#Mattheo Riddle

[pizzaapeteer]

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

“Mattheo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[forestgreenwhore]

this is so insaneeeely perfect i’m gonna lose my mind. i actually need this as a 1628 part fic series.

wait seriously though you have to make this an entire fic universe please pleaseeeeee

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

*

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

[sabxynsweet]

more sweetheart!reader with mattheo

You’re sitting on the chair next to Mattheo, a chair that once belonged to Theodore Nott who was now sitting off to the side with Enzo and Blaise as they watched you lean all your body weight on the hand that rested on Mattheo's desk.

"Did you do something different with your hair?" You ask, peering up at him through your eyelashes.

"Hmm?" He looks down at you.

"Your hair, it looks a bit different." You watch in adoration as he runs his fingers through his hair, only for his curls to fall perfectly back in place.

"Good different?" He smirks.

"Very good different." You say quickly, making him laugh.

The two of you don't hear Theo, Blaise and Enzo snickering at them a few seats away.

"That is a girl in love." Pansy says, frowning at her friend, “It's almost hard to watch."

"Mattheo is going to break the poor girl's heart." Blaise says, always amused.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Theo chuckles, "the other day, I was talking about this movie and he casually says 'yn loves that movie'."

"So? That's normal. By now, they’re friends, aren't they?" Enzo asks, Theo rolls his eyes.

"Okay, first of all, Mattheo isn't friends with girls." He points to Pansy. "Unless they're his friends' girlfriends or whatever."

Pansy grins, and throws her feet on Blaise's lap.

"And secondly, Mattheo knew her favourite. movie." Theo emphasises.

The group nod and gasp in agreement.

“You’re kidding! I’ve known him for 3 years and he still can’t remember my birthday!” Enzo complains.

“Sorry, Enzo, you’re not his girl.” Blaise snickers.

"Should we be worried that they can hear us?" They turn their attention to the pair sitting a couple seats away.

You were in a fit of giggles over something Mattheo was saying, his entire presence making you giddy. Their focus was set on you two, your focus was set on each other.

"Yeah, I don't think we have to worry about that."

to the two people who sent me asks - they’re in my drafts!! coming so soon, i promise. i have so many drafts of situationship!mattheo i might just skip this awkward “friends” stage

[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

[nottscherry]

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

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

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

more dealer!mattheo.

[rositxespinosa]

oh my gosh

i'm sweating and it has nothing to do with how hot it is outside

── .✦ military!mattheo fucking you in his uniform

warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, slight dacryphilia (?), cmnf, swearing

you don’t hear him coming.

one second, you're reaching up to grab a glass from the cabinet, and the next, he’s there—pressed against your back, arms winding tight around your waist, his broad chest solid and unyielding as he breathes in deep at the crook of your neck, the heavy weight of him swallowing you whole. it’s barely been half an hour since he got home—the clinginess is expected.

"fuck," mattheo rasps, voice like gravel. "can't fucking be away from you. tried—tried to keep my hands to myself for a little longer, but i can’t."

his hands drag down, slow, deliberate, rough palms mapping your body like he's memorizing you all over again. his belt clinks as he presses closer, and you can feel him—thick and heavy against your ass, barely contained by his uniform.

"took the words right out of my mouth," you murmur, tilting your head as his lips graze your skin, breath warm and uneven. his stubble scratches along your jaw, a reminder that he’s real, that he’s here, and your stomach clenches with anticipation.

"yeah?" he nips at the shell of your ear, his hands slipping under your shirt, palms greedy against bare skin before sliding the shirt up and off of you. "you been missing me that bad, angel?"

"you have no idea."

his chest rumbles with a low, pleased hum, hands squeezing at your now naked tits. "been touching yourself while i was gone, hm? slipping those pretty fingers inside, pretending they were mine?"

heat floods your cheeks, embarrassment prickling at your spine. you hesitate, and that’s all he needs.

"oh, baby," he drawls, dragging a hand up to wrap around your throat, not tight, just there, thumb stroking over your pulse. "bet you made such a mess of yourself thinkin’ about me. bet you came so fuckin’ pretty."

his other hand moves, fingers slipping past the waistband of your shorts, teasing along the damp fabric of your panties. "but not as good as when i do it, huh?"

"n-no," you whisper, legs trembling.

he chuckles, dark and satisfied. "good girl. now, c’mon—gonna take care of you properly."

before you can process it, he’s lifting you like you weigh nothing, spinning you in his arms and setting you down on the kitchen counter. the cold marble bites into your skin as he tugs your shorts and panties down in one swift motion, his rough hands guiding your knees apart, spreading you open for him, leaving you entirely bare and vulnerable while he’s still dressed in his uniform.

his gaze darkens, hunger carving sharp lines into his already severe features. he drinks you in like a dying man, eyes unable to leave your glistening pussy. "i think this sweet little cunt missed me as much as i missed her."

his fingers trail up your thighs, slow and taunting, before wrapping around his belt. the sound of the buckle unfastening makes your breath hitch, and then he’s unzipping his pants, freeing himself with a low groan.

he’s so hard it looks painful, tip flushed and leaking as he wraps a hand around his cock, lazily stroking as he watches you squirm.

“you gonna be good for me?

"yes—yes, please, mattheo—"

he grins, wolfish. "so fuckin’ polite. what happened to my brat, huh? where’d she go?" his cock slides through your slick folds, the thick head tapping against your clit, making you clench. "thought you’d be givin’ me a hard time."

"mattheo," you whimper, hips jerking as he keeps teasing, keeps sliding his cock over your pussy, over and over, never giving you what you need. your head falls back, frustration tightening your muscles. "please. please, just—"

he groans, grip tightening on your thighs. "fuck, you beg so pretty. c'mon, baby. tell me you want me to fuck you raw."

there’s not a single tremble of hesitation in your voice. “i want you to fuck me raw.”

his cock twitches in his hand. he leans forward, lips brushing against your ear, voice dropping to something almost mocking, almost sweet. "yeah? after all this time, think you can take me without any prep? think this greedy little cunt can handle it?"

his words send a shiver down your spine, a sharp pulse of need tightening in your stomach. "yes," you breathe. "i can take it."

he exhales a harsh breath, running his cock along your slick again, pressing just the tip inside before pulling back. "gonna split you open, baby. make you feel me for days. you want that?"

"want it so bad—please, please, mattheo—"

he chuckles, something dark, something smug. "such a desperate little thing. fine. but you better take every inch."

he lines himself up and pushes in, slow, making you take every thick inch until he’s buried deep, your walls stretching around him. a broken moan slips past your lips, hands gripping the edge of the counter as your body trembles beneath his.

mattheo lets out a strangled groan, head dropping forward. his hands find your waist, gripping tight as he starts to move, each thrust deliberate, dragging pleasure through every nerve in your body. he watches you—watches the way your eyes flutter, the way your lips part, the way your breath stutters with every push and pull of his cock.

"look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with reverence. "my beautiful little slut."

he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot and heavy against your lips. "gonna fill you up, baby. gonna make you mine all over again."

his thrusts turn rougher, deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you open. you’re gasping, moaning, eyes shining with unshed tears as pleasure coils tight in your stomach.

"please," you whimper, and he groans, tilting your chin up to catch a tear on his tongue, groaning at the taste. another tear falls and he licks it off your cheek in record time.

"fuck, i missed you," he breathes against your lips. "gonna make you cum, sweetheart. then i’m gonna fill you up—gonna breed this pretty little pussy until you’re dripping."

his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles as his thrusts turn punishing, precise. your body locks up, pleasure cresting so hard it leaves you breathless, your release hitting you in waves as he fucks you through it.

mattheo doesn’t stop.

he groans, chasing his own high, thrusts turning erratic as he buries himself deep one last time, spilling inside you with a shuddering moan. he stays there, holding you close, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your jaw, your neck, your lips.

"i love you, angel," he murmurs, voice hoarse.

his cock twitches inside you, and his lips curl into a smirk against your skin. "think you can give me another one, baby?"

m.list

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (17) - Mattheo Riddle

A/N: Set before they started dating, I’ve had a few asks about how they got together so I’m going to start expanding on some memories from that period!

———

The music was already thudding through the walls of the Slytherin common room by the time you stepped inside. A rare Friday night party had taken over the space, with enchanted lanterns floating above in green and silver swirls, casting shadows across the sea of students crammed shoulder to shoulder. People were laughing, flirting, dancing. Cups floated midair, filled and refilled themselves with butterbeer and Firewhisky.

You never usually came to these.

But Pansy had caught you in the library that afternoon, leaned across your books with a knowing smirk and declared it was time for “a transformation.”

“I’m serious,” she’d said, plucking a quill from your hand. “You spend your life reading. Let’s make them read you tonight.”

You’d laughed, but somehow let her drag you to her dorm. Now, standing at the threshold of the party, your heart fluttered.

Pansy had worked magic. Quite literally. Your usually tidy hair had been charmed into soft, touchable waves. You wore a simple but stunning dress—dark and perfectly fitted—that shimmered subtly under the floating lights. And your makeup, subtle as it was, made your eyes stand out like you were casting spells just by blinking.

You stepped in beside her, and immediately, heads turned.

The buzz of the party shifted as whispers sparked like sparks on flint.

“Is that—wait, her?”

“No way, that’s the Ravenclaw girl who never comes to anything—”

“She looks… wow—”

You felt your cheeks flush, but Pansy gave you a grin that said you’re welcome, looped her arm through yours, and led you toward the center.

Across the room, Mattheo had frozen mid-sentence.

He stood with Theo and Enzo by the drinks table, lazily twirling his wand between his hands. The second he saw you, it slipped through his fingers and hit the floor unnoticed.

His entire body stiffened.

“What the hell,” he muttered.

Enzo followed his gaze and let out a low whistle. “Well, well.”

Theo took a sip of his drink. “Someone’s gonna lose his mind tonight.”

Mattheo glared at them both. “Shut up.”

“She looks incredible,” Enzo said.

“She always looks good,” Mattheo replied automatically, voice low and flat.

Theo smirked. “And yet this is somehow still shocking for you.”

“I just—” Mattheo cut himself off, jaw working. His fists clenched at his sides as a Hufflepuff bumped past you and stared far too long. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t like other guys having eyes?” Theo teased.

“I don’t like them looking at her like that.” His voice was low and cold now.

Enzo grinned. “You could just ask her out, you know.”

Mattheo’s expression twisted. “She deserves someone normal. Safe. Not…” He gestured to himself vaguely, helplessly. “This.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “You think she wants normal?”

Mattheo didn’t answer.

———

You caught sight of them across the room and smiled, waving slightly. Enzo perked up and started toward you.

Mattheo didn’t move. He looked like he wanted to. Like he might throw a table instead.

“She’s waving at you, dumbass,” Theo muttered. “Go.”

But Enzo beat him to it, slipping through the crowd with that trademark grin. “You look like you just walked off a page in a spellbook,” he said to you, offering a hand. “Dance with me?”

You laughed softly and let him pull you toward the center of the room, where a slower song was beginning to play.

Mattheo watched, every muscle in his jaw tight as Theo leaned beside him. “He’s your best friend. If you hex him, I’m not helping hide the body.”

“I’m not hexing Enzo,” Mattheo muttered, though his fists were still clenched. “I’m hexing everyone else.”

“She’s dancing,” Theo said gently. “She’s happy.”

Mattheo’s eyes never left you. “I want to be the one making her happy.”

“Then tell her.”

“I will.”

“When?”

Mattheo sighed, finally glancing at Theo. “When I believe I’m not going to ruin her.”

Theo blinked. “That’s… actually kind of heartbreaking.”

Mattheo looked away again.

———

You were mid-laugh when Enzo spun you under his arm and dipped you dramatically, both of you grinning.

“I haven’t danced in years,” you admitted as he straightened you again.

“You’ve been missing out,” Enzo winked. “I’m a great dance partner. Just ask Theo—”

He paused as the music changed. “I’ll grab us drinks,” he offered, giving your shoulder a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd.

That’s when he appeared.

You didn’t know the guy, some random Gryffindor, but his confidence oozed with every step. He slid in front of you with a cocky smile, clearly mistaking your brief solitude as invitation.

“Hey, didn’t know Ravenclaws knew how to party.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re that library girl, yeah? With the books? Gotta say, didn’t expect this.” His eyes raked over you. “Not bad.”

You opened your mouth, whether to hex or slap him, you weren’t sure—but you didn’t get the chance.

Because suddenly, the guy was yanked backward with a forceful shove, nearly falling into a nearby table.

Mattheo stood between you and him, a dark storm in human form.

“If I ever see you talk to her again like that,” he hissed, voice sharp as a blade, “I’ll make sure you regret even knowing the alphabet, let alone how to form sentences.”

The Gryffindor blinked, stunned. “Mate, chill—”

“Leave,” Mattheo growled.

And he did. Quickly.

Then Mattheo turned to you, smile softening like a light had flicked on behind his eyes.

“Hey, darling.” Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just nearly murdered someone in cold blood. “You alright?”

You blinked up at him, caught between breathless and amused. “I was fine.”

“I know,” he said, brushing a curl behind your ear with careful fingers. “But I wasn’t.”

You bit your lip. “Thank you.”

He tilted his head, admiring you like you were the most dangerous magic in the room. “You look… breathtaking.”

From their seat across the room, Theo groaned. “Here we go.”

Enzo had returned with two drinks and nearly dropped them watching Mattheo gently tuck your hand into his.

“Unreal,” Theo muttered. “He was going to break that guy’s nose thirty seconds ago, and now he’s stroking her hair.”

“Someone write a book about this,” Enzo sighed. “The Tragedy of a Madman in Love.”

Theo snorted. “I’d read it.”

Back with you, Mattheo leaned in a little, voice low and close.

“Dance with me?”

You blinked in surprise. “You hate dancing.”

“I’ll learn,” he said. “For you.”

So you stepped into his arms, heart hammering, as the music slowed again—and this time, it was your world that spun.

[sp7-mr]

[yasministration]

wanna bet? m.list

ˋ°•*⁀➷ a mattheo riddle x potter!reader au

navigation // ꩜ smut, ❀ fluff, 𖤓 angsty/angry, 𖤐 funny

synopsis: when harry potter's sister moves from beauxbatons to hogwarts for her final year of wizarding school, she is immediately adopted into an unlikely friend group. ft. jily

✩ bet on it, parkinson? - when the group of slytherins spot harry potter with a girl they’ve never seen before, pansy decides to investigate, convinced you’re his sister. (𖤐)

✩ you're excused - pansy invites you to sit with her friend group on the train to hogwarts, an invite you immediately take, happy to make your friends instead of lingering around your brother's group. however, it isn't as simple as that with a brother as protective as harry potter. COMING SOON

[suugarbabe]

manchild - mattheo riddle

summary: you love matty but sometimes he can be…a lot

warnings: none

an: a sab & micah yap brought to you live

You flopped down on to the sofa unceremoniously, letting out a slightly dramatic groan before resting your head on Enzo’s shoulder next to you. He gave your knee a light squeeze as he bit his lip to hold his laughter.

“Tough day?” Pansy asked from the chaise across from you. You nodded, slipping down from Enzo’s shoulder to lay your head in his lap and hang your legs off the arm of the sofa.

“Tough, frustrating. Potato, patato, right?” You waved your hand in the air before punching the bridge of your nose. “Matty’s just kind of putting me through the ringer today.”

Enzo tilted his head to the side, “What’d he do this time?”

You let out a long sigh, “It’s just- I love my boyfriend. I really do; he’s my lover boy. My baby, my sweet boy-”

“Gag,” Enzo’s bounced his legs up making your head lift and fall slightly.

You smacked his stomach, “Oh shut it…Like I was saying, I love him but sometimes he’s just kind of like..”

Theo smirked to himself, “Stupid?”

You smiled but shook your head, “No, Teddy, I was going to say-”

“Slow?” Pansy interjected.

You playfully glared in her direction, “No, not that either. It’s more so-”

“Useless?” Enzo smiled down at you before yelping at you pinching his side.

“Mean Enzie!” You fought a giggle as you pushed his hand away from your hip where he tried to retaliate.

“He’s kind of like a manchild,” you managed to get out between scolding Enzo and slapping his hands away. “I swear the type always comes running to me.”

Theo snorted, “Fanculo la tua vita, huh babe?”

You grinned at him, “Truly. Can’t let little ol’ innocent me be.” You threw your arm over your forehead on faux dramatics, “Before me, I swear he didn’t know anything about self-care. His curls were dying of thirst before I came along.”

“Yeah, without you half his brain isn’t there,” Enzo joked, laughing to himself.

You shook your head, “I just don’t understand how he can be so sexy one moment and the next he’s just so..”

“Dumb?” Theo finished, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket.

You gave him the finger, but his smile only grew.

Pansy giggled at the interaction, “How has he survived the earth so long? I swear if you weren’t here half the things he needed to do wouldn’t get done.”

You turned on your side, Enzo running his fingers through your hair. You relished the feeling before responding to Pansy, “I choose to blame his mum.”

The other three nodded in unison.

“Blame who’s mum?” Mattheo walked over to where the lot of you sat, picking up only the tail end of the conversation.

He lifted your legs to sit on the sofa before lowering them on his lap. He looked between everyone, clearly still waiting on a response.

Enzo stumbled over his words slightly, “Oh, erm, Malfoy’s. Just saying she er-”

“Does everything for him,” Pansy finished.

Mattheo rolled his eyes, “You have no idea. I love Auntie Cissy but she really raised Draco to be kind of a manchild.”

The group couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

@musingsofahufflepuff 😌

[heavenlybodies333]

Virgin Fucking Mary - M.R.

she told you she’s celibate, but she told me I can rail her shit

Theo had been your best friend since before either of you could properly walk, a bond that never wavered, even as you grew older and Hogwarts became your shared stomping ground. Your friendship was simple, easy—even if he did have a habit of oversharing details of his sex life that you could really, really do without.

You were sitting with Theo, Enzo, and Blaise at the Slytherin table, picking at your food while Theo recounted—far too enthusiastically, might you add—his latest escapade.

"Mate, I swear, I had her begging—"

"Merlin, Theo," you groaned, stabbing a piece of fruit with your fork. "Honestly, I don’t know why you put yourself in these positions when you know you're leading these girls on."

Theo just grinned, unbothered. “Can’t help it, darling. You know how they get when I—”

"You ever try talking to these girls first? Or is it straight to sticking your dicks down their throats?" Before you could roll your eyes, a presence dropped into the seat beside you. The scent of smoke and something inherently masculine curled around you, the unmistakable cologne of Mattheo Riddle invading your senses.

"What's this, then?" His voice was low, amused as he reached over, stealing a chip off your plate. "You giving Nott a lecture on morality, princess?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose, refusing to turn toward him. “Just asking if you whores ever have a conversation with a girl instead of thinking with your—” his hand reached over your plate once again, taking another chip.

"Now, where’s the fun in that?" he mused, popping it into his mouth.

You rolled your eyes, refusing to engage. "Of course you would say that, Riddle."

Theo let out a loud, amused groan, smacking the table. "Alright, alright, calm down, Thou Holy Virgin Mary"

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

Blaise shook his head, laughed under his breath. Enzo snorted into his drink.

But Mattheo—Mattheo—practically collapsed against the table, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his seat. "No fucking way," he wheezed, pressing a hand to his chest as he recovered.

Your cheeks burned. The heat spread down your neck, prickling against your skin, but you refused to let it show.

"You lot are laughing at me," you huffed, tossing your fork onto your plate, "but at least I don’t have to worry about pushing a fucking kid out of me anytime soon."

Mattheo snorted, his amusement shifting into something more smug. "Yeah, okay, princess," he drawled, leaning into your space. His voice was low, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, glinting with something dark. "No wonder you’re so uptight. Explains why you’re such a bitch."

That pissed you off.

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing, expression carefully composed despite the way anger coiled hot in your gut. The others had already lost interest, falling back into their own conversations.

“Oh, I’ll have you know, Riddle,” you said, voice low, syrupy-sweet. “A girl can take matters into her own hands.”

Mattheo blinked. Just once.

You didn’t wait for a response. You stood smoothly, grabbing your book bag, and just for good measure, you leaned down just enough to let your lips ghost near his ear.

"You’d be surprised what I can do without a man."

And then? You walked away. Swaying your hips. Feeling his eyes burn into your back.

By the time you reached the door, you dared one last glance over your shoulder.

And there it was.

Mattheo, still seated, still staring, his expression caught somewhere between surprised and fuck, I’m turned on.

It was late, the library was completely empty with the exception of those in the moving portraits keeping you company. Most students had long since gone to bed, leaving only a dim glow of candlelight flickering between the shelves.

And you weren’t stupid. You had felt it.

The shift in the air. The way the back of your neck tingled. The weight of a stare burning between your shoulder blades.

You knew it was him.

Still, you pretended not to notice. You turned the page of your book, eyes trained on the words, until—

“Taking matters into your own hands, huh?”

His voice was low. Smooth. Dark with something predatory.

You didn’t jump. Didn’t react. Just hummed, dragging your gaze lazily up to where he stood.

Mattheo leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, dark curls falling into his eyes.

You raised a brow. “Something you need?”

His lips curved. “I think you know exactly what I need.”

A slow heat curled in your stomach. You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What, Riddle? A book? Help with your homework?”

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, caging you against the table. His hands found the wood, fingers curling against it as he leaned down—so close you could feel his breath against your cheek.

You refused to look up. Refused to acknowledge the warmth pooling low in your stomach.

But Mattheo? He knew.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he murmured.

His fingers brushed your thigh.

You swallowed hard. “And what’s that?”

Mattheo tilted his head, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth.

“You can show me,” he murmured. “How you take matters into your own hands.”

He saw the way your fingers twitched against the table. The way your lips parted just slightly, as if debating whether to let yourself fall or run. And, like the smug bastard he was, he waited.

“Nothing to say?” he mused, his breath brushing the side of your jaw. His fingers drummed against the wood, lazy, slow. “Funny. You had plenty to say at lunch.”

The heat between you was unbearable. His knee pressed between your legs, just enough to send a spike of need through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache building low in your stomach.

Mattheo saw.

Felt it.

And then—he pushed deeper.

“I bet you like it,” he murmured, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw. “Being the good little princess. The one no one can touch. The one no one fucks.”

Your breath hitched.

“Bet you get yourself off thinking about it, don’t you?” His lips brushed just against your ear. “How desperate they’d be to ruin you?”

You clenched your teeth, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted.

He saw it anyway.

Felt the way your body betrayed you, thighs squeezing around the knee he’d wedged between them, the pulse of your breath, the heat rolling off you in waves.

Mattheo hummed, pleased.

Then, before you could react, his hand slid under your skirt.

You gasped. “Mattheo—”

But he wasn’t listening.

“I mean, let’s be honest, yeah?” His knuckles brushed the inside of your thigh. “A girl can take matters into her own hands, sure—but it’s not the same, is it?”

He leaned in, lips barely brushing your ear. dragging his fingers higher, pressing against the damp fabric of your underwear.

“Look at that,” he mused. "Virgin Mary isn’t so innocent after all."

Your fingers curled against the table. "I will kill you."

He just laughed, dark and low. "Yeah? You gonna do it with my fingers in your cunt, or after I fuck you stupid?"

Your brain short-circuited.

Mattheo used your stunned silence to his advantage, slipping his fingers beneath your underwear, dragging them through the slick pooling between your thighs.

"Fuck, Mattheo—"

He hums, watching your face, the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together in pleasure.

"You’re soaked," he smirks. "Thought you didn’t like me."

"I don’t like you," you pant, back arching as his fingers move faster, working you open, leaving you breathless.

He laughs. "Sure, princess."

He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss, at the emptiness. But then he’s undoing his belt, pushing his slacks down just enough, and your stomach tightens at the sight of him—thick, hard, leaking at the tip.

Mattheo catches your gaze, smirking. "You’re staring."

You roll your eyes, even as you hook your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Are you gonna talk all night, or are you gonna—fuck—"

Because he’s already sliding inside, pushing into you inch by inch, stretching you open in the most devastating way.

"Shit," he groans, hands gripping your thighs. "So fucking tight."

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, head falling back as he fills you completely. You feel everything—the way he pulses inside you, the way his breath stutters against your neck, the way he’s holding himself back, barely resisting the urge to ruin you.

"Mattheo," you whisper. "Deeper, please—"

Something in him snaps.

His grip tightens, and then he’s fucking you—hard, deep, brutal. Every thrust shoves you harder against the wall, knocking the breath from your lungs. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, thighs trembling.

"That what you want?" he rasps, snapping his hips forward, making you cry out. "You want me to fuck you deeper?"

You can’t answer. Can’t think. All you can do is take it, take him, let him fuck you so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.

"Should’ve known," he mutters, biting down against your shoulder. "All that attitude—just a needy little slut underneath, huh?"

You whimper, gasping his name, digging your heels into his lower back, urging him closer, deeper.

Mattheo groans, pulling back just enough to look at you—your lips swollen, your pupils blown wide, your expression absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You look so good like this. Bet Theo would kill me if he knew."

You’re too far gone to care.

"Don’t stop," you plead, voice breaking.

He doesn’t.

He fucks you through it, fucks you until you’re falling apart around him, nails dragging down his spine, thighs squeezing tight around his waist as your orgasm rips through you.

"You feel that?" His voice was wrecked, panting, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he buried himself inside you. "That’s what it’s like when a real man fucks you, sweetheart."

Mattheo groans at the feeling, his pace stuttering, his grip bruising. And then he’s spilling inside you, breathless and wrecked, pressing his forehead against yours as he cums, his thrusts erratic as they slowed.

You were still catching your breath, skirt bunched around your waist, Mattheo’s hands gripping your thighs with a possessive kind of desperation. As he finally pulled out, breath heavy against your ear. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back, taking in the sight of you—disheveled, marked up, and absolutely wrecked beneath him.

His fingers brushed over your thigh before he whispered, “Was that your first?” His voice was dripping with smugness, already assuming he knew the answer. “Did you like it?”

You tilted your head up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. Oh, Mattheo…

“Do you really think I’d lose my virginity to you?” you mused, voice laced with sweet mockery as you reached for your skirt, slipping it back on with slow, deliberate movements. You adjusted it, smoothing out the creases, completely unfazed by the way his expression darkened.

Mattheo’s smirk faltered. “What?”

His expression shifted—something sharp, something dark. "What the fuck does that mean?"

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder with an easy smirk. "It means, sweetheart," you said, voice dripping with faux sympathy, "that you really should have a chat with Theo sometime."

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering before realization settled in like a slow-burning fire.

"Oh," you mused, tapping your chin like you were deep in thought. "You don’t know about him, do you? About how he doesn't really get the whole 'kiss and don’t tell' thing?"

You slung your bag over your shoulder, taking your time fixing your hair in the reflection of a nearby window. turning to face him, "I don’t kiss and tell—but unfortunately for you, Theo definitely does." you said sweetly.

His brows furrowed. "Theo—what the fuck are you talking about?"

You leaned in, just close enough that he could smell the faint hint of perfume on your skin, the remnants of whatever sin you two had just committed. "Ask him about me sometime," you murmured, a smirk playing at the edges of your lips. "I’m sure he’d love to share the details."

You turned to leave, but not before tossing one last dagger straight at his ego. “Oh, and Mattheo?” You glanced over your shoulder, giving him one last look-over. "Next time, try lasting longer."

Then you walked out, leaving him alone in the dim glow of the library—jaw tight, fists clenched, drowning in the bitter aftertaste of his own ego—because for once in his life, Mattheo Riddle wasn’t the one doing the ruining.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: slut me out

here’s part 2 for you whores

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[pizzaapeteer]

I miss staring at this baby boy 24/7

[oneglass-zinfandel]

hi can y do oral links please?😭

Oral links

A/N : These are some oral links, non specific to any characters but I'll tag my usual munches in the tags 😋

TW : Oral (duh)

Most don't show the guy's face so imagine who ever you want <3

Short kisses

Oral 1

Cute strawberry Dip image

Kisses and licks

4 oral videos

Oral 2

Oral 3

Soft licks

These are all from my personal saved, low-key keep rewatching them.

[sabxynsweet]

Okay, hear me out….

Mattheo and sweetheart in the common room and she falls asleep on his shoulder and Mattheo threatens a bunch of first years or whatever who come in loud to stop them from waking her up.

OR OR OR

sweetheart falls asleep on someone ELSE’s shoulder and Mattheo gets mad and jealous, and purposely wakes her up

sweetheart!reader falls asleep on enzo’s shoulder, mattheo's not having it

both these ideas are so cute i think i'll write both <3 here’s your second idea, thank you for the request lovely ! the opening of this is SO dramatic because these boys really are terrified of mattheo it's so silly

They say that right before you're about to die, your life flashes before you like a montage.

Enzo's experiencing that now, memories coming to him like scenes in a film reel while he's frozen sitting at the dining table of the common room.

If it wasn't bad enough that the two of you were paired up for an assignment for a class that Mattheo wasn't in, it was real bad now because you were fast asleep on his shoulder and he couldn't move.

Theo walks past and stops when he see’s Enzo with a look of pure fear on his face, similar to a deer caught in headlights.

"What's up, Mate." Theo asks, Enzo glances over at him with "help me" eyes, unable to move more than his eyes with you hindering his movements.

"Oh." He laughs, "Mattheo's not going to like that."

"Don't you think I know that." Enzo hisses, glaring at Theo who was still laughing, "Let's hope she wakes up before Mattheo see's."

"Before Mattheo see's what?" Mattheo asks, voice cold and low.

Enzo flinches, making you stir a little but, much to his dismay, you're still fast asleep. Theo simply grins and moves back to watch.

"Listen, she was nodding off, I didn't mean to-" Mattheo ignores him, walking closer. Enzo thinks that today he might die.

Mattheo barely even glances at him, instead, he gently taps on your shoulder.

You stir awake - properly this time - and when your eyes meet his, his eyes soften and his annoyance dissolves into nothing.

"Mattheo?" You mumble, your head lifting off of Enzo's shoulder, he breathes a sigh of relief and moves quickly to stand next to Theo.

"Hey." He says, "you fell asleep there."

"Oh." You yawn, "what time is it?"

"5."

"Oh," You say, a little happier now, "it's not too late for a nap right?"

He shakes his head, "no."

You smile, eyes fluttering close again.

"No, baby, you're not sleeping in this position." He snorts.

"Why not." You whine, "M'tired, just let me die."

"You'll hurt your neck."

"You know, it's so totally not my fault that I fell asleep because your common room is so dark."

"I know, Sweetheart."

"Anyone would fall asleep here." You mumble before attempting to sleep again.

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"Come on, you can sleep in my dorm."

"Really?" You murmur, one eye peeking open.

He nods.

"Will you wake me up for dinner?" He nods again, you smile.

"You're my favourite alarm clock." You coo jokingly.

He rolls his eyes but he's still smiling, he reaches out his hand and you let him lead you up the stairs. You lean your body weight on him.

"Unbelievable." He just barely hears Enzo mutter from below, "he was ready to murder me and then she wakes up and he's prince fucking charming."

Mattheo rolls his eyes and continues to guide you, careful not to let you fall.

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko @blainea98 @randomfanpage @megzz-x

[lushleona]

── .✦ phone sex with military!mattheo

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

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

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

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

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

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

and that was it. you called him instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he breaks.

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

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

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

you don’t even think. you just obey.

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