shwing's fic archive

About to make what you thought was a rather clever joke about him looking like a house-elf with a superiority complex, Theodore hauled a bag of flour onto the counter, declaring in his rather calm and stubborn way:

“If this relationship is going anywhere; you’re learning to cook properly. We’ll start simple – my mothers pasta recipe. It’s easy, it’s quick – there are no shortcuts.”

Rolling your eyes; it doesn’t take long to give into him when he’s got a voice like a suave, European angel; and as such, you suddenly find yourself standing beside him, palms coated in flour as he demonstrates the fine delicate art of rolling dough which he makes look absurdly graceful.

Ugh!

Forearms flexing like he’s walked out of a fucking Versace activewear commercial; Theodore leans into the rolling pin, his movements precise, patient and oh so reverent that you’re considering going to church on Sunday just to sit in a confessional booth and whimper out to a priest all the dirty and fucked up thoughts your mind is suddenly thinking.

“You have to respect the craft”, he explains; his baby blues focused on the bench in front of him before they flicker over to you, “My mother always used to tell me that pasta listens. It knows if you’re rushing – so don’t.”

Were you listening? No. Why? Well… you’ve got this problem – whenever Theodore talks, your mind decides it wants to short circuit – and now, with a voice that’s so soft and thoughtful and tinged with something close to nostalgia that makes your heart squeeze... yeah, it was like seductive white noise.

Which of course, means you ruin the moment almost instantly – because when it’s your turn to try and roll the dough just like he’s instructed you to for the last ten minutes, the sheet folds in on itself and somehow you manage to create an air bubble. Theo stops midroll, surveying the disaster you’ve managed to create within ten seconds and stares at you with thinly veiled horror.

“How did you manage to mangle it?” “No.. I haven’t. Teddy; it’s still edible.”

Your protests are useless as the rolling pin is banished from your grasp. Perhaps he should have tried to teach you something simpler. Honestly though, what could be simpler than essentially flour, water and eggs?

“You’re committing crimes against tradition.” “Theodore it’s just pasta--.” “My mothers’ pasta.”

You stand corrected – floury hands raised up in the upmost surrender. This wasn’t an argument you were going to have. As Theodore begins working away rolling, slicing and dicing as if he’s in his most comfortable element, you huff like a toddler, part annoyed that he wont let you help and secretly hoping that some genius idea pops into your head so that you can apologetically somehow make this up to him. That doesn’t quite happen. You do, however, get a stroke of ingenious mischief come to mind which you know will either make him laugh or force him to break down and cry.

Wandering to the pantry, you pull out a packet of ready made, dry spaghetti and walk over to the pot of boiling water on the stove; pulling a handful of pieces out preparing to snap them over the pot.

“We could---”

Theodore’s on you in an instant, almost scalding himself over the boiling water as he snatches what he considers to be a sin from your hands and cringes excruciatingly at the sound of one of the spaghetti noodles snapping in his hand. His other hand grips at your waist to stop you from moving and suddenly; you’re flush against the counter, his chest (and… something else), pressing into your back. Warm breath brushes the sensitive spot on your neck as he growls lowly, “Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.”

You burst out laughing, but he indeed looks like he’s either about to commit murder or burst into tears.

“Merlin almighty! Someone’s feral about spaghetti…” “My mothers’ recipe,” he once again corrects sharply, though the dangerous curve of his mouth betrays him. His thumb lingers at your wrist, brushing the rapid thrum of your pulse before he lets go, reluctantly, like it costs him. “Fine…”, you concede with a smirk. “No spaghetti snapping. Scouts honour!”

Theodore mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘menace’ beneath his breath before turning back to focus on the cooking. You try to behave – like for real this time; but fate, along with your clumsiness has other ideas.

Whilst attempting to help clean up and make space for what you’re certain is going to be a delicious bloody meal once it’s served, the bag of flour the both of you were using earlier slips out of your hands as you attempt to place it back on a cupboard shelf; a white cloud exploding across the countertop and throughout the kitchen which coats your hair, your arms, the window above the skin, the floors… everything. At this point, your trying not to choke on your own laughter – the sound echoing at the back of your tongue while Theo looks like he’s actually considering ending this relationship.

As flat as his voice can manage, he quietly proclaims that, “you look like a ghost.”

Without missing a beat, you sweep your flour dusted hair back like a veil before trying to blow some of the powder out of your eyes. “Maybe it’s my Halloween costume. You know.. with October being next month. I thought I’d get some practice in. La Pasta Phantom.”

That causes his lips to twitch; fighting a smile that you know you’ve earned. Theodore steps in closer, raising a hand so that his thumb can brush some flour from your cheek and you lean into his touch; the gentleness of it stealing your breath, As to not be shown up, you retaliate, dragging a floury finger down the sharp line of his jaw. “There – now we match.”

Theodore blinks; his expression unreadable before he very deliberately smears both of his hands down your chest and across your waist, coating you a further shade of white that leaves you spluttering.

“THEODORE!” “All’s fair in love and war, principessa.”

In an attempt to regain your dignity, you turn to the sauce simmering on the stove – intoxicated by its rich aroma of tomato and garlic that causes your stomach to growl further. Poking your finger into the pot, you suck the sauce off your finger with a hum that’s comically theatrical.

Theodore notices immediately. “It hasn’t even had a chance to properly simmer---.”

“But it’s so good!”, you protest, dipping your finger in again before licking it – this time, slower, because you’ve realised just as immediately as he noticed you, that he’s watching. The apples of his cheeks almost as red as the marinara you’re devouring.

“Want some?” You hold your finger out like a peace offering.

He doesn’t take it though, instead; Theodore steps forward and crowds you back against the stove until he’s practically pressed against you. this time – chest to chest.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”, he asks in a murmur; eyes flickering down to your mouth.

You smirk. “Maybe a little.”

He lifts a hand to your cheek again, this time; delicately brushing at flour that no longer is there as he traces your skin with an unnerving tenderness. “You’re impossible”, he whispers while shaking his head, “an absolutely menace.”

Swallowing, your pulse thrums beneath your skin – your voice barely steady when you answer him. “But I’m your menace.”

That does it.

His expression softens – fond and unguarded; before hardening with intent as he leans in and brushes his lips against your own. At first the kiss is soft, testing, tasting. It makes your stomach flip rather than grumble, however when you sigh against him, Theodore deepens it – one hand weaving into the back of your hair to keep you still as his other finds the small of your back and splays across it to assist in pulling you close.

In addition to the flour and tomatoes, you can taste the olive oil, the garlic, the eggs, the herbs he had meticulously measured out; that splash of red wine he had mentioned while rambling off the recipe that called for a glass for the sauce and a glass for the chef. You can taste his laughter before you hear it. His nose bumps yours causing you to giggle; your elbow knocks the rolling pins off the counter tops, you both ignore the way the sauce begins to sputter behind you – because right now, none of it matters.

The perfect tradition that he reveres falls apart as the kiss you continue to share becomes warm and as stoic and resigned as he sometimes may be; for the first time during this impromptu cooking lesson, Theodore doesn’t seem to care. When he finally does break away – because c’mon, like you’d ever want to end a kiss with a man like him.. his breath is uneven. He rests his forehead against yours, lips curved into a sweet smile that is so rare, it makes you chest ache.

“If my mother knew the chaos you had caused..”, he whispers; brushing his fingers lightly through your hair before twirling the ends, “..she’d hex us for turning her recipe into a joke.”

You let out a small chuckle; returning the smile as your gaze becomes lost in his. “It’d be worth it.”

And in the middle of that flour coated kitchen, with pasta half rolled and sauce barely simmered; Theodore – ever so precise, careful and impossibly composed Theodore, let’s go of perfection just for once.

You both made a promise that it wouldn’t happen again. Well, whatever ‘it’ as. It wasn’t sex. No. well, not really. More of a slip up. A stupid lapse in judgement. A little ‘too much’ heat of the moment. A blurred line in the middle of the night that neither of you had intended to cross.

When Theodore’s eyes catch yours across the common room however, or when you feel his hand, warm; brushing against yours as the two of you pass in the corridor while heading towards classes – you think about it. That night. That blurred line. And when his tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip, his expression schooled not to darken when he hears your boyfriend say your name like it should be illegal to roll out of his mouth, you know that he thinks about it too. About you. About how you felt clenching around nothing while he spilled inside of you. About how perhaps – the two of you could navigate this little dance you were having into something more.

But you’re friends.

Friends who swore black and blue to each other that nothing would happen, again.

You lied. Oh, what a surprise.

The second time it happens, you don’t even need the assistance of social lubrication. There’s absolutely no excuse for the behavioural pattern the two of you are about to fall into.

You’re revising for exams. Just the two of you. After hours in an empty classroom; parchments and text books sprawled out across the desks. It’s almost 7pm. You promised your boyfriend you’d head into town with him just after 8 for an early anniversary surprise. You’d been thinking about it all day. Sort of. Your boyfriend in your fantasies had been replaced by your best friend. Fuck.

Theodore is twirling a quill lazily beside you as his eyes trace of the same paragraph of a textbook you’d read a few minutes earlier. God, he looks so fucking gorgeous – jaw sharp, hair a mess from how he’s run his fingers through it, forearms on display curtesy of rolled up sleeves which honestly just felt like a perk at this stage.

You’re so smitten with your stolen glances, that you don’t even notice when he slides his seat across a little closer to you. The legs of the chair had made a scraping sound against the stone floors, but you hadn’t even registered it. Placing the quill down, Theodore’s hand drops to land on your thigh beneath the desk and you don’t stop it.

It’s warm. It’s attention. Why would you?

You should push him way. Honestly, that’s the smart and sensible thing to do. When though, have you been either?

Instead, you part you legs like a bitch in head and invite his touch in against better judgement. Before you know it, you’re panting into his mouth hot and heavy as a single kiss turns into something animalistic. One of Theodore’s hands has knotted into the back of your hair, keeping you still and exactly where he wants you to be, his other slipping beneath your skirt to rub soft circles against the dampened panties you were that are meant to be a boundary for modesty.

“Fuck – you’re dripping. Is this all for me baby doll?”

Theodore’s fingers don’t bother wasting time as he lets them slip past your panties and slide between your slick folds earning a moan from you that he swallows without hesitation. Sinking two fingers in, they curl up sharp and perfect; hitting that spot which makes your hips jerk forward as his thumb begins to circle your clit ruthlessly. Your eyes clamp shut. Theodore’s moves are steady; one of your hands finds its way to wrap around his wrist – both keeping it there as well as half pushing him away and your spare slaps over your mouth; trying to contain the melody of your whimpers as your thighs shake uncontrollably.

Theodore doesn’t let up. This is fun. A game. He keeps the strokes going as you shamelessly grind on his hand, soaking his fingers, muffling desperate cries into your palm. He pulls his fingers out just before you’re done – chuckling maliciously at your pathetic state while lifting his fingers up to lick them clean with a smirk.

“Tell me if your boy has ever made you fall apart like that. Bet he hasn’t.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because he’s right. Motherfucker.

You call in a raincheck on your anniversary. An excuse of ‘not feeling well’ fake sobbed to your boyfriend so that you can buy enough time to rush off to your dorm and finish yourself off with your vibrator.

It spirals from there. You’re done making excuses.

First, it’s the library, where he pins you hard up against the shelves by the runes section; teeth nipping at your throat, his cock straining hard up against your ass for friction while you bite your lip so hard it bleeds in an attempt to keep quiet.

Then, the common room. A party. Slytherin has won the last 3 consecutive quidditch matches and while everyone else in attendance is caught up in their own worlds, you’re perched up on Theodore’s lap; looking the picture perfect essence of innocence while he slides his hand up the back of your skirt to hold your hip and have you grind slowly against his thigh as he continues his conversation with team mates about strategies for the next game.

The astronomy tower is where Theodore finally loses it. All patience, all control – shoving your panties aside and rutting his cock warm  between your soaked folds until your arousal slicks his length until it’s gleaming. Instead of your own hand clamping over your mouth, it’s his to make sure that you don’t scream as you bite one of his knuckles and he groans like an animal against your shoulder.

“Fuck, baby – I love how wet you get for me.”

Never your name. Never something sweet. Just ‘baby.’

Everywhere the two of you meet, it’s the same ritual lie you tell yourselves. Or a slight variation.

“Just this once.” “Just like this.” “Just until I cum.”

And let’s be honest – it’s never just.

Six weeks later is the night Theodore finally fucks you. For real. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Absolutely deliberate. You’re back in your dorm room – for some reason, it’s always yours. He has you on your back, sheets twisted and clutched in your fingertips, Theodore hovering above you with his hair damp, falling in in face, bare chest heaving as he lines the head of his cock up where it belongs and a long time ago should have been.

The first push is slow. Glorious. It causes your back to arch off the bed. His cock drags your walls apart inch by inch deliciously, your cunt fluttering around him like it isn’t sure whether to resist the pressure or beg for more.

Your breath hitches. Sharp. Needy. So does Theodore’s. Not for the same reason.

It takes a few, short; gentle thrusts before he’s buried to the hilt, stretching you so wide you swear you might just break.

“Fuck – look at you.”

Theodore is only able to groan again, this time; breathless, with no force behind the sound as he pulls halfway out only to slam himself in again. Your hands let go of the sheets; clawing at his shoulders instead. Your nails etched in hard enough that you draw blood to the skins surface.

The wet slaps echo throughout the dorm obscenely.

“So tight – taking me so fucking good my girl.”

Theodore sets a rhythm; his snapping against yours – each and every thrust plucking a moan from the back of your throat. Your hands shift to his back, scoring red lines down it as he grinds deep, hitting a spot that your boyfriend never has which makes you see stars.

Your boyfriend. Oh. Him?

He hasn’t even crossed your mind. You can’t even think of his name right now. Not an issue – it’s Theodore’s you’re screaming instead.

Over and over, throat raw, tears stinging your eyes and flooding your lashes.

Theodore watches you unravel beneath him; eyes storming dark, his lips parted to lick a finger and spell out his name on your clit over and over again until you’re convulsing around him, cumming so hard that your vision whites, until your gritting your teeth, until your expression turns to one of pain which he knows is just the ecstasy building up within your body that has been pleading for release.

“That’s my girl”, Theodore schools with a growl; head dropping to rest against your own. “Squeeze my cock baby. Fucking milk me.”

And then he’s gone. Not physically. The moment’s just expired.

Theodore falls apart above you. His cock twitching deep inside as he fills you; a heat flooding into you in messy pulses. He groans one last time into your mouth, devouring your whimpers like they begin to him – like they’re payment for the service he’s just given you. When Theodore finally collapses beside you; you’re ruined – new sheets damp, thighs sticky once again, pussy throbbing and greedy for more.

You stare up at the ceiling. He half turns, rolling in towards you to press a soft kiss to your shoulder before panting out a few other obscenities while he catches his breath.

You should feel guilty. You should. Should. That’s the key word.

The only thought your head can muster up however is – ‘when can we do this again?’

Because that’s the kind of girl you really are. And this is the kind of person you become when Theodore’s around you.

You’re friends. Best friends. Friends who can’t keep their hands off of one another. Friends who fuck.

…

….

…..

……

You’ve worked here long enough to know that silence isn’t empty. Silence forever hums with what it has left behind. 3 years, 8 months and 12 days. You’d begun to count how long your employment was as if it were a trick to convince your mind that every day you managed to keep yourself alive was a perk due to the demise you came across in your role. Archivist, or as you would so put it – professional disposer.

Not of items, not of people; but of dreams.

Every box, every file, every object that ended up on your desk once belonged to someone who breathed, who bled, who dreamed – who cursed the sky before they stopped being. That’s one of the reasons you don’t flinch after so many years when you’re handed anther battered box of possessions.

You’ve catalogued dozens of them. Boxes. Belongings. Items which once upon a time meant everything to someone. Which defined them before death curled around them and they took their last breath. Rings that no longer fit fingers. Books so well read for an opportunity to dream of escape their spines had cracked. Necklaces rusted where they chain had broken.

The box on your desk this morning is small. Black. Light when you first pick it up. A thin piece of twine has been spun around it thrice; a double knot secures the lid. It feels different. At least to the others you’ve dealt with this week. They were all heavy. With conscious, with guilt, with objects you didn’t quite understand the sentimentality of. Before you read the paperwork which has come along with the box to help you catalogue it away deep within the archives shelves you catch a glimpse of the small paper tag someone has managed to scribble a name on.

RIDDLE, M.

Your heart begins to hammer. Lips parting. Mouth parting. Throat tightening.

Mattheo Riddle.

His name is a wound stitched into your memory like it is with so many others. Once upon a time, you’d known him – not well, not deeply, but enough. Enough to be able to see the shadows that clung to him like a second skin he couldn’t shed. Enough to on occasion, feel the rare flicker of something almost human behind his cold and controlled presence. Your mind races back to a memory you have of him laughing during 5th year – soft and fleeting. You had sat in charms class together that day. His chuckle a sound so rare it could make doves cry.

You were tempted to reach for him. To take his hand. To almost trust yourself that if you did; he’d stay and that you’d get to know each other more than just on face value – but stay, Mattheo never did. He was always four steps ahead watching over his shoulder in a way no one should ever have to. He constantly commented that his behaviour came in conjunction with his last name. A pity.

And now he’s here – in your hands. Reduced to a box that you’ve cut the string off and lifted the lid of to inspect although protocol states that you shouldn’t. Fragile papers of sketches he’s drawn. A journal that’s empty except for a single page but is stuffed with unsent, folded letters. A silver ring engraved with the Riddle crest. A tiny carved wooden bird with his initials etched into the tip of its wing.

You open the journal. You can’t help but be curious. A few letters fall out, you pick up the first fragment – well worn at the edges – dated some time ago. June 7th – 1987. Aged, 7.

‘Father says that I am to be his. I do not understand. My mother says I’m only small. Hands. Voice. That I should want to grow. Want to be big. Want to be like him. Him. My father. All I want to do is play, but when he looks at me; I feel myself folding. Bending to his will. Maybe this is what being a son means. His son.’

You drop that letter and pick up another, unfolding it gently; as if the memories are timid and fragile.

December 14th – 1991. Aged, 11.

“I asked for a book today. After weeks of pondering – I finally decided upon a gift for Christmas. A day I spent with my mother only. My father seems to hate the month of December and I’m not exactly sure why. A book about animals. I’m not allowed to keep them. Father said no. Apparently there’s no room for weakness in our blood. Instead, I stole one off a shelf when I went into Hogsmeade with my mother. I hide it beneath my bed. The pages are perfect. Clean. They smell like freedom. I love them more than anyone could ever know. Somedays I wonder if anyone else will ever care about such small things – like book pages.”

You remembered him then; the young boy who sat at the quiet edges of the library when you both first started at Hogwarts; curling around books as if they were a shield. You had tried to speak to him once. Offered Mattheo chocolate on a bitter autumn morning but he’d turned away. Not coldly, but with the faintest tremor of fear in engaging with anyone as if everyone and anything could be a danger. You had wanted to hug him. To rub his back like your mother did to you when you weren’t feeling well, when you were under the weather, when you were scared – but didn’t. his friendship wouldn’t be won over so easily. It would be a game the two of you would have to play.

The next letter you pick up is one with no date, but it is aged as 15. 5th year.

“I wish I could vanish and never return. Everyone watches me. All eyes on me. Always expecting. Always fearing. Somedays I wonder what it would be like to be ordinary. To not have a name that acts as a cage. If I speak, people cower. If I am silent, I’m still not free. I wonder if anyone would notice if I simply just disappeared. I could drown myself in the black lake. Jump in and hold my breath as I swam down until I couldn’t hold it anymore and hope never to rise. Maybe someone would find me when I finally resurface. Think of me not as a Riddle, but just as me. Just as Mattheo. I have this thought often. I almost want it.”

A shiver courses down your spine as you shake your head and try to erase the images that letter burns into your brain. It was at the end of 5th year that it seemed Mattheo had found his feet. His purpose. Or at least a reason to stay around. Girls. Drugs. Fighting. Trouble. It seemed as if with a flick of an internal switch – he went from terrified to trouble. What followed him, a reputation the Riddle name was it seemed known for.

Glancing into the box, you peer inside and lift out the silver ring which lays dormant. It’s well worn. Dinted on one edge. Unmistakably his. You remember seeing it on his finger in the library, in the common room, on the path outside towards the lake, during quidditch games, when he sat beside you in charms class, the way it felt when he wrapped his hand beneath your chin during a party – drunk and disorderly and brushed his lips against your own in a teasing, barely there kind of way.

He'd apologised the next day for acting the way he did.

At the time you wished he hadn’t.

You’d rather enjoyed the kiss.

It had been your first.

Slipping the ring on; feeling its weight – the way it sits on your finger oversized, you carefully lift out of the box the little wooden bird. You can tell almost immediately that he’d used the bars of his cell to create it. To make it. A tiny bird to sit with him as company on nights that he’d had none. Delicately resting the bird in your palm, it begins like the ring to feel like a tether – a frail thread that connects the living you to the boy who is irretrievably gone.

The next letter seems newer. The way his words are printed in cursive along the parchment bolder, clearer. As if years of penmanship have passed. It is not dated, nor aged.

“Stone and wind and silence. It’s all I see, feel, hear. My cellmate mutters in his sleep. I hear him. Always. He though does not hear me. I have not laughed in years. I do not know if would recognise the sound if I did. At night, I press my palms up against the walls and try to remember what it felt like to be small. Warmly caught up in my mothers embrace when she felt like being a parental figure. What that book I still have hidden beneath my bed feels like. The way the pages would slip through my fingers. Free. I try not to hope about seeing the stars again. Or the sun. Hope is a fain ember that will not die. Thankfully. It’s lonely in here. I’d live my soul for a single real smile or minute of meaningful conversation.”

You remember one night in seventh year when you and Pansy had snuck out to meet the boys by the Forbidden Forest. The trees leaves had frost on them which was funny for the middle of spring. Pansy had left you within a heartbeat to walk side by side with Draco. She was smitten. Blaise and Theodore were discussing some novel they’d both decided to read in order to impress a girl – get into bed with her. That left you and Mattheo to stroll along in silence together. Every now and again, his hand would brush against your own and you’d blush; tucking hair behind your ears to try and hide the pretty pink that crept across your cheeks. You could have sworn he smiled.

“Do you ever wish you were someone else?”

The question he asked caught you off guard – it was definitely there though. You’d heard it loud and clear. Grumbling internally to try and sort through your thoughts, you bit your bottom lip before nodding rather than giving a verbal answer.

You wish you had of spoken. Perhaps you’d have of heard more of what Mattheo had wanted to say. His own response to the question, however you feel as if, even without knowing, you could answer.

There are no further letters in the box, however you remember the single page of the journal – leather bound, dark, letters spelling out Mattheo Thomas Riddle along the  bottom edge in pressed gold leaf. For some reason – as if it’s commit what is written to memory before the archive is logged away or just so that the words may have a reason to escape and meet the light of day, you read the entry aloud.

“…the body knows when it is finished. When it is time. My bones ache like they want to turn to dust. My breath a rope fraying thinner day by day. I’m not afraid. Most are. Fear though is for the living. Death it seems, is quiet. He hums like the spaces between heartbeats and I think I finally understand what is and always has been waiting for me. I wonder if anyone will ever read what I’ve written and know that I wanted to be more than just the shadow of a name, more than the echo of my fathers voice. If you’re reading this, then perhaps you’ve become to know me in a way I was never allowed to. This is all I have left to leave behind – words, and not many of them. They spell out wishes. The main being that I might just be remembered as more than darkness. That I honestly tried. That I wanted to be more than what life had planned for me. That I wasn’t just a Riddle. My eyes are tired. The room feels warm. It’s time for me to sleep. Goodnight..”

With a trembling hand, you close the journal and stack the letters back on top of it, placing the belongings back inside the small black box and admire the ring on your finger one last time before placing it along with the tiny wooden bird who will never see freedom in to. The lid fits on a little more perfectly that it should. You’re tempted to open it again, but you don’t. You can’t. It isn’t fair to mourn for someone who once knew but didn’t.

A boy – not just a prisoner.

Someone who you could have loved. Someone who could have loved you.

Your office is still. The oil lamp on your desk flickers as if to remind you of every second that is passing by. With a new piece of cut twine, you carefully seal the box again; scribbling on the tag a reference number that correlates to the paperwork you have to submit and walk it deep into the back of the archives storeroom to place it away on a shelf that will never see the light of day or another set of eyes ever again.

“Goodnight Mattheo.”

Your words aren’t much; but as they escape you, you can’t help but wonder in that quiet, endless cold you spend your time in, if they’ll somehow find their way to him and perhaps in another lifetime; you’ll both have the chance to meet once again and share the thoughts, the dreams, the wishes, the desires you both could have before his death.

The younger Riddle brother is well – for lack of better word choice… obsessed. Not with some fragile flower bullshit, but with you. Your razor-sharp tongue, your crude humour, the vicious streak you show from time to time that mirrors his own mess and chaos. The day you slid that perfectly folded note across the desk in potions class - ‘smile if you want to take my virginity’ scrawled in jagged ink and your ever so cursive loopy hand writing, fuck, Mattheo damn near lost it. Couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t function; just became obsessed with the idea of pinning you down, claiming you, wrecking you until you were his alone.

That’s how you’re here now, sprawled out on your bed in your dorm, the air thick with vanilla candles flickering for some half-assed ‘romance’ you don’t need. Your dorm obviously and not his – a girl needs to keep some kind of control over the situation. Mattheo’s torn between wanting to savour you like some delicious dessert he’ll only ever have one chance at tasting and wanting to break you. His cocks tip nudges your entrance, warm and heavy as he expects you to squirm, to blush like some shy little thing. But you? Fuck that. You lock eyes with him, pupils blown wide with raw want, your matching red lace bra and panty set screaming you had planned for this all along.

“C’mon, Riddle,” you rasp, voice dripping with a challenge, breathy but not fake. Like some kind of shit you’d read on one of your romance fantasy novels that a female lead would sound like. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Yep, that does it. A growl tears from the back of his throat, low and feral, vibrating against your skin as your fingers graze his chest, ever so teasing, ever so testing. He feels amazing on the outside, just fucking imagine once he’s in. Ugh, yep – there it goes… he pushes in. Slow at first, the stretch so fucking intense you can’t help but gasp; lips parting as a shameless moan spills out loud and unashamed. Your back arches a few inches off the bed, body chasing his, the sting of him filling your tight, untouched core like a drug you didn’t know you needed. It’s everything you’ve ever fantasized about, no fuck it… it’s better, rawer. Yet it’s not enough. Let’s be honest, you’re greedy, clawing at the silk sheets beneath you, nails nearly shredding them as you reach up and grab his chin, voice cracking

 “Mattheo. Baby. I’m not some breakable delicate doll. Fuck me like you mean it.”

His eyes flash, dark as sin and he doesn’t hesitate. Oh it’s surreal. His thrusts turn brutal, deep. The bedframe groaning under the force and weight of you both. You melt into a mess; eyes rolling back almost painfully, hair plastered to your sweat slick cheeks, thighs drenched as you squirt, body shaking with the raw intensity you haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing. It’s a thousand times filthier and more intense than your fingers ever have managed. Head tilting back to sink into the pillows; you bare your throat and Mattheo takes the invite without having to consider, his teeth grazing, biting; his lips sucking hard enough to bruise pretty plumes of red, purple and blue. His kisses climb to your mouth and with one deep thrust, burying inside of you, he spits into your mouth before smirking, daring you. You swallow with no hesitation whatsoever, biting your lip as his hips snap harder.

Sweat beads on his forehead. Mattheo’s body caging you in over the bed. One hand braced by your head, his other dragging rough down your cheek. The gesture is almost sweet but not quite. You wrap your legs around his waist, glancing up with the innocent eyes of a wounded doe although you know, Mattheo won’t see through the act you’re portraying poorly.

“What, this all you got? Should I have fucked your brother instead Matty?”

That snaps something in him. His hand cracks across your cheek with a snap, the sting shooting straight to your core. You clench around him, cumming so hard your vision whites, slick coating Mattheo’s cock as your walls grip; milking him dry. He groans, hips faltering as your orgasm drags him down with you, his release overflowing hot and thick it wets the sheets as well as painting down your legs. His body; it fucking trembles above you as he rides the pleasure out.

In the end, you expect smugness or maybe a taunt; but Mattheo just catches his breath, collapsing beside you on the bed with a grin, taking a moment to gain control over himself before raking a hand through his damp curls. Ugh – cute. Glancing over, your eyes meet. Both yours and his glistening with a shimmering shade of trouble. Your fingers creep along the sheets to find his before lacing them together. The gesture isn’t soft, not romantic; just - real.

“Round two, Riddle?” it almost sounds like you purr out the question, voice sugar laced with a candy like venom. The whole package sealed with a wink. He scoffs, the sound dark and hungry as one of his arms wraps around your hip, your back; yanking you on top of him to straddle his hips. Before you know how, his fingers glide up your back, twisting into the back of your hair as he tears you down toward him with a single yank to growl ever so seductively in your ear.

“Oh, princess, you are gonna wish you hadn’t said that.”

Research. Guidance. Practice.

What a total fucking sham, but hey – in the end Mattheo got what he’d wanted and that was you, alone, in his lap; behind closed doors without a care in the world of what was happening outside the dorm you were trapped in.

At first, the two of you had started studying at his desk. Standard. Textbooks splayed open to pages most definitely unread. Then he complained that he was a little too warm – his sweater came off. Easy. Then he rambled that he was too tired to focus – shifted to splay like a renaissance painted figure across his bed. Convenient. Then that he was lonely – tapping his large hand on his thighs without a single word being uttered which you gave into and obliged, crawling into his lap. This little game of cat and mouse you both denied you ever played with him both torturous and punishing.

Which is how you got to where you were now. Skirt hitched and bunched up around your waist, his fingers lingering to sketch shapes of nothingness across the silk of your thighs. Every now and again you would twitch, unsure as to whether you wanted to evade his touch or taunt him which caused you to rock and jerk your hips against his own without meaning to – his cock hardening against the strain of the fabric of his jeans.

“We are studying baby girl – anatomy..” “It’s meant to be charms.” “I’ve got charm.”

And to retaliate the languid smirk that barely etched across his lips, you shot Mattheo a look of unimpressed resistance that his coffee hues couldn’t deny was incredibly sexy. Bedroom eyes? No – far from it. Attempting for another time to read over your notes, you felt your shoulders tense as he began to pop open the buttons of your shirt.

“Matt--.” “Do you ever stop complaining?” “As a matter of fact – no.” “Well can I have a go at shutting you up then?” “What? I – uuhhh..”

Shirt flung open, Mattheo dropped his head down against your chest and whistled a deep inhale before groaning. Warm breath dancing across your chest you froze for a split second as he wrapped an arm around your waist ever so slowly to pull you in closer towards him. With his free hand he gave his fingers permission to dance across the lace cups of your bra, pulling the fabric away with his thumb to expose a nipple he flicked his tongue over like a kitten lapping at a shallow bowl of milk before rolling it between his lips and sucking softly. Your back arched out of habit. You wanted to curse yourself out for the default factory settings your body fell into around him.

Fuck Mattheo Riddle. No.. don’t.

“Matty c’mon..”

With both of your hands on his shoulders, you tried to shove him away and keep any ounce of self-restraint or better yet the little dignity you had left the moment you walked in past his door. Would it last? Perhaps. When his mouth popped off from you though, you hated to admit it; but you suddenly ached for the feeling. Of his affection. Of his taunts. Of his arrogance. The honeymoon period inside your head however ended rather quickly when you felt this thumb glide across the front of your panties and massage through the thin, damp material which covered your clit.

“Fucking wet for me my kitten and we haven’t even kissed yet.”

It was a miracle you hadn’t slapped him. Yet. There was still time. Trying to shuffle away, the grip that he had around your waist only tightened as his thumb spelt out the letters m.i.n.e over your sensitive spot, fingers quick to slip beneath your panties and glide effortlessly between your soaking folds. You jerked and let out an ever so innocent whimper.

“I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”

Yeah – promise. He really didn’t have to. He was already doing it. As a lowly chuckle escaped from him deeper than the hell you were happy to transcend to. Removing his fingers for a few seconds, they found your lips so that you could taste your arousal; a firm ‘open’ commanded by Mattheo who pushed two digits into your mouth, followed by ‘suck’ which had your tongue swirling around them greedily.

“Atta girl..”

You almost began to miss the sensation as he pulled his fingers out of your mouth and dropped them down between your legs again, not giving any warning as he buried two deep inside your pretty little cunt and began to pump them in and out with a come hither motion. Your thighs felt warm. They trembled instinctively. You told yourself to keep your cool. You could do this. Get finger fucked and not lose your god damn mind. You’d done this before – other boys fingers, your own.. Mattheo’s were nothing special. Until they weren’t. Until his thumb found your clit again to play with it. Tease it Pinch it. Until his mouth found your tit again and he nipped at it; sucking hard enough to make you see stars explode at the back of your head.

“Ma-Matt.. I…”

He wasn’t listening.

“Mattheo—Matty..”

Your whole body was trembling. Your manicured nails digging into his shoulders, you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood to the surface, causing it to plume a pretty shade of cerise as his fingers continued to thrust into you. Your hips chased the high you were beginning to feel. Rocking to meet his fingers.

“Come for me.”

You couldn’t. You shivered.

“Yes, you can.”

His words were insistent. Persistent. Fingers still thrusting.

“On my fingers, baby girl.”

You couldn’t help yourself. You were close.

“My little slut – god you’re fucking beautiful like this..”

Was that a compliment or an insult? Whatever the fuck it was – it was working.

“…please?”

That was all it took. Mattheo had never begged. Holy hell did it sound amazing – like a symphony to the ears as his voice quaked in a whisper. Eyes scrunching up, panting gasps choked out, you felt your stomach harden, thighs clench, clit swell, cunt tighten around his fingers, skin warm, his jeans and the bed were wet. You shuddered.

It took a moment for you to remember how to breathe. Mattheo’s hold around your waist loosened slightly. Head dropping down onto his shoulder, you bit at the fabric of his shirt softly.

“Ooohh, we got a squirter.”

Okay – now you really wanted to slap him. You were currently preoccupied though with this feeling of ecstasy dancing hot through your veins. Slick still trickling out your pussy and down your thighs, you shifted and felt just how much his jeans were wet.

“Shut up, Riddle.” “Oh I don’t plan to.” His words were a bait. You were just a tiny fish in a big bad pond and he was planning on using you to his advantage catching you hook, line and sinker. “..but I plan on shutting you up and then I promise, Princess – we’ll get back to study.”

Nodding – that was something you could agree on.

Surely.

🖤The first? Draco Malfoy. Blonde, beautiful, bitter and somehow thinks that you’re ‘technically his’ all because you held hands a few times after herbology and he gifted you a necklace with his initials. He monologues before every duel and calls it foreplay. Ugh – he’s pathetic.

🖤Then along came Theodore Nott. Reclusive. The kind of guy who kisses your wrists before he ruins your life. You didn’t ‘break up’, just vanished during the Yule Ball, a little before the second song ended. Poor guy. He keeps a drawer full of your old hair ties, polaroids and perfume bottles. A shrine? No – he says it’s a romantic homage.

🖤The third evil ex – Blaise Zabini; the boy you dated in your ‘it’s not that serious’ era. His problem? Blaise doesn’t do casual. So when you told him that you just wanted to be friends - with the added perk of benefits, he began to emotionally spiral and has ever since.

🖤Lucky number four? Mattheo Riddle. Yeah – that Mattheo. Pure chaos wrapped in leather and smoke. You dated him for a little shy of six months and broke up with him the day after he got your name tattooed on his chest. He’s the kind of guy who still dreams about you and tells you whenever he gets a chance.

🖤After all that – Lorenzo Berkshire. Obsessively charming. Or maybe not charming and just obsessed. You kissed under some mistletoe in Hogsmeade and soon after he was carving your initials into his wrists. He sends letters. Still. Each sealed with blood as wax and with threats written in French.

🖤Pansy Parkinson was next – mhmm, she really was just meant to be an experiment. Painfully hot. Excruciatingly violent. She announced that she hated you and then ended up making out with you one winter’s eve at the back of The Three Broomsticks while ‘Toxic’ by Britney blared throughout the pub. When things ended, she tried to set your dorm room on fire.

🖤Oh and the seventh? Well – that would be Tom Riddle. Not just your ex – fuck, Tom is your mistake. The boy who wanted to own you in the way people own artefacts or pets. Parade you around like the wicked little witch that you are; have you on a leash so should he choose to. You left a piece of yourself behind with him when things ended and ever since, he’s been clawing through universes to try and get you back.

But now – you’ve met Cedric. A boy who is too good, too sweet, too doomed. He claims almost poetically that he doesn’t care about your past. Haha! You almost want to believe the innocent Hufflepuff, and well; you nearly do…

…that is right up until one by one your ex’s start showing up – wands drawn, teeth bared, demanding rematches for another chance at winning your heart. And you?

Fuck.

You’re just trying to keep Cedric alive long enough to figure out if he’s worth dying for.

Astoria and yourself back in the day – once as thick as thieves. You had the kind of friendship that other girls would have clawed each other’s eyes out for in envy. You wielded the power and influence if gave you like the elder fucking wand until she strutted onto the platform at Kings Cross after the last summer had passed – all coy smirks and new curves that sucked every male gaze into her orbit, including that of your boyfriend. It seemed the holidays had miraculously forged her into some kind of siren blade – sharp, overconfident, a little lethal; and you? Fuck; turns out jealousy is a rather bitter pill you had trouble swallowing down.

You won’t dare admit it out aloud, but there’s something inside, gnawing away at you like rabid kneazle. It all came about because your boyfriend, Mattheo – the loveable idiot; just had to open his mouth and drool out some comments to his mates about Astoria’s ‘assets’ like some first year who’d just discovered firewhiskey. Then during the first dinner of the semester; he and her were announced as head boy and head girl – surely the pairing was some kind of cosmic fucking joke. How? You’re still asking yourself the same question. His dad’s legacy probably? Perhaps the perfect excuse for the headmaster to keep a watchful eye on him? Either way, Mattheo wasn’t exactly the epitome of academic and social excellence and now that they’re practically glued together, you’re left stewing. Whenever you see them together; your heart beats against your ribs so hard it is almost bruising.

Tonight – the eyeliner pencil you’re holding is about to snap, gripped so tightly between your knuckles they whiten like bleach. Jaw clenched; you growl low into the vanity mirror you’re sitting before; the sound rattling behind your teeth. Drawing a thick stroke across your waterline, you smudge the black kohl with your fingertip and coat a deep cherry red stain across your lips. You spritz at your pulse points that strawberry and vanilla perfume your mother swore was the perfect aphrodisiac when you were a wide eyed first year and having believed her then, now – you still do. Mothers know best, don’t they? Hmm.

“You done yet girl?” Pansy’s smirk cuts through the mirrors reflection; her coffee coloured eyes glinting playfully like she can sense your rage and annoyance and she’s all here for it. You’re ready – almost. You’ve managed two shots of pilfered scotch that Pansy stole off a shelf from Slughorn’s office earlier in the week, a too-sweet raspberry mixed cocktail that you can still taste on your tongue and a few mouthfuls of Lorenzo’s dorm made vodka (which Pansy begged for to help you loosen your screws) which has you teetering on the edge of happiness. So yeah – ready; almost.

To your gaze, the vanity mirror displays back absolute perfection as you take a quick once over of your reflection. Your usually unruly hair ironed as flat as a blade; silver sequined dress you chose for the night clinging to you like a second skin. The backless feature just taunting gravity to fuck with you. One last half shot of vodka to set up your night, you hike the dress up your thighs and slip your panties down in one smooth motion before the dress drops back down to hug your hips seamlessly; almost challenging anyone who may look your way to guess what might be missing. Seriously though – who’d know? Hands sliding across your body for a final check, you grab a hold of Pansy’s and slip into glittery heels which click with every step you take like gunfire as you stumble both tipsy and fierce towards the Astronomy Tower.

Are you late? Always. Fashionably? No less. There’s a third year handing out wearable candy at the entrance and you decide upon a candy ring pop that melts in your mouth as you suck on it and walk in. Someone places a drink in your hand without you having to ask. Immediately, you’re pulled into the parties pulse. Strings of intricate tiny golden fairylights dangle from the roofs rafters, casting a glow across the crowd already dancing that is as soft as a lie. The shadows alone that you’re seeing lure you into a trance. The air hums with the scent of smoked pot – thick and hazy, while the choice of music that is playing throbs through the floors and walls, synching perfectly in time with the hammering of your heart. You swig back the drink in a few gulps; a burn of sweet promise for a good night ahead before you mutter to Pansy that you want to dance. Halfway onto making your way towards the dancefloor, an arm you aren’t expecting but probably should, snakes around the back of your waist, hot and possessive.

“Wondering when you’d show up, Princess.”

Mattheo’s comment sounds like liquid sin, dripping warm along the edge of your law as he dips his head to graze his lips across your neck; kissing your pulse point like he fucking owns it. Immediately, your body betrays you for a split second – eyes fluttering shut, a whimper slipping like an echo from your parted lips; cheeks reddening like a fresh bruise. It doesn’t last long though and you’re able to snap back into reality and shove him a step back with a hand to his chest. How fucking dare he practically ghost you for weeks, spending what seems like ‘quality time’ with the head girl rather than his actual girl and then slink back to you like you’re his default setting? Are you both still an item? Sure, like technically, but with Astoria suddenly in the picture as more than just your friend, you’re starting to feel a little like a consolation prize.

“You know me – I turn up when I want to Mattheo”, you bite out, eyes rolling back so hard they might stick. “Party started at eight baby girl – it’s pushing almost eleven”, he whispers into your ear with a voice like a secret before grinning, lazy and infuriating. “---and what? You’ve been pining for me, have you? I bet Astoria’s company has been keeping you real busy.”

It would be easy for you to rage right now; cast confringo without the aid of your wand and burn the fucking tower down, but Mattheo; dressed in all black from head to toe – tie loose like a noose around his neck you could yank and either treat as a leash or choke him with, makes your entire body hum. The silver rings he has slipped on his fingers, glint like promises of trouble which could ever so easily tangle into your hair and pull just right. You’re a half second from giving in; dragging him somewhere dark and dropping to your knees to please him when her giggle cuts through the party. Astoria’s voice; that high pitched popular girl kind of squeal that makes you want to burst your own eardrums to feel pain rather than hear here again. Fuck Astoria and her presence – seriously. Fuck Mattheo for noticing her and fuck his friends for their stupid boyish banter on how ‘fine’ she is. Fuck you, in the simplest sense, for not having enough alcohol in your veins to pluck up the courage to slap some sense into both of them.

Irrespectively, you don’t wait for Mattheo’s smug repertoire of venom to spit out a reply. Seizing Pansy’s wrist again, your drag her through the swarm of bodies clogging up the party onto the dancefloor with your hips swaying to the music and settle into a pocket of space between a Ravenclaw who has hands that wander far too creepily and a Hufflepuff so drunk her eyes are swimming inside her skull. Attention draws to the two of you fast – mhmm, easy. Pansy reaches across to flick your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck as a temptation. The glow on you now, dancing with the sparkle of your dress screams touch me and the eyes of the crowd stare your way greedily. It isn’t long before drinks appear in your fingertips brimming with an alcoholic hit you at this point, probably don’t even need.

“On three.” You toss your head back as Pansy counts down and let yet another shot slide down your throat like a molten dream. She rests her forehead against your own, slick with sweat as her fingers weave into yours as she pulls you in closer as the music jumps to a song that’s a little slower and more sensual than anything else already played. A giggle rips from you, half drunk – half mad as the room begins to spin like a kaleidoscope dream. You slur out that Pansy is the worst kind of influence you can have and her smile slices into that of a switchblade before vanishing as a hiss leaks from her lips into your ear.

“Riddle’s watching you.”

In time with the music, you both spin, catching Mattheo’s stare through the smoky haze you’ve become lost within. A predators gaze – unblinking, cutting, intimidating. Astoria’s standing beside him; her nails clawing into the shirt which hangs oh so perfectly across his chest, yanking at the fabric like she’s trying to reel him into her own little realm of desire and hell. She whispers something to him as she smiles; lips like poison darts that fail to work. Mattheo’s eyes don’t even bother to waver – obsidian and crucifying as he swallows you whole. The space and bodies between the two of you seems to dissolve into a smear of glitter infused sweat and you don’t think; you don’t even breath. You let go of Pansy with a little reluctance and reach out for the nearest male body you can find. Cormac McLaggen – fucking perfect. Tugging him in close, you let your body sync in with his own as you move to the music and hope that this arrogant Gryffindor might just be the dull instrument you need to hack into Mattheo’s brain to twist until he bleeds jealousy. Or insanity.

“Looking good girl – sequins suit you.” Cormac’s leer is as thick as tar; his grin that of a wolf’s teeth bared. “Do I get to see what you’re hiding underneath?”

You shift in; hands resting on his shoulders as you bring your lips to his ear. They curl like a lit fuse as your tongue ever so teasingly runs across your teeth slow and deliberate before you expose yourself with a single quiet sigh. “Oh – that pretty little head of yours could just imagine, because wearing anything underneath.”

Like a spark on dry tinder; you rise on your toes and plant a kiss on Cormac’s cheek which is as innocent as anything although you feel the party almost tremble with a quake; Mattheo’s fingers clamping around your wrist to pull you off and away before you even noticed his presence beside you. The hiss lingering from his tongue slices through the air like a slither and before you know it his fingers dig up beneath your chin, forcing your head up to face him. His stare locks into yours and you stare into eyes which are like a black void; shimmering with something akin to rage. Lust. You hear Cormac’s voice behind you barking like a chihuahua that Mattheo’s just kicked but everything is drowned out around you as Mattheo’s hands find their way down to your hips.

“What the fuck? What’s gotten into you tonight?”

You smack his chest, but Mattheo yanks you in closer; your breath snagging like clothing caught on a nail. One of his arms coils compulsively around your waist; his free hand sliding from your hip up your body to the nape of your neck as his fingers begin to tangle into your hair just like how you’d earlier dreamed. His aftershave is different – a little muskier that usual, or perhaps it’s just the way it’s blended in with your own perfume and his teeth begin to nip at the crook of your neck leaving a small mark behind that stings like a brand.

“I was hoping it would be your cock – you know, unless you plan on sharing that with Astoria instead...” “You insecure, jealous fucking bitch”, he manages out with a scoff like chuckle. “I am not”, you snap; close to slapping him. “Alright then – show me. Prove it.”

His words hit you like a ticking time bomb. Prove it? How fucking dare he set off the trigger that makes you flip from sweetheart to fucking savage. The crowd around you begins to whisper – their stares picking at the two of you like vultures circling rotten meat, but you couldn’t care less, because you’ve finally got your boyfriend where you’ve wanted him to weeks. Clawing at Mattheo’s belt you pull the both of you closer; fingertips slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to trace across the muscle of his abs you’ve oh so missed before your lips find his for a car crash kind of kiss – slow at first, timid like a recollection of absolute innocence. Soon enough; the kiss turns into a flood; weeks of oppressed hunger desperate for something to eat. You bite his lower lip, rolling it between your teeth and he grows a husky kind of rumble that belongs in the privacy of your dorms, not here on a fucking dancefloor. Your bodies begin to grind together, instinctively – desperate, your curves cursing the time you’ve been starved of his attention, his affection, his obsession and the crowd of students around you both, a howling chorus of yells and whistles edging you on towards some kind of public release.

Your fingers tangle within his curls, yanking him closer until air is a luxury that you no longer need and Mattheo whimpers like he’s just lost whatever battle he planned on playing with you – instead now happily drowning in the waves you’re pulsing through his veins and across his skin. You rip yourself away for just long enough to mutter that you should both probably find a quieter space instead of fucking on a dancefloor and he smirks; a wildfire in his eyes that silently ask if that’s why you stopped.

Mattheo’s hand is still woven into your hair as you hit the Slytherin dungeons. He hisses the password to let you both in like a curse and the stone wall yawns open like a mouth swallowing you whole as you stumble in. The common room is as quiet as a crypt – you don’t bother to stop and admire it how you usually do. Not tonight. You let him drag you to the boys dorms as your hand remains tightly fisted in his belt; the other attempting to unbutton his shirt as you walk, exposing slithers of tanned skin that make your mouth fucking water. His dorm door is barely shut before you manage to slam him against it; the thud echoing like a gavel. Your kisses turn ravenous. His hands are on you – everywhere; your hips, your hair, your neck, the bare skin of your back where the dress dips so low you may as well not be wearing anything and his digging his fingers into your skin like he’s trying to carve his name as ownership into you.

“McLaggen of all fucking pricks. That’s who you use to rile me up?”, Mattheo spits between kisses. “Oh like you can fucking talk Matty. You think I don’t see your little head girl fucking project trying to sink her claws in.” “Shit – didn’t think jealousy would look this fucking good on you.” “It doesn’t”, you remind him with a hiss, “But you’re mine and she deserves to fucking know it.”

Your hands dive beneath his shirt as you force the buttons still done up to pop beneath the way your nails scrape over the ridges of his chest; exposing scars from quidditch, from fights he’s gotten into that you oh so just want to trace and outline with the tip of your tongue. Mattheo shudders; a crack showing in the wall he doesn’t like to let down, but you use the opportunity to your advantage and yank at his tie like it’s the leash around the neck of a wild beast as you guide him backwards towards the beds in the dorm room. His hands find your thighs, sliding up beneath your dress to find nothing but skin and he chokes out a moan, as his lips curl into a wicked grin.

“Nothing underneath huh? Trying to kill me?” “Trying to own you.”

Your reply counters his own, your voice a raw, rust like scrape as you shove Mattheo hard a few steps until his back hits the bed; the frame creaking like it’s begging for mercy. Crawling over him, your knees bracket around his hips, thighs clamping tight as the heat of both of you sears through his jeans. The dress you’re in is an absolute wreck; sequins scattering like fallen stars across the bedsheets and you lean down, getting close, hair spilling like ink as you nip and suck a few hickey’s into the skin above his collarbone, tasting salt and better yet broken defiance. Grinding your hips against his own ever so slow; you make sure each move isn’t pleasure but torture, forcing his jaw to clench and his breathing to hitch.

“You let that little fucking witch touch you..”, you seethe, “I swear to Salazar, Mattheo – if there comes a time where I can’t fucking have you, no one else can either..”

He let’s out a growl; flipping you over so that your back hits the mattress cold and cool, air punched from your lungs. He hovers above you; using his weight to pin you down before his mouth finds your neck – unruly and cruelly using his teeth to graze, bite, suck; marking you in ways that will last for weeks not days.

“You’re fucking insane to think that I want her.”

His hands tear away at your dress; one coming up to cup a breast through the lacy bra you’re wearing as his thumb brushes across a nipple to have you aching and your back arches; a moan slipping free as your body begins to act like a traitor to the rage that you’re still feeling – ever so slowly turning into lust, want and ecstasy. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head; his rings cold against your skin.

“Look, I’m a guy. I’m an idiot. I get that”, he confesses, voice cracking delicately, “But you – it’s always been fucking you.”

Mattheo’s lips hover over your own; not for a kiss, just soft enough to take a breath; sharing a toxic air between the two of you. You still want to hate him. A little more – just temporarily; but hell, your body is screaming for something that rubber or silicone or anything that you own that vibrates could not fucking satisfy. He manages to get his belt undone; zipper down, cock out; spitting into his hand to stroke himself just once before the tip slides in between your swollen moist lips to tease your clit and then slips in, and ugh; it feels like his dick has finally found its home. You throw your head back; bounding and rolling your hips as your lips trickle out more demands.

“Say you’re mine and fucking mean it.” “Fuck – baby – all yours…”

His eyes roll back; you let out a mewl like groan, your nails dig into his shoulders; clawing rivers of red down his arms and just as you begin to lose yourself in what’s happening; he slides out, tossing you half off the side of the bed to pepper kisses along the inside of your thighs; apologising to you in every way he can think of – English, Latin, Parseltongue against your clit that has you seeing more than stars. Your legs shake; body quivering. His face is wet; you’ve come once, twice, thrice as his tongue continues with almost vengeance to try and make you feel good; arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you still – keep you as his, because right now – that’s just it, you and him and hell… Mattheo plans on eating you out until you’ve got nothing else left to give.

There were three months left until graduation. 3. That equated out to roughly 60 days of classes and exams, or better still – eighty four days trapped within the castle walls of Hogwarts until your undeniable freedom from the education system you’d been held hostage within. Not that you weren’t grateful for what you’d learned; no, this wasn’t the case – you’d had the absolute time of your life, but it was time to move on. Time for bigger and better things than what Hogwarts could simply offer.

Until then though, you needed something to keep yourself relatively sane amidst the chaos of final exams, petty courtyard drama and dormmates you’d be oh so happy to never see again. The ache for something different, something unique and something that you could make undeniably yours is what brought you to this point: hair slicked back into a high ponytail and on your knees between the dimly lit rows of shelves at the back of the library, participating in something that over time you’d affectionately dubbed as ‘The Taste Test’. A story, rumour, myth that had rather quickly lingered throughout the school.

The concept? Simple enough. Sometime between mid February and the end of June, you’d made it a mission to give head to every sixth and seventh year boy in campus and rank them – both solo and by house from one through forty six based on the categories of taste, texture and overall satisfaction. Easy enough right? Ha! Wrong. Not when Slytherin of all houses was fucking involved, and not when you’d left them, intentionally until last. Let’s just go out on a limb by saying that their reputation for intensity that had been rumoured around the castle and whispered in riddles by portraits as you strolled by wasn’t just ‘talk’, and that you, over the last few evenings; had found that out firsthand.

Feeling fingers deeply knot into the length of your ponytail before being wrapped rightly around a palm, you managed to barely stifle an innocent little giggle at Theo’s comment, only for it to near immediately morph into a dangerous yet delicious choke as the tip of Mattheo’s cock roughly hit the back of your throat, causing you to splutter and gag. With eyes delicately watering, you glanced up at him from waist height with a feigned expression of both innocence and vulnerability you knew he’d see right through but threw out there anyway.

“Oh c’mon Princess, don’t give me that sweet little doe-eyed look”, Mattheo barely managed to drawl out as a sick little smirk threatened to tug at the corner of his lips, “You’re the one who wanted to try every guy and well.. low and be-fucking-hold, you’ve saved the best two for last.”

A quick slap at your cheek which caused the skin to bloom an immediate shade of pretty scarlet red, Mattheo’s eyebrows cocked up, his bottom lip brought almost seductively up to be caught between his teeth as he continued to thrust into your mouth setting a relentless pace that you hadn’t yet experienced from any of the other subjects involved in your little project.

Gagging, a hollow whimper escaped your lips that burned the edges of your tongue as it rolled out; your hands braced hard up against his thighs, half hoping Mattheo would slow down, mind already wondering how much you’d have to swallow and if skipping dinner tonight was fucking worth the empty stomach. Every other boy you’d been with prior had been in private – their dorm, a vacant broom cupboard, empty classroom, blah blah but this; oh this just had to be different. Nearby, Theo lounged comfortable, sprawled out on a chair he’d dragged over from a study area, watching on with an amused grin as he flicked through the pages of your little leather bound notebook and tried to decipher everything you’d recorded.

“Little miss researcher has got this all figured out Mattheo – point system and fucking everything”, Theo snorted, twirling his wand casually between his fingers, “Taste, texture, satisfaction – Merlin, it’s almost like a bloody Michelin guide.”

You managed to pull back just enough to catch your breath – just enough that you could talk and narrowed your eyes near menacingly. “It’s called having a scientific approach, Nott. Something I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.”

Mattheo chuckled along; his hand tightening back into your hair to guide you back to where you should have been focused; tip of his cock parting your lips a little easier than you’d have liked to admit. “Scientific huh? Less focus on Theo, more focus on the task at hand yeah?”

Rolling your eyes back heavily, you complied, focusing on the task at hand – just as Mattheo wanted. The library for the most half was silent, save for the faint rustle of pages from a forgotten book a student desperately flickered through last moment in an attempt to find something smart to quote into an assignment, and well, the occasional muffled sound from your efforts that you’d prefer to keep that way. A library – of course it had to be in the fucking library.

The Slytherin boys had been the final hurdle in this little experiment, and fuck – they hadn’t disappointed. Each brought something rather… different. Draco, a rather attractive arrogance. Blaise, a smooth confidence. Goyle ugh… breathmints; thank christ. Enzo, the intimacy of platting your hair as you went down on him. Theo, lounging around like a bored king was next; and you already knew from the dead eyed look he always wore and shot you that he probably couldn’t have cared less.. but Mattheo; fuck, the way his hips snapped up against your cheeks, it was a damn performance.

The rules overall, were simple. No bias. No favouritism. You’d worked your way through all students or well.. subjects – systematically. The Gryffindors – earnest, yet predictable. The Ravenclaws – surprisingly experimental. The Hufflepuffs – sweethearts, but rather lacking edge and now… these fucking serpents.

Feeling Mattheo’s pace slow, his grip in your hair began to loosen as he let out a low growl, pulsing and spilling into your mouth without much warning. There was a shift in his stance; weight switching from left leg to right as the telltale sign that Mattheo was close. Pulling back slightly, you teased your tongue flat against his shaft to draw the feeling out. No need to rush a finale. Swallowing each spurt, tears that had formed in the corners of your eyes running rogue down your face mixed in with mascara which ever so gently dyed lines into your cheeks. “Who’d have thought that mouth you run in classes would be fucking good at this?”

Chuckling, you skimmed your thumb across your lips to clean up and snatched your notebook out of Theodore’s hands to scribble down the score you felt Mattheo earned. Tilting your head, you hummed softly pretending to consider as if you hadn’t just been thinking about these scores for the last nine minutes.

“Taste – a solid eight. You eat way too many chocolate frogs – I can almost taste them. Texture – seven and a half. Standard. Nothing special. A little gritty. Satisfaction...” You paused, smirking; knowing that this would either make or break his confidence into tiny, pathetic little shreds. “Let’s go with nine. Always room for improvement, Riddle.”

Almost barking out a laugh; Theodore shook his head and bit his tongue between his teeth, buying himself some time to think of an appropriate reply before interjecting what had just been revealed.

“Brutal M. However, that would make it my turn now hey? Let’s see if I can’t top Riddle’s nine.” “Yeah – good luck asshole. She’s a fucking harsh critic.” Mattheo managed out, shooting Theo a glare as he stepped back to adjust his trousers before taking a seat on the edge of a nearby desk.

Sliding off the chair he’d been so comfortable in, Theodore sauntered over with that lazy, arrogant confidence that just made him oh so infuriatingly charming. Crouching down for a moment, his fingertips – soft and gently pushed up beneath your chin so that your eyes could meet his – the exchange of gazes glinting with undeniable mischief.

“A harsh critic? Nah, this little dollface is just discerning. Aren’t you love? Ready to meet your champion?”

Snorting in response, you tucked some loose hair which had fallen in front of your face from how rough Mattheo had been behind your ear and smiled. “Awfully cocky Nott for someone who hasn’t even stepped up to the challenge yet. You ready?”

“Oh, I am more than ready”, he confirmed; getting up, back straightening and feet widening with perfectly polished shoes as Theodore undid his belt with a theatrical flourish and guided you to tug his zipper down with your teeth, complimenting you with the whispered phrase of good girl that made not only your mind fault for a second but your inner thighs begin to burn.

The next few minutes on your knees were an absolute fucking blur; a battle ground of Theodore’s teasing commentary as his cock ran tender between your swollen lips and your own determination in trying ever so hard to stay focused. He was different – different from Mattheo, different from the other boys. Less intense, far less worried; much, much more playful, guiding you with soft murmurs breathed in both an eclectic fusion of Italian and English as well as, the occasional cheeky remark, reminding you to keep your eyes focused on him.

Unlike others; Theodore gave you fair warning – something only the Hufflepuffs funnily enough had done; prior to sinking his fingers into your hair and holding you close as he could before spurting warm and salty into your mouth. By the time he was finished with you, your knees were screaming; ready to call it a night. Thighs still irritatingly warm though. Damn – perhaps you should have convinced them this little project was a fuck study rather than a suck study. Leaning back, you swallowed hard; catching your breath with further flushed cheeks before you felt around for that notebook of yours and flipped it over to the last page, scribbling down Theodore’s scores before you could forget anything.

“Well?”, he asked, attempting to peer down over your shoulder, “Gonna keep me in suspense or tell me that I’ve bet Riddle?”

“Taste – nine”, you gasped out, licking your lips. “Rather savoury – it was nice.” You tapped the feather of your quill against your chest and continued to scribble. “Texture – seven point five; I’m starting to think this is a standard. Oh and satisfaction; you were the only one polite enough to warn me that you were coming so.. eight. You could have been a little rougher with me. Not bad overall though.”

Clutching at his shirt in mock offense; Theo sighed and furrowed his brows. “Not bad? Girl, I’m wounded – I was aiming for legendary, not the same fucking score as Riddle.”

“Better luck next time Italian Stallion”, Mattheo managed to choke out in between laughs, pushing himself off the edge of the desk he sat at watching rather intrigued.

Closing your notebook and tying the thin straps around it to keep the pages concealed, you reached a hand out, having Theodore help you onto your feet as you swept the material of your skirt down flat against your thighs and smiled; pulling your hair out of it’s updo to casually cascade down over your shoulders.

“That’s it – the taste test is now officially complete”, you chirped, walking out of the library with both boys past some rather curious and bashful looks from studying students.

“So who’s the winner?”, Theodore asked, falling into pace beside you. “Don’t tell me some Gryffindor with a hero complex.”

“Nah, surely it’s a Slytherin”, Mattheo piped up, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you walked out into central hall.

Holding your notebook close up against your chest, you shrugged and twirled some hair around your fingers lazily, “A girls got to have some secrets fellas – I mean c’mon.”

Nudging the shell of your ear with his nose, Mattheo chuckled softly, warm breath creeping down along your jaw that made your inner thighs burn with further more regret. “Pretty please princess – just give us a hint. How about overall? Slytherin took top spot – didn’t we?”

Shrugging again, you wriggled yourself out of his hold and shook your head, taking a few steps ahead before turning around with a spin on your heel to face them.

“Maybe, maybe not.. you’ll both just have to wait until graduation.”

The boys grumbles and groan at your answer, but nonetheless don’t bother pushing it any further. Not yet. Not now. They’ve got heaps of time to gruel information out of you. As you slip through the darkened corridors of the castle back to your dormroom, you can’t help but grin. This whole experiment had been a ridiculous, reckless way to pass the time, but hey, it had done its job. You’d survived your final few months of being stuck in the castle with a story that no one would believe, and a notebook full of secrets you’d take with you to your grave…

… or at least the ten year class reunion.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” His words are as sharp as his smirk which if it wanted to, could draw blood – or at least that’s how you feel it. It complements the itch currently carving away across your clammy skin.

“Lucky you”, you snap; the response sharper than intended, as if you’re not sure if it’s irritation or just the way that his gaze keeps pulling at something within you that refuses to let your heart behave.

Mattheo takes a step closer towards you. Time stands still momentarily.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he states, like it’s an accusation, as if it’s a complaint, but the soft curve of his lips say he’s enjoying this interaction a little more than he should.

“I… haven’t.” That’s a lie. One that makes your pulse pick up. Lies aren’t new between the two of you - they’re just usually about mundane, little things. Not this. Not the tension that’s been building between you since the first time you caught him staring your way, smirking like he owned some kind of secret about you that you were desperate to know.

“You have,” he insists, and now the smirk is gone. It’s replaced by a look of intensity that always makes your knees go weak. “You’ve been avoiding me. Like you’re scared of what might happen if you didn’t.”

You swallow hard. His words are fire, igniting things you’ve been keeping carefully contained for weeks now. For months. “Maybe I am,” you admit; voice trembling just enough for him to notice. He does. Of course he does. Like Mattheo wouldn’t.

He takes another step in closer, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. You can smell that faint hint of bodywash traced by earthy cologne that always makes your brain short-circuit. That makes you feel like a first year all over again.

“Scared of what, Princess?”

“Of… us,” you confess just as quickly as you wish you could take it back. Fuck. It’s too late. Mattheo’s begun smiling again and this time, it’s the kind that promises trouble. Delicious, messy, dangerous trouble.

“You think this --” he gestures between you both with a voice that’s both low and teasing, “…is just friendship?”

What do you even say to that? A lie? Something intricately fable? The truth? A sad version of what’s really going on inside your mind.

“No,” you breathe as that single word feels like an utter surrender. You shouldn’t want him like this. In this way. Him at all to be frank - but you do. You always have. No matter how much you try to deny it.

He tilts his head, just a little – to the right. It’s always the right when he looks at you. It’s as if he’s studying you, like you’re the only puzzle he actually cares to solve. Like you’re his favourite kind of riddle. Fitting really.

“Then why the hell are we pretending we’re just friends?”

Now that was unexpected. The force of his words alone make you take a half step back. You bite your lip - hard. It’s painful, almost drawing blood. You should walk away. You know you should. Save yourself now. Protect that bleeding heart of yours.

His pull is magnetic though. Utterly irresistible.

“Maybe…” you start to speak; heart hammering, “M-maybe we should stop, you know… pretending.”

His grin is slow; turning lethal as it becomes consuming.

“I thought you’d never say it baby girl….”

Mattheo paces a few steps forward before you can register that he’s even moving, and then he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him against you; warm with the threat and promise of everything you’ve been holding back. That he’s been denying himself.

Your hands are quick to find his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric as he leans closer, voice dropping into a murmur that makes the world shrink down to just the two of you.

Intimate. Perfect.

One of his hands finds your jaw, holding you in place with a tenderness you weren’t expecting as his thumb swipes across your cheek to remind you that you’re not in some daydream. Mattheo leans in – closer than you expected but still further than you would have liked.

“Fuck being friends-..” he whispers; lips almost grazing yours as he speaks. “..we should be lovers instead.”

For once, you don’t hesitate. You shouldn’t, because every nerve in your body is screaming for him, and when your lips finally meet for that first kiss you’ve been fantasizing about since you met him; the contact is fucking everything.

 Rough, desperate, electric.

From the tempest descended Tom, crowned by thunder and robed in lightning; in his hand a sceptre forged from the marrow of the storm itself. He needed no shield as the elements bent to him, wrapping his form in the brilliance of their fury and vehemence. Tom’s voice was the voice of the heavens – rolling, deafening, absolute. His words bellowed across the skies, stirred streams from courses and shattered stone to dust. Mortals who heard it were pressed flat to the ground below them in trembling submission. At his coming, forests bowed, rivers surged, and mountains split asunder. For this reason, Tom proclaimed himself as King of the Skies; for no one dared to challenge he who bore dominion over the storm. Tom was both storm and crown, thunder and decree; a law made manifested within lightnings strike.

Yet not all power burned with brilliance.

From the chasms of the earth where molten rivers coiled like serpents, the soil wept fervour and darkened decree rose Mattheo; cloaked in shadow so complete that flame dimmed before him. Mattheo’s gaze was carved from the darkest of obsidian embers. No throne of gold would Mattheo take but instead of iron vilified by soot, deep beneath the ground where silence was both heavy and eternal. He spoke not in roars nor proclamations as his brother did but in whispers. Whispers which lingered longer than thunder and twisted into the hearts of mortal men like smoke which suffocates and binds. Mortals feared him without knowing why, for Mattheo’s reign was not seen but felt – eternal as the grave, inescapable as the pull of the earth itself. Where Tom ruled with blinding light, Mattheo ruled with endless shadow in the underworld as The King of Ends.

For when sky and shadow clashed, the seas themselves began to grow restless. From their depths rose Theodore, Lord of Tide and Tempest. Theodore was crowned with salt and in his grasp, bore a trident wrought of coral and bone; his eyes a fathomless blue shade forged of drowned mens dreams. When he strode upon the shore; the ocean rose to greet him, when his wrath stirred, waves would devour ships whole. He was the calm of lull water lapping at the feet of men, and the sudden fury which sunk empires decadent with sin. To sailors, he was a prayer and curse alike – a sanctuary in calm seas and a destruction in unreachable horizons. He ruled storms unmoored, tides unbroken and the great abyss where all secrets were kept.

From flame and gold where dawn claimed its place rose Lorenzo, the Bringer of Light. He was crowned in gold laurel; a lyre forever in hand. The songs he sang strung colour across all horizons, weaving sunlight into the fabric of each day. Lorenzo’s laughter lit the world with a warmth many grew accustomed yet weary to – his beauty shining brighter than the sunlight which he led across the heavens. Morals adored Lorenzo for he arranged hope, he forged art, he granted medicine, he brought prophecy. Yet in their adoration, they often forget that light which shines enough can burn. Those who tried to get too close to Lorenzo’s brilliance were consumed as he was both gift and ruin. His light healed and inspired just as quickly as it destroyed and to look upon him was to be dazzled and perhaps to be undone.

And so the skies had their king, the underworld it’s shadow, the seas their keeper and the dawn its herald. None of these gods though could move freely amongst the realms until came Draco, the Child of Twilight and Crossroads. With winged sandals and a serpent twined staff, he shifted faster than sight and quicker than winds. His tongue they said was made of silver, his touch both deft and dangerous. His laughter carried a carved trickery whenever he roamed. Draco was a guide as much as he was a deceiver; a thief as much as he was a messenger. He danced the fine line between boundary and law. To mortals he was the one who whispered over their shoulder suggestions of impurity; the shadow that pushed you in the wrong direction at a fork in the road; the coin that vanished from the palm during tricks and illusions. Men prayed to him not out of love but necessity for only Draco knew the path between worlds – able to lead men and women to either salvation or their ruin.

The world as we knew it to be back when, was not yet bloodied. When mortals raised first blades and the cries of battle split in the air, Blaise arose from the slaughter Duke of Violence. His eyes were embers, his breath flame, his amour stained by the scarlet of endless war. Blaise bore a spear that glowed red in the heat of slaughter, his laughter malice which drummed across battlefields. To him, war was not chaos but art. He counted not the lives of victors but the men who were involved as pieces on his own personal chessboard of conquest. Blaise was relentless, merciless and calculating. In his hunger there shone glory and mortals praised him as both curse and patron of conflict and warfare. Where Blaise strode nations fell and empires were forged anew.

From the greens of forests veiled in renewal came Pansy, enchantress – Mistress of New Beginnings.  Pansy bore a mirror polished wherein mortals saw not reflections but the truths of themselves they dared not speak of. Many sought her in vanity, many more in her presence became undone, for her enchantments were not kind but binding, her beauty not a blessing but the snare of a curse. Tales say she was made of a mixture of venom and honey, loosely dipped into wells of charm and ruin. With a glance Pansy beguiled and with a single word she could enslave. Kings bowed before her, Queens curtsied hoping to be silently forgiven for intruding her thoughts. Men, women and children alike longed to be blessed by her power knowing full well that those who drew close often never lived to see the light of the next day, recycled into her own poetic shrill of revitalised critique.

Above all seven of them however, higher than throne, or sea, or shadow; loomed an anonymous power.

The Nameless One.

You.

You were not crowed by gold or enthroned in marble. No temple bore your image, no hymn dared to speak your name. Your dominion was not storm, nor shadow. Not tide, nor light. Not trickery, strife or sorcery. It was all of these and none. It was said that you wove a loom of blessed silver threat upon which hung the fates of both gods and men. Each strand glimmered with new beginnings, trembled with unexpected endings and all bent to the hand of which interlaced them.

At your touch, Tom’s thunder fell silence, Mattheo’s darkness dimmed, Theodore’s seas stilled, Lorenzo’s light faltered, Draco’s laughter died, Blaise’s sword dulled, and Pansy’s forests wept. The Gods bowed to the nameless one as there was no defiance. Storms may rage and seas may swallow but fate – alone – remains.

Thus, the Serpents Pantheon was born. Seven thrones burning with power and privilege and one unseen hand, weaving stands of hope, prosperity and humility; upon which even the gods trembled cautious of.

thank you to @voidofsunlight & @obsessedwithceleste for the reassurance on this xx and tagging @i-await & @simp-for-love who may enjoy the read.

“Fuck – ugh – fuck.. bloody –“, he curses, cut off by his own strangled moan. He’s shaking against the bed beneath you; pretty brown eyes blown wide open and lips wet with anticipation. His curls are damp, stuck to his forehead as sweat begins to bead along his brow. His chest is heaving like he’s just run miles around the quidditch pitch for training; but really, this whole reaction is just you – well.. your slick cunt clenching him with an obscenely tight heat all the way from his tip to his base.

His cock twitches violently inside of you; thick head nestled right up against that sensitive spongy spot in your cervix that makes you toes curl. You can’t help but smirk at the feeling; raking your hands through your hair as your body arches giving him a perfect silhouette of your tits which earns another groan. Fuck – Mattheo can’t stop groaning.

“Fuck, I’m – I – I can feel everything. Every fucking bit of you.”

His hands clamp down on your waist; however, you place yours on top and school his grasp down to your hips with a slow slide where Mattheo’s grip becomes bruising – like he’s terrified that you might pull away or disintegrate if he blinks. Beginning to move, slow and teasing; Mattheo’s composure shatters instantly. Shredded faster than he could groan your name.

“D-don’t, don’t tease.”

Wanting to make sure that he remembers this – you slow your moves down to an aching pace and run your fresh manicure with a graze down his chest causing him to hiss. Gritting his teeth, Mattheo’s cheeks flush a pretty crimson shade you want to take and remember forever. He begins to whine; his hips jerking up sloppily, trying his best to chase you. Voice wrecked and raw, Mattheo hisses again, this time through clenched teeth as you grind down against him.

“Ride me? F-fuck.. p-please, just – d-don’t stop.”

Without hesitating, you roll your hips against his own, earning a scream – the sound hoarse and ruined; Mattheo’s head tilting back with a thud against the pillows. This is just as much fun for him as it is you – his cock stretching you thick and deep, causing Mattheo to drool, spit catching on his lower lip as he looks up at you like you’re a vision.

“Holy shit – fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t – fuck; I can’t last-.”

Reaching down, you cup his jaw; forcing his blown gaze to stay on you, and he nearly sobs. Tracing your thumb along his jaw, you smirk and stop rocking your hips. “Stay with me Matty. You’re doing great baby..”

“Be mine?”, he whimpers desperately, “P-please. Say it – say, say you’re mine.”

You decide seeing as this is a once off to indulge him.

“Only you.”

Hell. That completely undoes him.

Mattheo snaps his hips up hard, clumsy but forceful, driving you down onto his cock causing you both to moan shamelessly. The sounds are filthy – wet, sloppy, half done, your pussy gushing with every slam of his cock into you; and Mattheo, well, he’s a fucking mess beneath you – grunting, moaning, panting your name like a personal prayer.

“Fuck – yes, baby; oh my god.. so deep; holy fuck.”

His nails digging crescents into your hips; his whole body begins to tremble with overstimulation and you can tell he’s about to lose it. He loses his voice for a moment; he has to remind himself on how to breathe. You decide to edge him on by screaming his name – the icing on the cake for a virgin such as he.

“Mattheo –” “Fuck – don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop – fuck – I’m gonna, gonna fill you-.”

Each word a needy kind of whimpering sound that he’d kill anyone else for hearing.

And then –

He’s gone.

Hips locking tight, his cock jerking as he spills inside of you with a guttural moan is hot and messy and Mattheo’s gasping for breath like he can’t believe that you’re real; like he’s never felt this fucking good in his god damn entire life. Hands still desperately grasping at your hips; Mattheo doesn’t let go. He doesn’t let you pull away or roll off.

“Stay there”, he begs; voice ragged in your ear as you collapse down on top of him, seeing white and stars behind your eyes. His arms lock around your back; keeping you pressed flush against his chest while his cock stays buried deep in you; still throbbing. “D-don’t move. Need you there. Just fuck—keep it in. Fuck. Mine.”

Even as he begins to soften, Mattheo rocks his hips gently, fainting, grinding deeper. Overstimulated but obsessed.

‘G-gimme a minute. I’ll; we – we’ll go again”, he swears warm against your ear; voice rough. “I promise – I’ll go longer. Fuck – all night.. shit.”

But tonight, the kisses have turned a little more heated and now you’re on your bed. Well, actually; Theodore’s on your bed - back firm against the mattress, you perched up over him; straddling his lap like it’s a perfectly normal place for you to be comfortable in. Your tongue slips in past his lips, ready to devour him. He’d mentioned earlier during the night that he’d eaten a girl out so well during a game of seven minutes in heaven that he could still taste her. Mhmm, you think you might also.

He runs his hands down your sides to your thighs, flicking up beneath the fabric of your skirt to rest on your plump ass and digs his fingers into the soft flesh your panties cover, urging you to rock your hips. Okay, grinding - yeah, nothing wrong with that. It’s just a step up from kissing. Something totally normal. Absolutely something that best friends would do. Oh god, does it feel fucking good. Like so good. Your thighs begin to warm. It’s just his jeans yeah? The friction. It has to be. Warm, rough; hard.

Hard.

Holy shit, he’s hard, and all you can think about is how this is all now just too much. Too much desire coursing through your veins. Too much fabric separating the two of you from each other. This would feel better without the extra layers on. The denim Theodore is wearing is really, really in the way. Inconvenient. Your hands fall from his face; one that was cupping his cheek, the other knotted into his hair and expertly fumble with his belt buckle to assist him in undoing it. Not that you’ve practiced this move on your boyfriend before while thinking of Theo instead.

He takes the hint; zipper undone and jeans pushed down so it’s just his boxers and your panties caught in a heated friction against one another. Theodore breaks the kiss; head tilting back as a groan escapes him, and you nip at the crook of his neck, savouring the salt on his skin. With how you’re rolling your hips against his hardened length, his boxers shift, cock springing up to hit his stomach and oohh, the tip is glistening. Beads of precum oh so pretty, that you consider for a moment dropping your head down to lick.

“Theo…”

His name comes out as a whimper from the back of your throat and you begin to wonder what his cock would feel like… – skin against skin. It’s innocent enough right? The thought. It’s not like you’re fucking. It’s not cheating. You love your boyfriend but god, Theodore right now just feels so god damn good so you reach down and pull the dampened fabric which covers your core to one side so that you can feel his cock slide between your folds. Amazing. You’re beginning to see stars burst from behind your eyes.

“Baby?” “Yeah–.”

Your clits sensitive. He can tell from the way your expression shifts from at peace to confused and how your lips quiver as you try to speak but the words you’re thinking die at the graveyard on the back of your tongue. Theo rocks against you harder; hips lifting off the bed as his tip catches your entrance. You let out a yelp; not because it hurts but because you’re well and truly crossing the line now, right?

Technically - you’re not fucking; but it makes you freeze anyway; questioning your morals for a split second. Before you have time to sort your thoughts out, Theodore’s flipped you over so that you’re now beneath him; caged in by his body feeling warm and secure and sultry.

“Please..”

It isn’t a question, Theo’s begging. How unusual. You’re actually considering it.

“Just the tip..”

Friendships are about communication. And compromise. The two of you right now have seemingly executed both.

Theo reaches down between your bodies but not before spitting into the palm of his hand and lining up his cock at your entrance.

“Just the tip, just the tip, just the tip –.”

He repeats the restrictions you gave him like a prayer. Tip dragging warm between your folds; he settles the head of his cock a half inch in and instead of thrusting in, he pumps his length; teasing you. You glance down, watching as he masturbates to the thought of you, into you. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth and you bite down at first just enough to colour the flesh a pretty cherry red before hard enough that you almost draw blood.

It feels good. You want more. But you know that the two of you shouldn’t. Friends don’t fuck friends.

They just… – release a load into them.

Warm. Sticky. You want to wrap your legs around his back and trap him but don’t.

Not because you can’t but because there’s no time.

His cum is dripping down the inside of your thighs; staining your sheets and the way the shadows and lights which filter through your dorm room window hit Theodore’s face make him look like a fucking angel. He rolls off of you and stares up at the ceiling. So do you. There’s no way that just happened right? There’s no way that your best friend just came in you.

You’re just friends. You know him better than to presume he’d be a saint.

He’s a sinner. You've heard his stories.

However, fate – or whatever cruel deity was watching – had other plans.

The bathroom wasn’t exactly empty; however not yet completely occupied. Which is how you ended up bent over a vanity sinks unforgiving marble; your exboyfriends oversized shirt you still slept in stanched up like a surrendered flag around your hips, thighs trembling and knees weak as they struggled to keep you upright as you gripped onto the sinks edge of dear life.

Your bottom lip was raw from your teeth sinking into it; bruising to a pretty scarlet shade of red. Your eyes, they shifted between fluttering shut with pleasure then snapping wide open in pure ecstasy. A mewl which shifted into a moan which attempted to tear from your throat but was barely stifled. Mattheo’s fist was twisted into your hair, yanking your head back with a sharp tug that arched your spine like a bowstring – his other than, clamped over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheeks enough to bruise.

“Fuck, you take cock so well”, he growled with a growl; breath hot and ragged against your neck, hips snapping up against your own with a brutal force. “Was almost starting to worry that I’d never get my turn to be buried in this warm little cunt of yours.”

Oh how you hadn’t meant to run into him of all people – how you hadn’t planned on anyone being here at this ungodly hour, but Mattheo; ugh – that smug little prick who had somehow conned his way into a prefect badge (trust Salazar’s ghost to be laughing) had somehow turned torment into a fucking art form. So, instead of docking house points for your curfew breaking ass, he decided to put you to better use; pinning you to the sink with a handsome grin before declaring that a proper punishment was in order.

His thrusts were merciless; each one deeper and harder than the one it followed; the slap of skin against skin echoing off the bathroom tiles like a forbidden incantation which chased your shared ruin like the castle wasn’t full of faculty or students who could burst through any second.

The mirror in front of you fogged up with your fevered exhales; but you were still able to catch glimpses – your face twisted in bliss; cheeks flushed, Mattheo’s eyes devouring you like a predator would prey. He released your mouth, just to wrap that hand around your throat; squeezing lightly yet possessively, his thumb stroking against your pulse as he leaned forward, nipping your earlobe.

“Such a filthy little wanderer now, aren’t we? Sneaking around – oh princess, you’re just begging for trouble. Bet you love this – probably dream about it; getting fucked senseless in places where anyone could walk in. Imagine if a professor heard your pretty little moans. Or one of your housemates. Would you even stop?”

You whimper – the risk of Mattheo’s words igniting something wild in you which causes your body to clench around him in response. His hand that had a grip on your neck, loosening to work its way back up; two of his fingers pushing past your lips as he instructs you to suck his fingers which he slams into the back of your throat. Digits heavy on your tongue, he tears them out only to drop them down and find your clit that he spells his name out against with his fingertips. The motion has you seeing stars explode behind your eyes. There’s a coil that winds up tight in your stomach; a sweat heat draping across your skin – every nerve he’s playing with screaming as pinches the sensitive nub and smacks his fingers sharply against it. Your body quivers and trembles as you struggle to moan, grinding your teeth in frustration and satisfaction.

“That’s it, slut. Come for me. Milk my cock while I fill you up. Make this worth the fucking risk.”

The hand that’s knotted in your hair releases last minute to slap down hard against your ass that causes you to shatter – a scream ripping free that echoes off the walls and your release crashes like a curse; waves of pleasure and fire consuming you. Mattheo follows with a guttural grow, spilling deep inside you with hot, pulsing thrusts that leave you both wrecked. He collapses forward, chest firm against your back, cock slipping out in inch which causes arousal and cum to drip and paint down your leg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So do something about it then..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His friend, his rock, his conscience, his guiding light; the person whose company made life a little more bearable and whose presence calmed down even his most wild and unhinged of behaviours and erratics.

You.

Who up until recently, he’d only ever considered himself to be in the friend zone of. Or at least, that were the case up until three nights ago when you not so subtly hinted at exactly what you thought of him at a party. Albeit – you were a little tipsy from drinking far too much firewhiskey. The way you twirled your hair around your fingertips as you gave him sultry bedroom eyes and explained in little more than a whisper that ‘a boy like him would basically be a dream come true’ had him higher than cloud nine.

His wants and desires cementing when a rather handsy Gryffindor approached you for a dance and you agreed a little too eagerly causing Mattheo to see red in shades he hadn’t known existed.

“Matt – you’re making this way more over complicated than it needs to be”, Theo muttered loud enough that Mattheo could hear him while he kept his eyes focused on the book he was reading. What was Theo doing perched up on a bathroom sink with a novel in hand? Allegedly he just wanted some peace and quiet away from the rest of the chaos the castle and the bathrooms provided just that. Fair enough.

“That’s because it is complicated. She’s complicated.” “No, she’s really not dude. Just be cool. Talk to her directly. C’mon Riddle, you’ve asked plenty of girls out before – you shouldn’t have a problem with this.” “Yeah but – she’s different…”

And you were. Different that is. So soft and sweet and wholesome and perfect in Mattheo’s eyes. Like an angel that he didn’t deserve to be within the glow and halo space of; and well.. he saw himself as, just Mattheo. Not a boy wonder. Not a prodigy. Nothing but eventual trouble even when he’d try his best to stay on the straight and narrow.

“Fine…”, Theo agreed; licking a finger to help turn a page he’d just finished reading still being half lost in the current fantasy novel he was becoming engrossed in. “Keep, practicing or doing whatever it is you’re doing with the mirror and I wish you the best.”

Of course though – when things came to Mattheo, shit wasn’t just that simple; so without being too obvious, Theodore recorded his best friend practicing what seemed to have turned into a theatrical rendition of Shakespearian level pickup lines and texted the clip through to you with a message that read – ‘he’s a simp’.

Feeling a buzz in your pocket while you were busy studying, you saw the text, got curious and watched. Only to then show your dorm mate. And another friend you had a study session with. Oh and to two girls during quidditch practice. Plus your house prefect. Then soon enough, once it was the talk of the night amongst the female student body, you forwarded the text through to basically anyone who asked. Vulnerable Mattheo was cute Mattheo – and it seemed in girl world, everyone thought that too.

The following morning at breakfast went about as ritualistic as it had since first year – you took a seat a third of a way down the Slytherin table, had a few bites of a pumpkin pasty and washed it down with black coffee – no sugar. The boys had congregated for their usually morning banter a few seats away; all stealing glances your way, all talking in whispers like they weren’t the biggest gossips in the Scottish Highlands.

“Talk to her.” “She’s looking.” “Shut up!” “Go on Romeo.”

With heavier footsteps than expected which echoed through the hall; Mattheo made his way over. Not so subtly, your friends parted in waves of giggles faster than the red sea to give him space beside you. All smirking, all glitter eyed, all holding their breaths; every single set of eyes not only here but around the Great Hall watched on eagerly.

Mattheo looked like a stunned baby deer caught in headlights.

“Hi.” “Hey.”

The conversation came to a grinding halt following those two single words. Mattheo beginning to expect the worst – you patiently waiting to see his performance that Theodore had recorded put into action. Eyes flickering from his own to the empty seat beside you that you pat to encourage him to take, Mattheo eventually does while scratching the back of his neck and letting out a deep, near painful sigh.

“So---.” “Yeah…”

You smirk, knowing how difficult this must be for him, but take advantage of the fact you never usually see Mattheo in this state – vulnerable, confused… adorable. Truth be told, you may never see it again. Out of habit, you bite your bottom lip which causes Mattheo to swipe his tongue over his own and clear his throat out with a small, forced cough.

“I was wondering -, actually… are you like.. tomorrow night – um…”

Toying with the locket hanging low around your neck, the smile which tugs up the corners of your mouth causes Mattheo to skip taking a breath; his chest heaving as he struggles to regain any ounce of composure he had.

“You were wondering?”, you prompt him along before hearing another string of attempts at conversation.

“Do you like to eat? Fuck, no of course you do. Stupid question. I.. I was just thinking that maybe – food, you, me, at a restaurant. Or like I could cook. More burn, because let’s be honest even with magic or bribing a house elf to make something I’d manage to burn toast and..”

Reaching over, you place a hand on top of his own and chuckle softly; knowing exactly what he’s trying to say although it’s a failure to be articulated.

“Mattheo – take a breath.”

He does. A single one. Then a second. Then a third. You smile. It almost renders him incompetent to complete the involuntary reflex he’s managed since birth.

“Theo sent me a video of you practicing talking to me last night....”

Mattheo turns fifty shades of red, purple and blue. You quickly realise that perhaps you shouldn’t have brought that it. Better still, you decide to not mention anything about sharing the video to every student with double x chromosomes.

“I, think it was really cute – sweet – and um, I’m flattered but…”

But.

No.

He didn’t want to hear that.

A multitude of possibilities and endings to the narrative he’d played out in his mind and in front of the mirror rushed to swap his brain. He’d ask you out – perhaps even pour his heart you, you’d say no – maybe even think poorly of him, you’d start to avoid him during classes, then in the corridors, no longer spend time with him, no longer hang out, find yourself a new set of friends, find yourself a boyfriend, forget he even existed…

“…there’s no need for you to be nervous. I’d like to go out to dinner. With you.”

You blush.

So does he.

Shifting your hand to lace your fingers through his own, the move earns a chuckle of appreciation from him.