#Mattheo Riddle x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dearmisshoney · 3 days ago

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suctions and sanctions

synopsis. you are always so attentive when leaving the shower, cleaning after yourself with maximum attention. this time, you somehow forgot to pack away a very important object — your dildo. your roommate mattheo stumbles upon it by accident and he doesn’t let the opportunity slip between his fingers. next time, be more careful, sweetheart!

pairing. roommate! mattheo riddle x reader

content/mdni. fem!reader, roommates!au, flirty!mattheo, gymrat!mattheo, pervert!mattheo, kinda soft!mattheo, dom!mattheo, caring!mattheo, a bit of subspace (?), dildo-fucking/toy usage, voyeurism, oral (m receiving), slight spanking, shower sex (but the shower is not on), wall fucking, cum play/kink, tummy bulging, slight size kink, teasing, degradation, praise, dirty talk, name-calling (sweetheart, darling, pretty girl, but also slut, cumslut, cockslut), raw sex, thoatpie, creampie

word count. 4.4k

a/n. i am down bad for roommate!mattheo! i love him, he is very versatile! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

“ah, perfect timing! i was just done in the bathroom.”

your joyous voice chirped the moment mattheo entered your shared apartment, the honeyed words hitting his partly-covered ears — his headphones were dragged immediately down around his neck — and making him smile involuntarily.

his grin grew in intensity when he saw the state you were in: indeed, you’ve just got out of the shower, as you were only wearing a towel around your damp body.

the towel, one of his favorite outfits of yours, was draped nicely around your naked form, secured by a tiny corner tucked in between your boobs.

you had a lot of fate in that flimsy corner, huh?

your tits were pushed upwards thanks to the pressure of the towel, the soft roundness of your chest making his adam apple bob. the towel was quite big, so your beautiful silhouette was not shown to his curious eyes; yet it had one perk — it was short.

the towel barely covered your ass, clawing at your exposed thighs and slightly riding upwards with each and every move of yours.

and, oh, you loved to move around, skipping away from the bathroom door, coming closer to mattheo in the hallway, only to stop before the full-length mirror to pat at your hair with another smaller cloth.

“not that perfect, if you ask me.”

his voice was low, husky — thick with amusement and something darker underneath.

your eyes flicked to the mirror, catching his gaze lingering on your body in the reflection. his dark eyes roamed your figure with the kind of hunger that made your skin burn hotter than the steam you’d just walked out of.

mattheo wasn’t subtle, never was — he always made sure you knew how attractive you are in his eyes, be it through shameless flirting, intense staring or delicate brushings against your skin.

never full-on touches.

no matter how starved he was, he never initiated something with you, his kind and sweet roommate.

and it drove you crazy, to say the least.

“and why is that?” you asked, keeping your eyes glued to his face through the mirror. “do enlighten me, mattheo.”

voice dripping in sultry tunes, you continue to absorb the water from the roots of your hair. the raise of your arms made your towel dangerously close to slipping, hanging for dear life around your tits. the swell of your ass poked more from underneath the fluffy material, and now mattheo had evidence you were indeed not wearing any panties.

“if the timing was perfect…”

mattheo hummed as he dropped his gym bag to the floor, removing in the process his headphones. instead of finishing his explanation, he tugged his sheer tank top off in one smooth motion, clutching the edge around his neck and dragging it off forwards. his muscles flexed through the motion, biceps pumping under the tension, back littering with harsh muscular indents.

he was now shirtless right behind you, his tank top only a ball of material between his fingers. sweat still clung to his skin, making him glow beautifully, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth went a little dry, your thighs a little moist.

“… we would’ve showered together.”

he said flirtatiously, flashing you a devious smirk. mattheo definitely knew his advances had a great effect on you, be it through your body language or simply through that lust-filled glimmer in your eyes.

“going now.”

mattheo announced his departure with a small sigh, pretending he was hurt by your solo shower session. his wandering fingers ghosted over your hips as he passed, brushing so lightly it almost felt accidental — almost. he may have guided you out of the way so he could pass by easier, but the hallway was definitely big enough for the two of you.

what a fucking tease he was.

you stood there, heart thudding, watching his manly frame stride towards the bathroom. his back muscles were practically calling your name, asking for your fingers to dug in and leave crescent marks all over it.

your throbbing cunt was calling him too, pulsing with need the more you looked at his well-built body.

“um, matt!” you cleared your throat, coughing away your sudden arousal and calling him one last time. “let me know if i’ve missed any hairs. i will come clean it up.”

you’re always careful to leave the shower clean for your roommate, paying special attention to the hair falling from your head. be it short pieces or longer strands of hair, you do your best to collect them and throw them away before mattheo uses the bathroom. yet, hair is sometimes hard to see against the patterned tiles of the shower, so you always remind mattheo to point them out for you.

“sure, sweetheart.”

his voice boomed from the bathroom before the door was closed shut behind him.

mattheo barely had the patience to kick off his sneakers before tugging down his joggers, his thick cock already twitching with need at the sight of you in that fucking towel. and when he fully stepped into the bathroom, the steam hit his senses hard — the scent of your body wash was deliciously clinging to the dampness like a sinful reminder of what he'd just seen.

mattheo rubbed a hand down his face, groaning low. “fucking hell.” he muttered, turning on the water.

it wasn’t just the towel. it was you. it was always you — the hypnotizing sway of your hips, the sweet smile, the way you called him matt with that honey-sweet voice. like you weren’t driving him completely insane.

he pulled the curtain back, ready to enter the shower and wash away his sweat and sins– but stopped.

there, suctioned shamelessly to the tiled wall, was a bright pink dildo.

glistening. wet. proud.

mattheo blinked.

he stared at the toy for a few seconds, cock springing to full attention against his leg, jaw going slack as a filthy smirk curled his lips. his mind constructed a scenario faster than he could breathe — you, braced against the wall, moaning under your breath, hot water running down your spine as you fucked yourself back into that fake dick.

“so that’s why you were in such a good mood,” he whispered to himself, the tip of his cock already dripping precum. “fucking hell, darling…”

he ran a hand over his chest, muttering a shaky, amused laugh. it was funny, really, to catch such a sight knowing damn well what his roommate was doing before his arrival. but it was also so damn arousing, to see the nasty secret of his gorgeous roommate. the desperation. the carnal desire.

his hand gripped the base of his cock as he stepped under the water, eyes still locked on the toy. his brain was yelling at him one and only one command, and mattheo was adamant in fulfilling it. his fingers brushed over the silicone — still faintly warm — but he did not detach it from the wall.

“oh, shit, sweetheart.”

mattheo moaned out loud as he slowly aligned his cock next to the toy, pushing the mushroom tip as close to the suction cup as possible for an accurate measurement. and when he saw how much shorter the toy was, how the silicone head was nowhere close to his navel, he groaned again.

his cock was bigger than that stupid toy and definitely more efficient. to think that you were forced to use this thing because he hadn’t stepped in to give you something better.

“could’ve just asked for my help.” he murmured to no one, his hand now wrapping around himself.

with one slow and tight pump, mattheo knew what he had to do.

closing the water and stepping out of the shower, he hurriedly searched for his towel. and, recklessly wrapping his lower body with it, he called out for you.

“sweetheart, can you come here for a second?”

you walked towards the bathroom instantly, brows furrowed in concern. “did i really forget hairs?” you called gently, adjusting the towel around you on your way. you hated being careless about cleanliness, especially since mattheo was really attentive when it came to shared spaces.

but when you cracked the bathroom door open, you froze.

mattheo stood just outside the shower — damp hair sticking to his forehead, towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. his v-line was prominent against the clutches of the towel, and so was his happy trail, slowly dipping beneath the edge. his chest was still shimmered with droplets — sweat and water, you assume.

his dark orbs were instantly locked onto you, with something heated behind them.

your gaze dipped lower automatically, and then stopped.

his towel was tented. very obviously.

your voice wavered, “i– did you find something?”

“oh, i sure found something.”

his tone, so condescending, made your knees weak. and that dangerous, smug kind of drawl made your heart skip, and your thighs press against each other.

“come here.” he beckoned with two fingers, guiding you further into the bathroom and into the shower enclosure.

you stepped closer carefully, now unsure if this was still about your hair.

until you saw it.

your dildo — suctioned to the wall, brazen and sparkly under the bathroom light. your breath caught in your throat, your cheeks heating up instantly.

shit.

mattheo watched your expression shift from confusion to mortification, a delighted smile spread across his lips.

“so, this is what you do when i leave for a few hours?” his steps were slow, controlled, as he stalked towards you in the shower cabin.

“you get yourself all worked up, fuck yourself stupid on this–” he gestured to the dildo. “–and then greet me at the door, acting like nothing happened?”

you fumbled, cheeks burning harder, eyes hiding from mattheo’s. “i–i didn’t mean to leave it–”

“not what i asked.” he growled in your ear, and at this point you realized how close he actually was.

“i asked if that’s what you do when i’m gone.”

“y–yes.” you answer lowly, and, if it weren’t for the close proximity, mattheo wouldn’t have heard you.

“that’s why you were in such a good mood, huh?” he cooed, voice dropping lower, breath hovering closer to your face. “humping your pretty little toy like a needy slut, moaning your heart out because i wasn’t home.”

your knees almost buckled. “mattheo–”

“shhh.” he moved to the side in one swift step, his hand reaching up to grip your jaw and forcing you to look him in the eyes. “no lies, sweetheart. tell me the truth.”

you tried not to tremble when he leaned down, whispering near your lips yet another sinful question.

“was that little toy enough for you?”

your throat was bone dry. you could barely manage a whisper. “n–no.”

“of course it wasn’t.”

mattheo groaned so close to your lips, you even felt the warmth of his breath. you joined his groan with a whimper of your own as his towel brushed the nakedness of your legs, as his harsh erection poked against your thighs.

again and again and again.

“you need a real cock.” he hissed, his fingers mushing against your jaw even more. “longer. girthier. wetter.”

he was describing his own shaft, there was no way you could deny that. the towel was catching any sort of precum leaking from his tip, but you were definitely feeling the length and the girth of his cock as he was slowly rocking it into your leg.

“isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“yes, m–matt.”

“good fucking girl.”

mattheo's praise made your stomach twist in the most delicious way, your thighs clenching as heat pooled between them. the absence of panties made your arousal drool onto the towel and down your legs.

“but first” he rasped, mouth brushing against your cheek as he leaned in. “what exactly were you doing in here, sweetheart? walk me through it.”

you swallowed thickly at his order, face flushed with heat from humiliation and lust. it was so embarrassing to confess to your roommate your neediness. “i… i got in the shower, and–”

“mhm?” he mumbled in approval, urging you to continue, as his fingers removed themselves from your jaw to tug ever so slightly at the tucked corner between your tits, loosening the towel. “go on.”

“i was thinking about you.” you breathed out, chest heaving as the truth spilled. “i kept thinking about, how you look so good after you work out. and the way you look at me, and your voice…”

mattheo groaned under his breath, the sound low and feral. with your confirmation of your sins, he completely unraveled your towel and threw it out on the bathroom floor.

you were bare. trembling. completely on display for your dangerously hot roommate who hadn’t stopped staring since you opened the bathroom door.

your nipples hardened under his hungry gaze, the relatively cold air prickling at your skin and making goosebumps arise. your hands raised up automatically to cover up, but mattheo was quicker than you and gathered them into his hand, trapping your wrists in a harsh lock.

“don’t do that, darling. let me see you.” his voice was softer than expected, more of an encouragement than an order. his other hand shot upwards and grasped your chin, redirecting your eyes back to his own.

“and then?” he pressed, voice sharp with need, urging you to continue your story.

you flicked your eyes briefly to the toy suctioned to the tile, only to return your gaze back on mattheo’s blown-out orbs. “i needed something– anything. so i used that.”

he clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly as his eyes dragged down your naked body.

“that cheap little thing?” he tutted, smirked barely contained. “you really got yourself off to that? when i was just a call away?”

you bit your lip, shame burning through your belly. “i didn’t want to force you…”

he laughed — a cruel, amused sound that made your toes curl.

“force me?” he repeated, hand sliding from your chin down your side to grip your hip and push you more into him, into his still-covered bulge.

“sweetheart, i walked in here and nearly fucked the wall because of the thought of you riding that toy.”

“ah– matt–…”

you gasped in pleasure and surprise as his hands wrapped fully around your waist, pulling you flush against him. his cock, hot and hard behind the towel, digging into your leg shamelessly. his towel was hanging by a thread around his hips, and the slightest movement would definitely make it meet the floor.

“you make me go crazy.” he rasped, pulling you tighter against him, his voice a dangerous mix of possessiveness and want.

your breath hitched as he reached between your bodies, the towel around his waist finally unwrapping with a flick of his torso, revealing his cock in all its glory — flushed, thick, already leaking.

so much bigger than your toy.

so much better.

“see this?” mattheo murmured, grabbing the base of his cock and pressing it against your stomach, letting you feel the sheer length of it. letting you see how deep it will reach when inside you. “you did this to me by simply breathing.”

“and that stupid dildo, shit–” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, closing his eyes for a few seconds to compose himself. “this is what you need. not some flimsy pink plastic.”

“y–yes, mattheo, please–”

“darling, will you do something for me?”

as much as he wanted to take you there against the cold tiles of the shower, as much as he wanted to bury his cock in that drenched sweet pussy of yours, he craved something else first.

“anything, anything.”

oh, so desperate, so pliant.

“show me how you were using it.”

your lips parted in a soft moan, embarrassment surging in you yet again. “what?”

his fingers gripped your hips, moving you away from his body and spinning you around so your front faced the dildo. “please, sweetheart. i want to see it. ride it for me like the filthy little thing you are.”

humiliation and need swirled in your belly, mattheo’s plea making more of your arousal gush down your thighs. the toy was still there — suctioned to the wall, exactly where you’d left it… you hesitated, but one sharp smack to your ass made you yelp and step forward instinctively.

“fuck, let me see you bounce against it.” he growled. “c’mon.”

your hands pressed to the tiles as you carefully spread your legs, lining yourself up, inching back until the silicone tip kissed your soaked entrance. mattheo groaned at the sight, cock twitching, heavy and flushed between his tensed legs.

you sank back with a slow, needy moan, the stretch familiar, but not nearly enough — not after hearing him speak to you about his cock, not after seeing it for yourself.

and there it was, right in front of you, so close to your lips, yet so far away. it was weeping with precum, throbbing visibly. tempting you to take it in your mouth.

“fuck,” you whimpered. “m–mattheo–”

he stepped closer, letting the tip hover over your face as he slowly fisted his cock to the rhythm of your erratic hips. you looked so desperate, jutting your cunt and swallowing at that pathetic dildo, all while eyeing his shaft with drool dripping down your chin.

you looked so fucking beautiful; he almost came on the spot.

“yeah, darling? does it feel good?”

“n–no, 'want you.”

“want me? to do what, sweetheart?”

mattheo’s fingers gripped your chin, angling your face upwards so your eyes locked with his. his cockhead pressed against your parted lips, a thick drop of precum beading at the flushed tip, and trailing down into your hungry mouth.

you did not answer him verbally, choosing to stick out your tongue and lick at his leaky tip instead.

“beg for it. show me how much you want a real dick.”

you blinked, eyes wide and watering from need, your hips still rolling back against the dildo pathetically — seeking more friction, more satisfaction, but getting none. your cunt squelched with every grind, soaking wet and twitching, clenching around the stupid silicone instead of the thick, real cock in front of you.

“mattheo,” you gasped, breathless, your body trembling with desperation. “please… please let me suck your cock.”

his groan was guttural, guttural and deep — but he wasn’t giving in just yet. he wanted to see you dirty that innocent mouth of yours with your nastiest thoughts.

“you want my cock in your mouth that bad, darling? gonna beg like a desperate little slut just for a taste?” he stroked himself slowly, teasingly, letting another drip of precum spill down his shaft and onto your hungry tongue.

you nodded vigorously, lips brushing against his sensitive skin. “please, matt. i need it– need your cock, your cum… please…”

he stilled, hand stopping at the base with a harsh tug. “oh?” his freed thumb dragged along your bottom lip, pressing down slightly. “do you suck that dildo too? wrap your pretty lips around it when i’m not here?”

your eyes widened, humiliation crashing over you like a wave. “n–no…”

mattheo’s smirk deepened. “no?” he repeated, thumb pushing harder against your lip. “why not?”

your voice was a breathy confession, barely above a whisper. “it… it can’t cum.”

and there he was, thinking you couldn’t become any sexier.

cum?

that made him moan. it was low and ragged, broken and feral, like your words physically affected him.

“fucking hell.” he leaned closer, forehead against yours, lips brushing, breath hot. “you only want real cock in that pretty little mouth, huh? one that can fuck your throat and paint it white?”

“yes– yes, mattheo, please– i love your cum, i love it, please let me taste it–”

he growled, shoving his cock forward until the tip pressed fully to your lips.

“go ahead, darling.”

you didn’t need to be told twice.

your mouth opened wide, lips wrapping greedily around the head of his cock, tongue swirling instantly to collect the precum. you moaned, loud and unrestrained, just the taste alone making your eyes roll back.

“fuck, sweetheart– just like that.” mattheo hissed, overwhelmed by the feeling of your tongue.

you bobbed your head with vigour, mouth slick and warm, suckling like your life depended on it. one of mattheo’s hands gripped the back of your head, guiding you gently at first — but that didn’t last long. his hips gave a slow, brutal thrust, pushing his cock deeper between your lips, making you gag around the length.

“that’s iiiiit.” he groaned. “god, you look so fucking pretty like this… all cum-hungry eyes.”

he began to fuck your mouth with more urgency, watching as tears bubbled up in your eyes, spit stringing from your lips to his shaft every time he pulled away. and you took it all like a champ, while also rocking your hips against the dildo.

what a good and obedient slut you were.

“shit.”

mattheo’s voice was low and tight, a clear sign he was on the verge of cumming. that and his hips furiously shoving deeper into your face, cock stuffed down your throat harder and faster than before.

“fuck– you're gonna take it all, yeah? gonna swallow every last drop for me like the good little cumslut you are?”

you whimpered around him, nodding as best you could with your mouth stretched wide.

and that was all it took.

with a loud, broken moan, mattheo pushed his cock deep inside your throat and came. thick, hot spurts painting your tongue and your throat in rapid shots. you swallowed desperately, greedily, trying to get it all, not letting a single drop go to waste. your hands were clenched tightly across his legs, keeping him in place with the little force that you had left in your arms.

no cum escaped your hungry mouth.

when he finally pulled out, panting and dazed, he looked down to see your dazed eyes, your cum-coated lips, your drool-covered chin.

“goddamn…” he murmured, thumbing some of the mess from your cheek and smushing it back against your lips. “you’re perfect.”

“did it taste good, sweetheart?”

“s–soo good.”

you were still trembling, grinding against the dildo helplessly, drooling with need. even with a load down your throat, your cunt was still aching for another turn.

mattheo could see that. could see the hazy look in your eyes, the restless movement of your hips. could see the mess you’ve made on the shower floor because of that dildo. you too wanted to cum, and that silicone toy was not cutting it.

“let me help you too, darling.”

it’s all he said before scooping you up from your position, hands stationed underneath your arms so he could lift you up and away from the toy. now you were in his arms, naked chest pressed to naked chest, as mattheo carefully moved you to the opposite shower wall.

“c–cum, i want to cum so badly.”

you were a bit lost, whining against mattheo as he pressed your back to the cold wall. the tiles made you shiver and arch back into his body, but they also helped you cool down a bit and regain a sense of clarity.

“i got you, my pretty girl. i am here.”

keeping you up against the wall with one arm, the other secured your legs around his torso. he’s never fucked anyone against a shower wall before, but thankfully there was no danger. the only thing drenched and slippery was your puffy cunt, gushing your creamy arousal all over his cock and getting it wetter than your mouth did.

“there we go, sweetheart.”

he glued his forehead back to yours, keeping constant eye contact as he nicely eased his cock into you. mattheo managed to slip in in one swift motion, the dildo having opened you up enough to welcome the majority of his shaft.

“all good?”

“yeshh– please, matt, please, more.”

and he did, hips stuttering against you as he finally plunged his entire cock into you. the difference between the toy and the real thing was visible, as you immediately gaped your mouth open and moaned from the stretch. your head tipped backwards, hitting the wall, but the pain was not registered as mattheo started to fuck into you.

“my goddd, please, please.”

his rhythm, restless and unwavering, picked up the abandoned orgasm from before. your legs were already trembling against him and if it weren’t for mattheo’s strong build, he too might have faltered under the pleasure.

your mouth was divine– but your pussy? it was so hot and sticky, the walls clamping down around his cock and sucking every drop of cum he still had left in his balls.

he wasn’t going to last long.

“fuck, that’s it– just like that,” he gritted, jaw clenched, curls sticking to his forehead from the sweat.

mattheo was so deep you could feel him bulging your belly, splitting you open and filling you up all at once. his thick cock plowed into your soaked cunt like it belonged there.

your fingernails clawed at his shoulders and back, marking him as you wanted, the pleasure too intense to stay still. “i–i can’t hold it, i’m gonna–”

“do it.” mattheo groaned into your neck. “cum on my cock like a good girl. show me you don’t need that toy ever again.”

your walls fluttered around him, drawing another low, animalistic growl from his chest. he was unyielding, fucking you harder now, chasing both of your highs, the sound of wet skin slapping echoing through the bathroom.

“pleasepleaseplease, i’m cumming–”

your orgasm slammed into you like a wave, hips twitching, back arching off the wall as your pussy oozed around him. mattheo cursed under his breath, arms locking tighter around your waist, keeping you safe.

“that’s it, sweetheart, make a mess all over me.”

he followed just seconds later, cock pulsing deep inside as he filled you with hot, thick cum. it dripped down your thighs instantly, mixing with the remaining shower water and the slick already coating you both.

•••

“a–ah, guess i got my wish, huh?”

“what wish?”

“we get to shower together now.”

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

tags: @theodoresvalentine, @cafechichay, @lov3notts, @nottslove

#~ 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘢𝘳 #roommmate!mattheo #gymrat!mattheo #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #slytherin boys smut #slytherin smut #slytherin boys #pervert!mattheo #soft!mattheo #dom!mattheo

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ravenclaw-for-all-seasons · 2 days ago

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His Soft Spot (Prologue) - Mattheo Riddle

A/N: A lovely anon asked how Mattheo and reader started out, so here is their backstory. I hope you enjoy!

You weren’t the type to fall for Slytherins.

As a Ravenclaw, you had your nose buried in dusty books, spent your weekends organizing enchanted study notes, and found comfort in the quiet hum of the library. You weren’t antisocial — in fact, many people found your presence captivating. You were kind, witty, effortlessly graceful in a way that made people pause.

But he was something else entirely.

Mattheo Riddle had a reputation that was even darker than the Black Lake. He was tall, sharp-jawed, dark-eyed danger personified. His smirk was the stuff of whispered dorm gossip. Son of Voldemort, future heir of the Dark Lord, some claimed — though no one dared say it to his face. Professors tolerated him because he was brilliant. Students tiptoed around him because he was terrifying.

But you? You didn’t seem impressed. And that’s what started it all.

———

Your first encounter happened during a shared O.W.L Potions class. You arrived early, as always, settling at your usual table with your notes already out and organized. The seat beside you was always vacant—no one dared sit there because you were known to correct your seat partner’s technique if they so much as stirred it clockwise instead of counter-clockwise.

But that day, Mattheo Riddle strolled in late, sleeves rolled, eyes heavy-lidded with arrogance—and dropped his bag right next to you.

You barely glanced at him.

“Just so you know,” you said without looking up, “you over-grind your lacewing flies. You’re destroying the compound.”

He raised a brow, amused. “That so?”

“I saw your Amortentia yesterday. Smelled like gunpowder and blood. Classic overgrind. Rookie mistake.”

He blinked.

Most girls would be fawning over him by now. But you had already gone back to annotating your textbook, like he was no more interesting than a cauldron manual.

It bothered him.

No one talked to him like that. Certainly no one corrected him. And definitely not someone as annoyingly beautiful as you.

He watched you out of the corner of his eye the entire lesson.

———

After that class, he started showing up wherever you were.

He’d pass behind your desk in the library and flick the ends of your parchment. He’d steal your quill and replace it with an obnoxiously large green feathered one. Sometimes he’d lean on the library shelves right where you were looking and say things like:

“Careful, love. You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll think you’re in love.”

You always rolled your eyes. “I’m trying to look past you.”

And yet… your heart beat just a little faster.

———

What he didn’t expect was that you saw him.

Not the version of himself that he projected: the Riddle name, the cold eyes, the untouchable snark. No — you saw when his hand trembled during Dueling Club. You saw how he lingered after class, sometimes staring at nothing. You noticed the circles under his eyes, the way his jaw clenched during mentions of “family.” You even caught him once in the library — reading Muggle poetry. Hidden inside a copy of Magical Theory and Practice, but still. Poetry.

“Byron?” you’d asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

He’d gone completely still.

“I won’t tell,” you promised, voice gentle. “I like Byron too.”

That was the moment. You felt it — a shift. A hesitation. A choice.

Instead of walking away, he stayed. Instead of shutting you out, he let the conversation continue.

“You always like the broken ones?” he’d asked that day, tone teasing but eyes dark with something real.

You shrugged. “Only the ones who try to rebuild.”

———

Weeks passed.

You became… a thing. No official labels. No public declarations. But you knew. Everyone knew. If someone even looked at you sideways in the corridor, Mattheo was there—silent, glaring, dangerous.

He never held your hand in the open. But he waited for you outside the library. He’d leave you enchanted paper cranes with notes like:

“Stop looking so pretty when I’m trying to focus in class. – M.”

He once punched a fourth-year Slytherin for calling you a “bookish tease.” You didn’t ask him to. He didn’t tell you he did. You just knew.

Then came the Astronomy Tower incident.

It was late. You’d both been working on your projects, and for once, you were exhausted. You leaned your head against his shoulder — and instead of pulling away or making a joke, he let you rest there.

And then, quietly, he whispered:

“I don’t like anyone. You know that, right?”

You nodded sleepily. “I know.”

“But I like you.”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “I know.”

———

You didn’t need a dramatic kiss or a grand gesture. You didn’t even need him to ask. It happened naturally — one day, he reached for your hand in the corridor, not caring who saw. The whispers spread like Fiendfyre.

“Ravenclaw girl? Mattheo Riddle’s girlfriend?”

But no one dared say a word to your face.

Because Mattheo wasn’t the cold-hearted monster they thought. Not with you.

He carried your bag when you hurt your wrist in Charms. He memorized your favorite tea order. He’d pull you onto his lap during study nights in the Slytherin common room and press kisses to your temple when no one was watching.

You got away with everything.

Once, you fell asleep in the restricted section of the library after a long night of research. Instead of waking you, Mattheo sat beside you for three hours, hexed anyone who came too close, and carried you back to your dorm when dawn broke.

Professor Snape caught him once and said, “Mr. Riddle, you know you’re not allowed in Ravenclaw Tower.”

To which Mattheo simply smirked and replied, “Then I suggest you give her a passcode to my room instead.”

———

Now?

He still scares people.

Still has that coiled, dark energy that promises ruin to anyone who crosses him.

But with you?

He softens. He folds. You’re the only one who can touch his heart without getting burned.

And he still can’t believe it.

Every time you sit in his lap, cup his jaw with your gentle hands, or tell him he’s not like his father — you remind him that maybe, just maybe, he’s worthy of something good.

And you?

You never expected to fall for the most dangerous boy in Hogwarts.

But here you are — adored, protected, chosen.

By Mattheo Riddle.

Taglist: @hisonlyobsession

#slytherin #slytherin boys #hp fandom #hp fanfic #mattheo riddle fanfic #mattheo fluff #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle

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acourtofchaos · 1 day ago

Text

Obsessed with this thissss

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

#mattheo riddle x reader

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nottscherry · 2 days ago

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every single time i see this picture of him, i immediately feel like he fits what would be dealer!mattheo.

dealer!mattheo who won’t even let you near a cigarette because it’s “bad for you.” he doesn’t even like you coming with for deliveries but when you refuse and get in the passenger seat anyways, he drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand gripping his glock.

he also forces you into the bedroom whenever he has customers coming over because it’s not safe for you. and if you sneak out of the room while he’s dealing, he’s fucking you into the mattress later that night, his hips slamming against your ass cheeks. “such a naughty fucking girl, aren’t you? you never learn...” he’d whisper in your ear, fistful of your hair, wondering why it was so hard for you to just listen.

and of course dealer!mattheo always makes sure his girl is taken care of well before his own needs are met. he lets you cum first, no exceptions. in fact, he makes you cum MULTIPLE times before he does. always giving you money to go treat yourself, taking you on vacations, anything you wanted. you had him wrapped around your little finger.

#someone tell me to write for him rn bc i need it so bad #need dealer!mattheo like i need air to breathe #dealer!mattheo #mattheo riddle thoughts #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader

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artytaeh · 2 days ago

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okay. so, hear me out

we all talk about how the slytherin boys seem to never loose a chance for a fight. doesn’t matter the reason, or if there is any in the first place. it’s a well known fact they’re good with their firsts

but i thought . .

what would each of the slytherin boys’ reaction be to you throwing a punch for them because `` somebody was talking shit about them behind their back `` ?

the second paragraph got my attention. it made me think why the slytherin boys would get into fistfights and how good they are at throwing a punch.

mattheo's experience was built in physical impulsivity since he first felt the need to defend himself; theodore learned from mattheo because being his best friend walks hand in hand with supporting mattheo through his chaos; lorenzo comes from observing mattheo's antics; blaise definitely got a stepfather somewhere who was closer than the others, and blaise liked him because he taught blaise stuff that fathers, typically, teach their sons; draco is lucky that he's armed with a lot of rings and somehow it works.

about being defended by their significant other...

MATTHEO is torn. on one hand, hot as fuck; on the other hand, please tell him that it didn't fuck up your knuckles. definitely giddy that he was worth the fight in someone's eyes, especially a loved one like you are. if you got hurt, mattheo will carefully bandage/take care of your fingers himself, then teach you how to properly land a punch — and the weakest spots you could go for, in any scenario you might find yourself in. still insists that you have him for a reason; mattheo is here to beat up his way for you, so no need for you to get your hands dirty. probably the beginning of playing tickle fights.

THEODORE immediately dislikes the idea that he indirectly provoked problems slash pain for his partner. even though theo can't control people's opinions, he can't help the guilt that naturally comes to him, wondering if his bad habits are being, somehow, influencing you to do the same. doesn't want you to think that he's angry, so after some silence, he gives you a smile and breaks the quietness with a sarcastic comment to make you laugh. discreetly implies that he'd rather not bring you to his mess, while pressing a kiss to each of your knuckles.

LORENZO would be giddy. at first, his boyfriend instincts would fire loud alarms in his mind, then soothing with a sense of pride that he's being defended by his partner. enzo enjoys the attention, truly, to the point that he doesn't immediately get upset that people are tearing his image apart in a harmful way. gently coaxes you away from the conflict, caressing the hands that defended him with you on his lap; kisses you silly, every inch of skin he finds. and when you're distracted, enzo makes sure that he got the funny guy or girl alone to make a proper threat to shut the fuck up—more important than that, for them to leave his partner alone.

BLAISE doesn't fancy conflicts. avoids them because he's too classy and superior to that, unless absolutely necessary—if someone manages to get him that furious, or to make sure that his friends aren't outnumbered. blaise might hear people talking badly about him, but in his eyes, it's more powerful the act of not caring/treating those gossip as an unimportant thing that'd waste his time clearing up. that being said, wouldn't really like that you are increasing the problem—but wouldn't be mean about it. takes you away from the fight with grace, smoothly talks you into ignoring those words with him.

DRACO is a mess of different opinions, thoughts and feelings. it's not a surprise that he'd enjoy the chaos, especially if his partner landed a good hit on whoever low life that wasted time badmouthing draco. makes a 'oooh' sound—like in poa during beasts class, or gof while cheering for the dragons—with his friends joining to hype you up. only afterwards does he get slightly insecure that people might think that he needs someone to defend him, because he's not enough to defend himself on his own. wouldn't take it out on you, but the doubt would eat him away.

#╰୧ 🐚 talking with arty's askbox! ︶#slytherin boys #theodore nott #lorenzo berkshire #hp fandom #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle #draco malfoy #blaise zabini #theodore nott x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #enzo berkshire x reader #draco malfoy x reader #blaise zabini x reader

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acourtofchaos · 2 days ago

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JUST GIVE ME THE NIGHT | Prince!Mattheo Riddle x Princess!Reader

summary: rival heirs from neighbouring kingdoms, a broken affair that should stay that way for you own good considering you're engaged to someone else, but you're unable to let Mattheo go despite the fact he ended things so harshly and one night you're determined to confront him about all of it when his actions prove he isn't as unaffected after breaking things off as he pretends to be.

C/W: 18+. piv. fingering. small amount of angst, mattheo being a little bloody and beaten, self-loathing behaviour from mattheo, kind of cheating since reader is engaged but its an arranged marriage and the guy is a dick.

song inspo: the night does not belong to god by sleep token

There was a stillness to the world as your hand lifted slowly towards his door.

It felt almost as if the entirety of the land had fallen into a hushed, watchful silence - a deep breath taken before your actions caused an undeniable shift of the tides with the startlingly loud rap of your knuckles against aged wood.

The way it echoed through the stone walls made you freeze, panic at the possibility of being caught rolling through your chest, your galloping heart, as you held your breath and waited what felt like an eternity for that voice you loved so well to call to enter. For the rustle of movement or the soft thud of his footsteps approaching the door.

None of them came.

And the absence of them forced you to swallow the lump in your throat that was attempting to suffocate you, to nudge the door open and pop your head around the edge to look for him. Hesitantly stepping into the room with a soft frown when he was nowhere to be found.

He had been there recently, at least, you were sure. The fire was still blazing strongly, the logs that had been thrown inside to feed it not yet swallowed whole, and when you looked to the bed, the sheets were wrinkled. Strewn and tossed aside like someone had been fighting for sleep and lost their temper when it continued to evade them.

You only hoped that he hadn't left in search of another fight. Especially not when you had heard from your own knight, Lorenzo, that he was already bloody and bruised, that he hadn't seemed to care what happened to him the first time let alone a second, but then just as you were about to turn on your heel and go looking for him something caught your eye.

His dagger. The one always hung at his hip, steel gleaming cold and sharp, as deadly as the boy that wielded it, sat innocently on top of the table beside the bed.

Now Mattheo may have been hot-headed, a thrill-seeker who was impossibly quick to anger, but he was not foolish.

Typically.

And unless he had suddenly developed a death wish after the two of you had violently parted at his own insistence, then there was no way that he'd leave without that dagger.

But then, as if on que, a faint splash alerted you then to a presence in the adjoining room.

You released a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding at the sound and maybe if you had been a little less concerned, a little less skittish when you had first entered the chambers, you would have noticed the rather obvious clue to his whereabouts in the way the room smelt like sweet soap and expensive oils.

The tendrils of steam that were seeping through the half-open door, soft and coiling, beckoning you to follow them and find him.

So you did, with your stomach tumbling and footsteps light and fast, almost soundless as you slipped through the gap and into the room.

At first you could hardly make anything out but then you blinked away the damp warmth, allowing yourself a moment for your eyes to adjust to the heavy fog of steam that lingered like a blanket, and with it the room steadily came into a less hazy view.

Much like the one in your own chambers, there was a sprawling bath that took up half the room, carved into the stone floor and adorned with jewels that glimmered and shone like starlight beneath the water. Housing at the farthest end of it, your prince, with his back to you, unguarded and completely unaware.

His body glowed, candlelight reflecting off the droplets of water that clung to his flushed skin, his dark hair damp and curling at the nape of his neck whilst his head hung low against the brace of his folded arms.

You let your eyes trace over every inch of him like it was the very first time, the last, because for all you knew it very well could have been.

Even with his back to you he was beautiful, and it broke those parts of your heart that had never been able to fully commit to hating him as you were supposed to, to see for yourself the way he had been marred by fresh bruises.

They were everywhere. Vicious blooms of lavender and navy, smudges of violence that ranged in size from being as small as a fingerprint, or maybe it was the stark outline of a knuckle, to something much, much larger.

They painted him with such an air of defeat, especially when paired with the slump of his usually proud shoulders, that the very sight of it felt fundamentally wrong. Like you were witnessing the death of a small, flickering flame that had once been a wildfire.

It made you vengeful, made you protective. It made your chest ache so unbearably that it felt as if you had bore wounds to match his own upon your lungs and your fragile ribs, and it had all left you incapable of breathing quite right.

There was the slightest movement from your own body as you tried, a twitch of your arm whether to reach out for him or to reach for a weapon you didn't possess to avenge him, and a soft noise that bubbled past your lips before you could choke it down.

Wholly unnoticeable to perhaps anyone else, but enough to alert Mattheo that he was no longer alone.

Mesmerised, you watched the lazy lift of his head, the way it tilted almost imperceptibly to one side before the low drawl you've yearned to hear so desperately since you last fought finally found you again.

"I told you I do not need your constant supervision Theo, I am not a child."

You snorted softly at that, unable to help it at the faint bite of petulance lingering in his tone.

"I believe Theodore was in need of some well deserved rest after the lengths he had to go to today to keep you from getting killed, you have me instead." You called out softly, and the effect of your voice was instantaneous.

He didn’t turn.

Instead, it was as if all at once every part of him drew tight, like a knife had been plunged into the low dip of his back, deep past muscle until the tip grazed his spine, and then slowly ripped upwards.

You could sense the way it rippled through him, the violent shudder that wracked down to the depths of his bones when he croaked your name before he could bite it back. Before he could repackage it in grit and fire, and spit it like a reprimand rather than a telltale sign of his own weakness.

"What are you doing here?” He demanded, voice rough, brooding, once he was able to shove down the rush of longing inflicted by your presence that had caught him so horrendously off guard. “Come to seek justice for the wounded pride of your betrothed's men?"

Despite his defensiveness, you allowed yourself to draw a little closer, feeling the fine wisps at your hairline begin sticking to your skin as the heat in the room seemed to swell. Steam thickening until it was a physical press against your skin.

"Why would I care about them?" You shot back quietly. "But perhaps, you could help me make sense of all this and tell me what they did to draw your ire. Or are we simply feeling a bit nostalgic and deciding to revisit the old Mattheo who liked to pick fights for no reason?"

He didn't expect your calmness, you could tell. The levelled, coaxing tone apparently had a way of making him wary, fingers twitching restlessly against stone, trying to bury themselves into it like he needed grounding whilst his face slanted to the side just so.

It was movement enough to gift you a sliver of his face, the half-hearted sardonic curl of his mouth as he smirked. "Maybe I've grown sick of seeing Flint's ridiculous crest everywhere I turn."

You took another step closer, a thoughtful laugh humming at the back of your throat as you did so, before reminding him. "Then I believe you've come to the wrong part of the realm if you want less of it, dear prince." You mused. “Also that excuse is a blatant lie, I don't believe you, I think it was something else."

Mattheo turned to you then, slowly, deliberately, disbelief evident in his expression that you would provoke him so blatantly. Though, really, it shouldn't come as a surprise. Not with you, not when it had been one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with you despite himself.

Gentle currents broke out around each movement of his body whilst he leaned back, appraising you with raised brows.

"What else could there be?" He shrugged mildly, but where his tone was meant to be unaffected, dismissive even, there was the faintest tremble. A miniscule fracture beneath his indifference as his throat bobbed.

You planned on cracking it wide open.

With shaky hands, you unclipped your cloak, allowing the heavy weight of velvet to slide down from the curves of your shoulders and rush to the floor.

There was a sharp exhale as he drank you in, lips parting as your beauty punched the breath from his lungs, his heart stuttering at the vulnerability that you were entrusting him with despite everything he had done to try and make you turn your back on him.

It felt more intimate than either of you were used to or truly prepared for, nothing but a simple nightgown shielding you from the burning catch of his eyes whilst he was fully bare beneath the water. A far cry from the desperate rucking up of dress skirts and trousers that were torn loose rather than unlaced, drawn down just barely far enough for him to be able to bury himself within you.

"Everything." You whispered, shattering his trance and swallowing thickly when his dark eyes snapped to yours. "There's so much else. It's who the men wearing that sigil defend, the archaic laws they’re willing to reinforce for his benefit. What upholding them does to me, to us."

Warmth flooded your toes with the next careful step that you took. The hem of your nightgown swirling wet and weighted around your ankles whilst you studied him. The way his eyes softened before he could shield his feelings, the war between yearning and rejection that carved itself out across his pretty face as he battled himself internally.

After a moment he shook his head, resolute, or maybe he would have seemed so if not for the fact that he refused to meet your gaze. "There is no us, I've already told you." He muttered, hollow.

"Isn't there? Look me in the eye and tell me again, show me you truly believe it and then I'll be convinced."

Your words were an infuriating challenge, one that made something hot and unforgiving curl within his chest, that made his eyes flash and his jaw clench until it was sore, teeth threatening to shatter with the pressure.

Because he knew that you had him.

With that stubborn tilt of your chin and the unshakeable set of your shoulders, your fearless expression whilst you crept closer looking like his dream come true, he knew that nothing he told you was going to make you run this time. That you were done with letting him run also.

Still, he blew out a frustrated sigh, damp arms shimmering beneath the light as he folded them across his chest. Stubborn, even if he was fighting a losing game.

"There can't be an us, it's a foolish dream, princess."

You frowned. "Why?"

He regarded you with a pained gaze at that, the kind that you didn't just witness but felt, that seemed to beg of you ‘why are you torturing me like this’.

You were only inches away now, waist deep in the glittering water and his scarred, aching hands trembled with a desire so fierce to reach out and touch you, to make sure that you were real and he wasn't dreaming, that every nerve he owned was screaming it's discontent as he struggled to choke it back.

"Your family, for one reason." He said like it was obvious, gritting his teeth until you could easily spot the irritable twitch of his cheek when you scoffed.

"That never stopped you before, Mattheo." You countered, defiant, fingers drifting to touch the chain that adorned your throat. "Remember the tournament? You gave me your token before anyone else could even think about it, your necklace with your family crest that you then insisted upon me keeping? Hardly the actions of someone fearing repercussions from my family."

For a breathless moment you thought you'd unravelled him so much sooner than expected, his gaze blowing out, burning black as it followed the trail of your fingertips down to where he knew the very same pendant was nestled beneath your neckline.

The thought of you wearing his crest, his mark, and little else, only a thin nightgown that he absolutely wasn't watching slowly turn transparent as the water line rose with each step you took, had his hands clenching to white knuckled fists. His tongue dragging over the full plush of his lip like he wished more than anything it was your skin.

It had your head spinning.

Hunger had become a blaze within his blood and in a last ditch effort to look elsewhere his stare dipped only to then catch on the sodden material of your dress melding to your stomach and your hips, the curves of your thighs that he had been desperately forcing himself to ignore.

Mattheo growled a curse like the gods were against him and just when you thought he might snap, he dragged a hand viciously through his wet curls, yanking at them like he needed the sharp shock of pain to stop him making a mistake, before he then glowered at you.

"How about the fact that you're engaged?” He hissed. “I know you have no small amount of distaste for these laws but just because you don't want to marry that piece of shit doesn't make it any less of a major fucking issue."

"Says the Prince who years ago killed the man who challenged him to a duel for sleeping with his wife." You rolled your eyes, undeterred and voice deadpan. "Don't pretend the sanctity of other people's marriages mean shit you."

"Fine." He seethed, surging forward to ensnare your arms in an unyielding grip, the ferocity of his movement churning the water and causing your body to sway into his. "You want a better reason as to why I shouldn't touch you, shouldn't even look at you?”

“Do your worst.” You whispered as your hands found their way to his stomach, palms flush against his warm skin.

He swallowed hard, the dark fan of his lashes fluttering at the touch before he huffed a ragged laugh, a hollow sounding thing that was as forced as it was humourless. “If you insist, princess. How about all the years I spent being cruel to you before I ever truly knew you, how about that when I started to care for you I swore I would never say or do anything to hurt you again and then I broke that promise at the first sign of hardship.”

You opened your mouth to argue and Mattheo shook his head, guilty, and distressed by your willingness to defend the harm he had caused.

“I could have been brave and held hope like you did, or been kinder in my approach at ending things for your safety. But instead I immediately reverted back to cruelty that made you cry and almost broke your heart.”

Mattheo's voice broke and then he was releasing you just as suddenly as he'd caught you, pulling away and into himself as shame flooded his face. “You deserve so much more than this, and I have never been nor will ever be worthy of you.”

Silence followed, a gathering of seconds where your breath remained caught in your throat and your eyes stung with the burn of oncoming tears.

And then you were reaching for him tentatively, allowing time for him to retreat if he wished when his heartbroken gaze darted nervously to yours.

He didn’t though.

He gave in like it was suddenly all too much to refuse you, deflating with an agonised sigh and allowing his head to fall into the cup of your hands as your thumbs brushed gently over his cheekbones.

"Don't you think that should be my decision?" You murmured , the first sweeping tendrils of hope beginning to curl around your heart when he glanced at you with soft eyes and a hesitant smile.

“Gods no, you're a terrible judge of character.”

“I'm a fantastic judge of character.”

“You aren't, angel,” He insisted gently. “Do you know how many dodgy characters I've had to pay Lorenzo to scare off just whilst we've been here for this wedding because you're too tender-hearted for your own good.”

“There is nothing wrong with being k– wait–you bribed my knight?”

“Multiple times.” Mattheo confessed, a mischievous little smirk tugging at his lips. “He was more than happy to be able to get a little mean about it, knowing I'd cover for him. He agrees that you're too trusting, by the way.”

You blinked at him, bewildered, before feigning a betrayed look as you muttered. “Traitors, the both of you.” And shook your head in disbelief. "Anyway, my point was that neither of us have been saints and you were certainly not the only one capable of cruelty, Mattheo. I forgave you for it once before, and I forgive you for it now."

His eyes shuttered closed for a moment and he made a soft noise in the back of his throat, hands hesitantly skimming up your sides and over the soaked cotton stuck to your arms whilst he pressed his forehead gently to yours.

"You shouldn't." He murmured, tracing his fingers over the curve of your cheek and dipping to press them softly against your mouth when he sensed your impending protest. "If you forgive me and say you still want to be mine, I will be relentless. I'll tear cities to the ground and kill anyone that tries to take you from me.”

He nudged his nose against yours, something sparking in his chest when he felt the way your breath stuttered, the way you slipped a hand from his face and buried it within his curls at the back of his head to hold him close. “I'll want to steal you away back to my home and wrap you up in the colours of my family and the silk sheets of my bed so everyone knows you're mine.”

The air between you was crackling, suffocatingly hot and bloated with tension as his mouth hovered over your own, lips just barely catching whilst he spoke. “And when it inevitably sparks a war with the Flint's and maybe even between our families too, I will watch as the kingdoms burn and still be unable to let you go."

The heavy-lidded look he gave you as your eyes held his was searing, all unashamed, ruthless honesty, and so much that love that you felt dizzy with it. Weak kneed and breathless in the face of Mattheo’s passion and possessive need stripped back to their rawest forms.

"Then don't." You rasped, before your other hand left his face to cradle the fingers that had dropped from your mouth to linger at your chin, raising them back up so you could kiss the pad of each one. "You have me Mattheo, no matter what trials men or gods may bring, you'll have me. I am yours."

The groan that tore from his throat was pure sin. “Gods– fuck it, m’yours too–I always have been–”

And then Mattheo kissed you like he'd rather die than do anything else.

Desperate hands cupping your face and his mouth crushed to your own, any thought about the consequences, the inevitable chaos he'd be welcoming if he claimed you and gave you himself burning away as something golden and warm burst through him.

It was a demanding thing, raw and inelegant because your arms were tangling around his neck in an instant, fingers sliding rough through the wet silk of his curls, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips before he parted them for you.

And then oh, you were fucking whimpering his name around the prettiest moan he'd ever heard in his damned life.

He didn't want it to be like this though, he didn't want a feral blur of greedy hands and even greedier lips.

You had both fucked quick and frantic plenty of times but this felt like it needed to be different, like he needed to take his time and unravel you bit by bit as if he had all the time in the world to kneel before you and offer his worship.

So he forced himself to quell the desperate roughness in his movements. Kissing you honey-slow and soft as a dream, tilting your jaw carefully so he could deepen it whilst a hand swept down your back to sink you into him.

"Angel." He murmured against your mouth, with a need that was almost overwhelming. "My pretty girl."

The lovely sigh you made at his words did something to him that he couldn't explain, it had him drawing back just an inch, forehead dropping to yours so dark eyes could watch your face, half dazed and lovesick.

Mattheo knew you would have let him take control and fuck you there, in the bath, against the steam-damp stone, you would have let him crowd you against them and wrap your legs around his waist, let him push inside you and set a pace that had your back arching, limbs trembling, moans tumbling from your throat that echoed around the walls like a damn symphony.

But he wanted to hear you ask for it, craved the reassurance of your words rather than just the cues of your body and the urgent press of your mouth telling him that you wanted this, wanted him, whilst his fingers brushed over the laces of your soaked nightgown.

Your eyes found his the moment they fluttered open, hazy and warm with desire, making him groan when you nodded breathlessly.

"Don't stop, Mattheo.” You pleaded, sounding as wrecked as he felt. “I need you."

He caught your mouth with his again, kissed you deep and aching, burning just wild enough that it felt like your knees would buckle whilst his hands worked open each silken ribbon that ran from your chest to your stomach until the nightgown parted wide.

It was with a shaky breath that he let his fingers hook beneath the material at your shoulders. That he drew it down, slow and gentle, until it bared your chest and then your belly, your arms slipping free of the damp sleeves as the top half of the gown fell and bunched at your hips.

There was no time for you to be insecure about it, not when Mattheo was looking at you like you were something sacred. Not when his hands stopped pushing down your gown and instead ghosted up your arms and over the dips of your collarbones with a reverence that had you shivering.

His exploration resuming only once he'd mesmerised every constellation like freckle adorning your skin to then trace the swell of your breasts and the path from your sternum to your navel.

His palms slid to your hips then, kneading gently as he buried his face in your neck to hide the lovestruck, flustered expression on his face. Murmuring, “You are the most beautiful thing I've seen, the closest thing to heaven that I'll ever touch.”

You were smiling, he could feel it. A soft laugh bubbling up past your lips and pouring, pretty and golden, over him as your hand dragged gently down his spine whilst the other tangled itself in his hair. “I didn't know you were capable of being so poetic.”

He let out an amused huff. “It only happens with the right inspiration.” He hummed, lips trailing the curve of your throat as he spoke, nose nudging at your jaw before he pressed a warm, lingering kiss there. “Like being in the presence of divinity.”

You snorted. “You're ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you.”

Your breath hitched, a small gasp fleeing from your throat that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You wanted to melt, wanted to cry, wanted to say it back to him over and over as the pressure from the bloom of your own feelings cracked open your ribs one by one for your heart to pour itself out.

You settled for kissing him instead.

For tasting the words on his lips as Mattheo said them again, hushed and lovely, like he knew you needed them more than you needed air in your lungs. A total goner for the way you lit up each time he did so until you were glowing brighter than the numerous candles flickering around the edges of the bath.

He moaned when you snuck a hand down between to find him hard and aching, gentle fingers circling around his cock, stroking him so maddeningly fucking perfect that he had to grip your wrist and get you to you stop before he embarrassed himself.

"I won't last if you keep touching me like that" He breathed, lips slipping over the curve of your cheek before he dipped his forehead against yours. "Besides, I want you in my bed, like you deserve, the bath can wait for another time."

With that, you let him push the rest of your gown from your body, his hands back on you before the drowned material could even sink to the floor once you stepped out of it.

Swallowing hard as he took a moment to digest that you were fully bare before him, that he was bare before you, and that there was no going back from this now.

There would be denying, no pretending, that he did not love you with every miniscule spec of existence that made up his soul. That he was not yours, as you were his.

His eyes met yours then, gazing over the raw vulnerability of your own expression before he pulled you into a kiss that burned.

That felt like a brand, a promise and a declaration, as he hauled you up into his arms, hands clamped tight beneath your thighs and a low groan rumbling through his chest when you wove your legs around him.

He carried you from the bath like you were infinitely precious, like you were the most important thing in the world to him as he snatched the thickest towels he could and moved out of the room, past the still-roaring fire, and towards the bed.

His mouth brushing softly once, twice, against yours when he set you back on your feet and wrapped you in a towel, drying you with a reverence that had your heart flipping in your chest and your cheeks flushing warm.

He melted when you took the other towel and did the same for him.

Little butterfly kisses pressed to his arms and chest whilst you went before the fizzing in his chest got the better of him and you laughed, startled and bright, as Mattheo tackled you softly down upon the sheets, pushing you back into his pillows with his body encasing yours.

And the sight that awaited him when he looked down was the sweetest, most breathcatching thing he had ever witnessed.

You with firelight slanting over your skin and dancing in your eyes, your mussed hair strewn over the pillowcases and your lips swollen from his affections, staring right back at him like Mattheo had not only hung the moon and the stars, but as if he was more beautiful, more beloved, than all of them combined.

Your hands found his face as his lungs drew tight, fingers sweeping the dip of his brow and the lovely arcs of his cheekbones before you pulled him close and whispered against his mouth. “I love you, Mattheo.”

The noise he made in response was a soft, cracked thing that sounded like you had ruined him.

Like you had slipped a searing hand between his rips and wrapped it around his racing heart until anything else it contained that wasn't you burned away.

Like he craved nothing else for the rest of his life but that white-hot feeling of being utterly in love with you.

“Tell me what you want,” Mattheo choked, voice wholly wrecked, nose nudging against yours. “You can have it, whatever it is, I don't give a damn, I'll give you anything. Everything.”

You gasped as he dragged a scorching touch from your shoulder down past your ribs, your stomach, hovering over your hip bone until it met your outer thigh and let the heat of it sink deep. Sparking a need so fierce you were almost sure you would have cried out for him if it wasn't for his mouth covering yours.

“I want you to touch me,” You told him breathlessly once he had finished kissing you dizzy. “I want you to make love to me, show me that you're mine and I'm yours, Mattheo.”

He had never followed a command so willingly, nor so quickly, in his life.

But the words had hardly parted from your lips before he was readily obliging, fingers slipping further over your skin until his hand dipped between your parted thighs and found you warm and wet for him.

He pressed his fingers to your clit in gentle circles but still you jolted, back arching like a bow and his name a startling moan on your tongue whilst he shushed you with soft sounds and even softer kisses mouthed against your flushed temple.

“Relax for me, princess, I've got you, let me make you feel good.”

You did your best to listen, to settle beneath his electric touch, chest heaving as you nodded and he rewarded you with another kiss for doing so well for him. A lazy, indulgent thing that stole what little of your breath his ministrations had allowed to remain in your lungs.

He was making your head swim with the smallest effort, just his weight hovering over you and his barely there touches that only grew bolder when it seemed like the light pressure was threatening to drive you insane.

The moan you made when he slowly pushed two thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.

"Does that feel good?" He rasped, biting back a groan when the moment his thumb brushed over your clit you clenched tight around him. Hips canting and your hands grasping at his biceps, nails scoring pretty little crescent moons into his skin.

“Mattheo–” You panted, “oh gods, please.”

You were a shuddering mess. Crying out for him as he pressed himself close and moved a little faster, fingers curling relentlessly against that part of you that made you keen and your thighs shake, trembling and clamping down around his hand like you were desperate to keep him there.

There was the nudge of his forehead falling against yours then, a tender moment that made your heart swell as he watched you in awe. “I know.” He husked.” “You're doing so well, angel. Looking so fucking pretty for me.”

You let out a breathless, little moan at his praise, a delirious sound that once you would have rather died than made in front of him, but now you couldn't care less.

Were delighted by it even, with the way it seemed to hit Mattheo like a rock to the head, his dark eyes blowing wide and dazed.

He looked like he was fighting a war with his restraint.

Torn between his greed for your sounds, his hunger for the way you felt beneath him, around him, when you unravelled by his hand, and simultaneously never wanting it to end so he could have you writhing and whimpering for him for much, much, longer.

But your chest was beginning to rise and fall in shallow jerks, voice thinning as your insides burned and your blood sparked, pressure coiling tight in what felt like every possible nerve ending as Mattheo thrust and crooked his fingers just right until your back was lifting from the bed more often than it was resting against it.

"Are you close?" He murmured, low and rough, heat licking down his spine when you rolled your hips harder against his hand, tears of pleasure sparkling in your eyes as you quickly nodded. "That's it, be a good girl and come for me."

You did. A strangled cry catching at the back of your throat as golden light rushed through you. Blinding. Warm.

Your body quivering beneath his as he coaxed out more pleasure than you knew how to comprehend, head thrown back and hips stuttering until a soft kind of exhaustion settled over you like a blanket and pressed you limp into the sheets.

Mattheo was stroking at your cheek as you dazedly found your way back to him, fingers tracing nonsensical patterns as his gaze turned adoring, his expression lovesick when you blinked before tilting your head up for a sweet, gentle kiss that had him smiling against your mouth.

“You with me, princess?” He teased quietly.

“Always.” You murmured, swallowing the sigh that escaped him as you wound your arms around his neck, drawing him down at the same time you shifted your own body until every inch of him was pressed against you.

He swore as your thighs parted wider for his hips to nestle into, his cock sliding over your wet cunt as you did so, and he couldn't resist any longer when you rocked, slow and deliberate, against him. Fingers tangling in his hair whilst you moved like you were trying to drive him out of his mind.

"I need to feel you."

And fuck, how could he ever deny you anything.

How could he have ever tried.

There was a tremble to his movements when he finally pushed inside you, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he slid in inch by inch until his hips were flush against yours and you were whimpering his name like a prayer.

Your eyes fluttering shut at the stretch of him until his nose nudged sweetly at yours, his breath shaky against your lips when he whispered. "Don't close your eyes, keep them on me."

Mattheo moved slowly once your pleasure-drunk gaze was locked on his.

Languid rolls of his hips and butterfly soft brushes of his fingers up your sides that made the loveliest sighs clamber up from your throat.

Gentle hands removing your arms from around his neck and raising them above your head so he could stretch you out beneath him and melt into you until there was no space left at all between your bodies. Your hearts. Your bonded souls.

And it all felt like nothing could, or would, ever part you again.

He choked on your name when you tightened around him, groaning soft like you'd wounded him, like you’d stolen his breath even as he fought to grasp it with everything he had.

His eyes squeezing shut despite what he'd said because it all felt too fucking good and Mattheo was starting to fray apart at the seams quicker than he wanted to.

“I'm sorry– I’m not gonna last long.” He gasped, voice wrecked and sounding pained by the admission, but then he was moaning into your mouth as you kissed him.

A wild, desperate thing, that told him “don't worry about that, I just want you’ before you answered out loud with a threadbare noise of your own when you hitched your legs up higher around his waist and he thrust deeper, greedier, burying you into the mattress with each half-frantic snap of his hips.

It felt like the fire had blazed outwards from its hearth and swallowed the room, like it had found a home beneath your skin, flaring and spreading until it had then latched onto his, ready to devour him whole.

There was no more kissing anymore, just breathless pants into each other's mouths and his hands clenching desperately around yours whilst pleasure and delirium chased and nipped at your heels.

“Ohgodsohgods–fuck,” You whimpered when he angled his hips and ground into you, his pelvis catching at your clit with each aching press. “Mattheo–”

"I know,” he rasped, his forehead shoved against yours. His body beginning to shake and his pace faltering, movements jerking as your hips rose sharp to meet his own and made light burst behind his eyes. “I know, fuck, come for me angel. Let me feel it.”

You fell apart then, cunt fluttering around him until he followed you into bliss with a hoarse shout that he muffled by kissing you, rough and intense at first, and then slower. Sweeter as the fierce pressure of his orgasm mellowed into a low, buzzing warmth over time.

It took a few minutes for him to be a little less breathless, for his muscles to feel a little less liquified and his vision to lose the hazy smudge of lingering pleasure. But when it finally did, he rose above you just enough that he wasn't crushing you with his weight and looked down at you in awe.

And much to the threat of his own heart, you were staring at him the same way, stunned, eyes that were a bit glassy like you couldn't believe that what had happened between you was real. That it wasn't all some dream that you were destined to wake up from any second, heartbroken and alone.

The ache to reassure you, was a fierce thing that temporarily made him forget how to speak. Tightening his chest to the point of pain, to devastation that any flicker of your doubt was only there because he had planted it himself in a stupid attempt at denial that he would spend the rest of his life making up for.

And he would begin by gently stroking your cheeks in the way that he knew you adored, peppering soft kisses along your forehead and down the line of your nose until you laughed, soft and sweet, and his lips hovered just over yours. His eyes catching your gaze with all the raw honesty and love that he possessed.

"Marry me." He murmured, pressing a doting kiss upon the surprised parting of your lips. "Fuck the laws and our families and your fiance. You are mine and I have always and will always be yours, so marry me instead."

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle #mattheo x reader #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle fanfiction #mattheo riddle fanfic #slytherin boys #harry potter fanfiction

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iris-qt · 8 days ago

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🧹 Eyes on the Quaffle, Riddle

“Formations!” you yell, blowing your whistle. “Get in position, you too, Riddle!”

Mattheo, who is currently doing absolutely nothing helpful except leaning on his broom and watching you like you personally invented oxygen, blinks innocently.

“I am in position,” he says, fluttering his lashes. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Mentally.”

“You’re standing on the grass.”

He checks. “So I am.”

You narrow your eyes. “Fly. Now.”

He finally mounts his broom and kicks off, but not before flying close enough to whisper, “Yes, ma'am.”

You clench your jaw so hard your teeth protest. Dating Mattheo Riddle, as it turns out, is a full-time job. Especially when you’re also his Quidditch captain, and he thinks professional boundaries are just suggestions with optional side quests.

“Alright, we’re running the Porskoff Ploy,” you call out. “Riddle, take left flank—"

“I’ll take your left hand in marriage if we win this game.”

“—and shut up,” you finish, pointing your gloved finger at him.

He salutes with a wicked grin, then actually does what he’s told, which is suspicious and terrifying. For a solid twenty minutes, he flies like a model teammate. Executes every play. Doesn’t flirt once.

Naturally, you're worried.

You blow your whistle. “Alright, bring it in.”

They circle back. Mattheo’s sweaty, flushed, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your blood pressure. You’re holding the clipboard when he lands beside you, peeling off his gloves.

“Proud of me?” he asks casually.

“You actually followed directions,” you mutter, flipping the page, eyes glued to your clipboard. “Should I be concerned?”

He leans in. “I just wanted to see what it takes to get Captain Bossy Boots to kiss me in public.”

You elbow him in the ribs. “Don’t test me.”

“I love testing you,” he says. “You love my tests. You crave the exams I bring into your life.”

“Okay, now you're just saying words.”

“I was being a good boy,” he murmurs. “Didn’t I earn a reward?”

You don’t look up from the clipboard. “You earned laps. For the first thirty minutes when you were being a menace.”

Mattheo groans loudly. “This is workplace harassment.”

“You don’t work here.”

He leans in again, voice dropping. “Then kiss me and I’ll consider it volunteer service.”

You glance around. The team is distracted, some stretching, some rehydrating. You shift your clipboard to block your face and peck him quickly.

He freezes.

“Wait—did you just—”

“One more word,” you warn, eyes still on your notes, “and I’m making you wear the spare practice kit.”

His face drops. “The one that says ‘Kiss the Keeper’ on the back?”

“Exactly.”

He groans again but doesn't push his luck. You smirk to yourself and whistle. “Alright, back in the air! Riddle, keep your hands to yourself this time.”

Mattheo flies off, but not before yelling, “No promises, sweetheart!”

You’re going to murder him.

Or marry him.

Maybe both.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #slytherin boys #mattheo riddle x y/n

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lov3notts · 1 day ago

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happy 1k!! 🥳 congrats again amora! you deserve all of this and so much more, can’t wait to see you grow even more 🤍

for cupid’s arrow, can i request mattheo riddle with the prompt, “but i miss you...” “hon’ i just left fifteen minutes ago.”

congrats again bb!!

1k Celebration!!! ;Navigation

couldn’t have done it without your help on my first fic<33 also i have so many versions of your request😭

He had no shame.

None. Zero. It had been—he checked the time—six minutes since you walked out the door, and Mattheo was already lying flat on his bed like a man in mourning. One hand dramatically tossed across his forehead, the other clutching the hoodie you left behind like it was a lifeline.

The silence in his apartment was unbearable.

So he did what any completely rational, emotionally well-adjusted boyfriend would do.

He called you.

You answered with a knowing lilt in your voice. “Hey, babe.”

Mattheo didn’t even hesitate.

“I’m dying.”

There was a pause. Then, your voice came through with a smirk so obvious he could hear it.

“Oh no. Tragic. Should I alert the Ministry?”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled, rolling onto his back dramatically. “You left and now this place is a ghost town. There’s a chill in the air. I think my soul left with you.”

You made a sympathetic noise that was anything but sincere.

“Wow. Must be horrible having a moment to yourself.”

He could hear your footsteps, the breeze in the background. You were still walking. Rude.

“It is” he groaned. “It’s awful. I think the bed’s colder. And my heart? Hollow.”

“You poor thing.”

“I am!” he insisted, tossing an arm over his eyes. “I was just lying here thinking, ‘Wow. If she doesn’t come back, I might never smile again.’”

You hummed thoughtfully. “I dunno. You seemed pretty alive and well when I left. Standing up, fully functional, smirking at me while I walked out the door.”

“That was before the loneliness set in.”

You laughed, cruelly unbothered. “Sounds intense.”

He grinned at the sound, clutching the phone closer like it might pull you through the screen. He dropped the fake suffering for just a second, voice quieter now—sincere in that rare, boyish kind of way you always managed to pull out of him. Then—softer—he said,

“But I miss you.”

And that’s when you really broke. Your smile softened through the phone, and your voice dropped to a teasing drawl.

“Hon’, I left fifteen minutes ago.”

Mattheo blinked at the ceiling, completely unbothered. “Yeah. And I’ve missed you for all fifteen.”

You snorted. “You’re hopeless.”

He grinned. “Hopelessly in love with you.”

“Obviously.”

He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Come back?”

Another pause. Then you sighed. “Be where I left you.”

“I never moved,” he promised, already flopping back on the bed. “Still dying. Better hurry.”

“Mattheo…”

“yes?”

“I miss you too.”

He grinned. “Knew it.”

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

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moscatosin · 3 days ago

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🖤 lists. mattheo riddle 🖤 oral. studying. fem!reader self insert. tongue in cheek. thank you to @nottscherry for reading this & confirming my idea was sane and @voidofsunlight for her bot that inspired the idea. mdni. raspberry vodka recommended (2.1k)

It was painstakingly obvious that Mattheo's curiosity had clearly gotten the best of him. Slipping down into a seat beside you in the back of the library, he smirked; honey tinted eyes washing over you with a trail of unspoken questions he’d stop at nothing to get answers for. Reaching out, with careful fingers, Mattheo tucked some loose hair which had fallen down in front of your face behind your ear, using the gesture as an excuse to let his fingertips linger beneath your chin and turn your head to face him.

“You know, you really should be more discreet with what you keep in your dorm..”

For a few moments, an array of impulsive thoughts and taunting images raced through your mind. When he had asked earlier in the day about borrowing a textbook you had on ancient runes for a class he wasn't all that committed to, you hadn't thought much about lending it to him. He just wanted to pass - you were nice enough to extend the offer to a friend - end of story. Right? Nope.

That little shit had taken it upon himself to snoop around your dorm as if he owned the place rather than just walking in and walking out the way you'd expected, like a thief in the middle of the night. You'd told him exactly where the book he was after was - top shelf in the bookcase beside your bed in between a stack of parchments you vaguely could refer to as homework and the novelty coffee mug of a dog he'd brought you years ago in Hogsmeade after you mentioned you thought it was cute.

Mind racing; you wondered what he'd stumbled on. Ever so surely, you began to flicker through the mental catalogue of everything you kept in your dorm. Perhaps the lucky red lace bra you always wore on first dates? The novelty candy G-string Pansy bought for your birthday last month? The handcuffs your ex had far too many ideas for? The bullet vibrator you kept in your bedside top drawer shaped like a golden snitch? No, let's be real - all these things were far too safe for someone with the last name Riddle; far too vanilla. Yet whilst you tried so desperately hard to think, your mind just couldn't quite pinpoint what he was hinting at.

“I’m sorry”, you murmured out with a raised brow, half tilting your head to the side to act partially naive and yet to also shift away from his touch. “You'll have to be more specific, Mattheo. I don't quite have the gift of legilimency like you do..”

“The list, sweetheart.”

For a moment you froze as time seemed to stop still. A single blink is what it took for your brain to kick-start back into motion after going offline oh so temporarily at his simple statement. The list. The god forsaken list. A stupid piece of parchment you'd hidden well, you initially thought, between ties and mismatched socks in your trunk which he'd had to have gone digging through to find. What a little shit –

“So you've been snooping?”, you sigh, hands raking through your hair roughly as the breath that escapes you burns raw against your lips. “Mattheo, we're friends - I trusted you to walk into my dorm, get what you needed and get out. Something that really, should not have been that difficult of a task for a wizard like yourself..”

He cuts you off by placing a finger firmly against your lips and scoots the seat he's on a few inches closer towards yours; wooden legs of the chair scraping harshly like nails on a chalkboard against the floor. With his free hand, he plucks the folded parchment out from his robe pocket and sets it out in front of you; his eyes dancing towards it, daring you to open it. You do - with shy, trembling hands; trying so, so hard to keep yourself afloat in this sudden drowning chaos you're finding yourself trapped within. It's okay, the waters only ankle deep - you can still get yourself out of this without needing to swim.

At the top of the list in handwriting which is clearly your own - that perfect cursive that has witches jealous of your quill skills, is Mattheo's name. Beneath it; listed in no particular order, a few dozen reasons girls think he'd be a decent fuck along with their signatures beside the comment. You swallow; the feeling rather uncomfortable and intense which hurts your throat as you listen to him begin to read it.

“Would definitely let me call him Daddy - A. Greengrass. Has 99 problems but that cock sure ain't one - L. Brown. Hands that could choke me into place with ease - H. Abbott. Are you girls bloody mental? Who writes shit like this?”

Would you answer him? Eh… The whole idea of lists had started out as a joke a few weeks ago at a party. Sober thoughts meeting drunken confidence when you'd suggested a list be written about all the boys you knew. Not necessarily sexual in nature but at least suggestive to some degree Somehow, rather unexpectedly; someone brought up Mattheo's name in conversation after commenting on how damn good he looked wearing all black, sipping on firewhiskey like it was nobodies business and bang - the ‘I would fuck him’ list was born.

“Riddle, it was just a little harmless fun. Like you can honestly tell me that you and your mates don't talk about or rank girls you'd like to hook up with or date or –.”

“Your name’s not on it.”

The sound of the library fell into a deep and unexpected silence you could hear a feather drop within. Your posture straightened upright; both brows rising as the faintest shade of rosy peach colouring skimmed across your cheeks. Coughing to clear your throat, you let out a semi-soulless chuckle.

“Yeah, because we're friends and I don't exactly see you in that way Mattheo.”

“But what would you write?”

“Nothing”, you confirmed with a confused stare at him, “We're friends.”

“But if you had to..”

Oh, he was getting desperate for an answer. How interesting. Had the names and comments already listed not been enough to stroke his rather expansive ego. You glance at the list before looking back at him; licking your tongue over your bottom lip to buy a little time to further think.

“You're not being serious?”

“Dead right I am.”

“Matt - almost three quarters of the bloody castle have signed a parchment that declares they'd willingly want to fuck you, and you're caught up on the fact that I, one of your best friends, hasn't signed it?”

The puppy dog look he shot you without warning made it feel like you'd just kicked him. You were well aware that there'd be only one way to suffice him, so picking up your quill you scribbled the first thing that came to mind and signed the bottom of the list. Mattheo had shifted to be staring over your shoulder intently as you scribbled away neatly; the gasp that from deep within his chest sounding like he may or may not have just experienced a minor heart attack.

“Might know how to use that tongue? Might? What the fuck? You think I'd suck at eating a girl out? Are you insane? I'm the best—.”

“Mattheo, seriously - shut up! We're in a library and I'm trying to study and yeah, as a matter of fact, you seem like a guy who wouldn't want to get messy and doesn't have the patience to go down on a girl long enough to please her, so yes. Might - know - how to use that tongue. Take it or leave it.”

Your heart is racing at this point. It was a joke. This whole thing. The list, your comment, the fact the two of you were even having this conversation. He slaps a hand down hard against the desk causing your ink bottle to shake and lets out a gruff sounding growl making your thighs tremble and quake. No. No. No…

“You're a wicked little witch.”

The sentence comes out with a hiss and a little sprinkle of threat and before you know it, Mattheo has slid his chair back, not caring to glance around and see if the two of you have company before dropping to the floor and crawling beneath the desk. Your brain short circuits again, this time; involuntarily as you feel his hands spread your knees apart; lips pressing hot, slow kisses that burn up the inside of your thighs deliciously. God it had been so fucking long since you'd been touched.

“W-what are you doing?”

*Proving that statement of yours fucking wrong.”

His curls tickling against your skin, your hands grasped at the edge of the desk you sat at, knuckles whitening as his teeth sank in to nip sultry at your skin. Your body tensed for a split second before sinking into the seat, his lips continuing to pepper kisses up your thighs before planting a final teasing kiss over your panties against your core that had you seeing stars.

“Hell.. Mattheo - we need to sto-...”

Like he was about to listen. Honestly. Tugging your panties to one side, you felt him chuckle against your clit before pressing the softest of kisses against it; your nerves endings bursting into an electric craze. Tip of his tongue sliding neatly in between your folds, you bit a knuckle painfully between your teeth to stifle a moan and felt your body grow warm.

“Oh my god..”

The words are nothing more than an uttered whisper of submission as Mattheo's tongue flickered teasingly over your entrance, slipping in shallow to torment you as his hands wrap around your thighs in an attempt at keeping you still. Your head tilts back; eyes clamped shut, your own hands tearing your skirt up to find his curls and knot through them, keeping Mattheo's head and mouth exactly where you need it.

“Mhmm.. you taste so fucking good.”

Compliments? Ugh. Your toes curl as his tongue continues to slide between your wet folds, sucking at your clit before diving back into you again. Your hips rock to help fuck yourself against his tongue to which he doesn't object to; devouring you like a feral animal who hasn't had a feed in weeks. You can feel your thighs becoming wet; your arousal evident as it paints his chin, the seat, your legs slick. You try to control it; the coil of heat burning in the pit of your stomach but when he shakes his head, tongue flickering over every inch of you on offer, your mind loses it.

Clamping your thighs tightly around him, Mattheo continues to let his tongue work magic; sucking at your folds before one final hit at your clit that has you not only seeing stars but almost seeing the whites and sparkle of what you can only guess are the pearly gates of heaven. Breathing heavily, you feel your legs lose tension as you unknown your fingers from his curls; face flushed and body quivering as you struggle to regain your breath.

“Holy fuck that was -..”

“Amazing?”, Mattheo asks, picking himself up off the floor to take the seat beside you again.

You blush a little harder; struggling to pick up your quill, yet you manage to, crossing out on the list what you wrote to reconfirm what you'd doubted. Mattheo's gaze turns from hungry to soft as you correct your admittance.

A tongue that belongs to me.

He can't help but gloat; chest puffed out, chin still glistening as he smirks your way. Leaning across, Mattheo presses a kiss to your temple, slinking an arm around your shoulders almost possessively.

“I'll admit baby girl, I'm kind of impressed I was able to change your mind so quickly. Tell me though - are there other lists or am I the only boy oh so fortunate?”

“Oh”, you chuckle, shifting your tie around your neck to adjust it for some breathing room, “There's another list.”

“Another?”, Mattheo spits out immediately. The way you've suggested it and he's said it, making it clear that apart from his laying on the desk in front of you, there's only one other in existence.

“Mhmm”, you mumble in confirmation.

“So who's the guy?”

Oh this is fun - he got to tease you, and now the tables have turned in your favour for you to tease him. Twirling your quill between your fingertips, you reach out to dip the tip into your ink pot and smirk.

“Theodore”, you explain with nothing more than his best friend's name.

“...and is his ‘list’ as extensive as mine?”

“Oh it's longer..”, you giggle, trying to focus back on your studies, “..and before you ask, yeah - I've signed it.”

#hogwarts #slytherin #hogwarts universe #moscatosin #slytherin boys #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo riddle x self insert #mattheo riddle x you #mattheoxreader

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riddlesrizzler · 4 days ago

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𝙒𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙃𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨

summary: He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. characters: mattheo riddle. shy! ravenclaw! reader warnings: none! but it made me cry. word count: 2.1k a/n: thank you all for supporting this serires! it was one of my favorite things to write and i am sad this is coming to an end. but mattheo riddle and shy! ravenclaw! reader will come back in other ways on my page :)

The rain drummed softly against the castle windows, a steady, rhythmic patter that seemed to pulse in time with the quiet of the Slytherin common room. The sound was soothing, as if the world outside had been muffled by the storm, leaving only the comforting crackle of the fire in the hearth to fill the air. Its golden light flickered, casting a warm, inviting glow across the room, where shadows danced across the walls and the faint scent of burning wood filled the air. The atmosphere was peaceful, cocooned from the outside world-a perfect setting for the two of you, nestled together on the worn leather couch.

Mattheo sat beside you, his arm resting lazily along the back of the couch, the movement casual but with an air of comfort that spoke of the quiet intimacy you shared. One of his hands held a book-your book, of course-its pages well-worn from use, the cover soft with age. He had become more than just the boy who sat beside you in class, more than the person you never expected to feel so at home with. In the few short weeks you had been together, despite the whispered gossip, the two of you had carved out a space where things felt natural, easy, like you belonged together.

You had learned that, just like you, Mattheo preferred solitude to the chaos of crowds. His discomfort in the Great Hall, where voices swirled and overlapped in a chaotic dance, was something you had come to recognize. You saw the slight crease that appeared between his brows when too many people crowded in, his need to retreat into quieter spaces where the noise didn’t drown out the thoughts in his head. And you-well, you had always been the same. You both sought refuge in the shadows, in alcoves where silence reigned, in corners of the common room where the firelight stretched far enough to offer warmth but never quite reached the noise.

Rainy days were your favorite, offering the perfect excuse to stay inside and do nothing but wrap yourselves in blankets, get lost in books, and let the world outside fade into a distant hum. You relished the peace of it all-the soft companionship of sitting together, reading for hours in content silence. Mattheo would absentmindedly reach for your hand, fingers brushing lightly as he turned a page, a silent connection that never failed to make your heart flutter.

He never complained about the time spent in such quiet company, never questioned the hours you lost to stories, always content to sit beside you, his presence a constant, grounding force.

There were little things that you both shared, things you hadn’t expected to find in a person you barely knew just months ago. The first time you had introduced him to your music, sitting in the Astronomy Tower with a pair of enchanted earbuds, you had half-expected him to mock your choices, to roll his eyes at the songs you loved. But instead, he surprised you, nodding along to the rhythm, humming quietly when a familiar tune played.

"I like this one," he had said, a small, unexpected admission that made something warm flutter in your chest. His quiet approval felt like a shared secret, like a melody that you both understood.

Now, in the dim warmth of the common room, you sat beside him once more, your fingers lightly skimming the worn pages of Wuthering Heights. The storm raged on outside, its distant rumblings echoing through the stone walls, a constant, steady companion to the quiet that surrounded you. Mattheo’s presence beside you felt like the calm amidst the chaos-a steady comfort, like the fire that crackled nearby. He didn’t demand your attention, didn’t fill the silence with words when it wasn’t necessary. He just was, his very existence beside you a quiet reassurance that everything was right.

You turned a page, your eyes following the words, when they suddenly stopped-your breath caught in your throat as your gaze lingered on a passage.

"He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

You read it again, and again, feeling the words sink deeper into you with each repetition. The quiet storm outside seemed to fade away, leaving only those words to echo in your mind. Slowly, almost without thinking, you lifted your eyes to Mattheo, who was still absorbed in his book, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, his thumb absently brushing the edge of the page. But as you watched him, your heart stirred-those words, those exact words, felt like they were meant for him.

He must have sensed the weight of your gaze, because he looked up then, his dark eyes meeting yours with a hint of amusement, as if expecting to find something odd on your face.

“What?” he asked, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Is there ink on my face again?”

You shook your head, your voice soft and almost uncertain. “No,” you whispered, though your heart was pounding now. “I just-” You faltered, unsure how to explain the wave of emotion crashing over you.

Mattheo closed his book, giving you his full attention now. His expression softened, his gaze warm, patient, waiting for you to find the words. “Just what?”

For a moment, you hesitated, your fingers tracing the page of the book as if it would give you the courage you needed. Then, without a word, you shifted the book slightly toward him, tapping the passage with your finger.

“I just read this,” you said, your voice quieter now, filled with a vulnerability that you hadn’t intended to show. “And I think-I think I get it now.”

His gaze flickered to the words, and for a moment, his face shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something deeper, more thoughtful. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached for your hand, his fingers gently threading through yours, holding you with a tenderness that sent warmth flooding through you. It was a silent promise, a quiet confession, wrapped in the simplicity of a touch.

“I think I get it too,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

In that moment, the storm outside seemed to fade entirely, leaving only the soft crackling of the fire and the quiet of the room between you. And as the words hung in the air, you realized with a certainty that made your chest ache-this wasn’t just about love. It was about understanding, about finding someone who could see the parts of you that even you sometimes couldn’t.

You hadn’t just found someone who loved you. You had found someone who understood you.

There had been a time when you ran from him. It wasn’t just avoidance-it was an instinctual thing. The mere sight of Mattheo Riddle rounding the corner would make your heart race and your mind shout in panic. Without thinking, you'd turn sharply on your heel, your shoes slapping the cold stone floor as you fled from his presence. You had learned early on that proximity to him was dangerous, a fact you clung to fiercely. Whenever he came near-whether in the library, the corridors, or even in the Great Hall-you slipped away as if he was a storm you needed to outrun, a force of nature threatening to consume you.

Back then, he had been a mystery, an enigma wrapped in cold eyes and sharp edges. You kept your distance, not out of fear, but out of self-preservation. He was different-too calculating, too elusive, too... intriguing. But now?

Now, your steps led you toward him, not away. The shift was gradual, but it was there, undeniable. You walked toward Mattheo, your feet carrying you in his direction like a pull you couldn’t explain. And every time you did, something in his chest tightened.

He noticed it-noticed how your eyes would find his after class, how the corners of your lips would twitch into a smile, shy yet certain. Your steps no longer retreated but moved confidently toward him, as if you wanted to be there, wanted to be with him. It was a strange feeling for him, this sudden shift, the realization that someone-you-were seeking him out, drawn to him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He wasn’t used to it. He had never been used to people seeking his presence, to anyone walking toward him with open intent. People were cautious with him, careful, as if his very presence could shatter the fragile peace around him.

But not you.

You had gone from an untouchable mystery to someone he could rely on. Someone he now looked for after every lesson, someone whose voice he strained to catch in the sea of noise, whose laughter had become the music he needed in a room full of chaos. You had become his quiet anchor, his steady constant in a world he often felt detached from.

And you? You had started to see him differently too.

The nervous tension that once overtook you when he approached, the instinct to shrink into yourself when his dark eyes flickered your way, had begun to dissipate. Now, when Mattheo stepped closer, you didn’t stiffen. You didn’t retreat, didn’t make excuses to slip away. Instead, you let yourself lean into him, into his presence, into the space he occupied beside you. You didn’t try to hide anymore. He didn’t make you feel small or out of place-he made you feel like you were seen, like it was okay to let down your guard. You were no longer afraid of what he represented.

He was your safe space now. And as much as you had become his.

Mattheo had never thought he’d be the type to lose himself in books. In fact, he’d spent most of his life convinced they weren’t for him. Pages filled with ink, bound together into stories that seemed as cold and lifeless as the paper they were written on-those things were for other people. People who cared about things like words and meanings. But that was before you.

It was strange what people would do for attention, he mused one night, sitting alone in the common room with a book of The Great Gatsby in his hands. He hadn’t been reading it because he enjoyed it, not at first anyway. No, he had picked it up because he wanted to keep you talking, keep you looking at him a little longer. He wanted to impress you, to show you that he was more than the cold, distant Riddle that everyone else saw.

And maybe it had worked. Maybe he had succeeded in capturing your attention. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about impressing you. It stopped being a game, a tactic. Somewhere between the late-night readings, between the hours spent annotating lines of Fitzgerald’s carefully crafted prose, he realized-he was no longer pretending.

He understood now.

He understood why people wrote books. Why people spilled ink across pages, pouring their hearts into every word. Because books were more than just stories. They were attempts at capturing something intangible-something that couldn’t be fully explained or quantified, but only felt.

Mattheo had always seen the world in black and white, a series of logical conclusions and cold calculations. But you-you had come into his life like a splash of color, something he couldn’t quite fit into any neat little box.

And in that moment, as he read through the pages of the books you’d introduced him to, he finally realized what all the fuss was about.

Gatsby had thrown grand parties, filling his house with light and music, all for a chance that Daisy might walk through his door. Charlotte had woven her web, crafting intricate messages, all to make Wilbur feel seen. Darcy had fought his pride, changed in ways he never thought possible for the woman he loved. Even Winnie the Pooh, with his simple wisdom, had understood what it meant to leave behind his own world to be with those who mattered. Heathcliff had been willing to tear the world apart just for the chance to belong to the one person who truly understood him.

And now Mattheo? He had started reading, yes, to keep your attention, to earn your approval. But now he understood. This-what he felt for you-was what it was all about.

Love wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect words. It was about finding someone who completed you, who understood you on a level deeper than you’d ever known was possible.

Mattheo Riddle had never thought he’d get lost in a book. But for you, he had. Because you were the story he was most desperate to understand.

And in that moment, he realized-he understood why people wrote books.

To capture something that no words could ever fully express, something that could only be felt and he had found it-you-and it was more than any book could ever contain.

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wordsarelife · 2 days ago

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—the archer

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader

summary: when you state starts worsening, you hope to pull away from everything without someone noticing. but mattheo notices the signs, and he won't let someone he lo— he won't let you slip away...

warnings: mentions of depression, of harming behavior and worsening condition of someones mental health, angst with a happy ending, cursing, like a lot of it

note: this just came out of me. originally i hadn't intented for it to be so depressing, but here we are lol. the ending is happy i promise and there might be a love confession

there was a party today. you had heard about it when two slytherins you didn't know the names of, had discussed their outfits for the night.

you couldn't remember when you had last been to a party.

you couldn't even remember when someone had last invited you to one. you had stopped showing up at things a long time ago. and some time after that, people had stopped wondering where you were— and you were relieved.

it was easier to spiral when no one noticed.

when there wasn't someone you had to constantly find excuses for. why you didn't leave the bed. why you didn't eat for two days before you had a real meal on the third. why you weren't you anymore.

it was easier when you didn't have to explain. it was easier, because you didn't know how to explain.

it felt like any room you entered these days was filled with people who could see through you, knowing you weren't who you pretended to be. that you weren't worth their time. it was easier to realize that than to continue pretending.

you avoided mirrors when you walked through the halls of the castle. you didn't raise your hands in your classes, if you even went to them in the first place, and you stopped caring about what others thought of you.

all of it had been going great, until the last person you had expected, showed up at your door.

mattheo riddle and you had been friends since your first year in hogwarts. you had naturally floated toward his group, being born as a pureblood in one of the richest families in the wizarding world.

if money would've been able to fix whatever the hell was wrong with you, you were sure you would’ve never had any problems in the first place.

mattheo and you had known each other much longer, even before hogwarts, but you wouldn't have considered each others friends, so you never really counted that.

mattheo’s group had once felt like home— not because of how much they liked you, but because they never asked why you were quiet some days and reckless the next. they had grown up around chaos too. they understood the unspoken rule: you don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.

at some point, they had stopped being your friends and started being people you avoided in the hallways. you’d cut them off so gently they hadn’t even noticed at first— a missed class here, a forgotten lunch there. and then, eventually, nothing at all. you thought that was the cleanest way to disappear.

but mattheo had noticed. evidently.

"what are you doing here?" you asked as you opened the door. your roomate had been gone for a few hours, probably at that party you had heard about earlier, so you were alone in the room, leaning against the door and staring mattheo down like he had greatly offended you by showing up.

"oh look, she can actually talk" he noted sarcastically, stepping around you without an invitation and sitting down on your bed, facing you.

you sighed, before you closed the door. "and what is that supposed to mean?"

mattheo wasn't the one to talk about things gently. "well, exactly what it sounds like" he shrugged "i thought there had to be something wrong with your voice, because you haven't opened your fucking mouth in weeks"

"you're so dramatic"

"am i?" mattheo asked with furrowed brows. "because i sure as all aren't the one shutting themselves off in their little rapunzel tower. wanting to be left alone so badly they forgot all basic manners when they enter a room. here's a tip: people appreciate hearing the word 'hello' from time to time."

you shook your head, rolling your eyes at his attitude. "maybe you shouldn't knock on doors when you weren't invited."

"maybe you should stop moping around like someone stole your favorite hair-tie"

"oh fuck off, mattheo" you crossed your arms. "you have no idea what's going on."

"no?" he repeated, trying his best to provoke you. "then enlighten me. what's been going on with you? and it better be good, because i didn't come all this way to hear some stupid excuse of you feeling tired." he leaned back, waiting for you to talk.

"but i do feel tired" you said, your tone totally different than before, "i feel so tired, mattheo"

mattheo looked you up and down. he noticed the bags under your eyes, how you had basically shrunken under his gaze and the way you coudln't even look him in the eyes while you talked.

"tired of what?"

"i don't know, of everything" you threw your hands around, pointing around you. "of my life"

"and you think disappearing from everything is gonna solve that?" mattheo asked. "because if you don't live your life you suddenly stop hating it?"

you said nothing, biting down on your lip while simply staring at him.

"this is not how it works, okay?" he stood up, crossing the room and taking your shoulders into his hands, as if to shake sense into your body. "and you think this is fun to watch? think we don't care? that we've simply forgotten you, because you tried to make us?"

"you should've"

"fuck that" mattheo shook his head, exasperation flowing his features. "enzo and theo ask about you daily, pansy tries to take notes in class to save them for you, draco sits at the library every thursday waiting for you to show up, even though he knows you won't. and blaise still brings up that stupid inside joke the two of you had every time someone orders peppermint tea. we didn't stop caring just because you wanted us to"

you pulled your shoulders back, frustration bubbling over. “you don’t get it, mattheo. you can’t just care your way through this. It’s not that simple.”

he tightened his grip on your shoulders, eyes fierce. “try me.”

you pushed his hands away, running your owns through your hair as you turned away from him. "i don't need whatever you're trying to do, okay?" your voice grew louder. "i don't need someone to tell me there's something fucking wrong with me, because i already know it"

“i’m not here to tell you anything,” he repeated, his voice low but steady, following a step behind as you turned away. “i’m here because i’ve been there.”

you paused, shoulders stiffening at the weight in his tone— not angry, not sarcastic, just… raw.

“don’t lie to me, mattheo,” you muttered. “you don’t know what it’s like.”

"oh, i know what it's like, okay?" he breathed, waiting a few seconds, before he finally continued "to look in every mirror and hate what you see, to not want to get out of bed because you feel like whatever you do, you have no fucking control over what will happen, to stop enjoying things you once loved and to stop wanting to be around people who you once loved."

"mattheo—"

"i'm not trying to tell you what the fuck is wrong with you" mattheo interrupted. "i'm trying to tell you that there might be a way out of it. but staying here and shutting everyone out won't make it better. because after a while, people start accepting that you don't want to see them, parties get thrown without anyone even thinking about inviting you and some day you really won't have anyone who cares and then you're genuinely at the worst fucking point. a point with no return."

"we're already way past that point" you shrugged. "so, what does it matter?"

"we're not, okay?" mattheo replied angrily. "because that's not something you just decide like that. you still have us, even if you don't want us to care. and you're fucking stupid if you really think i will continue watching this until you reach a point of no return."

"then stop watching!" you snapped, spinning back toward him. "if it's so hard for you, mattheo, then leave! stop showing up at my door, stop dragging me out of my own head just to yell at me for being different than you want me to be! i didn't ask for this—"

"you didn't have to!" he interrupted, stepping closer, eyes burning with something wild and sharp. "because it's not something you ask for. if people care about you, they're going to show up, whether you want them to or not."

tears welled up in your eyes, as you stared back at him.

"you think this care?" you asked in disbelief, trying to swallow the tears as you screamed. "barging into people’s lives when they’ve made it very clear they don’t want you there? yelling at them for not being who they used to be? you think that makes it better?”

“i think someone has to care enough to try,” mattheo shot back, brows furrowed. “and clearly, no one else is knocking down your door!”

“because i don’t want them to!” you shouted. “i didn’t ask for anyone to play hero or to fix me or care! i don’t need pity, mattheo!”

he stepped forward, jaw clenched. “this isn’t pity—”

"then what the fuck is it?" you snapped, the tears now flowing freely. "because this does look scarily close to it. what do you want from me?"

"i want you to stop acting like you’re the only one who's ever gone through hell!” he shouted, his voice rising again. “you think you’ve cornered the market on pain? on loneliness? on pushing everyone away because it’s easier to fall alone than drag people down with you? congratu-fucking-lations if you really think that's an achievement.”

you flinched like he’d struck you— but it wasn’t the volume that cut. It was the truth buried under every word.

“you think i want to be like this?” you hissed, voice shaking. “you think i chose to wake up every day and feel like I can’t breathe? you think i don’t hate it?!”

“i know you hate it!” he snapped, stepping closer again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to pull you in or throw something across the room. “that’s the fucking problem! you hate it, and instead of fighting it, you’ve just decided to rot in it!”

"oh, fuck you!" you bellowed, stepping back in utter disgust. "just because you know what it feels like doesn't mean you can act so high and mighty, like you have any type of authority over the way i deal with it."

"i'm not trying to!"

"then what the fuck do you want?" you shouted, your voice growing impossibly louder. "you come here to tell me how to deal with my problems, but you don't want to control me, but at the same time you do... it’s just back and forth with you. do i need to spell it out for you to get it? i don't need whatever this is, so what do you still fucking want from me?"

"you really think i came here with a plan?" he screamed back, matching your tone. "you really think i sat down and thought about how i approach this mess of a situation best? no, because you don't sit down to plan how you're gonna save someone who's drowning, you just get there and you try your best to fucking save them, that's how it works."

"you can't save people who don't want to be saved."

"why are you so fucking stubborn?" he bellowed. "i've never met someone as infuriating as you. it's fucking annoying."

"yeah? well congratulations," you snarled, breathless. "add it to the list of things you hate about me."

his expression twisted, like you’d struck him. good. let it hurt.

"you think i can just stop feeling like this?" you spat when he didn't answer. "oh, poor mattheo, he cares so much even when people don't want him to, he’s such a great person. god, it must be exhausting being you with care that comes so easily you don't even know who to place it onto next, you fucking twat"

"i don’t care because it’s easy!" he exploded, angrier than you had ever seen him before, taking a step forward. "i care because I fucking love you, okay?!"

the room grew quiet, your arms falling to your side as you narrowed your eyes at him. mattheo took a breath, but didn't say a word.

"what?" you asked, softly, your voice almost not there. maybe you didn't even want him to hear it.

but then his voice returned so suddenly you almost got whiplash. “fuck. i love you, alright?”

you stared at him, lips parted, every argument you had prepared suddenly useless.

he shook his head, furious at himself now. “i didn’t mean to say that. i wasn’t—this wasn’t how i wanted to—” he stopped again, ran a hand through his hair, defeated. “but it’s the truth. and I’m so fucking tired of hiding it.”

the room fell dead silent. your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

mattheo waited for you to say something, anything, but you kept quiet, so he was the one who spoke.

"you want to know what all this is? this fight, this yelling, me showing up at your door like a bloody lunatic—it isn't me trying to be a fucking hero. this is what love looks like when it’s terrified.”

"terrified?" you repeated, your voice almost giving in. you suddenly felt very lightheaded, like you would lose conciousness at any moment.

"terrified" mattheo nodded. "i don't need you to say it back or anything, that's not the reason behind it. but i need you to survive and i’m terrified you won’t."

"mattheo, i—" you shook your head, biting down your words, unsure what you should answer. all the words were suddenly buried so far back, you couldn't even imagine reaching them ever again.

"you don't have to say anything" he said. "this is not some fucking ‘get better so i can love you’ situation. because i'm gonna love you wether you want it or not, wether you get better or continue to hide in your fucking room for all eternity— so fuck that, okay?”

he took a breath “i want you to get better for yourself" he said softly, even managing to sound friendly while constantly cursing.

"because i remember how you spent hours outside just because you liked the way the sun felt on your body, or how you came to the library every thursday to work on your history of magic papers, not because you actually needed the extra time, but because you knew draco needed it, but would always be too stubborn to ask for your help.”

you sniffled, tearing up even further. the way he looked at you and the words he said broke your heart but stitched it back together at the same time.

“you used to love chocolate cake and pumpkin juice, the sound of snow crunching under your feet, listening to music at parties, dancing, laughing— living."

"mattheo—"

"no, please, let me finish" he muttered softly. "i know whatever you're going through feels impossible to overcome and it won't be easy, i can promise you as much… but even though you probably feel so fucking disconnected to everything that was before this— you aren't, because the you from before, she's still in there" he softly touched your cheek with his hand and you closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

"i can tell, because you're crying while we're fighting, and you always did that, even when we were children." he counted on.

"because you looked at me with the same expression you always used to have and because you can feel me touching you right now. you can feel the warmth of my hand and it feels good. because you can still feel things and you will continue to feel them more and more as time goes on. you're not beyond the point of saving, but you have to do it yourself"

"you really believe in me that much?" you whispered softly, opening your eyes and meeting his brown orbs. "even when i tried everything to push you away?"

he looked at you like he couldn't believe you were seriously asking that. "what does it look like?" he muttered sarcastically "showing up unannounced in your room, screaming at you and confessing my love didn't prove that to you already?"

you laughed through your tears and nodded. "i will try, okay?"

"one step at a time" mattheo reminded softly. "i'll be here"

“just for the record” you mumbled, leaning your forehead against his. “the way i felt about you never changed, not even when i was at my worst. because i love you too”

you looked up at him, eyes searching his face, and added, “that never really stopped.”

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