Unbetitelt

“You can’t,” you groaned, trying to push him toward the door. “Pansy’s coming any second and—”

“—and she’ll yell at me?” he finished for you, eyebrow raised. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

You rolled your eyes, half-laughing despite yourself. He stepped closer, brushing against you on purpose. “Mattheo—”

The door creaked.

Pansy appeared like she was gliding on a cloud of judgment. She froze, taking in the sight of you pressed against him. “Ohhh. I see.”

Mattheo immediately wrapped an arm around your waist. Protective, possessive, smug as hell. Your cheeks heated, but you pushed gently at him anyway. “Go. Please. Before—”

“Before you melt?” he teased, dipping a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Yes! Exactly.”

Girls’ night quickly descended into chaos. Candles, popcorn, sheet masks everywhere, and the boys showing up one by one like they’d been invited by accident—or maybe on purpose. Lorenzo, Theodore, Blaise, Draco… all of them staring like they’d stumbled into some kind of ritual.

“Oh, hell,” Draco groaned, taking in your masked face. “What… what is that?”

“Beauty,” Mattheo said flatly, and somehow the words made the room go still. He stepped closer to you, arm tightening around your waist, eyes daring anyone to come closer. “And she’s mine.”

Your hands brushed his under the table, small sparks where your fingers touched. He stiffened just enough for you to know he noticed—and cared.

Then it got worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it. You grabbed a sheet mask and, slowly, deliberately, pressed it onto his face. Not perfectly—messily, with little smudges where your lips had pressed.

He froze, then shivered, eyes catching yours. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured.

“And you love it,” you shot back, smirking.

He pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “I do. And I’ll remind everyone of it.”

The boys groaned, Pansy cackled, but Mattheo didn’t care. He just held you a little closer, smug, soft, possessive, and entirely yours.

“Perfect,” you said.

“For me?” he asked.

“For always,” you replied.

“Merlin, Matty,” you murmur, tracing your nails down his chest, watching him shiver. “Relax. You’re too tense.”

His laugh is broken, breathless. “Yeah, because this is so fucking casual for me.”

You smirk, leaning down to kiss the hollow of his throat. “Don’t tell me the infamous Mattheo Riddle is nervous.”

His hips jerk when your lips brush his collarbone. “I’m not nervous,” he grits out, then ruins it with a groan when you shift just right. “I just—fuck—I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

That’s when it hits you: he really hasn’t done this before. Not all the rumors, not all the smug grins, not all the late-night whispers mean shit — he’s brand new, completely undone, and you’re the one holding the match to his pride.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, nodding, and then you’re sinking down onto him and—holy fuck. His whole body arches, a raw gasp spilling out of him like it’s been torn from his lungs.

“Bloody—fuck—” he groans, head thudding back against the pillow. His eyes flutter open, blown wide, desperate. “I can feel everything. Every fucking—god, you’re—” His voice breaks, sharp and ruined.

You smile slow, deliberate, and grind your hips in a teasing roll. His nails bite into your skin, bruising.

“Don’t tease,” he whines, voice frayed, “please—just—ride me. I can’t—don’t make me beg—”

“Maybe I like hearing you beg,” you murmur, dragging your lips across his jaw. His cheeks flush scarlet, his hips stutter up to chase yours, sloppy and frantic.

He’s unraveling so fast it’s almost dizzying to watch. Every curse, every moan tumbling out of his mouth is laced with desperation. And the longer you draw it out, the deeper he spirals.

“Fuck,” he gasps when you squeeze around him, “I’m not—I can’t last, not if you—shit—”

You cup his jaw, force his glazed eyes to stay on you. “Stay with me, Matty. You’re doing so well.”

Something in him breaks then. His lips tremble, his chest heaves, and the words come out like a plea he’s never said to anyone before.

“Be mine,” he whispers. “Please—say you’re mine.”

The crack in his voice makes your chest ache. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. But you do.

“Only you.”

That’s it. That’s the thread that snaps.

Mattheo surges up, clumsy and forceful, fucking into you with a desperation that borders on feral. His groans are hoarse, wet, broken — his hands gripping you like you might disappear if he loosens his hold for even a second.

You moan his name, loud and shameless, and it destroys him. He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips locking, body trembling like he’s come apart completely.

But even then—especially then—he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t let you pull away. His arms clamp around you, dragging you down against his chest, his cock still buried inside you.

“Stay,” he pants, voice shredded, warm against your ear. “Don’t move. Please—just—need you here. Need you.”

And when you shift, testing him, he groans, hips twitching like even the thought of you slipping away is unbearable.

“I’ll go again,” he swears, half incoherent. “Just—fuck—give me a minute. I’ll go all night. I’ll prove it.”

You realize then that it isn’t about sex for him. It’s about possession. About erasing the shadows of whoever came before him. About making sure you never, ever look at anyone else the way you’re looking at him now.

It’s pathetic. It’s heartbreaking. It’s beautiful.

Mattheo had kissed you like drowning once. But this was worse. This was him letting go.

You could feel the way his hands trembled where they clutched your hips, like you were both lifeline and weapon. His breath came sharp, desperate, as you sank onto him — inch by inch, until he was filled with something he couldn’t name.

“Merlin—” he gasped, voice cracking, eyes glassy. “It’s—fuck—it’s too much.”

He wasn’t arrogant here, not anymore. He wasn’t the cocky Slytherin heir who smirked through everything, who pretended to be untouchable. He was a boy unraveling in your arms, staring up at you like he didn’t know if he wanted to live or die from the feeling of you wrapped around him.

You smoothed your hands over his chest, leaned down to press your lips to his temple, shushing his broken groans. “Breathe, Matty. Just breathe.”

But you didn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Because you knew this wasn’t forever.

He whispered things he didn’t mean. Mine. Stay. Please. His voice splintered with need, with hunger, with something that sounded far too close to love. You let him say it. You let him believe it, for now.

You moved slow, unbearably slow, watching his lashes flutter and his mouth fall open, watching the boy beneath the name, the boy who had never been held like this. He clung to you like a prayer, like you were the only proof that softness existed in the world.

“I—fuck—I can’t hold it, I can’t—” His words dissolved into whimpers, his hips stuttering helplessly beneath you.

You kissed his jaw, whispering the lie he needed: “It’s okay. I’m yours.”

And when he broke, when he spilled inside you with a sob that tore from somewhere deeper than his body, it was beautiful and it was shattering all at once.

Because you knew what he didn’t.

This wasn’t love. This was a boy begging the universe not to abandon him, using your body as proof he was wanted, if only for one night.

And you—fool that you were—you gave it to him. You gave him the illusion, the warmth, the comfort of a love that could never survive the ruin that lived inside him.

Afterward, when his arms locked tight around you, whispering promises of forever, you closed your eyes. You let him. You pretended.

Because if this was his first time, you already knew it was the last time too.

He doesn’t know how to ask for it without breaking something in the process. Doesn’t know how to hold it without crushing it in his fists. He’s toxic and jealous and cruel when he wants to be — you’ll never deny that. You’ve lived it.

But there were nights where you swore you saw the boy he could’ve been. If someone had taught him love wasn’t a weapon. If someone had shown him it didn’t have to hurt.

Pansy calls him pathetic. Blaise says he’ll never change. And maybe they’re right. Maybe leaving was the smartest thing you’ve ever done.

But when you see him across the courtyard, pretending to laugh too loud with a girl who won’t matter tomorrow, you don’t feel angry anymore. Not even jealous.

You just feel… sorry.

Sorry that he’ll keep chasing affection he doesn’t know how to hold. Sorry that no matter how many people he pulls close, it’ll never quiet the part of him that’s still that lonely little boy.

Mattheo Riddle just wants to be loved. But love alone isn’t enough. Not when it’s twisted into something unrecognizable.

But the truth was quieter than all of that. The truth was that Theodore Nott had never really been seen.

Until you.

He didn’t remember when it started — when your voice began weaving itself through the silence he’d built like armor.

Maybe it was the way you spoke to him in Potions without hesitation, steady and unfazed, as though his last name meant nothing. Maybe it was the way you offered him a quill in the library without asking for anything in return. Maybe it was the way you laughed — genuine, unforced, slipping past his defenses like sunlight through cracks.

Whatever it was, it unsettled him. Because one day he looked up, and you were simply there. Not as an interruption. Not as a demand. But as a presence that didn’t scrape against his solitude.

And it terrified him, because he found himself wanting it.

Wanting you.

It was late one evening when he realized how much.

The Slytherin common room had long gone quiet, his so-called friends retreated to their dorms. Theo had lingered, restless, until he found himself outside, wandering the empty courtyard. The sky above was ink-dark, punctured with stars that seemed cruelly bright.

And then there you were — sitting on the cold stone edge of the fountain, cloaked against the autumn wind, a book forgotten in your lap.

You looked up when you heard him, a small smile blooming like it had been waiting for him. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He shook his head, something caught in his throat. “Not really.”

Without thinking, he sat beside you. The silence stretched, but for once, it didn’t suffocate. It settled. Gentle. Familiar.

Your hand rested on the stone between you, fingers curled loosely, and Theo stared at them longer than he meant to. His chest tightened, his thoughts unspooling in ways he didn’t know how to stop.

Because in that moment, you were not just someone who had slipped into his orbit. You were a gravity he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

The nights after that, he noticed the shift.

The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It carried your voice, your laughter, your steady breath when you sat beside him in the library, your whispered questions about things no one else bothered to ask.

And now, lying in his bed, with the faint glow of dawn spilling across the floorboards, Theo realized the silence had changed entirely.

Because you were here.

Your body was curled beside his, your hair spilling across his pillow, your hand resting where it had fallen against his chest in sleep. Each breath you drew filled the space with something warm, something he had never let himself hope for.

He watched you for a long moment, his gaze tracing the slope of your cheek, the curve of your lips, the fragile peace written across your sleeping face. His hand lifted almost against his will, fingers brushing lightly along your arm, the touch reverent.

You stirred, a soft murmur escaping you as you shifted closer, tucking yourself instinctively into his chest. Theo froze, then let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his arm wrapping carefully around you.

The silence held, but it was no longer the silence of loneliness. It was the quiet between heartbeats. The kind of quiet that promised safety. Belonging. Home.

Theo pressed his lips to your hairline, a kiss so soft it was almost not a kiss at all. His eyes stung with the weight of it, with the truth he had never dared speak.

He would never say it aloud — not yet. Not until he knew how to bear it. But in the hollow of his chest, the vow was there, unshakable: I won’t let this go. I won’t lose you. Not when you’re the only one who has ever seen me.

Your hand twitched against his chest, fingers finding his shirt in sleep, and he caught them easily, weaving his own between yours. The fit was seamless. Terrifyingly so.

Your lashes fluttered, your eyes half-opening to find him already looking down at you. And even half-asleep, you smiled. Instinctive. Soft.

“Hi,” you whispered, your voice husky with dreams.

Theo’s lips curved — rare, genuine, vulnerable. “Hi.”

You nestled closer with a sigh, your smile lingering as your eyes slipped shut again.

Some said it with fear, some with fascination, most with venom.

By the time he was fifteen, he had grown into it the way one grows into shackles—heavy, inevitable, unshakable.

He played the part they gave him. Arrogant. Cruel. Dangerous. It was easier than trying to explain that he hadn’t asked to be born into a prophecy he never wanted.

So he leaned into it, wore it like armour. If they thought him a monster, then let him be a beautiful one.

Until her.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed her before—Hogwarts wasn’t that big, after all. He knew her face, her laugh, the way she always walked too quickly, like she was afraid of being late to her own life.

But it was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, of all places, when she first broke the script.

The professor had paired them off for spellwork. He expected the usual: fear, nerves, trembling wand hands that only steadied once his smirk cut deep enough.

Instead, she met his gaze levelly, her wand arm steady, her lips quirking like she knew exactly who he was and didn’t particularly care.

“You’re overextending,” she said after his first spell, her tone maddeningly casual. “That’s why your cast keeps wavering.”

Mattheo blinked, half a second too slow. “Excuse me?”

She only shrugged, demonstrating with her own wand, the spell flying true and clean. “Like that.”

And then she went back to practicing, leaving him standing there with a retort strangled in his throat.

No fear. No trembling. Just… correction.

The audacity of it.

The fascination of it.

He told himself it was irritation when he began noticing her more often.

The way she chewed her quill in class. The way her fingers tapped restlessly on the edge of the table. The way she always seemed to hum under her breath when she thought no one was listening.

He catalogued them like sins, each one another reason she should have annoyed him. But he remembered them all anyway.

And it infuriated him.

Because Mattheo Riddle did not get distracted. He was the distraction.

It wasn’t until late November, when he found her in the Astronomy Tower past curfew, that the truth settled like a weight in his chest.

She was leaning against the stone railing, the night sky spread behind her like spilled ink, stars sharp enough to cut.

“You’re going to get detention,” he drawled, stepping into the cold air.

She turned, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “So are you.”

He huffed, smirking despite himself, and joined her at the railing. Silence stretched, broken only by the whistle of the wind through the tower spires.

Finally, she said, “You don’t have to keep playing him, you know.”

His brow furrowed. “Playing who?”

“Your father.” She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the stars. “Everyone else might only see the name. But I’ve seen you laugh. I’ve seen you care. That’s not him.”

The words lodged in his chest like glass.

He had been called many things in his life—monster, snake, Riddle’s boy.

But never not him.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

And when she finally turned to look at him, really look at him, he realised he didn’t want to be invisible to her. Not ever.

Mattheo Riddle was many things. Dangerous, arrogant, his father’s son.

But in that moment, with starlight crowning her hair and her voice still echoing in his chest, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—he could be something else.

Something she saw.

Mattheo paused. Then, with the most casual tone he could muster: “…I could, you know, show you.”

Theo blinked. “Show me?”

Mattheo shrugged, feigning nonchalance while his pulse spiked. “Yeah. Like—practice. It’s not weird. Loads of blokes do it.”

Theo narrowed his eyes. “Do they?”

“Course they do.” Mattheo grinned, sitting down beside him. “It’s not gay if it’s practice.”

There was a long pause. A silence that felt louder than the Slytherin common room fireplace crackling in the background.

“…Fine,” Theo muttered, avoiding his gaze. “But only because I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“Exactly.” Mattheo smirked, leaning in. “Totally straight.”

Their lips brushed—hesitant, clumsy, lingering far too long for something that was supposed to be instructional. When they pulled apart, both of them were slightly breathless.

Theo coughed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Right. Okay. I think I get it now.”

Mattheo nodded, his smirk betraying the heat in his cheeks. “Good. We’ll, uh… just keep practicing. Y’know. Until you’re confident.”

Theo rolled his eyes, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Merlin’s sake… you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Not at all,” Mattheo said smoothly. “Just being a good mate. Helping you impress the ladies.”

Totally straight.

Or worse:

“Careful with that wand, ladies—he might burn your biscuits!”

Mattheo was not a blusher. He was not easily rattled. But this? This was actual hell.

And it wasn’t just students. A fifth-year Ravenclaw had straight-up offered him a recipe book in the library. Professor Slughorn had patted his shoulder after class and muttered something about “expanding one’s horizons.” Even bloody Filch had smirked when he walked past.

It was a conspiracy.

Naturally, Theo and Draco were making it ten times worse.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you,” Theo said casually over breakfast, loud enough for the entire Slytherin table to hear. “Who knew you’d be so hands-on in the kitchen?”

“Truly inspirational,” Draco added dryly, buttering his toast. “A man of many talents. Who’s next, Riddle—the house-elves?”

Blaise nearly spit pumpkin juice across the table.

Mattheo groaned and dropped his forehead against the wood. “I hate all of you.”

But the real problem—the true hell—was you.

Because unlike everyone else, you weren’t mocking him. No, you were worse.

You were amused.

Positively glowing with laughter every time you caught his eye, every time you wiggled your brows at him across the Great Hall, every time you leaned close and whispered things like:

“Careful, Riddle. You smell like burnt sugar.”

He was going to kill you. Or kiss you. He hadn’t decided yet.

Probably both.

The final straw came three days later.

Mattheo was already in a foul mood after Theo stuck a “Kiss the Cook” badge to his robe in Transfiguration. He ripped it off, snarling, storming through the corridor—only to nearly collide with you.

“Oh, sorry,” you said sweetly, blinking up at him. Then your lips curved. “Smells like someone’s been baking.”

His jaw clenched.

“Listen here, princess,” he growled, stepping closer until your back brushed the wall. “You think this is funny? Everyone and their grandmother making jokes at my expense?”

You tilted your head, innocent. “A little funny.”

“Not funny.” He braced a hand against the wall by your head, leaning in. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying about me?”

“Yes,” you said cheerfully. “And you know what’s even funnier?”

“What?” he snapped.

Your grin widened. “You’re the one who started the rumor.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You were the one who moaned, ‘oh, sweetheart, right there’ in the kitchens loud enough to wake the Bloody Baron.” You shrugged. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Mattheo froze. Heat rushed up his neck. “I did not—”

“Oh, you did.” You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “And now you’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” You poked his cheek, smirking. “Adorable.”

Mattheo grabbed your wrist. Tight. “You’re playing a dangerous game, love.”

Your eyes glinted. “Maybe I like danger.”

For a moment, the world went still. The air between you snapped tight, like a bowstring ready to break. Mattheo’s chest rose and fell, his curls shadowing his stormy eyes, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.

Then, low and rough, he muttered, “Merlin help me, I should shut you up right now.”

You tilted your chin up, heart hammering. “Then do it.”

Later, you would tell yourself you hadn’t meant it. That you’d just been teasing, poking the dragon, not expecting him to actually burn you alive.

But Mattheo Riddle had never been one to back down from a dare.

His mouth crashed against yours like he was starving. His grip on your wrist slid to your waist, yanking you closer, pressing you into the wall. You gasped, fingers curling into his shirt, and he swallowed the sound like he’d been waiting for it his entire life.

When he pulled back, his lips were red, his eyes wild. “Fuck. That was—”

You smirked, breathless. “Half-baked?”

He groaned. “I hate you.”

He froze mid-bite.

You froze mid-step.

For a moment, the only sound was the clatter of a wayward house-elf spoon dropping into a sink.

“…Riddle?” you finally managed, eyes flicking from his guilty face to the half-eaten pie in his hands.

Mattheo’s brain short-circuited. He could admit he wasn’t the best under pressure, but surely he could come up with something smoother than—

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, “Really? Because it looks like you broke into the kitchens at midnight to make out with a pie.”

“Steal a pie,” he corrected automatically, then winced, realizing that didn’t help.

Your grin spread slowly, wickedly. “Oh my God. Mattheo Riddle has a sweet tooth.”

“No,” he snapped too fast, shoving the tin behind him like that would erase the evidence. “No I don’t.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, smirking, “So the smear of cherry filling on your mouth is… what? Battle paint?”

“Research,” he blurted.

You blinked. “Research.”

“For Potions,” he added quickly, gesturing vaguely at the pie tin. “On… consistency. And… fermentation.”

There was a long silence.

Then you burst out laughing.

And that was the beginning of the end.

By breakfast, the rumor mill had already chewed him up and spat him out.

“Oi, Baker Boy,” Draco drawled the moment Mattheo sat down. “Careful, your tart’s leaking.”

Mattheo glared at him, then at the danish Draco was oh-so-innocently buttering.

Theo leaned across the table, grin positively feral. “So when’s the bakery opening, Riddle? Think you can whip me up a treacle tart after class?”

“I will kill both of you in your sleep,” Mattheo muttered, stabbing his eggs with enough force to make them tremble.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” Draco said, smirking. “Word is you’re a natural with your hands. All that kneading, all that whisking…”

Theo snorted into his pumpkin juice, choking. “Kneading, Merlin’s sake—”

Mattheo shoved Draco’s shoulder so hard his tea spilled. “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

But it was no use. Hogwarts’ gossip chain was ruthless. By lunch, he’d been asked for three cookie recipes and whether he “preferred to use cinnamon sticks or powder.”

And then there was you.

You, who sat down across from him at dinner with a little grin like you knew exactly how much he was suffering.

“So,” you said casually, spooning potatoes onto your plate, “is cherry your specialty, or are you more of a pumpkin pasty type?”

He nearly dropped his fork. “Are you serious right now?”

“What?” you asked innocently, eyes sparkling. “Everyone’s talking about it. I’m just curious what you like to bake.”

“I don’t bake.” He ground the words out between clenched teeth.

“Right,” you said, nodding sagely. “And I don’t sneak Honeydukes chocolate into the dorm after every Hogsmeade trip. We all have our secrets, Riddle.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a liar with frosting on his soul,” you shot back smoothly.

Theo, sitting beside him, practically choked on his bread roll. “Frosting on his soul? Oh, Merlin—(Y/N), marry me.”

Mattheo shoved Theo off the bench. “Fuck off.”

But when his eyes flicked back to you, you were still watching him, smug and teasing and… way too amused for his dignity to survive the week.

And the worst part?

And worst of all? He wanted more. Needed more.

So when he caught you slipping out of the library after hours, your bag slung over your shoulder, skirts swaying against your thighs, he didn’t even think. He just followed.

You made it three corridors before his hand hooked around your arm and dragged you into an abandoned classroom, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind you.

“Riddle—”

“No,” he cut you off, pressing you against the door, chest heaving, curls falling into his eyes. His voice was low, dangerous, wrecked. “I’m done with your games.”

Your lips parted, a retort ready, but it died on your tongue when his hands grabbed your thighs and lifted you onto the desk in one smooth motion. Books scattered to the floor, forgotten, as he shoved your skirt up, baring the damp heat he already knew he’d find.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. “You’re already wet. Tell me it’s for me.”

You smirked, breathless. “What if it’s not?”

His grip tightened, fingers bruising against your thighs. “Then I’ll fuck you until it is.”

His mouth crashed into yours, teeth clashing, desperate. His hands tore at your underwear, yanking them down your legs and tossing them aside like they offended him. He pressed two fingers inside you, fast, rough, making you gasp, making you cling to him.

“That’s mine,” he rasped, watching his fingers disappear inside you, watching the slick coat his skin. “This pretty cunt—fucking mine.”

“Mattheo—” you moaned, head falling back as he added a third finger, stretching you open, working you mercilessly.

He kissed your throat, sucking bruises into your skin. “You’re gonna take me now,” he promised darkly. “All of me. Every fucking inch. And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

Before you could respond, he was undoing his belt, shoving his trousers down just enough to free himself. Thick. Hard. Already leaking.

Your eyes widened, breath catching, and he smirked at the way your thighs trembled.

“Yeah,” he said, stroking himself once, slow and deliberate. “You’re gonna feel me for days.”

He lined up, pressed the head against your entrance, and then—

“Mattheo, wait—”

But he didn’t. He thrust inside in one rough, devastating push, burying himself to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dropping against yours. “So fucking tight. Gonna ruin me before I ruin you.”

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He gave you no time to adjust—just started moving, hard, deep, relentless.

The desk creaked with every thrust, wood groaning under the force. His pace was brutal, unrestrained, each snap of his hips knocking the breath from your lungs.

“Listen to you,” he rasped, his voice wrecked, filthy. “Moaning for me. Begging without even realizing it.”

You tried to glare, to hold onto some scrap of defiance, but your body betrayed you—arching into him, clenching around him, every nerve on fire.

“That’s it, princess,” he growled, pounding into you harder. “Take it. Take my cock like the needy little slut you are.”

Your orgasm tore through you like fire, sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, nails raking down his back, thighs trembling violently as you fell apart around him.

Mattheo cursed, holding on by a thread, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

“Fuck—fuck—you feel too good,” he groaned, thrusts growing sloppy, desperate. “Gonna fill you up—can’t fucking stop—”

He spilled inside you with a guttural sound, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep as he buried himself fully. His whole body shuddered, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged and broken.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was panting—yours and his, tangled together in the dark.

Then Mattheo lifted his head, eyes wild, lips curved in a wrecked, satisfied smirk.

“Five minutes, my ass,” he murmured, still buried deep inside you. “You’re never walking away from me again.”

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure you wanted to.

Not with the ghost of you trembling on his fingers, the taste of your moans still stuck in his head, and the memory of you walking away like he hadn’t just had you seconds from falling apart.

No, he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand you winning.

Which is why, less than twenty-four hours later, you found yourself shoved into a dark alcove near the dungeons, his hand over your mouth, his body caging yours against the wall.

“Not so fast, princess,” he murmured, voice rough in your ear. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

You glared at him, eyes flashing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

His smirk sharpened. “Five minutes, huh? Should’ve made it ten. Then maybe you’d stand a chance.”

He pulled his hand away, but only to grab your wrists, pinning them above your head. His hips pressed forward, grinding against you—and fuck, he was hard already, straining against his trousers.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he accused softly, lips brushing your jaw. “About me. About the way I had you shaking last night.”

“I wasn’t shaking,” you bit out, but your breath betrayed you, coming quicker as his free hand skimmed down your side, under your skirt, between your thighs.

His chuckle was dark, low. “Liar.”

Two fingers pushed past your panties without warning, sliding through the slick he found there. He groaned, filthy and desperate, like the proof of your arousal was a personal victory.

“Fuck, you’re wetter than last time,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You swallowed hard, trying to twist away, but his grip only tightened. He pushed two fingers inside you, slow at first, then faster, curling them just right until your legs trembled.

“Don’t run now,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Not until you cum on my fingers. I’m not letting you walk away again.”

“Let me go,” you whispered, even as your hips rocked forward against his hand.

Mattheo grinned like a wolf. “Say it again when you’re screaming my name.”

His thumb found your clit, circling, pressing, working you closer and closer until you were gasping against the wall. Your wrists strained against his hold, but not to escape—you needed something to hold onto, something to ground you as the pleasure built sharp and hot in your stomach.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, kissing down your neck, sucking bruises into your skin. “Take it, princess. Take my fingers. Let me ruin you.”

You broke first. A sharp cry tore from your throat as you came undone, thighs shaking, cunt clenching around his fingers. He worked you through it, relentless, fucking you with his hand until you were sobbing into his shoulder, your whole body trembling.

Mattheo slowed, finally pulling his fingers free, glistening and slick. He smirked, licking them clean with a low groan.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered, eyes burning into yours.

You glared, still breathless, still shaking. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned, wicked and smug. “And you’re wrecked.”

You shoved at his chest, slipping out from under him with shaky legs. “One win doesn’t make you king of the world, Riddle.”

“Maybe not,” he said, eyes raking over you, dark and hungry. “But it makes me king of you.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You just stalked off, hair mussed, lips swollen, skirt twisted—his marks on your throat and your body still trembling from his touch.

Mattheo leaned back against the wall, lighting another cigarette with a shaky hand.

He’d won this round.

But Merlin help him—he already knew one win wasn’t enough.

“Five minutes, tops,” he’d boasted, sprawled across the couch with a cigarette tucked between his fingers. “Girl talks a big game, but she’d fold the second I touched her.”

You hadn’t even broken stride. Just arched a brow, shot him a look over your shoulder, and kept walking. But inside? Oh, you were already plotting.

Later that night, you found him outside the Astronomy Tower, smoking alone. He looked up, surprised. Then smirked.

“Well, well,” he drawled, flicking ash into the dark. “Here to test my theory, princess?”

You crossed your arms, cool and collected. “Five minutes?”

“Generous,” he said, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under his heel. “I’ll only need three.”

You stepped right into his space, chin tilted up. “Prove it.”

The second you said it, he had you pinned. Your back hit the cold stone wall, his mouth crashing against yours—hot, rough, desperate. His hands gripped your thighs, hauling you up so your legs wrapped around his waist.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he muttered against your lips, grinding against you. “Bet you’ve been waiting for this.”

You gasped as his fingers slid under your skirt, dragging up your thigh until they brushed against the damp heat between your legs. His grin was wolfish.

“Knew it,” he said darkly. “Soaked. You’re mine already.”

“Four minutes,” you managed, breath hitching.

He laughed, low and cruel, slipping his hand into your panties. His fingers pressed against your clit, slow and deliberate. “You’re gonna eat those words.”

Your head tipped back, a broken sound escaping before you could stop it. He felt it, seized it, worked you faster—circling, pressing, sliding down to push two fingers inside you without warning.

“Fuck, princess,” he rasped, watching your face twist in pleasure. “Tight little cunt. All for me.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan. “Three minutes.”

That only spurred him on. He curled his fingers just right, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit as his other hand fisted in your hair, forcing you to look at him.

“Say my name,” he ordered. “Go on. Beg for it.”

You clenched around his fingers, thighs trembling, but you held his gaze steady. “Two minutes.”

His jaw tightened. He shoved his fingers deeper, faster, curling them mercilessly until your breath stuttered and your nails dug into his shoulders. His knee pressed harder between your legs, keeping you wide open as he fucked you with his hand.

“You’re close,” he muttered, lips dragging down your throat. “I can feel it. Gonna cum all over my fingers, aren’t you?”

Your back arched, a choked moan slipping free before you could swallow it. He smirked, triumphant.

“There she is,” he crooned, pressing his thumb against your clit, working you harder. “Knew you’d fold. Knew I could ruin you.”

Your whole body was trembling, the pressure building unbearable. You were right there—right at the edge—when you shoved at his chest, slipping out of his hold with shaky legs.

“Time’s up.”

He blinked, stunned, chest heaving, fingers still glistening with you. “What?”

You fixed your skirt with deliberate calm, even as your thighs still shook from the almost-orgasm. “Five minutes. You lost.”

“You were about to cum,” he snapped, eyes dark, voice wrecked. “I felt it—”

“Close doesn’t count.” You smirked, brushing past him. “Better luck next time, Riddle.”

He stood frozen, lips parted, hair a mess, hard and throbbing beneath his trousers. For once, Mattheo Riddle was the one left aching.