Maybe you wished to be hated by him more than to be loved.
wordcount: 5.9k
pairing: mattheo riddle x f!you
warnings: 18+, swearing, rough oral (m!receiving), face slapping, throat fucking, spitting, hair pulling.
author's note: now i have my own Slytherin party fanfic yay sorry for not posting for a long time, i'm apologising with this work!
Masterlist
Nothing good comes from Slytherin parties. Ever. You should’ve hung a warning banner across your wall, so every time Ginny persuaded you into thinking ‘it’s gonna be fun!’, the damn thing would howl and flash with red lights.
Never go to Slytherin parties.
Never let Lavender choose your outfits.
And, for Merlin’s sake, never try to make Mattheo Riddle jealous. Even if you didn’t mean it in the first place.
The rules were simple, yeah. Too bad you just can’t help breaking them.
***
That wasn’t the worst way to spend a Saturday night—gossiping and painting your nails with roommates, except for the fact that one of them never could sit still. Ginny. Her idea of ‘peace’ involved sneaking into the Forbidden Forest at midnight, terrorising Peeves at one thirty, and then stealing some of the finest wines from Slughorn’s collection at two fifteen. Your best friend had some work to do, and you, as her closest companion (hostage), were supposed to be there to keep the chaos at bay.
Standing in front of the mirror in the smallest skirt you had ever worn, you were contemplating the life choice that had led to this exact moment. The scrap of fabric struggled to cover your thighs, and your hands were glued to the hem, relentlessly tugging it down.
“You look good!” Lavender beamed in the reflection; her own dress fell modestly past her knees. “A little confidence here.” She yanked your shoulders. “A shy smile there.” Her fingers touched the sides of your mouth. “And Potter will have to pick his jaw up off the floor when he sees how stunning you are, love!”
Your cheeks flushed at the sound of his name.
Ginny was practically vibrating with anticipation at the door, her red lips curved in a mischievous smirk that promised trouble.
“Shy smile? With a skirt like this?” you spat, shoulders slumping again. “Don’t you think it’s kinda… out of place?”
“What’s out of place is your sense of adventure.” Ginny blinded you with a wide grin. “Where’s my girl who likes to crawl through the woods and nearly get eaten by wolves? Why so scared?”
Honestly, you would rather be running somewhere far, far away with danger snapping at your heels than stepping into the maw of the silver-green insolence.
“I’m not scared.” You grabbed a jacket from Lavender’s trunk, the soft wool offering a shred of the comfort you’d lost the moment the Weasley girl stormed into your life. “We are going to the dungeons!” The word was emphasized as though it held a curse in every syllable.
“So?”
“So, if I had a choice, I would pick some creepy crypt instead over the place where they judge you for breathing the same air.”
Lavender and Ginny looked at each other with knowing smirks, a silent conversation passing between them.
“It’s about Riddle, isn’t it?”
Where Harry’s name brought butterflies to your stomach, Mattheo’s reminded you of shattered glass tearing through the thin skin of your chest. It dug deeper and deeper, until the poor organ bled from years of agonising hatred, leaving the bitter taste of copper on your tongue after every unfortunate encounter.
“What?! No!”
Yes.
It was always about Riddle! Every minor inconvenience in your life you blamed on that curly-haired asshole, who found no greater joy than toying with your nerves—or what was left of them after seven years of growing up in the same school.
That jar of Flobberworm Mucus exploding in your hand in Potions? Riddle’s doing! Definitely not because of your iron grip! McGonagall giving you detention for the sudden ‘fuck!’ slipped out after Riddle had attempted to impress a random Ravenclaw girl with Serpensortia? The freaking snake had landed right on your head!
You would never, ever forget how he laughed at you in your fourth year when you tried to invite him to the Yule Ball. The echo of his mocking voice haunted your dreams, making it nearly impossible to erase from your memory the look of utter disgust plastered all over his pretty face. And here you were, thinking the chemistry you shared could amount to anything more than this blood-boiling irritation. Turned out, it couldn’t.
Ginny rolled her eyes.
“Fuck Riddle!” she exclaimed, Lavender chimed in with her own “yeah, fuck him!”.
Right, to hell with him! It was just a Slytherin party, and you were going to have fun: dance with Harry, drink with Harry, talk with Harry. No Riddles. The plan was clear, were it not for the lack of the most crucial detail. How were you supposed to avoid the dragon in the room when it was bound to breathe fire right in your face…?
Whatever, never mind. Fuck Mattheo Riddle!
***
The snakes’ pit was wonderful at this time of the year—all bathed in the greenish glow from the enchanted ceiling. Leather sofas were moved aside, along with the round, dark-wooden tables usually piled high with stacks of parchments and not-so-permitted texts stolen from private family libraries. Music vibrated through your muscles, making it hard to hear anything over the muggle shit someone had put on. The smell of alcohol and rich cologne permeated the air enough to intoxicate even the most sober mind.
This particular party was dedicated to someone’s birthday—Zabini’s or Nott’s, Mattheo Riddle couldn’t quite recall, as his head was blissfully clouded with the amber liquid splashing lazily in his glass.
His observation point, a velvet sofa at the back of the room, offered such a perfect strategic position that you actually let your guard down a little, failing to spot the familiar curly crown among the sea of students.
Mattheo’s lips twitched. Every time you entered the room, you would always look for him. It could almost pass for flattery, if it wasn’t for Potter, who had commanded all the spotlight and immediately drew your attention.
Who believed inviting other houses was a great idea? The party had yet to pick up its usual mayhem, though Riddle could already see the colours blending where they should have stayed unadulterated: Gryffindors snogging with Hufflepuffs, a couple of his housemates standing too close to Ravenclaws for it to be a friendly chat. His own little birdie nestled on the armrest, long fingers playing with the brown locks at the nape of his neck.
“Ew, why would she wear a skirt like this? My eyes are bleeding! What a disgrace…” she hissed.
“Mhm,” Mattheo answered, the alcohol burning a path down his throat where the blooming annoyance began to take root.
He didn’t even notice the absence of your usual trousers or long skirts; the only thing worth judging was the way Scarhead offered you a drink like a fucking gentleman. And you smiled—not only with your lips, but your very gaze softened.
More than he hated you, he hated Potter—it was something primal, etched in his bones the moment his mother told him about the night his father died. And when Harry claimed his rights to your friendship at the start of the second year, just as Mattheo had gathered the strength to ask you for a walk around the Lake, the resentment extended to you, too.
Come again, whose idea was it to work on house unity? Blaise’s. And his bloody Weasley! They always seemed to be plotting against him: either ‘accidently’ inviting him to the same gatherings where you happened to be, or Blaise dragging his girlfriend and her inevitable plus-one for a walk near the Forbidden Forest. Salazar, the sheer number of times the two of you had ended up on the ground, clawing at each other’s faces... That was exactly how Mattheo had gotten the scar across his nose, while you had spent two weeks covering your black eye with makeup.
“Never thought of you as a party person, Harry.” You took a sip of your drink, the salty aftertaste lingering on your tongue as your hand tugged the skirt down again. “A Slytherin type, especially.”
His glasses caught a green light from the swirling lights.
“Can say the same for you,” Harry grinned, his eyes involuntarily drifting to your skirt and thighs. “Uhm, you look… lovely.”
Heat painted your neck and cheeks.
Ginny and Lavender had left you alone. Those two were probably somewhere on the dance floor enjoying the night, while you kept glancing at the entrance in silent hopes of escape.
“Thank you,” the answer came out strained. “You look nice too.”
A simple white shirt with two buttons undone, muggle jeans, worn-out Converse—Harry always had that easy charm about him. No pretense, no faux smiles or polite words to mask the truth. You liked him and the comfort he brought to your agitated soul, like a safe harbour after a particularly rough storm. The storm had a name and a very cruel tongue, so to speak.
“Yeah…” He nodded at another student who had greeted him. Maybe it was the seventh time in the past five minutes. “So, I’ve heard from Ginny about your recent walk near the Forest…”
Maybe the nervousness receded or skyrocketed—you couldn’t tell for sure due to the low thrum of blood, alcohol, and music in your veins. Still, you rambled on and on about how exciting it was to run from the Centaurs, how beautiful Moly looked at night, and how Ginny had saved you from a troll’s club.
Potter listened attentively (he really tried, with your skirt riding a little higher) to whatever nonsense you were producing from that stupid mouth of yours. Mattheo knew how persistently pesky you could get when you were excited and drunk. You would wave your wand-hand, repeating a spell—and so you did—then you would brush the hair from your forehead that had slipped out of your ponytail—the sweat-dampened strand was tucked back behind your ear.
His grip on the glass tightened, hard enough to shatter it; the girl at his side flinched when Mattheo shrugged her off.
She was getting in the way.
“Matty, let’s dance,” the birdie chanted in his ear.
You forgot the skirt was too short, the party took place in the dungeons, and Mattheo Riddle could return at any minute. Harry was such a great person to have in one’s life—you would go to the moon and back for him!
The second cocktail hit the spot, and the shyness had finally evaporated, mingling with the cigarette smoke curling just above your heads. You tugged at the boy’s sleeve, glassy eyes glinting with emotion close to drunken awe; Harry didn’t budge at first but gave up as soon as he saw a girl from Slytherin, the one who kept trying to slip him Amortentia, was approaching.
Dragging him to the center of the room where couples were pressed so close together they became a single mass of tangled limbs, you nearly tripped over your own feet as the green lights flashed before your swaying vision. Harry’s arms wrapped around your waist; someone bumped into you, drawing you two even closer.
Thank you, stranger!
“Oops, I’m so clumsy!” you squeaked. “Don’t mind me, Harry.”
He didn’t mind at all, only feeling slightly awkward with one of his friends clinging to him like a drugged cat.
Mattheo did mind, oh so fucking immensely.
“You wanted to dance?” The girl at his side nearly jumped, hugging his arm and letting him pull her to the dance floor. “Then we will dance.” His voice, raspy and rough, sounded dangerously like a threat.
It felt like floating in the clouds, and as long as Harry’s arms were on you, the pressure could be tolerated. Your head rested on his shoulder as you swayed to the beat.
Potter was a good friend indeed: understanding, patient, a kind heart with sad eyes. And you yearned for something real, easy—not the things that hurt and made you feel stupid or unworthy.
Simple, ready-made, didn’t require further polishing.
Mattheo, mimicking the way Potter’s fingers dug into your sides, gripped the waist of the girl so hard she yelped. The nonchalant, cold facade cracked at the seams; anger and frustration were now dripping down like molten fire. Hating the things he couldn’t have was a well-oiled mechanism trained by years of quiet longing.
Hating you almost felt safe.
As you glanced over your shoulder, the sight of Mattheo’s ruffled curls and broad back sent a nervous impulse to your brain. He spun the girl you shared Arithmancy with, earning a heartfelt laugh from her. Hating the things you were afraid you couldn’t handle with proper care was a well-trodden path.
Hating him almost felt real.
Yes, safe as Riddle’s simmering anger; real as Potter’s affection.
You didn’t look at Mattheo for too long, thinking that ignoring the pest would make it appear less annoying. The dance with Harry was a clumsy, one-sided affair where you led him, even moved his palms to your hips, at which he only smiled. He understood his role and intended to play it right, just like any good friend would.
A rush of chilly wind from the entrance bit your open skin when your jacket rode up. Harry’s hands slipped underneath to adjust it, but Mattheo—his jaw clenched painfully—saw an entirely different picture.
You, too, took it as a message and pulled Harry down by the collar. Inches away, heartbeat steady. Nothing. A quick press of lips. Also, nothing. His green eyes, bright and clear, held… Nothing.
Fuck.
“I think you are a little drunk.” Potter caressed your cheek. “I’ll get you some water, okay?” After that, he disappeared.
Oh, Merlin... Never go to Slytherin parties.
From what Mattheo had witnessed, the friendship was about to be taken to another level. The same went for his anger.
“It hurts, Matty.” The girl winced, squirming in his bruising hold.
“It does,” he muttered, more to himself.
You turned around, swaying your hips to the music with that dazed, little smile. Maybe you had rushed things, although Harry hadn’t pushed you away, so there was hope for you to find a secure place under the boy’s wing.
The music shifted from lively and energetic to more seductive tunes. Warm, syrupy notes swirled around you, coaxing you to give in to the moment of weightless sailing. Then, just like you had hoped, firm hands landed on your waist to guide your little dance. With your eyes closed, the person behind you remained unrecognised.
“Harry?” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, and you relaxed.
His body pressed into yours, lips brushing against the shell of your ear with your name on them. You needed it; your blood buzzed with everything the alcohol unleashed. Honestly, the heat of another person against your skin felt amazing. Maybe you could thank Ginny later… okay, Lavender too for fetching you this skirt.
Your palm felt cold against the one resting over your hipbone, your fingers slotting in between, letting Harry pull you closer. Hips moved, slow, teasing, and the small arch of your back received an approving hum from Potter.
Good Gryffindor girls didn’t act like this; however, for you, the edges between what was right and what felt good had blurred.
Mattheo’s head spun—even four glasses of cheap firewhiskey couldn’t make him more drunk than the sight of one of his housemates all over you: gripping, whispering, rubbing their idiocy on you. Gryffindors and Slytherins never got along, and he intended to keep it that way. Not because he was about to punch him in the face, no. Just Slytherin honour.
You looked sinfully captivating in the green lights, in his common room, in every fucking fantasy he had about you. Two of his favourite—lust and wrath—and all of that he saw right now.
Only one thing was lacking. Him.
In three short strides, Mattheo was there. He shoved the bastard away and seized your forearm in an iron grip.
“What the—Ouch!” Riddle jerked you rather roughly, pulling you off the dance floor.
He’d had enough.
Students parted for you two, grinning and chuckling at you being carried out of the common room like a misbehaved pet. The humiliation was unutterable. You tried to kick him, used your free arm to wrench the other out, yet he stayed persistent in his goal to get even with you. Mattheo nearly dragged you up the stairs, while the furious storm inside him raged on. Outside, his face held a casual neutrality; inside, he was that close to strangling you. Purple would suit you better than this ugly skirt and pink jacket.
You clawed at his arm, twisted, and growled; your trembling lips bruised from spitting insults.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“Get off me!”
Out of all of them, his most precious “I’m gonna kill you!” sounded like angels singing.
Riddle kicked the door open to his room and pushed you inside. You stumbled over the threshold.
The room was plunged into darkness, the shapes of the furniture blurred; the Lake’s gloomy, murky waters looked exceptionally unwelcoming. Were it any other house’s dorms, you would flee through the window just to get as far away as possible from him. There, in the heart of the serpentarium, which smelled of crisp citruses and cigarette smoke, drowning was the only way out.
Mattheo blocked the escape route. His brown eyes, often the colour of molten chocolate, were black with the urge to murder you on the spot. Oh, he was mad. Mad at you for being an insufferable bitch who’d been torturing him to the point of your name leaving its mark on his tongue. Mad at himself for acting on this stupid sentiment. Possessiveness? Obsession? One couldn’t live without the other. Had he not been so head over heels for you, you wouldn’t have survived a day.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” His low voice seemed to fill the small room.
Instantly, you picked yourself up and lunged at him, gripping his shirt. The impact pushed him against the door. Being the one trapped, he was nonetheless in power. Tall, broad shoulders, lean muscles trained by years of Quidditch—Mattheo Riddle was a raw force.
“What’s wrong with me?! You are the one who dragged me in here! I was having fun for once, and you had to take it away from me. Again!” Your fingers closed around the smooth fabric, tiny buttons groaning. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone!”
“You’re truly capable of doing that yourself.” Mattheo leaned down, peered into your eyes. “He was groping you! Are you okay with that?”
For a moment you tensed, listening to the sound of your breathing and the rapid beating of your heart. Your insides stirred.
“Since when do you care who touches me, huh? And it was Harry! He would never do anything bad to me!” Despite the anger, the sharp note of your voice weakened around the name; Mattheo winced. “Can’t say the same for you.”
The silence that fell was thick with both frustration and hurt.
Riddle would never admit how much it wounded him when you were stolen from right under his nose. He, a boy who had never owned much, who had never had anything else to care for in his life, was violently pillaged of the girl he knew he would cherish with every broken part of him.
You, on the other hand, looked forward to befriending this lanky boy who had helped you during the first year, when homesickness was so merciless you couldn’t stop crying. House prejudices back then didn’t exist—just a faint hint of blossoming warmth among the uncertainty.
Things did become certain after the second year, when you two realised it wasn’t written in the stars for you to become friends. Instead, you turned into something worse. A hidden sore that no longer just hurt but offered a sick thrill whenever you crossed the line. Hatred had never been this satisfying. After every fleeting fling, Mattheo always returned right where he belonged.
“Harry?” His lips brushed against yours. “Do you think our Chosen One would pick you, of all people? Do you think he would ever consider you worthy? Stupid naive thing.”
You blinked, dumbfounded. The sheer audacity… It took split-second to do what you had wished for all week.
His head snapped to the side; the sound of skin-on-skin contact was louder than the music echoing from the common room. Mattheo’s wild curls danced, sticking to his sweaty forehead. Your palm tingled, and your eyes became the size of galleons.
You did it.
You hit Mattheo Riddle.
A step back was cut short by his hand lurching for your shoulder, his blunt nails biting through the warm wool of the jacket.
“Fucking bitch,” he breathed, slowly turning back to face you.
Even in the poor light, you could see the shape of your fingers marking his cheek. The wrath in him broke through the restraints. Lazily, as if time had lost all meaning, his scorching gaze travelled down your body: from your quivering lips, your throat, and your chest that heaved with every shallow breath, to your skirt.
Then, his attention returned to you, and a wolfish grin stretched across his lips. A treacherous, viscous feeling slithered down your spine—a mix of fear and… excitement.
“If you ever try to speak to me like th—” Mattheo didn’t let you finish whatever shit you wanted to say, as his free hand grabbed you by the throat. “Ridd—ah!”
A weak mewl left your mouth when his fingers found your hair and fisted the locks.
“Like what? Like the little whore you are? Throwing yourself at Potter… Pathetic, don’t you think?” Your sweet gasp for air amused him so much he tightened his hold on your neck. “Wearing a skirt so short everyone could see your panties, letting some prick practically fuck you on the dance floor… Hell, you really are a desperate slut.”
This newfound depth of his anger shocked you; the honey-like drawl of every cruel word landed harder than any slap could. You wished he would return the blow. Because those words resonated in the parts of your body where they never should have.
Scratching at his hand and trying to punch him was a fruitless attempt against someone of his size and strength. If anything, it seemed to urge Mattheo to do what he thirsted for most: to break you, mold you into a thing only he could control.
When he jerked at your hair, his mouth crashed against yours. He left you no time to prepare, sinking his teeth into your lower lip. At first, you froze. Heat rushed through your limbs, and blood hummed in your ears to stifle the moan that was already swallowed by Riddle’s insistence. The torment was refused by your lips closing.
Mattheo took it as bait and pulled at your hair so hard you cried out. With the invitation stolen, his tongue slid past your lips. Hot, wet, and every bit wrong. You resumed the fight: clawed at his shirt, shook your head, trampled on his foot. Riddle only grinned.
Your hand tangled in his curls, pulling and yanking in every direction just to get free. When he gave no reaction except for the guttural groan of pleasure, your nails raked down his reddened cheek. The kiss soon turned aggressive, violent in the most delightful way. Mattheo was proving his point, and you were denying all his arguments.
“You…” you mumbled when his lips moved to your ear: biting, nibbling, and licking the shell until the coherent thoughts in your brain scattered like dying embers. “Riddle…” The tight knot in your lower belly was roused.
He angled your head into an uncomfortable arch and then loomed over. Where your nails had wandered, the scratches bled a deep crimson. You swallowed the taste of his mouth, although it wasn’t enough to erase the arousal that flooded you just from his touch alone.
“If you are gonna act like a whore, then I’m going to use you like one.”
“Are you mental?!” Your voice rose. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Go crawl to your groupies, they sure know how to open their legs for you. Don’t you dare speak to me like that ever again!”
That infuriating, arrogant smirk of his ignited a hot wire inside.
“My groupies?”
“Yes, the ones from yesterday! Carlotta? Ashley? I’ve lost track of their names.”
Mattheo’s thumb pressed on your pulse point. Your hands clutched his shirt, a few buttons popping loose, and new ground for your marking tendencies unveiled.
“Huh, you even know their names? How cute.” His laughter earned another kick to his leg. “Don’t worry, I’ll never forget yours, sweetheart.”
“I hate you so much! I should’ve clawed your eyes out back then, maybe that’s way you wou—”
In all his years of sneaking around with girls, Mattheo had never felt so turned on. If that made him insane, so be it. Your shitty mouth was begging to be put in its place—just where his cock throbbed painfully against his jeans.
“Yeah-yeah, darling. You can hit me harder—I would never stop wanting you. Like you want me.” His mouth hovered over yours, his lips, warm and soft, brushing oh so perfectly.
Must’ve been the spiked drink, because the greed, that amorphous thing in your head and body, set you aflame. Maybe if you… If you tried to satiate it, everything would become clearer.
When you stopped kicking, Mattheo realised he had found your weak spot. Now, he could do anything to you, and you would accept it just to prove you had never loved him. Wonderful! He would insist on demonstrating quite the opposite.
Without another word, Mattheo pressed down on your shoulder and the crown of your head. Reluctantly, still hanging on to the hate, you let yourself be pushed to your knees. Riddle’s breath hitched in his throat at the much-desired sight of you before him, so willing (as much as your nature allowed) and confused, yet giving in.
“Look at you, baby.” His fingers trailed the curve of your chin, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “So pretty on your knees.”
“Shut up,” you grumbled, tugging at the skirt for what felt like the hundredth time.
Never let Lavender choose your outfits.
“Get to work, don’t waste your potential on petty bickering.”
With that, he guided your head to his crotch. Beneath the jeans, his cock twitched at your closeness, and you swore you could see it, too.
You gripped his thighs and lifted your gaze. Mattheo’s curls, damp and ruffled, stuck out in every direction; he was watching you with reverence bordering on cruel mockery.
Deliberately, even shyly, you reached for the zipper and pulled it all the way down, the quiet z-z-z-ip deafening in the silence of the room. The outline of his cock, thick and rock-hard, was visible beneath the fabric of his boxers. You had never done anything like this before, had only heard about it from Ginny or Lavender, always wondering what to expect. Would you gag? Would it taste so repulsive you might throw up? Who knew you were about to find out with none other than Mattheo Riddle…
How many girls had been in your position? How many of them would there be after?
Too many questions, a little to no answers.
“It’s your first, huh?” He sounded smug, and you wanted to slap him again. “Don’t be afraid, I’m going to be gentle.”
Mattheo sneered; his fingers stroked your hair, twisting the loose strands between them. Gentle. He knew the word, yes, but the meaning was lost somewhere between his hard-on and your lips, which were so painfully close.
The unbearable rush of heat to your core made you squirm; the cold stone of the floor bit into your knees and sensitive skin. Somewhere down the corridor, the party was alive. Harry was definitely dancing with another girl; Ginny and Blaise had already left for their romantic rendezvous under the full moon, while you were left here. In Riddle’s room.
Mattheo Riddle. Oh, Merlin. The girl you had been a couple of years ago would have been truly happy…
You freed him, the leaking tip slapped against his lower stomach, smearing the pre-cum. A few veins trailed down from the head and disappeared beneath the black curls at the base. Angry-red and swollen, it beckoned to you to take a single taste. That tangy, musky scent filled your nostrils, and you found yourself leaning closer, your mouth watering.
“Fuck…” Mattheo whispered, watching how a bead of pre-cum dripped down the shaft.
How he wanted you to catch it with your tongue… Tsk, you seemed never to do what he pleased! Okay, he could work with that as well.
Should you lick him? Or get straight to the point and take him in your mouth? He was big enough to make you feel intimidated.
You wrapped your hand around his cock and glared up at Mattheo. He answered with an arch of his brows and a wide grin. “What are you waiting for?”
His cock was warm, with a slight curve that would hit just right; the skin was smooth, and the veins throbbed against your palm. Carefully, you planted a kiss to the place beneath the tip. The firm muscles of his abdomen tightened, fingers ran through your hair and loosened the tie. Then, as the taste of his skin settled confidently, you trailed one of the pulsing veins with your tongue.
“Are you sure this is your first time?” Riddle exhaled slowly.
Your damp panties clung to your slick, and your hand trailed up your leg, dipping under the skirt. Just a single touch, nothing more…
“What do you think you are doing?!”
Suddenly, Mattheo yanked you by the hair and delivered a hard slap to your cheek. His eyes shone with a spark of rising anger, as if you hadn’t spent the last five minutes calming him down with your little kisses.
It hurt, and your vision fogged. Not with tears, hell no. With such a consuming urge to use the Killing Curse on him that even a slap to your other cheek barely registered.
“Don’t touch yourself,” he snapped. “Look at me.”
You refused, the ringing in your ears had muffled his voice.
“I said,” Mattheo’s harsh pull forced you to lift your eyes. A couple of tears streamed down your swollen cheeks, and he almost felt pity. Almost. “Look at me.”
Your mascara left black trails, and all he wanted was to ruin your makeup completely. There wasn’t much of it, yet the sole thought of you getting all pretty for Potter, and him, a Riddle, wrecking it all, brought out the worst in him.
Never try to make Mattheo Riddle jealous.
That hadn’t been your intention… Honestly, was there anything in this life that wouldn’t make him jealous?
“Now, open your fucking mouth.” He gripped your chin, thumb pressing on your lower lip. “Eyes on me.”
You bit his finger, earning another smack. That one didn’t hurt at all, only fueled your need to kill him with bare hands. No wands, no curses, no magic. Pure determination.
He shoved his cock inside your mouth in one swift thrust as his patience ran thin. You coughed, trying to fight the intrusion, only to be forcefully pulled forward.
“Oh, shit,” Mattheo sighed at the tight warmth of your mouth around him. “Use your teeth, sweetheart, and I will forget all about my feelings for you.”
As if you knew how not to! The heavy weight of him on your tongue, the rough pulls on your hair, and his burning stare did something evil to your stomach: it twisted, leaped, and then dropped into such a sweet agony of unreleased tension that you let yourself close your eyes to steady your heart.
Mattheo pushed deeper, his tip grazing the back of your throat; the strangled, gagging sounds were spilling from you like the sweetest music he had ever heard. He was only half-way in, the sheer fullness stretching your lips to the sting at the corners. You tried to breathe through your nose, though the overwhelming sensation of him, flooding your senses with his taste and brute force, made it impossible.
Your muscles spasmed around his length, and he made sure every next breath you took was with his cock sliding further.
“Just like that, honey.” His head tipped back, legs weakened just at the image of you on your knees, drooling and choking, tears gleaming.
Your tongue swirled around the tip, nails scratched at his thighs, and Mattheo gripped your head with both hands.
“Feel so good, so fucking good…”
Had you ever expected the moaning and gasping Mattheo to be such a delicious sight to behold? Breaking him like he broke you became your main goal, even if it meant submitting to him completely.
The determined shine in your eyes and your puffy lips around his shaft spurred him to shove down your throat until his curls tickled your nose, and the heady scent of him sent your mind reeling. He held you there, where he wanted you most. Your reflexes screamed to stop this madness, not that you listened anyway.
When he pulled back fully, you opened your mouth to throw another insult, but Mattheo drove himself all the way back in, giving you no time to adjust to the rhythm he had set. Fast, rough, merciless—he sure had a knack for bullying you. First, with words. Now, with his cock.
A sloppy mess of him and your spit trickled down, connecting you with thick ropes of saliva to his balls, which occasionally slapped against your chin. He fucked you like he hated you, and maybe…
Maybe you wished to be hated by him more than to be loved.
“Come on, princess, just a little more.”
Mattheo’s filthy moans and your wet, slurping sounds doubled the pleasure of being completely and utterly broken. You were taking him to the very end, using his thighs for leverage. With his hands on your head, you could’ve just opened your mouth and stayed there—he would have done everything without your help. For an eternal second, the Slytherin dungeons became cloud nine he reached with a loud groan. Harder, deeper, so you could beg for a single breath.
Hot spurts of cum hit your abused throat, and you pushed him, fought the strange warmth flooding your mouth. Mattheo pulled out, a few milky drops gushed out as you coughed.
“Open.” The rasp in his voice scratched against your cheek.
You opened your mouth, tongue and lips painted white with his release. Now you wondered what to do next. To your surprise, the answer came immediately.
Mattheo gathered his spit and let it land on your mouth, hitting both your chin and the flat of your tongue. The crude act echoed in your body with a cloying languor.
“Be a good girl—swallow.” He patted your wet cheek, smearing the mess of mascara, cum, and tears all over it.
As much as you wanted to return the mess right back to his face, you closed your lips and swallowed, furrowing your brow at the sticky feeling slithering down your sore throat.
His heavy breathing and that ecstatic smile annoyed the shit out of you. He had slapped you, fucked your mouth, and humiliated you. What could be worse?
So, the question remained: who had actually claimed the victory?
wordcount: 4.9k
pairing: mattheo riddle x f!you
warnings: 18+, author is allergic to dialogues, unprotected p in v, choking, slapping, brief mention of pussy slapping, angry (ish) sex, spitting, swearing.
author's note: i'm realising that if you want to write good smut, you actually have to write it... yeah, i'm working on it.
Masterlist
Lioness. That was what they called you. The Quidditch star every Gryffindor was immensely proud of. Indomitable. Bold. Trained by Oliver Wood himself. And determined to vanquish all evil with her beaming smiles and derisive remarks.
In your eyes, evil wore green, had sly smirks, and a very annoying trait of… breathing. Mattheo Riddle. Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Your number one enemy. Godric, the mere sound of his voice, carried by the Hogwarts’ windy corridors, was enough to make your skin prickle! Beware, anyone within a ten-yard radius, for your hatred spares no one.
When the Captain position was passed to you, life divided into ‘before’—oh, we’ll win next time, guys!—and ‘after’—we win now. So, your team won. Against Ravenclaw and their flawless strategies that lacked a feel for the game. Against Hufflepuff, who were just happy to be there. But never against Slytherin.
You were almost there. Every fucking time you were there: a couple of points behind, fingertips brushing the golden wings of the Snitch, the taste of victory teasing your tongue. Just two inches, one… And whoosh Mattheo Riddle stealing it right from under your nose, leaving you with nothing but a raging blaze inside. He would have the audacity to wink at you, as if he just didn’t commit a bloody crime.
Again and again, over three years, the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup would please the eyes of a snake, rather than glint off a lion’s claws. This year you were sure to put an end to the losing streak at all costs.
Fair or not—be it a non-verbal spell or a trap carefully laid for the Slytherin Seeker—who’s going to care once their reign is over? Oh, and how sweet it will be to see the look on Mattheo’s face as your teeth sink into his throat. Metaphorically, of course.
***
This was the time of year you anticipated most—the end of the Quidditch season! Forget about homework, drama, and the gnawing dread of graduation; only the simmering rivalry brewing between the houses as the warmth of May began to seep through the centuries-old stones of Hogwarts.
First game, Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor, was defined by your catch of the Snitch thirty minutes in. Nothing extraordinary, just a lioness in her natural habitat: speed, strategy, teamwork. You had the whole school wrapped around your finger.
The second one, Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin, was a true sight to behold. You had to hand it to Ravenclaw’s new captain—he had definitely knocked some sense into their Beaters. That game had everything you loved about the sport: entertainment seasoned with the crunch of bone after a nasty collision with a Bludger. And amidst the blur of blue and green, cutting the misty air of an afternoon drenched in light drizzle, Mattheo Riddle was gliding across the pitch with his signature Inspired Broom-Surfing. An incredibly difficult move, executed only by ones hungry for the crowd’s attention (female part especially).
“Look-look!” Lavender Brown tugged at your sleeve like a child on the verge of combusting, her eyes fixed on the green dot. “Oh, girl, I don’t understand how you can hate someone so illegally sexy! He could choke me and I’d say thank you. Just imagine those strong, veiny hands wrapping arou—”
Your face contorted in disgust.
“Lavender, keep your fantasies to yourself, will you?! Or I’m gonna puke into your popcorn,” you snapped, your chin resting on the wooden railing.
Riddle indeed looked scorchingly hot in a Quidditch uniform that hugged him tightly in all the right places. Lean muscles, long legs, cute dimples, and wild curls ruffled by the wind. Those brown eyes seemed to strip you naked… Why was he like this? Ugh, this was all Lavender’s doing!
“We’re talking about Riddle here,” you reminded her, sparing a brief glance for the Bludger that was about to smash into Malfoy’s head. Your attention was solely on the small, golden ball zigzagging in the distance; your fingers tingled with the phantom weight of it.
“Yes, it’s the Riddle we are talking about!” She squeaked. “Like, if you ask me—”
“I’m not asking you, that’s the point.”
Lavender fell silent and clicked her tongue. Apparently, not lusting over the Slytherin’s Seeker was a barrier between sanity and madness. A thin ice, ready to crack every time you two crossed paths—be it on the pitch or in the school corridors.
He flew right past your stands, the hem of his robes whipping in the wind and carrying the scent of grass, sweat, and an inflated ego. The girls’ ecstatic cheers were loud enough to reach the Forbidden Forest; you silently envied the creatures there for not having to deal with this collective infatuation with arrogance in green and silver. How could they like him?!
With your fingers crossed, you prayed and prayed that Ravenclaw would finally beat Slytherin—that the cycle of endless defeat would be broken, and you’d be able to look at the Cup in your common room with pride one last time before leaving Hogwarts forever. The gods must have been on vacation, or perhaps your true intentions had darkened your prayers, for you had no other explanation for why Mattheo Riddle caught that fucking Snitch! He had nearly snatched it out of the other Seeker’s grasp and shook it over his head as if the past hour of mindless circling, while his team fought tooth and nail for every point, had never ever happened.
The stands roared, green sparks shot, and the game was over; a sense of dismay settled heavy in your stomach. So be it. You would face him again and demolish that smirk from his mouth with your bare hands.
Lavender, despite being draped in blue, screamed and waved when Mattheo flew closer to the stands. His forehead glistened with sweat, cheeks flushed, and as he wiped his face with his Quidditch jersey, revealing a toned, defined stomach (you heard someone faint nearby), chocolate eyes found yours. You glared daggers at him, nails biting into the swell of your palms.
If he so much as opened his shitty mou—
“This one’s for you.” His voice carried over the shouts, breathy and taunting. “Dying to see you sobbing and whimpering once I’m done with you, lioness. Get your pretty ass ready.”
Teeth flashed white, and he winked. He fucking winked. You nearly fell off the stands, the buzz closing in around you and pressing until the feeling of your blood boiling cut off the rest of the world.
Riddle, you’re going to regret ever touching a broomstick.
Lavender watched you stand there fuming, almost seeing the steam coming out of your ears. She only smiled—a playful, knowing expression. This was going to be so good.
***
The big day had come. Struck you with red and gold plastered on every student you passed in the corridors. Everywhere you turned, a new chant echoed, growing bolder with each minute counting down to the game of the year—Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. A tale as old as time, yet just as thrilling: who will win? Lions or snakes? Or, better put, you or Mattheo Riddle?
A rhetorical question, of course.
Ginny and you exchanged a look—she had welcomed your idea with a sharp smile and blazing eyes a week ago. In your hands, power nestled; in your head, thoughts swirled around the upcoming game. Maybe your team hated you a little for exhausting practices and countless laps around the pitch, but they would be thankful soon. They had better be.
Slytherin will fall.
“What if he gets hurt?” Hermione, still the voice of reason in the chaos, followed close behind as your team glided smoothly through the ruby-red sea of the bustling crowd. Students cheered and beamed at you; your ego reaching its peak, still far behind Riddle’s, though.
“Let’s go!”
“Make them suffer!”
“Our lioness takes it slow—one, two, and the snake is no more!”
Oh, how you thrived on the attention! Your nervousness receded, but that feeling of something inevitable still scratched at your insides. You pushed it down deep and grinned.
“Don’t worry, Mione. It’s nothing he can’t handle,” you answered with a cold smile. She only shook her head. What else can she expect from you?
Ginny tightened her grip on her bat, thumb brushed the runes etched into the handle. Might as well put that Ancient Runes knowledge to good use, right? Your lip twitched, blood flowed in your veins like a liquid fire.
A warm breeze brought the thick, honeyed scent of wildflowers, its gentle fingers threaded through your hair, playing with loose strands. Bright and proud, the sun watched as the two teams moved across the field towards the center. Madam Hooch was shielding her hawk-like eyes with her hand, a Quaffle balanced on her fingertip. It was a perfect day, with lovely weather to brutally destroy them all.
You looked up at the stands, which were packed and split into two equal halves: the scarlet and emerald blinding, while the unfurled, enchanted banners fluttered in the wind. Snake, snake, lion, snake, lion, lion, lion. Snake—your gaze drifted to the Slytherin captain.
Mattheo Riddle was staring at you the whole time, a charming smile plastered across his handsome face, making his dimples even more prominent. New broomsticks (thanks to daddy’s money, Merlin damn them!) were polished to a mirror shine, green uniform clung to their bodies, and Riddle’s captain badge gleaming. Your own was pinned right where your heart thundered.
No words were passed, yet the conversation started the moment your foot landed on the lush grass: he asked, you answered, he taunted, you snapped back. And not a single sound left your lips! You two had mastered the skill throughout the years.
“Teams, mount your brooms!” Madam Hooch shouted, her commanding tone shushed the stands.
Silence settled over your shoulders, anticipation hummed, vibrating in your bones. If you had any thoughts left, they were soon replaced by the clear image of the strategy your team had been absorbing every chance given—during lunches, late-night study sessions in the common room, and while walking from class to class. Every. Fucking. Day.
No slow, measured moves, only ruthless annihilation.
Two teams formed a perfect circle with their captains in the middle. Madam Hooch waited for the two of you to come closer and shake hands. Mattheo offered his gloved palm with a smile that promised nothing good—he was so certain of his victory it made your lips curve with disdain.
“Come on, princess. Show some respect.” He waited, and you felt the weight of every gaze on you.
Reluctantly, you gave him your hand, and he instantly covered it with his, thumb caressing your knuckles. A jolt of electricity surged inside, and Riddle definitely saw your reaction. It was just the start, but you already felt the rush of adrenaline igniting every nerve, sharpening your senses and dulling the worries that had haunted you at night.
Sunlight painted his dark brown irises in gold, high cheekbones dusted with pink—he could have been mistaken for an angel, were it not for the demons dancing in his eyes.
The contact broke as quickly as the Quaffle was thrown into the air; your silent conversation ended with a fading of his smile and your frown. Harry snatched the ball and rushed towards the Slytherin goalposts, kicking up a storm of applause from the Gryffindor stands. Lee Jordan was already busy praising your team.
The broom’s handle was warm under your grip, and the wind whistled in your ears as you bolted into the blue sky to seek a better view of the Snitch. You had the twenty-twenty vision, so finding it shouldn’t be much of a problem… if only Mattheo weren’t just as skilled.
Below, the battle began: green and red dots scattered across the pitch like gemstones. One of them—a diamond in your collection—shot you a brief look, as if saying, I’m ready whenever you are, then zoomed after Harry, ginger hair blending with her red robes.
You remained up high; the sun was hot against your skin, and from there you could see the Black Lake shimmering, while Hogwarts loomed over it, likely empty. It was… peaceful. No rushing, no Bludgers. You and the sky. Open your arms and—
A golden speck appeared out of nowhere. Your reaction was instant, feral, like a predator stalking its prey. Left and right, up and down—your movements smooth against the air resistance. Mattheo had been circling the pitch just enough to avoid the chaos of the passing Quaffle and raging Bludgers. But as soon as he noticed you bolt, his usual smirk melted. Riddle’s hands gripped the broom, and he chased after you as if the Snitch weren’t what he was looking for.
Everything ceased to matter; the students’ screams and Lee Jordan’s commentary reduced to white noise while your focus narrowed, forcing you to dodge goalposts, weave between the beams under the stands, and swerve around your teammates.
The Snitch led you high into the air, far enough to feel how soft the clouds could be. Riddle materialised at your left shoulder. Together you tore the sky, the world falling away until only the two of you remained. So close your shadows blurred; so close his racing heartbeat thrummed against your own ribs, and so close his voice echoed inside your head.
Having reached the highest point where your breath hitched and your blood ran cold; a single look passed between you. Time stopped—a small reprieve before diving back into the wildfire.
“You are not winning this one, lioness,” he murmured, his lips crooked into a pitying smile. “You never will.”
“Watch me.”
With that, you chased the Snitch, reaching for the golden glimmer. Lungs tightened, muscles coiled like springs—you were about to become as one with your broom. Mattheo was right there, a constant pressure against your side, and now you were truly complete. House pride and bitter grudges vanished, none of those weird feelings crawling under your skin—the ones neither of you could admit—mattered now.
Wind. Sun. Speed.
When Ginny saw your signal, with a graceful flick of her wrist, the Bludger was sent. To the audience, it looked like she was just doing her job as a Beater, when in reality… well, sometimes, things are not what they seem.
The ground was approaching rapidly; the whole pitch held its breath, watching as the two Seekers were about to face their death. You heard the whistle even before you saw the Bludger closing in at a breakneck speed. You had suffered the broken ribs before, the memories still vivid. But this time, thanks to Weasley’s gift for Ancient Runes, you were sure it had a completely different target. The one whose hand had almost covered yours.
He was about to say something, to throw an insult maybe. Oh, the Bludger had different plans—it tore you apart, forcing Mattheo to jerk his broom away to keep the ball from crushing his skull.
“You fucking—!"
Your foot almost skimmed the grass as you pulled up into a steep climb and clamped your hand around the Snitch. It was cold against your palm, tiny wings fluttering and tickling your skin.
The stands erupted in a roar of cheers and applause; red and golden sparks shot into the sky, and the lions on the Gryffindor banners threw open their maws. That was it—the glory, an invigorating breeze after years of humiliation at the hands of the Slytherins.
You turned back, still clutching the trembling Snitch to your chest. Amidst the flurry of confetti, your eyes met Mattheo Riddle’s. For Merlin’s sake, the way he looked at you made you do the one thing you had dreamed of every single match.
A slow wink. Arrogant, provocative, ending the challenge that had started the moment you mounted a broom a couple of years ago. From then on, the rivalry between you and Mattheo had twisted into something wicked, cruel.
He was tearing you apart with his gaze alone, piece by piece, bone by bone—nothing could be hidden from him. It should have scared you, really. Because when Mattheo Riddle looked at you like that, trouble was inevitable.
But what could he possibly do to you, a Gryffindor lioness?
No-fucking-thing.
***
The humid, warm air of the locker room clung to you like a second skin. You scrubbed off everything that day had brought down on you—starting with the morning’s anxiety, ending with Riddle’s proximity. It felt amazing to be on the winning side; even Snape’s ‘Acceptable’ couldn’t compare to the immense pleasure of securing a victory against your enemy.
And Mattheo Riddle… hell, you would gladly go back in time just to see the look on his face again! Completely crushed. Humbled. Degraded? Oh, embarrassed! Also… Yeah, you had better stop there before your mouth started hurting from grinning too hard.
You came up to the small, foggy mirror at the sink, bare feet padding softly on the tiles. Gryffindor’s common room must already be celebrating, but here, in the private locker room for captains only, you could finally breathe freely. Alone.
Little droplets slithered down as you wiped the mirror; you watched them splat onto the chipped paint before looking at your reflection. Where you expected to see happiness, two black pools of pure hatred stared back instead.
“What the f—” your heart skipped a bit, dropped, then leaped so high your throat constricted.
In a matter of seconds, you spun around, eyes wide and right hand already raised to strike. Mattheo’s own palm closed around your wrist, pushing you back against the cold sink, its edge biting into your spine. The towel loosened dangerously, threatened to spill everything you kept secret from the unworthy blokes.
Mattheo Riddle was a perceptive boy, but it certainly didn’t help him foresee your free hand lashing out and landing on his cheek. His head snapped to the side, brown curls, damp with sweat and humidity, veiled his eyes. And then, as he slowly turned back to you, an all-consuming fire danced in their depths.
“Feisty.” He touched his split lip with the tip of his tongue and smiled. Nothing good came from those types of smiles.
A hot, heavy wave surged low in your belly at the sight.
“What are you doing here, you moron?! Get the hell out before I—”
Riddle seized both of your wrists and jerked you towards him, forcing you to collide with his chest. The scent of him—sweat, the sharp bite of his cologne, and the crisp tang of broomstick polish—made your head spin more than any alcohol ever could. You liked your showers scalding, but the heat radiating off him felt like stepping into a dragon’s lair.
“Before you what?” His mouth brushed your ear, voice low and dark, laced with mockery. “Before you call for your redhead bitch? The one who’d charm a Bludger to kill me?”
With a violent tug, he made you stumble, and your lips parted to scream. Before you could, Mattheo slapped you across the cheek, not hard, but enough to stun you. Payback for your lucky attempt, you realised.
Still, it stung. Not with pain or fear, no. With something that screamed, I can do whatever I want to you. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you struggled again, more fiercely this time.
“You hit me! You fucking hit me! Get out, Riddle, I swear to Merlin I will…”
He gripped your hair so hard a weak gasp escaped; nails scratched at the iron hold he had on you.
“It was such a bad move, captain. I thought we were playing fair.” Mattheo thigh wedged in between your legs, the hard muscle pressing firmly against your cunt. You shook; goosebumps scattered over your body like a thousand dropped needles. “You know how much I want to fucking strangle you right now?”
Never in your life had you seen him in such a state of rage. He was high on adrenaline—the match lingered in the back of his mind, a ghost he couldn’t shake off. Pupils dilated, fingers trembled where they gripped, chest heaved with every breath he took. Or, perhaps, a raw desire? No, better yet: a mix of both, as addictive as a drug and just as devastating.
Mattheo knew you better than any person alive. Years of quiet observation, while you were busy with whatever reckless bullshit Gryffindors did. Desperation led to questionable acts, and winking after such brazen cheating… Who the hell do you think you are?
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” you groaned, baring your teeth.
Fuck, his cock twitched in his trousers—he liked you all furious.
“You don’t?” Mattheo tilted your head back. His gaze drifted to your chest pressed against his, where the beads of moisture were trailing down your collarbone before hiding behind the towel. He licked his lips, a leering smirk taking shape. “Look me in the eyes and tell me it’s not true.”
Anything but that! You were a pathetic liar, the worst in the world. They could use your blood instead of Veritaserum—it would work wonders.
The back of your head prickled; Riddle could see the crimson forming a light imprint of his fingers where they had landed. He almost felt pity. Almost! You deserved more than that.
“Come on.” Nails dug into your scalp, and you hissed. “Do it.”
You obeyed, so delectably flushed for him to revel in. To look was to drown in the welcoming darkness that easily replaced your blood with molten metal.
Mattheo stared back; wild curls sticking to his forehead, his Quidditch jersey drenched in sweat from the laps he’d run around the pitch. He wondered if a simple run would help him to tame the beast inside. As it turned out, no.
That’s how he’d ended up in your locker room, opening the door with a simple spell (what a stupid little thing you were). At the very least, he wanted to argue; at the very most—to punish.
“I didn’t do it,” you muttered.
“Oh, yeah?” Mattheo’s mouth hovered over yours; the breath you shared tasted of blood and your shampoo. He inhaled the sweetness. “Are you sure? Let me see, then.”
You shrieked, struggled again. Pointless. The towel slid down, pooled at your feet, and was kicked away by his boot. Mattheo grabbed your face, his forehead pressing into yours as a probing sensation flooded your mind. Insistent, pressing heavier on your brain with every passing minute. It was agonizing; your skull was being pried open with a blunt knife, only for rusted nails to go rummaging inside.
“Please… Yes… I did it! Stop, I can’t!”
He didn’t stop; he delved deeper, let himself relive the moment of your victory. One memory after another; one picture after another. Your strategies, exhausting trainings, long evenings in the library. Then… His own smile, his own eyes, his hands around the broom, muscles rolling under his skin. Riddle saw it all.
“Easy.” Mattheo chuckled. His hunger worsened after those little secrets of yours. How sweet of you to notice his new family ring a month ago! “Our little lioness worked so hard to win the Cup, it’s even kinda cute.”
“Fuck you.” Your head lolled back, too heavy to hold upright. “I’m going to kill you. Just wait until I—until…” you trailed off, the threat dying in your throat.
His thigh was moving against your slick folds; your breathless whimpers shot right into his cock.
“Okay, okay, sweetheart.” He watched how the green fabric of his trousers turned dark from where your wetness seeped. “Keep talking. Kill me, yeah? I like the sound of that.”
The curses continued to spill from your tongue, each one cruder than the last. And he couldn’t stop grinning, working his thigh against you like he wasn’t the one being degraded. Only when your breath hitched and eyes fluttered shut, did you realise how actually fucked up you were. The sting on your cheek dulled, the humiliation melted into something white-hot.
The price of victory was to lose. Again. With the war switching its battleground.
Mattheo forcefully dragged you to a narrow, wooden bench. The view he had claimed for himself was breathtaking: your weakened body, your hard nipples beckoning for his teeth to bite into, your arousal glistening between your legs. Everything about you was perfect, even if you were a little minx sometimes.
Your back met the bench with a loud thud, and you winced. He loomed over you, broad shoulders blocking out the small orb of light under the low ceiling. As if he were waiting for this, his hand closed around your throat, thumb stroking the fluttering pulse.
“Might’ve just let my team fuck you,” he rasped, drawling out every syllable. “A little reward for the best Seeker, hm? How would you like that?”
Where your body lost.
“What, Riddle? Can’t do anything without your little lapdogs? I would take Malfoy, you know? I always had a thing for blondes.”
Pride took place.
His grin deepened; it wasn’t hard to spot the flaring of his nostrils or how he squeezed your throat so tightly you feared the bones would snap.
Releasing your wrists, Mattheo worked his trousers open; the strain became so painful he barely could think of anything you had said to him, only of how tight your pussy would be gripping his cock, so wet and needy.
You flinched when his hand reached for your face again, bracing for a hit, but he only pressed his thumb into your chin to pry your mouth open. Anger flared in your half-lidded eyes, and the path they took to where his cock, leaking and throbbing, rested against your stomach, burned. Heat crawled up your body, painting your skin in a delicious shade of desire. You swallowed.
Merlin’s beard… Maybe that explains his ego, though.
Mattheo’s lips twitched at your thought. Legilimency was a gift he claimed to hate. However, in moments like this, he found the intrusion rewarding.
A few lazy strokes to his cock, and the milky drops of precum hit your navel. The swollen, angry-red tip smeared it all over your stomach. What a fucking bastard.
“Had a thing for blondes,” he mocked your voice, making you roll your eyes. “Sure, princess. Try to say his name with my dick inside you, see what happens.”
What a selfish fucking bastard. They don’t make captains out of any other kind. Add to that being the Seeker! The amount of jerkiness was unmatched.
He thrusted in between your folds, coating himself in your slick. The teasing was maddening, but so Riddle-like. You prayed he would prepare you. Maybe a brief fingering? Or, perhaps, some careful rolls just to ease your nerves?
Yeah. Of course.
The sudden, cruel shove was what made you squirm helplessly, a searing heat spreading through your belly, though you couldn’t deny the traitorous ache of pleasure. So full of him, so good... Mattheo’s head reeled, intoxicated by the triumph of finally having you. It hurt, he knew. But this was a punishment, and punishments weren’t meant to be sweet. Why was it supposed to give you pleasure? You had your fun on the pitch, now he would take his due from your body.
Long fingers forced your mouth wider, your hot breath ghosting over his knuckles. How beautiful you looked beneath him—struggling, overwhelmed. His.
“Let’s put that mouth of yours to good use, hm?”
Your brow furrowed, jaw hurt. Mattheo closed the agonising distance between you two, his nose gently brushed yours. A kiss? From him? You could… you could work with that, definitely! You wondered how he tasted like. That infuriatingly expensive cologne? Coffee? Cigarettes?
Every dream was crushed as he spat into your mouth. Sticky, warm saliva landed on your tongue, trickled down your lips and chin. What the actual—
“Swallow.” He forced your mouth shut and pressed his palm until he made sure you swallowed every drop.
You had no choice but to comply. Mattheo felt the moment your resistance snapped, your thoughts fading into a quiet, stuttering hum of submission.
Then, as if you weren’t gone enough, he kissed you, catching the soft mewls spilling from you. His hips snapped forward, filling you to the brim. The pace he set was sure to shatter the very existence.
“So good, you feel so fucking good,” Mattheo murmured against your swollen lips.
Your trembling hands pulling him closer by his shoulders, your hoarse voice breaking around his name, your eyes shining with tears… Fuck the Quidditch Cup. The most precious prize was you. All his. Now.
Riddle hooked your thighs over his forearms—the new angle driving him impossibly deep. His moans echoed through the room: unrestrained, loud, demanding. And the answer came pretty quickly with your nails scratching at his back as you hitched his jersey up.
“Show me your claws, lioness. Just like that.” The encouragement was both embarrassing and arousing.
Every sense was sharpened; every heartbeat collided with his. You clenched around his cock; the pain had long since bled into torrid pleasure, one that would soon flood your entire system with a cloying dizziness. Mattheo felt his release approaching, too.
As his last, violent thrusts pinned you harder against the bench, you were already crying, writhing in his hold. Pushing him away did nothing to stop the overstimulation he forced with ruthless circles over your clit. Even when his cum seeped out of you, the torture didn’t end.
“You thought I was done?” A hard slap against your pussy made you whimper. “No, princess. I’m still very much angry.”
So, the question remained: who had actually claimed the victory?
Baby, we both know
That the nights were mainly made for sayin' things
That you can't say tomorrow day
wordcount: 3.6k
pairing: fwb!mattheo riddle x f!you
warnings: 18+, friends with benefits, jealousy, possessive and soft mattheo (please ruin me), yearning, fingering, unprotected p in v.
author's note: poor Theo lol ugh, Mattheo Riddle is SO Arctic Monkeys coded. i hope you liked it xoxo
Masterlist
At first, this whole idea of ‘friends with benefits’ felt like a perfect opportunity for Mattheo to be as close to you as possible. Not like he wasn’t already spending sixteen hours a day with you—his closest, most cherished friend! If sleep wasn’t necessary to function properly, he would spend the whole day in your company, given the chance.
“Where is Riddle?” was the question you’d been hearing more often than “how are you?”. That’s how both of you were. Inseparable. Tangled in a way that even your hearts began to beat in sync.
It was casual, truly. Just having sex with your best friend because you understand each other like no other person will. A rough day? Let me fuck you in the abandoned classroom with my hand around your throat. A lost Quidditch match against Gryffindor? Let me suck you off in the locker room. Snape gave you detention for blowing up a cauldron? Let me sneak in the Trophy Room to finger you.
It was casual, you thought. Little did you know you were the only one oblivious to his true feelings.
Or so he believed.
For Mattheo, it was a pathetic crawl through hell. He would burn, growl, and try to rip his chest open to cool the raging storm inside, all because you were getting ready for another date in Hogsmeade.
Not with him, apparently, but with his help—if one could even call it that.
***
“Black or green?” You pursed your lips and held the two pieces up against your body.
The cool, murky light of the Black Lake glinted off the jewels scattered along the neckline of the black dress. It would definitely draw attention: not a shy ‘look-at-me-please’ kind, but a commanding ‘yes-look-at-me’ one! Though, your eyes would really pop against the deep, velvet green of the other dress, and its mid-thigh cut… Yeah, more of a ‘look-at-me-and-be-jealous’.
“Black.” Mattheo didn’t even look up from the book, still lazily sprawled across your bed.
His dark curls, damp from the shower he had after Quidditch practice, fell over his chocolate-brown eyes, long lashes fluttering every time his gaze lazily skimmed over the pages. He had been reading the same page for twenty minutes straight; the ink bled into his brain in a mess of formulas and equations he had no interest in. The restless mind of his craved something to focus on rather than on your nervous fidgeting before the mirror.
“Why? Theo likes black?”
A muscle in Mattheo’s jaw ticked at the name, yet he only shrugged—a perfect picture of nonchalance, even as his knuckles turned white from the grip he had on the poor Arithmancy book. Should he push any further, the cover would crack under the sheer force of his irritation.
I don’t give a fuck about what he likes, I just want to see you in black.
“Yeah,” he grumbled.
The green dress was thrown over your shoulder and fell onto the floor beside your open trunk. You carefully placed the black dress on your bed, smoothed out every crease, and smiled to yourself. A small, dreamy grin of a girl excited for a meeting with a handsome boy. Maybe Theodore Nott wasn’t the best option, but—your throat tightened—at least it was something tangible, real.
Mattheo briefly glanced at your face in the reflection as you returned to brush your hair. It was less than a second, but you could feel the chill prickling on the back of your neck where his eyes lingered.
“You don’t look very happy. Nott is not a bad guy, you don’t have to worry about me.”
I’m worried about his nose staying intact. Plotting behind my back… what a fucking bastard!
“Theo is my best mate.” Mattheo turned the page, the letters seemed to stick to each other, while diagrams danced under his scrutiny. He was growing tired of pretending the Arithmancy was more important than the girl in front of him. “But he is a bloody asshole. He will use you, I guarantee.”
You looked at him in the mirror and clicked your tongue, that dreamy smile turning playful, impossible not to fall for. And Mattheo had failed a long time ago.
“I thought I was your best mate.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Finally, his eyes drifted to you. The intensity in them was almost palpable, dangerous to touch if you valued your life. Your pulse quickened, a hot flush rushed through your body.
“It’s just a first date. And I can handle assholes,” you said.
He set the Arithmancy book aside, his full attention locking on the way your hips swayed as you walked to the desk.
“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be a skill you should be proud of.”
You were glad he couldn’t see how your smile dropped at the sight of the picture, small and worn-out by the years, of you and Mattheo as children, beaming at whoever was out of the frame. It was taken outside your house just after an intense battle with the garden gnomes; that’s why you two were covered in dirt and mom’s ruined hydrangeas. Always together. No matter what. Merlin, when did it all get so complicated?
“You sound just like my parents.”
“I sound like the voice of reason you, as I noticed, weren’t born with.”
His thumb traced the small jewels of your dress. In his head, he had already punched Nott a dozen times until the vivid images of Theodore’s hands on you turned to ash. Mattheo knew his friend’s strategy all too well. Naive little thing... He should’ve never let you out of his sight in the first place.
“I thought you would be happy that your two closest friends are hanging out with each other.”
“Were you happy when I was seeing Parkinson?”
Your teeth ground unpleasantly; the distant echo of his stupid fling with Pansy brought up the memories of tears soaking your pillow. A secret you vowed never to tell anyone. A secret that would bleed anew every time Mattheo was seen with another girl. Flirting, laughing. Touching. Your makeup brush groaned in protest under your grip.
“She is a bitch.” The mirror greeted you with a scowl plastered all over your face.
“And Nott is a dickhead,” he retorted. “So?”
“So?”
“Did I convince you?”
Mattheo slowly rose from the bed, stretching with a grace rarely seen in Quidditch players. In the mirror’s reflection, the defined lines of his stomach flashed; you had to force yourself to drag your focus back to the usual first-date routine—mascara, eyeliner, and soft smokey eye.
“Not in the slightest.”
He had to do something. Should he chain you to your bed? Nah, you’d probably like that. Maybe he should just go and actually punch Theo in the gut? Still no. He’d be stuck spending his final year with Malfoy and Zabini—even bigger jerks than Nott.
You noticed how Mattheo’s fists clenched, how the usual arrogant mask slipped, revealing a coldness so profound the winter itself would have to struggle to outdo him.
Nevertheless, the date was set, sealed with not-so-subtle glances from across the Great Hall, or the occasional hand brushing against your lower back when Theodore let you pass by.
At this, Riddle blamed himself for teaching his mate how to talk to girls and make them fall at his feet. Ironically, Mattheo’s own techniques never seemed to work on you. For whom he had learnt them initially.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” You applied your favourite chocolate lip gloss; he didn’t even need to kiss you to feel the sweetness dripping onto his tongue.
Now, reaching you in one stride, he had the pleasure of being blinded by the tiny sparkles littering your skin from the enchanted lotion. How many times had he told you not to use it because the stains it left were nearly impossible to Scourgify? And how dumb he felt right now, eager to drink the whole ocean of that shimmer to prove how much he actually liked it…
The thin strap of your nightshirt slid down, and Mattheo’s breath hitched in his throat; the school trousers became uncomfortably tight.
“Like what?” His voice came out a little raspy, scraping against your shoulder.
He was too close, his heat seeping into you and leaving you desperate to take more. In Mattheo Riddle’s presence, every coherent thought would soon be devoured by a single desire—to possess what would surely destroy you. Taming dragons was a skill you never knew was required in order to exist alongside him.
The whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing was a fragile line of defense against the force named Riddle. You would either let his love drown you or suffocate from the lack of it. No in-between. Burn or die.
“Like you don’t want me to go.”
The silence fell over you like a heavy blanket you lacked the strength to cast off. He smelled of cigarette smoke and citrus soap, of home and childhood memories, of late-night walks and crushing hugs after a summer apart.
“Because I don’t want you to go.”
A loud chime of the clock informed you that another boy was waiting for you with a bouquet of flowers stolen from the greenhouses (hopefully not poisonous). One could picture a gentleman offering you his arm, kissing your cheek, and telling you how stunning you looked in that black dress.
A gentleman like Theodore Nott.
Not Mattheo Riddle.
“Give me my dress.” You peered at him through the mirror, too scared to turn around and face the real storm brewing behind your back.
Riddle remained where he stood—a heartbeat away from crossing the line.
“Give me my dress, Mattheo,” you whispered, however the words were strangled by the lump in your throat. “Please.”
Only then did he reach for the dress and hand it to you, his eyes tracing the curve of your shoulder, your arm, and waist.
The girl he had promised to always keep for himself now was slipping from his grip.
“Turn away.”
Mattheo reluctantly obeyed, but you both knew it was a hollow gesture: he had seen you naked countless times. Salazar, he had even held your hair after the Slytherin party and cleaned you up when you were too far gone to even speak! Why were there all these boundaries you two had already torn down a long time ago?
A soft rustle of fabric whispered secrets in his ear, and a muffled curse screamed at him when the zipper refused to yield.
Would you be happy to play some Muggle games? I can help you paint your nails! Or I’ll steal the Chocolate Frog cards your precious collection is missing. You call the shots.
Just don’t leave.
I’m so, so in lo—
“Fuck!” you spat angrily, and he flinched; your gruesome battle with the dress ending in defeat.
Like a knight who was always ready to serve his princess, Mattheo turned around.
“Do you need help?” he offered carelessly; the chocolate of his irises had long since transformed into the darkness of the Black Lake. One wrong step, and the cold waters would fill your lungs with ice.
A single thought of his hands on you was all it took to send your heart hammering against your ribs.
“No!” you blurted out in panic.
So, you fumbled and fought with the stupid zipper. Ten minutes late, flushed and furious—oh, the night promised to be eventful. Meanwhile, Mattheo, the very embodiment of malice, stood there with his arms crossed; his ruffled curls did little to hide the spark of amusement in his eyes.
“Help me,” was all you managed to hiss before a boiling tirade could spill from your mouth.
You lost. And where did that lead you? Right back into the arms of your best friend.
“Stay still, okay?” Mattheo murmured, biting back a ghost of a smile.
His delicate fingers rescued a stuck patch of fabric from the zipper’s teeth. You should be thankful, really, if it wasn’t for the solid weight of his chest pressing into you from behind. So broad and comfortable, the kind of place to sleep or to cry on.
In the mirror’s reflection, you saw a boy dedicated to bringing the world to your feet; every single touch of his hand along the length of your arm, every single ghost of a breath that made your skin tingle—the most devastating punishment for ignorant girls like you.
“Mattheo… I’m late.”
As if deaf, driven only by a relentless craving to touch, he ignored your words.
Late? No, no, no. You were where you needed most.
“I like this dress, you look so breathtaking in it,” he purred, the affectionate note made your heart do a little flip.
Wait a minute. Did you hear that right? Riddle and ‘affection’ couldn’t exist in the same sentence. It defined every law of nature! Mattheo was anything—possessive, territorial, selfish—but never gentle. He would rather kiss you with his fist than his lips.
And a rule it was—no kissing—forged out of both anguish and thirst. As long as Mattheo kept his mouth from yours, you were safe.
The air in your room grew thick, thunder roared, clouds darkened.
A whirlwind was approaching.
His fingertips grazed the slope of your shoulder, collecting the specks of glitter.
“I hate that fucking lotion.”
You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the reflection of his hand tracing your collarbone before moving your hair aside. Mattheo’s lips, still swollen from nervous biting, found your pulse. The eye contact was pure torture you didn’t want to end.
“I know,” you sighed, the thrum of blood in your ears muffling all other sounds: the soft lap of water against the glass, the distant chaos of the castle, and Theo’s impatient groan as he checked his wristwatch again. “Don’t do this, I beg you.”
Mattheo slowly, as if you two had all the time in the world, pulled your dress down. Inch by beautiful inch, your skin revealing for his hunger to savour.
Astronomy wasn’t his favourite subject, but it sure could be if mapping the constellations of your birthmarks were on the curriculum. There, under your ear, he marked one with his lips. There, on the back of your neck, another with the tip of his nose. And, of course, the one between your shoulder blades, which took quite a bit of concentration to find.
“I’m not doing anything.”
The dress pooled around your feet.
“Mattheo, I have a date with Theodore! We can’t...” You bit your lower lip; the tickling sensation of his curls made you squirm.
Letting him into your room was a cruel mistake you kept making over and over. You knew how it always ended—with him fucking you or with you riding him until your worries melted into the bitter aftertaste of sex with your best friend.
“Let me touch you. Just once. And you may go.”
Or twice. Or forever?
Asking was never his strongest suit. He took what he wanted, claimed what belonged to him, and made it his duty to keep it forever. Mattheo Riddle in all his glory.
“He isn’t good for you,” he breathed. Your hands found an anchor in the mirror’s metallic frame.
“Who is… oh, shit—” You were shoved against the mirror, your cheek meeting the cold surface as a pair of very insistent hands roamed over your chest and waist, before stopping at your hips. “Who do you consider good then?”
Me.
“Definitely not him.”
It was familiar in a way that should have been concerning—the click of his belt, the underwear pulled aside enough to see your glistening folds, and a silent promise to make you forget every name except Mattheo’s.
You braced yourself for a wild ride. Hell, walking was going to be a struggle tomorrow. And the bruises… Ugh, Pansy would give you an earful for stealing her healing unction!
The world must had tilted on its axes, because you had no other explanation on why you still weren’t brutally fucked. One eye fluttered open, then the other. Only to catch, at the last second, Riddle leaning in to cover the column of your throat with small, butterfly-like kisses. The confusion was written across your face and that unmistakable jolt in your body brough a treacherous smirk to his lips.
His cock twitched with the need to be buried inside of your tight, dripping pussy, to feel your walls closing around him, to hear your screams filling the room.
“Why are you shaking, sweetheart?” he cooed.
“I’m worried that… that Theo would leave without me.”
A flash of white teeth in the mirror, and Mattheo gripped your chin, forcing you to look in the reflection. Already wrecked before he’d even begun; your form was swallowed by his, tall and imposing. Mascara smudged, hair disheveled, the fresh bite pulsating.
“Don’t be, he would find another thing to play with.”
“If I didn’t know you better, I would think you were jealous,” you muttered through the cloying haze of Mattheo’s fingers on your clit. It was as maddeningly captivating as watching his eyes devouring you.
“Jealous? You wish, sweetheart.”
In fact, he was dying from the fangs of the green monster. An agonizingly painful death of a man who didn’t realise the ambrosia had been kindly offered to him on a silver platter. Yet, he bit the hand that fed him. Just as he did to the side of your neck; Mattheo sucked on the sensitive skin before soothing it with a teasing lick of his tongue, leaving behind a blooming mark.
You moaned, and it was enough to send him reeling with the fantasy of you writhing in his hold, trying to adjust to his girth.
Instead, two long fingers delved into your cunt, so wet and ready for him to use. Your arousal coated his whole palm and began to trickle down the insides of your thighs.
“So that’s how you’re usually getting ready for dates, huh?” he groaned and rolled his hips into you.
The thick, aching length was proof of how much he needed you. Right fucking now.
“Shut up, Riddle.” You arched your back as he found your sweet spot with practiced ease. He knew you better than you knew yourself, even when it appeared you two spoke different languages.
Yours was a language of friendship you were scared to ruin, and his—the language of torment from running in circles.
“You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t lie.” He added a third finger, and you almost came on the spot. The heel of his palm was pressed against your clit, and the sparks of electricity was coursing through your veins.
The knot in your stomach tightened, and you mewled an answer Mattheo sneered at. Oh, you were falling apart from his hands alone. Years of observing, months of training. Maybe he wasn’t the best in academic pursuits, but he sure excelled in giving you what you wanted.
“Theo would never know what to do with you,” he chuckled; his tongue tracing the shell of your ear as his fingers left your pussy with a lewd squelch before Mattheo positioned himself at your entrance.
“Only I can give you what you want.” He pushed inside leisurely—a stark contrast to his usual rough thrusts that could easily turn you into a babbling mess within mere seconds.
“Only I know how to touch you.” At that, his palm slid up to rest between your collarbones.
Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his cock filled you to the brim, pussy already spasming and milking him oh so beautifully.
A knock on the door was a sudden, unwelcome intrusion into the amatory dream you two shared.
You froze; a memory of the date surfaced at the edge of your mind, just to be violently pushed away as strong arms locked you in a tight embrace, pulling you flush against Mattheo’s chest.
The second knock got lost in the sound of skin slapping against skin. His thrusts were deep, punishing in their slowness. Insanity never tasted so good.
With his chin on the top of your head, he was staring at your shared reflection. How perfect you looked: for him to use, for him to touch, for him to love.
Mattheo would never break your heart, he swore to himself. But your body wasn’t a part of the deal.
“Please, harder,” you cried, forehead pressing against the cool surface, your hands gripping the metallic frame. “I can’t… why are you doing this to me?”
He littered your shoulders and your temple with little kisses, the warm circle of his arms around you confused your heart and betrayed your mind.
It was Mattheo’s way of saying, see? I can be different—rough and cruel, or soft and tender. Anything you please. No Notts, no Malfoys, no whatever-other-prick you were dating.
Riddle.
“Come on, sweetheart, come for me,” he pulled out just to press himself all the way in. A perfect angle, and his cock was nudging that spot inside that would soon push you to the edge.
The knocks stopped after a couple of fruitless attempts and your obscenely loud moans. Whoever had intruded received the message Mattheo was so intent on delivering.
Later in the night, nuzzled into Mattheo’s neck with your eyes closed and body spent, you caught something that could only be meant for the looming shadows of your room. Something he would never say directly to your face.
“I love you,” he murmured; your lips broke into a smile, and your heart sang. As if you didn’t know already.
A confession so foreign to him, yet so right. Too bad that tomorrow would bring the usual: pining, tension, and Theo’s incessant whining.
Hi, I just want to tell you how much I enjoyed your Teacher's Pet series. You have a way of writing that is really elegant and thoughtful. You do a great job making the narrative portion almost poetic without it getting too purple prose or distracting from the action. I also really enjoy how you write Tom as a Professor, it's the perfect mix of sexy, intelligent, arrogant and controlled. I really admire your writing skill and I hope you never stop.
Hey, dear anon! I’m so, so happy to hear such a high praise!!! Honestly, I’m a little self-conscious about my works as a non-english native, thinking that I might sound rather clunky😁 but after your message I might try to be more confident. Thank you so much!! Have a great week, you just made mine a lot better❤️
A simple act of watching a masterpiece in its natural element. Darkness, cold, and death.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
wordcount: 7.3k
pairing: professor!tom riddle x f!you
warnings: 18+, age gap, professor x student, praise kink, loss of virginity, unprotected p in v, rough, choking, hair pulling, slight primal play, swearing, fingering.
Masterlist
Throughout all your years in Hogwarts you were told the Forbidden Forest was the place to be feared and respected. Countless stories of students lost and never found had been passed down through generations. The Herbology Professor mentioned that the flora was every bit as dangerous as the fauna, and the Astronomy Professor—oh, how you hated her!—reminded about the lunar cycles affecting most of the beasts lurking in the shadows. At that, the crescent moon smirked at you, pouring its silver liquid onto your slumped shoulders.
They taught you to fear eight-legged creatures, bared fangs, and eyes that glowed in the dark. But they never warned you of the monsters far more cruel and unforgiving than any Acromantula or Centaur—the kind that don’t hide but stand right in front of you.
The sullen, grim figure loomed like a sleepless guardian; soft breathing was tangled between dense spruces, and the hushed whispers of green leaves wrapped around you like a blanket. Though, it didn’t bring a sliver of comfort. It was cold, damp, and the air hung heavy with the cloying smell of sodden soil. The perfect setting for a Muggle mystery novel where the girl would be discovered at dawn, lifeless and forgotten.
A sense of unease settled in as the chilly drizzle began to tease the back of your neck. You shuddered; your hands tugged at the scarf in search of warmth.
“It’s not that cold,” a voice, silky and prickly as a burr, which littered the hem of your robes, came from behind.
Professor Riddle was dressed in all black, but his face, pale and unnervingly beautiful, glowed. The piercing eyes darted between you and the yawning maw of the Forest as if weighing your usefulness for today’s mission. You watched as the droplets traced the sharp lines of his features before turning into shimmering dust on his coat to form constellations against the fine wool. Looking for a sky that was covered by clouds, you were met with a daunting realisation that the stars left for you were the ones sinking into the darkness of his clothes.
“I’m not cold,” you hissed through chattering teeth, the words nearly lost in the mist of your own breath.
He didn’t press further; his mind already revolved around the artefact he believed was hidden somewhere deep in the Forest, in one of the ancient tombs. Of course, it was unwise to trust some shady bloke from the Hog’s Head Inn, especially one with a charming smile and polished boots. Tom Riddle knew this firsthand.
You called it intuition or even a sixth sense, quietly admiring your professor and his abilities. In reality, he was simply… hungry.
A hunger that can’t be satisfied with grandiose feasts, a hunger that borders on irritation. A hunger that makes him reckless. To wake you in the middle of the night—Tom was beholden to a restless desire to devour.
“Professor Riddle,” you called to him, “where are we going exactly?”
Somewhere in the distance, a crow snickered.
You could’ve refused him, you could’ve stayed under the protection of your bed, but as a devoted student you had no choice but to comply. In truth, all it would have taken was a single ‘no’... But there you were, shivering and loathing yourself for not having a spine.
“Follow my steps. No looking back, no talking. Wand always ready.”
“I know,” you quelled the need to roll your eyes.
“And leave the attitude, young Miss. The Forest has no mercy for the arrogant.” The Professor glanced at you over his shoulder.
You nodded and drew your wand, the coiling tension dissolving into anticipation of what was about to be uncovered. Your hunger was of a different kind—the sort that feeds on the attention of the only man to whom your entire world narrowed down.
The Professor Riddle’s coat disappeared into the night and took away the stars you had been so desperate to grasp. You followed. As always.
There were no lengths you wouldn’t go to for him, and maybe that was your grave mistake.
***
The scariest part of being in the dark is thinking you are not alone, hoping that those rasping sounds are no more than a trick of your active imagination. Every hesitant step, every occasional glance was filled with thoughts of why on earth did he drag me out of my bed. The Professor’s broad back held no answers to your questions; it seemed to raise even more of them, making your head buzz like a hive. Long and exhausting walks in the Forest usually meant crawling through bushes and gnarled roots, which were insistent on grabbing your robes with their twisted fingers. Add to that the feeling of being constantly watched, and you would have the most delightful way to spend the night!
You hurried to catch up as the Professor quickened his pace.
Tom felt the pull. He knew something was close not by instinct, but by the pure gravity of dark magic. It even had a taste—a coppery, suffocating taste of ash and burnt parchment, dancing hand in hand with static before a storm. Also… your perfume. Yeah, those haunting notes he had got used to savouring on the tip of his tongue after classes with your year.
A faint twitch of his shoulders caught your eye. Perhaps the chill had finally reached him, or he was just consumed be the very purpose of the journey. You had learnt not to question Professor Riddle in moments like these, yet your throat ached with the weight of a curiosity you could barely restrain.
“A few turns and we will be there,” Riddle spoke in a rough voice, popping the bubble of questions ready to burst from your lips. “Are you tired?”
Same as ever, it was not concern but a simple assessment of whether you still held any utility for his mission.
“No, you can count on my utmost vigilance, Professor,” you muttered and forced yourself to clamber over a fallen tree.
Where Tom Riddle moved with the effortless elegance of a predator to whom the Forbidden Forest was a mere playground, you stumbled blindly. Someone could have woven a new tapestry of you—an awkward sight, much like the dancing trolls on the seventh floor. Your heart leaped, robes swished, and the ground met you with tangled clumps of cobwebs and the remains of some unlucky creature.
Oh, but the savior was right here! A knight in shining armor…
The Professor caught you by your wrist at the last second, and you ended up in his embrace instead. Firm, strong arms closed around your waist, fingers digging into the soft curves.
“Can I?” Tom arched a black brow, lips curled into a smile that didn’t have a tiny bit of warmth—only a cold, bristling annoyance.
A hot flush crept up your neck, painting your cheeks in such a pretty shade of embarrassment. His gaze involuntarily drifted down your body, to where your chest was pressed against his through layers of warm clothes. There was that pull again, like someone had put a noose around his throat and tugged, though the hand holding the other end was nowhere to be seen.
You missed this. You missed his presence, his cologne—a perfect mix of spiciness and sweetness, his smoldering heat seeping into your skin and finding all the spots that craved him. Touching your professor without fear of being caught was one of those secret wishes. Too bad your sole source of intimacy was tramping through the dark woods. Very romantic, very Tom Riddle.
The Professor leaned in, hot breath ghosting over your parted lips.
“You can,” you retorted.
His lips grazed yours, a hair away from delivering the toxin your blood thrummed for. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your lungs drank in his scent like it was the only air required for your system to function properly.
The side of his mouth lifted in a mocking expression. Oh, poor, young soul, trapped in his cage with an open lock. Tom saw you. He truly did. Your burning desire to please and submit, your eagerness to be useful, regardless of your fear of rejection. Why be afraid when he had already made it quite clear—you were his in every aspect of your existence?
Tom Riddle sought power in trust. With you, he was unstoppable.
But he had to let go. For now. His hands lingered for a heartbeat as they slid down your hips, before he shoved them into his pockets and straightened his back, tall and imposing. Above, the canopy of trees knit together so tightly even the moonlight struggled to pierce through the branches. When a twig snapped nearby, you flinched as if someone had violently dragged you back from a trance. Magic pulsed at the tip of your wand.
A grey hare stared at the Professor with beady eyes. So small and fluffy, must’ve been lost in this big, unforgiving forest! Fate is cruel to the innocent. Maybe that’s why Riddle snapped the hare’s neck with a casual spell. The hunger grew still.
“For—for what?!” Your high-pitched squeak startled a flock of birds, and the shadows answered back in your own voice.
“It scared you,” he stated coolly; Tom’s attention fixed on something between the trees then. “We are almost there. Keep up.”
Lumos faltered in your trembling grip, the lifeless creature lay on a carpet of withered leaves.
“And you killed it simply because it scared me? A hare?! Professor…” You caught at his sleeve.
Tom glanced at you over his shoulder with a face of stone, as though taking a life was nothing more than a daily chore. Which, in truth, it was.
“Have you forgotten the rules? No talking.”
“But… It was pointless! You killed it for the sake of killing!” He gently uncurled your fingers from his sleeve and turned away to create distance.
The hare’s death was, indeed, pointless. One of the few. Just… Tom bit the inside of his cheek he wanted to kill. He needed to feel the thrill of the thread of life being cut off by his sheer will. No flashing curses, no sharp hexes, not even a wand had been drawn. This thing had dared to scare you, it had forced a reaction, a spasm in your body and ice in your veins. No, you shouldn’t be afraid of anything when Tom Riddle was close; he would always protect you, no matter what.
There were no lengths he wouldn’t go to for you, and maybe that was his grave mistake.
You followed him into the depths of the forest, waiting for an explanation. The Professor gave none.
***
Dust clung to every intake of air, and you felt like you might throw up. Robes were covered in dirt, hair stuck to your sweaty forehead, and your heart was hammering against your ribs ever since you two entered this godforsaken place. The old crypt, with no nameplates or tombstones, offered no hint as to whom this grave belonged to. You didn’t care, though. Especially when you were busy stepping over bones, gnawed by centuries of rot. They crumbled into ash under your feet and bled into the filth. A wave of nausea washed over you, and you swallowed a bitter lump in your throat.
The Professor’s steps were silent against the stones; he shed his coat and put its shrunken form into his bag. The black shirt hugged him tightly, veins prominent on his lean forearms where his grip on the wand intensified with every turn you two made through the winding corridors. He looked like he belonged there—the very air seemed to part for him, and, no surprise, you couldn’t stop staring. A simple act of watching a masterpiece in its natural element. Darkness, cold, and death.
“So, what are we searching for, Professor Riddle?” you asked when the silence became too awkward. Thanks to Merlin he couldn’t see your cheeks flushed.
“We are going to find out sooner or later. One thing I know is that this artefact must be truly dangerous.” His answer came quickly and sharply. “I suggest you do not touch anything if you wish for your limbs to stay attached to your body.”
Tom caught you when your fingertips were within inches of touching one of the runic stones on the wrecked pedestal. As if burnt, you hid your hand in your pocket. The stone emitted a final, pale flare before cracking right in the middle. You gasped and stepped back. Well, that was very telling.
“We’ve explored a lot of places in the Forbidden Forest, but I’ve never seen this exact crypt,” you mused and ducked under the Professor’s arm as he opened one of the doors.
A breeze of fresh air made you pull your robes tighter when the stomach-churning stench of burnt flesh and the sweetness of putrefaction touched your nostrils. Even more than the Astronomy Professor, you hated that smell—Merlin, it reminded you of the first trip to the poachers’ camp with him. What was meant to be a simple test of your skills had evolved into a literal hell. You used to be afraid of fire, but after that night, the fear of becoming Tom Riddle’s enemy had been etched into your bones instead.
You never knew you would be given a chance to see how human skin blistered and sloughed off a face in wet strips. Not quite a sight for an eighteen-year-old girl who was so happy to be around her favourite professor. Add to that a memory of how he appeared amidst the dancing flames of the dying night—like pleasure existed solely in the glass eyes of the victims, whose last dawn was painted not in the yellow of the rising sun, but in the roaring chaos of Fiendfyre.
“Neither have I,” Riddle agreed, his lips curled in repulsion. “Though, I must admit, it’s rather… stimulating to delve into new territories, don’t you think?”
It shouldn’t have sounded so hypnotizingly inviting. Stimulating? Oh, Merlin, as if hearing him speaking wasn’t enough stimulating.
“I think you, Professor, just like old, dirty things that reek off dark magic and…” you kicked a small green urn, which immediately toppled over to spill its insides across the ground, “…oops!”
Tom smirked; your heart did a little jump.
“It could have been someone’s grandfather, you know?” His amusement made you grin, and you came a little closer until you could see the flecks of gold in his irises. “And what about these ‘old, dirty things’ you mentioned? We both know I prefer quite the opposite.”
His playful taunt coursed through your body and settled deep in your lower stomach. In the murky light of the crypt, he saw your eyes shimmer—a playful glint within them forced the hunger inside him to bare its fangs. To him, you were a sin wrapped in an innocent smile and a gentle touch on his arm.
“Really, Professor?” Your hand skimmed over his forearm until your fingers closed around his. He didn’t return the gesture, but didn’t pull away either. “You seem to pay more attention to the dead rather than the living.”
“You have my undivided attention now, Miss,” Tom purred, the sound was low and laced with amusement—a bit out of place for the solemn atmosphere of the crypt. “What are you going to do with it?”
Oh, you wished to do a lot actually. Maybe start with proper kissing? Then you would finally get a glimpse of what was hidden beneath his fine shirts and that meticulously constructed exterior. What would it take to make his eyes roll in pleasure? You weren’t experienced, even your first kiss was stolen by the Professor himself, but you had what it took to be successful. Enthusiasm. Passion.
That man from the Hog’s Head Inn mentioned the artifact had the power to show one’s true desires and force them to satisfy them no matter what. An interesting addition to the collection of bizarre relics he had acquired.
Tom Riddle knew his desires and how to command them; so, when your lips brushed against his jaw, he let out a low hum and gently pushed you away. His ear caught a hushed thrum that could’ve been mistaken for the distant sounds of the forest.
“Professor…” you pouted, displeasure and confusion slowly turning into irritation. Was he doing it on purpose?! Or was he straight up torturing you?
“I think I heard something.” He broke the spell with the immediate switch in his behavior. A mischievous tang was gone. “Stay behind me, and if I tell you to run—you run. Do you understand?”
Your mouth opened, but you nodded in agreement.
“Tell me you understand.” Riddle pressed his thumb into the thin skin of your wrist where your pulse quickened; a jolt ran through your body at how cold his touch was.
“I understand, Professor.”
A rush of adrenaline made you tremble; your sweaty palm gripped the wand so tightly it might snap.
Into the next room you both crawled; the tiny stones bit into your knees, yet the pain dulled to a distant rumble as a coppery scent flooded your senses. Every hair stood on end, as if a storm were rapidly approaching. Dark magic had that unmistakable ability to attract, to cut open your very core and bend its deepest secrets to the will of a power that had neither beginning nor end.
This area was simply… bare: the carvings on the walls had been erased by time, piles of cobwebs were long abandoned by their makers, and the clean air fought its way back into your lungs that were filled with dust and decay.
In the center lay a pin. A simple silver pin. A thing so ordinary you thought it might be a cruel joke.
Tom couldn’t tear his eyes away. Deep within, he felt something in him stirring; the faint glint on its pointed tip beckoned his touch to test how sharp it truly was. For an amateur in the Dark Arts, it was a signal to be cautious, because where an artifact calls, no answers should be given. His steps were slow, measured, and now he could decipher that the hum was, in fact, a chorus of whispers. They were relentless to rip out a much-needed answer.
“What is this?” You looked at the pin with growing curiosity.
“Can you understand what’s it saying?” His hand hovered over it—Revelio uncovered nothing, like this thing was a pin indeed. No curses or hexes, not even ancient magic staining the surface.
Nothingness. The most insidious lie a dark artefact could tell.
You listened, but your ragged breathing and the thrum of blood in your ears might have drowned out every other sound. Or there were none of them at all.
“I don’t hear anything, sir.”
“Interesting…” Tom trailed off, and his focus narrowed to the pin before him.
Then the Professor heard it. A soft rustle of fabric, a low sigh, and the lingering taste of you filled his mouth. He blinked, as if it were his imagination, but when he felt the press of your body against his back, he finally realised what the whispers had been about. You.
How his title sounded almost provocative slipping past your lips in a room crowded with students; how your broken moans caressed his ears when his fingers were knuckles-deep inside you; how you will sound with his cock pounding into you from behind.
Salazar, why do you have to stand so close to him? For what fucking reason must you … exist? You make it impossible to balance between professionalism and amorality.
“Shit,” Professor Riddle hissed as he felt the pin bite into his fingertip. A small bead of blood bloomed on the skin, and his chest constricted.
Not in pain. No. In hunger. In a hunger so ravenous it instantly became impossible to resist. He knew a murder wouldn’t help—that wasn’t what he wanted.
Slowly, Professor Riddle turned to face you.
His muscles tensed; a hot rush of liquid fire replaced his blood, and every sense sharpened to hear, smell, and see.
To hear your little sighs spilling from those swollen lips; to catch the scent of your skin and the addictive notes of your perfume; to see your eyes searching for his, worried and hopelessly in love. Cute. He had to swallow you. All of you. Now. Or he might die. Or fuck you right here in this crypt with the dead watching. Salazar, so foul and utterly arousing.
Your head tilted in a silent question as a stray lock of hair fell onto your face. He brushed it away and leaned in to deliver a warning you never imagined you would hear from him.
What Tom truly desired was you.
“Run,” he murmured, the ghost of his touch sent hot shivers down your spine. You took a step back; fear seized you in a steel fist, and your knees almost gave out.
“What…?”
The darkness in his eyes shifted, warped into a void with a growing appetite to consume and claim.
You had promised to listen to him.
Every part of you protested.
“Run and don’t look back.”
But you weren’t stupid.
You ran.
Through countless corridors you fled: crawling where needed, leaping where you must, until the crisp night air embraced you. Your escape was made of centuries-old oaks and twisting paths, worn by hundreds of forest creatures. Centaurs, spiders, snakes, or trolls—who cared when the true threat was snapping at your heels?
In every corner, the red eyes were watching, far away, yet so devastatingly close, as if you stood still with your leg caught in a hunter’s snare.
Your lungs burned with such ferocity that every breath felt like a blade opening your chest. Tears and panic blurred your vision into a haze of colourful dots, and the last anchor in the dark was the dying hope that Professor Riddle was testing you again. So, you ran deeper into the heart of the woods—very much convinced he would find you. He would find you and bring you back, because… Fuck, because he always came for you!
With these thoughts, your legs finally gave out, and you were brought to your knees. Before you—a massive tree trunk, draped in cobwebs where dew shimmered on the delicate threads. Behind—the crickets sang, their song a mockery of your naive dreams of being his one and only. Perhaps, for a second, you could allow yourself the luxury of a glass castle floating on its cloud nine. All while your palms clutched at your chest to steady the crumbling dream.
First came the silence. He was there. Even the forest creatures recognised that a greater presence had arrived. Then came the voice— warm and golden, like the richest honey. You couldn’t hide a treacherous smile breaking through the grimace of pain and exhaustion.
“I told you to run,” it spoke.
“I did,” you returned, words weak.
“Still, we are here.”
You couldn’t see his face, yet to picture his nostrils flare, lips press into a thin line, and shards of ice sparkle in his irises took little effort for an observant eye like yours.
“Why would I run from you, Professor, if you were going to catch me anyway?” you responded.
He stood there, shrouded in night. Only the ghostly starlight illuminated the silhouette, woven from power and something soft, intangible, that made you reach for him every single time.
Misleading warmth had a tendency to burn far too deep, leaving scars in the form of deep cuts on a maiden’s heart—a heart that ached and craved to be noticed. Through blood and tears.
And Professor Riddle had noticed. Who knows if it was for the better?
“Stupid thing. You should’ve listened to me,” his velvety voice poured over your clouded mind like syrup.
All alone in the dark. You. And him. A doe and a wolf—a tale as old as time. You had long since outgrown those childhood stories for little girls.
Tom’s desire merged with a primal instinct, fueled by the appetite-whetted chase and heightened by his pent-up frustration. He should have made it right for you, to ease you into the thought of intimacy with him through proper dates or private time spent in his room. Gentle, thorough and very, very attentive. Riddle was a gentleman to his very marrow. He had learnt to bide his time and wait for the perfect opportunity to pounce and tear apart everything your world depended on.
Then he saw your glazed eyes, reddened cheeks, and parted lips.
Fuck it.
The feast begins now.
In two strides, he caught your elbow and forced you upright; Tom pushed you against the tree. Your gasp was silenced by his grip on your hair. Wild strands, ruffled by the wind, were pulled painfully tight in his fist. Hard, hot body was a shield, cutting off any path of retreat.
His weight, heavy gasps against your ear, and the insistent hand already snaking its way under your shirt turned off every coherent thought. Now, there was fear, arousal, and the heady taste of the forbidden.
“Professor!” you yelped, nails digging into the tree. “What are you doing…”
A slight arch of your back urged him to pull you closer, to let him know you wanted it as much as he did. His growing need strained against his trousers, twitching and leaking pre-cum. The gentleman was forgotten the moment you first opened your legs for him during the kiss. The gentleman was forgotten when your cunt swallowed his fingers.
The gentleman would be forgotten when his cock split you open.
“Shh, quiet,” he cooed, big palm cupping your jaw to angle your face so he could peer into your eyes. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”
A lie. He was a liar.
Your head was spinning with countless possibilities of what he might do to you. Surely, there were to be no lessons on curses or lectures about dark artefacts tonight.
One nerve after another began to quiver under the Professor’s scrutiny. Tantalizingly slow, deliberate where he should’ve rushed, he was memorizing every part of you—from your stomach to your ribs. His fingers found your hardened nipple behind the safety of your simple bra. Was it the cold or the aching hollow low in your belly that made you arch your back and your pulse flutter? Your underwear was soaking through, even shame began to creep in—so terribly tainted, so obviously aroused from the running.
“Scared?” he wondered when the occasional shiver of your body became too noticeable.
He knew it wasn’t fear, oh no. His nails dug into your flushed face, the tip of his nose drawing small circles over your temple. A carnal smirk twisted his mouth—the predator’s triumph, and the prey’s surrender.
“I have nothing to fear when I’m with you, Professor.”
How adorable was your trust in him; so much even his chest tightened for a moment from a long-forgotten feeling. It could have made one’s soul ring with delight, had it not been splintered and drowned in a viscous murk. Hunger remained—a feverish need to claim what belonged to him wholly. To have you, and have you again, until his name was carved not just into your heart, but echoed in every sound that left your throat.
“That is your mistake, darling,” he scoffed, the obsidian of his gaze melted into liquid glass.
You looked at lips you couldn’t stop thinking of. Whatever dark curses stained them, whatever malice they spoke, your desire never wavered. The ‘right’ to kiss him—how you called it—trapped you in the delusion of having power over him.
As if.
The Professor shoved your head aside; your cheek met the wood. A startled, strangled whimper broke from you at the rough scrape against your skin.
“No.”
Equally lethal—an order and a hex.
The burning path under your shirt led to the waistband of your trousers. Buttons flew open; cold air, full of the scent of earth and electricity, licked at your bare stomach. Riddle’s hips were pressed into yours from behind, and the certainty of his desire was prominent against your arse. Bursts of fireworks surged through your blood, searing in every single cell like embers.
Mind corrupted where the body remained pure.
Filthy, lewd dreams of your Professor had settled into their rightful place at the edge of your mind; he would take you whenever he pleased: sprawled across his desk, in an abandoned classroom, a grimy lavatory, or the steamy depths of the Prefects’ bathroom. Maybe even slipping into your dormitory under the stars...
But… the Forbidden Forest? This was beyond the reach of your darkest fantasies.
“So wet for me,” he murmured, his hand ghosting beneath your trousers, fingertips finding the slick heat.
Teeth chattering, every sound was swallowed. Your knees folded, kept upright by his thigh wedged between your legs. Forced into such a weak position, your eyes screwed shut in shame.
“Did that chase through the forest turn you on so much? Or is it simply me?”
The confidence in his voice bordered on a cruel mockery—a taunt at the way your body betrayed you.
“Is this whole ‘role model’ act just a show? While inside, you’re nothing but a depraved little slut?” He yanked your hair back, the sharp sting of pain forced tears to blur your vision.
“Come on, tell me, Miss.” The solid weight of his thigh grinding against your center. You squirmed, torn between the urge to escape and starving for the friction. “Has anyone else touched you?”
The humiliation was nearly unbearable. So evil, wicked, and yet, the thrill of the prohibited and unattainable ignited a fresh surge of fervour.
Professor Riddle chuckled; his knuckles dipped in between your folds and brushed against your clit. Again. And again.
“I asked you a question, Miss.” His tongue caught a stray tear on your cheek; the salty taste of your despair made him purr. “Has anyone laid their hands on you?”
He knew all the answers he needed. He knew you never had (and never would) anyone but him. For it was Tom who buried you under piles of extra assignments to ensure you had no life beyond his classroom. The lingering looks of other boys on you were noted. And a quiet rage boiled inside—mostly at himself.
To mark you as his own was strictly unallowed. For now.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. Your professor, the Head of Slytherin House, and the very future of the wizarding world. You? A girl in her final year at Hogwarts. Two separate worlds, two different paths.
But Tom cut his own way, defiant of any beaten tracks.
“No one, sir,” you exhaled reluctantly, a frown twisting your face.
Moisture had gathered above his lip, and he slowly licked away the beads of sweat. Pinned between him and the tree, with the night as the only witness to such wickedness; Riddle felt that heavy, sharp ache—his mind drowning in the sensation of your arousal coating his fingers.
If the world held any injustice, it lay in the raw need to feel the Professor inside you, while he took his time in putting off the inevitable. His fingers, cock, tongue—anything to silence the emptiness. You would be happy to have anything he had to offer.
Your chest heaved, the night chill scraped at your cheeks and bare legs. You had regretted the stockings you had forgotten in the rush. The Professor’s thigh ground between your legs in an agonizing rhythm.
Back and forth. You let out a string of curses.
“Language,” Tom warned slyly.
He pushed you off, and you clawed at the wood, barely catching yourself as your support vanished.
Riddle’s hand, still glistening from your wetness, unfastened his trousers and let them slide down until they pooled at his ankles in a heap of fabric; the ice-cold of his belt buckle kissed your flesh. His cock, thick and rock-hard, rested against your backside.
The blood drained from your face. Professor Riddle sure was big, no need to see it with your own eyes to accept the fact.
You’d listened to your friends’ gossip about their lovers, fully aware that the first time would be painful. But if your partner was… uhm… ‘well-equipped’, it would be twice the torture.
Pain never scared you. To be weak what terrified you, greatly. Disappoint him as a woman. And then that bitch of the Astronomy Professor would have her hands on him, Merlin damn her!
A newfound confidence rose within, and you arched your back in a silent invitation.
Tom tilted his head to the side, a sharp tug on your hair forced you to meet him with wide eyes full of determination.
“Will it hurt, Professor?” you asked, as though discussing academical matters.
He felt the need to comfort but refused to soften the truth.
“It will, but you’ll manage.” His hand wandered beneath your underwear; fingertips slid between your folds and nudged your entrance. “I’m going to prepare you for me, okay? Stay still.”
You nodded and gripped his wrist with an unsteady hand, searching for the control that had been lost a long time ago.
At first, one finger pushed in with ease; your walls greedily took him to the last knuckle. A gasp was torn out of your mouth.
“You’re such a good girl, darling, such a good girl…” he hummed, a teacher’s pride bleeding into the rasp of his voice.
The raindrops drummed against the leaves only to die mid-air, never reaching the ground.
His second finger met a slight resistance, but Tom shoved it inside with a little bit of force. A small cry echoed in the dark.
“Just like that, darling.” Two of his fingers moved, deep and steady, enough to soothe your nerves. Your back arched, mouth fell open in a failed attempt to fill your lungs. “So tight and wet… You are going to take me so well, right? I know you are.”
A single image of his cock buried to the hilt inside you, how your pussy was going to squeeze him so deliciously, made him throb painfully. Sticky, white drops stained your hiked up robes. His fist tangled in your locks, pinning your head to the tree with a crushing grip.
Riddle pulled your strings like a master puppeteer. He had mastered the art of playing with his prey. To force them to their knees, make them beg and grovel beneath his feet. Tom had to wonder—how long it will take before he breaks you, too?
“Sir…” you mumbled; your hand clutched at the tree, seconds from snapping your nails.
Filthy noises of your sopping cunt around his fingers carried deep into the forest.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Tom’s thumb circled your clit, and your fidgeted.
Torture it was, indeed, standing on the precipice of the orgasm only to be forcefully pushed back.
“Please, I want you. I want to come,” you whimpered, unaware of the effect your words had. “I’m ready.”
Oh, darling. You weren’t ready at all.
Professor gently stroked your clit a couple more times with a feather-light touch before he withdrew. Ropey strings of your arousal clang to his palm.
Tom Riddle was a man of patience. But the primal desire, sharpened by the strange artefact he had left in the crypt, urged him to fill you to the brim. Virgin or not, Tom didn’t care.
He smeared your moisture along his shaft.
“I won’t be gentle with you,” Riddle groaned, his hand moved to grab your waist, guiding his cock in between your folds.
You shook. Having your head freed, you could look at the Professor, only to see his half-lidded eyes clouded with fog; the crimson bloom on his high cheekbones warmed something inside.
A small, subtle roll of your hips, and the tip of his cock grazed your clit. You both exhaled; the temperature reaching a fever pitch.
“Please, Professor. I want it,” you uttered the words your heroine had repeated in a thousand imaginary scenarios—the ones where an older version of yourself and Professor Riddle met every night within the haven of your mind.
Tom drew in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. With a visible tension, he entered.
Your walls reluctantly stretched, stinging and aching for him to stop and to never stop. A coppery taste of blood flooded your mouth as your teeth broke the raw skin. You recoiled to escape, to ease the pain that was flooding your senses, but the Professor dragged you back with a harsh clamp.
“Where do you think you are going?” The growl sent your pulse skyrocketing.
Across your vision, bursts of colour swirled in a kaleidoscope.
Riddle pushed his cock deeper into you, but the tightness of your cunt made him feel uncomfortable.
“My beautiful girl, come on. Take me. I know you can.” In your chest, the heart cried. “You were made for me, darling. Just a little more. For your professor. Take. Me,” he nearly hissed, the edges of his words dissolving into the velvet grace of Parseltongue.
A rough slam, and half of him was buried inside. Your pussy spasming around his thick length; scream scratching at your throat. Every thought was consumed by the weight of his cock. It was a hideous violation of every rule, yet a destruction in the most beautiful form.
Everything was aflame—the tongues of fire licked at your arms, legs, neck, and chest. They coiled in your belly as the reminder that hell was more enticing than heaven could ever be.
Thrust after thrust, his cock filling you with every agonizing inch. This madness was exhausting in every part of its existence. Pleasure surged through your veins like flashes of lighting.
Never in your life had you been told about this overwhelming fullness. How, in truth, the intensity of it drowned out everything else entirely. Not one of your bloody friends had ever told you what it was like to fuck your professor. Tell anyone, and they’d never believe. You and the Professor Riddle? No way.
“Sir,” you mewled. Your palms were stinging grom the splinters driven deep into your skin. “Sir, please. I can’t… Please.”
“You can, my sweet girl. You are doing such a good job, taking me so well,” he hummed into your ear.
Riddle’s large hand locking around you, one pressing firmly into your lower belly. He drove himself inside, forcing you to arch your spine until his cock was swallowed completely by your needy cunt. The insufferable desire to pound into you sparkled behind his closed eyelids—just for you to remember every vein, every ridge. He would rewrite you to his own image, so pliant and delicate, unraveling in a blur of languor and anguish beneath his touch.
Perfect.
“Fuck, like that, sweetheart. So good… You are making me feel so good.” He pressed into the small bulge formed low in your belly.
The Professor took everything you possessed. Nothing of what had remained he didn’t already own. And what was left for you?
His hand closing around your throat to suppress the air? Or the fierce slam of his hips against yours that made his tip nudge your cervix?
Tom pulled away almost fully, the obscene, squelching sounds were muffled by your shared moan. In one violent plunge his balls slapped against you, and he stilled. His vision darkened at the feeling of your pussy throbbing around him, so small and dripping. That was entirely different from what he had with that stupid Astronomy Professor.
The feeling was akin to murder: copper in his mouth, warm blood on his hands, and the thrum of magic under his skin after another ritual.
He would break you. And put the broken parts together. All for himself. A perfect student for her favourite professor. Vile enough to spark a crooked smile, crude as the rhythm of his hips, and staggering to the point of feeling your pulse trapped beneath his fingertips.
Thrust. His cock filling you. Thrust. Your insides flutter. Thrust. He bites at your ear. Thrust. A drop of blood from your lower lip falls onto the leaves.
“Not so hard, hm?” His hot tongue stopped the crimson path. “I want to hear my name, darling. Do it. As you’d done it with your fingers beneath the desk during my lectures.”
Of course he had noticed, you never thought he wouldn’t. But the way he taunted you, a sardonic comment about your secret left you reeling. The name, Tom, lost in the humid haze of the Prefects’ bathroom. The name, Tom, had been gasped against your pillow, while your slick-stained sheets were wrapped around your legs.
Tom. Tom. Tom.
“Tom…” it slipped out on its own, rehearsed and practiced to perfection.
Quietly, uncertain, as if the forest might scold you for the audacity.
“Louder.” His voice became as hard as his thrusts.
So deep, raw, and it was impossible not to turn into a sobbing wreck.
“Tom.” He eased the grip on your throat.
When you thought you had finally adjusted to him, he’d always find a new angle that made you scream and cry from the stretch.
“More.” The Professor’s hand found your clit and stroked it with efficient movements, pushing you to collect the shards of your consciousness.
In this torturous rhythm he held you like a captive, a pretty little hostage for his satisfaction.
“Tom!” The name was ripped from your bruised throat; a shattered moan hung in the air.
“My good girl. Breaking so well for me… Poor thing.”
Professor used you as he pleased, hand seizing your throat with force enough to crush your windpipe. The bursts of white-hot light blinded you, as though molten metal were being poured down onto your skull.
Everything below hurt, resisted the feast Professor Riddle had made of your body. His hunger was alive, gloating and devouring every single piece of you.
An affair that wasn’t supposed to exist at all. A seventh year. A young, handsome professor. The first extra lecture on the Shield Charm for you. The latest extra lecture with his tongue in your mouth and his fingers fucking you.
You were close, he could tell by the way your pussy fluttered, and how your hands were hopelessly trying to hold onto him—his forearms, hips, shoulders. You were clawing for anything solid, only to find that the very ground had been brutally stolen from beneath you.
“Yes, come for me, darling. Let go.”
You cried; the tidal wave of orgasm hit you with such ferocity that for a split second you went deaf, blind, and numb. He pressed onto your throat, sharpening your ecstasy to the point where it became excruciatingly dizzying. Goosebumps skittered across your skin, they were searching for an escape from the ruin of your self—a shrine that was crumbling, brick by brick, to its foundation.
“You were so amazing, so perfect for me… I’m so proud of you,” he groaned; his own release painted your clenching walls in white.
The world rushed back in, an unwelcome flood of noise and scent. You slumped against the Professor, head lolling back to rest on his shoulder.
For Tom, the return from heaven felt endless, marked by the salt of your tears, sweat, and blood.
“Sir...” you sighed breathlessly when his lips had found yours.
He kissed you with laziness. Sweet, tender. Like any good teacher, he sometimes used the method of the carrot and stick. Every good girl deserved a treat. And you were the best.
“You will have your highest mark in my class,” he smiled after breaking the kiss.
“Tom, I—”
He interrupted you with a weak roll of his hips, cum trickled down the inside of your thigh.
“It’s Professor Riddle, Miss.” His fingers found the sticky mess between your legs, and he groaned. “Don’t forget your place.”
It was a chaotic waltz for three, heady and tainted by the right wrongness of a dance that had no end.
Part 1 | Part 2
wordcount: 7k
pairing: tom riddle x f!you x mattheo riddle
warnings: 18+, filthy, threesome, fingering, slight voyeurism, unprotected p in v, riding, swearing, two bitches using reader... again, kinda OOC.
author's note: uhm, why did i write 20 pages of smut??? feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes! thanks for reading xo
Masterlist
The dress was too tight, the heels were too pinching, and the necklace was too prickly against your heated skin. Having no urge to participate in this ‘event’, you had found yourself standing in the far corner where the lights were not blinding and the view was truly engrossing.
Parties weren’t exactly your thing, especially when the company was lacking. Haughty snobs with their stuck-up behavior nearly made your eyes stay glued to the back of your head. Yes, Slughorn’s gatherings were beneficial for someone who finds pleasure in basking in their own vanity. Wherever you turn, you stumble upon some self-important prick, or a person whose jewelry could be as old as Merlin’s knickers.
And there, amidst this sea of gold and viscid arrogance, stood the embodiment of those things. Tom Riddle. Oh, not solely Tom, but your boyfriend as well. Wrapped in black, the two stars could outshine even the sun itself.
Where Tom was a charm, Mattheo was… well. Present. By the look on his face, you could tell he was planning to abandon the party and spend the night between your thighs. It was Valentine’s Day after all, and he hadn’t laid a single finger (or two) on you the whole day! But being a good brother sometimes meant he was ought to show his support and encourage that master plan of Tom’s to reach the highest point of the mountain he called ‘Ambition’.
They almost looked alike. Almost! If it weren’t for the glances they both kept stealing every spare moment. Tom Riddle was more concerned with ensuring you didn’t cause another disgrace to their names, like the last time when you were so inebriated you confessed your feelings to Headmaster Dippet. Yet, you could notice something flickering in the depths of the darkness—it was neither cold nor hot. Since the day he took a taste of what was his brother’s, this thing began to… exist. You couldn’t stop questioning if ‘something’ had the same ground yours was standing on. Either way, he wasn’t watching. Observing.
On the other hand, Mattheo Riddle had a simple look of “i-want-to-fuck-you-right-now”. That was one of the names, the most clear and straightforward. If you try to peal off the layers of the insatiable boy he became with you, the glimpses of deeper feelings could be spotted under the sweet chocolate of his eyes: devotion, adoration, and your favourite—love.
You smiled over the rim of your glass, and Mattheo took it as a bait. Like a predator, he appeared instantly as if smelling his future dinner, all teeth and danger. You never had to open your mouth to let him know what you wanted—he already knew everything by the unmistakable tilt of your head.
“Is my lady bored?” he whispered, placing a small, lingering kiss to your temple.
A quiet purr of satisfaction rumbled in your chest.
“Actually, I was wondering when my boyfriend would finally notice his poor, lonely girlfriend suffering all by herself.”
Mattheo chuckled; his hand came to rest on the small of your back, fingers playing with the cool atlas of the dress. If not for the people around, he’d be biting and sucking on your neck like a man starved for a piece of a delicious meal—you.
“Ready to leave?”
You turned to face him, noticing how his pupils instantly consumed the brown irises.
“Since the moment we came.” Your lips brushed his cheek, and Mattheo’s eyes closed, dark lashes fluttered.
You were that close to doing the things his brother would not approve of. Pause filled with simmering intensity stretched itself far too long. Noises reduced to a faint, background hum, flickering lights paled, even the air became too thick it coated your tongue in spice and tobacco, Mattheo’s signature scent.
“I know, my love, I know. But we should be here for Tom, okay?” The spell broke with a sharp cut of the name you’d rather not hear at all.
It all hit you at once: the beat of the music, meaningless chatter, and the stinging in your bones that felt like shards of ice being driven deep inside by a blunt, rusted hammer. You jerked your shoulders, desperate to shed the weight of the heavy veil.
“He’s your brother, Mattheo. Don’t bring me into this.” His hold onto your dress tightened, the warmth was spreading through your system faster than the alcohol you had minutes ago. Double intoxicating, triple distracting.
“And you want to spare yourself the sight of Tom being awkward and miserable with a woman?” he murmured, pulling you closer to his side.
The devious charm definitely ran in their blood.
You both looked at the center of Slughorn’s office where the dancing began. A sea of shimmering silks surged; the waves swirled and parted like a retreating tide to reveal two figures: Tom Riddle and Lestrange’s younger sister. Luna? Laura? Lina? A beautiful girl with the grace of a swan and a radiant smile that sure had been stolen from the choir of angels to bestow the mortals below. Pure soul got trapped in a web of Riddle’s allure. Sounds familiar.
“She looks like she enjoys it too much,” you commented in a rather unpleasant tone; Mattheo’s attention returned to you. “I mean, she is ready to offer him her hand and the whole heritage. Too clingy, to my mind.”
“Are you scared to lose the source of your passable grades in Transfiguration?” He smirked, his lips left a kiss on your cheek, then moved to your ear, though the next phrase landed like a slap. “Or are you simply jealous?”
The uneasiness in your gut stirred with renewed force, it swept across your ribcage and seized your throat. What rubbish! You were jealous of how easy it was for this girl to blend into the elite, while your place in this circus was granted to you by way of a ‘plus-one’ privilege! You had too much alcohol to think straight—that’s the reason of this sick dreadfulness in your stomach.
“You are talking shit, Riddle.”
The attempt to flee was met with Mattheo’s hard but careful hand around your elbow. His rough fingers dug into your skin.
“Let me—”
“Shh, my love. I won’t judge you.”
You weren’t scared of his judging, but you were terrified of the bitter truth his words carried. Oh, the green-eyed monster, what have you done? Why did they look like a perfect couple destined to rule the world? It was wrong in every hideous way to imagine yourself in her place.
Music shifted, took that fluid, water-smooth turn, bringing every couple closer with its gentle notes. Your knuckles turned white where you gripped Mattheo’s shoulders, drawing out a huff of laughter from him.
Tom spun his companion and his gaze involuntarily found you; it traced very intently the arched line of your body that was pressed against his brother’s. You two were occupied with each other, even Tom could feel the sparks blowing around him. Or was it in his chest? He couldn’t tell exactly and the ambiguity of these fireworks remained hidden under the playful touches of his partner—Leona Lestrange. She could become a great asset being the part of the most ancient wizarding family; her silly infatuation with him could be used as a not-so-bad social ladder.
He should be listening to what this girl had been rambling about. He really should. Was it about her father’s latest achievement in the Ministry? Oh, or the newest French fashion? No, it was about the way you glanced at him with your tongue down in his brother’s throat. Like you held a secret he had yet to uncover. And Tom Riddle was skilled at unraveling them. However, what truly irritated him wasn’t your recklessness—it was the flush of your face, born from Mattheo’s teeth on your neck. Not Tom’s.
“What are you doing? We are in public!” you yelped, the path to your shoulder was burning, and the chilly air ghosted over the wet trail. “Matt—!”
Your voice lost its annoyed note the moment his whispered ‘look at him’ tickled the sensitive spot under your ear.
And there was certainly something to look at. Tom was still a little hesitant about where to place his hands, but he could never back down from a challenge flung in his face.
This girl was nothing like you. Her lips were not yours.
Tom Riddle wanted you. Even if you belonged to his brother.
Mattheo kissed your jaw—the tartness of coffee tainted the sugar, a flavour etched into you since that time (you switched your morning drinks right after). His lips curved into a sneer, half-lidded eyes cataloging every small frown, every curse silently crashing against his Occlumency walls.
They were complete opposites, two sides of the same coin, and you found yourself craving the sight of that razor-sharp edge flashing under the light of a thousand candles.
One could accuse you of being greedy, foolish, or even delusional, but they could never call you selfish. To Mattheo, your hand was the tenderest ever extended to him. Being the protective older brother—delivered a mere ten minutes before Tom—he had to ensure you offered him your other hand. Why? Because Mattheo Riddle was selfish. Still, he wouldn’t mind sharing with his dear brother.
“Is he doing alright, my love?” Mattheo’s rough whisper pulled you out of your thoughts. The twists and turns in your stomach became too unrelenting to ignore.
“How would I know? You interrupted my reviewing process.” Even if the smile you gave was sincere, there was no bit of honesty in the slight furrow of your brow.
He shook his head as if seeing right through your lie. Perceptive if he chooses to be, and assertive even if you’d rather he wasn’t.
“You were staring the whole time, of course you would.”
“I didn’t.”
A picture of the girl’s glassy eyes and swollen lips was painted red behind your eyelids. He used too much teeth—something you’d scolded him for last time. Mattheo made a joke about it being the Riddle trait: biting off more than you could swallow. A remnant of their childhood starvation, or simply that famous arrogance?
“You did.”
“No, I did not.”
He tilted his head to peer at you with a mocking grin, and his curls fell onto his forehead to hide the devilish twinkle.
“Yes, you did, my love.” Riddle gently pushed you out of your spot. “No need to play coy; we both know you were thinking about Tom kissing you again.”
Blush on your cheeks and neck deepened in embarrassment.
“Oh, fuck off.” You rolled your eyes but let him guide you to the door with his hand on your back. “You are an awful boyfriend. And I hate you.”
“Sure thing. We better find you a second one then.”
“I will kill you in your sleep,” you bit back.
Honestly, Azkaban wasn’t such a bad place to spend the rest of your life in, away from the insufferable boy who thrived on teasing the living shit out of you.
Passing Tom and Leona, the brothers nodded to one another in what seemed like a silent agreement. An agreement to make your life a misery? They, indeed, had succeeded.
***
With a loud thud the door to their dorm cut off the night’s stifling heat, plunging you into a familiar solitude where your every sigh tangled with Mattheo’s ragged grunts. The moment the lights were shut, he was all over you: fingers tugging at your dress, lips leaving a scorching way down the column of your throat. Bodies were pressing so close even your hearts began to pound in a synchronized rhythm.
“Where is my present, Riddle?” you managed to mutter while your hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s better be good, otherwise I’ll consider getting a second boyfriend.”
Your dress straps were pushed, the cool satin slithered over your skin like a snake, coiling at your feet in a mess of fabric. It wasn’t Mattheo’s bed—you realised it when your bare back met the thin blanket. His always had that warm, fluffy duvet, because Mattheo was cold all the time.
“You’ll get your present, love. Patience.”
The lake’s greenish light delicately outlined the sharpness of his cheekbones, the scar cutting across his eye, and the fullness of his lips, open in a tempting invitation. The black pools of his eyes were exuded magnetic force—you would forgive him for everything he had done or was about to do. There were no stars; the sheer darkness with its hungry maw captured you entirely. You even missed the creak of the door that let in another orbit.
“We are not fucking on your brother’s bed.” The way you said it against his lips made it sound like you wanted nothing more but to do the very act exactly.
Fuck me on his bed. Let him smell me every time he goes to sleep, fucking bastard.
“Why not?” Mattheo shrugged off his shirt and threw it over his shoulder.
You laughed; your skin was bathed in the shy patches of murky glow filtering from the high windows. Tom’s breath hitched, his palm tightened on the doorknob, but he remained a stilled shadow a few feet away. Mattheo glanced at him for a fleeting second before focusing back on what was important.
“We really shouldn’t stain our precious virgin’s honour.” You pulled him down to pepper his nose with butterfly kisses.
The hardness in his trousers twitched at the feeling of your hips rolling to release the tension that had been pulsing inside you the whole evening. His teeth grazed your nipple and gave it a hard tug; you cried out, fingers tangling in his wild curls.
Tom bit the inside of his cheek at those cute sounds. His restraint was wearing thin.
“I won’t come on his sheets, I promise.” Mattheo caressed your breast, his calloused palm cupping the pliant flesh, so perfect like it was made for his touch alone. Everything about you was made for him—even the small curse that carelessly slipped at the sting of his zipper against your clothed heat.
“I can’t promise that.” You smiled playfully.
“I know, Tergeo didn’t help us much back then.” Riddle easily turned you around, his hand pushed your head deeper into the blanket.
A rush of warmth coursed through you, so hot even your skin began to itch. Mattheo locked eyes with his brother and gave your arse a hard slap. The crack of skin-on-skin contact echoed in the room; it vibrated through Tom, sending blood down to his already rock-hard cock.
He knew he couldn’t stay away much longer. Not with the image of you sprawled on his bed, all needy and moaning, arching your back like you physically craved something only Mattheo could provide. No, he could help you too, he could make you feel good despite his inexperience.
Tom was gifted in every field: whether it was the Dark arts, Potions, or pleasuring girls like you.
Slick sounds of Mattheo’s fingers stretching your aching hole was the last straw Tom’s sanity was hanging by.
His steps, measured and calculated, brought him closer to the bed. He could see the beads of sweat running down your spine, beckoning him to catch them with his tongue. Small, pathetic noises were escaping your mouth, hands gripping the sheets as you rode his brother’s fingers.
Mattheo didn’t look at you, he was too focused on every reaction on that perfect face, so like his own. Knitted brows, reddened cheeks, lips swollen from constant biting, and the most prominent detail—the outline of Tom’s cock visible through the fine wool of the trousers.
Mattheo smiled. Tom stared at how your pussy was gripping Mattheo’s fingers, sucking them in to the last knuckles.
“And there I thought Mattheo spilled something on my blanket again.” Low rumble landed on your from behind, and your whole existence froze, shrank to the sound of another velvety voice. “Turned out it was you, huh?”
With wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights of the Hogwarts Express, you turned your head to find another figure standing beside your boyfriend. Two shadows, tall and uncanny, loomed over you—the muted gloom of the Lake casting a halo around their heads. Two fallen angels, the rightful guardians, and their… sin. All flushed, sweaty, and startled to find herself the center of their observation.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Your voice broke, hands flew to cover your breasts. “Riddle! I— You—!”
“It’s my room,” he said in a low, even voice, but a faint smugness flickered between the words like a glint off a blade’s edge. “And my bed.”
Mattheo’s eyes burned with strange, almost mad fire; the whole situation was a grand plan to gather you in one small space to see who would fall first. Obviously, it would be you.
Your first reaction was to bolt, then hurl them both off the Astronomy Tower, and stitch the broken parts together and drown them in their own blood after. How creative.
Tom’s gaze shamelessly traveled down your body, spotting the darkened patch on your underwear. His cock throbbed painfully, the lustrous images of what could be hidden under the thin layer of fabric flooded his mind.
“I don’t care whose room this is! Get the fuck out of here!” You threw a pillow at him, which he caught gracefully. Mattheo snickered, clapped his brother on the shoulder, and gave you a slow wink that irritated you even more. “This is not funny anymore.”
“Who’s laughing, my love?” A seriousness laced his raspy voice. “You wanted your present, here it is. And I’ve just killed two birds with one stone—Tom and Leona would eventually come across this part of the relationship. We can start our lessons sooner.”
He was lying to your face, all pleading eyes and charming smiles. If you thought the Imperius Curse was the most dangerous one, try talking to Mattheo Riddle for a minute and you’ll find yourself doing everything he wants, because he looks pretty manipulating you.
“Merlin, do you really think I am naive enough to believe this shit?” A bitter, humourless laugh escaped your lips, your nails biting into the swell of your palms as you stared into the void of Tom’s eyes, unable to turn away.
Tom took a step forward, you scrambled back onto the bed, clutching the blanket to your chest.
“No, I think you deny what you truly desire,” Mattheo said, the greatest mind-reader of all time!
“Doesn’t matter what I desire. What matters is that your brother is here! Get him out of here, or I’ll leave!” You almost growled like a caged animal caught between two predators. Hugging your knees was a fragile line of defense.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs—a violent, rapid rhythm those two could easily hear. Honesty was one of your virtues, and it didn’t help to ignore the dragon in the china shop of your anticipation and excitement. Thoughts of the two brothers touching you were no strangers. What would Tom be like in bed? Would he be rough and demanding, or would he prove to be far gentler, despite that icy aloofness—a detachment so absolute it felt clinical, shadowed with something manic.
However, ordinary boys were never your cup of tea. Now, you had no cups but two whole pots of childhood trauma and wrecked minds. And there you were, the almighty savior, ready to mend all the broken parts shattered by years of survival.
No! It was wrong. Mattheo Riddle is your boyfriend, so thinking about his brother in this… light was a betrayal of everything you had been raised to be. Indecent. Impure. Modesty had surely been thrown out the window.
Curiosity killed the Kneazle, they say. Though it was hard to refuse forbidden knowledge when it hungered for you itself.
Involuntarily, your eyes drifted to Tom’s trousers where the wool did nothing to conceal his desire. Slowly processing every reason why this was so disastrous, you lifted your gaze to his face, and then turned to Mattheo’s.
There was nothing to hold onto, no hint of sober mind in either of them. Only a ravenous craving to consume you, to get a small taste. To bite off a giant chunk. With Mattheo Riddle, it was obvious. With Tom? Perhaps he was driven by simple scientific interest. And you, a bit of a researcher yourself, could certainly find a way to collaborate. Well, literally.
Not a single conviction had yet taken root within you, still, you pulled down the blanket. It fell from your shoulders, exposing every inch of your skin to their scrutiny. Two pairs of eyes mapped out tiny moles, slight imperfections you were ashamed of—the very things your boyfriend held as evidence of your divine nature. To Tom, you were mere confirmation of the weakness of the flesh. A cruel, devastatingly beautiful proof of his own humanity.
“My girl,” Mattheo murmured with a satisfied purr. “See, Tommy? And you said I lacked your knack for persuasion.”
Tom watched how your chest heaved and licked his lips.
“It proves the two of you are completely out of your minds,” he muttered, taking off his jacket and draping it carefully over the edge of the bed. He sought a remedy in the mundane gesture but found a calamity in the crushing need to put his hands on you—to confirm all these carnal temptations were a diversion. Nothing more.
Mattheo shrugged, all nonchalance and calm confidence.
The awkwardness of the moment dissolved into raw, heavy lust. You could almost distinguish the bitterness of coffee and the fresh sting of mint on your tongue. Viscous, aching languor rippled deep in your stomach; thighs clenched.
“I guess, that is why we all gathered here for, isn’t it? A little madness,” said Mattheo like it was a simple tea-party.
“Yeah, and he is the most fucked up of the three of us.” Your eyes narrowed as you watched Tom. He began to unbutton his shirt with agonizing precision; his defined collarbones piqued your interest.
Never in your life had you wondered what was hidden beneath those crisp, ironed layers. Snake scales? A constellation of ugly pimples? Or was there simply… nothing? As if the existence of a man this ‘perfect’ was a lie you were all being forced to believe.
But to your utter displeasure—of fucking course!—he was handsome. Pale skin that seemed to glow in the greenish light of the Lake, a few old scars scattered across his ribs, and a trail of dark hair teasingly leading you down to the leather belt.
If Mattheo was brute force that commanded you through sheer will, Tom radiated a quiet, creeping danger, luring you into a dead-end trap.
“And you,” he rolled his eyes with that infuriating smile, “ever the portrait of politeness and obedience, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you, Riddle,” you hissed, raising your chin in what was supposed to be a pride.
“Never doubted.”
Mattheo shook his head, a grin playing on his lips. “I suppose you’re not lacking in the art of foreplay either, dear brother.”
You hunched your shoulders, knowing exactly what he was implying—your trembling fingers gripping the sheets, a wild sparkle in your dilated pupils, your shallow breathing, and the not-so-subtle press of your legs together.
A silent dialogue passed between the two brothers; these long, charged seconds were cracking with the certainty of the disaster waiting to happen. Yor blood was seething, your mind struggled in a swamp of contradictions that should, by all rights, have terrified you. Instead, they pulled you in, urged you towards them; the sheets whispered with every move you made.
The quiet lap of water against the glass was a soothing lullaby, numbing your nerves until a syrupy arousal, sweet as honey and dense as the air of the dungeons, remained.
“What are we going to do? You will, uhm… just fuck me?” Your snort made them arch their brow at once.
Mattheo brushed away a strand of hair with such tenderness you leaned into his palm, seeking refuge. Except it was a trap—one that snapped shut the moment Tom’s cool fingertips grazed your shoulder. With eyes closed, you could almost believe it was your boyfriend touching you so carefully, as though you were made of porcelain.
Then, you felt another pair of hands on your body. The first, firmer and rougher, seized your throat, fingers spreading possessively. The second, exploring and memorizing, glided down to your breast to gently circle a hardened nipple. An uneven gasp left through your gritted teeth.
No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes. To see the reflection of your insanity in them would make this enough of a nightmare—and this fervour—all too real.
“What a clever girl.” A whisper came into your right ear.
Hot air licked at your skin, and you bared your neck in silent surrender, offering up your most sensitive parts. At first, rough, wet lips found the curve of your jaw before dragging a line of heat all the way to your shoulder. It was Mattheo, no doubt; his curls tickled your skin, and a small grin magically appeared.
But that grin quickly turned into a shuddered sigh when a second set of lips—dry and almost cold—mirrored the gesture on the other side. Your entire being went rigid, poised like a prey before its jump. Liquid fire flooded your veins, every nerve ignited like a taut wire, strained to the limit and on the verge of breaking under the pressure.
“Look at you, all trembling…” your boyfriend mocked, his hands settling comfortably on your hips, calloused fingers tracing the curves.
“Is that a good sign or a bad one?” asked Tom, and you sensed his face getting closer to yours, noses almost touching.
A smug, patronizing smile crossed Mattheo’s features—he was glad to guide his apprentice through such a delicate lesson.
“It depends on how you look at it. If she’s leaning in,” confirming his lecture, you fought to calm your fingers, which had been seconds away from digging into Tom’s skin, “then it’s definitely a good sign, brother.”
A witty retort was ready to slip out. But then someone’s mouth was suddenly there, drinking in your protest before it could even begin. A tongue, insistent and demanding, slid past your lips to trace your teeth before claiming your own. It was Tom; you could tell by his textbook-like precision. He took your mouth with a hunger that held no argument—biting, teasing, and pulling at your lower lip with a hum.
His hair was like Mattheo’s, silky and easy to hold onto, and you couldn’t help but tangle your fingers in it, nails scratching at his scalp. Tom’s palm, in return, closed around your breast.
Time held no meaning for Mattheo who slowly parted your knees; he ran his fingers along the inside of your thigh, and your skin immediately broke into goosebumps. Where your mind struggled, the body had already given up.
Every sensation narrowing down to those tiny sparks at the very core of your stomach. Every eager kiss, every torturous drag of Mattheo’s finger along your drenched underwear flared more of them, forcing you to whimper helplessly between kisses.
With an obscenely loud smooch, he let go of you, and your eyes fluttered open. You wanted more, like a starving man who had finally laid his hands on the sacred water, desperate to swallow every drop of pleasure before it vanished.
Two polished obsidians gleamed in the shadows, and beside them, the eyes were dark like molten chocolate. You wanted to drown in its heat that often bordered on stifling. Confusion had clouded your mind, you found yourself lost in swirling thoughts, but you knew one thing for certain—an irresistible thirst that made your nerves scream and urged you to spread your legs further for Mattheo.
“Tell us what you want,” he cooed; his knuckles gently wandered over your slick folds, and he pulled your underwear to the side.
The answer came in a haste you had no time to consider. “You.”
A look passed between them, and then Tom spoke, his voice was a lingering drawl. The words had no intention to sound so filthy coming from him. Huh, if only the professors knew the true nature of their golden boy…
“Can I have her?”
Your eyes widened, breath hitching in your throat while you were gripping your boyfriend’s forearm for support. A wave of lava—you had no other description of that feeling—surged down your spine, pooling inside your lower stomach—a heavy, tight mass of excitement.
“Wha—?”
“Can I have her, Mattheo? I want her.” He wasn’t even looking at you, like you were no more than a piece of possession for his brother to grant permission for!
Mattheo gave a devious sneer, the chocolate of his eyes hardened into searing coals, ignited by interest and the thrill of a game with exclusive rules he knew too well. You were fucked.
“Ask her yourself.”
Finally, Tom turned to you. His Adam’s apple bobbed, gaze dropping to his brother’s fingers stroking your folds.
“Can I… hmm, take you?” he asked and tilted his head, patiently waiting for your answer, even though his tightly set jaw and twitching cock betrayed the storm beneath—a tension that had nothing to do with waiting.
“I don’t quite understand…” You blinked; your brain short-circuited.
He inhaled sharply, long fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Tom moved closer.
“I want to fuck you. Will you let me?” he pressed impatiently. His palm snaked around your neck, gripping with a force that made it clear: there was no room for anything but a ‘yes’.
But there was always a choice.
“Yes.”
And you made yours.
The atmosphere shifted. The playful, arrogant tinge was gone for good. The absolute focus Tom treated everything his attention came to stayed.
Even if the sky were to fall onto his head right now, he would never reveal how much your answer had relieved him.
The mattress groaned under the weight of another body taking its place behind you. The second one, muscular and littered with scars, loomed before your face; you were nudged back—softly, yet with an unyielding command that forced you to turn to Tom.
“We’re doing this once,” you grunted, watching with a growing unease how Riddle began to undo his trousers. Every move was calm, deliberate, drawn out to prolong your anxiety. He looked nothing like a man who was about to have his first sex. With his brother’s girlfriend. What a world to live in…
Merlin, the three of you were terminally unwell.
“Yeah, sure.” Mattheo nodded.
He kneaded your shoulders to… calm you down? To tease you a little more? His thumbs were expertly pressing into all the right spots, melting your resistance until it bled out. Your heart thrummed in your chest, and with every strong beat you thought it might find a way out.
“I’m sure this entire… thing is utterly… repulsive,” Tom said and pulled down his trousers along with underwear.
Each of you knew it was a lie.
Nevertheless, much more luscious than deception was the sight of his thick, twitching length; a pearly-white bead of precum trickled down the shaft. You stared like at it like it was the first cock you had ever seen in your life. Your insides fluttered at the sudden memory of the first time with Mattheo—awkward and silly, though it grew into a sultry passion, which echoed in your muscles with a dull exhaustion for days.
Hands, warm and familiar, gripped your waist and rubbed your fiery skin, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear.
“Be gentle with him, ‘kay?” He nibbled at your earlobe and pushed you up onto your knees, pushing you towards Tom, who was leaning against the pillows—the very picture of a god waiting to be worshipped.
You gulped and let Mattheo strip away your underwear in a single, practiced motion. He tossed it aside and began to work on his own belt.
“Why? Is she always this feisty?” Tom chuckled, watching how you hesitantly straddled him; his flushed cock twitched directly before you, the swollen tip reaching your bellybutton.
“You have no idea…”
“Stop talking about me as if I’m not even here, you idiots!” Your attempt to reclaim control was met with a smirk from Mattheo who settled beside you, his palms still resting on your waist—a grounding weight that should have diffused the tension. Instead, a heavy realisation that he wasn’t going to sit and watch washed over you. If anything, he made sure he was the one in total control of the entire process.
What a caring brother.
Tom couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his cock against your stomach. So dirty, vulgar, and lewd it sent his arousal peaking. Would it hurt? Or would, after all, a familiar hand prove to be better than anything you could offer?
Mattheo effortlessly lifted you up, Tom’s tip slid in between your glistening folds and teased your clit. A shameless moan escaped you; your hands flew to brace against his chest, nails raking across his thin, pale skin. Looking for an anchor, Tom grasped a handful of your thighs until the ropes of veins popped on his arms.
“How do you find my present?” Mattheo asked.
Carefully, he eased you down; his brother’s cock, inch by agonizing inch, slipped inside of your heat.
A strangled whimper, yours and Tom’s, cut through the charged air. The burning stretch made you recoil at first, but another grip on your waist prevented you from escaping the sweet torture of being split open. Your silky walls closed around him, and he found the feeling so overwhelming he forgot about his night in a company of the self-centered pricks. Just you and your hands on his chest.
“Salazar…” You wiggled in Mattheo’s hold and arched your back. Tom threw his head back, the muscles on his neck straining as his throat spasmed with every frequent intake. “I hate you s-s-so much.”
But your pussy, greedily swallowing his length, told an entirely different story.
Mattheo crowded in behind you to guide you further down, his cock pressing against your back. He was making you take more than you could at this state. And you protested, of course, squirmed, and mumbled something incoherent through a cloying fog of pain and pleasure.
Tom’s hands shot up to lock onto your hips to stop your pitiful fidgeting. With their combined strength, they managed to make Tom bottom out inside you, the tip probed your cervix. You shook violently, throat working to put together a single word, but what’ve been drawn out of you couldn’t even called ‘speaking’—silent screams and moans at best.
A lot. There were a lot of them. The Riddles.
“Such a good girl for me. For us,” Mattheo encouraged you; his lips peppered your shoulders with small, lingering kisses. He was fiercely bucking against your backside. “Do you like it, Tommy?”
Tom, lost in a haze, opened his obsidian eyes, long eyelashes fluttering; the strong, firm grip of his hands on you was sure to leave bruises. He went still inside you, relishing the way your pussy was gripping him like a vice, pulsing and clutching like your life depended on him.
“Is this supposed to be so wet? And tight... I can’t even move,” he stuttered and bit down his lower lip till it bled; you wiggled in their hands with a whine.
“Good, isn’t it, huh?” your boyfriend scoffed. “Wait until you try her mouth.”
Humiliation and shame twisted in a sizzling knot, tangled with lust. Heaviness in your lower stomach was tingling; the lack of movement was driving you crazy. Your shaky hands skimmed up Tom’s torso to find his shoulders.
“Please, let me… move. I can’t…” you pleaded, eyes locking with black pools of ice.
You searched for shreds of compassion only to find a hollow blackness filled with practical interest and that familiar, taunting mockery. Despite being on top, despite his lack of experience, he wasn’t the one beneath you in the slightest.
In contrast, you were in the weakest position.
A broken exhale left Tom’s lips; he surged to you, forehead to forehead. He kissed you again, teeth sinking into the plush softness with little to no tenderness. His hands were everywhere—squeezing, palming everything, intent on collecting the information about your every single curve or unevenness. The most riveting research he had ever had. A torrid rasp of ‘fuck’ wasn’t his own, that’s for sure.
Though Mattheo’s kisses were less messy, they marked every unscathed part of your neck with violent purple. The pain inflicted oh so exquisitely upon you caused a strong shiver to run through. Where your nails broke the pale skin of Tom’s back, his pained hiss did nothing to hide how much he really enjoyed it.
“I told you to be gentle, my love,” Mattheo mumbled into your ear, his hot tongue slowly traced the shell.
To that, you pushed Tom away.
“Like I’d ever be gentle with him. Just because he’s a virgin doesn’t mean I have to nurse him.”
“He was a virgin, dear.”
Every ridge, every vein caressed all the right spots inside; the musky scent of sex and their cologne entwined in the most intoxicating mixture. Your nails were relentless in their desire to leave a reminder for Tom about that night.
Mattheo couldn’t find the words to argue; he was simply helping by setting the pace he knew was maddeningly torturous for both of you. The control, a hard thing to maintain, was in his hands tonight.
Loud, squelching sounds flooded the room, your moans were the most beautiful music to their ears. Tom had always been indifferent to music, but after this particular one he might very well reconsider his tastes. Your boyfriend, frustrated to the point of grinding against your back, didn’t help at all with the rhythm you wanted to set.
It was a chaotic waltz for three, heady and tainted by the right wrongness of a dance that had no end. Your head spined, dizziness bloomed with copper on your tongue; fingers moved to your clit. But Mattheo, little shit that he was, swapped your hands with his own.
“Faster, please,” you sobbed, your empty head lolling onto his shoulder. “Fuck, Tom… I want to come.”
Never before had he heard his name spoken with such tooth-rotting euphoria. Usually, it was a weight on the lips of others—carried by fear, envy, or the bitter resentment. Tom Marvolo Riddle was a name for the history books, for the defeated, for the fallen. But to hear it in a cry of pure, undiluted pleasure… that was a language he had yet to master.
It sounded far better than fear. It was a flavor he hadn’t known he craved: addictive, tangy with the salty aftertaste of your sweat.
He was a quick learner, and he used that trait every now and then. For example, he used it to add his own finger to Mattheo’s to help him draw those tight, lazy circles over your clit. You rolled your hips, taking Tom to the hilt; your vision whitened, splintering at the seams of composure. The high was right there, you needed to reach for it.
Please, for the love of Merlin…
The orgasm approached rapidly, fast and cruel, driven by your eager bouncing and the pressure between your legs. Their tandem was so flawless it was terrifying—a practiced destruction they had done countless times. Together, they pushed you towards the peak that intended to obliterate you.
But you were left hanging when suddenly the hot spurts of cum filled you. Tom growled into your mouth, low and raw. He thrusted through the bliss into you, trying to push his cum back, so no precious drops would be wasted.
Mattheo’s smirk darkened; in one fluid motion he sat you atop him, damp skin of his chest slotted behind you like a riddle finally unraveling. Thick, creamy-white cum oozed out of you, and Mattheo didn’t even give you a much-needed reprieve as he slammed into your sopping cunt.
Tom found the conception of his brother pushing his release into you with every violent shove crude, nasty, and sickeningly… mesmerizing.
“What…” you mewled, spine curved into a taut bow at your boyfriend’s fingers rubbing your clit. “What are you…”
“You though I would let you come for my brother?” His damp curls smelled like fire and ashes of your consciousness. “Look at him. Look at him when you come on my cock. Maybe he will learn something.”
Your nerves, frayed to nothingness, numbed all shame, all humiliation of being watched by Tom Riddle while his brother used you.
Half-lidded, black eyes were tracking the sticky strings of mixed juices covering the both of you. It was sin in its purest form, a perversion so blatant and disgusting you wanted nothing more than to offer prayers to every god and beg for mercy. Honestly, you were enchanted by Tom: his flushed cheeks, ruffled curls, his chest, stained by your scratches, struggled to take a breath. Maybe the gods were already here.
The ecstasy fell upon you in a roaring flame. You pussy were pulsing around Mattheo’s cock; the jolts of electricity ignited every cell in your body. His strong arms wrapped securely around you to help you steady yourself in the slipping reality; his own cum, combined with Tom’s, began to stream down, soaking the sheets.
Love, passion, greed—it all intertwined till they become indistinguishable, leaving no room for guilt. For the first time, it felt like this was exactly how it was meant to be. Tom Riddle and Mattheo Riddle, a single form, so delectable it hurt.
“So… how was my present?” Mattheo kissed your tear-stained cheek.
“Fuck you both,” you panted, your tongue barely moving.
“Actually, you did,” Tom drawled lazily, his voice a low, vibrating purr that seemed to find its way under your skin.
Kiss your boyfriend’s brother? Check. Fuck your boyfriend’s brother? Check. What’s next on the list? Kill your boyfriend’s brother? Good luck with that.
Ещё одной тёмной ночью, каждый твой вдох
И каждый твой выдох кричит об одном
wordcount: 3k
pairing: tom riddle x f!you
warnings: 18+, angst, hurt/(no) comfort, mention of self-harm, no happy ending, brief description of sex.
author's note: i cried like... fifteen times? though the lyrics are from Это любовь-Скриптонит. feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes! thanks for reading xo
Masterlist
Loving was hard. Loving was painful. Loving was… like plucking every bone out of your body—excruciatingly tortuous. You could scream, cry, or beg for forgiveness, the result would be the same: chapped lips chewed to raw flesh, gnawed fingers trembling each time you tried to finish your homework, and empty eyes where the light had long since surrendered.
You touched the aching chest where a heart ought to be beating, yet you felt nothing. No life. No soul. Nothing.
The same day, the same tasteless food at breakfast, the same chirping of your roommate about her date with Malfoy. The same hollowness you masked with plastic smiles and nodding along—you were a master of the act by now, still there was something that could easily give you away.
Your gaze swept across the Slytherin table, where Tom Riddle was holding court of his friends. Perfect as always, untouchable as the sun that had left its bruising kisses all over your skin two weeks ago. Those soft lips that knew no words of affection, were curved into the polite smile of a respectable Head Boy. His hand with long, delicate fingers caressed the black-bound diary beside him, and you heard a tiny voice in your head:
“He never treated you with as much care as he did his other possessions,” it whispered, sharpened nails scratching against the glass box you’d made for the monsters you’d tried to bury alive—common sense and self-respect.
Your knife hovered over the soggy omelet.
Like a princess descended from a castle in the air, all pretty and sweet, the Head Girl approached their circle and made herself comfortable right at Tom’s left. He didn’t say a word, didn’t shoo her away with that icy stare that usually screamed, ‘leave before I make you’.
“He never allowed you to join them,” another voice rustled in your ear, its cold hands smothered the spark that had flared up the moment you saw Tom.
The napkin stained crimson. One, two, three drops. Yes, loving should be painful.
“What are you doing?! Oh, Merlin!” The knife was torn from your hand, and suddenly all the sounds rushed back to you like long-forgotten neighbours—you let them in reluctantly, pushing the glass box into the shadows. “Are you fucking insane?”
You looked down at your hand, which your roommate was already rushing to wrap in the blood-soaked napkin. Nothing too serious, you had worse.
Oh, showing your love so openly was a reckless move!
Both of you decided to keep it at bay, far from prying eyes and gossip. No kissing, no hugging, no touching. Not even a glance in your direction when all you could think of was how you wished for him to acknowledge your existence. You were just another Slytherin girl lost in fantasies of a picture-perfect future with her boyfriend. And Tom Riddle… Tom Riddle was the future itself, shrouded in silk and light.
He was devotion. You were agony.
A classic combination.
“Please, stop this madness! He would never love you the way you do. You deserve someone who makes you happy, not…” Your friend gently lifted your shirt sleeve, her thumb brushing the marred skin. You stared at her not realising she wasn’t a voice anymore, but a person who truly cared. “… not this. How long is this going to last? A year more? Think about what will be left of you once he gets bored!”
“We love each other,” you snapped and wrenched your hand from her grip. The poor girl released a long, tired sigh. “It’s not the same as your snogging with Malfoy or your silly little affections you share in corridors!”
Your heart gave a sad chime, the voices snickered, mocking the weak excuses that held no solid ground. You craved those silly little affections: holding hands, excited chatter, and looking at each other like the world had no meaning. Only the two of you. Yet you’d learnt to live with the void, with the broken pieces of dreams you’d held onto so tightly they left gaping cuts on your palms. The soothing lies you reassured yourself with give him time, he had a bad childhood, he’s traumatised were not enough.
“It’s real. It’s completely different when we’re alone.” Episkey, a spell you’d come to known far too well, closed the slit you’d accidentally left; you examined the mark while something in your head roared, its fury muffled by the glass walls. “I am happy with him. You don’t understand a thing about real feelings.”
She was about to laugh in your face when you noticed how her lips twitched. Yes, laugh at me, because I’ve lost the ability to feel anything except the noxious influence of my own mind.
“Happy?” your roommate sneered. “Were you happy when I’d found you on the Astronomy Tower, sobbing and trembling because he hadn’t spared you a single word for an entire week?”
You remembered why: Tom was consumed by his prefect duties before Christmas. He’d promised you would spend the weekend together behind the closed doors of the Room of Requirement, the place that sealed your shared secret so well it never had a chance to seep through. But that promise didn’t see the light of day—it got buried under a pile of ‘sorry, I forgot’, ‘I was tired’, or his favourite, ‘I had other matters to attend to’. So, you spent Christmas alone in your room, rereading letters from the family who had been waiting for you to come home.
“He is the Head Boy and has a lot of work to do,” you protested.
She finally smiled—a mournful, knowing expression, as if she were talking to a St. Mungo’s patient and watching them cling to a life that’s already gone.
“Yeah? And where was your Head Boy when you fell off your broom and broke your ribs? Even Andy Diggory came to check on you, despite your history!” Again, she rubbed salt into the wound—a wound that received no healing, bleeding anew every time you heard the cursed word ‘busy’.
Busy. He kept using the same excuse. He used it when you’d hoped to see him on your birthday. He used it when you invited him on the first date you’d meticulously planned, desperate to catch a glimpse of a rare smile, the one you wanted all to yourself. He used it when you pleaded for his attention.
You remained silent; the hopeless thudding against your bruised ribs served as a harsh reminder of something that was still left inside, hidden from the shameless pillaging of your boyfriend. It was small, naive, and fragile. A love that hadn’t been strangled by Tom’s cold hand—a love that giggled and blushed, begging him to stop showering your face with kisses, a love that would flutter at every stolen glance.
The only love you knew left you numb and jealous of what your roommate had with Malfoy boy.
“I hope you’ll open your eyes, girl.” She stood up; the bench screeched against the stone floor of the Great Hall. “But it’ll be late.”
Her retreating figure took away your worries, and for a second, you found it easier to breathe. Above, the enchanted ceiling reflected a clear morning sky. You knew the day was meant to be great—spring was beginning to dance across the Scottish Highlands, and the whole school would soon be enjoying the moment of peace before another studying week.
Your clammy palm touched a small note in your pocket. The note you intended to slip into Tom’s robes. Although, luck was a concept you’d chased away along with other important things. As you passed their group, head bowed and blood thrumming in your ears, you caught a snatch of the conversation.
“We should go to Hogsmeade today, guys.” The Head Girl nudged Avery’s shoulder playfully, but her focus was solely on Tom. “I heard some wandering sorcerer has stopped not far from Olivander’s. We could bargain for something interesting!”
A tiny worm of hope wriggled inside you. You craved to be with him, if only for today—to feel his skin beneath your fingertips, to press your lips to his neck as a silent vow of your love, to let the greedy flames of your passion bring warmth and quiet to his restless mind.
“Sounds like a good plan.” Avery nodded. “Are you in, Tom?”
You wanted him with everything your soul could provide. Please, Tom, please. I need you. Please, just one day. Is it too much to ask? Your pinky brushed his shoulder; the note was a ray of sunshine against the endless darkness of his school robes.
Please.
Tom…
“Why not? I have no plans for today.” He shrugged; the gesture involuntarily pushed your hand away.
You fled the Great Hall. The note burned a hole in your pocket until you threw it into the nearest bin. Ribs hurt from the brutal assault of a heart breaking for the thousandth time. Loving was hard. You clutched at your chest, but with the taste of copper on your tongue, you could only watch as the shards blurred before your eyes.
The most sickening thing that made your own skin itch was your crawling back to the corner to mend yourself once more. Tom respected power. And you… you would be strong. You would find a way to be unbreakable. Just needed to take a deep breath, though the pain was too much to endure for another night in that dull room, where shadows were your only companions.
But love was the thing worth fighting for.
Tom Riddle watched you go, then his gaze dropped to the forgotten napkin on the table. Yes, love was the thing worth fighting for. If only he knew why.
He had tried. He truly had. And when he realised you had become the variable necessary for him to function properly, he stopped the whole mechanism. Love was a weakness. Love was a weapon so poisonous the thought of a cure plagued his brain with desire to make you resistant to the bitter truth: there was no future for the two of you. He would cause you suffering, and you would be wise to grow a second skin sooner.
It was his own way of saying ‘I love you’. Where you bled, he was the one pressing the blade harder. Your quiet compliance was an unspoken reply, ‘I love you, too’.
***
The murky light from the tall windows plunged your room into a pool of silence and dreamless slumber, the perfect weight of the blanket on your shoulders, which you spent the rest of the day under. Your roommate had begged you to join her and the other girls at The Three Broomsticks tonight, but you politely declined, convincing her you needed to finish your Transfiguration essay.
Your desk was neatly arranged: no sign of the stack of parchments or old tomes could have backed up your lie. Regardless, it didn’t concern you as much as a sudden knock on the door. 1 am. Your roommate wasn’t supposed to be back this early, and you pondered for a moment, should you open it and let them see your wrecked state? Having cried for two hours straight, your lungs burned as you held your breath; the sheets traitorously hissed against your pajamas.
Another knock came, more insistent this time. The cold wood of your wand met your trembling hand.
Tickling of the clock on your nightstand mirrored the frantic beating in your temples.
“I know you are awake. Open the door.” You jumped out of bed, nervously gripping your shirt. “Now.”
Even if you went deaf, you would still recognise the voice, no matter how distant it might be. By pure instinct. Or by the invisible leash pulling at your neck.
Carefully, as if the handle could bite, you opened the door and looked up at Tom. He smelled of Hogsmeade pastry, fresh night air, and ink. Pale and slick with rain, his face stood before you like a waxen mask, carved out of the shadows of the pitch-black hallway. Only exhaustion was visible through the fractures in his flawless composure: half-lidded black eyes, a subtle slump of the shoulders, and the absence of the usual smirk which sewed itself into his very features.
Tom Riddle, stripped of his many disguises, was waiting for you to grant him entry. Patience was his gift, an advantage over anyone who had the audacity to challenge him. Though, when you nearly slammed the door into his face, Tom gave way to the other thing he excelled at—persistence.
“I told you to open the door.” He invited himself in, the door shut closed, and the lock clicked into place.
“I am busy.” You muttered, but your pulse quickened at the mere presence of your boyfriend.
It was nearly impossible to hold a grudge against him when every single part of your body yearned for his touch. The attempt was made. Tom saw right through.
“Busy doing what?” He arched a dark brow, icy gaze scanning the room before fixing on you as he took a step to invade your personal space.
You smelled of clean sheets, salty tears, and despair. Your eyes, bloodshot and swollen, studied the ‘Head Boy’ badge. No, you weren’t afraid to look at him. There was something else entirely.
“Busy sleeping.” Your voice was hoarse from crying. “Leave my room, Tom. I’m tired.”
But Tom, to your surprise, withdrew a small box-like object that looked more like a piece of the night in his palm.
“I bough it for you,” he said flatly. “For your birthday.”
Finally, you lifted your head.
“My birthday is in November.”
“I know.”
A shudder ran down your spine. A lingering sense of wrongness clung to the gift. Was it his last? After all, both of you were about to finish Hogwarts.
No. He believes he will be occupied during my birthday. I’ve planned an autumn with him and my family in the countryside. Perhaps it will remain as plans…?
“Are you going to take it?”
Something in the box stirred when you took it from him, your cold fingers brushing Tom’s.
You opened the box, and your chest tightened. A ring. A simple silver band that gleamed when you turned it over in your palm.
“Is this a proposal?” For an idea so shocking, you gave no sign of the ground shifting beneath your feet.
Tom Riddle hid his hands behind his back; his posture was rigid, devoid of any unnecessary movement—an ancient statue of the world’s beauty and cruelty.
“You know it’s impossible. We are too young.” Of course, the voice of reason spoke to bring the truth crashing down upon you.
Hope dies last. Your love stays until the end.
You returned to your bed and placed the small box in plain sight, right next to the withered flowers Tom had brought to you a month ago. Dark-red, brittle rose petals littered the nightstand like drops of blood.
A long pause stretched out, settling over you both like a heavy cloud. You adjusted the petals and listened to the quiet footsteps of your boyfriend, who loomed over you from behind. The smallest hairs on your body stood on end; the thin skin of your shoulder broke into goosebumps as Tom’s fingers traced the line of your collarbone down to your wrist.
The first reaction was to lean into Riddle’s arms, to choke on the humiliating words of how much you loved him, how you missed him, and how difficult it was to breathe the air that held no sliver of his presence. The sensation was sharp, slashing against your chest where your heart was already reaching for him.
“How many times have I told you to stop hurting yourself?” His thumb caressed your wrist, before he slowly lifted it to place a small, almost non-existent kiss there. “Stupid girl.”
How many times have I begged for your attention?
You know I was busy.
“I didn’t mean to.” You turned around, your hand slipping from his grip—a loss you began to ache for the very next second.
I know you didn’t.
His robes whispered promises into your ears as he shed them over the back of your chair. A white shirt, unbuttoned and slightly rumpled, peeked from beneath the green vest, where the Slytherin snake bared its silver teeth.
You welcomed the fangs with the warmth of your mouth. The coppery taste you shared fueled the need to lick the blood from your wounds his own hands had left. Slowly he pushed you to the bed, your knees hit the mattress.
No doubt, no worry, nothing. He was here. His lips were on yours, his body shielding you from the shadows that had begun to tear at your flesh, chew on your muscles, and knot your nerves.
Tom was everything you wanted. You were everything he was terrified of.
But when your tightness wrapped around him, when your nails etched a perfect portrait of the pain you’d both created onto his back, he could only think of one thing.
Hope dies last. His love lives in the angry bruises on your throat, left by his fingers.
“I love you.” Your confession, equal parts fascinating and devastating, strengthened his belief in the supreme power of destruction.
“I love you, too.” He rasped into your mouth, thrusts punishing in their relentless force.
It’s a lie.
It’s a lie.
“I’ll die without you.” Tom caught your tears with his mouth; he littered your wet face with butterfly-like kisses.
No, you won’t.
I’m already dead.
His love, inhaled. Your poison, exhaled. The infection was there, coursing through his system, making him weak just for you. He allowed it. He really did. It was the last time, he promised himself.
Another dark night screamed the only thing.
This was love.
***
Love burned the tip of his tongue, the Avada never came to life.
Voldemort watched how the green light, summoned by your hand, rushed towards him across the whole battlefield. For the first time in his life, he realised he had done something right.
Tom had built your resistance on the ruins of a shattered past, but it was the poison you had unknowingly infected him with that won.
You were broken beyond any repair, living a life of constant agony. But as the green light claimed him, it was Tom who tasted only ash.
Episkey might not be such an innocent spell in the wrong hands. Wrong...?
wordcount: 4.1k
pairing: mattheo riddle x f!you
warnings: blood, kissing, brief mention of harry potter x you, swearing.
author's note: feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes! thanks for reading xo
Masterlist
The temperature of your relationship with Mattheo Riddle had long stayed below zero. When you thought it wasn’t possible to sink any lower, the numbing coldness in your bones proved you wrong.
Simply put, you hated each other.
You hated his voice, hated his face, hated his messy curls, and the arrogant smirk he wore like a trophy after breaking another girl’s heart. You despised Mattheo for ruining each of your attempts to get him out that deranged mind you called yours.
Mattheo Riddle hated your eyes, your lips, your sweet perfume he unconsciously sought in every classroom, and your lovely smile you wore like a trophy after those stupid, meaningless conversations with Potter. He despised you for ruining each of his attempts to obliviate the burning images of you from behind his eyelids.
But if you dared to pick apart the threads of this mess, you’d find the temperature had grown so searing you could no longer feel it at all. Meanwhile Mattheo was consumed by the cold flames of his own hypocrisy.
Who would have guessed that a simple healing spell was all it took? Magic, indeed.
***
You had no other words than ‘fucking idiot’, ‘I hate you’, ‘I hope you get expelled’ when you reached a courtyard filled with bewildered students. The prefect badge, proudly pinned to your robes, gleamed in the late sunlight; a thin layer of freshly fallen snow crunched beneath your hasty steps as you crossed the stone-paved path. The day was supposed to end in the prefects’ bathroom, where Pansy and Astoria had arranged a small girls’ night—you had already imagined yourself soaking in the frothy water. Not with the sight of Potter and Riddle pummeling each other’s faces within a circle of a cheering crowd!
“What the hell is that?!” You pushed through the mass until it spat you out a few steps away from the tangled boys.
Yor voice, high-pitched in worry and a rising anger, was consumed by the animalistic growls, the sound of meeting fists, and encouraging shouts of your fellow Slytherins. Your trembling fingers closed around the handle of your wand, but the fight stopped immediately as if sensing your intent to kill every living being. No, you weren’t a psychopath—a tired girl longing for a bit of peace and quiet amidst the chaos of prefect duties and responsibilities.
“If I see you again with her, I swear to Salazar, I’ll fucking kill you,” a rough whisper felt like a final punch to Harry’s guts.
Mattheo released his bruising grip and stood up. He swayed on his feet, brought a hand to his mouth to wipe the blood from his split lips. The state he was in—tousled, furious, high on adrenaline—shattered the defensive fortress of indifference you had meticulously built around yourself.
Harry looked like a Kneazle after a fight for a scrap of meat: dark hair stuck out in every direction like someone had been tugging at it relentlessly, while purple bruises began to bloom across his face, paired with a bloodied nose and broken glasses. Though the determination in his eyes remained unyielding, sharpening his features to the harsh grimace of pain, hatred and spite.
“Can someone tell me what the actual fuck just happened?” Without a second thought, you rushed to Harry, but he pushed your outstretched hand away. Your open palm froze in the air, and a wave of regret washed over you—it was a foolish mistake to expect him to accept anything from a girl in green and silver.
Perhaps some of your conversations carried a hint of friendly exchange, but the divide never truly disappeared.
“Keep your dog on a leash.” Potter winced; the words ceased your concern and twisted it into irritation. Slowly you turned to face Mattheo, who was too smug for someone you would be glad to throw out of the Astronomy Tower. “Like father, like son.” He spat a glob of blood that seeped into the slushy snow between you.
Mattheo bared his teeth, a flash of something dark clouded his vision—the urge to tear Harry Potter apart became unbearable. If you hadn’t seized him by the elbow, who knows if the world would still have a ‘Chosen One’ tomorrow.
“Stop it!” You put your hands around Riddle’s waist. “Harry, please, don’t encourage him!”
“Let me go,…” Mattheo groaned; your first name slipping out involuntarily. “At least I have a father! You have no one, Potter, no one! So don’t you fucking dare try to take what will never belong to you.”
Hushed, surprised whispers rippled across the crowd—suddenly a daunting realisation fell on you. Not a single soul had tried to help or stop them; the familiar faces had melted into an inseparable mass of students eager for entertainment, for whom the presence of a prefect was but a delicious addition to the main course—the war between Harry Potter and Mattheo Riddle.
Your rivalry seemed like a child’s play.
“Fuck you, Riddle.” Harry finally managed to stand, though every movement was followed by a wet cough. “You don’t get to decide that.”
The thud of footsteps echoed from the bridge; you recognised Hermione’s nervous voice from the very first note and set your jaw, bracing yourself to face the Head Girl. Mattheo’s hand tightened around you almost instinctively—he was too observant for his own good, trained by the years of shared detentions.
“I decide what’s mine, Potter,” he stated.
“Shut up, Riddle. Shut your mouth.” You pushed Mattheo to the side; the crowd began to part for you.
“Nice work, Matt! This Gryffindor filth deserves a lot worse than that.” Crabbe’s hard pat on Riddle’s shoulder made you stumble, as if it wasn’t enough of a struggle to stay upright with the dead weight on your poor body.
“Minus ten points from Slytherin.”
“For wha—”
“For being a dickhead, Vincent,” you cut him off. “Now get the hell out of there.”
Mattheo smirked; his steps were unsteady—the balance had become a tricky thing to maintain. This wasn’t his first fight with the Potter-boy, and he didn’t plan on it being his last—only if it meant you would be the one hauling him away from the battlefield. Your smaller body, with its tensed muscles under his hand, felt like the embrace of Valhalla he’d read about in his childhood.
Potter had earned exactly what he had been asking for. Every glance in your direction, all the talking, every accidental brush of his fingers, that invitation to be his partner for DADA classes… Fuck, he could go on and on! The point was to mark Mattheo’s territory. Maybe he wasn’t as manipulative as his father wanted him to be, but violence was a language he’d known well enough even before Hogwarts.
Violence, fists and blood. His true nature.
Where magic had its limits, a good punch could smash any shield charm.
You heard Hermione’s commanding shouts when you approached the steps to the northern part of the castle but decided to ignore them. Either way, you’d face the consequences of Riddle’s short temper tomorrow during another grueling meeting.
The image of Pansy and Astoria waiting for you in the prefect’s bathroom had completely faded, giving way to the fight you had witnessed. Merlin, why does it always have to happen to me?
“I hate you so much, Riddle. You always know how to make me suffer, don’t you?” you hissed and pushed the doors open, stepping into the dim corridor. “Can you even hear me?”
Mattheo released a ragged, painful breath that sounded more like the creaking of rusty hinges. The smell of blood, cigarettes, and spice filled your nostrils. You hated his scent. You hated the lingering notes of his cologne on your clothes after five minutes of standing close. You hated yourself for inhaling it from your scarves!
Merlin, if peeling back your own skin was the right way to wash him out of you, you would have started right then and there.
“Mhm,” he murmured; the low vibration of his rasp sent a hot flush up your spine. “Then why are you helping me?”
You dragged him into the girls’ bathroom, your legs threatening to give out with every step; the weight on your shoulders could make you fold in half. The sound of his breathing and the distant hum of old pipes filled the humid air; the torches came to life, casting long, dancing shadows onto the stone floor.
“Who said I was helping? Maybe I want to drown you in the toilet.” You shook him off; a string of unflattering insults left unnoticed. Mattheo leaned against the tiled wall; the adrenaline had finally abandoned him, and his bravado beginning to crumble, leaving nothing but a bruise the size of the freaking castle. He brushed his curls, slick with blood and sweat, away from his forehead and fixed his half-lidded, chocolate eyes on you. Salazar, you were the hottest thing he had ever seen. Or had Potter beaten out whatever was left of his brain?
You gave yourself a second to regain your composure and find an answer to his question. Why the fuck were you helping him? Your fingers were twisting and tugging at a loose thread on your robes, as though it could help you unravel every thought and straighten them out. I’m a prefect, of course I’ll help those in need, you put that on the shelf you could easily reach. I don’t want to write another report on why you’ve beaten Potter again, that took the spot near to it. You look so fucking ravishing all bloody and in pain… oh, that one belonged to the darkest part of your mind.
“Okay, then I’ll choose the farthest.” Mattheo smiled. “My favourite—I quite like reading what you girls write about me on the stalls.”
The train of your excuses was smashed against his idiotism. You kicked him in the shin and yanked the stupid thread from your robes—it was useless anyway.
“Don’t even tell me how you found out.”
Mattheo chuckled, but the sound came out strained, breathless, nearly choked; he smeared the blood from the corner of his mouth and let his eyes drift shut. The gnawing ache in his ribs and face was too much to allow him to cling to consciousness—the pieces were slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. He had to give credit where it was due: Harry had definitely improved his right hook since their last encounter.
You called for Mattheo once, twice, and when no response came, panic began to set in.
A small cabinet always held a collection of potions the girls left for one another—was it pain-relief draughts, acne creams, or various Muggle things you couldn’t even name. Disturbed, the glass vials rattled; you opened a few, took a sniff, and immediately tossed them into the bin. Clearly, not everyone was destined to be a great potioneer.
“Riddle? Hey, it’s a shame to die in the bathroom.” Your lips curled into a humourless sneer; trembling fingers fought with the cork of the last potion— one you prayed hadn’t been brewed a decade ago. “What would your father say, huh? His son died after the fight with Potter—what an irony. He’d disown your corpse before it even got cold.”
You turned around to be met with dark pools of annoyance. The worry receded, replaced by a strange tightness in your chest.
“Shut up, …. I’m trying to fucking sleep!” Mattheo shifted, his sweat-slicked skin glistening under the warm light of the torches. You swallowed. “Help me for fuck’s sake.”
The vial gave a plaintive chime, strangled by your grip.
“Shouldn’t you say ‘please’?” You arched your brow and took a step, savoring the sight of his pathetic state.
Blood left a crimson path down his collarbones; his broad chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps while Mattheo fumbled with the top button of his shirt, desperate to cool his heated skin. Between the bruise under his left eye, the split lips, and a broken nose, Riddle looked like the classic bad boy—the kind every girl in school had a crush on.
You weren’t ‘every’, but you sure had a crush on him too. Though you managed to transform it into hate, because that was the easiest thing to feel. Hatred was simple, understandable. At least, it made sense.
Mattheo nodded. “Please.”
Fuck.
Your heart leaped high in your throat.
Carefully, you sat on the floor beside him, the grimy stone biting into your bare thighs like sharpened fangs. Mattheo made no effort to make room for you, on the contrary, he seemed to shift closer.
“You expect me to take some sketchy potion you found in a bloody bathroom?” Riddle narrowed his eyes, black pupils covering the brown irises.
“I could dump you here to mop your own snot and spit off the floor. And then I’ll send Draco, who will mock you until you start begging him to drown you in the damn loo.” You raised your chin; your cheeks flushed with anger and that undiscovered feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach.
Mattheo licked the blood from his lips and smirked. That fucking smirk that could easily make the entire female population swoon.
“I knew you were a freak, sweetheart.” His fingers brushed against your knee, and you punched him in the shoulder. “Ouch! Are you insane?! That hurts!” Mattheo inhaled sharply.
“Behave. Touch me again and I’ll break your jaw.”
He bit his tongue, trying to stifle a grin. He would let you break anything you wanted—just put your hands on him, and he’d be at your mercy for the rest of his life. Salazar, he must be going mad...
You shoved the potion into his hand, then pulled your wand. The familiar warmth met your cold skin; a spark of magic tingled on your fingertips—incantations of healing spells ran inside your head. That type of magic wasn’t your strong suit, to be honest… Uhm, actually, you sucked at it.
Once Mattheo downed the potion in a single gulp, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste of wormwood, he warily stared at the glowing tip of your wand. Muscles in his jaw twitched at your mumbled Episkey and a wave to recall the right movement.
“No,” he barked. “No, we are not doing this.”
The greenish light captured the look of utter terror on his face.
“What do you mean? The potion won’t help fix your nose!” You loomed over him, making him recoil and wish for a Basilisk to magically emerge from the nearest sink.
Yes, maybe you weren’t experienced, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try anyway! Walking to the Hospital Wing with Riddle at your side would be enough to fuel the rumours about your ‘true’ relationship with him—like the rivalry was only a cover for some heated romance. Ew. Absolute nonsense! Oh, and after that Pansy and Astoria would be utterly intolerable, so to speak, because they were the sole reason of those rumours! They’d have you married off and expecting his heirs by breakfast.
“I prefer it staying like this. But please, not Episkey. Want me to get on my knees for you? Please… don’t.” In any other circumstances, you would have relished his suffering and groveling, but now…
Was your healing that bad the Mattheo himself pleaded? No, you were a bright student, smart and intelligent—even Patronus was not a challenge anymore. Episkey, huh? It wasn’t exactly Arithmancy, was it?
“Why? I have mastered it!” No, you haven’t. “Riddle, let me fucking help you!”
Mattheo grabbed your wrists and yanked you towards him so hard you nearly tumbled into his lap. The smell of blood and cigarettes filled your every sense; his heat seeped through your school uniform until even the chilly floor felt like Fiendfyre opening its jaws for you.
“I saw what it did to Malfoy.” His breath ghosted over your parted lips, and his piercing gaze flickered down to them for a second.
You wrenched your hands from his rough hold and rolled up your sleeves.
Now it was a matter of dignity to perform a perfect Episkey that might fix his fucking attitude!
“It was due to a lack of focus and his resistance.” Your tone made Mattheo roll his eyes and slump against the wall with a look of total defeat. His face, contorted in pain and irritation, was pale; dizziness clouded his mind, coating it in a sugary-sweet syrup. Drop by drop, it fell onto his tongue to dull the feigned wariness Mattheo usually kept around you. “Tell me if it hurts—I want to be certain I’m hitting all the right spots.”
“Bitch.” If it wasn’t so hard to breathe, he would have laughed.
Mattheo Riddle accepted his fate in this vile lavatory he had a chance to visit with one of his girls. He could say that now you were one of them, too. But, oh no, he would never lower you to their level. He had built a perfect pedestal for you—one where he could see, hear, and control you. Fuck Potter, fuck that Hufflepuff idiot who thought he could get a piece of what had always belonged to Mattheo. And, of course, fuck you! With your hands and cute smiles! It was torture, really. The kind he had long ago learnt to endure.
Hatred was the easiest emotion for him. He’d known it since he began to think for himself, refusing to swallow the morals his lunatic family had force-fed him.
Every time you looked at him like that, as though he couldn’t see it, the hollow in his chest began to close. It was maddening, yeah, considering the one holding the needle was you.
Your wand hovered over his face. You started with his black eye first. Mattheo’s fists clenched against his thighs; his steady breathing helped him to bear the prickling sensation on the bruised skin.
“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.
“A little.”
Having no opportunity to touch you hurt even more.
Magic flowed down your arm; you could feel its pulse in your bones and the distant buzz of the raw power somewhere nearby. Shadowy figures moved; February wind clashed against the windows like it was chasing the fervor that left wet traces on your exposed patches of skin. Mattheo let out a soft moan—the wand nearly slipped from your sweaty palm.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, eyes closed for a few moments before he opened them to peer into your soul. You met his gaze. How you wished you hadn’t because the spark had ignited itself; the fire licked your cheeks and trailed down your jaw to your neck.
“Hurt?” you whispered, the tip of your wand pressing into his cheekbone.
“No,” he grunted. “Keep going.”
The wire had tightened, its vibrations coursed throughout every part of your body, settling into a searing heat in your lower stomach.
Never in your life were you this close to Mattheo. Never in his life was Mattheo this close to crushing his mouth against yours. He had his moments, especially when you were so caught up in your insults and curses that he had to think of Pomfrey’s knickers or Snape’s greasy hair to keep him from coming in his pants.
You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled. The magic sharpened your senses, and the light tickle of Mattheo’s fingers on your thigh felt like someone had dropped a fucking bomb onto your head—that was the sole explanation on why on earth did the rush of slick damped your underwear.
Episkey began to work on his nose.
Sweat glistened on Riddle’s brow, dark circles deepened under his eyes. The worse the wound, the more energy it demands to heal. Healing magic was drawn directly from the caster’s power, drinking in large volumes of everything you had to offer. Yet you held your ground; the grasp around your wand stiffened. All that was left was to set his nose, mend his split lips, and make sure you don’t collapse from the exhaustion. Pretty simple!
What a strange glint you noticed in the depths of his irises—an almost hungry, all-consuming void, greedy for a delicious meal. It was the same look you saw in the eyes of your cat begging for a treat. But far more dangerous and irresistible.
No, it was all your imagination! You hated him, he hated you!
Merlin, you wanted to lick the blood from his lips.
Salazar, he wanted to devour you until your throat was hoarse from screaming his name.
Ugh, that was disaster. You needed to finish this before it was too late. Before you forget how badly you craved him.
“What the hell did you make me drink?” Riddle’s palm snaked its way up your leg, his fingertips touching the hem of your skirt. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”
“Riddle, don’t open your mouth.” Because I want it on mine. “And don’t distract me.”
You glanced at his hand, the one that had already nestled between your thighs.
A thick, sweltering silence settled over the bathroom for a while. It was going to be long, agonizingly unpleasant for both of you. You were trembling; the ringing in your ears grew so loud you couldn’t catch what Mattheo had said.
He suddenly grabbed you by the side of your neck for support; thumb hovered over the rapidly beating pulse point. His head thudded against the wall, and he moaned—loud enough to tear through the viscous haze. The shameless sound sent goosebumps across your skin, drew your free hand to clutch his shirt. Your mouth went dry, and your skull felt like a cage that had grown too small for the unrequited passion you carried for him.
Magic was everywhere: in every breath you shared, in every touch, in every whimper, and in that longing hanging between your mouths. His lips were wet, bloody, and so, so fucking soft. Merlin, you were just going to take a small taste, nothing more. Helping him wash away the grime, yeah?
“I told you not to use your Episkey on me,” he murmured, your lips almost brushing.
Giving the proximity you both welcomed, it felt like the walls had finally closed in, bringing you so close as physically possible. The electrifying tension made the hairs on your arms stand on end, heightened by the insistent pressure of his palm closing around your throat.
“And I told you to shut your mouth, Riddle.”
“I’m going to.”
The hideous crunch of bones setting themselves shoved Mattheo into you; his mouth captured yours in a bruising, hungry kiss that held no gentleness, no fondness. Only a deep yearning to taste you, a ferocious thirst for your soft moans and for the weight of your body in his hands. He snatched the wand from your fingers and threw it aside. It hit the sink with a loud clack.
You mewled when his teeth sank into your lower lip, forcing you to invite him in. His tongue slipped inside; a low growl was torn out his chest at the feeling of your hand tugging at his wild curls.
Magic in its purest form tasted like Mattheo’s blood, salty sweat, and a tinge of wormwood. The kiss deepened, hands wandered: gripping, pulling, caressing as if it wasn’t enough for the two of you. You remembered what your spell had done to Draco three years ago, and you still hadn’t quite understood why he’d been so flustered. At first, you’d thought he had a crush on you. Now, the pieces fell into place—you were terrible at healing spells.
So bad that Mattheo had to stop you torment.
He trailed his mouth down to your neck, grazing your skin with his teeth. You were panting, struggling to catch your breath.
“Healing was never your calling, sweetheart,” he purred in your ear.
“I hate you,” you repeated, more to yourself, still clinging to the lingering taste of his mouth. “That was the last time I help you.”
Riddle smeared the remains of the blood from your lower lip and licked his fingers. Your heart began to race, mirrored by a heady throbbing between your thighs.
“No offense, love. You are my favourite healer now, you know? The best one I’ve ever had.”
You looked into his lust-filled eyes and cracked a small smile. That charming smile.
“So, maybe I should go help Potter then? Practice my skills, gain some experience…”
Mattheo’s smirk faltered, his hand grabbed your hip possessively. “Go ahead, try me. If he so much as touches you again, he’s dead. I mean it.”
wordcount: 4.2k
pairing: tom riddle x f!you
warnings: 18+, one bed, fingering, thigh fucking, slight somnophilia, begging, wet dream.
author's note: sorry i was horny. might proofread it again later... feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes! thanks for reading xo
Masterlist
Beauxbatons made a great impression on you: palace full of light, magic and colour. Too bright for your eyes, too cheerful, too pretty, and… a lot of too’s, actually. Hogwarts looked like a grey stain compared to that blue and gold ball of happiness—it even blinded you for a moment when you clumsily stepped out of the carriage. A few other students, exhausted and grumpy due to the long journey, spilled onto the cobblestone path which led to the massive gates of your new home for the next month.
Thanks to your hard work and shameless pestering (it took you two weeks to annoy the hell out of Dumbledore) you had been chosen to test your abilities in the Triwizard Tournament, set to take place at Beauxbatons Academy, along with a couple of fortunate seventh years.
And Tom Riddle, of course.
You gave him a brief side-glance when he smoothed out his perfect white shirt and black Hogwarts robes, still immaculate after five-hour tedious ride. Your luck had begun wearing thin as you’d been assigned to endure the carriage with him. Five fucking hours in the company of the most infuriating, arrogant, and insufferable person the world had ever known.
Merlin, no, he didn’t exactly bother you or anything, but to be honest, you almost wished he had… The silence was borderline unbearable, you even tried to strike up a conversation after thirty minutes of staring out of the window. The effort was met with a cold stare and a scornful curl of his lips.
So, the remaining four and a half hours passed in utter awkwardness and pitiful attempts to keep from losing your mind. Not to mention the fact that you were struggling with terrible motion sickness.
When the ride was finally over, as well as your torment, you wished for a silken pillow to claim you and let you drift into a decade-long slumber. Much to your (and to the gloomy faces of other Hogwarts students) disappointment, it was barely noon, with a day of tours round the palace and lectures on the school’s structure waiting for you. The gates swung open; you stepped into the giant courtyard, your eyes too sore to tell apart the marble statues from the scattering Beauxbatons students.
Oh, but they weren’t that tired to spot the imposing figure of Tom Riddle, who was already charming the Headmistress with his practiced smiles and flattering words. What a bloody Devil you thought. How you wanted to make his existence as miserable as he had made yours over the past seven years…
***
Your luck had run out, that’s for sure. Because there was no other explanation for why on earth they had doomed you to share a room with Tom Riddle. The death sentence had been signed by your own quill, confirming the dorm assignment you hadn’t even glanced at.
And now the heavy, carved door creaked open to reveal the rigid back of the Head Boy. He was already mid-unpacking, his belongings neatly arranged on the small bed, its blue sheets had no crease. The simple furniture, the soft rug on the marble floor, the bookshelves piled with French tomes, and the high window, draped in thick fabric—it all receded into mere background, your focus that narrowed down to a single detail: the obvious absence of a second bed.
The suitcase met the floor with a loud thud.
“What the hell is that?” Panic crept into your voice. “Riddle, what in Merlin’s name are you doing in my room?!”
Tom slowly turned around, his slender fingers were busy with the buttons of his robes as if he had already started preparing for the night. A look of pure nonchalance was etched into the sharp features of his face, making it nearly impossible for you to remain calm.
“Is that necessary to scream like a Mandrake?” Tom rolled his eyes, the darkness in them stirred. “Allow me to correct you—it’s our room now.”
You thought you were about to combust or to claw that smugness right off his face. Resentment bubbled in your chest; the breath hitched somewhere in your throat. Inadequate forms of different questions burned the tip of your tongue. Was it ‘what the actual fuck’ or ‘are you fucking kidding me’? Didn’t matter.
“Our? I don’t see a second bed,” you hissed.
Riddle gave the room a quick glance and shrugged, his expression flat. He didn’t seem even slightly bothered by the situation. “Because there is none.”
You blinked in disbelief, staring at his folded shirts on the bed. A claim of territory.
“I’m not sleeping with you in the same bed.” Your sweaty palms gripped the luggage that had lain forgotten beside your feet; the cold air from the corridor bit at your flushed cheeks.
“As you wish. I presume the floor is quite spacious. Perhaps the rug would suit your taste better.” He smirked, turning his attention to the robes once again and dismissing you.
Ugh! How you wanted to curse him!
“No, that’s not happening! I’m going to Dumbledore!” You shut the door hard enough to wake the rest of the school.
The golden knob of the Professor’s door stung your arm with a protective ward; only when the skin of your hand became as red as your cheeks did your shoulders finally sag. You let out a defeated exhale, then clenched your teeth until your jaw ached. It’s not fair! Why Riddle of all people? The very same Riddle you’d been dumb enough to fall for.
Someone peeked their freckled nose out of the room—the Gryffindor prefect, Weasley-what’s-her-name. Her red hair was a mess, nightgown was a bold scarlet, a true Gryffindor even at night; the unkind spark in green eyes behind those round glasses held no compassion.
“It’s past curfew! What are you doing here?! Go to your room!” Her words cut through the air filled with the scent of flowers from a nearby garden. Yet the sweetness did nothing to ease the agitated tension in your muscles.
You rushed towards her; the poor girl flinched in fear.
“Where’s Dumbledore?!” You abruptly cut off something she was about to say.
The girl furrowed her ginger brow, adjusting the glasses on the long nose.
“He’s visiting the local vineyards with the Headmistress. Why do you need him for at this hour?”
That famous Gryffindor loyalty arriving at the worst possible moment. Like always.
“I’ve been assigned to the room with Riddle! Can you imagine?” When you looked over her shoulder, you spotted the empty bed, shyly tucked against the far wall. “You have another bed?! Please, Weasley, let me in…”
“No!” she shrieked, her expression one of sheer rejection; you were even stunned by the sudden outburst.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Your voice broke into an angry whisper. “I’m not sharing a room with him! It’s Riddle, and he is… he’s Riddle! And he’s a boy!”
The Gryffindor prefect bared her teeth—the picture of a lioness ready to pounce and snap your snake’s neck.
“You are insane!” Only then did you notice how hard she was trying to pry your trembling fingers off her dress. You quickly released her, hiding your hands behind your back in shame. “And it’s a normal practice here in Beauxbatons to let girls share dorms with boys. If you’d paid any attention to what Madame Lexia was saying, you wouldn’t be so angry right now.”
A sense of the inevitable was beginning to take root in your mind, which had been trying to fight that boiling, traitorous mix of expectance and excitement. You and Tom Riddle in the same room… Salazar, that sounded more like a fantasy than the reality you were too much of a coward to accept.
“We have a single bed, Weasley. Is that okay for them too?” You finally gave in, letting the exhaustion numb your fury; you began to imagine the agony of an excruciating backache after a night spent on the hard floor.
“Do I look like I care?” She spat, impatiently tapping her foot. “Conjure a second bed, I don’t know! It’s you who’s been Dumbledore’s golden girl since second year. Surely, this won’t be much of a challenge for you.” With those words, she slammed the door right in your face.
The bang echoed in your ears as though you’d been punched in the chest.
“What a bitch,” you mumbled, your forehead pressed against the cool wall, lined with paintings and hemmed by vines hanging from the ceiling.
The inside of your cheek bled as you returned to the room you would rather set on fire than spend another minute in with Riddle. You hesitated before the door where the two names were decorating the golden plate. Yours and his.
Maybe it was a big misunderstanding, and Dumbledore would come to you in the morning, apologizing for the mistake? Or better yet, Tom would be thrown out of the Beauxbatons? No-no, you wanted it to be a public humiliation! You desired to see his perfect facade crumble, revealing his true nature—the cold-blooded maniac. Hm, yeah… He would look good begging on his knees, and, actually, you would like to be the one bringing him do…
“Did you finally go insane?” The velvet voice seeped out of your fantasy, possessing that rasp that had always found its way deep under your skin. “Or were you simply plotting a murder?”
Tom Riddle was standing in the doorway, already dressed for bed. A few stray curls stood out in the warm glow of the enchanted lamp on the nightstand; the first two buttons were undone, exposing his collarbones just enough for you to stare a little longer than you should have. Your mouth suddenly went dry.
“What?” you muttered, avoiding looking him in the eyes.
“You’ve been grinning and chuckling like a lunatic.” He took a step back to clear the way. “Come inside.”
Your fists clenched on both sides, nails biting into the swell of your palms.
“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you, Riddle.” You tried to sound stern, give your words a razor-like edge. “You sleep on the floor.”
A sneer touched his mouth. “Am I? Are you giving me orders now?” He stretched the vowels in your name like he was savoring how it tasted on his tongue. When he leaned down, his hot breath was on your cheek. “If you want the bed, I suggest you take your half before I change my mind about sharing it at all.”
Your legs were about to give out, swollen from the endless walk around the school; your eyes were burning, and your consciousness was hanging by its last thread, thanks to the growling, angry little monster inside. But even that creature was begging you to let it rest.
Were you in Hogwarts, you would surely have the strength to put him in his place. Now, it was a matter of simple survival, not stubbornness you’d developed through years of constant bickering with Tom Riddle.
“So, we sleep together for that night, then I’ll go to Dumbledore and ask him to switch rooms. Deal?” he suggested, tilting his head and waiting for the answer he knew all too well.
You looked back at the corridor, where the darkness stretched so deep it threatened to swallow the alabaster walls and high pillars. Did you truly have a choice? The marble floor was hard and unforgiving beneath your feet; the mere thought of spending the night on its harsh surface made you shudder.
No, you would never allow him to have that power over you. Like he hadn’t owned it by now…
“Deal,” you huffed out and stepped into the room.
It was the two of you now, save for the crackling tension. What a stalemate to find yourself in…
The room smelled of him, and even if you had tried, you wouldn’t have had the energy to erase Riddle from the space. Not because you couldn’t. You didn’t want to.
You’d fallen into his trap a long time ago like one of those stupid girls, too blinded by his charm and pretty face to see the truth behind those irresistible, black eyes. And spending the night with him? In the same bed? No, your heart couldn’t possibly withstand it. Merlin’s beard, you were so fucked.
Locking yourself in the tiny bathroom was the smartest thing you could do in this situation. In the mirror, your own face was staring back at you with sympathy; lower lip quivered with every attempt to steady your breathing. Inhale. Exhale. One night. He won’t eat you or anything, so stop complaining and go face the demon!
But what if you accidentally touch him? Or worse: what if you say something embarrassing in your sleep and give yourself away? Ugh… what if those dreams return tonight…? No! Stop it. Too many ‘what-ifs’ when you have no choice but to reconcile yourself to a cruel twist of fate.
The warm water instilled a false sense of control, the familiar bedtime routine slightly soothed your wild imagination, where the most horrible scenarios had been playing out the moment you hid yourself in the bathroom. You stole a last look at the mirror and cautiously opened the door, praying that Riddle would already be asleep.
Tom was in bed, leaning against the headboard with a leather-bound book in his fingers. The golden engraving on the cover was shimmering with a faint light; it was enough for you to catch the single word ‘curses’ before you pressed your lips into a thin line. You stopped in the middle of the room, your gaze flicking from Riddle’s profile to the pillow beside his elbow. The blue duvet hung off the bedside, tempting you with the sight of the soft fabric. Yet it also allowed you to glimpse a sliver of Tom’s skin that peeked out from where his shirt had slightly ridden up.
Fuck your life.
What do you do? Lie down and close your eyes? Or should you say something like ‘good night’? ‘I hope you die in your sleep’? No, better: ‘I want to kiss you’. Ugh, not again! No conversations. Go to sleep and forget he even exists.
You decided to be direct and purposeful. The satin sheets whispered against your clothes as you slipped under the blanket, creating as much distance as possible from his body. You hugged your knees, closed your eyes, and released a contented sigh when your muscles finally relaxed under the weight of a syrupy drowsiness. Tom made no effort to open his mouth or even acknowledge your presence by his side. Literally.
After thirty minutes of complete silence and the hushed rustle of pages, you drifted off to sleep to embrace the anticipated oblivion. Tom put away his book and studied your sleeping form; the magical light gently caressed his face, reflecting the quiet satisfaction in his black eyes. A simple vanishing spell, and he had successfully forced his presence on you, aware of the crush you had on him, of course. Riddle lay down, turned away from you, and fell asleep.
So, there the two of you were—facing opposite directions, your bodies so close to the edges that any sudden movement could end up with you hitting the floor face-first.
Peace. For now.
***
“Just like that, darling. You take me so well…” the smooth, teasing voice brushed against your ear as two big palms cupped your breasts under your pajama shirt. The aching, painful fulness left you throbbing and gasping for air with every deep thrust.
You fisted the sheets, body trembling and the skin scorchingly hot when you arched your back to take more of his cock, to let the tip kiss your cervix. That delicious blend of pleasure and raw desire was clouding your mind, drowning you in a burning hunger to feel him with every fiber of your being. All-consuming and unforgiving. You were soaking through your underwear and pushed-down pants, while beads of sweat traced the shivering line of your spine.
“So tight and wet for me.” Another purr; then came a rough shove that made you see stars behind your tear-filled eyes and ripped a breathless moan from your throat. His hand wandered to cover your mouth, the other drifted lower to stroke your clit with such confidence you knew it wasn’t his first time. Merlin, it wasn’t your first time.
“Do you want me to come inside you? Fill you up with my cum? I know you want me to,” he cooed, the edges of your vision were blurry with tears and overwhelming pressure between your legs. “Shit, you are squeezing my cock so hard I can’t even move. Relax already.”
You had no choice but to nod, biting into his fingers to stifle your pathetic sobs. Who was he exactly? Oh, you knew who he was… Not by the voice, but because of the frightening regularity of his presence in your dreams.
Now it was one of those dreams where Tom Riddle fucked you. Every time it was something new, though as blissful as ever. He knew exactly where to touch you, how to kiss you, what to say, and how to make you lose your mind. Sometimes he was rough, sometimes too gentle you were begging him to drop the act and fuck you senseless. But much to your regret, your dreams always ended far too soon. Long before you could reach the release you fiercely craved, leaving you wet and unsatisfied in the middle of the night. Then you would finish the job the dream-Tom never could and grasp at the vivid memories of his touch.
Something was definitely off when slumber reluctantly loosened its grip on you. Yeah, you were aroused: sweaty skin prickling, your pussy clenching around nothingness, and all those perks of having a wet dream… But you didn’t remember pulling down your pants, let alone your underwear. It was kinda cold in the room, and you were sharing a bed with Riddle, so you weren’t supposed to be… naked. What a strange thing to happen.
“I know you are awake,” Tom whispered in your ear, his breath tickled your neck. “Shit, don’t stop moving…”
When you felt something slide between your thighs, you realise that your imagination must have trained itself to paint such lively pictures you could mistake them for reality. Because that something was hard and hot. Very hard and very hot.
“T—Tom? What are you—” You breathed, still half-asleep as your eyes refused to open.
“Shhh, let me…” Tom gripped your bare hips and pulled you closer to the solid line of his heated body. A second heartbeat, rapid and violent, tangled with yours, making the feverish thrum of desire vibrate through both of you.
Your surprised gasp echoed in the stuffy air of the dorm; you caught the addictive scent of sweat and arousal, mingled with Riddle’s own cologne that you loved oh so much. Your senses sharpened to register every shift, every slick sound below your waist. Involuntarily you searched for that familiar thickness that haunted you every now and then, tearing down every defense against Tom Riddle’s invasion in your mind.
“Mhm, good girl.” He nibbled at your shell and smirked when you pressed your ass against him. “Arch your back for me, darling.” The intimate command got lost in the haze of the moment. “I want to feel how wet you are.”
His palm trailed down your stomach, fingers splaying over your pelvis, groping the soft skin there. Every nerve in your body was exposed to unrelenting electricity. It was better than anything you had ever experienced in your life. Merlin, and that was just a dream.
Tom rolled his hips into you; his leaking cock nestled securely between your plush thighs. Every ridge, every vein of his pulsing length glided through your folds, gathering wetness. When you squeezed your legs around him, Tom groaned into the curve of your neck and sank his teeth into the flushed skin. A spike of adrenaline boiled your blood to the point you became a whining mess in mere seconds.
“Tom!” Your nails clawed at his forearm. But Tom Riddle was already lost in the feeling of your supple flesh. “What are you doing?”
The answer came as if it were torn from his chest. Breathless, eager, and viscously sweet. “You’ve been grinding your ass against me all night. Were you that needy? Or was your dream simply that good?” He chuckled; his lips soothed the blooming mark on your neck.
You didn’t understand him at first. You were doing what? No, it was definitely still a dream. But the feeling of something warm and sticky between your legs was unmistakable evidence of Beauxbatons’ indecency. Boys and girls sharing a room? The Hogwarts Founders must be turning in their graves.
Your sudden need to wriggle free was met with a harsh nudge against your clit by the swollen tip.
“Stay like this.” A shudder coursed through you at the impatient tone of his voice.
You mewled something incoherent.
“Stay like this and I might let you come.”
With practiced ease, his fingers smeared the moisture across your cunt, fingertips finding exactly what they were looking for. He circled your clit once, twice—the pressure was a tantalizing, torturous play on every nerve that hadn’t snapped by now.
“It feels so real, Tom,” you slurred, your tongue barely able to find the strength to move when your mind was slowly turning into a mush.
He didn’t answer at first, yet he rucked your shirt up to cup your breast and pinched your perky nipple. A choked cry broke from your lips, your head lolled back onto his shoulder.
“I know, right? Let me fuck your thighs, sweetheart. Can you be a good girl for me? For once?” Tom gloated over your broken state; he worked his fingers on your nipple, twisting and pulling with relentless force.
Pure, unadulterated lust washed over you, pushing you towards the dream you were so afraid to let go. You’d let him do anything he wanted. After all, you’d wake up again, dripping wet and craving the release you were robbed of.
Tom drove his hips into you, and you moaned, bucking against him to chase the fleeting edge of the building finish. The knot inside your lower stomach coiled, now it impossible to ignore the desperate throbbing of your walls, the desire to feel him inside you.
You guided his fingers to press more firmly into your heat to earn a derisive chuckle.
“Darling, you should’ve seen yourself… Grinding against my dick like a cat in heat.” He smirked.
You tightened your grip around his cock and met his punishing thrust with a weak roll. The squelching sounds rang in your ears; you winced in pain at the sharp sting in your right nipple.
“It hurts,” you pleaded, your mouth hovering over his cheek. “Tom, please. Oh, Merlin… I want to come, please. I know you won’t let me, but please… I need it so much.”
“What makes you think that?” Tom roughly grabbed your other breast to prolong the fervent torture. His hips jerked against the curve of your ass.
“You never did. You never made me come, and every time I wake up, I have to finish it myself.” The genuine confession hung in the charged atmosphere amidst the carnality and the fervor of the moment.
His movements stilled, a wry grin curled his lips.
“You had dreams about me?” The question dripped with amusement and mocking cruelty.
“Yeah… you should know that. We are in a dream.” You shrugged.
“Right, it’s a dream.” He nuzzled into your temple and inhaled the fresh scent of your shampoo. What a stupid thing.
The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was Tom’s ragged breathing and a sticky mess of your combined release that painted your legs and ass in white.
***
The next morning you woke up alone, the room was strangely quiet. No Riddles were in sight. Hm, you should really start brewing more potions for Dreamless Sleep after a night like that…
Talking to Weasley at breakfast felt like an effort; your voice was rough and hoarse, your muscles sore—a price of a night spent without a wink of sleep."
“I had the strangest dream.” You rubbed your tired eyes. “Like I was sharing a room with Riddle, and we had one fucking bed! It was a horror I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.” A short, self-deprecating laugh dropped from your lips.
The girl arched her brow and looked at you like you offered her to kiss the Dementor.
“What do you mean? Dumbledore rearranged the housing at Tom’s request early in the morning, so we are roommates now.”
Your plastic smile died on your lips; a cold hollow settled in your chest as you turned to find Tom. He was occupied with a Beauxbatons girl who was innocently batting her lashes and twirling a golden lock of hair around her finger in blatant flirtation. Tom’s eyes locked onto yours, a slow smirk curling his lips. His gaze wandered to your neck before he returned his attention to the unfortunate prey. Instinctively, you touched the curve of your shoulder and hissed. The skin burned under your fingertip with a painful lovebite.
“I was wondering when you would notice.” Weasley clicked her tongue in annoyance; she twisted her knife in the soggy omelet. You stared at it for too long, feeling the silver sharpness tearing into your own gut instead of that tasteless shit.
Was it wrong? Utterly wrong. Did it feel good? More than anything.
Part 1 | Part 2
wordcount: 4.7k
pairing: tom riddle x f!you x mattheo riddle
warnings: 18+ (ish), manipulation, two bastards using reader (she doens't mind tho)
author's note: i love the whole idea of teaching someone smth so much as you can see lol. feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes! thanks for reading xo
Masterlist
“You must be joking, Mattheo.”
Maybe it was the fifth time today you had repeated the same words—each time in a different voice. Horrification morphed into weariness; a bothersome weight pressed down your sore shoulders, even your boyfriend’s touch brought no relief. And now, caught in a small corner of the Slytherin common room, you were praying for the giant squid to burst through the glass and swallow your exhausted self. Along with the idiot in front of you.
“No jokes! Please, my love… You are the only one who can help us,” Mattheo pouted; his palms caressed your cheeks with such devotion, you felt guilty (only for a fleeting second) for refusing the most outrageous request you had ever heard.
It all started today—on the 2nd of February. You would even underline the day in your diary and put it in the list of things named ‘Why you should never date Mattheo Riddle’. You learnt to put up with that unbreakable bond between him and Tom, through countless arguments and bitter tears. You had no idea that by entering a relationship with volatile, loud-mouthed Mattheo, you were also signing up for his psychopath of a brother.
Tom Riddle—Merlin forbid!—never saw you as anything more than a stain on his idealistic view of the world. In contrast, you were the whole world to Mattheo Riddle, shining as bright as the stars he would knock down one by one, so you remained the only thing lighting up his darkness. That was why you never had the power to resist him.
***
“You know, Slughorn is throwing a Valentine’s Day party and planning to invite only the crème de la crème of Ministry.” Mattheo leaned in to your ear during breakfast; his hot breath tickled the flushed skin of your neck. The same skin he’d had the disrespect to paint with lovebites only twenty minutes ago. “So, we really need your help.”
You were pushing a piece of bacon from one side of the plate to the other, nibbling on your already swollen lip. The morning chatter of the Great Hall didn’t quite reach your secluded spot at the far end of the Slytherin table, and you were grateful again to have an aggressive guard dog by your side. Being a quiet and reserved girl was always a struggle but not anymore with Mattheo.
“Yeah, and?” You finally lifted your gaze from the plate and turned to study his face—the same black eyes bright with determination, the scar you loved to kiss every time the two of you were close, the disheveled curls that were so soft you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through them—simply to hear him groan and moan under your hand. Handsome, a little mad but undeniably yours.
“He only allowed those with a plus-one to attend,” Mattheo said, his knee bumped against yours under the table. “You know my brother—he would never pass up a chance to mingle with a crowd of self-centered snobs.”
“Mhm, he is blending in way too well for someone who grew up in the orphanage.” You shrugged.
The corners of Mattheo’s mouth twitched; the usual arrogance was shadowed by unpleasant memories, but he shoved them deep down instantly. It was yet another defining trait that set the two boys apart. While your boyfriend had found a way to numb that aching bruise and broke loose from the suffocating chains of the terrible childhood, his brother kept ripping at the wound until it was nothing but a bleeding mess of bone and flesh. The pain had seared away his feelings, leaving nothing behind.
“Always so charming, my dear.” A small peck on your temple melted the ice you started to build around yourself. “Tom and I thought that you can help him gain a certain… experience to convince everyone he had found the love of his life.”
You snorted and nearly spilled your coffee all over the table.
“Love of his life? Matty, he’ll surely find his one true love in the embrace of some nasty snake. Oh, I hope the poor thing survives his company for more than five minutes.”
Mattheo grinned, the flash of white blinded you for a moment. “He’s not that bad!”
“Yeah, he is not that bad, he is worse,” you groaned. “Spill it, Mattheo, what do you need? Don’t tell me you want me to go to the party with him.” The word appeared to hold more poison than you had intended to infuse.
And as protective as the guard dog, your boyfriend hated—he despised with his whole being—when you were around someone he didn’t trust. With trust issues so deep you could feel the void staring right back at you, he was always lingering nearby. Obviously, the rule didn’t apply to Tom.
“Hmm, it might sound a little odd…” he trailed off, his hand found yours on the table and squeezed your fingers. “But I want you to… uhm… teach my brother how to kiss so it will look natural between him and his…”
The scraping sound of your fork against the plate drew the attention of your housemates while you were busy trying to pick your jaw up off the floor. Mattheo cringed, furrowing his brow.
Slowly, as if the suggestion had rearranged something inside, you turned to face your boyfriend.
“I beg you pardon?” There was a blade-like edge to the words, cutting the tension that had seized you both. “You must be joking, Mattheo.” You sneered, the warmth of his palm became uncomfortable, and you pushed it away without second thought.
Mattheo’s expression went grim—the boyish facade cracked at the seams; you hurried to grab your bag off the floor and bolt from the table. You hoped your shaky legs could still take you somewhere peaceful. His unnerving focus between your shoulder blades felt like a guillotine, ready to chop off your head.
You loved Mattheo but that was too much even for the two of you.
***
You couldn’t stay mad at him for too long; a few hours without Mattheo’s presence at your side were agonizing, like a slow, painful torment. He gave you space, gave you time to collect the discarded pieces of your mind.
Riddle knew you would say ‘yes’ eventually—that’s how it always was. A few touches here, a hushed, flattering words there, and those puppy-dog eyes of a boy whose heart had been yours since you clashed over a failed potions assignment back in third year. But the heavy artillery he had up his sleeve was ‘persistence’. He’d take his time spoon-feeding you the idea that what he was proposing was perfectly normal—especially for your relationship, for which the word ‘normalcy’ had been wiped out of the vocabulary.
He knew that. You knew that, too.
“I promise it will be the first and the last time I ask you to do it.” He was kneeling between your legs, oblivious (he didn’t care) to the bewildered stares from every corner. “I’ll do anything for you… You want flowers? I’ll pillage the whole fucking greenhouse.” Mattheo’s lips grazed your jaw; the voice coated your senses with saccharine sweetness. “You want the fucking sun? I’ll bring it to you.” His palms slid down to your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the sensitive spots above your collarbones.
You would be lying if you said you hadn’t been thinking about the suggestion the whole day.
“Mattheo, shouldn’t this whole thing of me kissing your brother make you sick?” Your question was an anchor that was supposed to ground you to the sane reality. “Because if it doesn’t…”
He pulled you closer to the edge of the armchair, burying his face in the crook of your neck to inhale your scent. Your hands stayed on your thighs, trembling with desire to wrap them around him. No, you must stay calm and collected—a beacon of sound mind amidst the collective madness.
“You ask if I should be jealous of my own brother?” he muttered; his teeth nibbled at the blooming mark he had left you today’s morning. “My love, he doesn’t even see you as a woman. That is like… being jealous of your family doctor. Absurd.”
Maybe Tom didn’t see you as a woman, but you surely saw him as a man. Tall, attractive and charming man that got the whole school wrapped around his finger.
Mattheo was the heat boiling your blood; Tom was the ice freezing down everything he touches. You had the chance to taste the cold when he grabbed your arm to yank you back from the Astronomy tower’s ledge, all because you were too captivated by another constellation. It took you two steaming cups of tea and a lot of kisses from your boyfriend to warm you up.
“What if I vomit?! Straight onto his perfectly ironed shirt? He will murder me.” You sighed, the fortification got hit by Mattheo’s breathy chuckle.
“He will never do this. Not to you. Look, he even likes you!”
“Likes me? Merlin, he was about to strangle me when I burst into your shared room without knocking. I didn’t know you weren’t there!”
Your boyfriend shifted to face you; his dark curls danced to the rhythm of his silent laughter, and you reached out to brush them away from his forehead.
Instantly, like he had been waiting for it the whole evening, he leaned into your cool palm and pressed a kiss to your wrist. You looked into his dark pools of adoration and rapture, that sent your head into a dizzying spin. And to the place where the idea gradually entwined itself with the tangled mess of your swirling thoughts.
“That was four years ago! He has changed.” Riddle grinned. “Please, my love, we will owe you. Please…”
As much as you loved your boyfriend, you also reveled in his desperation. Nothing thrilled you more than the sight of him begging on his knees—the fire was licking at your hand without leaving a single burn.
Oh, and add to that having the smartest, most intimidating person in Hogwarts in your debt too.
So, the fortress fell right at your feet, where Mattheo had found his place without a word of objection. The weapon gleamed in the poorly lit common room with the pearly-white of his teeth.
“Will you help us? Your dedicated boyfriend and his psychopath brother?”
You wanted to scream no with all your heart, let the dignity speak for yourself.
Each time it came to Mattheo Riddle, every doubt magically appeared to be silenced. After all, how could you refuse a man who would go to the ends of the earth for your sake?
“Yes, I will.”
***
When the door closed behind you, and the lock clicked into place, you realised there was no turning back.
There he was, Tom Riddle. Sitting on his bed with a rigid posture of a statue. Only the dark obsidians, same as Mattheo’s, were watching you very intently. The ache to claw your way back rose in your chest.
“Riddle,” you greeted him with a nod he ignored.
“Be polite, Tommy. She is the only one who agreed.” Mattheo gently pushed you to step deeper into the room.
If you had never been to their dorm before, you would never assume that Mattheo shared the space with Tom. It was neat: the usual mess of dirty socks or forgotten clothes you saw in the other rooms never marred the tidy space that smelled like the Riddles. Pain with a tint of their cologne, and, of course, the fading note of your own perfume that seemed to cling to your boyfriend.
“There were others?” you exclaimed, a little irritated.
“It’s a joke, my love. It had always been you, no one else.” Mattheo placed his palms on your shoulders and guided you towards his brother. “Am I right, Tom?”
Tom’s lips twitched. “You are the safest option, …” He spat your name with sharpness that always annoyed the living shit out of you.
“Okay, and who’s that poor girl you are planning to use?” You arched your brow and stared down at him. “Should we be worried to find another corpse in the bathroom after the party?”
Tom and Mattheo exchanged a quick glance, something sparkled in the void of their eyes; a few candles flickered, carving Tom’s features out of the darkness for a split second. Goosebumps littered your skin beneath the layers of warm clothes. What have you gotten yourself into…?
“It doesn’t matter.” He adjusted his shirt cuffs without breaking eye contact. “Stop talking and sit down.”
The command punched the air out of your lungs, and you opened your mouth to throw an insult—until your boyfriend kissed the top of your head “He is right, love. The sooner we teach that virgin how to kiss the better. I have my plans for you.” The intimate whisper lowered your guard and ruffled a few stray hairs.
You hesitated. Silence layered itself over your trio, making your nerves crackle as though bolts of lightning were shimmering around.
Whenever the slightest doubt sent a ripple across the still waters of your composure, Mattheo was there to take control and steer you in the right—to his mind—direction. Even now, he carefully seated you on the bed beside Tom and took the place behind you, tracing your knuckles with his thumb.
“You should know that I don’t even like you, Tom. And I do this because I love your brother and I was tired of his whining.” You drew the shaky line, the very line that should help you mark the boundary which was about to be demolished.
Tom’s face was pale, stripped of all emotion like the concept of kissing his brother’s girlfriend was the most ordinary thing he did every weekend. It was the first time you’d been this close to him, and your observant eye immediately began to seek out the tiniest resemblances between the two of them.
“Let’s start. I don’t have much time.” Tom cleared his throat and roughly grabbed your arms, forcefully pulling you close to his body.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” You slapped his hands away. “That’s not how you act with the girl you fancy!”
Tom arched his brow and glared over your shoulder. “What’s wrong? Don’t girls like it when a man takes charge?”
“No!” you snapped. “I’m not ready to kiss you yet. You should… I don’t know… Tell me something sweet just to—” you waved vaguely, “—get me in the mood.”
Mattheo’s finger trailed along your arm before it reached your neck. “Yes, Tommy boy. Use your charm.” He pressed into the blooming lovebite; you shuddered.
The confusion smoothed out Tom’s angles, and you found him almost endearing for a moment.
“Uhm, your technique of cutting up the mandrake root is rather… adequate.”
Forget what you said.
“Wow, that’s the first compliment I have ever heard from Tom!” Mattheo grinned, his curls tickled your cheek as he rested his chin on your shoulder, his hands wrapped securely around your waist. “I told you he likes you.”
“Oh, Merlin… No, compliment my appearance! Anything but not my chopping skills, please.” You nagged.
You were ready to Bombarda the door, but the solid weights of the familiar body against your back stilled the roaring magic at your fingertips.
“Beauty is subjective; what matters is yo—"
“Tell me I’m beautiful and that I have a cute smile!” you blurted out through gritted teeth.
He chewed on his lip, glaring at his brother as if searching for support, but Mattheo only nodded.
“Fine.” Riddle smoothed down his already perfect robes, the ‘Head Boy’ badge shined in the thick gloom of the room. “You are beautiful. And you have the cutest smile.”
Had those words come from Mattheo, you’d already be melting, jumping into his arms and peppering his nose with little kisses. But Tom was begging you to poke his ribs with something sharp, only to see if there was anything inside besides an inflated ego. However, that was a fine start—at least he managed to string those letters together.
“Salazar, you’re not reporting to Dumbledore, you’re impressing a girl! Get closer and try to say it like you truly want to please her.” Mattheo shoved the two of you towards his brother, forcing your knees to touch. Tom attempted to pull away, but Mattheo’s intensity apparently spoke louder than any words; he accepted the proximity, albeit with a disgruntled scowl.
You remained silent, nervously gripping the hem of your skirt. Why nervous? Because you couldn’t brush off the atmosphere that left your skin tingling with little needles.
Surprising how easy it had been to convince Tom to do something he didn’t like (or perhaps, he was merely pretending not to). The party had to be very important to him.
“You are gorgeous.” A dangerous fire flashed in the bottom of Riddle’s dilated pupils as he loomed over you. You had braced yourself for a fervent cold, but instead, an unexpected warmth burned against your lips. “And your smile is so breathtaking, …” Your name slipped from his lips like sweet nectar, leaving you desperate to savour it once more.
Well, that was notable progress. Your heart fluttered in your chest, traitorously pounding inside your throat in a feverish waltz. A flush crept up your cheeks, and your earlier irritation slowly gave way to a shy confusion.
“Wow, Tom, she liked it!” Mattheo’s lips stretched into a predatory smirk, and his hands squeezed your hips. The possessive weight of his body turned the heat within you into a fire. It was so morally wrong, so surreal, that you could only wonder how quickly your wariness had blossomed into genuine interest. “She’s practically trembling! A couple more compliments and she will be ready.”
You grumbled a faint protest, flushing even deeper. The Slytherin badge on Tom’s chest suddenly became much more fascinating than his dark eyes, which were fixed on you with a mix of cruel amusement and mockery.
“There is no way I’m kissing him myself,” you hissed, giving Mattheo a sharp jab with your elbow.
“It’s okay, I’m not gonna cry.” Tom snorted, the curl of his lips seemed more like a sneer.
And someone actually fell in love with him?! You lost track of how many of your girlfriends had drooled over the Head Boy. The thought of intimacy with Tom had never—even in your wildest fantasies—crossed your mind.
Until that very moment. You would blame Mattheo for the rest of your life.
“Let’s get it over with and I’ll be free. You both make my skin crawl.”
Your boyfriend snickered. The sound vibrated through the length of your spine, echoing in your lower stomach with a sweet languor.
“What do I do next?” Tom kept his gaze locked on you. You stiffened, scared of the sobering cold that was about to clear the fog in your head. Without your consent.
Mattheo took his brother’s palm and placed it firmly on your thigh. You exhaled softly, meeting Tom’s gaze. Too close. Too close for your boyfriend’s own brother. Too close for anyone, considering how jealousy protective he was of any living soul who dared to step into your personal space.
“Be kind. Stroke her knee, look her in the eyes and then kiss the side of her mouth first. She enjoys a little teasing.” Mattheo’s instructions in that low, silvery voice made you uneasy; a hard lump rose in your throat.
“I’m still here.” You grimaced. The knot in your stomach tightened, you squirmed to ease your nerves. It didn’t help. “A lot of girls like a good foreplay, not just me.”
Dark, sinister smirks spread across both boy’s features. The realisation that this held more than a simple ‘help’ thrashed inside you, screaming a warning. Run. The door appeared impossibly distant, drowned in shadows until it disappeared from the view. There were only the three of you and a feverish arousal, for which the wrongness of the situation was no barrier. If anything, it was another spark into the coiling flames of exciting curiosity.
“What’s next?” Tom’s fingers tickled your exposed thigh, his thumb drew a small circle on the thin skin, where it immediately broke into goosebumps.
And next you’d wish the ground would swallow you whole.
“Kiss her. Slowly at first, no tongue. Then, once she parts her lips for you…” Mattheo cooed, his mouth hovered over your ear. He gave the lobe a playful bite. “Be confident, Tom—that’s all I’m telling you. Try it. She’s not going anywhere.”
Your blood seethed, ears buzzing from a poisonous swirl of fear and anticipation. You were terrified you might enjoy this, yet consumed by the wish to know what Mattheo would do next. Would he remain solely an observer? Or would he chime in with his stupid remarks? Either way, you had no intention of running anymore.
Tom nodded, a few of his curls fell onto his forehead, and you fought the crave to tuck them away. You thought it was ridiculous. And dumb. You came here for Mattheo and peace that, by the feel of it, was now leaving you for good.
He closed the distance; his stare, filled with nothingness, pinned you in place like you were nothing more than a test subject of a Puffskein. His cool lips brushed against your cheek, an inch away from your mouth, as though Tom was still testing the waters of his own intent. Your boyfriend purred against your other cheek; his rough fingers crept under your shirt to grip your waist. Mattheo played your body like the finest instrument, making you hum and vibrate with pleasure.
The strangest sensation of your life—the feel of two sets of hands—seemed almost crude, right out of those trashy Muggle romances that Parkinson girl was always hiding under her pillow. If one pair knew you better than you knew yourself, the other was beginning to memorize every curve.
A violent shiver ran through you as you released a low, shaky breath.
“Shh, be quiet, my love.” Mattheo nibbled at the sweet spot under your ear, soothing the fresh sting with the tip of his tongue. His palms went higher to your ribcage—tender and careful, a promise of what was to come.
Yeah, he was certainly preparing you for Tom who captured your bottom lip, grazing it with his teeth, not enough to swallow your broken gasp. He didn’t know how to kiss?! Merlin, they were messing up with you the whole time!
Riddle… Both Riddles smiled slyly, exchanging a tacit agreement; you couldn’t see the mutual understanding that passed between them—your world was reduced to the sight of the coloured spots behind your closed eyelids. The frantic thumping of your heart made it impossible to hear your shameless whimpers.
The first kiss with Tom was nothing like Mattheo’s. He took his time with you—far too precise and deliberate, like solving equations from an Arithmancy textbook, whereas your first kiss with Mattheo had been a wild battle of tongues and teeth. Tom’s hands skimmed over your hipbones before pulling you to his body; Mattheo pushed the collar of your shirt aside to grant himself an invitation to your shoulder. Between the agonizing heat spreading inside and the rotting-sweet ache twisting your core into a knot, a choked sob escaped your mouth.
Of course, being a quick learner, Tom used the advice and slipped his tongue between your parted lips. It was a bit clumsy, but his lack of experience didn’t matter when all you felt was dizziness and a raw pleasure.
Tom Riddle—your boyfriend’s brother!—was kissing you, while Mattheo was sucking at your neck, caressing your ribs with his palms. You were twisting Tom’s robes in your fists, scared that if you were going to let go, you would tumble over the edge and fall into hell. The one Muggles were so terrified of.
“You are a great teacher, dear! Watch out, your own student might outshine you.” Mattheo sank his teeth into the crook of your neck. You let out a muffled mewl, which Tom took as permission to intensify his pace. His tongue met yours.
Honestly, you prayed for the kiss to be gross and nasty. With every part of your heart and soul.
Ugh, unfortunately, Tom was proving to be as intoxicating as the scorching heat of Mattheo’s lips. He was demanding and relentless, forcing weak, breathless moans out of your chest. For a second, you almost thought they had swapped places, but Mattheo’s eagerness often consumed his reverent gentleness for you. Tom, on the other hand, held you with respect, never once touching the bare skin of your stomach, as if he intended to remain a gentleman.
Kinda funny knowing his tongue was ravishing your mouth. You, his brother’s girlfriend. All those intrusive thoughts could wait until later. Right now, there was nothing but the electrifying presence of the two bodies crushing you between them.
“How do you like it, sweetheart? Do you think he has a chance?” Mattheo brushed a strand of hair away from your shoulder and left a feather-light peck on your jaw.
You shoved Tom, and he grunted, digging his fingers into your waist. The kiss broke with an embarrassingly loud “mwah”; you shut your eyes again the second you saw Riddle’s flushed face and his bitten lips, trying to ignore the wave of arousal that rushed through your lower stomach—your panties were already damp, it would be a pity to ruin them any further.
“You set this all up… you don’t need my fucking help,” you rasped, the air returning to your lungs in sharp hitches. “Merlin’s beard, you wanted to make a fool of me, didn’t you?!”
Mattheo straightened your collar and hugged you from behind, thrusting his hips against your backside. It wasn’t a wand in his pocket, that’s for sure.
“How could you think such a thing? You’re a brilliant teacher, my love. Look what you’ve done to him.”
You reluctantly pried your eyes open, taking in the sight of Tom’s rumpled robes, his lips glistening with your saliva, and a deep blush staining his face and neck. Satisfied, as if his experiment had indeed been successful, he gave Mattheo a nod and checked his wristwatch.
“That was very educational, but I believe it’s time for you to go,” he spoke in a strained, uneven voice. “The party isn’t for another few days. So, I’m free on Tuesday and Thursday.”
Mattheo grinned, earning an irritated poke in the ribs from you. Still too lost and shivering, you tried to seek comfort in your boyfriend’s arms, wishing you could erase this entire day from existence.
“Perfect, Tuesday it is! Not bad for the first lesson.” He got up from the bed, pulling you up with him. “See, told you you’d enjoy it.”
Your legs could barely move. It felt like your skin was burning; Tom’s taste was taunting your tongue—coffee and those stupid mint sweets Mattheo was always filling his pockets with. The two of them definitely shared something. For instance, they both were absolute bastards.
“Yeah, thank you,” Tom mumbled.
“What do you mean ‘Tuesday’?!” you hissed, irritation evident in your voice.
“We still require a few practical sessions.” Mattheo shrugged, a wicked grin curved his lips. “You wouldn’t abandon your student, would you?”
You glanced over your shoulder at Tom, who covered his arousal with his robes. Something stirred and fluttered inside, and then finally calmed down.
“Of course not,” you muttered, slipping out the door with your boyfriend.
As you were heading down the stairs to the common room, you tugged at Mattheo’s hand. “He knows how to kiss. You only wanted to find out how it would feel to watch your brother kissing and touching me, yes?”
You stopped at the first step, and Mattheo turned around. He studied you for a moment, his gaze traveling from head to toe before settling on the angry, dark red lovebites on your neck and the tiny cut on your lip.
“Yes,” he accepted.
No secrets were staining your relationship. That was one of the things you were grateful for.
“And… what did you feel?”
“No one is closer to me than you and him. No one will ever be. And I want you to feel the same,” he replied with disarming sincerity.
His words resonated in your mind; you gripped his palm tighter in understanding. If this was so important to him, you’d give it a chance. Was it wrong? Utterly wrong. Did it feel good? More than anything.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
wordcount: 4.2k
pairing: professor!tom riddle x f!you
warnings: 18+, age gap, professor x student, manipulation, praise kink, fingering, dry humping.
author's note: part 2 yay (tho i think it’s more of a standalone work). i enjoyed writing this soo much. feel free to correct my grammar or any other mistakes! thanks for reading xo
tags: @thequeenofdramaqueens @mewantpeepaw
Masterlist
Two weeks had passed, and Professor Riddle hadn’t made any attempt to teach you something new you’d eagerly been waiting for. Maybe he didn’t need you anymore? Or maybe you were so bad at such a simple act as kissing, he would never ever touch you again (oh, you were so, so wrong)? Either way, you felt like an abandoned puppy, seeking its master’s love.
At first, you thought that the kiss with Professor Riddle would cure your hopeful, lovesick self. But after those lonely weeks, your heart was filled to the brim with a pitiful need to gain his attention. It was kinda pathetic, to be honest. Even your ‘friend’ called you out for groveling with redouble effort before the Professor. Who would like to write a thirty-inch essay about… uh… boggart’s origin for five house points? You! Who would stay after class to clean up the stinky mess those Cornish pixies left everywhere? You. And who would like to spend the whole Saturday evening helping the Professor to list all the artifacts he had found during his last trip to France? Ugh, you… You didn’t even have to raise your hand—he had already planned it all for you, his most promising student.
The DADA classroom offered neither comfortable seats, nor sufficient lighting, nor proper heating. Cold, gloomy, and rigorous, as if the Professor himself had permeated the space. You wanted nothing more than to wrap yourself in its bitter cloak and inhale the rich cologne until the only thing you could ever taste or feel—the spicy notes with a flicker of sweetness.
Instead, you could only stare at him across the room with a visible annoyance and bundle up in your school robes. The wooden bench creaked again when you shifted, trying to soothe the ache in your back. It wasn’t that unbearable to sit through the entire length of the DADA class when you were high on the memories of his tongue playing with yours. Or how his hands were gripping your hips. Or how he praised you with his raspy tone that seemed to vibrate in your bones. Or how you chewed on your lip to hide the lewd noises of you pleasuring yourself in the bathroom after the new addition to the curriculum. Yes, you were far too gone for your own good.
When Professor Riddle had cut off the drug supply, you, much to your deranged mind, realised that you craved sweet intoxication more than anything in your life. Your veins were burning; erratic heartbeat was violating your ribcage every now and then (especially when the culprit hadn’t uttered a single word for the past two and a half hours); every muscle was tense, singing its sad, sore music under your skin. In short, the fix was needed immediately.
Too bad the dealer was busy with absolutely everything at once, completely ignoring your existence. He sat at his dark-wood desk, neatly organised with magical trinkets, parchments, old books, and two empty glasses of firewhiskey. The warm shimmering of the candles danced in the reflection of his black, devoid of any emotion or life, eyes. His quill worked non-stop over the diary you noticed he had always carried with him. You wondered what kind of thoughts that small treasury had been hiding between the yellow pages. Maybe his deepest desires and most terrifying secrets? Or maybe his very soul was engraved in this little thing? No, what a silly idea… An item imbued with a piece of a human being? Salazar, you should really go to your room and sleep properly, because your brain was slowly turning into a mess.
The bench groaned; you squinted your eyes as the outlines of the artifact before you began to blur. You were tired, unsatisfied (both physically and mentally), and a little angry with yourself.
When the Professor asked—no, ordered—to come today and help him, you, as usual, flew to his side on the wings of pure, unconditional love. Hogsmeade was forgotten as were the taunts of your friends, who had long since figured out your not-so-subtle crush on the DADA professor. But after all, who wasn’t in love with him?
“Have you finished describing the artifact’s appearance yet?” Professor Riddle didn’t even spare you a brief glance, still writing something very important in his diary.
His voice was prickly and crisp as the first snow—you shivered when the icy needles ran down your spine.
“It’s a rock, Professor Riddle,” you answered flatly. “The grey rock with black spots.”
The same phrase was written on your parchment along with a crude sketch of the said rock. He was mocking you, that’s for sure. When you heard the word ‘artifact’, you thought he would let you touch the dark magic and taste the essence of what he was made of (both physically and metaphorically, of course), or he would even allow you to use some of them. Your ravenous hunger for knowledge begged to be satisfied with new information, sometimes even more desperately than you desired Professor Riddle’s attention.
But he only dumped all these coloured stones, burnt books, and half-broken vials on you, saying, “This will teach you patience”. Patience? By sorting through the junk? You’d rather be drunk in The Three Broomsticks right now, whining about Astronomy Professor being a bitch!
“You call a vessel that could store the breath of life a ‘rock’?” He lifted his head. His reading glasses were resting near the tip of his nose. “Enough idling. Get back to work. You won’t be dismissed until it’s finished.”
You liked your Professor a lot, even though he was as cruel and unforgiving as the three curses—he was quite a mixture of them. The specks of green, red, and the faint tingle in the back of your head were a stark reminder of how merciless he could be.
“You told me to catalog it. I did.” The answer balanced on a thin line between challenge and sheer exhaustion. “It’s a rock.”
The Professor set aside his quill and leaned back in his leather chair with a look of utter irritation. Shadows loomed over his form, adorning the sharp features and the broadness of his shoulders. The simple white shirt hugged him tightly; the rolled-up sleeves revealed his forearms, feeding your inner aesthete with the pleasing sight of his veins. Your lower stomach tied itself in a little knot, and a hot flush rose to your neck.
You need him to touch you right fucking now.
“Your lack of perspicacity never fails to amaze me.” The dry humour of his tone made you shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s always more than meets the eye, Miss.”
The icy jibe made you press your lips into a thin line and glare at the ‘artifact’ again, hoping it would transform into something spectacular immediately.
Nothing. Still a rock.
“I think you underestimate me, Professor. I have proven myself more than capable of handling things far more dangerous than a piece of…” You carefully picked up a grey mass that had once been a book but now was merely a charred scrap of former wisdom, “…rubbish.”
He didn’t say a word, just watched you until your knees began to shake, the silence thickening the chilly air of the classroom. Professor Riddle put down his glasses, eyes still locked with yours, even though you wanted to look away—you were supposed to look away—you simply couldn’t. His skills in manipulating others were at such an exceptional level that, you sometimes thought to yourself, he would succeed in the Ministry.
Tom Riddle was made to rule far greater things than a bunch of brainless students who couldn’t tell a ghost from a poltergeist. Being the Head of Slytherin House was a good starting point, and he handled the role effortlessly (you loved how The House Cup was glinting in your common room when the days were particularly sunny). Yet, it never felt like enough for him.
In your mind you saw him with you.
In his mind he saw him and you.
The time would come, one way or another. After all, the future was in the hands of a patient man. He was that man, indeed. But not when it came to you. Tom Riddle would have to start sooner, before you became a liability.
“Come here.” The command got stuck somewhere under your skin, slashing through your nerves. You knew he would never hurt you—not physically, at least.
You had grown quite fond of that stupid bench that had been causing you a lot of back pain, so leaving it now almost felt like a betrayal. Still, you hesitantly walked towards his desk, pulling your robes tighter as a draught licked at your bare thighs. When you stepped into the Professor’s space, you quickly scanned the artifacts he’d been working with.
Not a single rock was in sight.
A couple of golden mechanisms, a jewelry that looked as if it could kill just with a single touch, dusty manuscripts, and… a bloody diamond? You stared at it in awe, having never seen a gem as black as the Professor’s eyes. Truly marvelous finds.
“Don’t look at it for too long—it might drive you mad.” He wrapped the diamond in silk and stowed it in a small, crumpled box.
“You picked the most intriguing things for yourself and left only the scrap for me to catalog?” Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to complain to Professor Riddle, the one who never accepted whining, but you… you were made for far greater things than this mindless work even a first-year could manage. “Not fair.”
The Professor’s mouth twitched into a sneer, and the light in his eyes faded as the complete darkness took over them. He raked his gaze over your form covered in robes, marking every slight, fidgety shift, every rise and fall of your chest with each intake of breath. You could put on hundreds of robes, he would see right through them anyway, stripping you naked.
“The life is unfair, get used to it.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Now, if you are quite done acting like an ill-mannered child...” With a little tilt of his chin, he gestured for you to come around the desk.
Frustration seethed beneath your ribcage, right where your heart had faltered every time the Professor spoke to you. You obeyed, lowered your head and walked around the desk, now standing at his side. From where he sat, the view of the entire class was… odd. Involuntarily, your gaze drifted to your usual spot in the front row, as you tried to imagine what he saw when he looked at you. What were you? Just another student, caught in the trap of his charm, or merely a toy for his amusement?
Neither of it, he answered your silent questions.
You shivered, more visibly than before.
“It’s not that cold,” the Professor said.
“It is cold,” you hissed. “You just got used to it.”
He glanced at you with a smirk that could have melted you in a matter of seconds. But you turned your attention back to the trinkets, tired eyes greedily devouring every one of them for you to distract yourself from his suffocating presence.
“Hmm, I see. Do you like it?” He picked one of the mechanisms, long fingers running along the shiny sides. The thing had a resemblance with the Time-Turner—same hourglass in the center and the handle that could be rotated. It looked like it was made of pure gold, had quite unfamiliar runes all over, and smelled like—yeah, you could smell it—like someone had exploded something.
“Is this thing broken?” You pointed to the artifact and leaned closer to inspect the markings on the fine surface.
“Yes. I’ve found it on the ruins of the château outside Calais.” His voice was harsh, though a softer undertone took the sting out of it. “Would you like to help me to catalog it?”
The robes were not needed anymore when the invitation sounded so… tempting, almost like he had asked you to do something inappropriate, not to complete the most tiresome task you began to hate with every fiber of your being.
You wanted to say no.
“Of course, Professor.”
Fuck.
“Good. Sit.”
You were expecting him to pull a chair for you, but he, much to your surprise, reclined in the armchair, expecting you to settle onto his lap. Oh, what a foolish assumption, isn’t it? Yeah, it was. Until he patted his thigh impatiently.
“Wha—?” your question died as fast as the flush crept up your neck. “But… I can find…”
He rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. “I told you to sit. And take off your robes—it’s not cold.”
Your trembling fingers worked on the buttons while your heart was racing in anticipation of something you couldn’t put into words. Was it an arousal that had been building up inside you the whole evening? Or simply thrill of the challenging assignment? Most likely, it was all of the above.
The black fabric slid from your shoulders, and you put the robes on the round cabinet. Professor Riddle watched your every move with the interest of a researcher. Perhaps it was finally time for your next lesson?
His thigh muscles tensed beneath the trousers when you lowered yourself onto him. Were you imagining things? Or had you fallen asleep on that desk among the rocks and other rubbish? Because it felt like a fever dream—one of the many you’d had about the Professor.
You were afraid to touch him, so you sat with a stiff back, hands folded on the wooden surface. You looked like a model student. Except the warm body behind, and the hot palm that had found its place on your hip. It hardly suited the image of an exemplary student to be perched on the professor’s lap.
“Make yourself comfortable, we have a lot of work to do.” His warm breath tickled the back of your neck, and he pulled you higher, forcing your back to meet his chest.
The heat radiating off him was enough to burn you to a pile of ashes. Enough to make your insides flutter in the bliss of his presence. Enough to cloud your mind with the reminder of his tongue inside your mouth.
It was just work. Nothing more. If he had wanted to do something to you, he would have already done it.
Work. Yeah.
“Start with describing the colour.” He rasped; his thumb pressed into your hipbone, and you grabbed the quill to soothe the nervous tremor in your hands. “Repeat aloud everything you write.”
Salazar and Merlin, please, you didn’t know—you had been blessed or fucking cursed?
You were about to find out.
The hard line of his thigh sat deliciously between your legs; you prayed to every Founder of Hogwarts not to squirm too much because he would surely feel how little of your attention was actually on the trinket.
“Uhm… it’s gold,” you started hesitantly. “But I can spot some tarnished areas, like someone has used it extensively before.” The quill scratched across the parchment; the rustling filled the charged air with unspoken tension. Tom Riddle wasn’t tense at all, he was merely enjoying examining artifacts with his favourite student.
You, on the other hand (or, in his hands specifically), were quivering. Your body moved on its own to settle more comfortably on his lap, seeking every ounce of heat he could offer you.
“What else?” he asked, peering over your shoulder to read the uneven handwriting. “Do try to write more legibly.”
His rebuke only provoked you to shift on his lap. The fabric scraped together; you shivered at the sound.
“Are you still cold?” he murmured into your ear, lips barely brushing over the sensitive skin.
No, you were burning in the fires of hell.
Please, say you were not cold. Please, say it. Don’t make it worse.
“I am, Professor. Sorry.” You bit down your lower lip. “Can I get my robes?”
Professor Riddle let out a low ‘hum’, seemingly displeased with your suggestion.
“Put your mouth and hands to the task.” His indifference wasn’t new. “Or I will do it myself.”
Oh, Professor, you would be glad to work on another assignment that required a hand-on approach, not plain cataloging.
You cleared your throat which seemed to be filled with the rapid beating of your heart.
“This thing has some silver thread all over the frame. And the runes…” You took the artifact from him and looked closely at the figures. “I don’t recognize them. And they are carved into the ring under the sandglass.”
The researcher’s curiosity distracted you from the way the Professor’s palm slowly slid down to your thigh. His fingers mindlessly played with the pleat of your uniform skirt, too short to even cover your knees.
“Think carefully. Doesn’t the first one remind you of the Raidho rune?” The lecturing tone was a contrast to the gentle stroking of your skirt just near the hem.
As he leaned forward slightly to point at the drawing, you felt every movement of his muscles against your spine. A maddening sensation of someone far more stronger pressing into you from behind was deliberately sinking its teeth into your composure, biting off the chunks of the control you had over yourself. It was truly a curse.
“I—uhm…” You closed your eyes for a moment when the veins under his pale skin stood out. “It looks like it but mirrored.”
“Raidho means ‘journey’, in other words ‘forward’. So, when it’s facing the other way, it can signify the same journey but reverse. In time.” Professor Riddle explained to you calmly; his velvet voice held that remarkable tone of a lecturer that could easily capture his students’ attention. “What do you think of the next rune?”
His question was poured into your left ear with a honey-like syrup, which caressed your little soul with a steady hand of your beloved Professor.
“Uruz? Oh, but this part a bit worn away...” You continued writing, studying the artifact before you.
The Professor observed how your fingers were gripping his quill and made a mental note about how ravishing you looked amongst his possessions. You were most precious and dearest, the one he would like to keep forever.
The concept of time was now foreign to him. He would teach you that as well. Later, when you were ready to take, rather than give.
“You are right. Good girl. Does my presence have such a positive influence on your focus?” His light chuckle resonated in every single cell of your body. You parted your thighs, barely hanging to the last shreds of your control; his fingers kneaded the soft flesh when the skirt rode up a little. “You deserve a reward, don’t you agree? Continue your task, and I might consider it.”
You took a deep breath and stole a quick glance down, watching his knuckles disappear one by one beneath your skirt.
No, it was a blessing.
The most saccharine blessing you had ever had in your life. You were filled with the scent of his cologne, with the silk of his voice, and the warmth of his touch. Still, you desired more. You were greedy—thanks to your Professor.
“In the context of the Time-Turner I think Uruz means—oh…” you gulped when his fingertips grazed your underwear and fell silent for a moment.
“Means what?” he insisted.
You shifted on his lap to press your hips fully into his, feeling the hard outline of… The wand? Erm, a couple of wands?
“I guess it means the will and the vitality nee… needed to perform the time-travel itself? I—Merlin!” You whimpered when his finger had found your clit through the damp fabric. Professor Riddle nudged the swollen bud and put his chin to rest on your shoulder.
“Mhm, because such powerful magic always demands a payment. This rune is used to limit the amount of the resource that can be claimed.” His dark locks tickled your flushed cheek; the pressure on your clit intensified, and you arched your back as though you tried to escape the electric sparks igniting in your lower stomach. “You are doing so good, darling. You haven’t forgotten to write it down, no?”
Salazar, you forgot how to fucking breath. And the most terrifying part? You were so embarrassed letting him feel how wet you were the moment he made you sit on him. Oh, you should be embarrassed about your not-so-subtle roll of hips just to ease the aching in your pussy.
“C… Can I continue?” You licked your lips.
He didn’t respond at first, too busy rubbing slow circles into you and straining himself from shoving his fingers deep inside your pussy too soon.
“Professor…?”
“Yes, go on. The next rune is?” His groan made your inner walls clench around nothing.
You gripped the quill tighter, and it creaked in protest. A drop of ink left a blooming stain right in the middle of the parchment, but you couldn’t care less when the other, very persistent hand sneaked under your shirt. The touch left a scorching path up to your breast—you could feel the skin prickling from the fire.
“It’s Albiz?” The question rolled off your mouth with a strangled moan when the Professor pinched your nipple. “Fuck! Professor Riddle!”
He tugged at it harshly, causing you to drop your head onto his shoulder and cover his hand with your own, right over the crumpled shirt.
“Language, Miss.” You couldn’t see his face, but you instantly painted the picture of his frown and the unrelenting, judging gaze whenever you stepped out of line. “Not ‘Albiz’—‘Algiz’,” he corrected you.
He was glad you were denied the pleasure of seeing him, because he looked utterly far away with a dusty-pink covering his cheekbones and a hungry, coveted glint in his obsidian eyes.
No. Two diamonds that had already pushed you to the edge of madness.
“Al…giz. It simply protects you.”
The phrase never got to lay down on the parchment because Professor Riddle pushed his finger inside you. “Tell me more. Why should we protect ourselves during time-travel?” he purred, teeth nibbling at the earlobe. When his tongue traced the shell, you nearly lost it.
He added the second finger almost imperceptibly, as your slick began to drip onto his trousers, leaving a dark patch. You cried and rocked your hips to chase the shallow thrusts of his fingers. A sheen of sweat coated your forehead and palms, each guiding his own to where you craved them more. He played with your nipples like he had been twirling his wand while lost in thought. He was stretching you like he had been dreaming of doing when you were especially desperate for his attention during those weeks.
The painful throbbing of his cock against your hip was a warning of how far it could lead you both. The path you would willingly take with him. And the path he would drag you through anyway.
“I can’t hear you.”
What a smug bastard. He could hear you very well, especially the noises your pussy had been making every time he drove his fingers inside and out of you. The filthy squelching, the Professor’s low growl, and your incoherent mumbling of his title and the ‘please’, ‘I can’t’, ‘stop’—charged the stuffy air of the classroom to the point your vision went white at the edges. He left your breast and gripped your hip tightly, forcing you into grinding against his firm muscles.
“Ah… Time-travel… if not handled… properly, can break the structure of time, causing a—” you leaned over his desk, propping your elbows on the surface, as ink stained your sleeves.
You weren’t time-traveling right now, that’s for sure, but it didn’t stop Professor Riddle from breaking you and putting the pieces together over and over again with each stroke of his fingertips against your sweet spot.
“What a clever girl.” He grinned and thrusted roughly his own hips to answer your fervid grinding. “You feel so good, so tight around my fingers, darling. That’s it…” Your walls fluttered, swallowing his fingers. “That’s my girl… Come on, you have another rune.” He ran his hand up your spine, counting each bone, until it stopped just on the back of your neck. The Professor applied a little pressure, urging you to finally release the tension that had been coiling in your lower stomach.
Magic and raw need roared in your veins, pulsing in your temples. The tingling became unbearable when the shockwaves washed over you, the cries, muffled by Riddle’s palm, were relentlessly spilling from your mouth.
Runes, parchments, artifacts, and spilled ink were swept aside while you fought to come from the high of the dose your Professor had kindly injected into you. He carefully held you close, reveling in the way your legs were shaking.
Your soul detached from your body and was floating high in the clouds—otherwise, you couldn’t explain this strange weightlessness. Fuck, if that was the second lesson, you should be afraid of the next ones…
“You still have a couple of runes left.” He brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead with a teasing smile and brought his glistening fingers to his lips. “Oh, and you’ve stained the whole report! We shall have to start all over again.”
wordcount: 7.6k
pairing: tom riddle x f!obsessed!you
warnings: 18+, use of Amortentia, forced, slight choking, unprotected p in v, rough sex, fingering, hair pulling, cnc, degradation, religion (slightly twisted), obsessive reader, brief mention of death, mean Tom.
author's note: thanks for reading xo if you saw any mistakes—let me know. didn't know how to properly tag the religious tone of the work, so... yeah.
summary: Faith has a way of taking far more than you could ever provide. You made your offer, he took it. Perhaps a little more than you intended, but did it even matter now?
Masterlist
The darkness never scared you. Whether it was the old, unlit corridors of Hogwarts’ dungeons or the suffocating black storm in the eyes of that one person—it didn’t matter. Why should you fear something resembling your own being? Why should you be ashamed of what has shaped you? These are the questions that have been plaguing your mind for a long time, making you doubt yourself and your perception of reality. The same reality you molded and twisted to submit to the image of the introverted girl with the single goal in her dull life—to remain a lurking shadow.
The darkness never scared you. It became the inseparable part of you, offering the peace and quiet of the empty space around you. No, it wasn’t loneliness. Your burning heart and the maniacal fixation were your most loyal companions throughout the years.
But you were ready to abandon them just for your body and soul belong only to him. And he must accept it. Willingly or not.
He’d better be.
Because you should never be ashamed of what has become your second nature.
***
The mornings with Potions as the first class felt like floating through the hazy fog: bubbling cauldrons, the distinctive smell of ingredients, dim light and the distant hum of the Dungeons.
“So, I suspect you will find the next potion far more intriguing than the previous two.” Slughorn approached the third station with a patronizing smile. “We will discuss love—matter that can easily change the course of history, drive the person to do the most bizarre things, and can even scare the Death away.”
The whispers rippled through the crowd of bored students, especially among the female part. You lifted your gaze from the parchment and looked at the boiling cauldron with a curiosity of a cat. The Professor gestured to come closer, his pale eyes crinkling at the corners as his favourite student approached the station along with the others. You noticed the absence of the silvery-green tie around his neck and made a mental note: a second time for the past three weeks. Hm, he usually didn’t wear his ties on Tuesdays or Saturdays. Today was Wednesday; the last time was Friday. You bit the inside of your cheek. Strange.
“Come closer, don’t be scared.” Slughorn waved at a few nervous students in the front row; he gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. You couldn’t see him fully but the twitch in the sharp line of his jaw didn’t escape your observant eye. “Now, Mr. Malfoy, what do you smell?”
The blond boy adjusted his shirt collar as if he were preparing to savor the finest wine of his insane, pure-blood family, not inhale the dry fumes of the potion. When Malfoy leaned back from the cauldron his face was contorted with a look of sheer surprise.
“Well?”
Abraxas cleared his throat. “I smell roses, chocolate, and—” he bit his lower lip for a moment, “Sleekeazy's Hair Potion.”
“Good, good. You see, the scent of this potion varies based on what attracts the person. Perhaps you recognised it by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen? Who can name it?” The Professor scanned the classroom, searching for a flicker of recognition on the bored faces.
“It’s Amortentia, sir,” answered a voice, deep and flat, that seemed to caress your ears.
“My boy, I knew I could count on you!” Slughorn beamed, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothing out. “Ten points to Slytherin!”
He has earned thirty points for your house in the past three days—five points fewer than last week, though. Hm.
“Amortentia is one of the most dangerous love potions. Let me remind you: it doesn’t create actual love, my dear witches and wizards. That's impossible. But it does cause a powerful infatuation, and for that reason…” Professor Slughorn’s tone carried that unmistakable warning note he always used to make his students think twice before brewing it. You practically missed half of his explanation. “Don’t underestimate the true power of obsession, for it can be truly devastating to one’s mind.” He closed the small brown notebook and put it inside his coat.
A group of girls in front of you, led by the one with the bushy hair, exchanged smug smiles and hissed things like, “Oh, Malfoy definitely smelled you!” and “I told you so!”. The classroom had finally woken up from its morning laziness; the spiraling steam drew the attention. Yours, which had been clinging to the thought of the silvery-green tie—or, rather, the lack of thereof—turned its full focus to the blackened cauldron. Involuntarily, you took a few steps out of the shadows, brushing past the shoulders of the girls who gave you a side glance. Did you hear that right? Love? The same love that you never got to taste? The same love that you’ve got robbed of as a child? Merlin, have you been blessed?
“Come here, you can try too,” The Professor offered to the rest of the class. “Oh, Miss, don’t be a stranger, dear!”
You ignored the piercing gazes of your classmates, taking another deliberate step to the cauldron; you could feel a different pair of eyes on your face—the unyielding sensation of someone opening your skull with medical precision. Incision here, a cut there, and you would bleed your thoughts on the stone floor. Maybe he really had opened you up, because the coppery taste ignited a spark in your nose, toyed with your taste buds with a gentle flick of dusty parchments. You pressed your fingertips to your lips expecting to see blood, but there was just the faint glitter of your cherry lipstick.
“Miss, what do you smell?” The Professor’s question could barely reach you through the thick air, heavy with the scent of blood, old books, and woodsmoke. You scrunched your nose—that earned a few mocking laughs from a few girls. If you tell the truth, you will draw unwanted attention, come into a spotlight that could easily leave burning patches all over your skin. No, you must stay covered.
“Broom polish, coffee, and…” The press of the blade intensified, slicing through your nerves, “… mint toothpaste.” Your tongue ran over your teeth and smeared the salty aftertaste throughout your mouth.
“Thank you.” Slughorn nodded. The dismissal in his tone was a stark contrast to the adoration he gently laced into his next words. “Tom, I guess we are all curious to know more about you.” His name lightly touched each of your heartstrings. T-O-M. Just like that. The three of them; they were tuned to sing a small prayer every time The Name cleansed the filthy air with its sacred sound.
The procedure had finished with a weak thrum of your heart behind your ribcage.
You felt an immediate shift in the atmosphere, as if someone had disturbed a wasp’s nest, and now the buzzing echoed with a sickening irritation inside your ears. An urge to bottle every single one of them up stirred within.
You have always been amazed by his ability to handle the attention. The charming smile of a boy who knew his worth. The straight back of a boy who would never spare a look at someone as unworthy as you—just a long shadow writhing in agony under the scorching sun. And you stepped back before it became too late to save you from meeting your cruel fate.
The blonde girl, Avery’s sister, linked arms with her friend, watching him gracefully leaning closer to the cauldron. A dark strand of hair fell onto his forehead, and your hand began to smooth the crease inside your school robes’ pocket over and over again. Your sharp eyes couldn’t miss the way she fidgeted, waiting impatiently for the verdict—was it her he smelled in Amortentia? Every girl in that gloomy class was holding her breath, but you, on the other hand, inhaled the anticipation.
He held a pause, straightened his posture and tucked a stray lock of hair back. Your fingers relaxed.
“Professor, I smell cherries, ink, and… hm… apples? Yes, I think it’s apples.” He shrugged his shoulders with a puzzled expression, carefully plastered over the indifference. His gaze flickered for a second to the blonde girl and her friend in front of you. She let out a sigh and tensed, vibrating like he was about to take her right there, on that stained station you had been leaning against. What a stupid, pathetic fool.
He glanced at her for the fifth time today. The last time was when she dropped her quill right at his feet; based on the pattern you had calculated, the next time would probably be in twenty minutes. You looked at your wristwatch, marking the tiny minute line under the glass.
“Interesting, my boy, very interesting,” Slughorn hummed. “Who wants to be the next?”
The sampling carried on, but you had already slipped back to your quiet corner at the back of the classroom with a head full of throbbing thoughts.
Love. L-O-V-E. Four letters, not even three like in The Name, so it couldn’t quite wring a single note out of your simple instrument. Hm. The potion does not create love, but you never believed in it anyway. You believed in power, control and ability to bend reality to your will. You had enough experience, for no one noticed the shadow that had the power to turn into a diligent student; had the control not to shed its true skin; and, most importantly, had the ability to convince everyone that the darkness was just a projection of the sun, not the abyss itself.
To your mind, love and possession were a double-edged sword. Love could be merciless, take away everything from you and leave nothing but an empty shell. You would never allow someone to steal what’s rightfully yours—you were ready to protect it with your life. Like any other weapon, this sword could—and would—easily stab you, inflict a pain so tormenting you better start praying for the end.
One way or another, the choice was made and the consequences… Fuck, have you ever thought of them? Not after adding expired Bubotuber pus to Avery’s sister’s face cream. And definitely not after pushing the girl who, judging by the rumors, had been dating him for two weeks in the fourth year, right off the stairs. Oh, you forgot ‘accidentally’.
The consequences never concerned you.
When the class was over, you stayed a bit longer, gathering your things and arranging them meticulously inside your bag. Professor Slughorn reached his desk, set something down, and sank into a big leather armchair that groaned under the weight of pretentiousness and fading ambition. He didn’t even acknowledge you until your robes whispered over the cold floor, making Slughorn jump in his seat.
“Oh, Miss! Don’t give a poor man such a scare.” The Professor chuckled, but the humour did not reach his eyes.
Start slowly, let them lower their guard.
“Sorry, sir.” You smiled apologetically. The lovely, polite curl of your lips seemed to calm him instantly. “It was a very enlightening topic. Love, truth, and changing shapes. Thank you.”
“I’m truly flattered to see yet another student so hungry for knowledge. Especially at your age, young lady. Ah, back when I was younger and had much more hair…” he trailed off, grinning as memories of the past flashing before his eyes. You briefly scanned the mess on the Professor’s desk: crumpled parchments, a few old, dusty books, some moving photographs of unknown wizards, and a small, almost unnoticeable notebook in a brown binding.
Create a distraction.
“Professor, can I ask a question about Amortentia?”
“Sure, dear.” His endearment felt like sugar gritting against your teeth. You weren’t a fan of sweets.
You looked back at the cauldron with the pearly liquid, then at your wristwatch. He must be drinking coffee in the Great Hall with Malfoy at his side right now. Three stirs, toast with a piece of butter. Two. A thin slice of ham on Wednesdays, like today. One. You shifted your shoulders.
“Does Amortentia have a taste? Like, if someone were to slip it into your drink, how would you identify it?” The question hung in the air like a threat covered by pure interest.
The colour drained from his round face; mouth twitched. You were ready to be dismissed, maybe even scolded for asking such things about one of the most dangerous potions in the world. A tiny flame danced on the wick of a melted candle at the corner of the desk. Its movement died the moment you glanced at it.
“Uhm, this is hypothetical, isn't it, Miss? All academic?” Slughorn rose from his chair and stepped towards the high shelf littered with ingredients, creating a safe distance between the two of you.
“Of course, sir. All academic.” Your voice was smooth at the edges; head tilted to the side in a charming manner.
“Okay…” The Professor turned around, his back was now facing you. The smile vanished, your cheeks ached. “It doesn’t have a particular taste, Miss. That is what makes it so dangerous. A potions master can distinguish the earthy taste of powdered moonstone, but overall, the potion has neither taste nor colour when diluted in a drink.”
The vials clinked when Slughorn began to rearrange them on the shelf.
Strike.
“But can we modify the potion to have a taste? Maybe by adding some…” You leaned over the desk, brushing your fingertips over the smooth cover of the notebook. “…flowers of fluxweed?”
Professor let out a huff that was supposed to be a laugh. “And turn the perfect pearly shine into hideous purple? Oh no, Miss. Some things had better stay unmarred.” He faced you again, still smiling like you had offered him a way to cure illnesses with basilisk venom. Yeah, what a stupid suggestion.
“You are right, sir. Excuse my stupid joke.”
His glance at the clock was quick, a silent hint that you took in an instant.
Time to retreat.
“Miss, I must say you remind me of one of your classmates.” Slughorn’s phrase caught you just at the door. The handle was warm under your icy palm. “Tom Riddle. I think you two are kindred spirits—you’d get along famously!”
“Thank you, Professor. But I don’t think he even knows my name.” Your heartfelt laughter sounded like glass shattering; the coppery aftertaste mingled with bitterness.
As the classroom’s stuffy air released its grip on you, you suddenly bumped into someone you hadn’t expected to see when he was supposed to be heading to Transfiguration. The polished ‘Head Boy’ badge blinded you for a second, forced the darkness to recoil with a hiss, terrified of the searing light. The small brown notebook and an apple fell out of your pocket, and you both kneeled down. You felt as if Heaven had finally opened its gates for you, and the sun purged all your sins with fire. Oh, not the sun. God. And it was almost surreal to see him getting on his knees before you, the black sheep. Fuck, a heated wave rushed through your stomach.
“Isn’t it…?” When you lifted your gaze, he was already watching you with intensity deep enough to turn you into a statue of guilt and embarrassment. “Where did you get it?”
Your heart leaped high in your chest; the cage of bones was solid enough not to let the stupid organ fall onto the floor between the two of you. The two of you. Oh, Merlin, how right that sounded. He should be with you. He should belong to you as much as you belong to him. Flesh, bones, blood. Everything. Your lips stretched into a tight smile; a muscle twitched in your jaw.
It hurt your sight to look at him. It hurt your ears to hear his voice. It hurt to stand before him at arm’s length unable to touch. Your sweaty palm closed around the notebook and pulled it to your side.
He frowned at your gesture, straightened his back to stare down at you like a misbehaved pet. But something had finally caught up—something disarming and lethal in its wake. He knew your name. Oh, Salazar, he knew your fucking name. And it sounded as if God Himself had gifted you wings to ensure your eventual fall would shatter you completely. To every piece of your bleak existence.
“Professor Slughorn has given it to me,” you lied right into the face of divinity. “For my side project.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed at your words; his perfectly sculpted head tilted to the side. It was always cold in the dungeons, yet you felt your skin melting under his influence.
“Project? Care to elaborate exactly why Slughorn gave you his personal potions book?” he pressed again.
You could clearly hear the ticking of your wristwatch. One, two, three. He was supposed to be in the Transfiguration classroom. Four, five, six. Inhale. Exhale. A drop of sweat tickled your spine. Seventh vertebra, eighth, ninth.
“He just did.” You shrugged. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Transfiguration right now?”
Ten.
His smirk nearly cost you your sanity. The one you had long abandoned after he defended you against that bully back in the second year. He might have forgotten, perhaps, but ever since then you had found yourself in a place no one ever returns from. Under his charm.
“I am. Aren’t you supposed to be in Herbology right now?” He picked up the forgotten apple and held it out to you.
“I am.”
You took it; your fingers brushed, and the fangs of the evil sank into the flesh.
If you had been doubting yourself only a moments ago, a clear purpose had now emerged before you.
Little did you know that Tom Riddle thought the same.
***
The potion wasn’t as complex as you had thought it would be. Even the ingredients had been neatly stored in Slughorn’s stash, ready to be hidden inside your bag after Friday’s class. The Professor’s notebook had been returned; he didn’t even notice the absence of his dear little thing. Didn’t even notice a small burning mark on the brown cover. But Tom Riddle did. Though he said nothing, because he valued secrets. If they could be used later, of course.
You, on the other hand, were an open book with bleeding pages, torn-out pieces of parchment, and inky spots all over the spine. An obsessed admirer—you weren’t the first—one he had grown to ignore. A shift in the shadows he could erase just with a single flash of glowing green. One swift flick, so familiar he sometimes repeated the movement without his wand. No, he still had to prepare.
“Here, help yourselves.” With a polite smile, you placed a silver tray with four glasses on the coffee table between Riddle, Rosier, Nott and Dolohov.
Slughorn had asked you and a few other students to help him during one of his parties you never got the invitation to. You eagerly chose to serve drinks to his guests as an invisible, smooth wave drifting between people, careful not to touch anything with fingers swollen from preparing the potion.
Lost in the hushed whispers and far too serious expressions, the four boys remained oblivious to your arrival. The throbbing of your blood seemed to intensify each time your eyes landed on the tie he had no right to wear. Saturday. The sound of the ticking wristwatch was like a hammer crushing your skull.
Calm down. Look at the black shirt he always wears with the top button undone. Yes, just like that. That one button.
“Do I have something on my throat?” His question probed into your nervousness with a needle.
He took the glass, brought it to his mouth and stopped for a second when he noticed your anxious shifting and unblinking gaze. Reluctantly, you woke up from the agonizing trance and looked him in the eye. Truly a divine being that could cure your sickness and make your blood red, not that ugly dark colour you see on your lips every day.
Please, let me be the light again. Give me it.
“No, sorry,” you replied. “Got lost in thought.”
Tom huffed. The firewhiskey seared a path down his insides—the strange, smoky aftertaste as if the fire itself had kissed him. Then, a touch of an earthy undertone. Yeah, you had probably overused the powdered moonstone. Three and a half. You could still have become a great potioneer, too bad God had other plans for you.
“So, how is your project?” He put down the glass and leaned against the back of the chair; his peers were staring at you—the first time they had ever spotted your existence.
The seventh question from him. One hundred and thirty-four letters. Too many for the past week. Wow, such progress. Don’t rush, you two must take your time. It had been a great start already; you just wanted to give him a little nudge in the right direction. Hm, maybe Amortentia wasn’t quite a gentle push, but patience was never your strong suit, to be honest.
You hid your shaking hands behind your back and invited the detached smile on your face. “Still need to test it, but I think I’ll find out soon enough if I did it correctly.”
Tom smiled—the smile that ran slender, elegant fingers across those three heartstrings again, evoking profound reverence for everything he had graced with his attention. Maybe you should steal the glass after the party? Your collection had long been without a new addition.
“Good, would you share the results with me?” A lingering gaze over your body left a scratching sensation on your skin under those layers of the stupid uniform Slughorn had given you.
Shit, I would share my last breath with you if you asked.
“Obviously, you would be the first.” He nodded in response.
You excused yourself and left four boys in their little circle to help another unfortunate classmate. Tom watched you go; his lips curled into a wicked smirk that made his friends exchange glances.
“Who was that?” asked Nott.
Tom Riddle took a sip of his firewhiskey, playing with the taste of the potion for a moment longer.
“No one.” He tapped the glass with his pointer finger, studying you from across the room. “Nothing.”
***
It was four steps from your bed to Amelia’s. Then three steps to the high windows. The Lake was particularly peaceful tonight: the murky waters were cold, the occasional inhabitants were drifting through oblivion. Dark, quiet and eerie. Just how you liked it. Today would be a special day, you could see it in the way the shadows were whispering behind your back, how they had been touching your bare feet with every step you measured the dormitory room with.
Another stupid party left the Slytherin common room completely at your mercy.
Alone but not lonely.
Sunday. Ten o’clock. He must be patrolling right now. The second floor. So, you weren’t alone as well. He was everywhere. In every breath you took, in every heartbeat, in every fiber of your being.
Tom Riddle was yours the moment the light became the sole source of your life, because darkness couldn’t live without its creator. You couldn’t live without him. The creator should never abandon their spawn. No, you would never let him do that to you.
And you, as a devoted child, had taken matters into your own hands.
Logs shifted in the hearth, throwing off bright sparks with a crackle; the firelight licked your face—a frozen, wax mask in the middle of the empty common room. You hugged yourself, fingers digging into your arms. Nearly twenty-four hours (twenty-six to be precise) passed since the moment Tom Riddle had drank your Amortentia. Nothing happened. You haven’t seen him today, haven’t heard his voice or got the taste of his existence too. You were hungry, desperate, and very much frightened that the potion hadn’t worked. Because if it hadn’t, you would have no choice but to take a few steps back and choose a completely different path.
Another look at the clock—it would be twenty-seven hours without seeing him. Beneath your skin, vile snakes stirred; their low hisses made you flinch and steal nervous glances towards the common room entrance. You imagined him walking in right now, opening his arms and consuming you entirely. But before it you might fuck him, of course. Slow and sweet, he would be caressing you, calling you ‘pretty’ and all that shit you heard from other boys. You would let him call you whatever he wanted.
Do whatever he pleased.
The two of you.
Fuck.
The small piece of parchment appeared on the table before you. Yellow, with the neat handwriting you had replicated countless times in your own diary, pretending it was him writing to you. You blinked once, twice. No, it wasn’t a mirage. Carefully you approached it, the note bit your fingertips, but you still opened it with a veneration of the worshipper.
Meet me on the second floor. Now. I need you. – T.M.R.
Your hands began to shake. You read it again. Again. And again. Until the letters had begun to violently scratch your brain. It couldn’t be true. You must fall into your own trap you used to set for your mind. A twisted reality tied a noose around your throat, your lungs filled with water, forcing a strangled cough from you. You brought the fingers to your lips to see the crimson red.
Smiling hurt your mouth. Smiling praised your intelligence and skills in potion making.
It was definitely the wings carrying you to the dormitory, dressing you in the best clothes you had and brushing your hair. God had been on your side the whole time. Redemption was a gift reserved for those with the patience to endure. You had none.
A special day indeed.
You looked back at the shared room. It felt like you would never return to it, because you would be with him. Every part of you would be his. Every part of him would be yours.
It took you ten minutes to get to the second floor. You couldn’t stop grinning the whole way, as if the expression of total happiness had been permanently carved onto your face. The shadows parted before you in fear; they knew their end was near—you were about to become the light itself. No more pretending.
Tom Riddle stood in the corridor with his hands behind his back. The silvery moonlight was tracing the outline of his profile, it gently touched his high forehead, his nose and the smooth curve of his lips, before softly kissing the length of his jawline and his exposed throat. Your heart plummeted, fell from the edge to drown in players to whatever had once created Him. Slowly, he turned to you with a kind smile
You met after a few steps. Ten. He smelled like blood, old books and woodsmoke. Nine. Black, dense eyes swept over you with tenderness, taking you in from head to toe. Eight. His hands twitched in desire to pull you into an embrace, to map out every bone, every curve, and every mark on your skin. All of you. Seven.
“You are so beautiful,” he rasped, his voice unrecognizable. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
A flush crept up your neck and cheeks, erupting into a searing firework within your chest and fully taking the place of the heart you had lost a moment ago. Six.
“Is it true? Tell me it’s real.” You took another clumsy step, your space colliding with his; suddenly you were terrified he would flinch as if from the sin that angels must never touch. Five.
Instead, his hands moved towards your trembling shoulders. Salazar, he was touching you. Him. Tom Riddle. Your one and true love. He had fallen for you. And you had always loved him.
Yes, it was love. You felt it the moment he noticed you in that cold corridor. Now you believe.
“It is real. You and me.”
Four.
“I wished to be yours,” you sighed into his chest, satisfied as he pulled you closer. It still wasn’t enough. You should be under his skin. “Every day, I prayed for you to notice me.”
Three.
Tom cupped your face, leaned so close you could see your reflection in his dilated pupils. Your defense crumbled, revealing your true nature to the world—a poor, tiny soul, greedy for love and aching with desire to be consumed and filled with his presence.
He took some deliberate steps, backing you up to the wall. As the door creaked, a rush of dampness and wet wood hit you; the sound of dripping water was drowned out by the frantic thrumming of your heart. From one darkness you stepped into another, deeper and stickier, yet you had never seen as clearly as you did now.
Two.
“My love, I always saw you. Your true self.” Your back hit the icy stone; Tom crowded you, his hand sliding down to your waist. His touch left a strange sense of unreality in its wake. But even if it was a dream, and you were lying on a tear-soaked pillow under the effects of a failed Dreamless Sleep Potion, you would be glad to stay in that fantasy forever.
He was here. With you. Touching you. He breathed life back into you, forcing the shadows to surrender their unbearable embrace. You leaped into his arms, finally feeling peace.
Tom’s face held such absolute devotion that, for the first time, you didn’t feel like the black sheep, but like something more—the shepherd. He placed himself into your caring hands, and in return, you granted him your undivided attention and adoration. Divinity demanded admiration; divinity demanded worship. You had learned this throughout your years at Hogwarts, always haunting the shadows at Tom’s heels. Wherever he went, you were there; whatever he said, you were there to heed his voice. You had become his ghost.
The second hand closed around your neck, the cold fingers stroking your skin, and your breath hitched somewhere between your lungs and his palm. Though now, it was enough for you just to look at him. To look and to breathe in.
One.
His hand had tightened its grip until a pitiful whimper escaped you, fingers sinking into the bare skin beneath your shirt so fiercely that, should he press any harder, your bones would snap. The sweet pretense sloughed off his sculptured features, uncovering the horrific grimace of the Devil. You writhed; your unresponsive hands clutched at his robes.
“T—” you gasped, staring at him in bewilderment.
He squeezed your throat firmly, and his weight bore down on you. A block of ice that scorched your skin, reducing your nerves to a state of melted wax.
“Amortentia, huh? So, that was your project.” He leaned to your ear, his hissing sent shivers down your skin. “Worthless thing. Are you so far gone that you dared to try that on me? I am ashamed to even walk the same earth as you.”
You jerked, whispering something incoherent, as tears welled in your eyes and bursts of colour danced across your vision from the lack of air.
“Nothing to say in your defense?” He applied more pressure to your neck; a sly smirk curled his pale lips. “Want me to tell you a secret?”
A hoarse breath rattled against the dull walls of the bathroom, your eyes fluttering shut as you neared the brink of unconsciousness.
“Amortentia has no effect on me,” Tom spat each word and loosened his grasp just enough to allow you a single breath of the musty air. You began to cough, swallowing your tears along with the words that were lodged in your throat; they slashed at your insides with a knife.
This is a trial, isn’t it? A test before the gates of Heaven. You would pass it with dignity, because nothing was ever simple in this life—you knew that all too well. Your existence was a battle, and if you had to endure one more, you would face it gladly.
“But you smelled something in…” you whispered, your fingers twisting into his robes in a hot surge of fear and panic.
Tom tore your hands away from him and roughly spun you to face the wall. He fisted your hair and slammed your face into the hard stone. You heard a sickening crunch, the sound of tearing flesh, and felt the metallic tang of blood flooding your mouth.
Yes, blood, old books and woodsmoke. That was how your Amortentia smelled like. But Tom smelled of nothing now. He was a void, far deeper and more perilous than your own. You had been reaching for the light, unaware that you were falling into a chasm. You believed the sun was an inseparable part of the dark, but it turned out the darkness had long since devoured all signs of life.
You were alone and lonely.
“Stupid.” He chuckled; the hand at your waist slid down towards the buttons of your school trousers. The first, the second. The veins ignited, while treacherous coil of desire stirred in your lower stomach. “Salazar… You like it? Oh, you are such a filthy, useless slut. I bet if I touch you down there, you would be soaking wet.”
You gulped a coppery clot, let out a choked sob and quivered; Tom pushed your whole body into the wall. Your flushed cheek stung, your jaw pulsed with agony. The mind was empty and dim, yet so… peaceful. Exactly as it should be.
Him and you. Pain and blood. Shadow and abyss. Light doesn’t exist. It never did.
“Why are you so quiet? Isn’t this what you wanted?” Riddle’s lips brushed your temple. The rustle of fabric, the hum of pipes, the scent of scouring charm—it all blurred into a great storm that was beginning to gather its strength. “Me, having you. You, belonging to me. Body and soul? I am ready to offer you that opportunity. Today is a special day, indeed.”
A strangled cry, born of both pain and bliss, tightened in your chest. Either way, Tom didn’t care about the nature of the sounds you made. He didn’t care about anything but the way you were trembling in his arms.
“What do you say?”
What could you say with your face pinned to the wall or with your split and bleeding lips? Nothing. So, you just moved your hips to meet him in a gesture of unconditional surrender. The vibration of Tom’s laughter sent goosebumps down your spine, making your nails claw at the bathroom’s stone.
His fingers swiftly lowered your trousers; a chilly air grazed you flushed skin, you squirmed with a small moan. Frightening but thrilling to the point of madness, to a sweet languor spreading through your entire being. It was the first step on the path to Heaven. You looked up in search of light, but you could only see the cracked ceiling of the old girl’s bathroom—a place where it was far more common to spot Myrtle Warren or snogging and smoking older students than salvation.
“Came prepared, I see. Good.” His encouragement sped up the spread of the poison—a mixture of heat and agonizing desire. “You made a mistake adding too much powdered moonstone. It was like licking dirt. But your most fatal error was to think that Amortentia would help a fool like you. Just look at yourself: a pathetic waste of space, blinded by your own ignorance.”
Tom spread your legs with his knee, dragged his knuckles across your lace underwear and tantalizingly pulled it to the side to collect your wetness with the fingertips. He sighed approvingly into your ear. Your breathing became fast and shallow; the heavy air reeked of your insanity and blind worship of what you believed to be truly right. Faith has a way of taking far more than you could ever provide. But you were ready to give everything.
And Tom Riddle, without hesitation, would take even more.
Tom’s pointer finger tapped your swollen clit, rubbed it, which made you arch your back, pressing your ass into his semi-hard cock. You whimpered, closing your eyes in shame and excruciating need to feel him inside. He would be your first in everything. The first, and the last.
Because having once surrendered to a God, you are his for eternity. Your dream is coming true—a day that shall be etched in history.
“Quiet.” He growled when you let out a particularly loud, ragged gasp at the sensation of his finger sliding inside your pussy.
A mere second was all Tom needed to make his two fingers stretch you, stroking that sweet spot near the entrance. All that was left for you to wonder how fast he had found it. Perhaps the two of you were made for each other.
Your knees went weak, and the ground beneath your feet felt like quicksand; his cold body behind you was enough help you could receive to keep you from sinking.
The pressure on your skull eased when Tom slipped under your shirt with his other hand, finding your matching bra. He shook his head with a derisive smile and captured your stiffened nipple between his fingers. You moaned, dropping your head back on his shoulder. His ‘come-hither’ movement between your legs felt so staggeringly that the sugary release was already looming somewhere nearby. Even your dreams couldn’t compete with reality being twisted by another hand, just as it was with your nipple in this very moment.
Tom wasn’t trying to give you any pleasure, but his certainty in your sick obsession told him you would welcome death right here, in this wretched Hogwarts’ bathroom. Surprising that disgusting dimwit Myrtle wasn’t here today; you’d make quite a pair—equally brainless and useless.
“What? Not enough?” he murmured into your ear, nipping at the earlobe. You shuddered, ran your tongue over the bloodied lip. “More?” You nodded.
Your pussy clenched around his fingers, and your palm covered his own on your breast, urging it to go lower. Oh, so demanding and naïve in your sense of exclusivity that Tom even found it amusing.
The more a soul craves something, the stronger it becomes in its hunger to live. Maybe you weren’t entirely worthless, after all. Merely a tool that could break under his weight at any second—and he had noticed those cracks in you long before you even felt them.
With an obscene, squelching sound he pulled out his fingers. You scrunched your nose, squeezed his palm to insistently guide it to your clit. Please. Was it too much to ask—to feel him? To possess the light, to destroy the emptiness that had been draining life out of you day after day. You were tired. So fucking tired of sitting in the corner praying for mercy.
“Be patient, okay?” he hissed and with one, confident flick of his wrist he unbuckled his belt, the metallic click sliced through the grim silence of the bathroom. You nodded eagerly again. Everything for him. You wanted to count how many times your heart had tried to jump out of your chest, but the numbers were somehow escaping your close attention; nothing was following the script anymore. The system had been damaged, and your anxiety tied the knots out of your nerves.
It was Sunday… or Monday. Fuck, maybe it was Wednesday? You had forgotten your wristwatch on the bedside table; its ticking was the sole thing that could have anchored your mind back in place. Power? Hah, the power was now held in someone else’s hands. Reality? Reality was torn apart in the most brutal way imaginable. Control was your last hope.
Your intertwined fingers found your folds. Tom teased you by moving them up and down until the leaking head of his cock began to gather your slick. You inhaled sharply, letting the breath out with a whistle when he probed your entrance, slipping just an inch inside you. Tom bit down his lower lip.
The violent push filled you to the brim, forcing a painful cry out of your mouth. White, red, and green flashes blinded you, knocking the last bits of air from your lungs; tears streamed down your face, and your hands jerked in a pitiful attempt to push Tom away. But he gave you a faint, satisfied sigh when your walls spasmed around his thick cock, taking him deeper despite the resistance of your own body. You were in pain yet in such fervid dizziness.
“No, I can’t…” you mumbled, shaking in his suffocating embrace. Tom smirked and wrenched himself out of you to look down at his glistening cock, covered by your arousal.
Little liar.
“You can. Look at how good you take me.” He slowly pushed himself inside for you to feel his every vein, every inch, that was about to split you open. “So tight and wet… You see how easy it is? Stop squirming.”
His last sentence landed like a lash; you flinched at the hissing notes in his velvet, raspy voice.
It was too much. You need to count—then it will get better. So, one, two—Tom rolled his hips into you—fuck… three, four—he shook your hand off his and clamped his palm over your mouth—five, six… The numbers became tangled in a haze of pain, lust, and the raw feeling of his cock in your pussy. Your arms hung limply at your sides. What had been left for you—was to meet his deliberate, steady thrusts with your hips.
It had never been so intoxicating to surrender. To give yourself over, completely and unconditionally, to an evil far greater than the darkness born within you. You had aways felt a rot inside, yet its nature stayed obscure. Now, finally, it all made sense.
It was the fear of being that shadow, destined to dwell in the depths while yearning hopelessly for the light. Here it was—behind you, in that bloody bathroom, buried in your tightness. Was it not enough? No. Never enough. You need to be a part of Tom Riddle—to be woven into his existence.
Tom watched with forbearance how your soft body was taking him balls deep, while your mind floundered in a swamp of sheer madness and the destructive force of obsession. Broken and lost, you would become the beginning—for no soul was more powerful than the one that desperately craved what it could never truly possess.
“Hurt?” His soothed question was a contrast to his bullying of your pussy with his cock. You bit his finger hard enough to almost break the skin. “Good. You don’t deserve nothing but pain.”
He pounded into you; the shards of your mind were shaken loose. They fell at your feet in shattered fragments like drops of tears glinting in the dark. The pain faded to a distant echo, replaced by a dull ache in the lower stomach; and the pleasure was ringing in your ears, deafening you and not letting you make out what Tom hissed into your ear.
It felt as if the floor trembled, though you couldn’t feel it through your jelly legs. The air thickened, vibrating with energy, as the moonlight completely vanished from the bathroom, leaving the two of you in pitch-black mist—where the lone source of light turned out to be nothingness.
Tom circled your clit with the tip of his finger, shoving you to the brink of your release. His own orgasm gleamed right beside him like in the mirrors behind his back. It was yellow.
A few more rolls of his hips, a few more strokes to your sensitive bud, and your knees buckled. His cold and wet palm, covered in your saliva, muffled the scream of carnal pleasure. It was so dazzlingly bright that you finally reached the gates of Heaven, fell before them, shivering from exhaustion. Tom watched you—a shaking, miserable shadow beneath his feet— and came in his fist.
“Get up,” he commanded, his voice harsh and devoid of any heat, as if he hadn’t just fucked you. “Get up and look at me.”
Clutching the wall, you pulled yourself up, pressing your sweat-slicked back to the chilling stone. Your vision had yet to return, plunging you headlong into an inky blackness. You could spot where Tom stood by his steadying breathing. Within arm’s reach, a single step beyond the gates—but you had no strength left to take it.
“Hm, a small matter remains, doesn’t it? Your soul.” His teeth flashed dangerously close to your face, and his silken voice flowed into your ears.
A doubt crept in: did you truly want to gift your soul to the one who had already taken everything? You even tried to push Tom away, but he simply stepped aside. Something rustled across the floor.
You blinked.
One time.
Two…
Two yellow eyes shoved you back, down the stairs you’d climbed at the cost of your sanity and with the help of anguish. Tom sneered and adjusted his trousers.
Hesitation was unacceptable once you signed a contract with the Devil in your own blood. Faith has a way of taking far more than you could ever provide. You made your offer, he took it. Perhaps a little more than you intended, but did it even matter now?
Not in the least, when your true wish has finally been granted—to be Tom’s, in body and soul.
Theodore Nott was the type of guy who preferred silence. A quiet, perceptive boy, whose head was a neatly sorted library where each thought had its own shelf. And like any other library, it had a simple rule—no loud noises, no talking, and no ravishing his brain with waffle.
You, on the contrary, were the most infuriating, inveterate (and favourite) chatterbox in his life. You would rather die than stop your mouth from constant running. Professor Flitwick praised you for a perfectly executed spell? Pansy would hear an earful until she started begging with teary eyes for you to finally shut up. Daphne Greengrass nearly pushed you off the Grand Staircase and didn’t even look at you? Fuck, Astoria better be ready to hear what you think about her sister down to the smallest detail.
It was a mystery for everyone how two such opposites could even exist alongside each other. Oh, the answer was pretty simple—he was the only one doing all the talking when there were only the two of you.
Well, someone must do something with you. Killing you was not an option—your house would lose the greatest asset that could easily sweet-talk Professor Slughorn into calling off the test that, surely, nobody had been prepared for. Or defuse the tension between Draco Malfoy and Mattheo Riddle, who had gone at each other like two mad dogs again over yet another nonsense.
So, there was no better candidate to save Hogwarts from you—Theodore Nott would take that burden upon himself.
***
“Fuck, cara mia, just like that.” A raspy groan sent another heated, syrupy liquid down your insides. “Taking me so well... Your mouth was made for my cock, yeah? Look at me when I talk to you.”
It was hard to concentrate on Theo’s flushed face when hot tears were streaming down your cheeks. His hand gave your hair a harsh, impatient tug, forcing you to take another inch of him down your throat. Your nails were digging into his thighs, as if you were trying to push him away, allowing you just a moment to take a breath and not to choke around his thick length.
“Th—” your muffled grunts were so addictive to his ears, curving Theo’s lips into a wry smirk.
“I can’t hear you, tesoro. Is it too much for your little mouth? Tell me.” He bent down slightly, his grip on your hair tightened, a painful prickling scratched the back of your head.
You looked up at him—eyes gleaming in the dim light of his dormitory—and jerked in his hold, but Theo’s dark chuckle rumbled somewhere inside his chest.
“Oh, I’m starting to miss your voice since you’ve been so quiet lately.” A playful taunt added another layer into insatiable arousal that had been pooling in your lower stomach the whole evening and set your whole body on fire. Maybe even the cold stone floor against your knees was beginning to melt from the stifling heat in the room.
You sucked on his cock again, tongue tracing the throbbing vein just underside of it. Theo let out a deep growl, his free hand cupped your tear-stained cheek, thumb gently brushed away the remaining salty drop.
“I know you can do better that this, non è vero? Amore, don’t disappoint me.” He gave you an encouraging pat, only to push his cock further down your mouth afterwards. The tip grazing the back of your throat, a choked sob coursed violently through your entire body. Theo moaned at the vibration, his half-lidded eyes hungrily watching you drool all over your chin, bruised lips stretching around him so lovely he couldn’t stop grinning at the view before him.
You hollowed your cheeks just like he loved it; the head-spinning musky scent of his skin and his citrus cologne clanged to your skin. Merlin, you had so much to say right now—you could feel the bubble forming inside your chest, ready to burst out in strings of annoyance, complaints, and, of course, your oh-so-important opinion about him. He could see it too: in your glossy eyes, furrowed brow, in another pathetic attempt to push him away with your trembling palms on his thighs.
And he, like the true savior of Hogwarts, shut down your resentment with a forceful roll of his hips and a firm grip on your head. A surprised, very much angry gasp had never found a way out because Theo shoved his cock down your throat until you began to cough around it. You slapped him, and Theodore pulled out with a pleasant sigh and laughter. The milky-white, ropey saliva had connected you two just for a moment for Nott’s artistic nature to savor the sight, before he tapped your wet lips with the swollen tip.
“Nott, I fuc—” you hissed, wincing at the humiliating sound of skin-on-skin contact.
“Stare zitto, tesoro, stare zitto. Shut up.” Theodore rolled his eyes and with a fast, rough push silenced you for the second time today.
He gave you only a few moments to collect pieces of your shattered mind before he began to fuck your throat like his personal toy. You squeezed your tear-filled eyes shut; nails were clawing at his thighs, making Theo stiffen with a sharp intake of breath. But the welcoming tightness and those sweet whines of yours were dulling any pain, only bringing him closer to the edge.
“You have a perfect mouth, cara mia. I don’t know why everyone finds it so irritating. I think it was made for me to fuck it. Don’t you agree,my love?” His voice was thick with Italian accent, low and heavy, just like his cock on your tongue right now.
Theodore Nott, a quiet and perceptive boy, was reduced to a moaning, growling mess with his hands fisting your hair. Slurred murmurs of something like ‘cazzo’, ‘oh Dio, sì’ and ‘più veloce’ filled the small room; even though you didn’t understand a word, his broken mumbling was enough to damp your underwear with your own slick. A throbbing ache between your legs was only growing with every passing second of Theo’s grunts and the echoing, filthy noises of his battle against your mouth.
“Fuck, I’m going—cazzo… Let me…” His head fell back, entire body shuddering from the upcoming release. “Let me come in your throat. Be a good girl, tesoro, and take it.”
His cock twitched; the pace became erratic, almost aggressive while he used you just to chase that blissful peak. Your cute little mouth swallowed him almost fully, leaving only few inches untouched, but he fixed that grave mistake of yours with his own palm. A few strokes, a choked moan, and your throat, closing around his cock, finally sent Theo into hot ecstasy. He kept your head in place when the tangy ropes of his cum began to hit the back of your throat repeatedly.
You swallowed everything—you didn’t have a choice, to be honest. And when you realised that it was safe to finally push him away, you, much to your surprise, could only stare at him disapprovingly.
“Holy shit, tesoro…” he breathed out heavily, dark locks falling over his sweaty forehead, blue eyes foggy, and his body tingling in a sugary-sweet dizziness. “Now, do you have something to say?”
You pressed your glistening lips into a thin line; the bruised throat was raw and sore—every sound scraping against the abused flesh like a sharpened blade. You’d have to keep your mouth shut for a few days, that’s for sure.
“Silence, finally.” Theodore grinned, a triumphant note laced his voice.
