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crucifyjonnie · 4 months ago

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Broken again part 2. This is phenomenal and I want every single soul walking on this planet to read the first part and this one😭

WICKED BOY. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader. part one. → part two.

summary ; part two of wicked game. words ; 4.9k warnings ; violence/fighting, mentions of blood, swearing, degradation/public-ish humiliation, light angst (?), read part one first or you’ll be confused!!

navigation. masterlist.

Monday comes with a beatdown you hadn’t prepared for.

The weekend passed by in an agonizingly slow fashion, like water dripping from a broken sink. After that night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. It was like the air had thickened between you and Mattheo, and while you thought you might have been imagining it, the space between you two grew colder, quieter. He hadn’t come near you again after the door had slammed shut.

You hadn’t tried to reach out either. You knew better than to try when he was in that headspace. But he didn’t try either, and that was the hardest part to ignore.

The entire weekend, he avoided you. It was almost as though he’d vanished from your life completely, no brief encounters, no accidental brush of shoulders in the halls, no stolen moments in dark corners. Nothing. Just empty, awkward spaces filled with silence.

You never expected it to be easy, but this? This was different. This felt like a break. A real one, not the temporary disconnection that came with his usual emotional walls. He was deliberately keeping his distance, and you knew it. Like that night was different from all the others you’d spent together. Because you’d said things you couldn’t take back. Because he called you his and the word engraved itself into every part of your skin, into your brain and your heart.

Your first thoughts had been simple: maybe it was a fluke. Maybe he was still wrapped up in whatever demons had him spiraling every other time. But the longer it stretched on, the more you realized it wasn’t. He didn’t want to face what had happened; what he’d let slip out between you two. He couldn’t deal with it. You could tell by the way his eyes would dart away when you passed each other in the hall and it made you want to scream, because everything between you was supposed to be fucked-up—messy and painful, yes—but never this frozen.

You didn’t know what to think of it, couldn’t decide if you were pissed or relieved or even confused. You hadn’t expected him to want to talk about the night—God, no. But this? The silence? This left a taste of something more bitter in your mouth than you were ready to admit.

Still, you let him do his thing. You didn’t try to force anything, didn’t chase after him like some lost puppy. It was his game to play, and if he wanted to play it alone, then fine.

But the rumors, whispers, and sidelong glances? Those you can’t ignore.

You feel it the moment you step into the Great Hall.

At first, you think it’s your imagination. A bad night’s sleep, maybe. Residual nerves from how things were left hanging with Mattheo. Your brain playing tricks on you. But the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to lie to yourself. The glances feel deliberate. The silence feels like teeth behind pursed lips.

You keep your head up as you make your way toward the Ravenclaw table, ignoring the heat crawling up the back of your neck. It’s not like you’re new to whispers. You’ve heard them before—especially since getting tangled up with Mattheo. But this is different. This isn’t the usual speculation. This feels… targeted.

You pick at your food disinterestedly, your appetite gone. Your instincts are screaming at you to fidget, to check your hair, to glance around at who’s staring, but you force yourself to stay still. There’s an underlying feeling of destruction, like the calm before the storm.

It’s not long before Rowan slides in beside you, his tray clinking against the wood a little louder than necessary. He doesn't greet you like he usually does, no quiet morning, no warm smile, and something about that already makes your stomach turn. He doesn’t look at you when he sits.

“Didn’t see you around much,” you say carefully, testing the waters.

Rowan hums, noncommittal. “Yeah, well. Busy weekend.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tightens. His voice is calm, but there's something different in it. Something off. It doesn't sound like him. Not the version of him you’ve come to know, at least.

“Right,” you murmur, trying not to frown. “Me too.”

Another silence stretches between you, made louder by the distant clatter of cutlery and low murmur of conversation all around you.

Then, he says, casually, “Glad to see you made it out of Riddle’s bed in time for breakfast.”

Your spoon clatters against your bowl, and your head snaps toward him. His voice is still light, almost playful, but you know sarcasm when you hear it—and you know Rowan. Or you thought you did.

“I— what?”

He finally turns to look at you, and there’s something sharp in his eyes. Not angry. Not sad. Just… mean. “Nothing,” he says with a smirk. “Just impressed you’ve got the energy to sit upright after all that.”

Your stomach drops. The back of your neck prickles. You search his face for any trace of the boy who brought you tea when you were sick. Who let you fall asleep on his shoulder in the library. Who told you you deserved better.

He shrugs when you don’t respond. “Guess I underestimated you.”

He stabs a piece of egg and pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “You know,” he says between bites, “it’s funny. You used to blush just holding my hand. Acted like you were so sweet, so fucking innocent. Guess that was just for show.”

You blink, stunned. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

His eyes flick to yours, and for the first time, you see it clearly; resentment. Cold and coiled, pressed tight behind his teeth. “You tell me,” he says with a tight smile. “Seems like you had a pretty eventful night on Saturday. Or is it nights, plural? Can’t keep track of how many times you’ve fucked him, can you?”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You feel the eyes on you before you even look around. It’s like your ears are ringing, blood rushing so fast you can barely hear over it. The laughter at nearby tables feels distant, distorted. You suddenly feel like you're glowing with heat, like shame is written across your forehead in neon.

You grit your teeth, voice cracking with disbelief. “Who told you that?”

He lets out a low chuckle. “You’d be surprised how many people saw you two in the hallway. Kind of hard to miss the way he shoved you up against the wall and then dragged you upstairs. Real subtle.”

Your face burns, the image hitting you like a slap—that moment. When everything had been a blur of want and desperation and pain, and now it was being dissected and passed around like a rumor.

“I didn’t think you were like that,” Rowan adds softly, mockingly. “But hey. Guess even the good girls like it rough sometimes.”

Your fork slips from your fingers and hits the table with a sharp clink.

He doesn’t even blink.

You want to say something, anything, but your mouth won’t cooperate. Your throat feels thick. It’s the tone in his voice more than anything—the absence of empathy, the disdain dripping from every word.

Rowan tilts his head at you, eyes glittering. “Did you like it when he choked you? Bet you begged for it.”

Your stomach flips. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper, shocked.

He just smiles, looking satisfied.

You stare at him, jaw slack, breath shallow, like you’ve just been shoved under ice water. He’s enjoying this. Every word. Every flinch you make. It’s like he’s waited for this—for the moment he could stop pretending.

“I don’t even know who the fuck you are right now,” you mutter, voice hoarse. “What is your problem?”

It’s a dumb question and you know it. His problem is that he found out he got played; even though that was never your intention. Still though, you’d never been exclusive with him.

Rowan doesn’t respond at first. Just reaches for his glass and takes a slow sip, as if you’re not sitting next to him, unraveling.

He shrugs again. “Maybe I got tired of playing dumb. Or maybe I just got tired of pretending to be into girls who let anyone shove them into a wall and fuck them in the hallway like a common whore.” Then, quietly, “I just didn’t realize I was still sharing you. Thought you were done fucking around with him ages ago.”

That shuts you up. Your hands curl into fists beneath the table.

“I never promised you anything,” you bite out.

“Didn’t have to,” he says smoothly. “You made it pretty clear what kind of girl you were trying to be. Guess I was stupid enough to believe it.”

You suck in a breath. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He scoffs. “No, I didn’t. But I do now.”

You feel something fracture in your chest, splintering out in sharp cracks. He’s not yelling. He’s not making a scene. But somehow, that makes it worse. Every quiet insult feels like it was carefully sharpened before he slid it beneath your ribs.

“Tell me, does he talk to you after?” Rowan murmurs, leaning in like he’s sharing a secret. “Or does he just use you and toss you aside like the dirty little toy you are?”

You recoil like he’s slapped you, heart hammering.

The words hit harder than they should.

Not just because of what he’s saying—but because there’s a grain of truth in them. Because Mattheo did disappear after that night. Because part of you does feel discarded, no matter how much you try to deny it.

Your throat is tight. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Rowan grins, all teeth. “Why not? Is that what this is now? Are you his?”

You glare at him. “You don’t get to speak to me like this.”

“Why not?” he repeats mockingly. “You weren’t so defensive when you were crawling into my lap last week.”

You freeze. The blood drains from your face.

He knows exactly what he’s doing—dragging you out into the open, reminding you of every blurred line you crossed, every mistake you made, every choice that came back to haunt you.

Rowan leans back, stretching out like he’s finally comfortable now that he’s stripped you raw. “Don’t worry,” he says casually. “Everyone already knows. Just figured I’d help them get the full picture.”

Your heart’s beating so loud you almost miss it.

The subtle shift in the atmosphere.

The growing awareness of eyes turning toward your end of the table.

Something is happening, something you’re on the cusp of, but not quite in yet. And then you hear it. A voice behind you, deep and familiar and already laced with warning. “What’s going on here?”

Your head snaps up.

Mattheo.

Your whole body tenses at the sound of his voice.

He stands a few feet away, dressed in a white button up with the wrinkled collar pulled down, his tie loose like he didn’t bother finishing the uniform properly. He looks the same—cold, unreadable—but there’s something simmering beneath the surface. Something dangerous.

His eyes aren’t on Rowan. They’re on you, and they narrow slightly when he sees the way you’re sitting—rigid and small, like you’re trying to disappear into the bench. Like you’ve been cornered. A lost puppy that’s been kicked to the curb.

You don’t answer; you don’t have to.

Rowan doesn’t look away. Just lifts his chin in that smug, unbothered way he always did when he thought he was holding the high ground.

“Oh, hey,” Rowan says, as if they’re old friends bumping into each other on the street. “Didn’t see you there.”

Mattheo’s expression doesn’t change. “Yeah?” he says, voice flat. “Because you were too busy running your mouth?”

You feel Rowan stiffen slightly beside you, but he doesn’t back down.

“Just having a little chat,” he replies smoothly. “Nothing she hasn’t heard before. Isn’t that right?”

His knee knocks into yours deliberately under the table and you shrink even further.

Mattheo's gaze finally cuts to him and the weight of it is punishing. “Funny,” he says. “Doesn’t look like she’s enjoying the conversation.”

Rowan laughs under his breath. “You know, I always thought she was a better actress,” he says idly. “Sweet little thing, pretending to be shy, quiet, innocent. Turns out, she’s just like the rest of them. Just a slut, two-timing any guy dumb enough to get near her. Guess I should’ve known better, huh?”

You freeze.

He says it like it’s a joke. Like it’s nothing. But your stomach drops. Mattheo doesn’t respond right away. He just stares.

And then, voice low and almost casual—which is somehow worse—he says, “You want to say that again?”

The tension stretches tight across the table. Conversations around you slow. You feel eyes beginning to fix on your small corner of the Ravenclaw table. And still, no one moves.

Rowan smiles, like he thinks he’s still in control of this.

“I said she’s just like the rest of them,” he repeats. “Spreads her legs for the right guy with a tragic past and a pretty face, and suddenly thinks she’s got depth.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Sharp and public.

You blink at your plate, vision blurring. You can’t speak, can’t breathe. Every cell in your body is screaming to disappear, but you’re stuck here, nailed in place by humiliation and rage and disbelief.

You know it before it happens. The way Mattheo shifts, slow and precise, like a predator that’s done waiting.

But Rowan doesn’t.

He doesn’t see it coming. Not until it’s too late. Not until Mattheo lunges.

He moves before anyone else even registers it. One second he’s standing a few feet away, and the next he’s got Rowan by the collar, dragging him up from the bench with a force that sends the surrounding students scrambling back. Your chair screeches against the stone floor as you jolt to your feet, heart hammering in your chest.

“Mattheo—” you start, voice catching, but he doesn’t even glance at you.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about her,” Mattheo snarls, leaning in close, his nose almost touching Rowan’s. “You think because she let you sit beside her at breakfast, because she was kind to you, you get to talk about her like that? She doesn’t owe you shit.”

“She sure gave you a lot more than kindness,” Rowan snaps, voice cracking under pressure. “Funny how fast she dropped her standards for someone like you.”

It’s not the insult to him that sets Mattheo off.

It’s the way Rowan looks at you when he says it.

As if you're nothing. As if he didn’t sit beside you every morning for weeks acting like you were worth something.

He yanks Rowan forward, slamming him down flat against the table. Plates clatter, a cup tips and spills pumpkin juice across someone’s parchment, and students on either side scramble to get out of the way as Mattheo straddles the bench beside you and drives his elbow down into Rowan’s chest to keep him pinned. His other hand curls into a fist and crashes down into Rowan’s jaw again, then again, and again.

“You don’t fucking talk about her like that,” he snarls, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. “You think you can run your mouth and get away with it? Huh?”

Rowan’s nose is gushing blood now, pooling across the table and staining his sleeve. He’s trying to twist away, kicking wildly, but Mattheo has him locked down with brutal efficiency, the muscles in his back flexed tight beneath his shirt, eyes wild.

“You don’t fucking look at her. You don’t think about her.”

“Mattheo—” you try again, voice breaking, but he’s in his own world. You’re not sure he can even hear you.

“You think you know anything about her?” he growls, punching him again so hard the entire table jerks. “You don’t know fucking shit.”

By now, nearly the entire Great Hall is watching. Some are too stunned to react. Others are already standing, a few shouting for a professor, but no one moves fast enough. Mattheo is a storm let loose, and he’s not done.

“Say it again,” he hisses, yanking Rowan’s head up by the hair just enough so he can slam it back down again. “Go on. Call her a slut again. I fucking dare you.”

Rowan makes a weak, garbled sound, but there’s no wit left in his voice. No clever jabs or smug grins. He’s bleeding, dazed, his face turned to the side and his cheek mashed against the wood as Mattheo grips him like he’s seconds away from doing something far worse.

You’re frozen. Heart in your throat, hands shaking, half in awe and half horrified. You should stop him, say something, pull him back, but the truth is, you’re not sure you could even reach him like this. And some part of you, the darker part you usually try to deny, doesn't want to.

Because for once, he’s not ignoring you. For once, you’re not invisible, not an afterthought or a regret. He’s fighting for you—even if it’s brutal and fucked up and probably going to get him suspended.

You’re not the only one who sees it. The whole school is watching now, and Mattheo still doesn’t let go.

A few feet away, Professor McGonagall is storming down the center aisle, wand in hand, her voice loud and sharp as she shouts for order, but Mattheo doesn’t hear her. Not until someone physically pulls him off—Theo, maybe, or Blaise—you’re not even sure anymore with the blood pounding in your ears.

Rowan’s crumpled on the floor, face red and already swelling, nose likely broken, and the crowd that had gathered is slowly beginning to part as professors rush in.

Mattheo is breathing heavily, arms restrained but eyes still locked on Rowan like he’s ready to go another round.

And you… you're frozen.

You don't know where to look. Not at Rowan, who’s groaning on the floor like a victim, not at the dozens of students staring at you like you’re the reason any of this happened, and definitely not at Mattheo, whose face, still burning with fury, softens only when he glances at you.

Like he just remembered why he started swinging in the first place.

Mattheo’s gaze lingers on you even as Professor McGonagall finally snaps him out of it with a barked command. He tears his eyes away, jaw locked tight as he lets himself be hauled out of the hall, blood smeared across his knuckles like war paint.

You don’t move. You can’t.

Everything feels muted, the noise, the movement, even your own thoughts. The only thing you register is the hollow pit in your stomach and the unmistakable burn of too many eyes on you.

Mattheo doesn’t look back at you as he’s escorted out of the Great Hall, but your feet are moving anyway, like they’re tethered to him. You duck away from the Ravenclaw table and slip through the crowd before anyone else can corner you. The last thing you want is pity. Or worse: judgment.

You don’t go to class. You don’t go to your dorm. You just wander—through empty corridors and abandoned staircases, trying to will the rush of everything to slow down. Your hands are still trembling, heart still rattling too hard against your ribs.

You don’t know what he was thinking. Why he did it. You don’t know if it made things better or infinitely worse. But the only thing you know for certain is this: you need to talk to him.

By the time you find him, it’s nearly dusk. The sky is tinged in a soft purple and the castle is quieter now, students lowly chattering in the halls. He’s sitting on a low bench in a corridor not far from the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower, knuckles scraped raw.

You stop a few feet away, unsure what to say.

He doesn’t look up at first, like he sensed you before he saw you.

You wait, heart caught somewhere in your throat.

Finally, he speaks. “They gave me two weeks' detention.”

You breathe out softly. “Not surprised.”

His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek, still avoiding your eyes. “I’m guessing they gave him nothing.”

“He’s playing the victim.”

Silence stretches between you again. He picks at the skin around his knuckles, where it’s torn and scabbed, like he doesn’t know how to sit still in his own body.

You take a tentative step forward. “Why’d you do it?”

This time, his eyes flick to yours, his expression unreadable.

He doesn’t answer right away, but the look he gives you is enough to make your pulse jump. It’s not anger or guilt, but rather something far messier. Something you know because you feel it too.

He sighs through his nose and stands up, slow and stiff like his body aches all over. “Come on.”

You blink. “Where?”

He starts walking. “Somewhere we won’t be watched like animals in a fucking zoo.”

He leads you down a winding staircase that opens into one of the empty classrooms no one uses anymore, dusty and quiet, the windows hazy with age. The door clicks shut behind you, and then there’s just silence again. Thick and heavy and humming with everything unspoken.

He leans against the edge of the old professor’s desk, arms crossed, gaze low. You stay standing, unsure whether to scream at him or fall into his chest.

“You shouldn’t’ve done that,” you say, even though you’re not sure you believe it.

His jaw twitches. “He shouldn’t’ve fucking said it.”

“He was being a dick, yeah, but— Mattheo, you beat him in front of everyone.”

“I know.”

“Everyone’s talking.”

“I know.”

You press your lips together, trying to hold back the tide of emotion surging up your throat. Anger, confusion, a quiet, painful swell of something that feels like hope but could just as easily be heartbreak.

He finally looks at you—really looks—and whatever flickers behind his eyes in that moment, it’s raw. Unfiltered. It cuts you open.

“You defended me.”

His brows furrow, corners of his lips turning down in a slight frown and his eyes softening, as though he’s devastated that you would ever think he wouldn’t defend you, but then he quickly realizes that he hasn’t given you a single reason to trust him. His eyes harden again, turning into that emotionless shell you’ve gotten so used to staring into.

“It wasn’t like that.”

The mask is back up. And you notice instantly.

“No. No, don’t do that. Don’t you fucking dare block me out, Mattheo. Not right now when we need to talk more than ever.”

His eyes stay solid, not allowing you to see into his mind, but inside, his heart is beating wildly and rapidly, slamming around the walls of his ribcage with a violent fervor, like it’s trying to break free. Trying to break free so it can land in your hands, leaving you to do with it as you please.

Whether that meant tearing it viciously by the seams or gently stitching the bloodied, broken thing up, he didn’t care. Not as long as it was you.

“You think I don’t want to talk to you?” His voice comes out low, dangerous—not in the way that scares you, but in the way that tells you he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I haven’t been going fucking mad, thinking about it?”

“Then why didn’t you?” you shoot back, your voice trembling with heat. “Why didn’t you say anything? Not even a look. You acted like I didn’t exist after— after the other night.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and sharp, like it stings to breathe. “Because I didn’t know what the fuck to say.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I know it’s not.”

You clench your fists at your sides. “You don’t get to pick and choose when you care, Mattheo. You don’t get to touch me like that and say things like ‘you’re mine’ and then just disappear.”

He looks at you then, and it’s almost unbearable—like staring directly into a storm. “You think I disappeared because I don’t care?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you admit, voice cracking. “I don’t know where I stand with you, what I mean to you, if I mean anything to you outside of sex.”

His lips part, like he wants to argue, but no words come out, instead swallowing hard, running a hand through his hair and gripping the back of his neck like it hurts to hold his own head up.

“You mean—” he starts, then cuts himself off. Shakes his head. “Fuck. You mean too much.”

Your breath catches, but he keeps talking before you can say anything.

“I was trying to protect it. Whatever it is. However fucked up and fragile and wrong it feels sometimes. Because if I said it out loud, it wouldn’t just be mine anymore. It’d be real. And real things…” He glances away, jaw clenched. “Real things die.”

Something in your chest twists painfully. “So you’d rather hurt me first. Shut me out before I get the chance.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just presses the heel of his palm into his eye like he’s trying to force the feelings back inside.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

“And I do?” you say, stepping closer. “Do you think I’m not scared too? That I haven’t spent every second since the first time we touched wondering if I made it all up— if you felt anything at all?”

“I did.” The words rip out of him like they cost him something. “I do.”

The silence that follows is thick with everything neither of you knows how to say.

You take one more step forward, enough that you’re right in front of him now, your voice softening just slightly. “Then show me, Mattheo. Let me in. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be fucking honest.”

He stares at you like you’ve asked him to do the hardest thing in the world. And maybe, to him, you have.

“I’m not good for you,” he says finally, quiet and hoarse. “I’m selfish and angry and half of me is still living in a world that’s gone.”

“I don’t need you to be good,” you whisper. “I just need you to be real.”

He’s still for a long moment. Then, finally, his hands come up—tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away—but when you don’t, they settle on your waist. His forehead dips to yours, and you feel his breath hitch against your skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You already have,” you murmur. “But I’m still here.”

He swallows hard, and his voice breaks on the next words. “I don’t know how to fix that.”

You press your palms to his chest, right over where his heart thuds violently under your touch.

“Then let’s just start with not running.”

Mattheo’s brow furrows against yours, and his breath shudders out of him, uneven, like the effort to stay composed is physically hurting him.

“I’m not built for this,” he says finally. “For… feelings. For closeness. I didn’t think I’d even survive the war, let alone be standing here trying to— fuck, trying to care about someone.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the words hang there, heavy and raw between you.

“I’m angry all the time,” he continues, voice low and frayed. “I’m paranoid. I wake up in the middle of the night convinced I’m still bleeding. And when you look at me like that—” he cuts himself off, eyes flicking to yours, “like I’m worth saving— it makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not,” you whisper. “You’re just scared.”

He nods slowly, jaw working, and you can tell he’s holding back a thousand things. But when he speaks again, it’s softer. Realer.

“You make me want things I told myself I could never have. Peace, safety… you.”

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, and he lifts his hand to brush it away, gentle this time, his thumb swiping under your eye with a kind of reverence you didn’t know he was capable of.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“You don’t have to be anything right now,” you say quietly. “You just have to try.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you like you’ve just asked him to step out onto ice he’s sure will crack beneath him. Then, slowly, his hand finds yours.

He laces your fingers together. His palm is rough, but his grip is tentative, unsure. The squeeze is barely there. But it’s real.

Just to say: I’m here. I’m trying.

You look down at your joined hands, and then back up at him. He looks away quickly, like he can’t bear to see the expression on your face. But you squeeze his hand, grounding him, and he doesn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet.”

You smile, soft and bittersweet. “Then don’t make me regret it.”

His thumb brushes across the back of your hand, almost absentminded. And for the first time in what feels like months, the tension in your chest loosens. Just a little.

Not everything is fixed.

But something is starting.

And for now, that’s enough.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

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crucifyjonnie · 4 months ago

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I'm broken into fucking pieces FUCKING HELL LEO

WICKED GAME. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader. part one. → part two.

summary ; after the war, nothing feels real except him—you’re not together, not really, but that’s never stopped you from crawling back to him when it burns too much to feel nothing at all. it’s cruel and addictive, and things change when your hypocrisy begins to bleed through. words ; 9.5k warnings ; sexual content, angst, toxic situationship, fingering, unprotected p in v, mattheo’s rough, creampie, oral m! & f!receiving, throatfucking, overstimulation, f!masterbation, voyeurism (?), swearing, hair pulling, orgasm denial, dirty talk, degradation, spitting, choking, pussy slapping, spanking, dp (fingers + cock), squirting

navigation. masterlist.

His back is to you when you open your eyes.

You watch as he slides on his jeans—the same blue denim he was wearing last night when he showed up at your door. Listen as his shoes tap against the wood floor. There’s a certain rhythm to it, almost mechanical, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Muscle memory.

He bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, his movements slow, careful. You can almost hear the thoughts running through his head, though you know better than to ask. He’s good at keeping things to himself, as good as you’ve learned to be.

His muscles flex as he reaches up to slide the shirt over his head, and your eyes catch on the scars littering his back, the faint red lines and the faded, angry stains left upon his spine, holding memories of the days that brought him to this point of roboticism, and despite your best efforts not to think too hard about it, your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

He glances over at you, and for the briefest second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft, something different, though you can’t quite place it. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that familiar mask.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, his voice low, but there’s nothing in it. No affection. No real meaning. Just words.

You nod, eyes following his every move as he heads for the door, but you don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?

He leaves, and the silence that follows feels heavier than it should. You stay there for a few moments longer, listening to the sound of the door clicking shut, before you finally let out the breath you’d been holding.

Last night still lingers—on your skin, in your throat, between your legs. You feel it in the ache of your limbs and the hollow in your chest. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It never is.

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief.

The first time you saw him outside of Hogwarts was in a Muggle pub just off Diagon Alley. It had been a couple months since the end of the battle, right around the time you’d returned to a rebuilt version of Hogwarts for an eighth year. You hadn’t expected to see him at all, let alone there—half-drunk in a booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes darker than you remembered. He looked up when you walked past. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just lifted his glass in a sort of salute, like you were two survivors nodding across the wreckage.

You weren’t close, back then. Not really. Before the world went to ashes, you ran in the same circles—shared friends, shared classes, shared the occasional smirk across the room—but that was it. He was always a little too reckless for you to trust. And you were a little too careful, too quiet, for him to notice.

But war changes things.

The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. He still walks like he owns the ground beneath his feet, but there’s something broken behind his eyes now. Something lonely. You recognized it the moment you saw him again.

How could you not? It’s the same hollow feeling you can’t escape even in your wildest dreams.

That night in the pub, it was you who approached first, who spoke first. What started with small talk about mutual friends—about who made it out, who didn’t—turned into two drinks, then three, and then suddenly you were closer.

You can’t remember who leaned in first—only the bitter taste of whiskey on his lips and the way his hands slid under your shirt, all rough and desperate, as if he was trying to claw his way back into something real. It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts.

He took you back to his dorm that night, and all you can remember was the way he had you pressed up against the wall, his mouth on your neck and his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt like he hadn't touched another person in years.

And then it happened again, two weeks later. And again, and again, until it became a pattern, the months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under.

No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

He doesn’t stay the night. Except when he does.

And you don’t care. Except you do.

You pull the silk sheets tighter around your bare chest, the scent of him burning your flesh. It’s riddled with vodka and musk and that cheap ass cologne you pretend not to love. Your eyes flutter shut, drifting back to last night, or more accurately, to every fucking night you’ve ever shared with him, honing in on every time he touched you with a certain gentleness that he usually never possessed.

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain. The moments when his fingertips glided softly along the ridges of your spine, when you’d moan a certain way and he’d ease the hold he had on your hair, when he positioned you facing him instead of away.

It was pathetic, really. The arrangement was what it was, and there was no underlying meaning to any of the unspoken rules the two of you set. It wasn’t serious, it wasn’t exclusive, and it never would be, but it seemed the walls around your heart were far too fragile, far too decrepit, to ever stand a chance.

You told yourself you could do it. That it was fine. That you really were just helping each other cope and it was only about satisfying a mutual need. The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him.

You glance to your side, sitting up with the covers pulled just below your arms. His expensive watch is on the nightstand, forgotten again. He always forgets something, and you’ve started to wonder if it’s intentional.

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed, wincing at the sensation of your bare feet hitting the cold floor. The clock’s only just ticked past six—feels too early to get up now for a 9AM class, but you decide you need a shower. To wash away the smell of drinks and smoke and the grease in your hair, but mostly, to wash away last night’s activities. To wash him off your skin.

This cycle, it’s never ending, like a wound that scabs but never heals. Maybe a sane person who actually fucking cared about theirself would have called it off by now, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because no matter how much it stings, no matter how bad the fire burns you, it’s still reassuring. There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

Your body feels unfamiliar as you pad quietly to the bathroom, like it doesn’t quite belong to you anymore, your limbs heavy with leftover sleep. You let the door click shut behind you before turning the water on hotter than you should, letting the steam rise and drown out the thoughts bouncing around your skull.

You step under the spray without waiting, eyes shut, letting the heat burn away whatever’s left of last night. It doesn’t work—but you stay there anyway.

By the time you drag yourself out, the mirror is too fogged to show your face, and your fingers are wrinkled from how long you stayed under. You dry off without thinking, dress even faster, and force yourself out of the dorm before your mind can drag you back.

The Great Hall is already buzzing with chatter when you arrive for breakfast but making conversation is the last thing you want to do.

Unfortunately for you though, things never work out in your favor. That’s made clear enough by the sight of a handsome boy in blue robes waving you over. Groaning internally, you give in and trudge over to him and his friends—not that you have much of a choice.

“Hi Rowan,” you offer, flashing him a half-arsed smile as you took the seat next to him, fighting the urge to drop your tired head into your hands.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily.

Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

“Fine. Well, actually, I slept well.”

“I’m glad.”

Rowan was sweet. You’d been seeing him for a few weeks now. Nothing serious, but just a bit of fun. Dates, kisses, late-night study sessions that turned into something more. It was easier with him. He smiled at you in the hallways, held your hand under the table, asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. And he wasn’t bad to look at either—or to kiss. But when you did kiss him, when his hands were on your waist, your mind wandered. You couldn't help wishing his hands were rougher, warmer, different.

He pours you a glass of pumpkin juice without asking, like it’s an ingrained habit now. You thank him with a small smile and start picking at a piece of toast.

Rowan leans a little closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “You look tired. Was it the Arithmancy essay?”

You nod vaguely, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “Yeah, something like that.”

He chuckles softly. “Knew I should’ve stayed to help. I would’ve, you know—if you’d asked.”

You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’re sweet.”

There’s a brief silence as you sip your drink, and then:

“I was thinking,” he starts, hesitant. “Maybe this weekend, you and me could take a trip to Hogsmeade? Just the two of us. I feel like I never get you all to myself anymore.”

You nearly choke on your toast.

“I— yeah. Sure,” you say too quickly, blinking down at your plate. “That sounds nice.”

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual.

Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

Your eyes flick toward the doors of the Great Hall every few seconds, scanning the entrance like your body’s acting on instinct, searching for him even when your mind insists not to.

Rowan’s voice pulls you back.

“Do you have class after this?” he asks, brushing a crumb off your cheek with his thumb. “I could walk you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Defense. With Slughorn.”

He laughs. “Isn’t he Potions?”

You blink again. Shit. “Right. Sorry. I meant… I meant Potions.”

You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even notice. That might be the worst part.

The weekend arrives with a sickening speed, each day bleeding into the next like ink soaking through thin pages. You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back. You don’t get the butterflies, the stupid fluttering warmth a younger, more naive version of you might have felt if he’d met your eyes across the room. Mattheo doesn’t give you that satisfaction, and it eats at you because all you want to know was if it was on purpose—if he was fighting the same fucking battle as you or if he honestly just didn’t care.

Too much to dwell on, you think. Too much to dwell on and too little in return.

Your hands tremble as they gently scoop up Mattheo’s watch from the cozy spot in your nightstand drawer that you’d tucked it into, between freshly washed socks and bras. It felt too intimate, storing something that belongs to him in such a personal space, but you told yourself that that wasn’t your intention, that you were just safekeeping it for him.

Of course, safekeeping would’ve meant more if you’d returned it to him days ago, during one of the countless times you’d crossed paths in classrooms and hallways, and of course you'd thought about it, but you backed down before you even began.

Speaking to him when you weren’t drunk was a risk you didn’t want to gamble.

True, it would give you an advantage; you wouldn’t spew the same utter bullshit and nonsense you usually did when intoxicated. And true, chances were he’d just take the watch and you’d both move along with your days, but fuck, there was also the chance that either he’d ask you something you didn’t want to answer or you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance.

So instead you wait.

You wait and wait until Saturday night rolls around, his watch crammed into your jacket pocket as you stumble down the steps of the dormitories to the common room, where music is blasting so loud it could hardly be considered anything but noise. The air reeks of alcohol and weed, tendrils of secondhand smoke snaking through your nostrils to leave your head throbbing in record time. You haven’t even made it halfway across the room and your skull already feels like it’s cracking open.

The second Pansy spots you—your oversized jacket swallowing your frame, concealing the bare skin shown off by your tiny skirt —she’s practically lunging. Her arm hooks around yours, too tight and too fast, and her breath smells like firewhiskey when she leans in.

“Oh, look at you,” she drawls, eyes glassy, voice syrup-thick. “Looking all dangerous tonight. Who are you trying to kill with that skirt?”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable. “No one, Pans,” you mutter. “I’m wearing the jacket for a reason.” Your free hand fidgets with the hem hidden beneath the leather, fingers twitching like they’ve got something to hide. “The skirt was the only clean thing I had.”

Pansy’s smirk doesn’t budge. If anything, it grows smugger. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with a glint that makes your skin prickle. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain someone you’re hoping to accidentally bump into? Saving the view for him?”

God.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Because she’s right. And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

“Fucking hell, Pansy, give it a rest. Aren’t you the one preaching every day and night about how women don’t dress for men?”

She blanches, her brows furrowing. “Yes. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell when my best friend’s trying to get a certain boy’s attention.” Her voice is softer than before, like she’s trying to ease you into being honest with her, but she’s still slurring her speech and frankly, the words ‘best friend’ give you the urge to pull away. It only takes a couple beats without a response from you for her to rub at her reddened eyes with a fist and speak up again.

“You know he’s fucked up, right?”

Right. That again.

Like it’s news. Like it’s something you haven’t played on repeat in your brain until the record scratched.

“I’m well aware.”

“He’s not built for relationships.”

You smile, sharp as broken glass. “Good thing we’re not in one then.”

She sways slightly, like the ground feels just a little softer than usual, and gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

Eyes flicking to the floor, you bounce up and down on the heels of your feet, running your tongue over your teeth. “I came here to loosen up, not be lectured.”

You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight. Her fingers linger for half a second before falling away, and you don’t wait for her to say anything else—you’re already moving. Head low, feet light, weaving through the maze of limbs and smoke and pulsing bodies.

The makeshift bar is a disaster. Half-empty bottles, sticky counters, solo cups stacked like some drunken monument to poor decisions. You grab the first clean-ish one you can find and pour whatever’s within reach—firewhiskey, you think, but it burns sharper than usual when it hits your tongue. You wince. Swallow anyway.

Your eyes skim the room. Just surveying. Being observant. Gathering intel like you’re not standing there in a fucking skirt short enough to haunt a Catholic grandmother.

Swallow again. The burn licks up the back of your throat, makes your eyes sting, but it shuts your brain up for a second. So you pour another.

You don’t even like the taste. You never have, but it gives your hands something to do, and something about the numbness creeping in behind your ribs feels... safe.

You glance around, like you’re doing it casually. Like you’re not scanning the room for a face you know too well.

Your fingers tighten around the cup.

You’re not drinking just to get brave enough to talk to him. That’s not what this is.

This is you having fun. Being normal. Loosening up, like you said.

Right?

You take another sip.

He’s not even your boyfriend. You’re not his. There’s no label, no promises, no rules. Just... blurred lines and late nights and moments that mean too much and not enough all at once.

Your mouth tastes like sugar and regret. You chase it with more alcohol.

But then you catch a glimpse of him. He’s got a short brunette in a little black dress pressed up against the wall with his hands on her hips, the top button of her shirt undone, and worst of all, his mouth on her neck.

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

Jealousy slowly bubbles into rage, and you don’t know what pushes you to do it. Be it the alcohol, or bravery, or just pure fucking stupidity, you stomp over, effortlessly pushing through the countless bodies in your way, the hurt giving you power enough to do so.

“Mattheo,” you croak out when you’re closer to him, fingers twitching with a lethal mixture of fury and anxiety. He doesn’t budge, lips still firmly attached to her neck, leaving a trail of red splotches and saliva.

Heat floods your entire body, up your ears and cheeks and neck, leaving you embarrassed for having called to him in front of all these people only to be ignored. Either he didn’t hear you because he’s completely entranced by this girl, or he disregarded you on purpose. Either way, it burns.

“Mattheo,” you call, louder this time.

His eyes snap up, searching his surroundings before landing on yours, hooded, glazed, like he’s not really there. But the second he sees you, something in his expression shifts. Brief and barely visible, but there.

“…What?” he mutters, voice low and rough. He doesn’t move away from her. Doesn’t drop his hands from her hips. The girl turns slightly, confused, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. His gaze is still locked on you, half-dazed, half-aware, like he’s trying to decide whether to fight or flee.

Stomping over, you fish the watch out of your pocket, eyes never leaving his as you get closer. “You fucking forgot this,” you snarl, shoving the dumb thing against his solid chest, hard enough to make him stumble and to make the girl yelp. Without wasting a single second, you turn the fuck back around and walk away.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath, his hand clasping over the watch as to not let it fall before completely disregarding the girl to follow you through the crowd.

You pray that he’ll lose you in the swarm of people, but of course, he doesn’t. He catches up just as you hit the corridor past the main room and grabs your arm—not hard, just enough to stop you, to turn you around—and the look on his face is equal parts confusion and condescension and anger. Like you just ruined his night.

“Are you fucking serious?” he growls into your face, the watch still clutched in his fist. “You come storming in, start throwing shit like a lunatic—”

You yank your arm out of his grip. “Oh, I’m the lunatic?” You laugh, short and humorless. “Sorry, didn’t realize interrupting you sucking face with some random slag made me the irrational one.”

He scoffs. “She’s not random.”

“Yeah? What’s her name then?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. Shrugs like he can’t be bothered to come up with a proper answer. “Does it matter?”

You glare at him, lip curled. “No. Of course not. Why would it? You’ve got a whole fucking lineup, don’t you?”

“You’re one to talk,” he sneers. “You playing house with Rowan fucking Rivers now? Letting him leave his shit behind too? Or do you just shove it under your bed like a good little whore and keep rotating us in?”

The slap would’ve landed if he hadn’t caught your wrist.

“You don’t get to fucking talk about him,” you seethe, struggling against his grip. “You don’t get to say anything.”

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

“You don’t know anything,” you snap, shoving him. He barely moves, just smirks wider, crueler.

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

You take a step back, voice shaking. “I kept it because I thought you’d come back for it, you prick.”

The silence that follows is blistering. It’s a truth you’ve only just admitted to yourself for the first time.

“You left it in my room on purpose, Mattheo.” Your voice is trembling now, shaking with everything you won’t say. “Don’t act like I imagined that.”

His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.” He lets it drop to the floor between you, doesn’t even flinch when it hits with a metallic clink.

You feel something splinter in your chest. It’s quiet for a while; you can’t even think of what to say anymore.

“I know enough about you,” he says again, and the venom in his voice feels like a slap all on its own. “I know you like it when I fuck the good girl out of you and you still act like I’m the one who should feel dirty.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, to make you sound like such a needy, sex-depraved little girl, but you know he’s not wrong. Being with him makes you feel alive—that’s how you ended up in this position to begin with. Because you made each other feel real.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

You shove him. Hard.

He lets you.

But then he grabs your arm, pulls you into a corner, out of view, and slams his hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in like a goddamn threat.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he says low, voice almost shaking now. “Don’t act like you came to this party looking like that for anyone else.”

Your mouth opens to argue, maybe, or scream, or slap him again, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Because suddenly his mouth is on yours—hard, bruising, possessive—like he’s trying to prove a point, or make you forget every name that isn’t his. And you let him. You bite back. You kiss like you’re angry, because you are, and he tastes like smoke and firewhiskey and everything you can’t have but take anyway.

He’s already dragging you up the stairs to his dorm before you can even blink.

He slams the door shut behind you and you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, his mouth hot and desperate, hands roaming like he needs to memorize the shape of your body all over again just to spite himself. Your back hits the wall with a thud, and he swarms into you, one hand fisting your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he growls against your mouth, biting at your bottom lip until you gasp. “Walking around with that innocent look, like you don’t fuck like you want to ruin me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging him closer, refusing to let him think he’s the only one holding the reins. “You ruined yourself,” you spit. “Don’t put that on me.”

He laughs, low and cruel and breathless. “Still acting like you’re better than this,” he whispers, pressing his body flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is, how much he wants. “Better than me.”

You don’t answer. You kiss him instead, messy and open-mouthed, biting down on his tongue just enough to make him hiss. He grabs your throat, not to squeeze, just to hold you there, thumb stroking along your jaw with a gentleness that contrasts his actions.

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

Your breath catches, humiliation and arousal burning through you simultaneously. He sees it, the way your body betrays you, and it only makes his grin sharper, hungrier.

“Knew it,” he mutters. “Knew that mouth wasn’t just for smart little comments and pretending you’re not fucking dying to be used.”

He tugs you deeper into the room, pulling off your jacket and revealing the skirt you wore underneath. His eyes narrow; the implication is clear. So is the command in his voice when he says, “On your knees.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, mostly because you’re too proud to hesitate. The carpet bites at your knees as you kneel in front of him, evading his gaze because he’s watching you with a look that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Take it out,” he says, voice low and sharp. “Since you came all this way.”

You glare up at him, but your fingers are already working his belt loose, pushing fabric aside, your hands far steadier than you feel. He’s hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You swallow hard, shame heating the back of your throat, and he fucking sees it.

He’s thick and hard, and when he hits the back of your throat, you gag, but don’t pull away. He holds there a second too long. Then pulls back. Then thrusts again—harder this time, hand fisted in your hair.

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.”

You whimper around him, hands curling against his thighs for balance, spit slicking your chin as he thrusts deep, over and over. It’s brutal and filthy and not even a little bit gentle.

“You pretend you’re too good for this,” he breathes, cock dragging against your tongue. “Pretend you like him so much, but you never gag on his cock like this, do you?”

Your eyes water. Your throat clenches. You want to hit him, bite him, shove him back and scream, but you don’t. You just moan, low and broken, like you're agreeing with him.

Because part of you is.

“You like when I use you like this,” Mattheo hisses, slamming in again, making you choke. “When I fuck the lies right out of your pretty little mouth.”

He doesn’t stop until your mascara’s smudged, your mouth swollen, and you’re gasping through your nose with tears running down your cheeks.

Only then does he pull out, cock wet and twitching, your saliva glistening down his length.

He watches you pant for breath on your knees, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed.

“Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice.

You glare up at him, breathing hard, heart thudding so violently you swear it might crack your ribs open.

“Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock.

Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on.

His hands find the hand of your head, wrapping strands of hair around his fingers and moving your head back and forth on his own to meet the thrust of his hips. He’s too strong for you to stop him, not that you even want him to, so you let him fuck your face like a damn fleshlight.

“Cumming,” he groans. “Get ready to swallow every fucking drop— I’m gonna check.”

And after a moment, you feel ropes of warm, salty liquid shoot down your throat, coughing a little as he finally lets you come up for air but still doing your best to swallow. His thumb and forefinger harshly grab your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Open.”

Oh. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d check.

Your lips part slowly, tongue out, breath still hitching from the aftershocks. Your throat is sore, your eyes glossy, but you hold his gaze steady even as your jaw trembles from the effort.

He leans in, one hand still gripping your chin, eyes dark as sin. His thumb drags your bottom lip down further, admiring the mess he’s made. His cum still glistens faintly on your tongue.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

The praise hits something dangerous inside you and you swear your body betrays you all over again. You don’t move, don’t speak, just keep holding your mouth open like he told you to, letting him see every bit of you wrecked and obedient. “Keep it open.”

You blink up at him, confused for only a second—until you see him curl his lip, tilt his head slightly, and then—he spits.

It lands right on your tongue, warm and wet and humiliating.

And your whole body clenches with how fucking turned on you are.

“That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.”

You do. You swallow every drop—his cum, his spit, all of it—and then open your mouth again without being told, just to show him.

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul.

You barely have time to brace before he’s yanking you up from the floor by the hair, your knees scraping the rug as you scramble upright, unbalanced. Your face is hot and slick and wrecked, your mouth still tingling from how thoroughly he used it, and your body stings with humiliation and heat and something even worse: want.

He spins you around and shoves you toward the full-length mirror propped up against the wall. You catch yourself just in time, palms flat against the wood paneling on either side of the mirror’s frame. Your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and flushed, mascara streaking down your cheeks, lips red and swollen and shiny with spit.

Mattheo crowds in behind you, pressing his chest against your back, trapping you with his body. His mouth hovers just above your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick. “Fucking look.”

Your throat is raw. Your heart pounds. You look.

“Mouth wrecked. Face ruined. Drool all down your chin.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, unblinking. “And your thighs have been pressed together since the second you knelt down. What, sucking my cock got you wet?”

You don’t respond. He laughs, low and cruel, and his hands trail down, slow and mocking, sliding over your waist, the curve of your ass, gripping the hem of your skirt and hiking it up just enough to reveal the way your legs are trembling.

“This what Rivers gets?” he sneers. “This pretty little mess? Or do you clean yourself up for him, act sweet and shy and fuckin’ pure like you don’t choke on my cock every chance you get? Think he’d still hold your hand if he knew what you looked like with your mouth stuffed full of someone else’s cock?”

You blink, furious and humiliated, and maybe just a little aroused by the heat in his voice, the roughness of his grip, the fact that his cock’s already starting to harden again against your hip. Swallowing hard, you still refuse to speak, but your silence damns you more than any answer.

He smirks.

“Take your clothes off,” he says simply, stepping back and folding his arms. “Slow.”

Your breathing falters, but your hands move.

First your shirt, inch by inch, over your head and off your arms. Then your skirt, unbuttoning at your hip, sliding down your thighs and pooling at your feet, then your panties. You don’t rush, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s something humiliating about doing it this way. Slowly, while he watches, while you watch in the mirror. You’re down to just your bra, skin flushed, legs bare.

Mattheo’s eyes drag over you like fire.

He walks you back toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sit automatically, and he moves behind you, knees bracketing yours as he settles on the edge and tugs you back against his chest.

His breath is hot at your ear as his hands drift up.

One finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it with a single practiced flick. The straps slide down your shoulders, and you make a move to shrug it off, but he stops you, his hand coming around to cup your breast through the lace before it falls away completely.

You suck in a breath.

“You know, every part of you is prettier when it’s ruined,” he says, his hand squeezing once before letting the bra fall away altogether. “Even this.”

Your head tilts back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for just a second, but then his other hand slides under your thigh, hooks beneath your knee, and yanks your leg up, holding it back so wide you can see the slick mess between your thighs in the mirror. He does the same to your other leg, locking them open from behind, his arms under your knees, your cunt completely exposed.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he mutters. “Not done with you yet.”

You blink at your reflection, the slow creep of vulnerability tightening your chest. You’re fully bare now, curled against Mattheo like some kind of obscene doll, his hands splayed possessively over your body like he owns it, like he owns you.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs, voice rough against your temple. “So do it.”

You hesitate again and his palm tightens under your knee, jerking your leg higher, further apart, until your muscles strain with the angle.

“Do it,” he says again, quieter this time. More dangerous.

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

You press your fingers against your clit, drawing slow, tentative circles, but it’s not enough—he makes it feel dirty, degrading, like something shameful when he’s not the one doing it to you. But his eyes are fixed on your hand now, on the way your legs twitch under his hold, on the stutter in your breath.

His palm slides up to your chest again, this time tweaking your nipple between two fingers with a twist that makes your hips buck—and then he’s gone again, gripping both legs now, holding them wide, making sure you stay open as you push a finger inside. You don’t even realize you’re whining, begging under your breath—please, please, please—until you hear him laugh softly, right in your ear.

“Pathetic little slut,” he breathes. “You’re going to cum just from your own fingers? From being watched?”

You nod without meaning to, the pressure mounting too fast, too sharp. You’re close, so fucking close, and your body’s about to give in.

But then, his hand lashes out and grabs your wrist, yanking it away from your cunt just seconds before you tip over the edge.

You choke on a sob, hips rocking up into nothing, your cunt clenching around emptiness as the orgasm dies, suffocates, fizzles out in your gut like ash.

“No,” he growls into your neck, dragging your hand up and away. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You whimper, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon, still trembling in his arms. His grip on your legs doesn’t loosen. You’re still spread open, still flushed and dripping and unsatisfied, your cunt throbbing from the denied release.

He brings your hand up to your mouth, still wet from between your thighs.

“Open,” he says again, voice a whipcrack.

You do and he shoves your fingers between your own lips, slow and punishing, until your taste coats your tongue.

“Now be a good girl,” he says, breathing ragged against your ear, “and fucking hold it in.”

Your fingers are still in your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue, when he finally lets go of your legs and shoves you forward onto the bed. You land on your elbows, breath catching, and before you can adjust, he’s dragging you back by the hips, forcing you flat on your back, knees bent and spread wide as he looms over you.

“Fucking mess,” he mutters, looking down at your slick cunt, still flushed and leaking from earlier. “And this is what you’re trying to give to someone else?”

His thumb drags along your inner thigh, deceptively slow, just skimming the edge of where you need him most, but not quite touching. You squirm under his gaze, shame prickling hot over your skin.

“You think Rivers could ever make you look like this?” he sneers. “Think he could make you drip like this, just from talking down to you?”

You don’t answer because you know he’s not waiting for one.

Instead, he grabs your thighs and spits—a sharp, wet sound—and the slick hit of it lands right on your cunt, warm and filthy. You jolt, moaning despite yourself, and his grin turns sharp and mean.

He licks a slow stripe through your folds, tongue flat and dragging, and your hips buck immediately. You can’t help it; you’ve been denied, teased, ruined already, and the wet heat of his mouth is unbearable. Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

He doesn’t start soft, doesn’t build up. He dives in with a filthy kind of hunger, tongue working in tight circles over your clit, then flattening to lick deep into you like he’s trying to clean out every trace of anyone else.

His hands push down on your thighs, holding them wide, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. You’re panting already, arching into his mouth, and he moans against you like he likes how desperate you are.

“Fucking taste of you,” he growls, voice muffled against your cunt. “Could eat this for hours. Make you forget every single thing but me.”

You whimper, fingers knotting in the sheets.

He pulls back just enough to spit on you again—louder this time, wetter—his saliva mixing with your slick and spreading as he drags his tongue through the mess. The sound alone makes your stomach twist.

You try to squirm away, overstimulated from earlier, nerves already frayed—but it’s useless. His mouth chases you with unrelenting hunger, tongue circling your clit, then sucking on it hard enough to make your legs jerk.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls, and when you don’t, he lifts one hand—crack. Slaps your pussy once, hard.

You cry out, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He slaps you again. And then again. Three times in total, each one harder than the last, until your whole cunt is aching and wet and flushed.

You blink through the haze of pain and pleasure, cunt throbbing where he hit you, but you don’t dare close your legs. His mouth is back on you in seconds, licking over the sting, soft for one moment before he starts sucking your clit again like he’s trying to draw every last sound out of you. His nails dig into your thighs. He growls something you can’t even understand because your mind is fucking splitting—

And still, he doesn’t let up.

Not yet.

His mouth is relentless, tongue lashing over your clit like he’s angry at it, like if he sucks hard enough it’ll undo the fact that you ever even thought about being with someone else.

When he pushes two fingers inside you, it feels like too much. They’re thick and rough and he doesn’t give you time to adjust; just starts fucking them into you, curling them with practiced precision until your back arches off the bed and your scream rips through the room.

“Yeah?” he pants, barely coming up for air. “You gonna cum? Gonna soak my fucking face like the little slut you are?”

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, but he only groans louder, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“I said fucking cum,” he growls, fingers driving in even faster. “Now.”

And you do.

It slams into you like a wave, knocking all the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head, your entire body tensing as pleasure crests so violently it almost hurts. You cry out, raw, broken, and fucked-out, and your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, gushing as your orgasm tears through you.

You thrash, moaning his name like it’s a curse, trying to twist away from the overstimulation, but he’s got you pinned. One arm locked around your thigh, the other keeping his fingers buried in your cunt, his whole body pressed between your legs to keep you spread open for him.

“Fucking look at that,” he growls against you, his voice thick with pride and something almost reverent. “You fucking squirted, baby. All over me. Shit.”

Your body convulses again when he spits on your pussy, again, mixing it with your slick as he keeps working his fingers in and out of you.

“I’m not stopping,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he can’t stop. “Not until you’re shaking. Not until you forget every name but mine.”

Your legs tremble around his hands, your breath coming in broken gasps, your vision blurring with tears from how good it feels, how fucking much it is.

And through it all, Mattheo doesn’t ease up.

He just keeps devouring you.

Like he’s trying to crawl inside your body.

Like he wants to tear every trace of anyone else out of you—until there’s only him left.

Your second orgasm hits fast, brutal, not even a minute later. It crashes into you mid-sob, a breathless, splintered sound that makes Mattheo groan like you just fucking fed him. Your nails rake down his scalp, your legs spasm around him, and it doesn’t matter how much you squirm or whimper or cry out—he keeps going.

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore.

This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud.

He finally lifts his mouth from your cunt, lips swollen and glistening, and you gasp at the sudden cold air hitting your slick skin, but there’s no relief because his fingers are still moving inside you, slower now, deeper, like he’s exploring. Learning you all over again. Your hips twitch when he curls them just right and your voice breaks completely.

“Mattheo, I— fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts you off, low and rough. His voice is almost affectionate now. Almost. “You will.”

His other hand strokes your thigh, deceptively gentle, before landing another sharp slap to your overstimulated pussy. You jolt, a pathetic little noise escaping your throat.

“So sensitive now,” he murmurs, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Could cum just from my fingers, couldn’t you? Just from this.”

He adds a third finger.

You cry out, legs flying open wider on instinct, your walls fluttering as your body betrays you again, greedy, eager, desperate even when you’re already spent.

“You feel that?” he breathes, pressing against the spot that makes your whole body seize. “That little flutter? You’re so fucking close again, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my hand this time, too?”

Your answer is a strangled sob and a frantic nod.

But just as your stomach starts to coil, he pulls his fingers out.

You whine, hips lifting off the bed in desperate protest, but he presses a firm hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second before.”

Your body trembles under the weight of it, your thighs twitching, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and for a moment, it’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.

Mattheo sits back between your legs, hand dragging slowly down your stomach, through the mess between your thighs. His fingers are wet with you. You. He stares at them like they’re proof—proof of how much you want him, how much you’ll always come back, no matter how many names you let slip from your mouth in the dark.

He drags his hand up, smearing slick across your hip, your ribs, up to your throat, gripping it again, just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Then he leans in, nose brushing yours, voice low and gutted.

“You let him touch you?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, mind still trying to catch up. “What?”

He squeezes your throat once, firm, unforgiving.

“Rivers,” he spits. “Did you let him see this pussy?”

“No,” you gasp, voice thin. “No, I— Mattheo, I didn’t—”

“Did he taste you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes, and it’s not just fear or arousal or shame—it’s the ache underneath it all. The ache that says this still matters to you. That some part of you wants it to matter to him, too.

His grip on your throat softens for a second.

Then he shoves your legs open and flips you over onto your stomach.

You cry out in surprise, hands scrambling against the sheets, but he doesn’t give you time to think. He pulls you up onto your knees, dragging your hips back until you’re arched, exposed—humiliated in the most obscene way. Your face is half-buried in the blanket, flushed and wet, and you can just barely make out your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You look wrecked.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Lips red and bitten. Hair wild from where he’s been fisting it all night.

And your thighs are trembling, still parted, slick with arousal.

“Look at yourself,” he snaps, fisting a hand in your hair to make you lift your head. “So fucking beautiful.”

You do look. It’s unbearable.

“You see that?” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “See what I’ve done to you?”

You shudder as he presses in just a little, enough to stretch you open around the tip, but not enough to satisfy the ache. Not yet.

“You used to act like you were better than this,” he whispers, and his voice is low, hoarse, almost reverent. “All those books. All that fucking perfect posture in class. Just fooling everyone else.”

He shoves forward, burying himself in you in one brutal thrust.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your body clenches around him, raw and slick and too sensitive, but fuck, you’re full. So full it almost hurts. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just starts to move, deep and rough, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Your eyes flick up again, dazed, catching your own reflection, and the look on your face is almost unrecognizable. Pleasure, pain, possession, and everything in between.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pulling your upper body back against his chest. Your spine arches, your tits bouncing with each harsh thrust, and he watches all of it, obsessed, with his eyes locked on the mirror.

"Say it," he snarls, hand tightening at your throat. "Say who you fucking belong to."

You gasp, pulse hammering against his grip, and he spanks you hard when you hesitate. The sting ripples through your thighs and up your spine.

“Try to run and I’ll fuck you into the floor,” he warns, lips brushing your jaw. “Now say it.”

Your chest rises and falls in stuttering gasps, throat working around the pressure of his grip. His cock pounds into you from behind, fast and unforgiving, and the obscene slap of skin against skin drowns out every last rational thought in your head.

“I— I belong to you,” you choke out.

He growls low in your ear. “Louder.”

“I belong to you, Mattheo.”

The hand on your throat tightens, but you see his eyes flash with something deeper. Something you’ve never seen before.

“Fucking right you do.”

He shoves your thighs farther apart, hand sliding from your throat to your mouth, stuffing two fingers between your lips until you're choking again, but on him this time, gagging softly as your tongue flicks against the calloused pads.

His other hand smacks your ass again, harder, the sting blooming bright across your skin. “Can’t even keep your legs closed,” he spits, hips slamming into yours. “So fucking desperate for it— this is what you need, isn't it?”

You nod, moaning around his fingers, mouth drooling, legs trembling beneath you. Every muscle is strung tight, a storm of overstimulation building beneath your skin, burning you alive from the inside out.

Then he pulls his fingers from your mouth and drags them down between your legs, slipping them in alongside his cock, stretching you, fingering you hard while still fucking you deep.

You scream.

He clamps a hand over your mouth this time, muffling the sound, and still doesn’t stop. The rhythm of his hips falters just long enough for him to pant in your ear, “Gonna make you squirt all over me. Gonna ruin this bed, this carpet— fucking everything.”

Your orgasm builds fast and brutal, a hot knot in your gut pulled tighter and tighter with every brutal thrust, every curl of his fingers inside you. You cum with a sharp, guttural cry, convulsing around him, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Your thighs tremble, your vision whites out, and then you feel it.

Liquid gushes out of you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his thighs.

He groans like he’s been punched in the gut. “Fuck yes. Just like that. Look at yourself, baby. Look at the mess you made for me. So perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror: eyes wild and glassy, mouth open, chest heaving. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

But Mattheo does and he’s fucking obsessed.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

His hips keep snapping forward, unforgiving, his cock slick with your release, his hand back at your throat now—not tight, not angry, but there. Holding. Anchoring.

“Mine,” he breathes, voice cracked and wrecked against your shoulder as he finally cums, spilling deep inside of you. “You’re mine, you understand me?”

You can’t even speak. Just nod frantically, tears running down your cheeks. And then you feel a little splash on your bare shoulder, so faint you almost think you’re imagining it, but you look up to see his face in the mirror, small tears evidently falling down.

It’s unclear whether the fluttering in your chest is from heartache or hope or pleasure, but it’s there, and it reassures you that he must be feeling something. At least a fucking sliver of the suffering you’ve been dealing with, at least a fraction of the feelings you’re harboring for him.

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

But you can’t. Not now. Not with your body still trembling beneath his, still so raw, so exposed. He’s still inside you, still holding you in place as he leans into you, his face resting against your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice hoarse and barely there. His chest presses against your back, his grip on your throat loosening, fingers brushing softly over the delicate skin. “I hate this.”

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, feeling the weight of his confession. You want to tell him that you hate it too, but it’s a lie. Part of you thrives in this chaos, this connection that burns and stings, even when it destroys you both.

His breath is still shallow, and for a moment, you both just stay there, silent, eyes locked on the mirror. He shifts slightly behind you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost... genuine.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “I didn’t...”

But his words fizzle out, swallowed by the distance that still stands between you two, even in the most intimate of moments. The words hang in the air, unspoken, a fragile thread that snaps the second you try to hold onto it.

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

It’s not a command, not really. It’s just the unspoken truth of what you are. What you always have been in this twisted dance; temporary. A passing fucking storm.

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror one last time. The rawness of his expression still burns in your chest, and for a fleeting second, you almost feel like he might say something else. Something more.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets go of you completely, pulls away, and it’s like the warmth he’d offered you was never there to begin with.

”I should go?”

“… Yeah.”

Hm. Okay.

With shaky legs, you stand, slipping out from his grip and collecting your clothes. You force yourself to dress, your hands trembling, but your heart still pounding in your chest.

Before you leave, you glance at him one more time, his eyes averted, his jaw set, the wall around him already back up. You don’t say anything; you don’t need to.

You walk out of the room, the door clicking softly behind you.

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

part two

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