simp-for-love

[simp-for-love]

Mattheo sees his child for the first time

A/N: I was just thinking about dad Mattheo, and, oops, a small blurb? Drabble? Idk, just something came out.

Warnings: Brief references to trauma, emotional vulnerability, cursing words

Word count: ~670

The room hums with quiet voices and shuffling feet, but Mattheo hears none of it. Just the pounding in his ears. Just the weight of his own breath.

He stands there like a statue, leather jacket still on, fists clenched at his sides. His gaze is locked on the bundle in white. He just can't take his eyes off them. So fucking small. Wrapped in white, silent in the nurse's arms. Breathing. Alive.

And his.

He doesn't go to them. He can't. His feet might as well be cemented to the floor. Because if he gets too close, if he touches them...

The nurse says his name, soft and coaxing. Asks if he wants to hold them.

He doesn't answer. He just can't.

He was never a fearful man. On the contrary, others were afraid of him. But for the first time in a very long time, Mattheo Riddle is afraid. He is terrified.

Not of blood or death or the enemies who whisper his name like a curse. Not of Azkaban. Not of his family legacy. Not even of the darkness that claws up his spine.

No — he's afraid of this.

Of that tiny life.

Of touching something so clean, so pure, so impossibly untouched by the shadows he drags behind him. Terrified that his hands — hands that have broken bones, cast spells meant to harm, written blood-soaked promises — are not worthy. That if he just touches this child, something in them will break. That his darkness might seep into this little, perfect thing and ruin them forever.

You watch him from the bed, exhaustion in your limbs but love and soft understanding in your eyes. He can feel it, warm and undeserved. It burns worse than any dark magic spell.

He's done too much. Hurt too many. He never thought he deserved you in the first place. Not really. That's been his guilt to carry since the first time he let you sleep on his chest, wondering what kind of broken soul lets someone like you near. But this, this is even worse.

He's not supposed to have this.

Not you. Not this baby.

Not a future.

But your gaze, your love for him — it always tells him otherwise. That he's more than enough for you.

Then the baby stirs and opens their eyes.

Dark hazel, just like his.

It hits him like a Bludger to the chest, like a punch to the gut. Like someone took every shield he's ever built and shattered it in a second. His knees almost give. He swears, quietly, under his breath — a broken, soft sound.

They have his eyes.

Fuck.

They're beautiful. Perfect. And they're his. Part of him. A piece of something good buried beneath all the ruin.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just this low and dull ache in his chest. He doesn't know how something can be so small and still make him feel bigger than anything he's ever felt.

A nurse carefully steps forward and places the baby in his arms, and Mattheo panics, truly panics. He stiffens. Every muscle locks. He's holding them like they'll shatter if he breathes too hard. His heart's pounding, loud enough he swears they can hear it. His breath hitches unevenly.

This baby weighs almost nothing. But in his arms, they might as well be the whole fucking world.

He's held cursed artifacts, ancient grimoires, treasures men would kill for. But none of it has ever compared to the impossible weight of this tiny child in his arms. Not because they're heavy — but because they matter. More than anything ever has.

They make a small sound — not a cry, just... a soft sleepy noise.

He nearly falls apart.

You whisper his name. "Mattheo."

He looks at you with something wrecked in his eyes. Then back at them, like he can't believe that it is real.

The baby sighs against his chest, warm and trusting. Their hand twitches, curling loosely into the leather of his jacket. And he just... stands there.

Shaking. Silent. Changed.

"Shh, I've got you," he whispers, the promise rasped into the soft crown of their head. It isn't a threat, not this time — it's a vow. One that's heavier than any oath he's ever made.

[simp-for-love]

It was so fun! Thank you for the tag, lovely 🩷

Since I'm a Kitty Kat for some of my friends, I have a pair of cute ears here 🤭

My victims for the tag are @acourtofchaos @redeemingvillains @moscatosin @viperify 🖤

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

[simp-for-love]

A hot drink and a warm hug??? Are you trying to make me sob with your sweet words now, cruel and amazing woman? 🤧🩷

I'm really happy that you've enjoyed it, sweetheart. And thank you a lot for your kind words ❤️❤️❤️

Now I'm low-key afraid of how'd you react to my next non fluff fics. But I hope you'll like it to 👉🏻👈🏻

Gonna inspire myself and continue with your brilliant au's festival. It's still a May for me, idc 😅

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

[simp-for-love]

Absolutely adorable and Mattheo-ish work. Him worrying about us in his own grumpy and threatening way? Give me two!

“I’ll threaten you, bribe you, hex the rest of the world if I have to. Of course, I’m going to worry. I don’t know how not to anymore.”

This part is just... *sighs dreamily* 🥺❤️

Great work, babe! 🩷

Health Threats

Summary: Mattheo likes to leave you letters that are definitely not love letters, according to him.

✷　✦　　✦　　☆　*　　•*.　•　*°　　　　　*　　✯　　　·　　　　

You couldn’t quite pinpoint when it began.

You nearly missed it. Just a crinkled bit of parchment wedged carelessly in the bottom of your bag, half-covered in chocolate frog foil and a tangle of quills. It wasn’t until the soft pulse of magic caught your eye—a faint golden glow curling along the torn edges—that you reached for it. Your heart stuttered. That charm—it was unmistakable. You’d seen Mattheo use it before, his long fingers flicking carelessly through the air, lazy and practiced. He never used it for classwork. Only for… other things. Private things. The kind of things not meant for prying eyes. When you unfolded the note, the edges stayed warm in your hands.

In that familiar, jagged scrawl you’d seen a hundred times across the margins of his essays—dark ink pressed a little too hard into the parchment, like even the act of writing it had been urgent. Messy, sharp, undeniably his. You could almost hear his voice behind the words, low and impatient, like he hadn’t meant for you to see it but couldn’t stop himself from writing it anyway.

“Skip lunch one more time and I swear I’ll carry you into the Great Hall and sit you down myself. Don’t make me worry more than I already do.”

You’d stared at the note for a long moment, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. The threat wasn’t empty — not coming from him. You’d sighed, tucked the parchment into your pocket like it meant something, and made your way to dinner before he could make a scene.

After that, it became a thing — the language only you and Mattheo spoke. Ink-stained scraps, glowing edges, veiled concern disguised as threats.

The notes started showing up everywhere — tucked into your Herbology book, slipped inside your mittens, once even transfigured into a paper rose left on your windowsill. They were never signed, never obvious, but always undeniably him. His magic lingered like smoke on the parchment — wild, electric, hard to define — and the messy, looping letters practically growled Riddle without ever needing to say it.

Some had the energy of a howler disguised as a love note — loud, dramatic, and vaguely threatening.

“Wrap up with your scarf, dumbass. It’s snowing. If you get sick, I’ll hex myself for dating someone this stupid.”

Some were affectionate in a way only Mattheo could manage: sharp, chaotic, and oddly endearing.

“Tell anyone what I’m about to say and I’ll deny it, but you looked fucking beautiful at breakfast. The jam on your nose didn’t even ruin it. Much.”

Then there were the notes that whispered, not shouted—like he was testing the waters with something important.

“Don’t pretend for me. I can tell when something’s off.”

You didn't mention the notes aloud, though they echoed in your mind. You figured if he wanted to talk about it, he would.

One day, after a draining morning and a class that felt endless, you were trudging down the corridor, chest tight with frustration. Your bag hung heavily off one shoulder, and when you reached inside to grab a quill, your fingers grazed something familiar—a scrap of parchment nestled deep within.

This one felt different. Folded carefully, every crease sharp and deliberate, like he’d actually slowed down just for you. Your heart picked up pace as you slipped into a quiet alcove by the courtyard and unfolded the note.

“Quiet as a shadow lately, and I bet you’re forgetting to eat again. If you don’t show up to dinner tonight, I swear to Merlin I’ll carry you there over my shoulder. Don’t think I won’t. Also—if anyone’s bothering you, tell me. I’ll make it stop. You don’t have to handle shit alone anymore, alright?”

You blinked down at the note, your throat suddenly feeling tight and dry, like you’d swallowed a lump of stone. Your fingers trembled slightly as you gripped the parchment, heart pounding louder than the footsteps echoing in the hall.

It wasn’t only the words that caught you off guard—it was that, despite everything, Mattheo was trying. In his fucked up, violent, emotionally constipated way, Mattheo Riddle was writing you little love notes.

You brought the parchment gently to your lips, a soft smile curling there as warmth spread through your chest, thawing the chill around you.

Later that evening, when you finally made your way into the Slytherin common room, he was there—slouched back in his favorite chair by the fire, boots resting on the table, his tie undone. The moment he saw you, his gaze lifted slowly, like he’d been waiting.

“Still alive and kicking, huh? Congrats on that.” He let his fingers brush the back of your hand, quick and almost accidental, but meaningful all the same.

Arching an eyebrow, you shot back, “Funny, coming from the guy who leaves ‘death threats’ in my bag like some kind of charming serial killer.”

He gave you a slow blink, then reached out, his hand settling lightly on your hip as if drawn there by some magnetic force. "They're not death threats, they are health threats. There's a difference." His voice was thick with that slow, dangerous accent, curling down your spine like a dark promise you couldn’t ignore.

You leaned in and dropped the note in his lap, trying not to melt under the casual brush of his fingers against your waist like you always did.

He looked at the note, then back at you, mouth tilting in a reluctant grin. “Bit early for that one. Was gonna save it for when you looked worse.”

“I needed it. Not that I’m admitting you were right.” You nudged his knee, but he just smirked and reached for you, dragging you between his legs with easy, practiced hands. “I keep all of them,” you said, a little breathless as his fingertips ghosted up your thighs like it didn’t even register to him anymore—like he needed to touch you to think.

That caught him off guard. His jaw ticked once, shoulders shifting like he didn’t know where to put the sudden swell of emotion in his chest. He looked away, eyes flicking toward the fire as if it might burn the softness off of him. His fingers paused on your thigh, then resumed—slower now, more deliberate.

“You’re such a sap,” he muttered. “It’s embarrassing.”

“You’re the one writing me love notes disguised as threats.”

He scoffed. “They’re not love notes.” But there was a flush on his cheeks and a curl at the corner of his mouth he couldn’t quite hide.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Mm. Sure.”

His gaze met yours—steady, intense, just shy of gentle. “You’re mine,” he said quietly, like the words had been waiting in his chest. “I’ll threaten you, bribe you, hex the rest of the world if I have to. Of course, I’m going to worry. I don’t know how not to anymore.”

You smiled, small and certain, heart fluttering.

And when he found the note the next morning—tucked right next to his wand—he stared at it for a long time.

“You’re mine too. Keep sending me those ridiculous threats. I never want them to stop.”

He folded it carefully. Pocketed it like something sacred. And smiled like the world had finally tilted in his favor.

[simp-for-love]

how many followers do you have? I mean this in a curious nice way

Oh, don't worry, cutie, I get it 💕

I have 273 absolutely lovely and adorable people who somehow enjoy reading my messy works. Love them all btw 🩷

[simp-for-love]

squeezes you to death with squish cuddles <33

Not me giggling while reading this 🤭 Come here immediately so I can squish you with my love in return! 🩷

[simp-for-love]

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

[simp-for-love]

Hi, lovelies (*^-^*)

I'm finishing my next fic for week 2 of the au's festival these days (Hopefully, you'll see it tomorrow). And it's with Mattheo because I'm a huge simp for him 🙂‍↕️ I won't apologize for it!

But, let me know if you want the next one to be with s/o else from our beloved Slytherin boys. Maybe you want to see more Mattheo, or more Theo, or try me with Draco or Enzo 🤔

[simp-for-love]

I want to thank all of you for such a warm welcome to my recent works 🩷

I truly was smiling and giggling at your kind words. And I can't even tell you how much it motivates me to keep writing and sharing it with you. Thank you, muaw 💋

[simp-for-love]

Hehe, thank you so much, lovely Vee 🥰❤️

Sweet and soft my second (and third 😅) name! I'm really happy that you like it.

I'll think about the next part... Maybe I even have something in my notes 👀👀👀

Where the Fire Breathes Soft

DragonTamer!Mattheo Riddle x Teacher!Reader

You take your class on a field trip to a dragon sanctuary, expecting chaos and maybe a little fire. What you don’t expect is Mattheo Riddle — charming, clever, and surprisingly gentle beneath the smirk. Between sunbathing dragons, wide-eyed students, and a tour that turns unexpectedly sweet, you find yourself falling, just a little, for the dragon tamer with a crooked smile.

Warnings: none, fluff to the bones

Word count: 1,7k

A/N: my very late work for week 1 of @acourtofchaos's au event. Hope to catch up with the rest of them soon ♡

You’re pretty sure this wasn’t in the job description.

Sure, it mentioned field trips, but it didn’t say anything about standing ten feet away from a dragon the size of a cottage while trying to look calm in front of twenty excited eleven-year-olds.

You’ve never seen a dragon up close before — unless you count the fold-out pages in Fantastic Beasts for Little Wizards. Even then, it was hard to believe something so majestic and terrifying could be real.

But here you are, standing at the edge of a wide, green field fenced with enchanted barriers, blinking at a sunbathing Norwegian Ridgeback. It looks like an overgrown lizard lounging in the afternoon sun, its dark, iridescent scales gleaming like opals. Around you, a dozen kids press against the barrier, gasping and arguing over which dragon is the coolest.

“Miss! Miss!” little Clara tugs at your coat, eyes wide with awe. "That one just sneezed fire!"

You give her a smile, even though your heart’s trying to climb into your throat. "Yes, dragons can do that, sweetheart."

"She sneezed!" Clara insists, pointing. "She’s like me when I have a cold!"

A warm chuckle comes from your right, deep and effortlessly amused.

"That would be Marigold. She’s a bit dramatic, but harmless. Unless you're a cabbage,"

You glance sideways and promptly forget how to breathe.

The man standing next to you is tall, dressed in a well-worn leather jacket that’s clearly seen its share of flame. His dark hair is tousled, jaw sharp, and eyes startlingly intelligent with a hint of mischief behind them. There’s a dragon-scale glove tucked into his belt, and something about the way he stands — casual, confident, like the dragons answer to him — makes your knees go a little weak. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint burn scars and inked runes. You catch yourself staring for a second too long.

"Oh," you manage. "Hello."

"Hi." He offers you a crooked smile, one that makes your heart do something unprofessional. "Mattheo Riddle. I work here."

You shake the hand he offers, and it’s warm, calloused, grounding. "I’m… You can call me Miss Teacher who is absolutely not terrified of dragons."

Mattheo laughs, low and easy, like sunshine on a cold morning. "Pleasure, Miss Teacher. You’re doing well for someone who looks like they might bolt."

"I’m just trying not to faint in front of the children."

"Good goal." He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. "Don’t worry. The dragons can smell fear, but they respect it. Means you’re smart."

"That’s comforting."

He grins wider, like he’s enjoying this, but not in a cruel way. Like he’s almost charmed by your honesty. “Which class is yours?”

"First-years," you say, glancing at the gaggle of kids giggling by the fence. "They’re obsessed with magical creatures right now. Their current theory is that dragons are just flying puppies with attitude problems."

"Not wrong," he muses with an amused grin. "Except for Blaze. Blaze eats puppies."

You gape at him in shock.

He blinks, then breaks into a laugh. The sound so warm and smooth that it makes your heart skip a beat. "Kidding."

You exhale the sigh of relief immediately. "Thank Merlin."

Mattheo chuckles again and gestures toward the enclosure. "Want a proper tour? I promise no incineration. Well, minimal incineration."

You arch a brow. "Do I get hazard pay?"

"No, but you get to walk next to me. That’s got to count for something," he says with a wink that sends a small stutter through your chest.

You laugh, caught off guard. "Charming, aren’t you?"

He gives you a little playful bow. "It’s in the job description," he said without any shame or second thought, grinning proudly.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Mattheo turns out to be great with the kids. You watch from the edge as he kneels beside one of them, explaining the difference between ridge-back scales and horned-tail ones like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s patient when they interrupt, gentle when they get overexcited, and firm when one of them tries to climb a fence.

You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be cocky, maybe even reckless. Swagger and smirks. But instead, there’s this quiet strength beneath all that charisma. Something solid and steady. And it makes you feel... oddly comfortable and safe.

You try not to stare too much as he gestures animatedly toward a Welsh Green gliding in a distant paddock. The sun catches in his hair, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like he belongs to the dragons. Not as their keeper, but their kin.

He catches your across the enclosure and winks again. You look away quickly, cheeks warm.

"Professor?" Clara tugs your sleeve gently to catch your attention. "Do you like him?"

You nearly choke at her question. "What?"

"You’re looking at him like my mum looks at the telly when the handsome prince comes on," she explained calmly with a child's simplicity.

You blink at her for a moment in silence, feeling the heat on your cheeks intensified. "Clara."

"It’s okay," she says seriously with a nod. "He’s handsome. You have good taste."

You consider for a moment whether it’s possible to sink into the earth and never return.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Lunch is a picnic under the shade of a charmed willow tree. The kids are still buzzing, mouths full of sandwiches, declaring their dreams of becoming dragon tamers. Some sketch their favorite dragons with crumb-covered fingers. You watch their enthusiasm with tenderness and a hint of amusement in your eyes. Soon Mattheo finds you near the feeding pen.

"Enjoying yourself yet?" he asks, leaning casually on the railing beside you.

"It’s... actually better than expected. No one's on fire, so I’m calling it a win," you say with a smile tugging on your lips.

He unwraps a sandwich and glances at yours, still untouched. "Not eating?"

"I'm too enchanted. I mean—interested. In all this." You laugh awkwardly and a bit flustered. "I’ve never seen anyone so comfortable around fire-breathing monsters."

He raises his brow in amusement. "You’re a teacher. You’re surrounded by tiny monsters daily."

You chuckle softly. "Touche."

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking. "You’re braver than you look."

You hum quietly. "Is that a compliment?"

"It is," he says easily. "You strike me as the soft type. Sweet. But you didn’t flinch when Ember tried to lick your coat."

"I couldn’t. The kids were watching."

"Still, you didn’t run." His voice dips slightly, more thoughtful. "That counts."

You glance at him, studying the way the late sun catches in his hair, the curve of his smile that’s equal parts playful and kind. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes your chest feel light and your stomach full of fluttering things.

"You’re not what I expected," you say quietly.

He arches a brow. "No? What were you expecting?"

"I don’t know. Arrogance? Recklessness? Someone who rides dragons without a saddle and uses bad pick-up lines."

He chuckles smoothly, eyes shine with amusement. "I do ride without a saddle, but I leave the pick-up lines to the desperate."

"I feel honored."

"You should." He nudges your elbow softly. "Besides, I don’t need pick-up lines. I’ve got dragons."

You laugh again, unable to help it. Something about him makes you feel safe and smile wider. "You really do."

For a moment, the air between you settles into something quiet. Easy and sweet. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he says, "You should come back sometime. Without twenty tiny chaperones."

"Is that a professional invitation?"

"Only if you’re into professionalism."

You tilt your head slightly, looking at him. "And if I’m into dragons?"

He gives you a look that’s all charm and slow-burning mischief. "Then I’m very interesting."

Your heart does a little leap again. "I’ll think about it."

"You do that," he says softly, gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

The trip ends too quickly. The kids piling back onto the carriages with sticky fingers and loud voices, waving their goodbyes wildly at every dragon in sight.

Mattheo walks you to the gate, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Thanks for not letting us get eaten," you say with a small smile. You want to prolong this moment, to stay in this fairytale with dragons and Prince Charming for a little longer.

"Anytime." He looks at you, something warm flickering in his gaze. "You really were good with them. The kids."

You shrug a little shy, "It’s easy when you love them."

"I think they love you back."

"Probably because I carry sweets in my bag all the time."

He grins. "Might have to start doing that myself."

You look at him, heart fluttering again. "Do you flirt with every teacher who visits?"

He tilts his head as if considering your question. "Only the ones who make dragon farms feel like fairy tales."

You blink, looking at him with wide eyes. "That’s—"

"Too much?" he asked with slightly bashful and boyish smile.

"A little," you admit with a smile. "But I liked it."

He steps a little closer, just enough for you to catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and leather.

"Come back," he says quietly and softly. "Next week. Or whenever you like. No pressure. Just... I’d like to see you again."

You bite your lip, trying to hide the silly smile his words cause. "Maybe I will."

"Maybe?"

"Okay. Definitely."

He smiles like you’ve just handed him something valuable. And the shine in his eyes is utterly disarming. "Good."

You linger for a second longer, then turn to follow your class, heart full of butterflies and something almost as fiery as the dragons behind you.

As you step onto the carriage, Clara tugs your sleeve again and whispers, "He definitely likes you."

You glance back to where Mattheo stands by the gate, one hand raised in a lazy wave. His eyes locked on you.

You wave back. "Yeah," you whisper with a silly grin on your lips. "I think I like him too."

[simp-for-love]

Aww, thank you, sweets 🩷

Moving closer to this amazing man? You and me both, love, you and me both *lovesick sigh* 🙂‍↕️

Thank you for your kind words. I'm really happy that you get that sweet and light atmosphere I've tried to convey ❤️ And your hashtag about incineration? I'm giggling like a silly

Where the Fire Breathes Soft

DragonTamer!Mattheo Riddle x Teacher!Reader

You take your class on a field trip to a dragon sanctuary, expecting chaos and maybe a little fire. What you don’t expect is Mattheo Riddle — charming, clever, and surprisingly gentle beneath the smirk. Between sunbathing dragons, wide-eyed students, and a tour that turns unexpectedly sweet, you find yourself falling, just a little, for the dragon tamer with a crooked smile.

Warnings: none, fluff to the bones

Word count: 1,7k

A/N: my very late work for week 1 of @acourtofchaos's au event. Hope to catch up with the rest of them soon ♡

You’re pretty sure this wasn’t in the job description.

Sure, it mentioned field trips, but it didn’t say anything about standing ten feet away from a dragon the size of a cottage while trying to look calm in front of twenty excited eleven-year-olds.

You’ve never seen a dragon up close before — unless you count the fold-out pages in Fantastic Beasts for Little Wizards. Even then, it was hard to believe something so majestic and terrifying could be real.

But here you are, standing at the edge of a wide, green field fenced with enchanted barriers, blinking at a sunbathing Norwegian Ridgeback. It looks like an overgrown lizard lounging in the afternoon sun, its dark, iridescent scales gleaming like opals. Around you, a dozen kids press against the barrier, gasping and arguing over which dragon is the coolest.

“Miss! Miss!” little Clara tugs at your coat, eyes wide with awe. "That one just sneezed fire!"

You give her a smile, even though your heart’s trying to climb into your throat. "Yes, dragons can do that, sweetheart."

"She sneezed!" Clara insists, pointing. "She’s like me when I have a cold!"

A warm chuckle comes from your right, deep and effortlessly amused.

"That would be Marigold. She’s a bit dramatic, but harmless. Unless you're a cabbage,"

You glance sideways and promptly forget how to breathe.

The man standing next to you is tall, dressed in a well-worn leather jacket that’s clearly seen its share of flame. His dark hair is tousled, jaw sharp, and eyes startlingly intelligent with a hint of mischief behind them. There’s a dragon-scale glove tucked into his belt, and something about the way he stands — casual, confident, like the dragons answer to him — makes your knees go a little weak. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint burn scars and inked runes. You catch yourself staring for a second too long.

"Oh," you manage. "Hello."

"Hi." He offers you a crooked smile, one that makes your heart do something unprofessional. "Mattheo Riddle. I work here."

You shake the hand he offers, and it’s warm, calloused, grounding. "I’m… You can call me Miss Teacher who is absolutely not terrified of dragons."

Mattheo laughs, low and easy, like sunshine on a cold morning. "Pleasure, Miss Teacher. You’re doing well for someone who looks like they might bolt."

"I’m just trying not to faint in front of the children."

"Good goal." He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. "Don’t worry. The dragons can smell fear, but they respect it. Means you’re smart."

"That’s comforting."

He grins wider, like he’s enjoying this, but not in a cruel way. Like he’s almost charmed by your honesty. “Which class is yours?”

"First-years," you say, glancing at the gaggle of kids giggling by the fence. "They’re obsessed with magical creatures right now. Their current theory is that dragons are just flying puppies with attitude problems."

"Not wrong," he muses with an amused grin. "Except for Blaze. Blaze eats puppies."

You gape at him in shock.

He blinks, then breaks into a laugh. The sound so warm and smooth that it makes your heart skip a beat. "Kidding."

You exhale the sigh of relief immediately. "Thank Merlin."

Mattheo chuckles again and gestures toward the enclosure. "Want a proper tour? I promise no incineration. Well, minimal incineration."

You arch a brow. "Do I get hazard pay?"

"No, but you get to walk next to me. That’s got to count for something," he says with a wink that sends a small stutter through your chest.

You laugh, caught off guard. "Charming, aren’t you?"

He gives you a little playful bow. "It’s in the job description," he said without any shame or second thought, grinning proudly.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Mattheo turns out to be great with the kids. You watch from the edge as he kneels beside one of them, explaining the difference between ridge-back scales and horned-tail ones like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s patient when they interrupt, gentle when they get overexcited, and firm when one of them tries to climb a fence.

You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be cocky, maybe even reckless. Swagger and smirks. But instead, there’s this quiet strength beneath all that charisma. Something solid and steady. And it makes you feel... oddly comfortable and safe.

You try not to stare too much as he gestures animatedly toward a Welsh Green gliding in a distant paddock. The sun catches in his hair, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like he belongs to the dragons. Not as their keeper, but their kin.

He catches your across the enclosure and winks again. You look away quickly, cheeks warm.

"Professor?" Clara tugs your sleeve gently to catch your attention. "Do you like him?"

You nearly choke at her question. "What?"

"You’re looking at him like my mum looks at the telly when the handsome prince comes on," she explained calmly with a child's simplicity.

You blink at her for a moment in silence, feeling the heat on your cheeks intensified. "Clara."

"It’s okay," she says seriously with a nod. "He’s handsome. You have good taste."

You consider for a moment whether it’s possible to sink into the earth and never return.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Lunch is a picnic under the shade of a charmed willow tree. The kids are still buzzing, mouths full of sandwiches, declaring their dreams of becoming dragon tamers. Some sketch their favorite dragons with crumb-covered fingers. You watch their enthusiasm with tenderness and a hint of amusement in your eyes. Soon Mattheo finds you near the feeding pen.

"Enjoying yourself yet?" he asks, leaning casually on the railing beside you.

"It’s... actually better than expected. No one's on fire, so I’m calling it a win," you say with a smile tugging on your lips.

He unwraps a sandwich and glances at yours, still untouched. "Not eating?"

"I'm too enchanted. I mean—interested. In all this." You laugh awkwardly and a bit flustered. "I’ve never seen anyone so comfortable around fire-breathing monsters."

He raises his brow in amusement. "You’re a teacher. You’re surrounded by tiny monsters daily."

You chuckle softly. "Touche."

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking. "You’re braver than you look."

You hum quietly. "Is that a compliment?"

"It is," he says easily. "You strike me as the soft type. Sweet. But you didn’t flinch when Ember tried to lick your coat."

"I couldn’t. The kids were watching."

"Still, you didn’t run." His voice dips slightly, more thoughtful. "That counts."

You glance at him, studying the way the late sun catches in his hair, the curve of his smile that’s equal parts playful and kind. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes your chest feel light and your stomach full of fluttering things.

"You’re not what I expected," you say quietly.

He arches a brow. "No? What were you expecting?"

"I don’t know. Arrogance? Recklessness? Someone who rides dragons without a saddle and uses bad pick-up lines."

He chuckles smoothly, eyes shine with amusement. "I do ride without a saddle, but I leave the pick-up lines to the desperate."

"I feel honored."

"You should." He nudges your elbow softly. "Besides, I don’t need pick-up lines. I’ve got dragons."

You laugh again, unable to help it. Something about him makes you feel safe and smile wider. "You really do."

For a moment, the air between you settles into something quiet. Easy and sweet. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he says, "You should come back sometime. Without twenty tiny chaperones."

"Is that a professional invitation?"

"Only if you’re into professionalism."

You tilt your head slightly, looking at him. "And if I’m into dragons?"

He gives you a look that’s all charm and slow-burning mischief. "Then I’m very interesting."

Your heart does a little leap again. "I’ll think about it."

"You do that," he says softly, gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

The trip ends too quickly. The kids piling back onto the carriages with sticky fingers and loud voices, waving their goodbyes wildly at every dragon in sight.

Mattheo walks you to the gate, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Thanks for not letting us get eaten," you say with a small smile. You want to prolong this moment, to stay in this fairytale with dragons and Prince Charming for a little longer.

"Anytime." He looks at you, something warm flickering in his gaze. "You really were good with them. The kids."

You shrug a little shy, "It’s easy when you love them."

"I think they love you back."

"Probably because I carry sweets in my bag all the time."

He grins. "Might have to start doing that myself."

You look at him, heart fluttering again. "Do you flirt with every teacher who visits?"

He tilts his head as if considering your question. "Only the ones who make dragon farms feel like fairy tales."

You blink, looking at him with wide eyes. "That’s—"

"Too much?" he asked with slightly bashful and boyish smile.

"A little," you admit with a smile. "But I liked it."

He steps a little closer, just enough for you to catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and leather.

"Come back," he says quietly and softly. "Next week. Or whenever you like. No pressure. Just... I’d like to see you again."

You bite your lip, trying to hide the silly smile his words cause. "Maybe I will."

"Maybe?"

"Okay. Definitely."

He smiles like you’ve just handed him something valuable. And the shine in his eyes is utterly disarming. "Good."

You linger for a second longer, then turn to follow your class, heart full of butterflies and something almost as fiery as the dragons behind you.

As you step onto the carriage, Clara tugs your sleeve again and whispers, "He definitely likes you."

You glance back to where Mattheo stands by the gate, one hand raised in a lazy wave. His eyes locked on you.

You wave back. "Yeah," you whisper with a silly grin on your lips. "I think I like him too."

[simp-for-love]

I want him too 😭 Let's be obsessed with him together 🤝🏻🩷

Where the Fire Breathes Soft

DragonTamer!Mattheo Riddle x Teacher!Reader

You take your class on a field trip to a dragon sanctuary, expecting chaos and maybe a little fire. What you don’t expect is Mattheo Riddle — charming, clever, and surprisingly gentle beneath the smirk. Between sunbathing dragons, wide-eyed students, and a tour that turns unexpectedly sweet, you find yourself falling, just a little, for the dragon tamer with a crooked smile.

Warnings: none, fluff to the bones

Word count: 1,7k

A/N: my very late work for week 1 of @acourtofchaos's au event. Hope to catch up with the rest of them soon ♡

You’re pretty sure this wasn’t in the job description.

Sure, it mentioned field trips, but it didn’t say anything about standing ten feet away from a dragon the size of a cottage while trying to look calm in front of twenty excited eleven-year-olds.

You’ve never seen a dragon up close before — unless you count the fold-out pages in Fantastic Beasts for Little Wizards. Even then, it was hard to believe something so majestic and terrifying could be real.

But here you are, standing at the edge of a wide, green field fenced with enchanted barriers, blinking at a sunbathing Norwegian Ridgeback. It looks like an overgrown lizard lounging in the afternoon sun, its dark, iridescent scales gleaming like opals. Around you, a dozen kids press against the barrier, gasping and arguing over which dragon is the coolest.

“Miss! Miss!” little Clara tugs at your coat, eyes wide with awe. "That one just sneezed fire!"

You give her a smile, even though your heart’s trying to climb into your throat. "Yes, dragons can do that, sweetheart."

"She sneezed!" Clara insists, pointing. "She’s like me when I have a cold!"

A warm chuckle comes from your right, deep and effortlessly amused.

"That would be Marigold. She’s a bit dramatic, but harmless. Unless you're a cabbage,"

You glance sideways and promptly forget how to breathe.

The man standing next to you is tall, dressed in a well-worn leather jacket that’s clearly seen its share of flame. His dark hair is tousled, jaw sharp, and eyes startlingly intelligent with a hint of mischief behind them. There’s a dragon-scale glove tucked into his belt, and something about the way he stands — casual, confident, like the dragons answer to him — makes your knees go a little weak. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint burn scars and inked runes. You catch yourself staring for a second too long.

"Oh," you manage. "Hello."

"Hi." He offers you a crooked smile, one that makes your heart do something unprofessional. "Mattheo Riddle. I work here."

You shake the hand he offers, and it’s warm, calloused, grounding. "I’m… You can call me Miss Teacher who is absolutely not terrified of dragons."

Mattheo laughs, low and easy, like sunshine on a cold morning. "Pleasure, Miss Teacher. You’re doing well for someone who looks like they might bolt."

"I’m just trying not to faint in front of the children."

"Good goal." He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. "Don’t worry. The dragons can smell fear, but they respect it. Means you’re smart."

"That’s comforting."

He grins wider, like he’s enjoying this, but not in a cruel way. Like he’s almost charmed by your honesty. “Which class is yours?”

"First-years," you say, glancing at the gaggle of kids giggling by the fence. "They’re obsessed with magical creatures right now. Their current theory is that dragons are just flying puppies with attitude problems."

"Not wrong," he muses with an amused grin. "Except for Blaze. Blaze eats puppies."

You gape at him in shock.

He blinks, then breaks into a laugh. The sound so warm and smooth that it makes your heart skip a beat. "Kidding."

You exhale the sigh of relief immediately. "Thank Merlin."

Mattheo chuckles again and gestures toward the enclosure. "Want a proper tour? I promise no incineration. Well, minimal incineration."

You arch a brow. "Do I get hazard pay?"

"No, but you get to walk next to me. That’s got to count for something," he says with a wink that sends a small stutter through your chest.

You laugh, caught off guard. "Charming, aren’t you?"

He gives you a little playful bow. "It’s in the job description," he said without any shame or second thought, grinning proudly.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Mattheo turns out to be great with the kids. You watch from the edge as he kneels beside one of them, explaining the difference between ridge-back scales and horned-tail ones like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s patient when they interrupt, gentle when they get overexcited, and firm when one of them tries to climb a fence.

You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be cocky, maybe even reckless. Swagger and smirks. But instead, there’s this quiet strength beneath all that charisma. Something solid and steady. And it makes you feel... oddly comfortable and safe.

You try not to stare too much as he gestures animatedly toward a Welsh Green gliding in a distant paddock. The sun catches in his hair, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like he belongs to the dragons. Not as their keeper, but their kin.

He catches your across the enclosure and winks again. You look away quickly, cheeks warm.

"Professor?" Clara tugs your sleeve gently to catch your attention. "Do you like him?"

You nearly choke at her question. "What?"

"You’re looking at him like my mum looks at the telly when the handsome prince comes on," she explained calmly with a child's simplicity.

You blink at her for a moment in silence, feeling the heat on your cheeks intensified. "Clara."

"It’s okay," she says seriously with a nod. "He’s handsome. You have good taste."

You consider for a moment whether it’s possible to sink into the earth and never return.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Lunch is a picnic under the shade of a charmed willow tree. The kids are still buzzing, mouths full of sandwiches, declaring their dreams of becoming dragon tamers. Some sketch their favorite dragons with crumb-covered fingers. You watch their enthusiasm with tenderness and a hint of amusement in your eyes. Soon Mattheo finds you near the feeding pen.

"Enjoying yourself yet?" he asks, leaning casually on the railing beside you.

"It’s... actually better than expected. No one's on fire, so I’m calling it a win," you say with a smile tugging on your lips.

He unwraps a sandwich and glances at yours, still untouched. "Not eating?"

"I'm too enchanted. I mean—interested. In all this." You laugh awkwardly and a bit flustered. "I’ve never seen anyone so comfortable around fire-breathing monsters."

He raises his brow in amusement. "You’re a teacher. You’re surrounded by tiny monsters daily."

You chuckle softly. "Touche."

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking. "You’re braver than you look."

You hum quietly. "Is that a compliment?"

"It is," he says easily. "You strike me as the soft type. Sweet. But you didn’t flinch when Ember tried to lick your coat."

"I couldn’t. The kids were watching."

"Still, you didn’t run." His voice dips slightly, more thoughtful. "That counts."

You glance at him, studying the way the late sun catches in his hair, the curve of his smile that’s equal parts playful and kind. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes your chest feel light and your stomach full of fluttering things.

"You’re not what I expected," you say quietly.

He arches a brow. "No? What were you expecting?"

"I don’t know. Arrogance? Recklessness? Someone who rides dragons without a saddle and uses bad pick-up lines."

He chuckles smoothly, eyes shine with amusement. "I do ride without a saddle, but I leave the pick-up lines to the desperate."

"I feel honored."

"You should." He nudges your elbow softly. "Besides, I don’t need pick-up lines. I’ve got dragons."

You laugh again, unable to help it. Something about him makes you feel safe and smile wider. "You really do."

For a moment, the air between you settles into something quiet. Easy and sweet. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he says, "You should come back sometime. Without twenty tiny chaperones."

"Is that a professional invitation?"

"Only if you’re into professionalism."

You tilt your head slightly, looking at him. "And if I’m into dragons?"

He gives you a look that’s all charm and slow-burning mischief. "Then I’m very interesting."

Your heart does a little leap again. "I’ll think about it."

"You do that," he says softly, gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

The trip ends too quickly. The kids piling back onto the carriages with sticky fingers and loud voices, waving their goodbyes wildly at every dragon in sight.

Mattheo walks you to the gate, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Thanks for not letting us get eaten," you say with a small smile. You want to prolong this moment, to stay in this fairytale with dragons and Prince Charming for a little longer.

"Anytime." He looks at you, something warm flickering in his gaze. "You really were good with them. The kids."

You shrug a little shy, "It’s easy when you love them."

"I think they love you back."

"Probably because I carry sweets in my bag all the time."

He grins. "Might have to start doing that myself."

You look at him, heart fluttering again. "Do you flirt with every teacher who visits?"

He tilts his head as if considering your question. "Only the ones who make dragon farms feel like fairy tales."

You blink, looking at him with wide eyes. "That’s—"

"Too much?" he asked with slightly bashful and boyish smile.

"A little," you admit with a smile. "But I liked it."

He steps a little closer, just enough for you to catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and leather.

"Come back," he says quietly and softly. "Next week. Or whenever you like. No pressure. Just... I’d like to see you again."

You bite your lip, trying to hide the silly smile his words cause. "Maybe I will."

"Maybe?"

"Okay. Definitely."

He smiles like you’ve just handed him something valuable. And the shine in his eyes is utterly disarming. "Good."

You linger for a second longer, then turn to follow your class, heart full of butterflies and something almost as fiery as the dragons behind you.

As you step onto the carriage, Clara tugs your sleeve again and whispers, "He definitely likes you."

You glance back to where Mattheo stands by the gate, one hand raised in a lazy wave. His eyes locked on you.

You wave back. "Yeah," you whisper with a silly grin on your lips. "I think I like him too."

[simp-for-love]

Stopppp! You're too cute and sweet. And you and your bf think I'm hilarious??? I'll wear this title with honor for the rest of my life 🙂‍↕️🩷

But seriously, I'm so glad that you feel that light, funny and warm vibe that I've tried to convey in my work. I'm giggling and smiling while reading your kind words. And I'm really happy that you (and your amazing plus one) like it.

Love you and kiss your cheeks 🥰💋

Where the Fire Breathes Soft

DragonTamer!Mattheo Riddle x Teacher!Reader

You take your class on a field trip to a dragon sanctuary, expecting chaos and maybe a little fire. What you don’t expect is Mattheo Riddle — charming, clever, and surprisingly gentle beneath the smirk. Between sunbathing dragons, wide-eyed students, and a tour that turns unexpectedly sweet, you find yourself falling, just a little, for the dragon tamer with a crooked smile.

Warnings: none, fluff to the bones

Word count: 1,7k

A/N: my very late work for week 1 of @acourtofchaos's au event. Hope to catch up with the rest of them soon ♡

You’re pretty sure this wasn’t in the job description.

Sure, it mentioned field trips, but it didn’t say anything about standing ten feet away from a dragon the size of a cottage while trying to look calm in front of twenty excited eleven-year-olds.

You’ve never seen a dragon up close before — unless you count the fold-out pages in Fantastic Beasts for Little Wizards. Even then, it was hard to believe something so majestic and terrifying could be real.

But here you are, standing at the edge of a wide, green field fenced with enchanted barriers, blinking at a sunbathing Norwegian Ridgeback. It looks like an overgrown lizard lounging in the afternoon sun, its dark, iridescent scales gleaming like opals. Around you, a dozen kids press against the barrier, gasping and arguing over which dragon is the coolest.

“Miss! Miss!” little Clara tugs at your coat, eyes wide with awe. "That one just sneezed fire!"

You give her a smile, even though your heart’s trying to climb into your throat. "Yes, dragons can do that, sweetheart."

"She sneezed!" Clara insists, pointing. "She’s like me when I have a cold!"

A warm chuckle comes from your right, deep and effortlessly amused.

"That would be Marigold. She’s a bit dramatic, but harmless. Unless you're a cabbage,"

You glance sideways and promptly forget how to breathe.

The man standing next to you is tall, dressed in a well-worn leather jacket that’s clearly seen its share of flame. His dark hair is tousled, jaw sharp, and eyes startlingly intelligent with a hint of mischief behind them. There’s a dragon-scale glove tucked into his belt, and something about the way he stands — casual, confident, like the dragons answer to him — makes your knees go a little weak. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint burn scars and inked runes. You catch yourself staring for a second too long.

"Oh," you manage. "Hello."

"Hi." He offers you a crooked smile, one that makes your heart do something unprofessional. "Mattheo Riddle. I work here."

You shake the hand he offers, and it’s warm, calloused, grounding. "I’m… You can call me Miss Teacher who is absolutely not terrified of dragons."

Mattheo laughs, low and easy, like sunshine on a cold morning. "Pleasure, Miss Teacher. You’re doing well for someone who looks like they might bolt."

"I’m just trying not to faint in front of the children."

"Good goal." He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. "Don’t worry. The dragons can smell fear, but they respect it. Means you’re smart."

"That’s comforting."

He grins wider, like he’s enjoying this, but not in a cruel way. Like he’s almost charmed by your honesty. “Which class is yours?”

"First-years," you say, glancing at the gaggle of kids giggling by the fence. "They’re obsessed with magical creatures right now. Their current theory is that dragons are just flying puppies with attitude problems."

"Not wrong," he muses with an amused grin. "Except for Blaze. Blaze eats puppies."

You gape at him in shock.

He blinks, then breaks into a laugh. The sound so warm and smooth that it makes your heart skip a beat. "Kidding."

You exhale the sigh of relief immediately. "Thank Merlin."

Mattheo chuckles again and gestures toward the enclosure. "Want a proper tour? I promise no incineration. Well, minimal incineration."

You arch a brow. "Do I get hazard pay?"

"No, but you get to walk next to me. That’s got to count for something," he says with a wink that sends a small stutter through your chest.

You laugh, caught off guard. "Charming, aren’t you?"

He gives you a little playful bow. "It’s in the job description," he said without any shame or second thought, grinning proudly.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Mattheo turns out to be great with the kids. You watch from the edge as he kneels beside one of them, explaining the difference between ridge-back scales and horned-tail ones like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s patient when they interrupt, gentle when they get overexcited, and firm when one of them tries to climb a fence.

You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be cocky, maybe even reckless. Swagger and smirks. But instead, there’s this quiet strength beneath all that charisma. Something solid and steady. And it makes you feel... oddly comfortable and safe.

You try not to stare too much as he gestures animatedly toward a Welsh Green gliding in a distant paddock. The sun catches in his hair, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like he belongs to the dragons. Not as their keeper, but their kin.

He catches your across the enclosure and winks again. You look away quickly, cheeks warm.

"Professor?" Clara tugs your sleeve gently to catch your attention. "Do you like him?"

You nearly choke at her question. "What?"

"You’re looking at him like my mum looks at the telly when the handsome prince comes on," she explained calmly with a child's simplicity.

You blink at her for a moment in silence, feeling the heat on your cheeks intensified. "Clara."

"It’s okay," she says seriously with a nod. "He’s handsome. You have good taste."

You consider for a moment whether it’s possible to sink into the earth and never return.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Lunch is a picnic under the shade of a charmed willow tree. The kids are still buzzing, mouths full of sandwiches, declaring their dreams of becoming dragon tamers. Some sketch their favorite dragons with crumb-covered fingers. You watch their enthusiasm with tenderness and a hint of amusement in your eyes. Soon Mattheo finds you near the feeding pen.

"Enjoying yourself yet?" he asks, leaning casually on the railing beside you.

"It’s... actually better than expected. No one's on fire, so I’m calling it a win," you say with a smile tugging on your lips.

He unwraps a sandwich and glances at yours, still untouched. "Not eating?"

"I'm too enchanted. I mean—interested. In all this." You laugh awkwardly and a bit flustered. "I’ve never seen anyone so comfortable around fire-breathing monsters."

He raises his brow in amusement. "You’re a teacher. You’re surrounded by tiny monsters daily."

You chuckle softly. "Touche."

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking. "You’re braver than you look."

You hum quietly. "Is that a compliment?"

"It is," he says easily. "You strike me as the soft type. Sweet. But you didn’t flinch when Ember tried to lick your coat."

"I couldn’t. The kids were watching."

"Still, you didn’t run." His voice dips slightly, more thoughtful. "That counts."

You glance at him, studying the way the late sun catches in his hair, the curve of his smile that’s equal parts playful and kind. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes your chest feel light and your stomach full of fluttering things.

"You’re not what I expected," you say quietly.

He arches a brow. "No? What were you expecting?"

"I don’t know. Arrogance? Recklessness? Someone who rides dragons without a saddle and uses bad pick-up lines."

He chuckles smoothly, eyes shine with amusement. "I do ride without a saddle, but I leave the pick-up lines to the desperate."

"I feel honored."

"You should." He nudges your elbow softly. "Besides, I don’t need pick-up lines. I’ve got dragons."

You laugh again, unable to help it. Something about him makes you feel safe and smile wider. "You really do."

For a moment, the air between you settles into something quiet. Easy and sweet. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he says, "You should come back sometime. Without twenty tiny chaperones."

"Is that a professional invitation?"

"Only if you’re into professionalism."

You tilt your head slightly, looking at him. "And if I’m into dragons?"

He gives you a look that’s all charm and slow-burning mischief. "Then I’m very interesting."

Your heart does a little leap again. "I’ll think about it."

"You do that," he says softly, gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

The trip ends too quickly. The kids piling back onto the carriages with sticky fingers and loud voices, waving their goodbyes wildly at every dragon in sight.

Mattheo walks you to the gate, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Thanks for not letting us get eaten," you say with a small smile. You want to prolong this moment, to stay in this fairytale with dragons and Prince Charming for a little longer.

"Anytime." He looks at you, something warm flickering in his gaze. "You really were good with them. The kids."

You shrug a little shy, "It’s easy when you love them."

"I think they love you back."

"Probably because I carry sweets in my bag all the time."

He grins. "Might have to start doing that myself."

You look at him, heart fluttering again. "Do you flirt with every teacher who visits?"

He tilts his head as if considering your question. "Only the ones who make dragon farms feel like fairy tales."

You blink, looking at him with wide eyes. "That’s—"

"Too much?" he asked with a slightly bashful and boyish smile.

"A little," you admit with a smile. "But I liked it."

He steps a little closer, just enough for you to catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and leather.

"Come back," he says quietly and softly. "Next week. Or whenever you like. No pressure. Just... I’d like to see you again."

You bite your lip, trying to hide the silly smile his words cause. "Maybe I will."

"Maybe?"

"Okay. Definitely."

He smiles like you’ve just handed him something valuable. And the shine in his eyes is utterly disarming. "Good."

You linger for a second longer, then turn to follow your class, heart full of butterflies and something almost as fiery as the dragons behind you.

As you step onto the carriage, Clara tugs your sleeve again and whispers, "He definitely likes you."

You glance back to where Mattheo stands by the gate, one hand raised in a lazy wave. His eyes locked on you.

You wave back. "Yeah," you whisper with a silly grin on your lips. "I think I like him too."

[simp-for-love]

Where the Fire Breathes Soft

DragonTamer!Mattheo Riddle x Teacher!FemReader

You take your class on a field trip to a dragon sanctuary, expecting chaos and maybe a little fire. What you don’t expect is Mattheo Riddle — charming, clever, and surprisingly gentle beneath the smirk. Between sunbathing dragons, wide-eyed students, and a tour that turns unexpectedly sweet, you find yourself falling, just a little, for the dragon tamer with a crooked smile.

Warnings: none, fluff to the bones

Word count: 1,7k

A/N: my very late work for week 1 of @acourtofchaos's au event. Hope to catch up with the rest of them soon ♡

You’re pretty sure this wasn’t in the job description.

Sure, it mentioned field trips, but it didn’t say anything about standing ten feet away from a dragon the size of a cottage while trying to look calm in front of twenty excited eleven-year-olds.

You’ve never seen a dragon up close before — unless you count the fold-out pages in Fantastic Beasts for Little Wizards. Even then, it was hard to believe something so majestic and terrifying could be real.

But here you are, standing at the edge of a wide, green field fenced with enchanted barriers, blinking at a sunbathing Norwegian Ridgeback. It looks like an overgrown lizard lounging in the afternoon sun, its dark, iridescent scales gleaming like opals. Around you, a dozen kids press against the barrier, gasping and arguing over which dragon is the coolest.

“Miss! Miss!” little Clara tugs at your coat, eyes wide with awe. "That one just sneezed fire!"

You give her a smile, even though your heart’s trying to climb into your throat. "Yes, dragons can do that, sweetheart."

"She sneezed!" Clara insists, pointing. "She’s like me when I have a cold!"

A warm chuckle comes from your right, deep and effortlessly amused.

"That would be Marigold. She’s a bit dramatic, but harmless. Unless you're a cabbage,"

You glance sideways and promptly forget how to breathe.

The man standing next to you is tall, dressed in a well-worn leather jacket that’s clearly seen its share of flame. His dark hair is tousled, jaw sharp, and eyes startlingly intelligent with a hint of mischief behind them. There’s a dragon-scale glove tucked into his belt, and something about the way he stands — casual, confident, like the dragons answer to him — makes your knees go a little weak. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint burn scars and inked runes. You catch yourself staring for a second too long.

"Oh," you manage. "Hello."

"Hi." He offers you a crooked smile, one that makes your heart do something unprofessional. "Mattheo Riddle. I work here."

You shake the hand he offers, and it’s warm, calloused, grounding. "I’m… You can call me Miss Teacher who is absolutely not terrified of dragons."

Mattheo laughs, low and easy, like sunshine on a cold morning. "Pleasure, Miss Teacher. You’re doing well for someone who looks like they might bolt."

"I’m just trying not to faint in front of the children."

"Good goal." He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. "Don’t worry. The dragons can smell fear, but they respect it. Means you’re smart."

"That’s comforting."

He grins wider, like he’s enjoying this, but not in a cruel way. Like he’s almost charmed by your honesty. “Which class is yours?”

"First-years," you say, glancing at the gaggle of kids giggling by the fence. "They’re obsessed with magical creatures right now. Their current theory is that dragons are just flying puppies with attitude problems."

"Not wrong," he muses with an amused grin. "Except for Blaze. Blaze eats puppies."

You gape at him in shock.

He blinks, then breaks into a laugh. The sound so warm and smooth that it makes your heart skip a beat. "Kidding."

You exhale the sigh of relief immediately. "Thank Merlin."

Mattheo chuckles again and gestures toward the enclosure. "Want a proper tour? I promise no incineration. Well, minimal incineration."

You arch a brow. "Do I get hazard pay?"

"No, but you get to walk next to me. That’s got to count for something," he says with a wink that sends a small stutter through your chest.

You laugh, caught off guard. "Charming, aren’t you?"

He gives you a little playful bow. "It’s in the job description," he said without any shame or second thought, grinning proudly.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Mattheo turns out to be great with the kids. You watch from the edge as he kneels beside one of them, explaining the difference between ridge-back scales and horned-tail ones like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s patient when they interrupt, gentle when they get overexcited, and firm when one of them tries to climb a fence.

You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be cocky, maybe even reckless. Swagger and smirks. But instead, there’s this quiet strength beneath all that charisma. Something solid and steady. And it makes you feel... oddly comfortable and safe.

You try not to stare too much as he gestures animatedly toward a Welsh Green gliding in a distant paddock. The sun catches in his hair, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like he belongs to the dragons. Not as their keeper, but their kin.

He catches your across the enclosure and winks again. You look away quickly, cheeks warm.

"Professor?" Clara tugs your sleeve gently to catch your attention. "Do you like him?"

You nearly choke at her question. "What?"

"You’re looking at him like my mum looks at the telly when the handsome prince comes on," she explained calmly with a child's simplicity.

You blink at her for a moment in silence, feeling the heat on your cheeks intensified. "Clara."

"It’s okay," she says seriously with a nod. "He’s handsome. You have good taste."

You consider for a moment whether it’s possible to sink into the earth and never return.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Lunch is a picnic under the shade of a charmed willow tree. The kids are still buzzing, mouths full of sandwiches, declaring their dreams of becoming dragon tamers. Some sketch their favorite dragons with crumb-covered fingers. You watch their enthusiasm with tenderness and a hint of amusement in your eyes. Soon Mattheo finds you near the feeding pen.

"Enjoying yourself yet?" he asks, leaning casually on the railing beside you.

"It’s... actually better than expected. No one's on fire, so I’m calling it a win," you say with a smile tugging on your lips.

He unwraps a sandwich and glances at yours, still untouched. "Not eating?"

"I'm too enchanted. I mean—interested. In all this." You laugh awkwardly and a bit flustered. "I’ve never seen anyone so comfortable around fire-breathing monsters."

He raises his brow in amusement. "You’re a teacher. You’re surrounded by tiny monsters daily."

You chuckle softly. "Touche."

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking. "You’re braver than you look."

You hum quietly. "Is that a compliment?"

"It is," he says easily. "You strike me as the soft type. Sweet. But you didn’t flinch when Ember tried to lick your coat."

"I couldn’t. The kids were watching."

"Still, you didn’t run." His voice dips slightly, more thoughtful. "That counts."

You glance at him, studying the way the late sun catches in his hair, the curve of his smile that’s equal parts playful and kind. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes your chest feel light and your stomach full of fluttering things.

"You’re not what I expected," you say quietly.

He arches a brow. "No? What were you expecting?"

"I don’t know. Arrogance? Recklessness? Someone who rides dragons without a saddle and uses bad pick-up lines."

He chuckles smoothly, eyes shine with amusement. "I do ride without a saddle, but I leave the pick-up lines to the desperate."

"I feel honored."

"You should." He nudges your elbow softly. "Besides, I don’t need pick-up lines. I’ve got dragons."

You laugh again, unable to help it. Something about him makes you feel safe and smile wider. "You really do."

For a moment, the air between you settles into something quiet. Easy and sweet. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he says, "You should come back sometime. Without twenty tiny chaperones."

"Is that a professional invitation?"

"Only if you’re into professionalism."

You tilt your head slightly, looking at him. "And if I’m into dragons?"

He gives you a look that’s all charm and slow-burning mischief. "Then I’m very interesting."

Your heart does a little leap again. "I’ll think about it."

"You do that," he says softly, gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

The trip ends too quickly. The kids piling back onto the carriages with sticky fingers and loud voices, waving their goodbyes wildly at every dragon in sight.

Mattheo walks you to the gate, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Thanks for not letting us get eaten," you say with a small smile. You want to prolong this moment, to stay in this fairytale with dragons and Prince Charming for a little longer.

"Anytime." He looks at you, something warm flickering in his gaze. "You really were good with them. The kids."

You shrug a little shy, "It’s easy when you love them."

"I think they love you back."

"Probably because I carry sweets in my bag all the time."

He grins. "Might have to start doing that myself."

You look at him, heart fluttering again. "Do you flirt with every teacher who visits?"

He tilts his head as if considering your question. "Only the ones who make dragon farms feel like fairy tales."

You blink, looking at him with wide eyes. "That’s—"

"Too much?" he asked with slightly bashful and boyish smile.

"A little," you admit with a smile. "But I liked it."

He steps a little closer, just enough for you to catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and leather.

"Come back," he says quietly and softly. "Next week. Or whenever you like. No pressure. Just... I’d like to see you again."

You bite your lip, trying to hide the silly smile his words cause. "Maybe I will."

"Maybe?"

"Okay. Definitely."

He smiles like you’ve just handed him something valuable. And the shine in his eyes is utterly disarming. "Good."

You linger for a second longer, then turn to follow your class, heart full of butterflies and something almost as fiery as the dragons behind you.

As you step onto the carriage, Clara tugs your sleeve again and whispers, "He definitely likes you."

You glance back to where Mattheo stands by the gate, one hand raised in a lazy wave. His eyes locked on you.

You wave back. "Yeah," you whisper with a silly grin on your lips. "I think I like him too."

[simp-for-love]

olive you berry much

Olive you too, sweet girl 🥰❤️

[simp-for-love]

kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss

kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back kiss back 💋

[simp-for-love]

Ti vedo sempre

obsessed!Theodore Nott x femReader

Theo was a constant in your life — loyal, collected, always here for you. But you didn’t know all the truth. That there was something else behind his usually quiet and perfect behavior.

Warnings: mdni! dubcon smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, dark themes, obsession, mentions of physical violence, unhealthy attachment, stalking, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, swearing

Word count: ~ 4k

A/N: it's a darkish and intense work (at least comparing to my previous ones). Theo here is a mix of an obsessed and whipped man, so be aware and enjoy ♡

You never really noticed the way Theo looked at you. Not really. You thought he was quiet, maybe a little cold, sometimes too intense — but he was your friend. The one who always stood behind you when the world felt too loud. The one who said little, but when he did, it mattered.

But there had been something else behind his silence. Something that rotted in the shadows of his mind.

Something you never saw. Something he fed daily.

The thing was... he had known everything about you.

Your perfume. The specific brand of lip balm you used. The way you liked your tea when you were tired. The quiet sound you made when stretching in the morning.

You’d never told him those things.

You didn’t need to. Because Theo watched. All the time.

He watched you like it was second nature. Not with hunger, not with heat — no, that would have been too pale, too simple.

It had been deeper than that. More corrosive. More calculating. He watched you the way a predator watched the one thing it didn’t want to destroy, the one thing it wanted to keep.

Your laugh in the Great Hall? Etched into the folds of his memory, replaying over and over again. The bookmark you had left in the library? In his drawer now, tucked near your hairpins that you had left on your study evening. That ring that you suddenly “lost” last month? He carried it in his pocket like a prayer.

And when you looked at him — really looked at him, like he wasn’t just the quiet best friend always at your side — he felt like his ribs were splitting open and his insides mushing together.

He knew what flavor of shampoo you used. Bought it just to open the cap and breathe you in when no one was watching. He had memorized the way your lips moved when you were tired and too lazy to form full words. He had thought about tracing them with his fingers, then with his tongue, then with his dick. Just to see the difference, just to feel it.

You didn’t know that he had thought about you every time he touched himself either. That he replayed your voice in his head at night, imagining your soft little moans until he came in his hand messily with your name caught between his gritted teeth. That he had stopped seeing other girls — not because he couldn’t, but because they weren’t you.

And the worst part? You trusted him. You came to him with your sadness and problems, with your laughter and smiles. You didn’t know what it did to him. You had no idea how hard he gripped the table when you rested your hand on his arm. How many times he had bitten the inside of his cheek until it bled, just to stop himself from saying something like, “Don’t leave me. Ever." How many times he had stopped himself from locking you in his dorm forever, so only he could see you, only he could touch you.

He didn’t love you, no. Love was too soft, too gentle a word for the things he felt. What he felt was bigger. Sharper. Darker. Possession layered in silk. Longing dressed in quiet rage. And you shouldn’t have known about it. Because you would’ve run away. But of course, it couldn’t have been kept forever like that.

It happened at a party. Some Gryffindor’s birthday — loud music, too many people, smuggled firewhisky in floating goblets. You had only agreed to come because Theo said he would too. And you had felt safe with him. You always did.

He leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on you like he didn’t even notice the chaos around him. Like nothing else mattered but the shape of your happy smile and the way your hips moved slightly to the music. You looked like a goddess under the low, flickering lights. Too ethereal. Too unaware.

You worn that dress. The one that clung to your hips and dipped too low at the back. The one that made already unhinged thoughts in Theo’s head go wild.

He didn't blame you — you didn’t know any better. But they did. The way they all looked at you. The way one of them, some Hufflepuff prick with too straight teeth and a hand that lingered on your elbow, leaned in to say something in your ear.

Theo didn't hear the words from that distance. But he didn’t really need to. Because your laugh was too soft and bright, and your smile too kind and sweet, and that guy’s hand was still there.

Theodore’s jaw had tightened, his nails biting into his palm. Something dark and obnoxious bit his insides, trying to crawl outside. He pictured that guy's hands breaking. Their teeth scattered across stone floors. He imagined slamming his fist into the boy's face, feeling the satisfying give of cartilage, watching as his nose erupted in a bloom of red. He wanted to paint the stone floor with the fucker’s blood, to mark his territory.

He didn't feel bad about those thoughts. No. No one got to want you. No one got to even think about you like that. Not when he had already filled pages of his journal with your name. Not when he had rewritten the ending of his life a hundred times, and every version began and ended with only you.

He didn't move at first. He just watched.

Stone still. A glass of firewhisky untouched in his hand. His eyes sharp, cold, narrowed — dissecting, measuring, calculating just how close the boy was standing. How long it would take to break every finger on that fucking wandering hand. How long until he could press you into the wall and make you understand.

You were his. Only his.

You just didn't know it yet. Didn't know the depths of his obsession, the sheer intensity of his desire. That he collected pieces of you over the years like a man possessed. He had you, in fragments, in shards, in a thousand stolen moments. And he would never let you go. Not now and not ever. You were his, and he would destroy anyone who tried to take you away from him. Starting with the prick who dared to touch you, to smile at you, to breathe in your direction.

The thoughts pulsed through him like throbbing venom. And when the boy brushed a knuckle down your arm — too casually, too fucking familiar — something dark and vicious inside Theo finally snapped.

He slowly set the glass down and walked across the room with leisurely, steady steps. Controlled. Dangerous. His gaze fixed on the guy like a blade.

He was behind you in seconds, smooth and quiet as smoke. His hand wrapped around your wrist, deceptively gentle, as he leaned in close. His voice was nothing but silk dipped in poison.

“You look like you need air.”

He didn't wait. Just tugged your wrist gently but firmly, like he did it a thousand times before. Like you should follow. And you did, stumbling a little in your heels as he pulled you through the people to the corridor and down a quiet hallway, away from the crowd to his dorm.

“Theo,” you exclaimed with a smile, half-laughing. “What are you—?”

“Don’t.” His voice was surprisingly rough now. Too raw. Too real. You didn’t hear Theo speak to you like that before. “Don’t laugh. Don’t act like he wasn’t trying to fuck you right there in the middle of the room in front of everyone.”

You blinked, startled both by his tone and his words. “What? No, Theo, he wasn’t—”

“He was.” He finally stopped and turned to you. The hall was dim, lit only by the soft glow of torches. His jaw clenched, eyes roaming over your face, your lips, the sliver of your soft bare skin at your collarbone. “And you let him.”

“But, Theo, I didn’t—”

“You did.” He stepped forward, and you instinctively took one back, only to find yourself against the stone wall. His voice softened, but it didn’t lose its intensity. “You don’t get it, do you, sciocca?”

His hand rose slowly and came up to touch your face, knuckles brushing your jaw. Gentle. Reverent. Obsessed.

“You never get it,” Theo whispered feverishly, almost to himself this time, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek like he was trying to memorize it through touch alone. His eyes were dark now, not just from the shadows of the light, but from something dangerous and simmering that you hadn’t seen there until now.

You swallowed thickly, throat suddenly feeling too tight. “Theo, you—you’re scaring me.”

That made him flinch, just barely. His jaw ticked slightly, and for a second, his hand pulled away, but only for a moment. Then it was back, cradling your face fully now, holding you like something precious and fragile, like something sacred.

“I’d never hurt you, dolce,” he murmured frantically and almost miserably. “But you don’t see how easy it is for someone else to try. How easy it is for them to look at you, to touch you like you aren't mine.”

You froze at his words, at the intensity and desperation in them. “Yours?” you asked quietly.

A flicker of something cruel twisted in his mouth, not quite a smile, more like a dark smirk. “I tried not to say it. Merda, I really tried. Thought I could keep it inside, just—just let it rot there in my chest like everything else. But then you walked in, looking like a fucking goddess in that dress. Letting him—” He broke off, eyes narrowing like he was reliving it. “And I couldn’t. I fucking couldn’t anymore.”

Your breath caught when he leaned in, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel his words burn across your lips.

“I thought about you every damn night, you know that? I know how you sleep. What makes you sigh. What makes you bite your pretty lower lip. What happy songs you hum under your breath when you think no one's listening.”

“Theo, that’s—” you started, heart hammering too loud in your chest, “that’s not normal.”

He laughed, soft, low, and wicked. “No, it isn’t. It isn’t normal. But nothing about you and me was ever going to be normal, was it?”

He was so close now that you couldn’t look anywhere else. His hand was back on your face, and the other slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped — not because it hurt, but because of how good it felt, how right. How terrifyingly right it was to be in his arms.

“You want honesty?” he murmured lowly and velvety. “I dream about you every night. About fucking you so slow you would cry and whimper prettily. I dream about you on your knees, looking up at me with those beautiful and confused big eyes. I want you soft. I want you ruined. I want you to beg. I want you mine.”

You couldn’t breathe. You felt almost entranced by his words, by the weighted meaning of them, by the dark glint in his intense gaze that pinned you to the place.

“I'm not your friend,” he continued, voice dropping to a hot whisper on your skin, “Not anymore. Not with the things I think in my head. Not with the way I feel.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes for a moment, like he was praying, like he was trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

"I tried to be good for you. I really did. I kept my distance, swallowed every fucked-up thought, every fantasy, every urge to lock the door and keep you where only I could see you. But tonight… when he touched you—” His hand tightened at your waist, and the next words came almost as a growl from his lips. “All I could think was mine, mine, mine.”

You could shove him away, you knew that. But your body betrayed you, staying still, pressed against him and the wall. Your heart was screaming and skin burning beneath his touch. You didn’t move, you didn’t stop him. Just looked at him in awe and confusion. And that was all the permission he needed.

Theo leaned in slowly, giving you a second, just one quick moment to pull away. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours, soft and trembling at first, like he was tasting something forbidden and sacred, before his mouth crashed down on yours in a kiss that seared and stung.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tentative. It was absolutely desperate. The kiss was a storm. His tongue invaded your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip like he was trying to taste your blood running underneath it. He groaned deeply and wrecked when you kissed him back, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt in a frantic attempt to anchor yourself in this assault.

“That’s it,” he breathed against your lips, “just like that, mia ragazza. That’s how it should be.”

His words pooled in your stomach like wildfire, bringing needy heat in its wake. He kissed you again, even harder this time. Hands gripped your hips so tight you knew there’d be bruises. He didn’t care, neither did you.

One hand slid up your spine, tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to make your head tilt back, your throat exposed to his ravenous mouth. He pressed kisses down your neck, tongue flicking against your pulse point, feeling the desperate beat of your heart underneath. You gasped — and fuck, he smiled.

"You like that, huh?” he murmured with a wicked grin against your skin. And it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. “You like when I take control. When I ruin you a little. Don’t you, bella?”

You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have loved the way he made you feel. Like the most wanted thing in the world, like your body was sacred and his obsession was holy. But you did. And when his hand slipped under the hem of your dress, tracing slow circles just above your thigh, your knees went weak.

“I waited so long to touch you like this,” he said, voice ragged and thick with desire, forehead pressed against your temple. “You don’t know how many nights I fucking ached for it.”

You couldn’t answer him properly anymore. Your mind was foggy, a jumbled mess of sensations and feelings. Instead, your fingers clutched his shirt even tighter like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your mouth parted for him with a soft and needy sound he swore he’d hear in every wet dream from now on.

But even Theo, in all his obsessive devotion, knew the hallway wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted all.

The wall behind you was too cold for your gentle skin. The corridor too exposed. Someone could come around the corner, and Theo... he didn’t like sharing, certainly not you. Not even the sound of your gasps. Especially not the sight of you like this: lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy, pressed against him like you always belonged there. No, it was all only his now.

His eyes flicked toward the muffled noise of the party somewhere behind, then back to you. His pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips red from kissing and biting. He looked at you for a few moments with his blue eyes that were filled with something dark and unhinged before pulling away from you.

He didn’t speak. Just wrapped his hand firmly around your wrist again, but this time there was no hesitation in your movements. You followed him without a word, dizzy from the taste of him, your pulse thundering like butterfly wings trapped in a jar. He led you through another corridor, deeper into the castle, down a flight of stairs you barely registered.

And then — his dorm.

The door shut behind you with a low, final click. The world outside ceased to exist. The walls were dark, shadows flickering with the faint glow of a single enchanted lamp. His bed was unmade. His books were stacked in messy, meticulous piles. It smelled like cedar and parchment and something warm and clean, something him.

You barely had time to look around before Theo was on you again — his mouth trailing down your jaw, his hands sliding under your dress. And this time there was no hesitation, no careful pause.

He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the bed, laying you down like something breakable and precious, and then climbing over you like he was starving.

“I thought about this so many times,” he murmured against your neck, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it. “Fantasized about what you’d sound like, what you’d look like under me. And fuck, you’re better than anything I imagined.”

You gasped when his hands tugged the hem of your dress higher, fingers ghosting over your thighs, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if this was real. But it was real. The way his mouth trailed down your chest, hot and open and desperate — that was real. The way he exhaled like a man finally tasting salvation — that was real too.

His hands were shaking as he slid your dress up and over your hips, slow enough to savor, fast enough to betray the frantic and feverish desire in him. His gaze dropped to your panties — black lace, delicate — and he groaned like it physically hurt to see them.

“Fuck. Do you have any idea what this does to me? What you do to me?” he rasped, fingers tracing the edge of the lace, not touching where you wanted him yet, like he was making himself wait, like he wanted to suffer a bit more.

You reached for him, chest rising and falling in ragged waves, but he caught your wrists halfway and pinned them above your head, holding them there gently but firmly with one hand. His other hand trailed down your side, slow, appreciating, claiming. His lean body was pressed against you, mouth a whisper away from yours.

“I’m not letting you go,” he said, voice thick with promise and dark warning at the same time. “You understand that, right? Not after this.”

You nodded breathless and aroused beyond reason. And something in him shifted alive again, but it wasn’t anger this time. It was worship. Devotion. His madness for you laced in reverence.

He kissed you like he was drinking you, slow, deep, hungry. His free hand slid between your legs, finally pressing against the soaked fabric of your underwear, and you whimpered almost shamefully sweet, thighs instinctively parting for him even wider.

He swallowed thickly. “Oh, bella,” he whispered almost wrecked, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You’re so wet for me. Just for me.”

He pushed the lace aside, fingers dipping into you with a low groan. You cried out softly, arching into him. And that sound — Merlin, that sound — made him roll his hips against you without thinking, needing friction, needing everything you could give him and more.

His touch was deliberate, fingers slow and curling just right. You were moaning now, broken and desperate for more. He kissed you possessively and fiercely in need to swallow these pretty sounds, to absorb it all.

“I want to feel you fall apart,” he growled into your mouth. “I want to feel you break around my fingers first, then around my cock deep inside you. I want to hear how you sound when it’s too much, too good. When it’s everything.”

You were shaking now, thighs trembling around his hand, nails digging into his shoulders desperately. “Theo, please,” you whispered quietly.

His eyes darkened at the word. Please. It was like music to his ears from your pretty kiss-swollen lips. He pulled back just enough to watch your face as he slid down your body, kissing a trail along your stomach, lifting your legs over his shoulders.

Then he looked up at you — eyes wide, lips parted, reverent — and said, “Keep looking at me. I want to see your face when I make you come.”

He lowered his mouth to you. Heat, wetness, tongue, lips, him. All of him. It was overwhelming. His mouth moved like he’d studied every secret of your body, like he had written essays on how to worship you just right. His tongue lapped slow and teasing at first, then deeper, firmer — and when you bucked your hips, he gripped your thighs harder, dragging you closer to his mouth like he owned you, like he was taking what was rightfully his.

His name fell from your lips in soft cries over and over again. Theo groaned into you, vibration against your core sending you spiraling. He didn’t stop. Not when you came once. Not when you gasped, twitched and whimpered his name like a prayer. He kept going, greedy, worshipful, until tears started to slip from your eyes and your thighs shook like leaves in the wind.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were wet, eyes blown wide with lust and something darker. Theo crawled back over you, dragging his cock against your slick heat. His gaze was dark, absorbing something inside you like a void, calling out for something dark and twisted inside your soul. And it was responding.

“You’re mine,” he whispered more ragged now, more guttural. “Say it.”

Your lips trembled as he slid the head of his cock against you, not entering yet, just enough to make you ache for more.

“Say it, dolcezza," he insisted lowly.

“I’m yours,” you breathed out, dazed and trembling. “All yours, Theo.”

And then he finally pushed in — slow, stretching, filling. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his back as his name broke from your lips in a whiny sob.

Nothing was slow after that. His thrusts were deep, punishing, claiming. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth on your neck, your shoulders, your lips, everywhere. Every inch of you was touched, kissed, marked by him. Theo fucked you like he’d been waiting his whole life for this. Like he was trying to etch himself into your bones, to bury himself so deeply inside you that he could touch your soul.

You cried out for him again and again, and every sound drove him only deeper, harder. He was saying things in Italian now. Words you didn’t understand but felt in your blood, in your insides. “Bellissima, così stretta, così perfetta, sei mia, sei mia, sei mia—”

And then, somewhere between these beautifully twisted mantras, you came again, this time around him. Theo lost it. He buried himself deep, body shaking, groaning into your neck as he spilled inside you, chanting your name like it was sacred, like it was the only thing he knew.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just stayed there, inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

And when he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“You’re mine now. And I swear, if anyone ever touches you again, looks at you like that, I'm...” His voice trailed off, something dangerous curling around the edges of it.

But he didn’t finish the threat. He just kissed you again — slow this time, reverent, almost tender — and held you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

And maybe you were.