J

19 ･ﾟﾟ･｡ Gryffindor ﾟﾟ･｡ She/her

[mattheosdior]

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© mattheosdior 2025. Please don’t copy, translate, or steal my work.

[viperify]

oneshots | ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

CRAWLING BACK TO YOU.

♡ SUMMARY: your boyfriend, Tom, can't make you come. good that you know someone who can—and just so happens to be his brother and your ex, Mattheo.

♡ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. cheating. Tom girlies, close your eyes while reading. lack of aftercare, emotional distance, sexual frustration, reader searches for comfort and finds it, nipple play, LOTS of kissing, teasing, dryhumping, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight overstimulation, praise, possessiveness, soft sex turned rough, religious themes hinted (nothing major), creampie, cum play, DISGUSTING bonus ending pls don't judge me.

♡ AUTHOR'S NOTE: what day is today? a good day to post a fic like this. <33

wordcount: 4,0k

Your first knock is quiet, careful, measured. Still, you flinch. In contrast to the eerily silent corridors, it’s a sharp, loud sound, slicing through the night like a deadly curse, sending a shiver down your spine—sealing the fate you’ve chosen for yourself at last. 

Your legs tremble—although it’s April and officially spring, a chilly breeze sweeps along the castle’s thick walls, having you shrink into your woolly cardigan and abandon the confident expression you practiced in the mirror just before you left. 

Seconds pass, seconds in which your heart hammers wildly against your ribcage, as though attempting to break free—mind like body, you suppose. You listen closely, but no sound comes from behind the thick oak door of his dorm. A weird, silly feeling expands in your chest, clawing its way up your throat. 

And silly, it is—seeking out your ex, your boyfriend’s brother—in the middle of the night after Tom fell asleep beside you.

You are well aware that this is wrong. That you shouldn’t do it, should leave your past behind you, once and for all. Should cuddle up to your boyfriend instead and shove these insistent, mourning feelings to the very back of your mind. 

Today, though, you couldn’t help yourself. Not any longer—aroused and aching, slick between your thighs. Restless with the need to come, to release your pent-up frustration, which has been building for months now. 

In truth, Tom is a good lover—great even. What he does, he does well. He just never does quite enough.  

Again, you should not let your thoughts stray this far. Not under any circumstances. But... with Mattheo, it felt different. Intimacy felt like a special connection you shared, both of you at your most vulnerable, and yet you never once felt unsafe in his arms. 

You felt cherished and loved, and now—with Tom, it feels distant. It feels as though being intimate with him is a chore, a necessity to keep your relationship above water when otherwise it’s drowning. 

Most of the time, he does not even bother kissing you, reassuring you, or encouraging you. It’s so shallow, you have never gotten to experience an orgasm with him. And he does not ask, either. When he is done, you are too. Left wanting as he turns around and dozes off—leaving you to your thoughts. Thoughts, which often include his brother, and, in the end, help you reach your high too—on your own. 

If anything, though, you feel ashamed. You left Mattheo for Tom for a reason. You sought maturity and responsibility—and found just that with Tom. He’s ambitious, has his goals set, and is hardworking. 

You found stability but, in exchange, traded love and affection.

Still, you chose this path for yourself. You are well aware, all things considered, Tom provides the traits you’ve wanted in a partner and has never denied you assistance with school-related work. Has been there for you and been a great companion. 

You should’ve never left his dorm tonight. 

And for a moment, you consider turning around. You consider returning to your bed, which has most likely cooled out by now, and try to be the girlfriend Tom expects you to be, deserves you to be. 

Another moment passes, and you blink the tears that have gathered at your waterline away. 

You are so unhappy. So desperate for a gentle touch that finally— 

You knock again. Harder. Louder. Please open, you whisper into the darkness of the night, the words forming a misty cloud in the chilly air surrounding you. Please, Mattheo. I need you. 

This time, a low groan—unmistakably Mattheo’s—rumbles from inside, and a second later, footsteps near the door. 

The lock turns, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

The door opens just wide enough that he can peek outside—and yet, the mere presence of him spreads instant heat throughout your body, warming you from the inside. 

His chocolate-brown eyes take no longer than a split moment to recognise your face, prying the door open further. 

“What are you—” his eyes rake over your body, not suggestively, but observingly. When he realises you are wearing nothing more than thin satin pyjamas, he takes hold of your wrist and pulls you inside. 

Mattheo switches on a small lamp, and it’s then when you are able to see each other properly that worry wipes the soft smile clean from his face. 

“Are you all right? Has something happened?” He asks quietly, insinuating—his eyes darting between you and the door. 

Even after all this time, he is still more worried about you than his own brother. Mattheo has always prioritised your safety over anything else, and the realisation makes your heart hurt. Tears finally spill, and you sniffle, turning away from him.  

Mattheo gathers you in his arms then, wrapping them around you gently, protectively, letting you calm down. His hand smooths over your hair, brushing his fingers along your spine and whispering soothing words near your ear. 

As soon as you calm yourself, you reluctantly part from the comforting warmth of his body, his thumb wiping away the moisture that has gathered on your cheek as his brown eyes, full of worry, gaze down at you. 

And then, when he sits you down on his bed, you spill your heart out to him. 

Everything you’ve been holding in for months leaves your lips, and with every sentence, your soul feels lighter. It feels as though your pain transfers to him—his eyes growing darker as minutes pass, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists beside him. 

When you are done, there’s a long, agonising silence. So long and uncomfortable, you question whether it was the right decision to let him in on this. 

But Mattheo—Mattheo only pulls you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you just as he did before. No judgement, no questions. Just quiet understanding and comfort.  

After his lips brush a kiss on the top of your head, he reluctantly lets go of you. His eyes bore into yours, with an intensity and emotion you aren’t sure you can handle coming from him. 

“Why?” he asks, quietly—but there is no trace of malice in his tone. “Why didn’t you come sooner? I could have— maybe I could have done something.” 

You shake your head. “Being here right now is a mistake, Mattheo, and you know it. I shouldn’t have shared this with you, let alone come to sit on your bed. Tom is asleep, I should— God, I should leave.” 

“Is that what you want?” he asks, curling a finger beneath your chin and tilting your head up, urging you to look at him. God, his eyes. The warmth of a crackling fireplace, intertwined with the sweetness of dark honey, staring down at you. 

No, I don’t, you want to reply, but the words do not form on your tongue—still, your lips part, though for a different reason entirely. 

The sheer proximity of him wipes reason from your every thought, and when his face inches closer, you don’t dare stop him. 

Instead, you allow the relationship with Tom to drown, pulling yourself back above water in the same moment and sucking in the first breath of fresh oxygen in what feels like months. 

When his lips brush over yours in a gentle, encouraging motion—as though he’s giving you a trial, a promise of what’s about to come—you don’t pull away. You whimper but reciprocate his invitation, and that is enough for Mattheo to deepen the kiss. He’s holding you close, one hand at the nape of your neck, the other resting just above your jaw, drawing soft patterns on your cheek with his thumb. 

When he eases back, he swipes it over your lips, and you whimper again—but Mattheo pulls away, taking a moment to look at you—confirming by your hazed expression that yes, you do want this. That you need this just as badly as he does. 

And then, your back hits the mattress, and Mattheo’s mouth is on yours again, more feral and hungry than before, while he’s hovering above you between your spread legs. His hands are on your shoulders this time, and with the tip of his finger, he traces along your collarbone, revealed by the V-cut of your pyjama top. He follows the seam downwards, and you can’t help but offer yourself to him, arching your back to encourage him for more, whimpering into the kiss. 

God, how Mattheo has missed this. You, obediently spread out beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, drawing the sweetest sounds from your swollen lips, which send a concerning amount of blood rushing straight to his already semi-hard dick. 

All the while, your brain is screaming more, more, more, but all he’s giving you is barely-there touches, kisses that nearly make you beg for more. 

In reality, Mattheo wishes to devour you—but after all these months, not knowing whether he’ll ever get another chance—he's savouring you. Slow, deliberate affection, just like you deserve, not rushing you through it. 

His hips brush your thigh, and fuck—you nearly forgot what it feels to be desired—genuinely desired. He’s pressed up tight, trailing heated kisses down your neck, slowly undoing the buttons at the front of your shirt—rocking his growing erection against you, subconsciously so. 

His fingers carefully peel the satin aside, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple, and you gasp at the sensation. Never in all those months— 

“Poor thing. So frustrated, hm?” Mattheo rasps, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “So frustrated, even the smallest touch makes you writhe. God, whatever shall I do with you?” 

More. Touch me. Please. 

“Mattheo,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his brown curls. “I—” 

But he doesn’t let you finish your sentence. 

“Let me show you— please, let me show you how you should be loved. Let me make you forget about him, sweetheart. Let me make you mine again.” 

His lips trail a path of kisses along your sternum, down your tummy, halting briefly at the hem of your shorts, his eyes longingly gazing up at yours from below, a silent question swirling in the depths of them. 

Yes. I need this. I need you. 

As if he heard your thoughts, his fingers hook into the material of the only fabric still covering you, gently tugging it down your thighs alongside your panties. 

“This is a bad idea,” you try again, huskily, but there is no sincerity behind your words. He merely shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curving into a playful smirk. He knows you are lying. And when his thumb finds your clit—swollen, begging for attention, drawing slow, torturous circles over it—you don’t tell him to stop, no. You chase his touch, angle your hips to offer more of yourself, revealing more of your glistening pussy to his hungry eyes. 

Even in the dim light emitted from the lamp in the corner of his dorm, Mattheo can see your arousal—and subsequently can’t help but dip his thumb lower, collecting some of what has gathered at your entrance. He makes you watch when he brings it to his mouth and licks it clean, groans when he tastes you on himself. 

As though you were the forbidden fruit no man dares to touch—but if it’s for you, Mattheo doesn’t care. Doesn't care if he fucking burns for it. You will be his damnation, even after all this time. 

“Oh— oh God, Mattheo, this is— so perfect, but such a bad idea.” 

“Bad idea?” he repeats, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “You know what a bad idea is? Leaving you to yourself like this—soaked and so. fucking. sensitive.” 

The worst part is that he is right. And that you have wanted nothing more than for someone to take care of you, to pleasure you as you do them.

Your mind is hazy with lust, with the need to come, and you give yourself the last push, shoving any remaining thoughts of Tom into the take-care-of-it-later folder of your mind. 

Then, your lips part, Mattheo studying you intently. “Please, touch me. Make me feel good. Make me yours again.” 

Mattheo’s mind efficiently shuts off after he takes in those words and repeats them around five times in his mind to make sure he understood you right. 

Hell, he won't let any second go to waste.

He presses one last kiss to the inside of your knee, then grabs your thighs and spreads them apart, far enough for him to fit in between. He’s feral—almost as feral as you are. His head dips, tongue delving between your folds, gathering the moisture seeping from your entrance and bringing it to your clit before his lips wrap around it effortlessly. And God, months without this kind of affection have made you overly sensitive. This feels as close to heaven as a mortal may reach in their lifetime—and you force your eyes open to watch him, watch your ruination. 

You study him intently as he pleasures you, as though it’s the very thing he was made for, as though there is not a single thing he’d rather do. And there most likely isn’t. 

Seeing him like this—fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, moaning against your pussy, savouring your taste on his tongue—has molten heat form in your lower stomach, and the familiar, yet almost forgotten tingles spread throughout your entire body, having you grab and tug on his curls, press him more firmly against you.  

Mattheo licks, sucks, drags his tongue through the mess between your folds, fucks you with his tongue, and is so fucking vocal about it. Praises you, encourages you.  

“Good girl. So fucking good for me,” he nearly growls, spreading your legs impossibly wider.  “This is what you needed, isn’t it? Just needed me between those pretty fuckin’ thighs, making you remember how good it can feel, hm?” 

You don’t answer. Can't answer when he flicks his tongue against your sensitive clit, kisses it, and sucks it between his lips again. 

You are about to come. God, you are about to come, and you don’t think you have ever felt this fucking good. 

Don't stop, please, don’t stop. 

He doesn’t stop. His hands leave your thighs, one of them intertwining with your own, reassuring you that he’s here to catch you when you let go, the other dipping lower, coating two of his fingers in your slick before he presses them against your entrance and pushes inside ever so slowly. 

“Come, pretty girl. Come all over my face like I fucking taught you.” 

Mattheo curls his fingers right against that sensitive spot inside you, and you don’t have any other choice but to follow his order even if you so wished. 

His teeth graze your clit, fingers pumping deep, encouraging you with a low groan—and the vibrations of it finally send you over the edge. A broken moan slips past your lips—swollen from biting into them—and your fingers fist his hair tighter, thighs clamping around his head as stars dance in front of your eyes. You shake, you sob, and as your climax rips through you, so violently you think you may actually skip the dying part and ascend straight to heaven—he is there. He holds you, he praises you, and most importantly, doesn’t stop. Not until he’s drained every last drop of pleasure and you whimper due to the sensitivity.

Brushing one last soft kiss to your clit, he sits up, taking in your spent form with pure satisfaction. 

He looks gorgeous like this. Chin soaked with both his spit and your arousal, lips swollen and reddened, hair a mess. In that moment, you realise you’ve missed him more than you thought. Not just because he always puts you first, but because he’s genuine with his feelings, careful with his words, and gentle with his affection. 

“Fuck,” Mattheo exhales a long breath, a grin spreading on his face. “You did amazing. So fucking good, just like I remember.” 

You whisper something in that sweet, velvety voice, and Mattheo doesn’t quite catch it but leans down to kiss you again anyway. You taste yourself on his lips and can’t help but lose yourself in the feeling of it. 

Now, that the bliss of your high is slowly fading, you are feeling courageous. More than. 

You reach between the two of you to palm his erection through his underwear, and his lips still against yours for a moment—but then, a wicked grin lets them curve upwards, and he lets them crash against yours again—coaxing you, making you feel bold. 

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you finally circle his waist with your legs, and you can’t help but grind against him. Dragging your soaked pussy over his erection, still covered by the annoying piece of fabric he hasn’t bothered taking off yet. 

Mattheo growls, the muscles in his jaw flexing. 

He is holding back. 

Reluctantly, you drop your head on the pillow beneath you, staring up at him, your palm brushing over his cheek affectionately.

“Mattheo, I want you— I want you inside me, please.” 

Fuck, he thinks. You don’t know what you are asking from him. Once he feels your warmth around him, there is no fucking way he’ll ever let you leave again. No fucking way. And you are asking so sweetly, having come all this way here to pour your heart out to him—you deserve a reward. 

His underwear is discarded somewhere on the floor, and not too long after, his toned body is framing yours, his hard cock dragging over your cunt as he slowly works his hips against your own. 

“Please,” you whimper, and he adjusts himself just slightly, allowing his length to slip between your glistening folds. With every oh-so-gentle thrust, his weeping tip bumps against your still overly sensitive clit, and your nails claw at his back, moaning his name. Anything to get him to lose his patience. 

You fucking need this. 

“Mattheo. Please, I am begging you. You are my only, please let me have this.” 

He curses under his breath, and yet, he straightens himself, hand beneath your neck to make you look at just how hard and needy he is for you. You moan at the sight of his soaked cock, caused by both your and his own arousal. 

“Watch us when I push inside you. Watch how pretty you look when you take me.” 

His hand fists your hair at the back of your head, supporting you—and then, with a throaty groan, the head of his cock slips past your entrance, having you both gasp at the same time. He's going slow—savouring every inch as you both watch him disappear inside your slick walls, pussy clenching tightly around the welcome invasion. 

“So— so good, fuck, Mattheo— more, please, more.” 

You think you hear something along the lines of “greedy fucking girl" before he lowers your head, braces his arms on either side of your face, and then drives home. All the fucking way, until the head of him nudges against your cervix, and you shriek in both pleasure and pain. 

And Merlin help you, you want more. Harder, rougher. Give me all of you, Mattheo, your eyes damn near beg. 

But he—he already looks fucking broken. Like the porcelain doll your grandmother displayed on her windowsill, with tiny cracks all over her once perfect exterior. They did not make her any less gorgeous, though—if anything, she looked like someone loved her properly. 

And you love Mattheo, too. You’ve left your marks on him, on his soul, having him panting and breathing and moaning above you, thrusting so slowly, so carefully, you might as well tell him to break you too. 

Your legs tighten around him. Encouragement. Please, please, don’t hold back. 

Mattheo breathes out a pained whimper, meeting your eyes. 

“I won’t— sweetheart, I won’t last long like this, fuck. It's been— been a while.” 

Oh God. 

You shouldn’t ask this. Hell, your mind should stay put for just once. Don't let your thoughts wander. But you ask nonetheless. “How— how long?” 

“Nine months.” 

You ended things between you nine months ago. 

“Oh God, Mattheo. Don’t tell me—” 

He nods. He nods, kisses you slowly and desperately, and then looks at you with an expression so close to hurt, you wish you had never asked. 

“I want you. I only ever want you. And if I can’t have you, then I—” 

“Mattheo— hey, look at me,” you shush him, cradling his face in your hands. “You have me. All of me. I belong to you, just as much as you belong to me. I was stupid not to realise it. I am yours. All yours, from now until the end of time.” 

“Hmph—” he whimpers, increasing his pace, hips snapping against yours furiously, knocking the air from your lungs with every harsh thrust. 

“Fuck, baby. Don’t say those things when I— when I am so—” he groans, a crease forming between his brows, concentrating. His cock twitches inside you, and it’s the only confirmation you need. 

“Give it to me. Please. I need you. All of you. I need this.” 

His thrusts grow erratic, deeper and rougher just as he knows you love it, and it takes everything in him to hold back. Hold back just a little longer to get you where he needs you. 

He knows. He remembers. After all these months, he remembers, knows your body better than you do. Better than anyone—including Tom—ever could. Because they don’t care. But he does. Mattheo does and always has cared about your pleasure, your safety, your comfort. About you. 

“Fuck, you are strangling me, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

You only nod, breathing heavily, just like him. And then, his thumb is back on your clit, drawing perfectly tight circles around it, all while locking his eyes with you. 

“Tell me,” he rasps, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who does this wet, tight pussy belong to? Hm?” 

Lord, you haven’t been to a confessional in ages, but perhaps it’s time to visit one some time soon. Very soon. 

“It’s yours, Mattheo— fuck, it’s all yours,” you cry out, scratching his back as he slams into you, growling at your confession. His hips stutter just as you lose yourself in the bliss of a second, even better and more wrecking climax than the first. Only through the thick, hazy clouds enveloping your every sane thought do you feel as he empties himself inside of you, gently letting his body collapse on top of yours afterwards, sucking in deep breaths. 

The waves of your pleasure almost drown you, but when you calm down, you reemerge, unharmed, feeling blissfully satisfied—brushing your fingertips along his spine, soothing him the same way he did with you. 

What does not reemerge is your relationship with Tom. 

And it won’t. Never again. You are home, and you are happy. You are exactly where you want to be. 

In your lover's arms—in Mattheo’s arms.

・・・

bonus ending:

“No. Off. Keep those off,” Mattheo drawls from his side of the bed, arms tucked beneath his head as he watches you get dressed the next morning, nodding towards your panties just as you are about to step into them. 

“Mattheo,” you warn him, but he gestures you over with one hand, sitting up on the bed. 

You do as he says for once, intrigued by the sudden change in his expression. He gently, carefully kisses you when you stop at the edge of the bed and then smiles at you. 

“Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he purrs, and reluctantly, you do. 

Mattheo’s fingers dip between your folds, coating them with your combined arousal of the previous night, now beginning to drip out of you. You hiss, sore, but lean into his touch anyway—though he withdraws as quickly as he began, bringing his glistening fingers to your lips. 

You open them, but he shakes his head. 

Instead, he draws an M on your lips, smirking when he admires his work. 

“For when you kiss him good morning. One last time.”

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

—

A/N pt2: forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I will be seeing priest!Tom in the confessional, I promise.

[riddlesrizzler]

Three French Hens

summary: But I know how it felt. Warm. characters: mattheo riddle x hufflepuff! reader warnings: none! word count: 1.1k

Dear Mattheo,

If the Twelve Days of Christmas were a reflection of my actual life, then today would’ve proven one thing very clearly: I can barely keep up with one Slytherin boy-Merlin save me from three French hens.

You walked me back to my dorm tonight, snow falling in soft sheets around us, and I swear the world felt too quiet for my own good. The kind of quiet where thoughts get loud. The kind of quiet where feelings start stepping out of shadows I’ve been keeping them in.

I tried to play it cool. Really, I did. But then you looked at me with that grin-the one that makes it look like you know every secret I haven’t even told myself yet-and you said, “Merlin, sweetheart, how many layers are you wearing? Are you trying to survive a blizzard or start one?”

I told you I was cold. You told me I was adorable. I pretended not to hear it. (I definitely heard it.)

You brushed snowflakes from my scarf at one point-casual, like it was nothing-except your fingers lingered a bit too long and my heart nearly dove into the nearest snowbank just to cool off.

I don’t know why you walked me back. I don’t know why you kept glancing over as if making sure I didn’t slip or vanish or drift away with the snow. I don’t know why your shoulder brushed mine so many times it felt like a conversation.

But I know how it felt. Warm.

Unexpectedly warm, despite the way my breath fogged in the cold and my ears stung from the wind.

You laughed at how bundled up I was, but the truth is… I think I needed it. Not the scarf or the mittens or the extra sweater. You.

Just your presence beside me, steady and teasing and close enough that I could hear the crunch of snow beneath your boots.

You made the walk feel shorter than it ever has. You made the castle lights look brighter. And for one impossible moment, when you held the door open for me and said, “See you tomorrow, yeah?” I almost believed you might mean it the same way I do.

But no. I won’t let myself be foolish. I’ll just keep writing these letters, keep laughing at my own jokes, keep imagining three ridiculous French hens clucking impatiently at my hopeless crush.

Yours in too many layers and not enough courage,

-

The greenhouses glowed like lanterns against the early evening dark, their glass panes fogged with warm breath and drifting curls of steam. Snow had thickened over the grounds while she’d been tending her mandrake notes, settling in soft, powdery layers across the lawn.

Students spilled out into the cold in clusters-scarves pulled tight, laughter turning to mist. She hugged her Herbology book to her chest and stepped carefully onto the path, breath puffing in little white clouds.

A familiar voice cut through the chatter. “There you are.”

She turned just in time to see Mattheo striding toward her, his cloak catching flakes of snow, his hair dusted with white as if winter itself had tugged him aside to kiss his head. Behind him, Draco and Theo slowed, exchanging looks that were nearly identical in their confusion.

“Thought you were coming with us,” Theo called, brows knitting.

Mattheo didn’t even glance back. “I’ll catch up.”

“Since when do you walk back with-” Draco began, but Mattheo shot him a look sharp enough to cut through ice. Both boys went silent. Both stared. Neither understood.

Mattheo shook his head once, dismissing them, and fell into step beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Ready?” he asked.

She blinked, startled. “For… what?”

“To head back.” His lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Something softer. “Unless you enjoy freezing out here.”

“I-I wasn’t sure you’d want to walk with me,” she admitted, cheeks warming despite the cold.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. But he said it lightly-too lightly-like if he didn’t soften the words they might reveal something too real.

The path toward the castle stretched ahead, a pale, snowy ribbon illuminated by lanterns that glowed gold against the falling flakes. As they walked, her boots crunched softly beside his heavier steps, their breath rising in twin plumes into the darkening air.

Behind them, Draco muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Since when?” Theo made a bewildered noise. Mattheo ignored all of it.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

“Fine.” He shrugged. “My friends just think I’ve lost my mind.”

She laughed-the quiet, warm kind that always made him look over. Always made something in his chest shift. “And have you?” she teased.

“Probably,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. “But maybe that’s your fault.”

Her heart tripped. “What did I do?”

“You exist,” he said, like it was obvious. Then he cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck like he suddenly regretted how honest that had sounded.

The wind brushed past them, swirling snow in delicate spirals. When a gust threatened to tug her scarf loose, she reached to pull it tight, but Mattheo was quicker.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

He stepped closer-close enough that she could see the way snowflakes melted on his lashes. His fingers were steady and warm as he retied her scarf, tucking it snug against her mouth and pulling her hood just slightly over her hair.

“There,” he said softly. “Now you won’t freeze before we make it twenty steps.”

She ducked her head, embarrassed at how flustered she felt. “Thanks.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “You really don’t have to thank me every time I do something.”

“But you don’t usually…” She trailed off, not sure how to explain the truth: You don’t usually notice girls like me. You don’t usually look at someone the way you’re looking at me.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly, like he’d read her thoughts anyway. “I know.”

The castle loomed ahead, warm light spilling from the entry arch. When they reached the doors, he hesitated-just like he had the day before-turning to face her fully, snow melting against his collar.

“So…” He stepped on the toe of his boot nervously. “Can I walk you again tomorrow?”

Her breath caught. “Y-you want to?”

His lips curled, softer than she’d ever seen. “Yeah. I do.”

From across the courtyard, Draco groaned loudly. “Oh for Merlin’s sake-just ask her to marry you already!”

Mattheo flipped him off without breaking eye contact with her. She laughed, glowing all the way to her fingertips.

“Tomorrow, then,” she whispered.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, and this time, he didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t smiling.

[govnder]

THE GINGERBREAD INCIDENT — MATTHEO RIDDLE.

synopsis: where mattheo insists to help with every preparation for christmas—starting with the gingerbreads.

cw: fluff, very brief mention of depression and torture, christmas eve's eve.

a/n: just a quick drabble before christmas, since i am not sure if i will be able to write something on the day. <3

“i don’t know how to do this.” mattheo muttered, irritated by his inability to hold a piping bag filled with red icing.

there were three days left until christmas, and preparations for the special date were in full swing. this year, mattheo had received the sweet invitation to spend the holiday under your parents' roof—who already knew the “good riddle,” as you had once introduced him, when he’d spent the summer break with you before while still learning what safety felt like. they welcomed him without hesitation, your mother especially, who by now regarded him as a second son.

mattheo felt more than embraced by your loving parents, and in the quiet hours of the night—when you slept soundly, snoring softly in his arms—he would think about how impossibly lucky he was. not merely to be loved, but to be claimed. to have found not only you, but a family that held him in ways his father never had.

so, on christmas eve’s eve, mattheo insisted on helping with every single preparation for the 25th, and the idea of gingerbread cookies came from him. his mind—chemically unbalanced and scarred by years of depression and physical and psychological torture—convinced itself that effort was proof. that if he participated enough, if he tried hard enough, no one could accuse him of taking advantage of your family's kindness, and that you would be happy and properly into the holiday spirit—so he needed to engage with christmas as much as possible. hence the idea of baking the little cookies.

you had told him a thousand times that he didn’t need to forge a politically correct personality or a sugar-sweet persona painful to the teeth, and that both you and your parents only wanted the real mattheo—unrestrained in his acidic and wrong jokes, unafraid to show the honesty that didn’t always land neatly, without worrying about saying the wrong thing. for your family, christmas was about that: being close to friends and loved ones, without any intention of intrigue or conflict.

and now, mattheo was part of the family. he belonged to that space.

still, his stubborn mind insisted on baking the damned gingerbread cookies, which explained why the hell you were both sitting at the kitchen table at two thirty-one in the morning.

wearing a comically holiday-themed pajama set, his thick brows were drawn together in concentration. in his large, calloused hands, the piping bag with red icing looked out of place—almost wrong and obscenely delicate. he had already burst a few by squeezing them too hard, until you showed him how gingerbread cookies were meant to be decorated.

it didn’t help much.

yours were immaculate, and mattheo had no idea how you managed to decorate those tiny trees with effortless precision, alternating between curved lines and little dots of different colors like you had some kind of muscle memory. his, on the other hand, were nothing short of a disaster. one eye bigger than the other, one coat button smaller than the rest, a painfully crooked smile—like a child’s before braces—and mattheo was already growing irritated. ever since childhood, he’d hated not being good at something the first time he tried, and well… being unable to draw on gingerbread men would have made him red with rage, if he didn’t abhor that color.

“fuck,” he swore when he messed up again, lifting his gaze to you, who were calm and maddeningly relaxed as you placed another tiny christmas tree onto the plate between you—the place that held your realistic works of art and his dadaist disasters. “how do you do this? it’s fucking impossible to make these gingerbread things symmetrical.”

your laughter echoed through the kitchen. thank god the bedrooms were upstairs. "you’re just way too rough for this task, mattheo,” you teased. “it’s really simple. steady your hands. don’t let them shake. then just draw.”

the look you received could’ve made neville longbottom run for his life. mattheo’s brown eyes stared at you as if you’d said the most irritating thing imaginable—because, to him, you had. "easier said than done,” he grumbled, clearly upset by his own incompetence. he didn’t see the activity exactly as a competition, but it was at least unsettling for a boy who was good at everything to fail at something as stupidly simple as decorating cookies.

laughing, you stretched your arm across the table and pinched one of mattheo’s cheeks between your thumb and forefinger. “don’t be such a grouch, sweetheart,” you mocked in an annoyingly sweet voice. “come on, i’ll help you. fix that face.”

your hands held onto the glass table as you pushed your chair back. you stood, walked around to his side, pulled another chair over, and sat beside him. you picked up a candy-cane-shaped cookie and placed it on the red-and-white plate in front of him. “let’s try this one first. it’s easier than christmas trees or little men.” your hands gathered the piping bags—white, red, and green—and you decorated the lower part of the cookie with three stripes of the respective colors, showing him slowly, patiently, as though teaching a child. “see? easy. just alternate the stripes and try not to make them too crooked.”

he rolled his eyes at the way you were talking to him—like he was three years old. “yeah, yeah,” he said sarcastically, taking the plastic bag filled with icing. focused, he began to trace a line on the cookie, leaving a relatively large space between his lines and yours. his head was bent low, almost as if he couldn’t see what he was doing, and your soft laughter rang through the room again.

“you don’t need to bend your head that much, you know. you’ll end up with a sore neck.” wanting to help his deplorable situation, your hands found his, and gently, you guided mattheo’s movements.

he looked at you in surprised confusion when you took his hands, but soon his attention returned to the task. with the support of your palms, the gingerbread candy cane began to take shape, and with your small or big help, mattheo managed to finish the challenge that had seemed as impossible as walking on water.

“see?” you said, smiling brightly as you set the last piping bag back on the table. “you’re not as incompetent as you think.”

mattheo rolled his eyes once more and silenced you with a quick kiss. one of his calloused hands held your chin, the other, your cheek—which ended up smeared with green icing from his fingers. before you could scold him, mattheo’s tongue traced a path from his mouth to your icing-stained skin, licking it clean.

he grinned mischievously.

“asshole,” you cursed, amused. “you should start using your talent for getting on my nerves to finish the fucking gingerbread cookies you dragged me to help with.” you flicked his forehead.

laughing, mattheo went back to work. some turned out more perfect than others, and occasionally you had to offer your hands again to steady his, but by the end of the early morning hours, the plate in the middle of the table was full of little treats to be eaten the next day—crooked, colorful, imperfect and finished.

mattheo looked content.

in his difficult childhood, he’d never had the chance to do christmas activities, and you were more than happy to give that to him. that was when you noticed that, without realizing it, the inner child still living inside your boyfriend was slowly being rekindled—like a phoenix rising back to life. and this time, you would never let that flame go out again.

even if it meant sacrificing countless gingerbread cookies along the way.

[heavenlybodies333]

Dirty Fucking Mind - M.R.

Speak of the Devil…and the Devil shall appear

Your luck was fucking awful.

You had come to the Restricted Section with a singular purpose: find the book on alchemy you’d been dying to get your hands on and get out. Simple. In and out. No one would know. But, as usual, your unfortunate timing had yet again fucked you over.

Because you weren’t alone.

You stilled, fingers hovering over the spine of an aged, leather-bound tome, as you caught sight of him. Mattheo Riddle.

He moved between the towering bookshelves like a shadow, deliberate and silent, his sharp gaze scanning the rows as if searching for something just out of reach. But what caught your attention—what made you pause, breath hitching—was the way his lips moved. Barely audible, murmuring a language you had heard before but couldn’t immediately place.

And then it clicked. Parseltongue.

Your brows lifted in mild surprise. You recognized it as clear as day, though your understanding of it was... lacking. A fault of your own negligence, really. Your grandfather—one of the few remaining Blacks to still wield the gift—had tried to teach you, but you’d been too stubborn to care. Maybe if you’d listened, you would have known exactly what Riddle was searching for now.

As he stretched, reaching for a book just out of reach, the fabric of his shirt pulled taut over his forearms, the flex of his muscles making the veins in his hands stand out, and fuck—had he always been this strong? The thought hit you suddenly, unwanted, unwarranted. You imagined those hands on you, wrapped around your throat, pinning you down as his body pressed between your legs. How deep would his cock—

You about done, princess?

Your stomach plummeted as the voice echoed inside your mind. You recognized it instantly, it was Mattheo’s. shit. shit. shit.

Panic flickered in your chest, but you kept your expression composed as you straightened, snapping your head up to meet his gaze. Except…

He wasn’t there.

The space where he’d stood just moments ago was empty, the soft glow of candlelight flickering across abandoned bookshelves.

What the—

His laughter curled around your mind like smoke, seeping into every crevice, dragging icy fingers down your spine.

Legilimency.

You should have known.

Riddle was a fucking menace, a master of slipping into minds undetected, and clearly, you weren’t as skilled at Occlumency as you’d thought. Which meant—

Heat burned across your cheeks.

He’d heard everything. The filthy, unfiltered thoughts you’d had about him.

A slow clap broke the silence, sharp and mocking. "Well, well," came his voice, smooth as silk and twice as deadly. "I must say, I’m flattered."

You didn’t turn immediately. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, slow and even, before sliding the book back into place. Only then did you pivot, deliberately, meeting his gaze with a lazy tilt of your head.

Mattheo stood mere feet away, leaning against a bookshelf like he had all the time in the world, his arms folded, one brow arched in amusement. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the cruel smirk tugging at his lips.

"You must be mistaken," you said, voice laced with boredom. "Not everything is about you, Riddle."

His smirk widened. "Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong." He pushed off the shelf, closing the distance between you in two measured steps. "See, I find it quite hard to believe that you weren’t just picturing my hands around your throat."

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Instead, you smiled—slow, saccharine, dangerous. "I suppose if you already know my thoughts, there’s no point in lying," you said, voice dipping just slightly. You let your gaze flicker over him, deliberate and slow, before meeting his eyes again. "It’s a shame, really. Fantasy is always better than reality." Taking a step back as he took one towards you. Your back hit the bookshelf as you inhaled sharply, refusing to react, refusing to let the way his body crowded yours make you do something stupid—like, say, pressing your thighs together.

"Is that so?" Mattheo mused, his eyes locked onto yours. He reached out lazily, running his fingers along the edge of the shelf beside your head. You felt the air shift, his presence pressing in closer. then—before you could register the movement—his thigh was slotted between yours, firm and unforgiving.

Your breath stilled in your throat. The heat of him was immediate, seeping through the fabric of your skirt, and—Merlin help you—you were already too fucking warm.

Mattheo noticed. Of course he did.

"Interesting," he drawled, his voice almost thoughtful as his hands came to rest on your waist—not gripping, not pinning, just there. Just waiting. "You act as though I don’t affect you, yet here you are…" His lips curved into something wicked, something knowing, as he shifted just slightly, the movement pressing the firm plane of his thigh against your already aching cunt.

It took every ounce of restraint you had not to react. Not to suck in a sharp breath or—God forbid—moan. Your nails dug into the wood of the bookshelf behind you, grounding yourself, forcing yourself to meet his gaze with unwavering defiance.

"You think too highly of yourself, Riddle," you murmured, voice impressively steady.

His hands tightened just slightly, the ghost of a squeeze, and then his knee bucked up—just a fraction, just enough to force a spark of pleasure up your spine.

Oh, fuck.

Heat licked at your cheeks, but still, you refused to break. Refused to let him have this. You set your jaw, inhaling through your nose, refusing to give him a reaction.

You glared at him. "If you think this little game is going to—"

Another slow, deliberate movement of his thigh.

Your words cut off.

His dark eyes gleamed. "Go on," he encouraged. "Finish your sentence."

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, but the friction was unbearable. The ache between your thighs only intensified, and you were certain—certain—he could feel the evidence of it. The growing damp spot against his trousers, the way your body reacted against your will.

And the worst part? He wasn’t even holding you there. He wasn’t forcing you to grind down, wasn’t pinning you in place.

You were doing that all on your own.

"You’re quiet all of a sudden," Mattheo murmured, tilting his head. His thumb brushed over your jaw, deceptively gentle as his leg shifted, dragging slow, agonizing friction against you. "I expected more fight from you. Aren’t you going to tell me how much you don’t want this?"

Your nails bit into his wrist. "I hate you," you breathed.

He chuckled. "Oh, I know."

His thigh flexed, and stars burst behind your eyes. You bit your lip, hard, swallowing the whimper that threatened to spill out.

Mattheo’s free hand traced the line of your waist, slow, testing. "You’re soaking me," he murmured, almost thoughtful. "All from just this?" His knee shifted higher, pressing right against the throbbing ache between your thighs.

Your head tipped back, thudding against the shelf. Fuck Fuck Fuck.

You barely noticed the way your fingers worked at his belt, the way you shoved his trousers just far enough down to feel the thick, heavy weight of him against your palm.

Mattheo hissed between his teeth, his breath hot against your neck.

“Fuck, you’re impatient,” he muttered, but his hand was already guiding yours, wrapping your fingers around his cock like he needed it.

The door creaked open. You froze. Mattheo didn’t. You barely had time to react before he shoved you down, your knees hitting the stone floor, his cock in your hand before you could even register what was happening.

“Mr. Riddle?” came Professor Flitwick’s tiny voice. “Still here, are we?”

Your eyes flicked up to Mattheo’s face. He had to step further into the shelves to hide you, but you stayed exactly where you were, blinking up at him with mock innocence, tongue trailing the underside of his cock just to fuck with him.

He stiffened. You swore you saw panic, actual panic, flicker across his features before he schooled it into composure.

“Yes, professor,” Mattheo rasped, voice strained.

You started again, licking his cock slow, deliberate, watching the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his nostrils flared as he fought for control. Letting your lips part, taking the thick, leaking head of his cock into your mouth just.

Mattheo shot you a warning look, but you ignored it, taking him deeper into your mouth, swallowing around him.

His thigh tensed, his jaw locking, and for the first time in your life, you heard him stutter.

Flitwick’s voice remained curious, oblivious. "What is it you’re still doing in the library?"

Mattheo cleared his throat, his grip in your hair tightening as he struggled to maintain control. "J-Just—research, Professor." His voice was even, but you could hear the strain beneath it.

God, this was fun.

You hummed around him, flicking your tongue over the sensitive tip, and his entire body shuddered.

You watched, delighted, as he fought to remain composed, as he struggled against the pleasure you were so generously giving him.

You sucked harder, forcing Mattheo’s cock deeper down your throat.

Mattheo stiffened. His grip on your hair turned punishing. "Shit."

"Professor," he choked out, voice strained. "I… I was just finishing up in the Restricted Section."

Flitwick’s tiny feet pattered closer.

You flattened your tongue, swirled it around the head of his cock, hard, until he trembled above you.

Finishing up. You could hardly help the quiet giggle that slipped from you as you took him deeper into your mouth, pressing until you felt him hit the back of your throat.

Mattheo’s hand tightened in your hair, pulling, silently begging you to stop, but you just stared up at him tauntingly, sucking harder.

“Very well,” Flitwick replied. “Do lock up when you’re done, won’t you?”

Mattheo grunted in response, sharp and clipped, visibly struggling. He could barely manage a nod. His knuckles turned white where they gripped the shelf behind him, while the other hand held a death grip in your hair, pleading you not to move, you did the exact opposite.

The moment the library door clicked shut, Mattheo snapped.

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking you off him with a wet, obscene pop, your saliva still glistening along the length of him as he dragged his thumb across your slick, swollen lips. His eyes, black as sin, drank in the sight of you—breathless, wrecked, your mouth shining with evidence of your depravity.

“You little fucking—”

“What?” You taunted feigning innocence as you pouted at him.

"You," he growled, hauling you to your feet, crashing your bodies together, "are going to pay for that."

His thumb pressed against your tongue, and you—defiant, taunting—wrapped your lips around it, sucking, never breaking eye contact as his restraint shattered.

His hands were everywhere—pushing, pulling, grasping at your robes, yanking at your clothes with a ruthless impatience. He had no time for undressing, your skirt was shoved up over your hips, your blouse hanging open, the cool air ghosting over your exposed breasts.

Your moan was swallowed by his mouth as he pressed against you, his fingers slipping beneath your panties, dragging through your slick folds, spreading you open. "So fucking wet for me," Your nails carved red crescents into his back as you moaned against his lips, and he drank in every sound like a man starved. He lined up his cock, teasing you as he slid through your wet folds pushing his tip against your sensitive clit. His eyes never leaving yours as he thrusted into you, one arm wrapped strongly around your waist and the other gripping your throat leaving bruises you knew weren’t going to heal for days.

"Fuck," you gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling,"Is that all you've got, Riddle?"

His pace faltered, just for a second, before his grip on you tightened like a vice. "You're infuriating." His hips snapped against you in punishment, pulling a cry from your throat.

Your nails clawed at his back, your legs tightening around his waist as he fucked you deeper, harder, driving you into the wood. Your head thumped against the bookshelf, but you didn’t care. Didn’t even feel it over the sharp, consuming pleasure, over the way he was taking you. “You almost fuck me better than my ex,” you moaned.

Then, in a blur of motion, he pinned your wrists above your head, his other hand wrapping around your throat as he rolled his hips against you with devastating precision, dragging himself out excruciatingly slow before slamming back into you so hard you nearly screamed.

"You forget yourself," he growled, lips grazing your ear, his grip tightening just enough to make you whimper. "Do you want to repeat that, princess?" Another thrust, sharp and cruel, making your legs tremble around him. "I thought you were going to stop me, eyes up, look at me, where the fuck is my cock right now." His grip on your wrists tightened, his pace relentless now, your back arched, your lips parted in a silent scream as your body clenched, trembled, broke around him.

Mattheo groaned, as he drove into you once, twice more before he spilled inside you, his head falling against your shoulder, breath ragged, bodies slick and trembling as you came together.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breathing—a soft shuffle. The unmistakable creak of an old wooden floorboard.

You stilled.

Mattheo’s head snapped up, his gaze narrowing as he peered into the darkened rows of the Restricted Section.

Your unfortunate timing had fucked you over yet again.

And this time… someone had seen.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: this was supposed to be slow burn but then I blacked out and now there’s thigh riding in the restricted section. oopsies.

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[heavenlybodies333]

Bloodbound - M.R.

You knew the second Mattheo found out.

The halls of Hogwarts had never felt so small. Whispers spread like wildfire, rippling through Slytherin like blood in the water. They knew what you did. They knew. And worse—so did he.

“You sold me out.”

Mattheo’s voice was quiet. Too quiet. That was what terrified you. Not the way he stood in front of you in the abandoned classroom, shoulders coiled tight like a snake ready to strike. Not the way Theo and Draco lingered near the door, watching, waiting.

No. It was the quiet.

“What I did,” you murmured, forcing steel into your spine, “I did for us.”

His laughter was cold, sharp. “Us?” He took a step forward. “You made a deal with Malfoy’s father. You gave him names—our names.”

Your jaw clenched. “To keep you safe—”

“To keep me safe?” His fingers brushed your jaw, almost gentle. Almost. “Tell me, princess, does that lie taste good on your tongue?”

You didn’t break. Couldn’t. If you let him see you waver, he’d kill you for it.

Draco shifted. “You should let her explain, mate.”

“She doesn’t need to explain.” His fingers tightened, just enough to make your pulse hammer. “Because she’s a traitorous fucking whore.”

You shouldn’t have gone to his dorm. You knew that. You weren’t weak. You weren’t sorry. But you also weren’t stupid.

And you needed to see him.

The second the door slammed shut behind you, Mattheo was on you—grabbing, shoving, his hand fisting in your hair as he backed you against the stone wall.

His lips crashed against yours, biting at your bottom lip until you tasted blood.

“You hate me,” you breathed, nails digging into his back as he lifted you onto his desk, pushing your legs apart with a knee.

“I’ll fuck you as hard as I hate you.”

“Theo’s gonna be back soon,” you warned, voice steady even as your pulse betrayed you.

Mattheo let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Oh, is that supposed to scare me?”

The door behind him clicked shut, the room suddenly too small, too charged, the air thick enough to choke on.

“Tell me something, princess,” he murmured, tilting his head, eyes dark, dangerous, furious. “Did you enjoy whoring yourself out to malfoy?”

Your nails dug into your palm. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You must have lost your fucking mind,” Mattheo rasped, his voice a blade dragging slow and cruel down your spine.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “I did what I had to do.”

His grip tightened. He was seething. Every muscle in his body was coiled, his control fraying at the edges. “You betrayed me.”

“I saved you.”

“You’re mine,” he growled. “And I don’t give a fuck what you think you were doing—I don’t share.”

Your lips parted, a sharp inhale trapped in your throat. His belt clinks, his zipper drags, and suddenly he’s lining himself up, teasing your entrance, waiting—

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to scream. But all that came out was a breathless moan when he slid inside you in one punishing thrust.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, forehead dropping against yours.

Your nails raked down his back as he set a brutal pace, the desk creaking beneath you, your muffled moans swallowed by his mouth.

You barely had time to react before he was kneeling, hands wrapping around your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the desk. His smirk was slow, sharp, as he shoved your legs apart.

“Let’s see if that smart mouth of yours still works after I’m done with you.”

His mouth was on you, tongue hot and slow, licking a broad stripe up your cunt before closing his lips around your clit and sucking.

You twisted your fingers into his hair, tugging hard. “Mattheo, I swear to fucking—”

He growled, the vibrations shaking through you, making your whole body jolt.

“Swear to me, princess,” he rasped, voice wrecked, breath ghosting against your soaked skin. “Swear that no one else gets this.” His lips brushed against your clit, so soft it was a mockery of the brutal way he’d just been fucking you. “I can do this all night,” he murmured. “But you? You’re already shaking.”

The bastard was toying with you. Holding you right on the edge, feeding off your frustration, your hunger.

His lips moved against your cunt, “You know what I think?”

then—Parseltongue. Right against your clit.

You slap a hand over your mouth moaning, your whole body jerking, because he’s using it on purpose, whispering filthy things in that low, ancient hiss, the vibrations wrecking you from the inside out. You’re going to kill him. Right after you come.

You’re so fucking close when—

BANG BANG BANG.

"FUCKING HELL, RIDDLE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Your head snaps toward the door, where Theo’s voice echoes from the other side. A muffled groan follows. “Some of us don’t want to hear your unresolved sexual tension in surround sound.”

Your eyes flew open, and Mattheo fucking laughed, not even slowing down.

“Not my fault she’s loud,” he called back, voice rough, smug as hell.

And then he’s flipping you over, pressing your chest against the desk as he pounds into you from behind. His hand slides up your throat, yanking your head back. "You think you can lie to me? Betray me? And get away with it?"

You shudder, legs shaking, overstimulated. "Mattheo—"

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, wrenched your head back so you were forced to look at him. His dark curls were a mess, sweat clinging to his forehead, his pupils blown so wide his irises were nearly swallowed whole.

“You don’t get to talk like you know me,” he growled.

Your lips curled. “I do know you. That’s the fucking problem.” You whimpered, hips tilting to take him deeper, your walls clenching around him.

You felt the moment he made the choice—the shift in his grip, the way his breath stuttered.

Then cold metal pressed against your throat.

A knife.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs, but you didn’t look away. You didn’t gasp, didn’t plead. You only smirked, your hands trailing down his chest, dragging your nails over his abs.

“Do it,” you sneered, challenging. “I know you want to, so do it.”

Mattheo exhaled hard, his whole body trembling with restraint.

Then—he dropped the knife, let it clatter to the desk. His hand found your throat again, and he fucked you, bruising and rough and desperate, like he was trying to make you feel what he couldn’t say.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, dug your nails into his shoulders. You met him thrust for thrust. You came twice before he did, shaking, panting, moaning against him.

Then—slowly, reluctantly—Mattheo pulled back. His hands flexed like he didn’t know whether to let you go or pull you closer.

You could have left. You should have.

Instead, you reached for the knife.

His body went still, his breathing shallow as you lifted it, the cool metal reflecting the dim candlelight.

Your fingers wrapped around the hilt, and then—you pressed it against his throat.

Mattheo’s breath hitched.

You smirked, leaning in, your lips brushing his jaw. “You dropped your weapon,” you purred, voice saccharine, mocking, dragging the blade down the column of his throat, pressing just enough to make him swallow hard.

His pulse thundered beneath your hand.

Then—he fucking laughed.

A dark, wrecked sound that sent heat curling through your core all over again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, tilting his head back, baring his throat to you like a dare. Like a surrender. His grin stretched, wicked and reverent. “You’ve never been hotter.”

rolling your eyes, “I should’ve known you’d get off on this.” he was inside you again—slamming into you, one arm braced above your head, the other hand gripping your thigh so tight you knew there’d be bruises.

“You manipulative son of a—fuck—”

He slammed into you harder. “Say it again.”

“You manipulative, arrogant prick—”

He smirked. “There she is.” grinding into you, his cock still hard, still inside you.

“You’re sick,” you sneered, voice low, venomous.

He scoffed, “Takes one to fuck one.”

And that was it.

The blade moved before you thought—instinct, impulse, wrath. A shallow slice, just beneath his collarbone. Not deep. But enough.

Mattheo flinched, breath stuttering through his lips—but he didn’t pull away.

He smiled.

Blood welled to the surface, sliding crimson down his chest, and you watched it trail across his sweat slicked muscle.

Your skin burned—hot, searing, alive with something ancient and wrong and binding. The moment his blood had touched the blade, Mattheo had claimed you. And you had claimed him.

“What did you do?” you whispered.

Mattheo didn’t answer right away. He only stared at you, something unspoken twisting in his expression. Guilt? No. Satisfaction.

Then he said it—quiet, measured, deadly:

“I spelled the weapon. One strike from it, willingly given, seals a blood bond. Ancient. Irreversible.”

Your stomach dropped. “A what?”

“You’re mine,” he said. Not a question. Not a plea. A sentence. “Now and always.”

“You psychotic, possessive bastard—”

“You made a deal with Lucius Malfoy,” he snapped, the calm cracking, his voice rising. “You gave up the names of the Aurors watching our movements. You cut the Malfoys out. You chose my family over his.”

“And I’d do it again!” you spat. “I gave the names to the Riddles, not the fucking Aurors. Do you really think I’d betray you? Lucius was ready to sell your whole bloodline for political immunity—”

He stepped forward.

“And you didn’t tell me?” His voice broke at the edges, filled with something rawer now. “You let me think—fuck—”

“I couldn’t tell you,” you whispered, chest heaving. “Because if you knew, you’d stop me. And if the Ministry sniffed out the leak, you’d be the first to fall.”

“You think I needed protection?”

“No.” You stared at him. “But I needed you alive.”

Silence.

Then—his hands were on you. Not soft. your back hitting the wall so hard you saw stars.

“You’re still a fucking liar,” he snarled against your lips. “And I’m still furious.”

Mattheo’s tongue darted across his bottom lip, tasting the blood from earlier. “You’ve lost your mind.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear. “I found it. The moment you called me a whore for saving your life.”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.

You tilted your head, mock sympathy blooming across your face. “Didn’t like being reminded of what you’d never survive without?”

“You cut me,” he growled.

“You bound me,” you snapped. “You spelled the fucking blade and bound me to you without telling me, and now you want to play the victim?”

“We might be bonded by this fucking curse,” you said, voice low, cutting, “but the only thing it bound me to… is a lifetime of hating you for it.”

He flinched.

You tilted your head, voice turning cruel. “So enjoy the bond, lover. Feel it rot in your veins. Feel it every time you touch someone else and they don’t fit. Feel it every time you hear my name and your chest fucking aches.”

You turned toward the door.

“And when it all falls apart,” you added, glancing over your shoulder, “don’t call me. I won’t come.”

The door slammed behind you, leaving Mattheo alone—bare-chested, bloodstained, breathless.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: getting tricked into a blood bond w Mattheo, yes please daddy—mc has more self respect than I do…

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[lacedinthestars]

crimson

yay halloween inspired fic with the one. the only. mattheo riddle youre welcomeeeee

summary: all the monsters come to dance warnings: blood, mentions of blood, vampire vibes yk word count: .62k

it was cliché, but you leaned into it. being part vampire and part wizard wasn’t anyone’s idea of an ethical parent duo, but yours made it work. so when pansy came babbling into the bathroom after potions class about a costume party, you had to come up with something last minute.

you could’ve used fake blood, maybe a potion, but where was the fun in that? besides, the dining hall food hadn’t been appetizing you lately, and a small rabbit was your unfortunate victim. you never killed anyone; you weren’t that kind of vampire. hell, you’d never killed anything ever. being half meant you could survive on human food and blood, draining just enough to feed the craving without taking a life.

so here you were: black dress tight enough to make you squirm, knee-high boots hugging your legs, lacy thigh-highs peeking out just enough, black silk gloves that made your fingers feel sinful. and of course, blood trailing down your jaw, dripping onto your neckline; a smear of crimson temptation that looked too real to be a prop.

pansy and the girls were dressed just as scandalous; mermaids, bunnies, a muggle movie character or two from that ridiculous film you’d watched in muggle studies.

“well, isn’t this painfully ironic,” a slurred, sultry voice purred behind you.

you didn’t have to turn to know who it was. that voice had a way of curling around your spine like smoke. you knew it was him, the dark lord’s son, standing too close, eyeing you like you were something to unwrap. blood glistened at the corner of his mouth, not the usual color that was seeping from his nose or mouth, this was fake.

“always copying me,” you teased, swaying to the beat as the bass shook through the room.

his hands found your hips; warm, steady, possessive. his body pressed flush against yours, his breath ghosting over your neck.

“not copying if i was here first,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing your ear. the faint burn of firewhiskey lingered on his tongue when he spoke.

you turned your head, eyes half-lidded. “pretty sure i was born first,” you whispered. “so i win.”

and before he could smirk back, you crashed your lips into his.

the kiss was messy; teeth clashing, fake blood mixing with real, his groan rumbling low in his throat when your fingers tangled in his curls. his jaw was rough under your palms, his lips hot, desperate. the world tilted for a moment, and all you could feel was him; the hunger, the pull, the taste.

he pulled back just enough to speak, voice ragged. “why do you taste… funny? you usually taste like cherries and trouble.” his thumb dragged across his bottom lip, smearing the blood there.

you were still breathless, still reeling from the heat of it all when the sharp sting of your fangs broke through your lip.

“holy shit,” he breathed, staring at your mouth. “you didn’t- you didn’t tell me.”

you grinned, slow and dangerous, eyes glinting red beneath the dim lights. “you didn’t ask.”

he swallowed hard, gaze flicking from your mouth to your neck and back. “nope,” he said, voice barely a growl. “but fuck, do whatever you want to me for the rest of the night. please.”

your eyes locked onto his, the air thick enough to choke on. that familiar pull, compulsion, coiled through your veins as your pupils bled crimson. his did too.

“take me upstairs,” you said softly, voice like a spell. “now.”

he didn’t need to be told twice. before you could blink, his arm was under your legs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. gasps followed as he carried you up the stairs, your fingers fisting in his shirt, the sound of your pulse mingling with his laughter.

and somewhere between the pounding music and the echo of your heartbeat, the night began to taste like blood, whiskey, and sin.

[yuunarii-arii]

INTERLUDE 1. ACT 2. | TRICK

Night She Didn't Dare Cry 'Murder!!'

featuring ⚠︎︎ CLASSIFIED!Mattheo x Fem!Reader

themes ⚠︎︎ murder, gore themes, blood, secret mattheo au, set in the 1950s, petname used

my promptober '25

Loud thunder claps through the soot covered clouds, your tiny quaint one-story home huddled under the darkness of the skies as you sat in the comfort of your cottony ol’ couch and a bowl of popcorn.

You had just gotten home in time before the storm arrived, sparing you the hassle of washing an entire outfit. Bags from your recent shopping haul were spread across the kitchen floor, most of it were cans and non-perishable foods anyway, so there wasn’t anything that would spoil, you could always organize things later, but first thing was to enjoy the rest of your evening before you fell under another jumble of a terrifying workload.

The television flashed a hazy image, the same news reporter discussing the latest scoop, looked pretty cute under the black and white film, but you bet he was a total sleaze with the ladies, probably dropped ‘em when he got bored; you were in and out of tune every few minutes, he said something about inflation and its relation to the war, but you barely understood that baloney.

The thunder struck every little bit, sounding over the man’s voice like it was offended by whatever he was spouting. Half way into your bowl, you were utterly bored with this channel, so you stood to fiddle with the tuners, maybe you would be able to find a film playing at this hour. Channels flashed for every turn on the knob, switching from a static screen to a new face; your eyes caught interest on large text “LOCAL BREAKING NEWS” rolling at the top-most edge of the screen, well what was going on here?

You decided to sit back and relax, watching the semi-bald man talk about rather alarming news.

“On June 17th, just yesterday, a white Caucasian man was found dismembered in the alleyways of Figueroa Street—” The television fizzled into static ear piercing noises before the journalist could continue the report, “Ugh! Darn it!” You quickly bolted from your couch to fix the metal antennas of your dratted picture box, slowly changing the position till the screen fixed itself.

When the pixels finally aligned, a picture of what seemed to be the victim appeared on screen.

“—recognized as Jonathan Taylor through his ID. The identity of the perpetrator has yet to be found, law-enforcements are currently investigating this gruesome murder.”

The greyscaled employee photo of the victim looked very familiar… That’s when it clicked. Just yesterday a man had sexually harassed you, groping your ass as you rode the crowded street car to work, no matter how many times you had moved away, he would continue as his hands roamed to more private areas of your body. You had enough and certainly made it known to everyone what the indecent man behind you was doing, the whole cart kicked him off just after a few minutes of arguing and that was that. But now he was dead. Gruesomely murdered, tossed into the back of the alley…

“Officials suspect the possibility of a resurfacing serial killer. While there was a small investigation into a large mafia syndicate, interrogations were ceased due to lack of evidence—”

The screen broke into grey static cracks, thunder grew louder with every second, the storm was approaching closer and closer, and your heart did nothing to calm down. Sure the man assaulted you, but a death such as that. It was far too cruel…

Your skin tickled with goosebumps, stomach churning in fear at the actions of humans… Could someone be so monstrous, what drives a person to that point? Just then the lights turned black, a hopeless sound of electricity slowly fizzling out.

Horror surrounded you, there was no reason to be so scared. Yet the darkness engulfed you, and any noise that peeped from your vocals choked at your airways, lungs starved for oxygen. Not a single inch of light came through the windows, it would seem that the entire block had a blackout. This was normal, just any other storm, the lights would turn back on any moment, right?

Your bright-mind faded into despair as a spine chilling sound from a single step of leather soles echoed through your entire body, body numbing against the thick air, eyes burnt open in realization of your fate. Shivers crawled down from your ears to every nerve along your muscles.

Screams from your brain begged to run, to call for help, but you couldn’t move, not an inch, you dared not to look at the face of the intruder… Perhaps if you were to die a cruel death at this very moment, it would be better to stare into the expanse of the darkness.

A chilling radiation from a second body tingled along your back, a tall broad figure, towering over your small frame like a predator; you were done for, eyes strained wide as your breath choked in your throat. So frightened that you could not even form tears.

A large leather cladded hand curled around the pulse of your neck, nauseating cold stains of a liquid dripped along your flesh, sticky, smelling of iron… Your blood chilled, you wanted to scream, cry, beg, anything, but they came out in weak whimpers.

Then a guttural deep voice of a man ringed in the drums of your ears, “he should have known not to touch what’s mine. Isn’t that right, doll…?”

ari's voice mail ⚠︎︎ This is a special au I had in the works for a few months, as well as a few aus for the other slytherin boys. Based on the prompt -> Killer on the loose These prompts are from @/acourtofchaos promptober event masterlist.

©yuunari-arii 2025. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[lushleona]

LEONA-HAWTHORNE’S KINKTOBER

october 1st. mattheo riddle — knife play, carving.

mattheo riddle x fem reader

summary ; you have no idea how to feel when you find out that one of your closest friends may have some feelings for you that go far beyond friendly admiration… words ; 6k+ warnings ; dubcon, knife play, carving, slight masochism, unprotected piv, squirting, stalker!mattheo, 18+ content

navigation masterlist

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the streets of Hogsmeade. You walked beside Mattheo, your hands brushing briefly as the warmth of late afternoon slowly gave way to an evening chill. You glanced at him, a familiar sense of comfort blooming in your chest.

Your boots scuffed against the ground as you moved further into the village. The two of you were heading to the Three Broomsticks, the plan was simple—grab a drink, relax after a long day of classes, maybe complain about Professor Snape’s never-ending slew of potions homework. It was just a regular outing, and yet something tugged at the back of your mind.

"Thinking about something?" Mattheo's voice broke your thoughts, his tone casual.

You shook your head with a light laugh. "Just tired, I guess. Snape's been killing me with that essay."

He smiled, a crooked grin that you'd seen a hundred times before, though today it seemed to twist just a little at the edges. "Yeah, I bet. Maybe you should let me finish it for you."

Your eyes flicked to his, catching a glimpse of something beneath his playful offer, but you waved it off, smiling. "Tempting, but you’re just as behind as I am,” you muttered with a laugh.

Later that night, alone in your dorm, you sat on the edge of your bed, absentmindedly running your fingers over the soft fabric of your quilt. The silence of the castle was deafening, interrupted only by the soft rustle of the wind outside your window. You’d been feeling uneasy lately, a creeping sensation that someone had been in your room when you weren’t.

It started small; little things out of place. A book moved an inch from where you left it, a shirt from your wardrobe lying in the middle of your floor when you distinctly remembered hanging it up. And then there were the notes.

You leaned over, picking up a small piece of paper from your nightstand, your fingers tracing the unnerving script. The note was brief, cryptic, and yet there was a strange intimacy to it:

"Thinking of you again. Your scent still lingers here. Until next time... Yours, truly."

Your breath hitched as you reread it for the hundredth time, the soft flutter of your heart betraying the anxiety that clung to your skin. You didn’t know what to make of it—this was the fifth note you’d found in your room over the past month. The first few had been vague, unsettling, but this one… this one felt too close, too intimate.

It wasn’t just the notes anymore. Something had been missing lately—your favorite pair of panties, the ones you swore you had washed and placed back in your drawer. You’d torn your room apart looking for them, but they were gone, as if plucked from your very hands.

The days blurred into each other after that, each one marked by small but unsettling incidents that chipped away at your sense of security. Every night, as you climbed into bed, you felt the prickling sensation of eyes on you, the eerie certainty that you weren’t alone.

Your things continued to go missing. Another pair of panties vanished, and this time, you found a new set of lingerie in their place. Black lace, far too revealing for your usual taste, but still pretty. Whoever he was, he knew exactly what you liked, or worse, what he wanted you to like.

“Sorry about your panties. Hope this makes up for it. Yours truly.”

The thrill of fear, mingled with something you couldn’t quite place, crawled up your spine as you read the note and stared at the lace set lying innocently in your drawer. You picked it up, feeling the delicate fabric between your fingers, and your heart hammered in your chest. There was something undeniably intimate about it, something that stirred a dark, shameful excitement deep within you. But just as quickly, disgust washed over you.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way—this twisted sense of thrill at the thought of being watched, of being wanted. It was wrong. It was dangerous. You shook your head, pushing the thoughts away, shoving the lingerie to the back of your drawer, hidden beneath layers of clothes you rarely wore.

The next day, you found yourself alone with Mattheo again, this time in the library. You weren’t sure why you hadn’t told him yet—it should have been the first thing out of your mouth, but as he sat beside you, so close you could feel the heat from his body, the words felt stuck in your throat.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, the familiar rasp soothing your nerves.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I… I think I have a stalker.”

There. You’d said it. Finally.

Mattheo’s hand stilled on the page of his book, his expression unreadable as he turned to look at you. His eyes darkened slightly, but his voice remained casual. “A stalker? Why do you think that?”

You hesitated, glancing around the library to make sure no one could overhear. “Someone’s been… leaving me notes. And things are going missing—personal things. Like… like my underwear,” you admitted with an embarrassed blush. “It’s been happening for weeks.”

Mattheo’s lips twitched into a small smile, like he was holding back a laugh. “Notes, huh? Like love notes?”

“Something like that,” you muttered, feeling embarrassed. “It’s creepy. They know things about me, Mattheo. They’ve been in my room, I can feel it.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he chuckled softly. “What, you think your stalker is going to steal more of your panties?”

You blinked, heat rushing to your face. “What?”

His eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned in closer. “Why don’t you lend them to me? I’ll keep them safe for you.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a strange, electric thrill rushing through your veins. It was a joke, just a stupid joke. Just Mattheo being his dumb, idiotic, flirty self, right?

Right?

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, Mattheo’s words still hanging in the air between you, but his words somehow managed to get a laugh out of you.

"Very funny," you muttered, hoping to brush it off, to make the tension disappear. But Mattheo didn’t move away.

"I’m serious," he said, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine. "If you’re worried about this stalker, I could help you. Keep an eye on things for you."

You looked up at him, surprised by the sudden intensity in his tone. For a second, your heart fluttered at the offer—it was sweet in a way, protective. But there was something else there too, something in the way he stared at you, unblinking, as if waiting for something more than just your thanks.

You shook your head, trying to clear the haze of confusion. "I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine. It’s probably nothing, anyway."

But Mattheo didn’t look convinced. He reached out, his hand grazing your arm in a way that felt too intimate for the moment, his fingers lingering longer than necessary. "Just… let me know if you need anything, yeah? I’d hate for something to happen to you."

The way he said it made your pulse quicken, but not in the way it should have. Something about the way he looked at you, the possessiveness in his eyes… it felt like he wasn’t offering to protect you from someone else. It felt like he was offering to protect you from himself.

The afternoon sun casted a golden light through the window as you sat cross-legged on Mattheo's bed. The casual atmosphere between you both felt easy, natural, just like it used to. He was sitting close beside you, flipping through the pages of his sketchbook, showing you various drawings and doodles.

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. Mattheo stood up quickly, glancing over his shoulder at you as he crossed the room. “Be right back.”

You watched him disappear through the door, leaving you alone in his room. The weight of his sketchbook rested in your lap, its pages slightly worn from use, inviting curiosity. Mattheo had been showing you sketches of animals, abstract patterns, and even a few architectural designs, but there was something about the way he had kept skipping pages—flipping past them too quickly—that had piqued your interest.

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the corner of the page he had left off on. Your curiosity got the better of you and with a small breath, you flipped through the book, turning page after page, until something stopped you cold.

There, scrawled in Mattheo’s messy handwriting, was your name.

The sketches had changed. No longer harmless doodles or intricate designs, these were disturbingly familiar. Images of you—detailed, painstakingly crafted sketches of your face, your body, your every expression. In some of them, you were asleep, peaceful and unaware. In others, you were undressing, your eyes looking in a way that made your stomach twist. But it wasn’t just the drawings that made your breath catch in your throat. It was the words.

"I envy the oxygen she breathes. She is woven into every one of my thoughts, like some sick, twisted addiction. Everywhere, sewn into the fabric of my very being."

You froze, your pulse quickening as your eyes darted over the lines, the obsessive thoughts spilling onto the page.

“There’s something intoxicating about her. It’s maddening, really. The way she moves, like she’s made of something I can never fully grasp, but I will. I’ll have all of her soon enough. Her body, her mind, her soul. They’re mine for the taking, and she won’t be able to resist me. She was created to belong to me, to be consumed by me. She just doesn’t know it yet."

A cold chill spread through you, your hands trembling as you turned the page. Each entry was worse than the last. Paragraphs describing you: your movements, your habits, your quirks. He had detailed the way you laughed, the way you spoke, even the way you walked, as if he’d been studying you for years. But the words were laced with something much darker, much more dangerous.

"No one else even deserves her. She was meant for me, and only me. Every part of her will bend to my will, whether she wants it or not. And the best part? She’ll love it."

You were shaking now, horrified by the realization that crept over you like a shadow. The stolen items, the missing lingerie, the notes left in your room—it wasn’t just anyone. It was Mattheo. He was your stalker. And your best friend.

Your breath hitched, your eyes wide as you flipped further into the book. There were sketches of you in positions you had never been in, drawings of your naked form, detailed and disturbingly intimate. In some, you were lying on his bed, your limbs tangled in the sheets, your body contorted in ways that made your skin crawl. In others, you were seated at your desk, working, completely unaware that someone was watching.

A creak at the door made you jump, slamming the sketchbook shut as Mattheo casually stepped back into the room. His face was relaxed, his usual charming smile in place as he sauntered over to you, his eyes flicking briefly to the book in your hands. “Sorry about that,” he said, his voice light.

“Who was at the door?” you asked, your voice shaking slightly as you placed the sketchbook back on the bed, hoping he wouldn’t notice how flushed your cheeks were.

Mattheo studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he sensed something was off. But then his smirk widened, and he shrugged. “Just some guy asking about homework. Nothing important.” His gaze lingered on your face, his eyes sharp, calculating. He stepped closer, and you instinctively scooted back, trying to put more space between the two of you.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, his tone casual, but there was something predatory in his eyes now, a glint that made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

You nodded quickly, laughing nervously. "Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all."

He didn’t believe you. You could tell by the way he moved, his body hovering closer to yours. He was your best friend, after all. Of course he knew when you were lying.

He picked up the sketchbook and flipped it open. And then, with a knowing smirk, he glanced up at you.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping into something more intimate. "I’m not quite done with this one yet." He tapped a sketch of you, his finger tracing the lines of your figure. "I know you looked through my book."

You froze, your blood turning to ice. There was no point in denying it. He had caught you. But before you could respond, he closed the book, his gaze locking onto yours with a twisted intensity.

"It’s alright," he said softly, a sinister edge to his tone. "You were bound to find out at some point." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Now you know how bad I want you. How bad I need you."

Your breath hitched, panic surging through you as you stared at him, the reality of the situation settling in. “Mattheo, I—”

He cut you off as he leaned back, arms crossed. "It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to be scared." He smirked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You’ll learn to like it."

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you tried to steady your breathing. “What if I don’t want to be yours?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with fear.

Mattheo’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. He chuckled softly, his voice dark and mocking. “You’re already mine.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel the walls closing in, your heart pounding in your chest as Mattheo’s possessive gaze remained locked on you.

Every part of your body screamed for you to get up, to leave, to run. But you couldn't. It was as if the intensity in his dark eyes pinned you to the spot, freezing you in place.

You forced yourself to look away, staring down at your hands clasped tightly in your lap. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of everything.

The boy you thought you knew never even existed.

You had to get out. Now.

Summoning every ounce of strength, you forced yourself to stand, your legs unsteady as you stepped away from the bed. "I should go," you muttered, your voice barely audible as you avoided his gaze. "I just remembered I have some homework to finish, so I'll—"

Before you could take another step, Mattheo's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a firm grip. "You're not going anywhere."

The way he said it, with such casual confidence, made your stomach twist. His grip on your wrist wasn't painful, but it was enough to remind you that he was in control here. You weren't leaving until he let you.

"Mattheo..." You tugged at your wrist, but his grip tightened. "Let go.”

Instead of releasing you, he pulled you back toward him, the sudden movement making you stumble slightly as you fell back onto the bed. His hands were on you in an instant, one gripping your arm, the other gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face. The contrast between his possessive hold and the softness of his touch made your skin crawl.

He wasn't rough, but there was an unspoken authority in the way he held you, like he was reminding you that leaving wasn't an option.

"Don't be scared," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. "I would never hurt you, Y/N. You know that."

You shuddered at his words, the gentle tone doing nothing to quell the fear twisting in your gut. "Mattheo, please. This isn't right. You're my friend, we're—"

"Friends?" he interrupted, his voice dripping with mockery as he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think we are? Friends?" He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered darkly, "You have no idea how I long for you."

Your body stiffened, your mind racing as you tried to make sense of what was happening. This wasn't the Mattheo you knew. The Mattheo who had always been protective, teasing, and affectionate in a way that felt like a safe harbor. The boy who made you held and held you when you cried. This was someone else entirely—someone whose obsession with you had festered into something scary.

"I've always been there, haven't I?" he murmured, his voice low. "Always looking out for you, always keeping you safe. And yet, you never see me, Y/N. You never notice how much l've done for you, how much I've sacrificed. But that's going to change now."

You swallowed hard, your heart racing in your chest as his words cut through the air like a knife. "I see you, Mattheo," you whispered, your voice shaky. "I've always seen you."

He chuckled softly, his grip on your arm loosening just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you escape. "No, you don't. You see what I let you see." His eyes darkened, his gaze flickering over your face with a twisted hunger that made your skin prickle. "But now? Now you'll see everything."

Mattheo's eyes lingered on your face, studying every flicker of emotion as if he were dissecting you, peeling away every layer. He was close enough now that you could smell the faint scent of smoke and cologne that always clung to him. It was overwhelming, suffocating.

Your pulse hammered in your ears, panic rising as you tried to pull your wrist from his grasp. But he held firm, his smile never faltering as he watched you struggle. It wasn't a fight; it was a game to him, and you were losing.

"Mattheo, please," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I... I don't understand."

His smile faded slightly, his eyes darkening as he leaned in even closer, his breath hot against your skin. "I think you understand perfectly," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're scared, Y/N. But part of you likes it. Part of you wants this."

Your heart skipped a beat, fear and confusion twisting together in a sickening knot in your chest. You shook your head, trying to deny it, but the truth was... part of you was drawn to him. Part of you had always been drawn to him. The way he looked at you, the way he made you feel like you were the center of his universe. It was intoxicating.

And now, even though you were terrified, even though you knew this was wrong, that same twisted attraction lingered beneath the surface.

He saw it. He knew.

"See?" he whispered, his fingers brushing softly at your temple. "You love this, Y/N. And deep down, you know it."

You pulled back, your breath coming in short, panicked bursts as you tried to process everything. You had to get out of here. You had to leave. But as you stood, Mattheo's hand shot out again, this time grabbing your waist, pulling you back down onto the bed beside him.

"You're not leaving," he said softly, his voice low and commanding. "You can’t.”

Your heart raced, your mind screaming at you to fight, to scream, to do something.

But all you could do was sit there, frozen, as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear.

"You were made for me," he whispered, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “I was made for you.”

Before you could protest, his hand was on your thigh, squeezing gently, his fingers inching dangerously high. The heat of his touch burned through your skin, leaving you breathless. You should have pushed him away, you should have fought, but your body betrayed you, sinking into the mattress as if every nerve was alive, reacting to him.

"You want this," he whispered, his lips grazing your neck now. “I can feel it, Y/N. I can feel how much you want me."

You whimpered, trying to deny it, but he was right. The truth settled deep inside you, a dark, shameful desire that you had buried for so long, now rising to the surface under his touch.

His hand slid further up, teasing the edge of your skirt as his breath ghosted over your skin, making you shiver. “Just say it," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “Tell me you're mine."

You squeezed your eyes shut, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his fingers grazed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice dark and commanding, his hand tightening on your leg. "Say you're mine, Y/N.”

Your breath hitched, the tension between you snapping like a live wire. The fear, the desire, the confusion—they all blended together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

The words caught in your throat, refusing to come out. Your mind screamed at you to push him away, to run, to do anything but give in to this sick, twisted game he was playing. But your body wouldn't listen. It arched into him, craving more of his touch.

Deep down, you knew it was true. You were his. But you couldn’t say it. You wouldn’t say it out loud.

Mattheo's fingers stilled on your thigh, a frown tugging at his lips as you remained silent.

Then, slowly, he slid his hand away from your leg, letting it fall to his side as he pulled back. His eyes met yours, dark and intense, burning with a fire that both terrified and thrilled you.

"No matter," he said softly, a dangerous undertone to his voice. "We have all the time in the world for you to come around."

A chill ran down your spine at the implication and you swallowed hard. This wasn't over. Far from it. This was only the beginning and deep down, some twisted part of you couldn't wait to see what came next.

You opened your mouth to speak, to demand answers, to threaten him with exposure, but no sound came out. Because deep down, you knew it would be useless. He held all the cards, and you both knew it.

So instead, you simply nodded, a tiny, jerky movement of your chin. Acceptance. Resignation. Defeat.

Mattheo smiled then, triumphant, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. He reached out, cupping your cheek in his palm.

"That's my good girl.”

His thumb traced your lower lip, a gentle caress that contrasted the darkness in his eyes. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from yours. His free hand slid to the back of your neck, tangling in your hair, holding you in place.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," he whispered, his voice low and seductive.

With that promise hanging heavy in the air, he closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

His kiss was demanding and possessive, a claim that resonated deep within you, and it sent a jolt of electricity through your system.

You melted into him, your hands reaching up to clutch at his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he explored your mouth with a hunger that matched your own twisted cravings.

Mattheo groaned into the kiss, his control slipping as he tasted your sweetness once again. Each stroke of your tongue against his sent sparks of pleasure coursing through his veins.

He pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin there. His hands roamed freely over your body, exploring curves and valleys with a growing impatience.

He needed more. More of your taste, more of your warmth, more of your submission. And he intended to take everything you offered and then some.

With a growl of frustration, he tore himself away from you, his breath coming in ragged pants and his eyes dark with lust.

"Stand up," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "Let's get these clothes off."

You blinked up at him, your body still humming from the intensity of his kiss. You felt dazed, disoriented, as if you'd been swept away by a tidal wave of emotions and sensations.

But you obeyed, pushing yourself up onto shaky legs. As you stood, you pushed your skirt down for it to fall to the floor, revealing your bare thighs and the lacy panties that clung to your hips.

You glanced down at yourself, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. But you didn't move to cover yourself, you didn't even think about it. Instead, you looked back at Mattheo, waiting for his next command.

Mattheo's eyes raked over your form, taking in every curve and dip with an appreciative glance. The sight of you standing there, vulnerable and waiting, was enough to make his cock twitch with anticipation.

Without wasting another second, he stepped closer, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt. With a swift tug, he pulled it over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. They were perfect, full and firm, with nipples that hardened instantly at his perusal.

He bent down, his mouth descending upon your left tit, his tongue swirling around the nipple before taking it into his mouth. He pinched the other, hard, drawing a pained squeal from your lips, but the pain only had you clenching your thighs harder. He sucked hard, relishing the moan that escaped your lips before pushing you back down on the bed, his mouth staying latched on as you moved.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as his mouth worked magic on your sensitive flesh. Your fingers gripped uselessly at the comforter beneath you.

Your other breast throbbed, aching for attention, and you whimpered in protest when he released your nipple with a wet pop. But that was quickly forgotten when you felt his hands sliding down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties.

In one smooth motion, he pushed the delicate fabric aside, baring your most intimate parts to his greedy gaze. You should have felt exposed, maybe nervous, but all you could focus on was the heat building between your thighs, the slickness coating your folds as your body prepared for him.

Mattheo's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of your glistening sex, the evidence of your arousal clear for him to see. A smug smile played at his lips as he settled between your thighs, his breath ghosting over your heated flesh.

"You're so wet for me already," he murmured, his fingers tracing teasing patterns along your inner thighs. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you?"

Without warning, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along your slit, groaning at the taste of you. He licked and suckled at your clit, his fingers spreading you open wider, allowing him better access to your dripping core.

He thrust two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out at a steady rhythm as his tongue continued its relentless assault on your sensitive clit.

Your body thrashed around a bit, your nails digging into Mattheo's scalp as waves of pleasure crashed over you. His fingers pumped in and out of you, stretching your walls, while his tongue danced across your clit, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your veins.

"Oh god, oh god," you chanted, your voice high and breathy, hips bucking wildly against his face. "That feels... it feels so good..."

Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, Mattheo added a third finger, scissoring them inside you as he sucked harder on your clit.

“‘s too much!” you whined as you writhed around.

Mattheo smirked against your pussy, loving the way you squirmed beneath him. He could tell you were close, but he wasn't about to let you cum just yet.

He continued his ministrations, his tongue flicking rapidly over your swollen clit while his fingers curled inside you, stroking the sweet spot hidden deep within your cunt.

He lifted his head slightly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes. "Not yet," he growled, his voice muffled by your soaked pussy. "You're not allowed to cum without my permission."

His fingers curved deeper inside you, hitting that magical spot that sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your trembling body. Your walls clamped down on him instinctively, attempting to suck his fingers deeper.

“Say it. Say you’re mine and I’ll let you cum,” he growled against your pussy, the way you’d refused to admit it earlier was clearly still lingering through his mind.

Mattheo waited, his tongue hovering just above your sensitive clit, refusing to grant you the relief you so desperately craved. The silence stretched between you, broken only by your ragged breathing.

He watched your face contort in a mix of pleasure and frustration, your hips straining upward in a futile attempt to chase the orgasm he was denying you. The sight only served to stoke his own desire, his cock throbbing almost painfully in his boxers.

"Just admit you were made for me," he purred, his voice low and husky with lust.

He traced lazy circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue, keeping just out of reach of the sensitive bundle of nerves. He could see the war you were fighting between your body and your mind.

"I know you want to say it," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "I can feel it in the way your body responds to my touch."

He dipped his head lower, dragging the flat of his tongue along your dripping slit before prodding at your entrance with the tip. He savored the taste.

"No…” you whimpered, your walls clenching around nothing. “No.”

Mattheo ignored your denials, knowing full well that they were half-hearted at best. He could smell your arousal, see the way your body responded to his touches, how desperately you were trying to fuck his face.

"Admit it," he commanded again, his voice laced with authority and raw desire. "Tell me you belong to me."

He plunged his fingers deep inside you once more, curling them up to stroke that sensitive spot within your depths. The action elicited another moan from you, your body desperately convulsing around his hand as if begging for more.

"Or do I need to drill it into your head in a different way?”

And with that, he retracted his fingers from your quivering pussy. In one swift motion, he flipped you onto your stomach, positioning you just right, the new angle leaving your ass up and presented for him.

Mattheo gripped your hips tightly, his gaze fixed upon your plump ass exposed to him in such an alluringly degrading pose.

Splattering a generous dollop of saliva onto your trembling hole, he pressed his hands against the mattress next to your head. With his legs on either side of yours, he pressed the tip of his cock firmly against your entrance. With a push of sheer primal desire, Mattheo drove his hard shaft into your pussy for the first time, filling your tight space completely.

You arched your back, pushing your ass higher against him, silently urging him to move, to claim you fully.

As Mattheo began to thrust, you couldn't help but moan, the sound muffled by the pillow as you buried your face in it. Each stroke sent waves of ecstasy crashing through you, your pussy gripping him like a hungry fist, desperate for more.

"Yes... fuck me..."

Mattheo groaned deeply, reveling in the way your cunt gripped him so tightly. His large hands roamed over your plump ass cheeks, smacking them with enough force to leave marks. A sick satisfaction coursed through him as he heard the loud slapping sound echo throughout the room, knowing it would leave visible evidence of what the two of you had done.

"You love this don't you?" he hissed into your ear, his voice rough with desire. "Taking it like a good little slut."

Each word was punctuated by another vicious thrust, deeper, harder than before. Mattheo felt his cock twitch inside you, anticipating the impending orgasm that promised to be explosive.

“Fuck..." he grunted, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. "Your pussy's so fucking tight around me."

Your body moved instinctively, meeting each of his thrusts with a matching rhythm, your own hips grinding back against him. You could hardly form coherent thoughts, let alone words, but the moans and whimpers escaping your lips spoke volumes.

"Oh god..." you breathed out, the words barely audible above the symphony of flesh slapping against flesh. "More... please... Harder…”

The sight of your reddened ass bouncing with each thrust was almost too much for him to handle. With a dark chuckle, he gripped your hips with bruising force, using the leverage to pound into you even harder.

“That’s my girl. Never forgets to say please, so polite even when she’s being fucked dumb out of her mind.”

As he continued to brutally rut into your sopping cunt, he wrapped a strand of your hair around his finger and yanked sharply, forcing you to yelp and arch your back further.

"This is what you needed, isn't it? To be ruined by your best friend, the guy who’s dreamed of having you like this for so fucking long.”

He released your hair only to grip the swell of your ass harder, pulling you back against his pelvis as he surged forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you once more.

"I'm going to fill you up until you're dripping with it, mark you inside and out as mine."

Just as Mattheo was about to reach his peak, you suddenly clenched around him like a vice, your inner walls fluttering wildly as you came undone. A gush of warm fluid squirted out around his pistoning cock, drenching his balls and the sheets below.

“Fuck!" Mattheo growled, his thrusts becoming erratic as your orgasm triggered his own. With a final, brutal slam of his hips, he buried himself to the root inside your spasming cunt and let go, pumping stream after stream of hot cum deep into your womb.

For several moments, you remained locked together, Mattheo's softening cock still lodged inside your twitching pussy as you both struggled to catch your breath.

Panting heavily, Mattheo slowly withdrew from your spent body, his cock sliding free easily. He flipped you onto your back before reaching for his nightstand drawer.

Still so worn out, you struggled to make sense of what he pulled out when suddenly, the blade of silver became visible.

Mattheo's grip on the knife tightened as he brought it into view, the steel glinting menacingly in the dim light. He pressed the flat of the blade to the underside of your chin, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make his point clear.

"I love you,” he said softly, his tone contrasting the dangerous intent in his eyes. "And because I love you, I’m going to make sure you never forget it again.”

He trailed the knife downwards gently, following the valley of your sweat and saliva covered tits before resting the tip against your lower abdomen. The cold metal contrasted starkly with the heat of your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding against your ribcage. “What are you doing, Mattheo?” you whispered.

"Don’t worry, baby," he purred, tracing the knife lightly over your stomach. "You know I’d never hurt you… At least, not in any way you won't enjoy."

With a sudden movement, he yanked you closer by your legs, gently trailing the knife over your inner thighs.

As soon as the words left his lips, Mattheo brought the knife down, ready to leave his mark upon your shaking thigh.

"I swear I love you, Y/N," he whispered. "I just want you to make this easier for yourself and love me back.”

With a resigned whisper, you let out a soft, “Okay.”

The knife bit into your skin, carving a perfect 'M' into the tender flesh of your inner thigh. Your quiet cry echoed through the room as blood welled up from the wound, trickling down your leg. And it was then that you realized, even if you could stop him right now, you wouldn’t. Because something about this pain, the pain only he could give you, felt good.

It wasn’t long before there was a red outline of the letters, “MR,” on your skin, searing with both pain and pleasure.

He ran his finger along the freshly carved letters, a sick sort of satisfaction washing over him at the sight of your branded flesh. He leaned down to press his lips over the wound, almost as if it were a simple paper cut that would feel better with a kiss.

When he pulled away with your blood smeared over his mouth, his palm covered the red skin firmly, applying pressure to somewhat ease the pain you felt.

Mattheo rose back up from his place near your thighs so he could plant a kiss on your forehead, his free hand tenderly brushing the hair out of your face, his demeanor completely flipped. “You took that so well, my love. So perfect. You’re going to be okay. You’re okay, yeah?”

kinktober taglist: @mattheoriddles-sluttt @theeslutintheroom @esmerai-artemis @gigival @cloudyyydayzzz @sn000py @abeoavita @yesiamthatwierd @shaquilles-0atmeal @roseofsharron438 @iouinotes @romantasyreader28 @daenerystorgaryen @emma-grace0 @tori-303 @ilovehpb0ys

© lushleona 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

[lushleona]

I HATE IT HERE. mattheo riddle

mattheo riddle x fem reader

summary ; in which mattheo is an artist in a businessman’s world… inspired by ‘i hate it here’ by taylor swift words ; 905 warning ; swearing

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Overhearing crunchy footsteps walking through the fallen autumn leaves, Mattheo snaps his sketchbook shut in fear that some random person would accidentally see his innermost thoughts. He’d been drawing by the Black Lake like he usually did when the voices in his head got too loud. Normally, no one else came out here to bother him, but it appeared that today was unlucky.

“Mattheo?” Oh, it was you who was coming to bother him. Guess his day wasn’t so unlucky, after all.

Taking a seat beside him with your back resting against the large tree behind you, you turn your head to look at him and place a kiss on his cheek.

“Did you just get bored or did something happen that made you feel the need to come out here?” You ask, looking down to watch as he mindlessly intertwines your fingers with his.

“How’d you even know I was here?”

“Answer my question.”

”Fine. Both.” He answers, his voice sounding strained as if he’d had the most tiring day of his life.

“You know I’m here to listen, right?” Trying to add to the reassurance, you give his hand a little squeeze. He sighs.

“I don’t wanna burden you. You’re always listening to my fucking problems.”

You can almost physically feel your heart clench at his words. Your sweet boy could never be a burden to you and frankly, it hurt to know that he thought of himself in that way.

“Talk to me.” Your tone is soft but there's something in your voice that makes it clear you aren’t leaving until he tells you everything.

“I just had a really fucking bad day.” He admits in a dismissive voice, as if it’s no big deal, like you shouldn’t worry about him. “And when I was in Potions, some people started talking about what they’re gonna do after they graduate.”

Your brows furrow and you nod in understanding as you let that sink in. It’s never been a secret that Mattheo didn’t exactly know what he was going to do after school ended, but you didn’t realize how badly that fact got to his head.

“That bothered you?” The answer to that question is obvious but still, there was an underlying need to ask it.

“Yes!” He snaps, his eyes burning with uncertainty and he takes a breath to calm himself before continuing. “It was all ‘I’m gonna be a Ministry worker,’ or ‘I’m gonna be an auror,’ or ‘teacher’ or whatever and I just… God, Y/n, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

You wanted nothing more than to help him, but you simply couldn’t. It’s not like anything you could say would miraculously make him realize what he wants to do for the rest of his life.

“Everything is so… dull and monochromatic. I don’t want to live in a world where I work 9 to 5 everyday in a cubicle. I just…. I hate it here.”

The mere possibility of living such a tight scheduled, boring, small life suffocated him every minute of everyday. He wanted more. He wanted to see the world, he wanted to be creative, he wanted to bring his dreams to fruition. He refused to become part of the system.

He was an artist at heart. Not many people knew that about him, but you did. He was lucky enough to be born with the ability to extract inspiration from anything in his sights. You, his friends, a song, an animal, architecture. Shit, even a random stranger he meets on the street could get the gears in his beautifully intricate mind to start turning.

Mattheo couldn't go ten minutes without feeling the urge to dump his thoughts onto a blank canvas. Talking wasn’t enough, he needed to create, he needed to use his hands.

His innovation is one of his best traits, one of your favorite things about him, and the idea of him ever giving it up was truly devastating. Taking a good while to think of what to say, you fidget around with his fingers in your hand.

“There’s so much out there, Mattheo. You don't need to conform to what the world wants you to do. I mean come on, you’ve never been one to follow the rules anyway.” You tell him.

“What am I gonna do?” He murmurs as he looks out at the lake, his voice filled with a deep sense of yearning.

“I don’t know. But I’ll be here to help you figure it out. I’ll be here with you for the rest of your life, if you’ll have me.” You whisper as he leans his head on your shoulder, his curls tickling the crook of your neck.

He scoffs, tightening his grip on your hand and snuggling his head deeper into your neck. “Are you stupid? Why would that even be a question? No dreams are worth living out if you’re not in them.”

“Good. ‘Cause you’re not getting rid of me.” You lean your head onto his. “I hate it here too but… It’s not so bad when you’re with me. Can I see what you were drawing?”

With an embarrassed blush flushing his cheeks, he hands you his sketchbook and you open up to the most recent page to find an extremely detailed illustration of… you.

© lushleona 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

the tortured poets department is really just on repeat 24/7. dare i say… her saddest album? anyways, i love the headcanon that mattheo loves to draw so i thought this would be sweet <3

[lushleona]

so many people write mattheo to be a cold-hearted, womanizing bastard and while i absolutely love reading that mattheo (🙈), i am a firm believer that he’d be the biggest sweetheart when you’re dating him.

don’t get me wrong, he would absolutely be a cold hearted womanizing bastard… at first. after meeting you, he’d still be reserved, arrogant, rude. but somehow, you manage to sneak past the steel barriers he has surrounding his heart.

and when he realizes this, he’d push you away in every way possible. you offer him your notes when he misses class? “fuck off, i don’t need them. trust me, i’ve got a hundred other lap dogs doing that shit for me.”

and his heart would break a little when he’d see your confused frown, but he’d push the guilt down. love is vulnerability. vulnerability is weakness. that’s what he was taught and that’s what he lived by.

but oh, you’re just too perfect. your pretty little face, your sweet voice, the way your eyes light up when you’re talking about muggle studies or baby rabbits, the way you refuse to leave your dorm without your lucky jewlery. it melted the ice around his heart. he never stood a chance.

so he’d give into your affections at some point. and yes, he’d be the scary, possessive boyfriend everyone expects. he’d throw a punch at anyone who dared to touch you wrong or even look at you wrong. but that’s just the mattheo everyone knows. the mattheo you know is a sweetheart. never allowing you to open your own door or pull out your own chair, braiding your hair for you or helping you put it up at night, spoiling you with every candy, piece of clothing, and stuffed animal you want, tying your shoelaces for you, calling you princess.

and let me tell you, this man is the biggest whore for cuddles. he tells you that sleeping in your presence keeps the nightmares at bay and while that’s true, the real reason why he won’t sleep without cuddles is because he simply needs to feel you as close as possible. he needs your hands playing with his hair or your nails scratching his back. and you can’t even try stopping the movements of your hands because trust me, he is an incredibly annoying whiner. “babyyyy keep going.”

skin-to-skin cuddling is even better. he’ll take his shirt off and force you to do the same, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your back into his chest. it’s not sexual; he just needs to feel you as close to him as possible, and your bare skin against his just happens to be the closest thing he has to crawling inside your skin and living there.

my point here is basically that mattheo riddle is a soft boy when he’s in love and i will die on this hill!

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[lushleona]

I keep imagining it being the night before the Yule Ball, and bc Matty never wears his tie for the uniform anyway, you have to help him out and do it for him bc he wants to look perfect for you and is struggling. Just me? Okay 😅

oh my god yes this is so cute!!!

it’s the night of the yule ball and the common room is practically deserted, everyone already in the ballroom. you’re perched on the arm of one of the big leather chairs, waiting for mattheo to finish getting ready because of course he’s waited until the last possible second to figure out his suit. his black dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, and he’s muttering curses at his tie because it’s refusing to cooperate.

“this stupid thing,” he growls, yanking at the silk like it personally offended him. his brows are furrowed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, and honestly? it's kind of adorable seeing him this flustered. you can tell he’s about three seconds away from throwing the tie into the fire.

"need some help?" you offer, trying to keep the amusement out of your voice (and failing spectacularly).

he looks up, a little startled, like he forgot you were there, and then that familiar cocky smirk makes an appearance. "help? me? nah, i've got it handled," he says, even as he fumbles with the fabric again, somehow managing to make it look worse.

"sure you do. come here."

"i don't—”

"mattheo."

he sighs, dropping his hands and tilting his head back dramatically like he's being sentenced to death.

you can’t help but laugh a little as you slide off the chair and cross the room to him. “here,” you say, taking the ends of the tie out of his hands before he can actually commit arson.

he’s suddenly so quiet, like he doesn’t trust his voice not to give him away, because holy shit you’re so close. close enough that he can see the little flecks of color in your eyes and catch the faintest whiff of your perfume.

“would’ve done this ages ago if i’d known you didn’t know how to tie your own tie,” you tease, looping the fabric around your fingers to start fixing the knot.

he huffs, but it’s not annoyed—it’s shy. “didn’t wanna bother you.”

and you just give him this look, one brow raised, because bother you? the boy who literally leaned his entire weight on you during potions last week and whispered nonsense in your ear for thirty minutes straight thought this was bothering you?

“you could’ve just asked for help.”

"yeah, but where's the fun in that?" he quips, but his voice is quieter now, his gaze fixed on your face.

and then, because it's mattheo, he can't help himself. "you're enjoying this, aren't you? playing dress-up with me?"

you smirk, tightening the knot just enough to make him swallow hard.

"maybe a little. you clean up nice, riddle."

"you think so?"

you step back, admiring your work, and something about the way he's looking at you—like you're the only thing in the world that matters—makes your chest tighten. "i know so."

"i just... i just want to look good for you."

and just like that, any teasing remark you were about to make dies in your throat. because mattheo riddle—the arrogant, insufferable, too-cool-for-everything mattheo riddle—is standing here, nervous and vulnerable and entirely too sweet, all because he wants to impress you.

"you will," you say softly, your fingers curling around his. "you already do."

and the smile he gives you? yeah, that's the kind of thing that could make you fall in love all over again.

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[lushleona]

if cigarettes after sex had existed in the 90s, mattheo riddle would have listened to them 24/7

you cannot tell me that this isn’t his vibe.

his favorite songs would be:

pistol — it’s his favorite song by them in general, but it’s also his go-to breakup song. sure, he's had lots of flings, but after his first real love, this song is on repeat 24/7. "i’ll waste my time / 'til you lift me off the floor and love me again." mattheo riddle clings. he doesn't know how to move on. this song perfectly captures his desperate need for validation and affection, even though he pretends he doesn’t care.

each time you fall in love — one thing that mattheo is good at, is shutting people out. this song speaks to disillusionment in love, something mattheo would struggle with as someone who yearns for connection yet fears abandonment. the lines “each time you fall in love / it's clearly not enough” and "all I wanna know is if you love her / how come you never give in?" feels like his inner monologue whenever he pushes someone away or spirals into self-doubt.

nothing’s gonna hurt you baby — 100% resonates with mattheo because, deep down, he's desperate to find someone who truly sees him—beyond his father’s shadow, beyond his walls. "nothing's gonna hurt you, baby, as long as you're with me, you’ll be just fine" —the kind of promise he wishes someone had made to him during his lonely childhood, and one he secretly wishes he could make to someone he loves.

apocalypse — i don't know about you guys, but in my head at least, mattheo is a hopeless romantic at heart. he may act like he doesn't need anyone but, this song? it makes him feel like he's dancing with his lover in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, unafraid of death as long as he's wrapped in their arms. buuut that sounds cheesy which is why he'd never tell anyone. “when you're all alone / i'll reach for you / when you're feelin' low / i'll be there too.” oh, how he wishes someone would say those words to him.

sweet — "it's so sweet, knowing that you love me / though we don't need to say it to each other" — yeah, lets be real. words of affirmation is not mattheo's love language, at least not at first. the words, "i love you," scare him. those words mean that everything is real, that there’s no going back. he's got a hesitancy to vocalize things, relying on gestures, touches, and moments rather than words. this song makes him feel like he doesn't need to be ashamed of that.

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[lushleona]

Any sub!Mattheo / Virgin!Mattheo thoughts?

(i don’t want to write virgin!mattheo, but him as a sub? yes please.)

he’s always so cocky. he thinks he’s in control until you’ve got him down against the mattress, his darkened cock twitching and leaking against his strained abs after endless teasing with no release.

“you gonna be good for me, matty?”

he nods too fast, mouth already parted, waiting for whatever you’re willing to give him. but it’s never that easy. not when he likes to push, to test, to act like he’s still the one pulling the strings. so you make him work for it, teasing him with slow, barely-there touches, dragging the tips of your fingers over his erection.

“beg,” you say, because you know he hates it. hates giving up control, hates admitting how much he wants it. but fuck, he needs it.

“please,” he grits out, hips bucking, eyes dark and desperate.

“please, what?”

he swallows, jaw clenched, but when your featherlight fingers circle his tip, just enough to make him gasp, he finally cracks.

“please—please touch me. let me cum. need it so bad, fuck—”

his hands slip under your shirt that he really fucking wishes you had taken off two hours ago, desperate to grab at your boobs, but you catch his wrists and pin them above his head. “nah,” you smirk. “good boys keep their hands to themselves.”

he whines. actually fucking whines. and it’s so pretty, so sweet, that you almost feel bad for him. almost. but then he shifts under you, rutting up against your thigh like he can’t help himself, and any mercy you might’ve had disappears.

“please,” he whispers again, barely audible, but it’s there. and fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

don’t worry, it won’t take long for the brattiness to fade and for him to turn into putty in your hands ;)

[heavenlybodies333]

Bad Intentions - M.R.

enemies to lovers? no, babe. enemies to oops, my legs are open again

You’re going to hell for this.

Maybe not in the biblical sense—not that you particularly care—but in the way that every time you say it’s the last time, you end up right back where you started.

Right back under him. Right back on top of him.

If sin had a name, it would be Mattheo Riddle. And if temptation had a face, it would be the way he looked at you from across the Slytherin common room, slouched in his usual spot, spinning a silver ring between his fingers like he had all the time in the world. Which is why you were now lying in his bed, covered in his cum, next to him. Goddamnit you were weak. And he knew it too.

"You set the rules," Mattheo says, his voice low and quiet. "No feelings. No strings. Just fucking." He tilts his head, studying you. "But tell me, love—why is it that every time I leave your bed, you act like you don’t want me to come back?"

Because you don’t.

Because you do.

But you’ll die before you admit it.

So you scoff, adjusting the strap of your slip dress as you rise from the bed, feeling the dull ache between your thighs—a phantom reminder of his hands, his mouth, his cock. You refuse to look at him as you grab your wand from the nightstand, flicking it to relight the candles he'd blown out hours ago. "I don't act like anything, Riddle. You’re the one still standing here like you’re waiting for me to ask you to stay."

Mattheo watches you with a look that is both amused and dark, the corner of his mouth curling like he knows something you don’t. His hair is a mess from your hands, his chest still rising and falling like he hasn't caught his breath, like he's still trying to steady himself from what you just did to him.

You don’t let yourself stare too long.

He steps closer, ignoring the way you pointedly avoid his gaze. "You always do this," he murmurs, voice laced with something dangerous. "Pretend you don’t give a fuck. Like you don’t have your nails down my back, begging for me, soaking my cock, and then act like I mean nothing once it’s over."

"Because you don’t," you lie smoothly, leaning against the vanity and running a hand through your hair. "We have an arrangement, Riddle. You fuck me, I fuck you, we both get off."

You finally meet his eyes. "You just have a hard time letting go."

He grinned, tilting his head. “That’s rich coming from the girl who keeps letting me fuck her in every dark corner of this goddamn castle.”

Your jaw tightened. You knew it was true. You hated that it was true.

Because every time you told yourself you were done—every time you swore that this was the last time, that you weren’t going to let Mattheo Riddle get under your skin again—you found yourself tangled in him, bodies pressed too close, his hands gripping your hips like he could brand himself into you.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Mattheo laughed, voice thick with amusement.

“I need to leave,” you said, voice lazy, eyes still on the ceiling.

Mattheo sighed dramatically, rolling onto his back. “And yet, you’ll find me again tomorrow night.”

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to,” he said, grinning at the ceiling. “You do it for me.”

You turned your head then, meeting his gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.

“You’re making this complicated,” you muttered.

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with his hand. “You’re the one making it complicated.” His eyes traced your features, something softer in them now, but still sharp enough to cut. “What are you so afraid of?”

You sat up, reaching for your clothes, the moment shattered. “Nothing.”

He made a low sound in his throat, something close to disbelief. “Right.”

You turned, glaring at him over your shoulder. “We agreed this was physical. That’s it.”

Mattheo sat up too, the teasing edge gone from his voice when he said, “You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to me.”

You clenched your jaw, yanking your shirt over your head. “I don’t know what the fuck you think this is, but you’re wrong.” Godsdammit, you had done everything to keep him at arm’s length. But Mattheo Riddle was an addict, and you were his drug of choice.

“Tell me you don’t feel this,” he said, gripping your wrist before you could leave his bed.

You turned, rolling your eyes. “I don’t.”

Liar.

His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back up, burning into you. “Tell me you don’t think about me when I’m not there.”

You exhaled sharply. “I don’t.”

Liar, liar, liar.

He leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his dark curls, and gave you a look that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t frustration—it was something closer to amusement. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to stop running.

So you ended it. Just like that.

"That’s it," you had said, voice firm, ignoring the way your chest ached. "This was never supposed to be anything more. And I’m done."

The muscle in his jaw ticked. He exhaled through his nose, gripping the edge of the bed like he was stopping himself from grabbing you. "Bullshit."

"Call it whatever you want, but we’re done."

You left before he could stop you, slipping out of his bed before the warmth of his body could seduce you into staying. That was the rule. No sleeping over. No post-fuck tenderness. Nothing more.

It lasts all of 2 days. 48 goddamn hours until he finds you in the library, dragging a chair beside you like he owns the place. You don’t even look up from your book.

“I thought we agreed—”

“You agreed,” he interrupts. “I never said shit.”

You sigh, finally glancing at him. He looks fucking good, as usual, and that pisses you off.

“I don’t have time for this,” you murmur.

Mattheo leans closer, his voice dropping low. “I think you do.”

And god, you want to push him away, want to tell him to fuck off, but then his fingers brush against your thigh, and you forget why you were fighting this in the first place.

This. This is a mistake. You snap the book shut so violently it echoes, your nails digging into the cover. You swat his hand away, but he only grins, eyes flickering with something dark, something hungry.

"Touch me again and I’ll break your fingers," you say sweetly.

Mattheo tilts his head, the smirk never leaving his lips. "You’re so fucking mean to me, princess."

"Christ, you’re desperate," you sneer, arching a brow. "What happened? No other sluts to keep you occupied?"

Mattheo grins, entirely unfazed. If anything, he looks even more entertained. "Oh, plenty. But none of them are you."

His fingers press into your thigh again, inching higher. You open your mouth—maybe to tell him to fuck off, maybe to tell him to keep going—but then he slips his fingers past the hem of your skirt, past the lace of your panties, and presses right against your already-soaked cunt.

His lips twitch, eyes dark and full of something dangerous. Lust, possession, the sheer thrill of getting away with something you shouldn’t.

“Fucking knew it,” he murmurs, fingers dragging along the inside of your thigh, parting them under the table.

Your breath catches, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting—of letting him see how badly he gets to you. Instead, you tilt your head, feigning boredom, like his fingers slipping between your legs isn’t already setting you on fire.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper, just to see that glint of irritation flash across his face, just to keep him on edge.

“You’re wet,” he counters smoothly, fingers pressing against your clit, right over the lace of your panties. “So what does that make you?”

Your nails dig into the wooden chair.

Bastard.

The library is dim, the massive shelves creating darkened corners, but you’re not alone. There are people nearby, just a few tables over. Ravenclaws studying for exams. A group of Slytherins murmuring about next week’s match. Anyone could see if they looked over at the wrong moment. And Mattheo knows it.

His fingers dip beneath your panties, brushing through your slick folds, teasing you just enough to make your breath hitch.

His mouth brushes your ear. “If you want me to stop, just say the word.”

He’s testing you. Waiting to see if you’ll break first. But he should know by now—you don’t break.

You shift in your seat, parting your legs just a little more, a silent dare. Go on, then.

Mattheo’s breath shudders. His restraint is hanging by a thread, you can feel it.

And you? You decide to cut the thread entirely.

Your hand slides beneath the table, fingers wrapping around his wrist—not to stop him, but to push him deeper against you.

Mattheo curses under his breath. His control snaps.

He shoves your panties aside, two fingers sliding inside you with an ease that makes your stomach clench, makes your grip on his wrist tighten.

Still, you keep your face impassive. Cool. Unbothered.

But when he crooks his fingers just right, dragging along that spot inside you that makes your thighs tense—a quiet soft moan escapes through your lips.

And he fucking hears it.

He smirks, his free hand coming up to tilt your chin toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his cocky smirk laced with something darker.

“You were saying?”

Your heart is hammering, your body betraying you—but you refuse to let him win so easily.

You lean in, your lips just brushing his ear, voice smooth. “I was saying… if you don’t hurry up and make me cum, I’m walking out of here and finishing myself off in the dorms.”

Mattheo growls.

It’s quiet, low in his throat, but fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

His fingers slam into you, harder, faster, his thumb rubbing messy, tight circles over your clit, and it takes everything in you not to moan—not to let everyone in the fucking library know what he’s doing to you.

You clutch the edge of the table so hard your knuckles ache, your legs trembling under the weight of your own pleasure.

You’re right there, on the edge, seconds away from—

“Excuse me?”

A voice. Too close.

Your stomach drops. Mattheo’s fingers freeze inside you.

Your head snaps up to see a Ravenclaw prefect standing at the end of the table, arms crossed, brows raised. She’s looking at you both suspiciously, like she knows something is off but can’t quite put her finger on it.

Your breathing is shallow, your pulse pounding.

You keep your face smooth. Calm. You’ve gotten away with worse.

Mattheo? That motherfucker is grinning. His fingers are still inside you. Not moving. Just there. You were going to murder him.

The prefect clears her throat. “The library closes in ten minutes.”

You force a nod. “Got it.”

She doesn’t leave right away, though. She lingers, eyes narrowing slightly, lips parting like she’s about to say something else. Like she’s about to question.

Mattheo, still the absolute bastard that he is, presses his fingers deeper.

Your whole body jerks before you can stop it.

The prefect blinks. “Are you—”

You cut her off. “We’re fine.”

She hesitates, then nods slowly before finally walking away.

Mattheo waits exactly three seconds before leaning in, his breath teasing against your ear.

“You almost got us caught.”

You whirl on him, grabbing his wrist, wrenching his fingers out of you before you can lose your fucking mind.

His eyes darken as you suck his fingers into your mouth, tasting yourself on him, keeping eye contact the entire time.

Mattheo’s breathing goes ragged.

“Fuck.”

Your deathgrip on his wrist tightens, nails biting into his skin, dragging his hand away as you stand. His gaze follows you, pupils blown wide, lips parted, waiting.

You lean down, mouth just brushing his ear.

“If you want to fuck me, Riddle,” you whisper, “you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

Then, without another word, you grab your book, straighten your skirt, and walk away.

He watches you go, "See you later, Matty," you sing, your innocent voice honey sweet, not sparing him a glance as you leave.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: i want to fuck the both of them

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[heavenlybodies333]

666 ways I love you - M.R.

!warning!minorsdni, sexual content

word count: 2.8k

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x you

“I do very bad things and I do them very well.”

There were 666 ways Mattheo Riddle loved you.

And every single one of them was fucking wrong.

It was in the way he spat your name, the syllables curled in venom, fingers digging bruises into your arms when he pressed you against the cold stone of the castle walls. The way he laughed—low, dark, mocking—when you told him you hated him.

Liar, his smirk said. You wouldn’t know what to do without me.

He wasn’t wrong.

Like father, like son. It was fucking obvious. He was his father’s creation, molded from the same arrogance, the same cruel intelligence, the same insatiable hunger to win. But Mattheo? He was worse.

Tom Riddle destroyed people with words, with calculated charm, with power.

Mattheo destroyed people with his hands. With his teeth. With his fucking cock.

And you were his favorite thing to ruin.

It had been like this all year—an endless cycle of fucking, fighting, breaking, destroying. The whole school knew it. They saw the way you tore into each other, how your fights dragged in everyone around you, how he’d storm off after every brutal argument and find some innocent little bitch to fuck.

And you retaliated.

Not just against him, but against her.

Did she deserve it? Maybe not. But who the fuck did she think she was, touching your Mattheo? Kissing your Mattheo? Letting his filthy hands wander over her skin when they were meant to be buried in you?

So, of course, you hexed her.

And when the tables turned, when you were the one tired of Mattheo’s bullshit, when you finally snapped—well, nothing fucked with his head more than you spreading your legs for his best friend.

Lorenzo Berkshire.

The first time had been an act of war.

You hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought past the blinding, seething rage crawling under your skin, past the bruises Mattheo had left on your throat from your last fight, past the way he had looked at you like he didn’t fucking care.

So you made him care.

Lorenzo was easy. Handsome, cocky, eager to please—eager to get under Mattheo’s skin just as much as you were.

And Merlin, did you make sure Mattheo knew.

You let him see the marks Lorenzo left on your neck, the lipstick smudged on his collar. Let him hear the way Lorenzo talked about you—loud enough for Mattheo to catch in the echoing halls of the castle. How fucking filthy you were. How you moaned for him. How he had you on your knees in the Astronomy Tower, hands braced against the stone, crying out as he—

That had been a mistake.

Because Mattheo Riddle did not take humiliation lightly.

And he sure as fuck didn’t like losing.

So when he dragged you out of the Great Hall that night, fingers curled like iron around your wrist, shoving you into the first empty classroom he could find, you knew you were in trouble.

The door slammed behind you, shaking the walls.

Mattheo stood there, chest heaving, a storm unraveling in his dark eyes.

You smirked. Gotcha, baby.

"What's wrong, Mattheo?" you purred, voice dripping in mock sweetness. "Jealous?"

He laughed. Sharp, humorless. "Jealous?" he echoed, stepping forward, closing the distance until your back hit the desk behind you. "No, princesa. That would imply he had something I wanted."

You rolled your eyes, pushing past him. "Right. Because you don’t want me. You’ve made that very clear." His fingers caught your wrist, spinning you back around so fast you barely had time to gasp before he had you pinned—one hand wrapped around your throat, the other curling around his wand, pressing it into the fabric of your skirt.

His voice dropped, quiet, venomous."You think that pretty little whore mouth can run away from me?"

Your breath hitched. "Mattheo—"

"You don't get to fuck me over and walk away."

Your breath came out in short, uneven gasps. But you didn’t back down. "You do it all the time," you hissed. "Why does it bother you now?"

"Because, mi amor." He drawled as his wand dragged upward, tracing the curve of your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until cool air kissed the damp heat between your legs. "You’re mine," he murmured, tone filled with the same cruel amusement.

You refused to give in.

You exhaled sharply, nails curling into the edge of the desk, legs trembling under the weight of his touch. "Funny," you spat, forcing your voice to stay steady, forcing your body not to react to him, not like this. "You didn’t seem to care when you had your hands all over that fucking Ravenclaw." The words dripped with venom, with something unspoken and ugly. You shouldn’t have said them. You knew that the second the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes vanished, replaced by something far worse.

Before you could react, his fingers wrapped around your throat, pushing you back against the desk—his wand digging into your skin, pressing just below your jaw.

"You think I give a fuck about her?" His voice was low, furious. "You think any of them fucking matter?"

His grip tightened, just enough to make your head spin, to make your pulse pound against his palm.

"You’re the only one who fucking matters, and you know it," he growled, breath fanning across your lips. "That’s why you let him touch you, isn’t it? Why you let him fuck you—my best fucking friend."

You gritted your teeth, glaring up at him. "Why should it matter?" you hissed. "Since you clearly don’t love me."

Mattheo’s lips curled, and for a second, you thought he might actually snap.

"Don't love you?" he repeated, voice mocking, venom-laced. His laugh was sharp, humorless. "Baby, I hate you."

Your stomach twisted.

"And yet—" His grip tightened, forcing your head back, making you look at him, meet the fury, the obsession, the pure fucking insanity unraveling behind those dark eyes. "Yet, no matter how much I fucking hate you, I can't stop."

Your breath stuttered, nails digging into his wrist.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he murmured, voice low, rough, a dangerous whisper against your lips. "Can't stop wanting you. Can’t fucking breathe without you."

You hated the way your body responded. The way your pulse pounded under his touch, the way your thighs clenched at his words. The way you wanted to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

"And it fucking kills me—" He pressed closer, crowding into your space, feeling his sinful fingers running over your sensitive cunt . "Fucking ruins me—knowing you let him touch you. That you let him hear the sounds that belong to me."

You moaned softly when he inserted his fingers, right against the thin lace of your panties, playing with how wet you were.

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something wicked. "You’re soaking ," he uttered, almost mocking. "That for me? Or for Lorenzo?"

You rolled your eyes, but your hips betrayed you as your back arched up close to him.

"Say his name," he demanded, dragging his fingers in and out of you with agonizing slowness.

You clenched your jaw, refusing. Then—his fingers disappeared.

You gasped, thighs clenching around nothing, frustration coiling in your stomach as you tried to buck your hips against him.

But Mattheo just stood there, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes, like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew you would break first.

You glared at him, chest heaving, legs still spread for him, exposed and desperate and angry.

"Fucking bastard—"

"Say. his. name," he repeated, calm, composed, deadly.

You clenched your fists, swallowing hard.

"Lorenzo." It was barely a whisper

He wrenched your skirt up, pushing his hips against yours, letting you feel just how hard he was, just how much this had gotten to him.

"You want to fuck my best friend?" he growled against your lips, sliding his belt free, unbuttoning his trousers. "You wanna be a little whore?" he hummed, head tilting, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your thighs trembled. "You wanna spread your legs for anyone with a cock just to get back at me?"

Your nails dug into the desk behind you. "Fuck you."

His lips curled. "That’s the plan, princesa."

You barely had time to gasp before he slammed inside you.

You gasped, arching against the wall, the stretch forcing a strangled moan from your lips.

"You want to be fucked like a whore?" His voice was low, thick with something dangerous. "I’ll fuck you like a whore."

Your nails scraped against the wood, fingers curling desperately over the edge of the desk as Mattheo slammed into you, the force knocking the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck—"

"Yeah?" he mocked, voice laced with cruel amusement. His grip on your hips was bruising, nails digging into your flesh as he pulled you back against him, forcing you to take every inch, stretching you to the point of pain. "That what you wanted, baby?"

You refused to answer. So he didn’t slow.

Didn’t ease up, didn’t give you a second to adjust—just fucked into you, brutal, punishing, sharp thrusts that left you clawing at the desk, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to keep yourself from making the noises he wanted.

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck arched, until his mouth was right at your ear. His breath was hot, ragged, fucking furious.

"You think he could ever fuck you like I do?" he sneered. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

His grip tightened. "Answer me, princesa."

"No," you gasped, choking on a whimper as he thrust deeper, slamming your hips against the desk.

"That’s right." Another slap—this time over your already-sensitive clit, making you jolt, making your walls clench around him. "That’s fucking right."

He wanted to ruin you. To make sure no part of you belonged to anyone but him.

And he was doing a bloody good job of it. You hated that he could turn your own body against you.

Before you could catch your breath, he was moving. Lifting you off the desk, his hands firm under your thighs as he carried you across the room. Your hands flew to his shoulders as he adjusted, seating himself on the chair and pulling you onto his lap. His back pressed against the desk now as he gripped your hips, positioning you exactly how he wanted. You moaned loudly, nails sinking into his skin as you sank down, filling you completely, pushing up onto your toes, rolling your hips against him, taking him deeper.

"Atta girl," he growled, slamming into you, meeting you halfway,

Your legs completely spent, thighs burning, but you kept going, desperate, fucking needy—because fuck, he was right. No one else ever could touch you like he did.

His head tipped back, a low groan slipping from his lips, voice rough, his fingers bruising into your thighs as you rode him, as you fucked yourself onto him. "Fuck. Just like that." his other hand trailing down your spine, gripping your ass roughly before delivering a sharp slap that had you arching against him, crying out. His hand wrapped around your throat again, pulling you close. You gasped, body jerking, legs shaking—so fucking close. "Baby—"

"Cum for me," he growled, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and commanding. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are."

And fuck, you did.

“God, Matty—”

His hand wrapped tighter around your throat, cutting off your words. “What was that, sweetheart?” His lips brushed your ear, voice dark, teasing. “You praying?”

You choked out a moan, your head spinning, your body helpless beneath his as you rode out your orgasm. Body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over you, a broken moan slipping from your lips as you came around his cock, pulsing, clenching, milking him. His fingers dug into your thighs, pulling you down hard, making sure you felt every inch of him as you shattered. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction, with power. “Make a mess on my cock.” His pace turned erratic, thrusts growing uneven, his fingers pressing against your throat just enough to make your vision blur. His curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched as he chased his high. His groan muffled against your skin as he came, his hips still driving into you as he spilled inside. You felt it—hot and thick, filling you up as he buried himself deep, his fingers bruising your hips.

His hand remained wrapped around your throat, loose now but still firm, a reminder of his control. He didn’t move, didn’t pull out, didn’t let you breathe just yet. Instead, he pressed his lips to your jaw, dragging them down the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of sweat and sin. “Such a good girl when you’re taking my cock,” he mused, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. “Shame you’re such a fucking problem when you’re not.”

“Let me make something very fucking clear,” he rasped, leaning in, his nose brushing yours, his lips just barely touching yours as he spoke, “You don’t look at him. You don’t talk to him. And you sure as fuck don’t go near him again.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking away. Instead, you smirked, the smallest, defiant tilt of your lips, knowing it would send him over the edge. You fucking lived for this.

"Or what?" you taunted, voice hoarse from screaming his name minutes before.

"Or I’ll bend you over this desk again and make sure you can’t walk back to your dorm," his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Wouldn’t want that now, would we, sweetheart?"

Your stomach clenched at his words, and you hated the way your body still responded to him, even now, when your legs felt like they were made of jelly. But Mattheo saw everything—felt every tiny shiver that ran through you.

"Yeah," he laughed, pulling back to look at you, cocky as ever. "That’s what I thought."

With infuriating slowness, he reached for your discarded clothes, shaking his head as he picked up your underwear. "Torn lace, tsk, tsk," he mused, stretching the ruined fabric between his fingers. "At this rate, love, I’m gonna have to start buying you replacements."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, how tragic for you."

Grinning, he crouched slightly, sliding your underwear up your legs with a teasing brush of his knuckles. He didn’t move away immediately, fingers lingering at your thighs as he let out a pleased hum. "Still shaking for me, angel?"

You huffed, but your sharp retort died when he grabbed your skirt and smoothed it back into place, making a show of adjusting it on your hips like he hadn’t just been the one hiking it up around your waist minutes ago.

Once your blouse was slipped over your arms, Mattheo took his time buttoning it up for you, fingers brushing over your collarbone, your throat, your stomach—places he had just worshipped with his mouth. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and unreadable.

"You really are a mess," he mused, running a hand through your tangled hair, fixing it with an almost ridiculous amount of patience.

"You’re the reason I’m a mess," you muttered, still catching your breath.

His lips curled into a smug smirk. "Exactly."

Once you were dressed, Mattheo took a step back, looking you over with a satisfied expression before fixing his own tie, adjusting his sleeves like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just destroyed you against a classroom desk.

His fingers brushed over your skin, soothing, grounding. "Come on, love," he murmured, pressing a final kiss against your forehead. "Let's go."

He stood, taking his jacket and draping it over your shoulders before wrapping an arm around your waist. You were still shaky, still warm and dazed, but you leaned into him as he led you out of the room, down the dark corridors, back to his dorm—the place you always ended up after your fights, after your desperation boiled over into something carnal and consuming.

The door shut behind you, sealing you into the dim warmth of his space. He pulled you to the bed, guiding you down before settling in beside you, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you close. His lips found your forehead, a rare, quiet moment of peace settling over you both.

Because for all the ways Mattheo Riddle could destroy you, there were 666 ways he loved you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: maybe..therapy…isn’t such a bad idea

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[lushleona]

── .✦ riding boyfriend’s brother!mattheo with tom at the door

warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, unprotected p in v, face slapping, choking, dirty talk, finger sucking (?), cheating

mattheo's fingers dig into your thighs, the heat of his palms branding your skin as you grind down on him, the weight of what you’re doing lost somewhere between the haze of arousal and the sharp edge of knowing you shouldn’t. knowing this is wrong. knowing you’re on top of your boyfriend’s brother, his hands gripping your ass like he owns it, his cock buried so fucking deep you can barely breathe.

"you should be fucking ashamed of yourself," he murmurs against your skin, voice dripping with mockery, his breath hot where it ghosts over your jaw. his fingers are bruising into your hips, keeping you where he wants you, dragging you down onto his cock at a pace that has your nails digging into his shoulders, useless in stopping him.  

"shut up," you hiss, even as your thighs shake from how deep he is, even as your body betrays you and clenches around him like it’s starved for it. mattheo chuckles, low and taunting. 

and then it happens. a sharp knock at the door.

“love?” tom’s voice is right there, on the other side of the wood. “why is the door locked?”

your heart slams into your ribs, your body going rigid as mattheo smirks up at you, completely unbothered. he’s still inside you, still hard, and now his hands are sliding up your waist, like he’s daring you to move, daring you to react.

tom knocks again. “are you in there?”

mattheo fucking smiles.  

you barely register your own voice when you respond, breathless and high-pitched. “y-yeah! just—just changing, tom, one second!”

mattheo’s amusement is damn near palpable. you can feel the low laugh rumbling in his chest, the way he’s seconds away from ruining you, from saying something that will have your entire life crumbling at your feet. without thinking, you slap a hand over his mouth, the other wrapping around his throat in a desperate attempt to shut him up.

“don’t,” you whisper with wide eyes, your voice just loud enough for him to hear, just soft enough that tom won’t.  

his lashes flutter. he fucking moans. it’s quiet, muffled against your palm, but you hear it. you feel the vibration of it against your skin, the way his adam’s apple bobs under your fingers as his smirk deepens, those dark eyes gleaming with something downright depraved.

and then his lips part, his tongue flicking out to drag wet heat against your palm.  

your stomach twists.  

"you don’t want him to hear, huh?" he mumbles when you pull your hand away, smug and cruel, eyes dark with something lethal.  

"obviously," you snap, but you already know you’ve fucked up, because mattheo's grin stretches wide like a predator who’s caught its prey, head tilting against the pillows as he watches you, eats up the way your chest rises and falls, the way you’re still fucking seated on his cock while your boyfriend stands just outside the door.  

"gag me then," he taunts, his voice nothing but pure sin. "if you’re so desperate to keep quiet."  

it’s the way he says it. so easy. so casual. like he isn’t already pushing every single fucking limit. like he isn’t already unraveling you piece by piece. you snap before you can think twice, shoving your fingers into his mouth, pressing down against his tongue in warning.

his reaction is immediate. his lips wrap around them, a hot, wet heat as his tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, teasing like he has all the fucking time in the world, making a show of it just to watch your face twist in something you refuse to name. your thighs involuntarily twitch where they’re straddling him.  

his lashes flutter, gaze hazy as he watches you, eyes so fucking smug it makes you want to slap him.

so you do.

your palm collides with his cheek, the sharp sound of it echoing through the room. mattheo groans, half-lidded eyes darkening as his hips jolt up into yours, dragging a choked noise from your throat. his hands tighten on your waist, his nails biting into your skin as his smirk deepens.

“oh, you little minx,” he murmurs around your fingers, voice rough, wrecked.

“you’re fucking sick,” you hiss, but your thighs are trembling and he fucking knows it.

“oh, i know.” his hands slide lower, squeezing your ass, dragging you forward until you can feel every inch of him pressing into you. his breath fans against your skin, words thick with satisfaction. your saliva covered fingers draw out of his mouth. “but i also know that you fucking love it.”

your breath stutters. your chest tightens. because he’s right. you do. and when his grip tightens and he pulls your hips down again, forcing you to move, forcing you to keep going, your resolve shatters completely.

“tell me, baby,” mattheo purrs, rocking into you slow, teasing, dragging the pleasure out until your fingers are curling against his jaw. his smirk is still there, lazy, smug, victorious. “are you sick too?”

m.list