes with a look that says she's judging your life choices. "You look like hell," she says, stepping past you and wrinkling her nose at the vodka fumes. The knock hadn’t been deliberate—just Hermione’s usual impatient rap. Relief crashes over you, followed immediately by something hotter and sharper when your gaze darts past her, down the empty hallway. No Mattheo. No bloody knuckles. Just the faint echo of a party still raging somewhere on campus.
"You scared the shit out of me, why are you here? Weren't you supposed to be with Pansy tonight?," you mutter, kicking the vodka bottle under the bed with your heel. Hermione drops the pizza boxes onto your desk, her gaze flickering to the rumpled sheets, the flush still high on your cheeks. "Pansy bailed. Said something about Theo dragging Mattheo home before he ‘did something stupid.’" Her eyes narrow as she pops open a box—pepperoni grease glistening under the dorm’s harsh fluorescent light. "You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"
"No," You mutter before looking around the messy room. "I'll clean this up tomorrow, sorry." Hermione sighs, tossing you a slice. "You're lucky I love you." The grease burns your fingertips, but the first bite is heaven—salty and rich, anchoring you back to reality.
Hermione chews slowly, studying you over the rim of her glasses. "Percy texted me. Said you two had a ‘situation.’" She air-quotes the word, sauce glinting on her fingers. "He also said Mattheo looked at you like you were his next meal." Your throat tightens around the bite of pizza. Of course Percy ran to her—he always did when things got messy.
"It's no big deal, he was drunk, and he's not even going to remember it in the morning," you say, but Hermione's raised eyebrow says she's not buying it. She wipes her hands on a napkin before fishing her phone from her pocket and sliding it across the desk, screen lit up with a blurry Snapchat from Pansy. Mattheo's forearm is braced against Theo's dorm wall, head bowed, his other hand gripping his hair like he's trying to tear it out. The caption reads: Who tf got him like this??
The pizza turns to ash in your mouth. You should've stayed home, should've never let Percy drag you to that party. Hermione's voice cuts through the static in your head. "Percy says Mattheo hasn't been drunk enough to lose control since freshman year. Whatever happened tonight, it wasn't just the bourbon." She pauses, then adds quietly, "And you're still wearing that dress."
Your fingers twitch toward the hem instinctively, fabric riding up another inch. Outside, a door slams down the hall—too loud, too sharp—and you both freeze. Hermione's phone buzzes again, the screen flashing with another snap from Pansy. This time, it's Mattheo's bloodied fist wrapped around a bottle of something dark, his lips moving against the rim like a threat. The caption is a single emoji: 🎯.
You groan in frustration as you strip out of the slinky dress you were wearing, tossing it onto the floor in a heap. Hermione's lips purse as she watches you rummage through your drawers for sweatpants and a hoodie, anything to erase the feeling of Mattheo’s gaze lingering on your skin. "You know he's not going to let this go, right?" she says, tapping her phone screen pointedly. "Mattheo doesn’t do ‘accidental’ interest. If he looked at you like that, he’s already decided what happens next."
Your pierced brows furrow, "He's not some predator, Hermione. He's just a drunk asshole with a god complex." The sweatpants feel like armor as you yank them up, but the hoodie still smells faintly of Percy’s vape, sweet and cloying, a reminder of how badly this night had spiraled. Hermione’s phone buzzes again; you don’t look.
The knock this time isn’t hesitant. Three sharp raps—the kind that brook no argument. Hermione’s spine stiffens, her fingers tightening around her pizza crust. You don’t move. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken dread, before a voice cuts through the door, deep, roughened by bourbon and something darker. "Open up, Granger. I know she’s in there." Mattheo. You signal for Hermione not to say anything before you roll under her bed. The mattress creaks above you as she stands, tossing a blanket over your legs just before the door swings open.
Mattheo’s shadow fills the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hallway’s flickering fluorescents. Even from this angle, you can see the dried blood on his knuckles, the way his shirt hangs open at the collar like he’d torn at it in frustration. Hermione blocks his path, arms crossed. "You’re not welcome here." Mattheo’s laugh is low, humorless. "I don’t recall asking." His gaze sweeps the room—lingering on the discarded vodka bottle, the rumpled sheets—before settling on the notes on your desk.
The floor digs into your spine as you hold your breath. Above you, Hermione’s voice is sharp. "Leave, or I’ll call campus security." Mattheo’s shoe taps once against the threshold, deliberate, testing. "You’re bluffing." The mattress shifts as Hermione steps closer, her tone dropping. "Try me." A beat of silence. Then Mattheo exhales, the sound almost amused. "Tell her I’ll be seeing her." The door clicks shut.
You don’t move until Hermione yanks the blanket off. "What the hell did you do to him?" she hisses. You scramble out, knees barking against the hardwood, but your eyes dart to the desk—your notes are gone. Hermione follows your gaze and swears. Mattheo hadn’t just come for you; he’d taken something. The syllabus for your shared Lit seminar sticks out from under the pizza box, his scrawl in the margins suddenly ominous.
"I wen't to a fucking part to get drunk that's what I did but aparently that's a felony in Mattheo's world," you snap, snatching the syllabus back. His notes are brutal—sharp slashes of ink dissecting every argument you'd made in class, each correction signed with his initials like a goddamn warrant. Hermione's fingers dig into your shoulder, forcing you to meet her gaze. "This isn't about Lit. That boy doesn't chase anyone unless they owe him something." The pizza grease on your fingertips suddenly feels filthy.
"That little shit is failing that class, so I don't know why he marked up my paper like he was doing something," you mutter, crumpling the syllabus and tossing it at the trash can, missing by a foot. Hermione exhales sharply through her nose. "You're missing the point. He didn't take your notes because he cares about Lit." The unspoken implication hangs between you—Mattheo had just marked his territory like a wolf pissing on a tree.
I don't really like this version. I might delete the whole thing, but idk, tell me what you think.
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