i-await

[i-await]

── .✦ phone sex with military!mattheo

warnings: masturbation, dirty talk, phone sex lmao note: i was saving this for an event but oops here you guys go anyway!

you’re gonna die in this car. that’s all you can think at this moment.

sweat sticks to your back like a second skin, your bare ass practically glued to the cracked leather seats as you slump further down, one leg kicked up on the dash and the other bent at the knee, heel hooked lazily over the steering wheel. the sun’s been burning all day, turning the interior into a fucking sauna, with the ac doing absolutely fuck-all to help, just wheezing out hot, stale air like it’s given up too.

your tank top’s rolled down beneath your tits, nipples hard and glossy with sweat, stomach rising and falling in jagged little pants. your phone’s pressed to your ear with a trembling hand, fingers still sticky with your own slick from earlier. you already came once, and he wasn’t even trying.

it started off innocent. just a text after the grocery store, a throwaway comment about how the heat wave was making you feral. he teased you, something about missing the sound of your whining. and yeah, fine, maybe you escalated it. maybe it was your fault things got vulgar. maybe you shouldn’t have asked if it was so wrong to be imagining his dick in your mouth.

but then he sent a photo: his cock straining against his abs, fingers wrapped tight at the base, veins popping like he was angry, and followed it with: “if you’re really not wet right now, send me a picture of that pretty cunt to prove it.”

and that was it. you called him instantly.

“tell me what you look like, baby,” he orders now, voice deadly and so fucking smug, and your neck jerks to the side like you can feel his breath ghosting over your skin.

“‘m so wet, matty, makin’ a mess all over your seat,” you mumble, words sticky and slurred through moans.

you hear the sharp inhale on the other end, like he’s clenching his jaw so tight his teeth might snap. but he’s already gone — he was gone the second he heard your breath hitch when the call connected.

“you know i’m gonna make you clean that shit up with your tongue when i’m back,” he growls, the sound of his slick fist pumping his cock echoing down the line, fast and furious now. “you just wait. face down in the driver’s seat, ass up on the gearshift. make you lick up every drop while i fuck you so hard the neighbors’ll think i fucking killed someone.”

the moan that rips from your throat is borderline pornographic. your hips twitch up, chasing friction, and your fingers speed up, shameless now.

“keep t— talking, please,” you whimper, breath stuttering. the wet squelch of your fingers is so loud it overpowers the phone’s shitty speaker. “can’t— fuck, i can’t stop, matty, feels so good…”

“don’t stop,” he growls. “want you crying when you cum for me.”

your back arches violently as you press the heel of your hand against your clit, grinding in time with your fingers, trying to drown yourself in the sound of his voice. he’s cursing now — swearing about how your sounds are gonna fucking kill him, how his hand isn’t enough, how he’s gonna wreck you the second he’s home.

“you hear me, baby? i’m gonna ruin you,” he snarls. “gonna split you open on my cock and leave you leaking for days.”

your body locks up like a livewire. the orgasm slams into you, hard and fast, ripping a choked sob from your chest as your thighs clamp around your hand. everything goes hot and white and messy, vision swimming, stomach convulsing as you come apart for him.

he groans loud into the speaker, guttural and feral, and you know he’s close too; you can hear the wet, frantic strokes, the hiss of his breath, the tension in every syllable as he fights the edge.

“fuckfuckfuck— baby, say my name,” he gasps.

“matty— mattheo, please—” you cry, raw and ruined and still twitching.

and then he breaks.

the sound he makes when he cums is obscene, half grunt, half moan, thick with hunger and need. you hear it, you feel it, your cunt pulsing around nothing at the thought of him finishing all over his chest, fist still tight, probably thinking about your mouth cleaning him up.

there’s silence for a moment. just the shared static of both your ragged breathing.

“you better not fucking move,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “i wanna see it. wanna see the mess you made. send me a picture, babygirl. now.”

you don’t even think. you just obey.

nav // m.list

[i-await]

thinking about dealer!mattheo finally being inside you after being gone for a business trip…

it’s like he has to open you up all over again, like your pussy forgot just how big he was or what it was like to have him inside you. in all honesty, nothing has been up there since he left. no toys or fingers, nothing. it just wasn’t the same and it sure as hell wasn’t nearly as good as matty himself. that familiar burning of him stretching you out all over again had your hands fisting the bedsheets, your back arching and pressing your tits against his chest. “you can do it baby, come on.” mattheo would rasp, his face flickering down to where you’re connected. god, you were squeezing him so fucking tight he was about to bust right there.

mattheo would gently wipe away a tear that slide down your cheek, not even realizing you had been crying. you don’t think it hurt that bad, but the tears rolling down your cheeks told a different story… or you were just being a little dramatic about it. probably the latter. taking a deep breath, you released your manicured nails from the bed, letting yourself melt into the mattress as mattheo pushed all the way inside you. mattheo shudders, taking a deep breath as he feels you finally open up for him. “there you go, angel. just open for me. good girl.”

[i-await]

the rustling continues. Pausing for a moment to convice you he’s found peace in the night, only for him to shuffle and wrestle with the sheets again.

“Mattheo?”

he freezes now, not realizing you’re awake, before rolling onto his side to gaze at you. It’s instinct for him to reach out, bringing you closer to his side - an arm thrown over your stomach. it’s ironic how he feels the immediate need to comfort your concern for his own stress.

“hey baby..go back to sleep.” The lightness of his curls tickle your neck in his need to snuggle in. “I’m fine.. just can’t get comfortable.”

sighing, you’re sure it’s only a half truth. but sleep is pulling you quickly, as if on fishing line, your eyes reclosing tiredly. “mmh ok, wake…me..f’anythin.. m’yesh” you mumble, your hand cupping the underside of his jaw, offering tired affection.

he smiles in the dark, loving your adorable confirmation that you’re here for him. He knows sleep wont come easily, aware it’s not just discomfort holding him back. he’ll lie awake for god knows how long fighting off the demons within him that never seem to rest.

He won’t wake you though, he doesn’t want to burden your sleep or sanity with his problems. but your presence is enough beside him. your touch, and the steady little breaths of your tired body brushing against his cheek, warm and gentle.

the way your react mirroring him as he hugs you a little tighter, snuggling further into your comfort. rolling into his side, seeking his presence just as much even in your sleep. just the little things that make him feel safe in the moment and reassure him he might not be okay but at least he has you.

[i-await]

Bitter beans and sweet leaves

Mattheo Riddle x fem!reader

Your coffee shop’s peace is ruined by the new tea shop across the street — and its infuriatingly charming owner. Mattheo Riddle. Smug, flirty, and far too good-looking for your peace of mind.

Warnings: rival shop au (coffee shop vs tea shop), grumpy!reader x sunshine!Mattheo, pure fluff

Word count: ~ 2.1k

A/N: my another veeery late work for week 2 of @acourtofchaos's au festival. Don't bite me, read my fluff instead ♡

And huge thanks to @i-await for proofreading my jumbled mess of letters and to @pizzaapeteer for helping with collage. I love you 🩷

You noticed the tea shop before you noticed the owner.

It had appeared practically overnight — where there’d once been a dusty, forgotten storefront now stood a sleek, pale green exterior with golden lettering that curled elegantly: The Serpent & Sage – Loose Leaf Tea & Magic in a Cup. You saw the sign while sweeping the front of your coffee shop and immediately scoffed, feeling something like a knot in your stomach. You weren’t psychic, but you’d seen enough movies to know: a tea shop opening right across from your coffee shop was the beginning of a very specific kind of war.

By the end of the week, the knot in your stomach had taken permanent residence. Customers began trickling over to the new place. Some even waved their greetings at you as they crossed the street with traitorous to-go cups in hand. You told yourself tea drinkers weren’t your target anyway, but it still stung something inside you.

The first time you saw him, he was standing outside his shop, one hand lazily tucking a sprig of something herbal behind a chalkboard sign. He was tall, lean, dressed in loose black and forest-green linen, and far too pretty to be real and not a model. Tousled curls. Silver ring on his pinky. Dark, amused eyes that met yours across the street like he already knew you hated him.

He smiled. Smug and effortless.

You didn’t nod or smile back, just went back inside to make yourself the strongest espresso shot imaginable, muttering something about cheeky bastards under your nose.

After that it was as if the dam was broken – you saw him everywhere.

You tried not to notice that he always arrived at the same time you unlocked your doors. That his shirts were always rolled at the sleeves like he’d been caught mid-task, a hint of ink or scar peeking out here and there. That his dark eyes always flicked to yours the second he stepped out. But you noticed. And it annoyed you. Everything about him annoyed you.

After a week, he had the audacity to come to your coffee shop.

He didn’t order anything right away, just stepped in with a level of confidence like he owned the place, eyes sweeping the brick walls, then the counter to finally land on you. His presence felt too big for the room, like he was a fire lit in a space meant to stay warm, but could easily burn if he wanted to.

"You must be the grumpy coffee witch across the street," he said casually, walking closer to the counter.

You didn’t even blink at his words, keeping your hands and eyes busy with rearranging beans. You didn’t want to look at him and give him the impression that you're interested in this conversation. In his presence in your shop. "And you must be the smug tea cult leader trying to sabotage my business."

"Oh, I like you already," he said and smiled like he meant it. "I thought I should get a feel for my opponent," he added, eyes scanning your menu board, lips quirking at the aggressive chalked message:

COFFEE: FOR WHEN TEA ISN’T ENOUGH TO FACE YOUR LIFE.

"I don’t do tea or whatever you call that thing with boiled water and leaves," you said flatly, not sparing him a glance.

"Tragic," he replied with a feigned sigh, not missing a beat. "I’ll take the darkest thing you have. No sugar. No milk. I like my bitterness unfiltered."

You finally narrowed your eyes at him and almost scoffed. "So, like your personality?"

He grinned as if you'd just said something amusing. "Exactly."

You made his coffee a little too strong on purpose. To your annoyance, he drank it like it was holy. Not even a tiny scrunch of his infuriatingly perfect face.

"I’ll consider this a peace offering," he said with a charming smile, putting the mug on the table.

You muttered grumpily through gritted teeth, feeling almost offended that he'd enjoyed the espresso you made, "It’s a threat."

"Even better." His grin became even more infectious.

He left you a tip shaped like a little origami crane. You huffed at his childish attitude but didn’t throw it away.

He came back the next day. Same time, same order, different origami animal. And the day after that. You didn’t smile when he made a dumb pun about your “bitterness being the true house blend.” But you didn’t kick him out either.

You told yourself it was fine. Harmless. Maybe someone would even consider it cute. But not you. Of course not. He paid for his coffee, after all, making your place some money. That was all.

So slowly it became a pattern. Every morning, right before the late-morning rush, he’d walk in with the same ridiculous confidence that consistently made you huff . He always had something to say — some quip, some observation, something just annoying enough to make you scoff and just clever enough to keep you on your toes.

"You know, if you ever stop glaring at me, I’ll think you’re sick."

"You know, if you ever stop talking nonsense, I’ll think you’re sick."

He always laughed easily when you snapped. And you... you suddenly found yourself snapping less and less.

Some mornings, he’d bring a pastry. "I made too many," he’d say simply, even though you knew his shop sold out by noon. He always brought two forks. One time, without thinking, you ate the whole vanilla croissant before realizing you were supposed to share it. He didn’t comment. Just grinned quietly and a bit wider into his cup.

That became the next almost habitual thing. Small offerings. He’d stop by on slow days with odd herbal blends or matcha-dusted pastries. You never said thank you at first. But you started letting him in for five more minutes at a time. Maybe ten. Maybe more, you didn’t really count. Sometimes he asked how your day was, and sometimes he made up fake gossip about your customers ("I think the guy over there with the beard is secretly an Unspeakable"). You rolled your eyes every time, but he started managing to get a twitch of a smile from you.

He flirted like it was his second nature, but never in a way that cornered you. Always just enough to leave the door open, never enough to push through it. You told yourself that was nothing, just his usual behavior. Despite some strange feeling in your chest at his words and already not-so-infuriating boyish grin.

Your customers began asking about him.

"Is the tea guy single?" one girl whispered as she waited for her cappuccino.

"Probably. Sociopaths usually are," you muttered under your nose. More out of habit than anything else.

But you weren’t convincing. Not when you started looking across the street when business slowed, waiting for that inevitable moment Mattheo would glance up from behind his counter and give you that stupid little nod and smile like he’d been expecting your gaze. And you found yourself always nodding back.

And then one day, you made him a new drink without asking. Your own blend. Dark roast with a hint of lavender. You handed it to him before he could open his mouth and say something.

"It’s experimental," you mumbled, feeling suddenly nervous and not meeting his eyes. It sounded like a pathetic excuse, but he accepted it. Mattheo took a sip. Blinked. Then grinned like he'd just won something precious.

"You’re flirting," he exclaimed in awe.

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost fell out of your skull. "Please choke."

He didn’t. Unfortunately. He just started coming in twice a day instead of once.

Business picked back up for you in the spring. It crept in quietly, bringing sun-warmed sidewalks and tourists who didn’t know your rivalry lore at all. They flitted between shops without bias, snapping pictures of latte foam and floral tea tins, completely unaware of the way your eyes still found his across the street more often than they should. You started leaving your front door open during the day. Sometimes, you’d catch his laugh floating across the street — light, smooth, unbothered — and it would unexpectedly warm a part of you that no coffee had ever quite touched. He started sitting outside more often, at the small table he’d set up by his window, so he could wave at you whenever you stepped out for air. You told him it was distracting. He said that was the point.

The worst part? He was actually good for business. His customers wandered into your place out of curiosity and vice versa. People in the neighborhood started joking about the “coffee and tea love story” brewing on your street. You corrected them every time — rivals, you insisted — but your heart wasn’t really in the denial anymore.

It became easy, somehow. Natural, even. The banter that once made your teeth grit now felt like part of your routine, as essential as grinding beans or steaming milk. He stopped being the tea guy in your head. He was just Mattheo now — annoying and clever and warm in ways you hadn’t expected. All the small things he did made him a part of your life now. The way he’d catch your eye and wave like it was the best part of his day. The way your grumbling softened into a smirk before you could stop it. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just habit now, like opening the shop or wiping down tables at the end of the night. But when he wasn’t there — on the rare day he opened late or had too many customers — you felt it. The absence of him. Like a missing beat in a song you hadn’t realized you’d been humming all along.

One evening you stepped out just as the sun began dipping low, casting honeyed light over the street. You hadn’t meant to look, but your gaze found him anyway. He was leaning against his doorframe, a mug in hand, watching the world go by. When he saw you, his whole face lit up like you were the first good thing he’d seen all day.

Without thinking, you listened to your heart for once and crossed the street.

He raised a brow as you approached. "Should I be worried? Is this an official surrender?"

You snorted but didn’t stop walking until you stood right in front of him. "Not a surrender. A... ceasefire, maybe."

"A ceasefire,” he echoed in amusement, tasting the word. "I’ll take it with pleasure. Do I get terms?"

You hesitated for a moment. Then, before your courage could fail you, you blurted out, "You could walk me home."

That surprised him, just for a second. Then that slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the one that always made your stomach feel oddly warm and light. "I’d like that."

The walk was quiet at first. Comfortable. The kind of silence that felt like shared warmth instead of empty space. The evening air smelled faintly of spring—flowers, rain on pavement, and the last traces of roasted beans from your shop.

"Do you think," he said eventually with a soft voice, "if we’d met anywhere else, I would’ve annoyed you less?"

You huffed a laugh at his kinda silly question. "No. You’re inherently annoying."

He bumped your shoulder gently with his, smiling warmly down at you. "And yet, here we are."

You paused at your door, hand resting on the frame. You felt like you didn’t want to come inside. Or maybe you just didn't want him to go.

He looked at you, really looked, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. No teasing now, no smirk, just that quiet fondness he sometimes let slip through.

"I’m glad you crossed the street," he said.

"So am I," you admitted softly, barely above a whisper.

And when he leaned down — slowly, giving you all the time in the world to step back — you didn’t pull away, just looked up at him expectantly. His lips brushed against yours, soft as the breeze, warm as the setting sun. When he pulled back, he looked a little dazed. Like maybe this was what he’d been hoping for all along.

"See you tomorrow, grumpy," he murmured with an affectionate smile and a hint of awe.

"See you tomorrow, tea cult leader," you said, and this time, your smile reached your eyes.

You watched him walk away, feeling like maybe, just maybe, the knot in your chest had finally unraveled, softening into something warm and fluttery

[i-await]

I've never started a tag game before but first time for everything! Really hope this one hasn't been done before... <3

Link: Piccrew

Npt: @belovedenzo @ur-local-wizard @draco-malfoys-lovergirl @rriddlesgirl @juliet-017 @pizzaapeteer @nottslove @dearmisshoney @voidofsunlight @dracosprettygirl @riddlemelater @biscuits-and-gracie @simp-for-love ok I'm gonna stop here lmfao

[i-await]

npt: @simp-for-love @viperify @voidofsunlight + anyone else

Thank you for the tag, Nyssa (@vividly-vermillion)!! <333

I love these picrews, especially pixel ones!

link: picrew

npt: (i've been doing a lot of tag games lately- ) @artytaeh @godricgryffinsnore @petalbcrnes @yintous @ur-local-wizard @pizzaapeteer @blondwhxrewrites @leeny-leens @wistericaine @dearnott @belovedenzo @dearmisshoney

[i-await]

Last Call - M.R (Part 3)

masterlist | nav | part 1 | part 2

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

warnings: alcohol use/dependency, mentions of war, death, depiction of injury/blood, dark themes, post-war vibes, implied trauma, reader suffers from night terrors, Mattheo is being a little shit...

w.c: 4k

summary: Mattheo Riddle was sharp, charming, and haunted. Now he’s just a shadow at the bar—drunk, quiet, unraveling. You don’t know why you care. Maybe it’s who he used to be. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he doesn’t expect kindness anymore. But one things certain: you won't turn your back on him, not like the rest of the world already has.

The walls of Hogwarts would always feel like home to you, no matter what age you were, or how long it had been since you'd last stepped foot in the castle. There was just something comforting in the flickering sconces that lit every hallway, the warm crackle of wood burning that was always in earshot, or the distant smell of that evening's feast carrying through the air. Fresh pastry, roasted chicken, caramelised vegetables— all wafting through the heavy stone walls.

Your shoes clicked against the thick stone floors, the sound both familiar and comforting, reminding you of a younger version of yourself, trodding through the hallways as you tried to remember the route back to your common room. But something was amiss, something was different, and no matter how hard you tried to pinpoint it, you couldn't figure it out.

The halls were empty, for starters. Not just quiet, but empty. No portraits muttering to themselves or conversing with each other. No shifting suits of armour, or cheerful ghosts floating by. Not even the hum of magic in the air, something so small but so innately part of the school's charm.

No, all that remained was silence. Cold, hollow, silence.

You slowed your pace, gaze flickering to the stained-glass windows lining the corridor. They didn’t show the usual saints of Hogwarts or the heroic founders that you'd so often admired in your youth. Instead, they were blacked out. Not shattered or covered, but blank. As if the once colourful glass had been painted over with shadows.

Any attempt to peer outside was useless. Where you would normally catch a glimpse of the Scottish landscapes, the tall hoops of the Quidditch pitch, or even the distinct outline of the giant squid lounging in the Black Lake, there was nothing.

You squinted, as if by some miracle that might somehow bring the world back into focus, might claw something back from the nothingness. But instead, the darkness just stared back at you, cold and unflinching.

An unsettling sensation ghosted up your spine, like you'd suddenly materialised in some sinister, other world. One that looked exactly like Hogwarts, but in some twisted way wasn't.

Your feet moved as if they had a mind of their own, carrying you deeper into the castle. But with each step you took, you noticed something different, something wrong.

Each altered detail stuck out to you. As you passed the Great Hall, your brows furrowed at a stairwell you didn’t remember being there. Your fingers tensed at your sides as you turned down a hallway that definitely never existed. The air grew colder, and with each step, your chest burned as breathing grew harder and harder.

The torches were lit, but the flames didn’t flicker. They burned still and silent, blue-white and unnatural, casting no warmth over your chilled skin.

You didn't recognise your surroundings, and when, finally, blessedly, you heard a sound other than the gnawing stillness, your blood ran cold.

It wasn't comfort. It wasn't the chatter of students filing out of their classes, or the sound of cutlery clinking together as the feast began.

It was a scream.

A choked breath. A broken groan. Someone struggling to speak through clenched teeth— like they were drowning in their own blood.

Your walk became a run. Shoes pounding against the stone floors, echoing against the walls in sharp thuds. The persistent ache in your side forgotten, chest heaving with each laboured breath. You didn’t know what you’d find; all you knew was you had to get to whoever it was.

Before it was too late.

The corridor ended in an arched doorway, and the moment you crossed it, the world shifted. The warmth of Hogwarts vanished, flickered out like a flame with no more air. You were somewhere deeper now, older.

The walls were carved with symbols that seemed to squirm if you looked too long. The air damp and metallic, thick with the scent of earth, blood, and fire left to die.

And in the middle of it all— Mattheo.

Bound. Kneeling. Head bowed like he couldn’t lift it anymore.

You tried to call out, but no sound came. Your lips didn’t move. Your hands wouldn’t lift, no matter how hard you tried. Frozen, like you’d just caught the reflection of a Basilisk.

He looked up slowly. His face was drawn tight with pain, shadows under his eyes like bruises. Mattheo looked like hell personified; gaunt, bloody, and broken.

He heaved, gaze fixed on your face, eyes pooling with desperation. You tried again to reach out, to move closer and release him from the rope that dug painfully into his skin, but your feet felt glued to the floor.

Helpless you tried to call out to him, watching in horror as Mattheo’s figure lurched forwards once more, writhing, mouth wide in a soundless gasp of agony.

Growing desperate your pulse quickened, body twisting to look for a way out. But the hallway behind you was gone, you were trapped. Frantic now, your head whipped around scouring the stone walls for an explanation, for help, for mercy.

You were alone. Helpless but to watch as he squirmed in pain.

Nauseated, your gaze fixed on Mattheo. His body arched sickeningly, contorting as a silent, strangled sound wretched from his throat. His eyes wide and burning with terror.

Your own pulse roared in your ears as you tried to scream, pleading to Merlin, God— whoever— to make it stop.

Just as you were certain you couldn't watch another second, the scene before you began to warp— walls bending, light distorting, the sconces flickering and stretching like flames underwater.

It was like all oxygen had been stolen from the air, your throat too tight, lungs burning with each strained breath. Then, like a candle snuffed out between two fingers, darkness.

You gasped awake, thrashing against the damp sheets twisted tight around your limbs like ropes. Your pulse was hammering, sweat beaded on your forehead as your hands skimmed the damp sheets around you.

Gasping you propelled forward, panting as your bedroom came into focus. You blinked, head snapping from side to side, room illuminated only by one flickering candle you’d forgotten to blow out.

Mattheo wasn't here; he wasn't in agony. You weren't trapped. It wasn't real.

You didn’t move for a moment. Just sat there, spine rigid, chest heaving, hands fisted in the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring you to reality. You half-expected the candle to go out, for the silence to crack open again. Like the dream hadn’t finished with you yet.

But the candle on your bedside table only guttered in the quiet, its glow casting trembling shadows across the room. Your gaze fixed on it, unblinking, as if it might suddenly flicker out too. Cautious, anxious almost, you waited for it to morph once more into the still blue-white light from your nightmare.

Your pulse was still racing, still beating that sick rhythm in your ears like a war drum, but the change never came. Slowly, your fingers loosened, releasing the twisted fabric beneath them. You flexed your hands, not even noticing the way they shook as you held them out in front of you.

It was just a dream, you reasoned. Knees coming up to your chest without thinking, wrapping your arms around them as if to make yourself smaller— less exposed. Your forehead dropped to your knees, eyes fluttering shut as you let out a shaky breath.

Just a dream. A horrid, twisted dream you repeated in your mind.

The pressure behind your eyes was sharp, hot and searing, like something inside of you had cracked and hadn’t quite sealed right. That look in his eyes. That look of pure, unbridled fear settled at the forefront of your mind. Flashing across your vision, no matter how hard you tried to blink it away.

It had felt so real.

You pressed your forehead harder against your knees, squeezing your eyes shut. You knew what this was. You'd had dreams like this before—trauma dreams from the war. Not always like this one, but close enough. Dreams where you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t stop something from happening.

Couldn't protect someone from death.

Your body hadn’t caught up, so it didn’t matter what your mind said; didn't matter how many times you told yourself it was only a dream—it still felt like you'd been there. Like you’d failed him.

You pushed a shaky hand through your hair, dragging it back from your face. Your fingers snagging on the damp strands. Somewhere in the back of your mind, Mick Tolliver’s voice crept in—quiet and offhand, but echoing now in the quiet of your bedroom.

"Fellas like that? They don't come back clean, that's for sure."

You let out another long, shaky breath. You weren’t a seer. You didn’t have visions. This wasn’t that. It was your brain, dredging up things it didn’t know how to process. A pressure valve releasing in the ugliest way possible. You knew that.

But it didn’t make it any easier to sit with.

Your hands were still shaky by the time morning came. Showering had no effect; no matter how hard you scrubbed at your skin, it was impossible to wash the dream away fully.

Your appetite was non-existent; the thought of eating made you gag, never mind the uneasy feeling that had settled at the pit of your stomach. Even as you walked to work, your mind couldn't sit still, couldn't detach itself from the memory of Mattheo strung out and writhing before you.

"You're slow today."

The voice pierced through your clouded thoughts— Albion, already behind the bar with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a crate of Odgen's Firewhiskey bottles in his arms.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze and glancing up at the voice disorientedly. You’d been standing still, one hand on a drinks tray and staring blankly at the wall of spirits behind the bar like they owed you something.

"Didn’t sleep," you muttered, realising Albion was expecting a response, and setting the tray down before your fingers dropped it. Avoiding his gaze, you busied yourself with unloading the glassware from the washer, wiping over the already dry glasses to keep yourself busy.

Albion didn't answer straight away. Just set the crate down with a thud, and looked at you the way someone might study a mirror that had fallen from the wall for fractures.

"You've looked better," he said finally. Not in a judgmental way, you knew he didn't mean it like that, but you could hear the concern in his voice as he said it.

"Thanks," you retorted flatly. You tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite land. More of an awkward grimace than anything. Your bottom lip stung beneath your teeth, willing yourself to keep it together.

But Albion didn’t push. He never did, and he didn’t look away either.

“You look like you didn’t come all the way back from wherever you went last night,” he commented, voice dry but quiet. "Is it the dreams again?"

Your hand paused mid-reach for a bar towel. Lips twitching as you tried to pretend he wasn't right. But he saw through you, immediately.

That was the thing about Albion. He noticed everything and always seemed to know the right thing to say, perks of being a bartender, you assumed.

You didn’t answer. Just nodded once and busied yourself wiping down the already-clean bar. Albion knew about the dreams more than anyone else; he was the only person you trusted not to have you checked into St Mungo's the minute you opened up about them.

Albion didn’t say anything for a moment. Just leaned against the back counter, arms crossed, watching as you lined up the tumblers with unnecessary precision. The silence stretched, but not unkindly.

“Is it still the same ones?” he asked, brow arching curiously. “From the war?”

You hesitated. That was usually the answer. But this time, it wasn’t true. You debated lying for a moment, but he always knew when you were lying to him. It was like a sixth sense, you weren't entirely convinced he wasn't a legilimens at times, no matter how much he denied it.

“No.” Your voice was quiet, ashamed almost. “A... different one.”

Albion tilted his head slightly, waiting. You took a breath and reached for the next glass, only to stop short, fingers trembling just enough to rattle it against the one beside it. Your eyes closed in frustration, grasping at the back counter to steady yourself.

Albion moved toward you and began placing tumblers onto the shelf like he'd not noticed. "You know," he spoke, sparing a glance over at your shaking hands, "some things in that part of town… they’re built to see your weaknesses before you even step inside."

You swallowed dryly and nodded, solemn and slow.

Albion gave a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his mouth. “Always said you Gryffindors are terrible at keeping your noses out of trouble. And worse at pretending you don’t care.” He nudged a tumbler into place with a small clink, just as he fixed you with a stare. “Hearts on your sleeve's even when it’s bleeding through your jumpers.”

You laughed under your breath, even when he meant to chastise, Albion seemed to know how to make you crack a smile.

"Knockturn's a dodgy place, love. No wonder your mind's playing up again." He continued, softly and with the wisdom that people his age seemed to possess. "Don't let it get to you."

You nodded awkwardly and pressed your palms flat to the bar top. The polished wood was cool beneath your skin, grounding.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It was stupid, Albion. I know.”

Albion let out a long, slow breath. Not disappointed. Not surprised. He'd probably expected you'd do it, likely even knew the second you made a move to leave the night before.

“Well... did you find him?”

“No.” You swallowed. "That Mick Tolliver's got a few loose cauldrons rattling around upstairs, though." A small smile spread across your face as you spoke.

Shuddering, Albion barked a laugh in agreement. "The world's full of strange folk. I knew Mick back in the day, he's harmless—but he's a bit... full-on. Knows how to talk a good game, right enough, but you can't trust a word out of his mouth."

Albion straightened, pushing off the back counter when you didn't reply. You were already wondering how much of what Tolliver had said was truthful, if Mattheo really was in any danger at all. Albion seemed to notice the thoughts swirling around, even if he didn't let on.

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found, love," he said, reaching for a bottle at the back of the bar. Something dark, and by the dust lingering on the neck, one that wasn't touched very often. "Whatever it is, he's bloody lucky he's got you lookin' out for him, eh?"

Your eyes dropped, despite his tone, you couldn't help but feel like you'd disappointed him, too. He'd warned you from the start not to get mixed up in this, yet here he was, still acting like you could do no wrong in his eyes.

He sighed as he uncorked the bottle, grabbing one of the clean tumblers he'd just stacked, and poured two fingers' worth without asking. The glass slid across the polished wood with a gentle scrape, stopping in front of you as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

"Drink that." He said gruffly, yet with more kindness and sympathy than you probably deserved, you'd done it to yourself after all. "Calms the nerves."

You stared at the drink for a second, then your fingers curled around the glass, eyes sweeping over him from the corner of your eye. He watched with an approving look as you took a long sip, the liquid burning as you swallowed nearly half in one gulp.

It certainly wasn't a calming draught, but it helped to settle your frayed nerves, at least.

"Was it him, then?" he asked eventually, once you'd swallowed the whiskey and your eyes had fluttered shut in contemplation. "In the dream."

Your jaw clenched as you gave the smallest nod. Embarrassed, almost, but grateful that it was Albion who was seeing this side of you. He didn’t sigh, didn’t offer comfort. Just looked past you at the dark window above the sink, deep in thought as he scratched at his beard.

“Some people,” he said, “don’t know they’re drowning ‘til they’re under. And even then, they won’t reach for help. Not unless they’ve got something left to hold onto.”

He had a way with words; sometimes he'd come out with things like this, and you'd just be left to sit with them. You set the glass down tenderly, glancing toward him.

“And you think I’m that something?”

“I think you want to be,” he said. “Which is worse, probably.”

You blinked. His answer hit hard, true in a way that made your chest tighten. But Albion had that bluntness about him, that ability to tell you something straight, no matter how hard it may be.

And it made you think. Did you really want to go chasing after ghosts? After someone you once knew— and, years ago, at that. You weren't so sure you could, not if it meant you'd never sleep well again.

“I can’t fix him,” you said finally, but you weren't entirely sure if it was Albion or yourself you were convincing. "I know that."

“No,” Albion agreed. “But you can make sure you don’t go down with him.”

Silence fell again, but it didn’t feel like judgment. Just quiet. Like he’d said his piece, and now it was up to you—cut your losses, or keep stringing yourself along.

“You plan on opening tonight?” you asked eventually, voice hoarse, dipped in humour. Grasping at straws, not wanting to speak anymore about the curly-haired boy who plagued your thoughts night and day.

Albion gave a dry snort. “Not unless you plan on helping me unload the rest of that Firewhiskey,” he gestured toward the crate, all seriousness gone from his face.

You nodded once and smirked a little at how easy things flowed between the two of you. How simple it was to have a difficult conversation and never worry about the aftermath. You grinned slightly, lifting the glass for another sip and swallowed what was left whole.

"Better get a shift on then, Albs." You said, straightening yourself up and dusting down your apron.

The next few hours passed in a blur of serving on autopilot and nodding at jokes you didn't really hear. You were split down the middle, tugged in two directions. But you kept circling back to one fact: You didn’t know Mattheo. He was just another customer at the end of the day.

Besides, he had friends. Friends who cared—even if they didn’t always show it. If he needed help, he had options. Theodore had all but crumbled at the bar not long ago when Mattheo was nowhere to be seen, and even Draco had seemed nervous when he asked after him. Which said more than words ever could.

If Mattheo Riddle truly was in danger—if he really had people after him—he should go to them. Draco Malfoy was one of Britain’s top Aurors, for Merlin’s sake. If anyone could protect him, it was Malfoy.

Not you.

You were being dramatic. Some stubborn Gryffindor streak you hadn’t outgrown. You weren’t responsible for him. No matter how much you wanted to help, it wasn’t your place.

You’d already felt guilty enough to go walking into Knockturn Alley, alone and with no backup plan if things went south. But that wasn’t bravery—it was stupidity.

It had just been a dream. A bad one. Your body would forget the worst of it soon enough. Your brain was already trying to file it away—into whatever drawer it kept nightmares full of fire and blood and people you shouldn’t care about.

Mattheo Riddle was not your problem. And by the end of your shift, you’d nearly convinced yourself it was true.

You left the bar that night with tired legs and a tighter chest, the sky above you heavy with clouds that didn’t break. The streets were wet from a drizzle you hadn’t noticed starting. You didn’t look over your shoulder once.

The curtains were already drawn, and you were certain you hadn’t left them that way.

You noticed it the second you stepped into your flat. The air was different — cooler, disturbed. The kind of change you didn’t notice with your eyes, but with your skin. Instinct.

Your hand hovered by the doorframe for longer than it should have. Listening. Waiting. Every nerve stretched taut like a bowstring. Fumbling silently, your fingers clutched your wand, drawing it out of your pocket slowly and pointing it ahead of you before you made any attempt to move.

Then you heard it. A thud. Not loud, but definite. Coming from your bedroom.

Your blood ran cold. Mind wandering back to Mick's words yesterday, "They'll come for you too."

Part of you wondered if you should call someone, but it was a small flat. Whoever, or whatever, was in your bedroom would have heard you by now; there was no time to write a letter to MLE or send a message via Patronus.

Not if you wanted to catch them before they caught you.

You exhaled shakily, knuckles white with how hard you were grasping your wand, and took a few tentative steps into the hallway.

You could hear it again, like bedsheets rustling around. Like they were looking for something. Perhaps you were being burgled, you reasoned, just an ordinary muggle thief searching for cash or jewellery. You inched closer to the door, cursing silently as the floorboard underneath your foot creaked loudly.

The rustling stopped.

You froze, wand raised, and heart hammering like it might crack a rib. The noise had definitely stopped, and no matter how much you reasoned with yourself, you couldn't get the image of a masked hit wizard waiting on the other side of the door.

You moved again, breath caught between your teeth as you edged toward the bedroom door like it might explode. Silently, your hand reached out, gently grasping the cool brass door handle and twisting it slightly. Your wand still pointed ready to use whatever curse came to mind first on your attacker.

As the door swung open, you inhaled sharply. A nasty knock-back curse on the tip of your tongue when your eyes settled on the intruder.

Collapsed halfway onto your bed, coat drenched, boots trailing muck across your floor like he'd dragged himself inside. Mattheo Riddle.

For a moment, nothing made sense. Like your brain had short-circuited from exhaustion and fear. Like your dream hadn’t ended, just bled into real life. Your first thought was that it wasn’t real.

“What the fuck?”

It came out sharp and breathless. Your wand stayed pointed. Your heart tried to claw its way up your throat. “What—how— Riddle what the fuck are you doing in my bed?"

He stirred weakly. Barely. Drunken.

You advanced one step, fury outrunning fear. “You broke into my flat? You broke in—why?”

Mattheo didn’t respond. Just slumped further onto the bed, like even holding his head up was too much.

"Godric give me strength," you whispered, your wand arm dropping limply by your side, rushing towards his slumped figure. His wand dangled uselessly from one hand, forgotten. His mouth was bloodied. One eye swollen shut.

"Mattheo," you hissed, unsure whether you wanted to slap him or tend to his wounds, "Mattheo, wake up!"

He didn’t. Just groaned once, barely conscious, arm pushing your fussing hand away, and passed out cold on your bed. He didn’t move again. Not when you dragged off his boots, not when you muttered every curse you knew— he just lay there, dead to the world, while you took the couch. Infuriated yet slightly relieved.

At least he wasn't dead, yet.

©️riddlemelater. 2025.

[i-await]

Originally I was just gonna ramble in the tags but I have to highlight how fucking good this paragraph is.

The air surrounding you is thick with that kind of dry spilled liquor, faint sweat mixed with rot smell, unique to the place you used to spend hours a night trying to scrub off your skin. All this, it’s haloed and trapped by the dim flickering of deep scarlet neon lights that fade and buzz across the club like a thousand dying fireflies, or perhaps it’s more poetically akin to how your soul is feeling.

“I’m going to find you. Fuck you on that pristine little corporate desk you’re always talking about like a daydream and make you scream my name into your new little world.”

^ This is. insane btw. thats. so hot. can i be in love with a series of words?

Thank you so much for writing this Schwing <3 I'm literally never gonna get enough of him. You asked which idea to go with and I'm sitting there like "can I just say All of the above or..?" But I loved the dynamic between them, the pent up tension, all of it. yum.

🖤 alleyways. mattheo riddle🖤 stripper!reader x bartender!mattheo. went back to my roots for this one. p in v. fingering. flirting. mdni. pour yourself a martini to stay classy (2.5k).

Just like every other night that you’re here, the club is hot; pulsing with the heartbeat of a rabid beast as the music playing over the speaker system thrums chaotically, rhythms of both desperation and defiance. It vibrates through the walls, along beneath the sticky wooden floors, up through the heels you’re wearing you know are far too uncomfortable to keep you on your feet all night and into your bones like fire. The air surrounding you is thick with that kind of dry spilled liquor, faint sweat mixed with rot smell, unique to the place you used to spend hours a night trying to scrub off your skin. All this, it’s haloed and trapped by the dim flickering of deep scarlet neon lights that fade and buzz across the club like a thousand dying fireflies, or perhaps it’s more poetically akin to how your soul is feeling.

With a heavy sigh, you adjust the frayed straps of your costume that you really should have taken the time to resew yet are at the point where you just can’t be bothered. The thin whisp shrouds of black satin and shredded fishnet you’re in cling to your skin as less of a garment and more of a dare. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. That’s your latest mantra against everything you’re feeling right now. The heat, the sweat, the shameless scraps of dignity you have left. Two weeks until you’re out of this grime soaked purgatory; released from dancing to fund a life of crisp textbooks in order to obtain a college degree and catapulted into a world where your worth will no longer be measured by crumpled bills which are thrown at you on stage, or shoved into the strappy lace material of your thong.

Across the other side of the club, Mattheo reigns behind the bar as he once always did – a prince in a kingdom of sin and filth. He’s the manager now, you’ve watched him work his way up from busboy to big boss, but tonight, he’s slipped back into his old ways, pouring shots and mixing cocktails with a precision that’s almost hypnotic; his hands moving like they’re threading spells although you know where they’d rather be. The black button up shirt he wears hangs open, revealing scars that coil across his chest that make your mouth both dry and water. Each line an etching story of menace and survival.

When his gaze catches yours, there’s an undeniable spark in his eyes which sears against your skin. Warming you. Stripping you bare without a single word being said. Not that there’s much left to come off. For years, the two of you have dodged this little dance on the edge you’ve had with one another. It all began when you took up swinging around the pole to claw your way through the hefty amount of tuition you needed to pay. Unfortunately, your lack of trust fund wouldn’t help, so instead you turned to a not so savoury option where you could use your assets so to speak to help you get ahead. Two weeks left – a soiree style graduation – no financial burden – freedom. Or so you thought. Usually, things are cordial between the two of you; a sweet smile, a few exchanged words, a cheeky shot once you are off stage but tonight, the pull between you both for whatever reason is near magnetic. At least that’s how you feel it – you wonder if he does the same.

Onstage, you transform. You’re not that sweet little college girl anymore but an illusion and allure that people can’t ignore. The pole, well it’s more like an altar; your body swaying and slicing through the heavy hazy of slurred catcalls, whistles and grasping hands all desperate for a few minutes of your attention. The moves you make are as graceful as they are lethal; bending, twisting, contorting, upside down, right way up, high and low, offering up just enough to keep the pack of wolves who make up the crowd ravenous. Before your set is even due to finish, bills flutter into your waistband and across the stage, a papertrail of undeniable hunger you’re happy to extort but your mind, well it’s only on one guy. One man. One… manager turned bartender for the night. You try to push him name to the side and remember why you started this – for money, not love, not romance, not lust. You’re too good to be here. Surely. This job was nothing more than a ticket out of financial hell; but really, every dollar you’ve made since working here feels like a ghost compared to the heat of Mattheo’s stare.

Once your set is over; skin gleaming with another sheet of delicate sweat, you hop off stage, kicking off those heels and slip into trainers your ankles are fucking grateful for. Slinking an oversized hoodie over your shoulders to zip up and conceal this aberration of a costume you’re in, you make your way across the battlefield of the club floor towards the bar – patrons drinks spilling and pooling like blood, broken glass crunching underfoot.

Mattheo’s busy pouring another drink for some bleary-eyed fool who happens to look at you and smile thinking that he might have a slim chance, but the sound of the cup being slammed against the bar top suggests to this fool, otherwise. “Anything else?” The two words are enough to get this guy to leave you momentarily in peace. Claiming a seat up on a barstool; the cracked black vinyl biting into the back of your thighs, Mattheo slides your signature drink your way. A splash of vodka mixed with raspberry lemonade and a cherry on top shaded by a tiny yellow paper umbrella. The same thing you’ve had every night after your set that he made you once on a whim as an escapism. You take a sip, the alcohol burning against the back of your throat pleasantly before making a sound that isn’t quite a sigh of relief but not quite a sigh of tiring.

“Rough night?” You can almost taste the edges of his words that come out low, gruff. “Same sleaze, slightly new faces”, you reply with a shrug; the move allowing your hoodie to slip from your shoulders to tease the lace you’ve got hidden beneath. “You holding up alright? I haven’t seen you behind the bar in months.”

“Barely”, the corners of his lips curl into a smirk that’s sharp – that’s wicked; sinful. “You up there, moving like that… should be classed as a felony.”

“Careful, Riddle.” Leaning forward, you take another sip of your drink, this time through the straw he’s conveniently reached over to slip in and keep your gaze firmly on him. “You know the club rules. You helped create them; you enforce th-.”

“Fuck the rules”, he counters before you’ve even got a chance to finish your sentence. Folding his arms across the bar in front of him, Mattheo rests his chin on his wrists – he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne which is heaven sent compared to the vileness of the club and that smirk he was wearing before, turns from wicked to want. “You know exactly what you do to me. Even if we’ve never really spoken about it.”

That fine line you’ve both walked for weeks, months, years is so very close to delicately snapping. The space between you both crackling with an electric carnage. You should leave, thank him for the drink; smile politely, scamper off to hide in the dressing room and call a cab to take you back to your place before the end of his shift to keep this thing – whatever it is – clean between the two of you, but you don’t. at least not willingly. Taking a deep breath in, you nod, picking up the cherry from your drink to pop between your lips and suck on it in a way Mattheo could imagine you sucking on something else.

“Oh really? Well in that case – are you going to do anything about it or just keep pouring drinks and pining and my guess – pulling it when you’re home alone thinking about me..”

Grabbing your wrist, Mattheo tugs you half over the bar; your chest pressing into the sticky wood and rubber mat you weren’t expecting to feel. Your hoodie and bra begin to dampen as his breath, ragged and hot coats your face warm causing the thong you’re wearing to dampen aswell.

“Maybe I should take you right here; crowd or not.” “Oh really, Riddle? I’d like to see you try.”

He nods, tilting his head towards the exit at the back of the club; not a gesture, more of a command and within seconds you’re off the stool and on your feet, making your way through the clubs guts with your hand laced into his, the roar of the crowd welcoming another dancer up onto the stage spilling silently into the night.

The alley way he drags you out to looms like a cathedral around you of decaying brick walls slick with only god knows what, the air thick with a trickle of rain and ruin. If it weren’t for the security cameras in the managers office meaning you’d be filming your own porno, your first guess would have been that Mattheo would have taken you there but no – this… this grime, this filth, this refuse is perfect. His hands are on you, rough and urgent, pinning you to the cold brick just beside the door as his lips claim yours for a kiss that’s most than just fuelled by hunger.

“Y’killing me”, he manages to whimper across your jaw, lips lingering down to the crook of your neck as he unzips your hoodie, flinging it wide open as his hands find their way to your hips to bruise the skin as he yanks you off the wall up against him. “Every fucking night you’re here – I have to watch you, that body, that walk, that smirk… you know exactly what you fucking do. Killing me girl; killing me.”

Without prompt, you arch into him with a moan; head tilting back against the wall, nails carving lines down his shoulders and across his chest. Your hands drop down to his waist to fumble his belt free that you’ve envisioned doing one too many times before as that metallic clink rings deep into the night.

“So do something about it then..”

Mattheo doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t faulter. Takes your words as confirmation and consent that you’re happy for him to do as he pleases and rips your thong aside, tearing at the fishnet to find the heat you’ve got swelling up between your thighs. Your eyes roll back as a half breath escapes you, his fingers working against your clit and between your folds with a skill that’s close to being devastating. As his teeth sink into your skin, leaving an instant bruise that will plume a pretty branded shade of purple and disgrace you feel yourself further give in.

“You’re fucking soaked. Been thinking of this for a while now, haven’t you?” “Matthe-.” “Of me fucking you raw in this dump.” “I-…” “Stop talking, start screaming.”

Shoving his jeans down just low enough, Mattheo’s hands drop to your ass, lifting you with ease until your legs lock around his waist giving him the perfect excuse to drive into you with a single savage thrust that stretches you with a sweet ache and has you doing exactly as he wants. Screaming. His name, profanities, a single gasped breath which doubles as a plea for desire, for need. Each thrust his relentless, his rhythm merciless; hips clashing against your own like a penance for every fucking night you’ve taunted him up until now. You become little more than a symphony of gasps and cries as your nails claw down his back; the thrum of the club inside drinking in your sounds as he takes you like he’s etching a memory into your core.

“Two – weeks – “, you huff and gasp; clinging onto him as your world begins to tilt; his thrusts sending you over the edge. “…and – I’m gone.. y-y-you gonna miss me?”

He manages little more than the sound of a snarl as a hand of his fists into your hair, pulling your head back so that your eyes meet his, wild and unyielding.

“You really think you’re gonna escape all this?”, he pants with a chuckle as his cock continues to fill you. “That this world is going to let you go so easily? I’m going to find you. Fuck you on that pristine little corporate desk you’re always talking about like a daydream and make you scream my name into your new little world.”

A giggle escapes you, not for long though; cut short as you’re slammed up back against the wall, leg hitched a little higher to allow his cock to hit in deeper, needier. Your spine shivers; not from the cold but from how good you feel, before your drop your head and bite into the fabric of his shirt to try and stifle a part of your next scream. Your last scream. Mattheo follows, thrusting deep, a guttural curse pulled from deep within his chest as he spills into you, marking you his own in this filthy sanctum. You’re further sweat drenched than you were before; shaking. Your breathing begins to match his, falling into sync as the last few minutes turn into a firm reality. Heart racing; Mattheo’s hands stay firm on your hips, anchoring you into time like you might dissolve if he lets go. Not that he wants to. Not yet anyway.

“Really?”, you whimper quietly; tongue poking out to swipe across your bottom lip before you bite it and smile, sweet rather than suggestive. “You’d fuck me on my ‘pristine little corporate desk’?”

He shrugs playfully with a smile so beautiful that could make the devil himself cry. “I mean… you could always come back to the alley.”

“How about something sanitary – like a bedroom?”, you ask. “A little cliché.” “You could stay the night, if you wanted to.” “At yours? Sure.”

Your lips meet his for a peck that’s absolutely innocent. For a single moment, that love, romance, lust nonsense you convinced yourself wouldn’t exist at the club does and you nod in response; words failing to convey what’s going on inside your head as your feet find the ground again. Zipping up your hoodie and watching Mattheo zip up his jeans with a smirk, you both step back into the clubs mire; feeling that this stage is well, maybe not so much fleeting as you’d imagined. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. Your mantra plays over and over inside your head.

Two weeks and you’d be gone. Two weeks and you’d have a fresh start, a new life, a different perspective on things. Two weeks and this place will hopefully be nothing more than a memory – but Mattheo, fuck, he’s a fever that you can’t sweat out and a thought that you won’t shake. A hunger than you’ll always seek and perhaps now fortunately enough, a piece of his hell that you’ll carry on past just tonight.

unedited - but i just needed to bite the bullet and post before my brain got in the way. if there are any issues, let me know. for @i-await sorry i kept you waiting this long; and a thanks to @riddlemelater and @belovedenzo for help with some dialogue selection xoxo

[i-await]

𝐇𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐠;

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

[i-await]

hi I love u

oh hi baby 🥺 I love you too, I'm so glad you're back I've missed you 💖

[i-await]

And yet my finger is bare hmmmm

why hello there wife

Hey princess ❤️😌

[i-await]

hii marls my baby 🤍

ofc yk im a slytherpuff (more huff tho ofc), cancer rising, fav is DADA, and not an ideal date but I would love to dance in the rain like those cinematic scenes 🤭

I love you SOOOO much, youre so talented and creative, I can't wait to see what you have in store for us in this event!

1k celebration | ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⛆ ݁˖ Dancing In The Rain.

A/N: my baby soph!!! Ilysm 🥺 thank you for requesting and all of your support. you know how much I love and appreciate you being here. <33 I hope you like this.🤎 and of course I had to choose Matty for you. ;)

In this drabble, you will find HINT NR #5.

You have always loved rainy days like today. The soft clattering against your bedroom window as you are tucked beneath your sheets—reading the latest novel you’ve just recently bought at your local bookstore, just around the corner of your apartment.

These are the kinds of days where you don’t get out of bed until noon, completely engulfed in the fictional world you are currently reading about. The places you wish you could escape to when life gets just a little too much—vanish from your city and move far away. To the countryside of Scotland perhaps, where castles sprout from the ground everywhere you look. Surrounded by green grass and vast forests, and most importantly, peace and calmness.

Perhaps even with your own prince charming—a girl can dream.

“What are you reading this time?” A curious voice asks from beside you, the mattress dipping under their weight as they settle down beside you—gently pressing a kiss to your temple.

There he is—your own prince charming.

You smile at his question. “They are on their first date, and it started raining,” you explain, placing the bookmark between the pages before you close the book, laying it down on your lap. “But they didn’t let it stop them. He took her hand and took her dancing.”

Mattheo quirks an eyebrow, studying your face. “In the rain?”

“Yes,” you reply softly. “I have always wanted to do that, you know? To feel the rain on my skin, without a care in the world. It must make you feel so alive.”

You see Mattheo’s eyes light up for second, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Before you get to ask what he is thinking about, he grabs your hand and helps you out of bed, guiding you down the stairs.

“What are we doing?” You ask, trying to keep your balance as he hurries through the kitchen—telling you to put on your shoes as you reach the apartment door.

“You wanted to dance in the rain—I am taking you outside to do exactly that.” He replies casually, leading you along the corridor, the first drops of rain falling onto your skin as you step outside the front door. 

“Mattheo!” You squeal, a chilly breeze brushing past you, leaving goose bumps in its wake. You glance around quickly, checking whether anyone is passing by—

“Hey, look at me,” he instructs softly, cupping your face before pressing a kiss to your lips, one arm wrapping around your waist. “Don’t worry about anyone else. It’s just you and me right now. Focus on me, pretty girl.”

Looking up at him, you see his chocolate-brown eyes shining softer than usual—offering the comfort you needed, his fingers tenderly caressing along your jaw. 

You nod.

Then, he takes your hand in his—and you dance.

Until your hair is soaked, your clothes drenched. But none of that matters—not right now. It’s you and him. And you feel alive.

Perhaps you don’t always need to move away to live your own fairytale.

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | 1k celebration. <- event masterlist.

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soooo… about the professor!Riddle thoughts.

you are sitting on the soft mattress of his bed, the silky fabric of his sheets cool against the back of your thighs—skirt already ridden up so high there is little left to his imagination.

he is still in his suit, kneeling in front of you on the wooden planks of his professor’s dormitory. slowly kisses down your bare leg, one hand gently lifting your foot so he can slip off your heel.

and the eye contact. oh, the eye contact.

his big brown eyes, locked onto yours the whole time. never once averts his gaze.

presses a single kiss to your ankle before repeating the same process with your other leg.

of course, it ends with him on top of you on his bed. lazily pushing into your warm cunt, praising you for just how well you did on the exams.

“good girl, you made me so proud.”

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why hello there wife

Hey princess ❤️😌

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hiiii im the dealer!mattheo anon again. He's my new obssesion rn so I might appear in your inbox often heheheh

Anyways how do you think dealer!mattheo will react to one of his clients flirting with you (the sex hehe)

eeek u are welcome in my inbox anytime u want !!! i was so happy to see this ask, sorry im a lil late </3

girl, you are in trouble if one of his clients started flirting with you. not because you did anything wrong, but because mattheo feels that you need to be reminded of exactly who you belong to. the sex is unforgiving, making sure he can get his point across (but the aftercare is god tier bc he wants to give you best of both worlds knowing it’s what you like. the sinful sex but the tender aftercare !!!!)

if one of his clients flirts with you, he’s instantly kicking them out and he’s keeping the money AND the weed. they wanna flirt with his girl, he’s gonna get paid for it and they’re not getting their fix. they’re lucky he didn’t fucking shoot them in the forehead. once the client has been shoved out the door (with more force than necessary) mattheo is dragging you off to bedroom, your clothes being ripped off you. literally.

“mattheo, that’s my favorite shirt!” you whined, but his lips were on your neck, attacking the sensitive skin with kisses and bites that made your knees turn to jello. “i’ll buy you a new one.” he murmured, lips trailing down your neck as his hands gripped and kneaded the soft flesh of your tits. “i’ll buy you whatever you want.” he added, pushing you down on the bed and crawling on top of you, settling himself between your parted thighs.

your hands gripped the bedsheets, eyes rolling back and back arching as mattheo plunged his thick cock inside you. his hand was wrapped around your throat, not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make you get the point. “who do you belong to? fucking say it.” he grit, taking everything in his power to not break this damn bed. “you, mattheo. i belong to you.” tears of pleasure streamed down your face.

“that’s right. you belong to me. not him, not anyone. me.” he grunted, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the large bedroom, the smell of sweat lingering in the air. “you’re such a good girl. so obedient and submissive…” he pressed his lips to yours, claiming every inch of your body as his. the hickeys he left on your neck were dark enough to last for weeks, a slight ache to them. the bedsheets would be soaked with his come and yours, not an inch of your body untouched by him. you were his and he was yours and he wasn’t letting you forget any of that. his cock stayed inside you all night long, fucking you until you couldn’t walk… probably forever. and when you were both completely spent, you both slept with his cock buried inside you just to further prove the point. you were his and his alone.

more dealer!mattheo. nav.

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