🐇🌷🪐

His words, muttered huskily against your dripping cunt, only add to your already mindblowing experience and the string inside you snaps in an instant, your third orgasm rolling through you so hard you damn near scream—and normally you’d be thankful that Mattheo had the presence of a mind to cast a silencing charm before all of this started, but at the moment you can’t find it in you to give a shit who the hell hears you.

You almost wished people could hear how fucking good he was making you feel—how fucking unhinged he'd driven you. You grip onto his hair so hard it feels like you’re trying to pry it from his scalp, your face burning and your body shaking. However, unfazed, Mattheo continues pumping and licking you through your high—only slowing slightly when your whimpers turn to pleas and you begin pushing him away.

He pulls his fingers out to lap up your release, and your ears ring, a shattered cry clogging in your throat. “Matty!—s’too much..t-too much—fuck…”

Both hands shift to your hips, gripping you tight and holding you in place as he mutters; “Mm—not yet..”

“Please—“ you moan, entirely against your fucking will, overstimulation making your head spin as you try to wriggle away from him but he doesn’t relent, determined to push you through it. “I—I can’t—Matty, I…ohhh…”

“Yes you can.” He grumbles against your cunt, the deep vibration of his voice making you gasp. “You can take it, for me…”

“Matty—“ your toes curl and your thighs clench around his head as he gives you a slow, languid, drawn-out lick before sealing his lips around your clit again and suckling gently. He’s attuned to your body, knowing exactly how to work you through overstimulation. “Mattheo—fuck—“

“That’s it…give me a little more, princess..I know you can…” he murmurs as he shifts his hold on you, palm pressing down on your pelvis, other hand moving back to tease your core again, gently pushing a finger into you while swirling over your clit. “You taste so fucking good…don’t wanna’ stop…”

Your head rolls back the second he eases his finger into you, clenching hard around it as he gently pumps in and out—dragging at your walls, pushing into the knuckle and curling slightly—everything he knows will drive you utterly fucking insane.

“Gods! Mattheo! fuck—“ oxygen was no longer in the room and you weren’t even sure if it existed anymore at all, unable to focus on anything other then his ministrations, his tongue rolling over your clit. “I-I-can’t—I can’t cum again—s’too soon…s’too much…”

“Shh, I got you…you’re okay, princess…” he cooes into your cunt, kissing at your clit as if attempting to soothe you, his breath warm and his voice low. Slowly, he adds a second digit inside you, his fingers curling just right to keep building the pleasure with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. “Daddy’s got you, baby…”

“Matt—“ there’s an edge to your voice now, frustrated and overwhelmed, your words tangling with the sheer intensity of the pleasure coursing through you. You don’t know what to do with it all, your hands shifting to clutch at the desk beneath you, knuckles cracking with the force of your grip. “It’s so fucking much, Matty—m’so sensitive—“

“I know, baby…” he mumbles, eyes fixed on his fingers disappearing into your soaked, aching cunt. You were one hundred percent certain he had no idea what you just said until he proves you wrong. “I know you’re sensitive, princess…but you’re doing so good f’me…”

And before you can even consider a response his lips are back on you, sealing around your clit and turning your vision blank—your hands shooting into his hair as though it could somehow ground you to reality—even though you knew you were long, long past that.

You can't control a single noise leaving your throat at this point. You're at the mercy of Mattheo Riddle—every swirl of his tongue and slow thrust of his fingers sending sparks shooting through every last nerve ending in your system. You're caught between pushing him away and bucking your hips toward him for more. Your brain is a scrambled mess, unable to effectively decipher and relay what it is that you want or need.

“M-Matt-y…G-gods!…”

Your fourth orgasm charges through you without mercy. You're gasping, whimpering, moaning, and crying out his name—all in a frequency barely coherent. Mattheo grins against your cunt, eagerly chasing your release, holding you tight as you squirm and shake, groaning against you as he relishes every last noise you make.

"That's it, baby...mm, good girl.." he coos through a choked groan, unable to get enough of how deliciously you break for him, how perfectly responsive to him you are. "Always so fucking good f'me..."

He pulls his fingers out slowly, the slick sound of your arousal filling the room until his groan overpowers it when he draws them into his mouth. He meets your eyes from between your thighs and you whimper, still twitching from the aftershocks—your body a trembling mess of overstimulated nerves.

“Look at you,” Mattheo's gaze never wavers, dark and hungry, as if he's already plotting how to bring you to the brink again. His fingers slip from his mouth with a soft pop, and he leans in to place a tender kiss on the inside of your thigh. “So fucking pretty…completely wrecked just f’me..”

Coming down from your high, a wave of embarrassment crashes over you as you realize the absolute mess you've made. Mattheo did a good job of containing it, but you can feel your wetness soaking the desk beneath you and the thought of meeting his eyes becomes almost unbearable. You whinge as he leans in, giving your pussy soft kisses, your hands shooting up to hide your face from him.

“Hey…hey…don’t look away from me..” he murmurs almost instantly, his voice deep and firm but soft and low. He softly nips at your inner thigh, planting gentle kisses over your mound as he trails to the other. One of his hands reaches up to remove your hands from your face. "Why are you getting shy on me, baby...hm? You embarrassed of the mess daddy's made of you?"

“Matty…” you whine, still trying to look away from him until he shifts his hand to your jaw and forces your eyes to his. “Please..”

“I’ll make you messier, princess…” he mutters, holding your gaze as he presses another kiss to your swollen clit. “I think you’ve got a few more in you.”

His fingers gently part your folds, testing your sensitivity with a deliberate slowness designed to provoke your rawest reactions. You groan, your back arching involuntarily, a helpless response to his touch. Your hands instinctively fly up to your face again, attempting to shield your embarrassment—but he intercepts them with a firm grip, pinning your wrists against your chest with one of his strong hands.

“No hiding, baby…I wanna’ see you…wanna’ see you break f’me…” he coaxes tenderly. “So perfect…pussys’ so perfect…”

His thumb finds your clit, circling it slowly, while his fingers continue their maddeningly slow movements, toying with you, enjoying the sounds of your arousal. His praise and possessiveness works to chip away at your embarrassment, though your face burns as you moan again.

𓆙 ’ impatience is a trait that mattheo inherited from his mother, in opposition to the usual cunning of a riddle. impatience can be shown like this, hushing you to take off your clothes as mattheo sits down, greedily groping your ass to get you hovering his mouth just right. yes, your mouth feels amazing—but mattheo can let you play around later. for now? he's got it. just keep your pretty legs spread and let him prepare you with his tongue, getting you wet enough so he can wreck your shit properly later.

𓆙 ’ for all of his flaws, you can't say that mattheo riddle isn't an attentive boyfriend. because he is—damned good at observing and noticing the telltale signs of your mood swings, recognizing when your day is being shitty, getting you all bratty and pissed off. but hey, it's okay; before you can whine about being sleepy or academic stress, mattheo is already taking you to his dorm room. just relax and let him fold you just right to fuck that shitty day out of you. mattheo knows exactly what you need—broad shoulders were made to support your legs, right? mattheo will take care of you. talk you through it, get your thighs sore—and kiss them better once there's not a single thought in your mind.

𓆙 ’ from pansy and other girls, mattheo discovered that most witches don't share the same love he does for cowgirl. maybe, that's what makes this moment even more special; watching you, with lustful hunger and undeniable awe, turn your back to him to ride mattheo in something that betrays the usual eye to eye motto. mattheo throws his head back, having to bite his lip before he said something stupid — how could he not? mattheo could cum from the view alone, watching you sink onto his cock once more, hands reaching out to explore and savor each second. he knows you're tired — mattheo coos reassurances that he's almost there, just a little longer — but god, what a view. his thumb rubs your rim in blissful wish that someday, he'll see you do this again, but to stretch out your other hole.

𓆙 ’ it took weeks and long conversations to convince you. mattheo almost jumped in happiness the moment you told him that you could try anal, kissing your shoulders and collarbone as he worked on stripping you out of all of those troublesome clothes. mattheo promised that it'd feel good; it wouldn't hurt that much, that he'd have you moaning sooner than you think. as usual, he did not disappoint—deep inside you, fingers rubbing, pinching, fingering your other hole, then turning your head to meet his lips. mattheo didn't want a piece of you lacking his attention; he just needed to curl his fingers, angle his hips a little more, and... there. you can feel him grinning against your cheek, because once again, mattheo truly did not disappoint.

𓆙 ’ pansy was the culprit and the one who bestowed this traitorous blessing, having cheered for you to take another shot, and another, and another... just wanting to know how spicy things got with mattheo. turns out that the alcohol forced a bratty—and a little unfair—truth, reaching mattheo's ears once your whiny tone complained that his fingers lacked a lot on where you needed attention. needless to say, the room spinned a little before you noticed that your body shivered from the lack of clothes, mattheo's hardening length forgotten as your lower back slumped on his pelvis. so he could do better with his fingers, huh? you can squirm, buck your hips, whine all you want. doesn't matter how hard mattheo got, you're going to sleep tonight wishing you hadn't complained to pansy — missing his cock even when you wake up all messy from last night.

𓆙 ’ you have to be quiet, the window had to be opened and mattheo's muscles were a little sore from climbing to your roof and sneaking inside your bedroom. your parents are sleeping, blissfully unaware that the wizardy society's most feared young menace is stripping off his pants before properly thanking your hospitality. mattheo isn't one for patience, he really isn't, but after long days of not seeing you? yeah, he had to jerk off to the view and properly appreciate what he could only imagine this last week. besides, he might have forgotten to bring condoms... so just be quiet and let him feel you a little, okay, pretty girl?

𓆙 ’ and although forgetting condoms was a pretty dumb thing to do, mattheo can't bring himself to be any more responsible than he already isn't today. just the tip—he promised. coaxing you with a husky tone, murmured right below your ear as he sucked new hickeys to replace the fading ones. all sweet words and desperate pleas, rough hands roaming your body as if to memorize every curve. come on, you want it to, don't you? all wet for him. you know his fingers won't be enough, and yours, even less. just the tip. just a little bit. except that mattheo finds promises a little harder to keep than the average person.

𓆙 ’ moodiness clings to mattheo, making him even more insufferable than theodore whenever the italian is grumpy. when it reaches a point where not even blaise can handle him, reinforcement must be sent — that's how you find yourself in the castle's dungeons, brought by theodore and lorenzo, one on the edge and the other too smug for your liking. just from seeing you, mattheo's bad mood softens into something more vulnerable and less dangerous. he just needs to take the edge off; and like the wonderful girlfriend you are, you arrange it for him. mattheo just has to lay down, enjoy the show, and try not to cum inside. his thumb massages where he's been trying to convince you for a few weeks already, but hey... he can feel that you're slowly warming up to the idea.

𓆙 ’ mattheo is a burst of raw emotions. that, of course, includes the frustration he feels whenever slytherin loses a quidditch match, rage that wasn't totally expressed through redirecting bludgers with his bat. he just needs some relief, you know? to release his emotions, just to take the edge off. actions speak louder than words, whispering huskily as he undresses you with promises of properly returning the favor, manhandling your nape to crook on the edge of his bed, hand around your throat. come on, you can do this—just open your mouth a little more for him, yeah? mattheo won't disappoint later. just let him fuck your throat calm down first.

𓆙 ’ belonging to anyone without a home to return to, mattheo is used to see his friends enter the hogwarts express and leave him behind for christmas. this year, however, mattheo discovers that the emptiness of the castle is rewarding in its own way — allowing some risk with little chance of terrible consequences. the slytherin common room is abandoned by the usual crowd, and for that, mattheo enjoys watching your expression — parted lips echoing his thrusts with wanton moans, furrowed eyebrows in hurry and eyes darting out in fear that someone might see them — while he pounds into you with little care for what's proper. mattheo will definitely miss having the dungeons for himself.

𓆙 ’ mattheo isn't sure if he'd rather stare at the mirror in front of him or watch his thickness disappear between your lips, dirty talking his way deep into your throat. hey, no sore losers; a bet is a bet, slytherin won, and your house was left to cry defeat while mattheo makes you swallow your cocky words down with his precum.

𓆙 ’ there are days when mattheo needs to feel the closest to you. telltale signs would hint the sudden neediness rising within him; languid kisses that rip any train of thought from your mind, shamelessly venturing beneath your clothes with murmurs of needing you so bad. being close isn't enough; mattheo needs to merge with your skin, fuse into a single being, running through your veins like a vital ingredient.

𓆙 ’ with your mind turning to mush, legs shaking and hands unsure where to land on, you weren't quite sure why mattheo got so upset with your insecurities. isn't it normal to be scared to sit on your boyfriend's face? mattheo's mood soured into something dark and almost dangerous, when you suggested that you might be too heavy to handle. in no time, mattheo stripped you off of your lower clothes, ripped panties as he manhandled you to hover his face. grumbles are heard from him, something about showing you that he's no weak ass little boy — pleased to handle whatever weight you sink on his nose, lips and chin. and if you try to run away from his tongue... well, his hands shackle your thighs into place.

𓆙 ’ first of september reunites friends, lovers and nemesis. after a long summer break with short visits and extended days without seeing each other, mattheo ditches the party earlier to bring you to his dorm. it doesn't matter how much you beg for it — tugging his boxers down, trying to tempt mattheo to just fill you up already — but the youngest riddle is unrelenting. he has to prepare you properly, remember? it's been too long since the last time, and mattheo is sure that he'd leave you sore if he doesn't take these extra minutes stretching you out, biting his lip each time you clench around his fingers. merlin, mattheo is so hard it hurts.

𓆙 ’ this is your fault. you know that, right? not that any dignity or shamelessness returns to you after asking, no, almost pleading your experienced best friend to teach you some things. mattheo has fucked around and found out, so who's better than him to practice riding someone? mattheo swears he never got hard so damn fast. his palm meets your ass every single time you falter, mocking you with that boyish grin every time your thighs feel too tired to move once more. didn't you want to learn? come on — make him cum. he dares you. or are you all bark and no bite?

𓆙 ’ silence lingers at this late hour of the night, honoring the promise that mattheo grumbled to a sleepy theodore, grumpy draco and weary lorenzo. sleeping over isn't a big deal whenever the dorm room isn't full — and even though mattheo tugged the green courtains to keep some privacy for him and you, well, blaise threatened to hex both of you if he woke up to moaning and panting. it was a matter of honor now. did they really thought so little of mattheo? that he can't just cuddle his girlfriend? well, fuck them. they were right. mattheo couldn't hump his concealed erection on your backside without making the bed grind against the wall, so... you and mattheo had to improvise. you'd be lying if you said that the sight of mattheo biting his lip, flexing his abdomen and kneading your chest everytime your hand closes around his tip isn't hot. it's almost too fun to torture him.

for you, killa. 𓆙 ’ mattheo isn't afraid to get some blood on his sword. if anything, he's so down to try it — however, he knows that you're not comfortable with it, at least not yet, and mattheo evidently respects your wishes. no fingering, not even humping, to his sadness. well, riddle knows to not upset you when you're cramping and bleeding... but come on, today has been especially hard—can't you, literally, lend him a hand? mattheo promises to take care of your sore nipples in return.

── 𝓲. 𓏲 bonus : a few mattheo riddle edits because he's too hot to handle. · ⭑ ★

Most muggleborns spend their lives running toward magic.

After living without it for the first eleven years of their lives, they’re all too eager to lose themselves in a world of spells and enchantments. They trade in double-decker buses and arbitrary chores for castles full of ghosts and a life that feels, at first, like ease. Once you’ve flown a broomstick or charmed a kettle to sing, it’s hard to imagine settling for anything less.

The journey usually only goes one way — from the world of the ordinary to the world of the impossible. Usually.

You moved back to the muggle world shortly after the war ended, wanting to put a great deal of distance between yourself and everything magical. There were a multitude of reasons for that.

To begin with, you wanted to be closer to your family. The war had loomed like a shadow over everything for so long, and when you came so close to losing them, it made you realize just how much you’d taken them for granted. You lived with them in your childhood home for a few months before moving into your own apartment only a few streets over.

Second, you were tired — bone-deep and soul-sick. After witnessing so much destruction, you longed for quiet. The wizarding world, despite its victory, was in a state of chaos. The Ministry was being rebuilt from the ground up, and though they had claimed, with great sympathy, that it was unfair the weight of the world had fallen on such young shoulders, they had no issue asking you — along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione — to serve under Ministry officials and aid in the capture of the remaining Death Eaters.

You had all agreed on one thing: the Ministry was not to be trusted. And with that shared understanding, the four of you parted ways.

Lastly — and most frustratingly — the muggle world was the only place you could escape the insipid reporters who seemed determined to mine every moment of the Golden Quartet’s lives for public consumption. It was another point the four of you agreed on: you wanted no part of the circus.

Now, only your closest friends had your address. Which is why you could only conclude that this was a complete. And utter. Coincidence.

You came home that Tuesday evening with a grocery bag in one hand and your wand tucked safely into your boot. The hallway smelled faintly of burnt toast and lemon-scented floor cleaner, the kind your landlord swore by but never quite masked the damp. You rounded the corner toward your door and stopped short.

There he was.

Mattheo Riddle, standing in front of the apartment next to yours, two battered suitcases at his feet and a flat key dangling uselessly from his hand.

He looked up at the exact moment you did. His fingers froze on the key. Your hand stilled on the strap of your bag.

And for a long, suspended moment, the two of you just stared.

You hadn’t seen him in years — not since the war — and yet time didn’t seem to matter. Recognition crashed through the hallway like a thunderclap. His curls were longer, face more drawn, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. But it was him. It was undeniably him.

Mattheo Riddle.

In your building.

The silence dragged on until it became unbearable. You were the first to blink.

"...Hi." You said, a little breathless, a little stunned.

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you like he was trying to convince himself you weren’t real. You couldn’t blame him.

"...You."

You raised a brow, "Me."

A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost unsure, "I didn’t know you lived here."

You shifted your groceries in your arms, "I didn’t know you lived here."

Another beat passed, longer this time. The key in his hand twitched like he’d forgotten it was there.

"I don’t," He said finally, "I mean… I just got the place."

You glanced at the door behind him — your door. The one you’d walked through a hundred times without incident. Now it felt like the threshold to something else entirely.

"Next door, huh?" You said, voice light but heart thudding.

He nodded, "Yeah. Lucky me."

You couldn’t tell if he meant it sarcastically, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

There was another pause. Not uncomfortable exactly — just thick with the weight of everything unspoken. You cleared your throat and stepped toward your own door, shifting your keys into your hand.

"Well," You said, half-turning toward him, "If you need help with anything, you know where to find me."

Mattheo blinked, like he hadn’t expected that — kindness, or maybe familiarity. Something flickered behind his eyes. He nodded.

"...Thanks." He said quietly.

You gave him a small nod before unlocking your door and slipping inside, heart hammering as you leaned against the back of it.

Mattheo Riddle. Living next door. You hadn't even unpacked your milk yet, and already the past was knocking.

The morning started like most others — quiet, a little rushed. You always managed to convince yourself you'd dress plain or skip makeup, severely underestimating how long it actually took to get ready. The apartment was practically hell to walk around in — you liked to sleep with the air conditioner blasting, which made getting out of bed feel like leaving heaven. You locked your door with one hand and slung your bag over your shoulder with the other, moving on instinct, drinking down a yogurt smoothie.

The building was still waking up — murmurs behind closed doors, the distant clink of pipes, a cat meowing two floors down. You padded down the stairs toward the lobby, head bowed slightly as you adjusted your coat, not expecting anyone to be around.

But then the front door swung open, and Mattheo Riddle stepped inside.

You almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hoodie was tied around his waist, leaving him in nothing but joggers and a damp black T-shirt clinging to his chest. His curls stuck to his forehead, chest still heaving from the run.

And then — he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up to wipe the sweat from his face.

You froze mid-step.

Because, well. There were abs. Sharp, defined, very real abs. The kind you’d only read about in romance novels or seen in movies — not the kind you expected to run into before 8 a.m. The curve of his ribs, the sharp V of his hips, the abs that could definitely grate cheese, the faint scars vanishing beneath the waistband of his joggers — you saw all of it, burned into your retinas before you could blink it away.

And then he saw you.

His eyes widened, and the shirt dropped instantly back into place.

"Oh." He said, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

"Morning." You said, trying your best to sound noncommittal.

"Morning." He said, a bit too quickly.

He glanced toward the door like he might bolt.

Instead, he stepped aside and held it open for you.

"Thanks." You said, quietly.

He nodded, still flustered, eyes flicking down then back up like he wasn’t sure where to look.

You stepped into the sunlight and crossed the lot toward your car, trying hard not to think about the abs. Not to think about the sweat. Not to think about the way your heart had momentarily leapt into your throat like it had no business being there.

God, you were such a teenager sometimes.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

You grabbed the mail like you always did — a quick swipe from the box in the lobby before you headed back upstairs. Most days it was bills, junk flyers, brochures. Nothing worth more than a glance.

But tonight, when you finally dumped the envelopes onto your kitchen counter, your fingers froze.

There, on top of the usual clutter, was a single letter that didn’t belong.

The paper was thick and creamy, the kind that whispered wealth and importance. The edges were hand-cut, the ink flowed in perfect, curling calligraphy, and the wax seal stamped firmly with the unmistakable Malfoy family crest glinted in the kitchen light.

You didn’t have to open it to know who it was for.

Your address was written there, clearly a mistake, but following it was the name Mattheo Riddle. Your fingers traced over the letters without realizing.

You stared at it, thumb brushing over the smooth paper as a knot twisted in your stomach.

Do you knock on his door? Drop it in the mail slot and pretend it was an accident? It felt like less work to just walk over and hand it to him — and honestly, less weird.

You grabbed your coat and stepped out, the letter folded carefully in your hand.

When you reached his door, your knuckles hovered for a moment before you finally rapped softly.

The door opened a crack almost immediately.

He was surprised to see you. Actually, it seemed like he wasn’t expecting any guests, considering the way he was clutching his wand with a grip that almost turned his knuckles white at his side. You tried not to hold it against him. After all, you had been exactly the same during the first couple months of living there. You had cast protection charms and wards over your parents’ house like a crazy lady. Even the slightest noise woke you, and you’d wake up in a cold sweat each night.

However, you definitely felt better the second he noticed it was you — the tension melted from his body.

You held out the letter, voice low.

“It was in my mail. Thought you should have it.”

He blinked, taking it with a slow nod.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

You hesitated, then added, “Accident, I swear.”

He gave a small, dry chuckle.

“Don’t worry.” He said, lifting his eyes from the letter and back to you, "Thank you."

The door shut softly.

It happened three nights later.

You were curled up on the couch in mismatched pajamas, hoodie half-zipped and a blanket tangled around your legs. A sitcom rerun flickered on the TV, but you weren’t really watching — just letting it hum in the background while your tea cooled on the coffee table.

Then came the knock.

You paused mid-sip.

Another knock. Gentle, hesitant. Like whoever it was had seriously debated whether to even bother.

You padded to the door and opened it — just a crack — and, of course, there he was.

Mattheo.

Hair a mess in a way that still looked unfairly attractive, a tight compression shirt that honestly made you embarrassed on behalf of all womankind, and a bashful-but-trying-hard-to-look-nonchalant expression on his face. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched, like he didn’t want to be there but had talked himself into it anyway.

"…Hey." He said, voice low, like it felt too loud in your quiet hallway.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised, "Hey."

"I, um…" He shifted awkwardly. One foot stepped back, then forward again, like he couldn’t decide whether to flee or stay. It was incredibly unlike him, to the point that it made you concerned, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure?" You said, cautiously.

A pause. He looked genuinely tortured.

Then, finally:

"How do I use the microwave?"

You stared at him.

He rushed to add, "I asked the landlord. I swear I did. There’s just… so many buttons. I don’t know what half of them do. This is the fifth time this week my meal is half cold and half hot and I don’t know what else to do because every time I use magic in that damned apartment, all the other technology freaks the fuck out."

You blinked.

That was… the most you’d ever heard him speak.

And not just speak — ramble. Rushed and impulsive, words tumbling out too fast for him to rein in. It felt squirrelly in a way that didn’t fit the boy you remembered from school. Back then, he always had that cocky, relaxed smile, the one that lingered too long and made people nervous. When it wasn’t that, it was fury — sharp and volatile. You’d seen enough of both expressions to find this new one strange.

A part of you almost felt bad. Clearly, the Muggle world wasn’t treating him kindly. And the fact that he was asking you for help — considering how often your friends used to butt heads with his back at Hogwarts — well. That had to sting his pride.

Still, you’d both been on the same side by the end of the war. So you supposed you could let bygones be bygones.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

You failed.

"Sorry," You said, half behind your hand, "It’s just—"

"No, no, go ahead." He said, dryly.

That only made it worse.

You opened the door wider, grabbing your keys and forgoing slippers since you were just walking a few feet to his place anyway, still smiling, "Alright. Lemme see."

His apartment looked almost identical to yours — same layout, same creaky floorboard just inside the threshold — but it felt different. Dimmer. Colder. Like someone was borrowing the space rather than living in it.

The walls were bare, not a single photo or poster in sight. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and something herbal, like spellwork left to linger. A wand lay carelessly on the coffee table, half-tucked beneath a rolled-up Daily Prophet. Books and scrolls were stacked beside it in frighteningly neat piles, next to a tea mug that had clearly gone cold.

You followed him into the kitchen, where the microwave sat perched on the counter like an unwanted guest.

“So,” You said, stuffing your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, “What are we microwaving?”

He reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a sad-looking cup of ramen. The cheap kind. The kind your dad used to stress about every time he caught you eating it — full of sodium, he'd complain, and then buy you another six-pack the next week because he knew you liked the chicken flavor.

“This.” he said, like it was obvious.

You stared at the cup. Then at him. Then back at the cup.

“…You know you’re supposed to make the water hot first before putting the noodles in, right?”

He blinked at you, genuinely confused, “...Am I?”

You stepped forward, peeled back the foil lid with practiced fingers, and pointed at the fine print along the rim.

“The instructions are written right here.”

“They’re in Korean.” He muttered.

You paused. Then looked down. Then back at him.

“…Right.”

“I don’t know how to translate it without using a spell.”

You tilted your head, “Can’t you use your phone?”

He went quiet, eyes drifting away — not defensive, just… quiet. You immediately regretted the question. Of course he couldn’t. The man barely knew how to use a microwave. What were you expecting?

You looked back down at the sad little noodle cup, steam starting to curl from under the foil lid. Then around his kitchen — barren shelves, a half-stocked fridge, one lonely fork sitting in the drying rack like it had never been part of a set.

“Is this what you’ve been eating all week?” You asked slowly, “Badly cooked noodles?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t exactly the answer… but also kind of was.

“They’re not that bad.” He said, avoiding your eyes.

He was still quiet.

“If you’re gonna live off this stuff,” You said, softer now, “You should at least dress it up a little. Toss in an egg. Use bone broth instead of water. Add some greens. Carrots, spinach. Leftover meat, if you’ve got it.”

He tilted his head, brows drawing together slightly like you’d just introduced him to an entirely new concept.

“Right,” He said, “Of course. Bone broth.”

You squinted at him, “Have you… eaten anything not made in this cup since you moved in?”

He hesitated.

Which was answer enough.

You sighed, slow and through your nose, gaze drifting back to the microwave, then to him.

You shouldn’t push.

You knew that.

He hadn’t let you in for tea. He hadn’t sat you down and started talking about his life. He’d asked for help with one tiny thing — and even that probably took more effort than he’d admit. If you offered more… would he take it badly? Would he realize he’d already slipped up just by letting you in this far? Would he shut down, retreat, snap the door shut like none of this ever happened?

Maybe. Probably.

You wouldn’t risk it.

But gods, when you looked at that flavorless brick of noodles, and the silence that filled his apartment like a second layer of drywall, and that one fork drying on its own…

You just couldn’t help but feel bad.

“Next time you’re at the store,” You started, then paused — glanced again at the sad little cup on the counter, then back at him.

Actually… screw it.

“…Forget that,” You said instead, keeping your voice light, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, “I’ve got some stuff in my fridge. Eggs, some spinach, maybe a little leftover rotisserie chicken. Won’t take long.”

He looked at you. Not startled, exactly — but something flickered behind his eyes, like he hadn’t expected the offer. Like he wasn’t sure why you’d make it. Like maybe he didn’t think he deserved it.

“You don’t have to do that.” He said quickly, but it didn’t come out sharp. Just automatic. Defensive, out of habit.

You shrugged, already halfway to the door.

“Just give me a sec,” You said, throwing him a quick smile, “Stay here. Don’t burn the noodles.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t stop you, either.

And that, you figured, was enough.

You came back five minutes later, juggling a small pot containing a couple of eggs, a container of broth, a Ziploc bag of spinach, and a pair of chopsticks you’d swiped from your drawer on the way out. The pot knocked softly against your knee as you nudged the door open with your elbow.

Mattheo blinked at you from the kitchen, clearly still not convinced this was real.

“You really didn’t have to do that.” He said, stepping aside as you brushed past him.

“I know,” You said breezily, already unloading your arms onto the counter, “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He opened his mouth — probably to protest again — but you cut him off with a look. Not sharp, just firm.

“I’m not trying to invade your kitchen or anything,” You added, fiddling with the pot lid, “But that sad little cup deserves better. And you kind of looked like you were about to eat it dry.”

“I wasn’t.” He muttered.

You filled the pot with the bone broth and placed it on the stove, clicking the burner on with practiced ease, "Mm-hm.”

He exhaled a short, reluctant laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “You’re really doing this?”

“If it helps, I’m not being nice,” You said, half-smiling, “I haven’t eaten dinner yet. So if you want to make it fair, give me a bowl too.”

That caught him off guard. He paused, then nodded once, slow and quiet.

“…Alright. Deal.”

You tried not to smile too much as he handed you another cup of ramen from the cabinet. It was chipped at the rim and slightly too small, but it would do. You emptied both noodle cakes into the pot, swapped the water for broth, and got to work, talking him through it as casually as you could.

“You wanna add the spinach last,” You explained, stirring gently, “It cooks fast. And I like cracking the egg straight in — makes the broth thicker. But if you’d rather boil it on the side and slice it, that works too.”

He watched you carefully — not just your hands, but your face, your posture, the way you moved around like you weren’t nervous to take up space in his kitchen. Like you belonged. Like you didn’t find this strange at all.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked quietly.

You looked up from the pot, letting the corner of your mouth tug up just slightly.

“Because,” You said, “I’m very hungry.”

That earned a real smile. Small. Barely there. But real.

“…Thanks.” He said after a beat.

You shrugged, “Don’t thank me till you taste it.”

When you finally passed him a bowl — warm, fragrant, with steam curling gently over the rim — he stared at it like it was more than just dinner. Like it meant something. Like maybe you did.

You sat beside him at the small kitchen table, your shoulder brushing his for a moment before you settled back.

Not quite friends. Not yet. But maybe something was beginning.

You stood in front of his door again, two days later, staring at the worn wood like it might open on its own and save you the trouble.

In your hands was a small Tupperware container — the clear kind, fogged at the edges from the warmth still trapped inside. A generous slice of cake sat inside, a little dented from the walk up and decorated with frankly ridiculous neon frosting. The plastic lid was smudged with your fingerprints from how tightly you’d been gripping it, like maybe it would give you some courage if you just held on long enough.

You’d already knocked three times in your head. Once with your actual hand. And still — no follow-through.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, mumbling under your breath like a lunatic, “Okay, just leave it at the door, ring the bell, run. Not that serious. Not weird. It’s cake. Everyone likes cake. It’s not a big deal. You’re not weird. This is normal. People bring food to people. People are nice. You’re being nice.”

Your fingers twitched toward the doorbell again — and then froze halfway.

“…Unless it’s weird. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe—”

“Can I help you?”

You jumped. Hard.

The container nearly slipped from your hands as you turned — and there he was. Mattheo. Just a few feet away, keys in hand, dark curls a little damp like he’d just come in from the rain. His brows were pulled slightly together, his voice caught somewhere between confusion and caution.

Not quite hostile. But not welcoming either.

“Oh—hi,” You said, voice a little too high, a little too bright, “I was just…”

He looked at you. Then at the Tupperware. Then back again.

You cleared your throat and held the container out between you like it might protect you both from what you weren’t saying. A peace offering. A bribe. A white flag covered in blue frosting.

“I thought you might like this.” You said, trying your best to sound casual, “It’s… cake.”

He didn’t take it.

His expression shifted — cooled, hardened, like a door slamming shut behind his eyes. His voice dropped, quiet and clipped.

“You don’t have to pity me.”

The words landed like a slap.

You blinked, “What?”

“I’m not some sad project,” He said, jaw tight, “You don’t have to keep showing up like this. I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your charity.”

It hit you then — not just what he said, but what he meant.

The defensiveness wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about the way he saw himself. The walls he'd spent years building around the idea that maybe he didn't deserve care. That if someone reached for him, they must want something in return — or worse, they must be trying to fix him. To mold him into something less complicated. Less dark. Less him.

You didn’t look away.

Your voice dropped to something softer. Something honest.

“Mattheo… it’s just cake. There are no strings.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you. Like he was trying to see through the frosting to the catch hidden underneath. You held his gaze anyway.

“I got it from work.” You added, gentler now, “And I don’t like eating dessert alone.”

That gave him pause. A flicker of something — uncertainty, maybe — passed across his face.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet sigh, brushing past you to the door.

“…Alright.” He muttered, unlocking it, “Fine. Come in.”

You followed him inside, your heart thudding in your chest like you’d just sprinted through a battlefield and not… offered someone cake.

The apartment was exactly as you remembered. Same dim lighting. Same scuffed floors. Same silence that felt like it had weight. You stepped into the small kitchen, placed the container gently on the table like it was something fragile, and cracked the lid open with a soft pop.

Blue frosting beamed up at you — cheerful and absurd — despite the fact that the image was slightly smushed from the walk. The cartoon dog grinning from the top of the cake looked like it had just burst into song, paws raised in eternal celebration.

Mattheo squinted at it like it was a piece of contemporary art meant to make him think deeper.

“…The fuck is that?”

You grinned, “That would be a talking dingo.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

You gestured to the cake, “From this Australian cartoon called Bluey. The kids are obsessed.”

His expression didn’t change, “You got this from… kids?”

“I work at a kindergarten/” You said, already crossing to the drying rack and pulling out two mismatched forks like you lived there, “One of the kids had a birthday today. He got Bluey — obviously. This is the leftover slice of Bluey’s mom. Or aunt. Or whatever. She didn’t make the cut.”

Mattheo blinked at you like you’d just casually confessed to smuggling illegal potions across the border.

“You work with children?”

“Yup.”

“…Why?”

You snorted, handing him a fork, “Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” He said, catching the fork with a nod of thanks, “I just— You could’ve done anything. Back at Hogwarts, you talked about becoming an Auror, didn’t you? Top of the class in Defense. You could’ve had your pick of the Ministry. What changed?”

Your smile faltered.

Your gaze lowered to the cake, the blue frosting suddenly too bright.

“A lot has changed, Mattheo.” You said quietly.

When you looked up again, your eyes met his — and something passed between you. Something that had the magic that was interwoven through every single fiber of his body begin to vibrate and reach for you.

It was lonely in muggle London. Finally, he had someone who understood. The war. The fallout. The ache in your bones that hadn’t quite gone away.

“You know that better than anyone.”

There was a moment where he looked at you differently. Like he was seeing you again for the first time. Not as the student he used to know. Not as his overly hospitable neighbour. But as someone scarred and soft in all the same places he was.

You didn’t touch him. But part of you wanted to. Wanted to reach across the space between you and tell him about yourself. Tell him everything.

Instead, you shrugged, trying to find your voice again.

“I’m not really qualified or anything.” You said, softer now, “But my mum used to teach there. She still has some connections. Put in a good word for me when I needed work. And apparently my talent for counter-curses means nothing next to my ability to recite Five Little Ducks from memory.”

He huffed out a laugh — quiet and unexpected — through his nose. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

You sat together at the small kitchen table, forks in hand, slowly dismantling the slice of cake like it might bite back. You felt a small pang of guilt as Bluey’s mom lost her frosted ears — may she rest in peace — but if there was one thing you’d learned about toddler birthday cakes, it was that they were criminally delicious.

Mattheo didn’t say much. Just watched you with careful eyes, taking small, cautious bites like he wasn’t used to sharing anything — not food, not silence, not company.

You didn’t fill the quiet. You let it settle.

It was nearly two in the morning when you heard it.

A dull thud, followed by the sharp crack of something hitting the floor — hard. Then silence. Then a low, ragged sound that didn’t sound like words at all.

You sat up in bed, heart already pounding.

Your apartment was quiet, cloaked in darkness and long, familiar shadows — but the noise hadn’t come from within your own space.

It had come from next door.

From Mattheo’s.

You hesitated, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath your bare feet. You waited, listening, willing the silence to stay. But then it came again.

A heavy scrape. A crash. The sound of something shattering.

You didn’t think. You just grabbed your wand.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in the weak amber glow of the sconces that never quite worked right. His door was slightly ajar. Not wide — but not locked, either.

You raised your hand, knuckles grazing the wood.

“Mattheo?” You called softly.

No answer.

“Mattheo, it’s me—are you okay?”

Still nothing. Just the same jagged, uneven breathing. Fast. Erratic. Distant.

You glanced down at the doorknob.

“Alohomora.” You whispered, tapping the brass with the tip of your wand.

The latch clicked open.

You stepped inside quietly, careful not to make too much noise. The apartment was dark, save for the silver wash of streetlight spilling through the blinds. The glow cut harsh lines across the floor and furniture, shadow and light slicing the room in half.

And there — crouched beside the overturned coffee table — was Mattheo.

His back was to you. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat. His shoulders trembled with barely-contained tension. A mug lay shattered nearby, and his wand was discarded, half-buried under a scattered pile of scrolls. His hands were tangled in his hair, gripping at his scalp like he was trying to hold something in — or hold something out.

He didn’t see you come in.

“Hey,” You said gently, not stepping closer, “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

No response.

His whole body was wound tight, like a live wire — still in the middle of something he hadn’t escaped yet. Like he’d fallen asleep on a battlefield and hadn’t managed to wake up.

You didn’t cross the room. Not yet.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” You added, softer, “I just… heard something. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly — like he was dragging himself back into his body inch by inch — Mattheo turned his head.

His eyes met yours.

At first, they were wild. Unfocused. Distant. Then came recognition — flickering and faint. And then, quickly after, the crash of shame.

He looked away.

“Shit,” He muttered, voice hoarse, “I’m fine. It’s fine. Sorry to wake you. You should go back.”

But you didn’t move.

You stepped forward — quietly, carefully — crouching just far enough away not to crowd him, but close enough to be within reach.

“Are you alright?” You asked, voice calm and low, “Were you asleep?”

He let out a bitter laugh — short and flat, “That wasn’t sleep.”

You waited.

His hands had fallen to his lap. You could see now that his knuckles were raw and red, scraped open from something — maybe the wall, maybe the floor, maybe just the way he fought his own mind.

You nodded toward the couch, “Do you want to sit down?”

He didn’t answer, but after a beat, he pushed himself to his feet. Stiff. Tired. Like his body had only just realized it could stop fighting.

You followed him.

He collapsed onto the cushions like his bones had turned to dust. You sat beside him, not touching, not speaking, not offering false comfort.

Just… there.

He dragged a hand down his face. Then again. Then let it fall, limp, into his lap.

“It’s not a big deal,” He muttered, “It happens. Has for years.”

You looked at him.

“I know,” You said quietly, “I get them too.”

He stilled.

His eyes flicked to you — surprised. Like he hadn’t expected that from you. Like he couldn’t quite picture it.

“Still doesn’t make it less shitty.” You added.

He let out a sound — half a breath, half a scoff. Not quite a laugh. But not nothing.

“I hate it,” He said, barely above a whisper, “I wake up and it’s like I’m still there. Like it never ended. The smoke, the screaming — I know it’s not real, but my body doesn’t. It reacts. It always reacts.”

He swallowed.

“It’s not even always the same dream. Sometimes it’s the castle. Sometimes it’s… worse. Places I don’t talk about. Places I’ve never told anyone about.”

His voice cracked at the end. You didn’t flinch.

You just curled your knees beneath you, watching your fingers.

“My first week here,” You said softly, “I didn’t sleep at all. I warded the apartment every night. Then I’d wake up at three in the morning and run to my parents’ house just to check their wards. I think I cast every protection charm in existence. I was so convinced… if I let my guard down, even for a second…”

You trailed off. The silence filled in the rest.

Mattheo stared at you. Not in judgment. Just… listening. Like he couldn’t believe someone else carried the same weight.

You — the girl from the Golden Quartet. The one who helped end it. Who came back. Who rebuilt.

But not unscathed.

He remembered what Bellatrix had done to you. What you’d endured. What you’d lost.

And he thought — maybe for the first time — that you’d suffered just as deeply. That you understood.

You glanced up at him again. He didn’t look away.

“Do you want me to set up a few wards?” You asked, “They won’t fix anything, but they help. And I can teach you how to maintain them. Though,” You added with a tired smile, “it’ll probably be harder for me to break in next time.”

That got the faintest twitch of his mouth.

Almost a smile. Almost.

Another long pause.

Then—

“…Just stay.”

The words were barely there. Soft. Uncertain.

But they were enough.

You nodded.

So you stayed.

The silence between you changed — not heavy anymore. Just quiet. Settling.

He leaned back against the cushions, body slowly unwinding, like his nervous system was finally catching up to the fact that he was safe. His eyes drifted halfway shut, breath finally starting to even out.

Eventually, his fingers brushed yours — faint, hesitant, barely even a touch.

You didn’t move.

And neither did he.

Mattheo had come down to check his mailbox like he always did on Saturday mornings—hood up, hair messy, hoodie zipped to his chin—when a voice stopped him mid-turn.

“Flat 2A, yeah?”

He looked up. There was a man squinting at the mailboxes, arms full of grocery bags, car keys dangling from his pinky. He looked vaguely familiar.

“…Yeah?” Mattheo said carefully.

The man nodded to the box beside his, “My daughter’s next door. Flat 2B.”

Mattheo straightened slightly, “Right. You must be Mr. (L/N).”

“You know her?”

“We went to school together,” Mattheo replied, keeping it vague in the safest way possible.

Mr. (L/N) gave him a long, assessing look—longer than was comfortable—then smiled, like he’d just figured something out.

“So you’re special. Like her.”

Mattheo froze, “…Sorry?”

“You know,” The man waved a hand loosely, “special. One of them. Don’t worry—I’ve known for years. Her mum cried when the letter came. I built her a wand stand once. Terrible thing. Lopsided.”

Mattheo blinked. Once. Twice.

Before he could plan an escape—

“Be a good lad,” Your father said cheerfully, already turning toward the exit, “and help me bring these upstairs. (Y/N)’s mum went overboard at the farmer’s market again. Wouldn’t be surprised if we had half of Surrey in the boot.”

“…What?”

“Come give us a hand, will you? These boxes aren’t gonna levitate themselves—ha! Kidding. Muggle joke. Don’t tell your lot I made it.”

Mattheo stood there, stunned, until your dad clapped him on the back like they were old mates, “You’ve got good arms. We’ll be done in no time.”

And then, without ceremony, your dad looped an arm through his and dragged him outside.

*

“So what do you do, son?” Your dad asked as they hauled bags back up the building stairs.

“Uh… I’m not really doing anything right now.”

“That’s what your twenties are for! Finding yourself. I worked two jobs at your age. One time, my mate Gary and I—ah, Gary, poor bastard, divorced now—anyway, we moved an entire washing machine up six flights with nothing but a strap and willpower.”

Mattheo, sweating slightly, nodded, “…Right.”

“Builds character.” Your dad said, with the authority of someone who’s definitely broken a toe doing that. Then, after a beat, “You know, life’s a lot like grocery shopping.”

Mattheo glanced down at the bag digging into his arm, “Is it.”

“You can make a list, plan every aisle, but there’s always something missing when you get home.”

“…Profound.”

“Exactly! You’re a good listener. Ever think about dating my daughter?”

Mattheo nearly dropped the watermelon.

“What?!”

“I’m just saying,” Your dad shrugged, utterly unbothered, “you’ve got kind eyes and steady hands. Plus you said you went to school together. Shared history’s a good foundation.”

You were halfway through folding laundry when the front door opened. You turned just in time to see your father stroll in, humming cheerfully—followed by Mattheo, who looked like he’d been inducted into a cult against his will.

You blinked, “What—? What is going on? Why is he here?”

“Hi.” Mattheo said, his voice flat with disbelief.

“He helped me carry the groceries,” Your dad said proudly, unloading bags onto the counter, “Nice boy. Good biceps.”

“…What?”

“Anyway,” Your dad continued, turning back to Mattheo, “You’re coming for dinner, obviously. I’ll ask her mum to make the lasagna. The lasagna. The one she makes when she likes someone.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Mattheo started, clearly panicked, but your dad was already on his phone. “She’ll be thrilled. You like cheese, don’t you?”

Mattheo looked at you helplessly. You just raised an eyebrow. “Well? Do you like cheese?”

“…I mean, yeah?”

“There you go.” Your dad clapped him on the back again, then started pushing jars toward him, “You should take some of these groceries, son. A growing boy needs nutrients.”

Your dad was saying, completely in earnest now as he sorted bags by category on your kitchen counter, “You eat enough protein? You look like you work out. What’s your egg intake?”

Mattheo opened his mouth, then shut it again. He glanced at you like please save me.

You looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide.

“Dad,” You said slowly, like approaching a landmine, “What is happening right now?”

“Nothing’s happening, sweetheart,” He said innocently, stacking apples with the precision of a man who’d definitely done this before, “Just making conversation. Mattheo here’s a lovely young man.”

“You’ve known him for twenty minutes.”

“And already I’ve seen enough. Polite, helpful, didn’t even grumble once when I handed him a forty-pound watermelon.”

Mattheo spoke up in a way that was far too timid for him, “I—kind of grumbled.”

“See?” Your dad grinned like he’d just won the lottery, “Humble, too. I want a son-in-law like that.”

“Dad!” You exclaimed, mortified.

Mattheo shifted awkwardly, cheeks flushed, feeling like he’d accidentally walked into a reality show.

“What? I’m not saying I want Mattheo to be my son-in-law, I’m saying I wouldn’t mind if I had a son-in-law like Mattheo. Two completely separate things, my dear.” Your dad said with mock innocence, flouncing around the room as he put away groceries, but kept two of everything right there on the counter instead of where they belonged.

“Now Mattheo, do you like red wine or white? I’ll make sure to have a bottle stocked for you when you come over.”

“Come over?” You echoed, cheeks heating up.

“Of course! He’s coming over for dinner tonight, are you not?”

Mattheo swallowed, clearly overwhelmed but trying to hide it behind a thin smile.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Mattheo said quickly, forcing a polite smile, “I was planning to meet my friends tonight.” A lie. A very hopeful lie.

Your dad didn’t miss a beat. “Then bring your friends as well! Oh, we’ll have a jolly good time—all these blokes under one roof. I’ll ask (Y/N)’s brother to bring a pack of beers, something to liven the old boys up.” He exclaimed, practically floating around the kitchen like a whirlwind of enthusiasm.

“Dad!” You finally exclaimed, trying to snap him out of his party-planning trance.

He stopped and turned, eyes twinkling as he looked at Mattheo’s uncomfortable face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” He said, voice suddenly gentle, “Do you not drink? Very good habit, you know.”

Mattheo swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“That’s okay,” Your dad went on, waving it off like it was no big deal, “My wife would much prefer a boy with good habits for our (Y/N), anyway.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “Dad, please. Stop.”

Finally done messing about your kitchen, your dad began loading the pairs of items he’d left on the counter into one of the grocery boxes.

“There you go, son,” He said, handing the box to Mattheo with a warm, steady smile, “This should keep your fridge stocked for at least another week or two. If you don’t know what to do with any of it, just run down to my house. I’d be happy to whip up something for you to eat.”

Mattheo stared at the carton of food in his hands.

No one had ever offered him that before. Not like this. Not so openly, so simply, so… abundantly. His own father had been a distant shadow in his memories, a figure he’d learned to avoid rather than seek. There was no warmth, no easy kindness like this.

For a moment, something twisted quietly inside Mattheo — a mix of jealousy and something else, something heavier he didn’t quite want to name. You’d grown up with a dad who knew how to care, who showed it. He had thought once that having Muggle parents was the worst thing in the world, but now, holding that box, surrounded by your dad’s easy affection, he wasn’t so sure.

He looked up, meeting your dad’s hopeful gaze.

“Okay,” Mattheo said quietly, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I’ll come for dinner.”

Your dad’s grin widened, and you felt a little flutter in your chest as the moment settled between all of you—unexpected, but maybe exactly what was needed.

After what felt like hours of your dad chatting nonstop, finally, he was out the door, humming some old tune as he disappeared down the hallway. You shut the door behind him and let out a long breath, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

Turning to Mattheo, you ran a hand through your hair nervously. “I’m really sorry about him,” You said quickly, eyes darting away, “He can be... a lot. You don’t have to come for dinner, honestly. He was just being nice—he does that with pretty much everyone, like some sort of overly friendly hostage negotiator.”

Mattheo shifted his weight, his expression unreadable but somehow softer than usual. “I’m aware.” He said dryly, voice calm and measured, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You bit your lip, “Still, I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I know it’s kind of sudden and probably... weird.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you caught a flicker in his eyes — something quieter, warmer, even if his face didn’t fully show it. “I don’t mind,” He said simply, voice low, “It’s… nice to be invited.”

You blinked, surprised, “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, “It’s rare. People don’t do that for me.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretches with unspoken things, and you realized that beneath all that aloofness, he wanted something like this. Something normal. Something warm.

You smiled gently, “Well, then. Dinner it is. And maybe next time you can teach my dad a thing or two about being subtle.”

Mattheo’s smirk finally turned into a half-smile, “Maybe.”

You felt your heart loosen just a bit, the awkwardness fading into something quieter, something real.

The hallway was still warm from dinner. You walked beside Mattheo, both of you quiet in that way people get after a full meal and too many emotions — like the silence itself had thickened into something gentle.

He had leftovers tucked under one arm, the lasagna carefully packed in a Tupperware with foil pressed down like your mum had sworn it would keep the flavour in, darling. He hadn’t said much since your dad’s final clap on the back and his booming, “Any friend of hers is a friend of mine, son!”

At his door, Mattheo hesitated, keys caught between his fingers.

You glanced at him.

He looked down at the container in his arms like it had grown heavier somehow, then back at you.

“…Your mum’s nice.”

You huffed a laugh, “Don’t get attached. She’s married to my dad.”

That pulled something from him — not one of those breathy, polite almost-laughs he gave people when they said something mildly amusing, but something real. Low and rough, surprised out of him like it had caught him off guard.

He shook his head, still smiling faintly, “Too bad.”

“She’s way out of your league, Riddle.” You replied easily.

“Speak for yourself — she’s the one who was trying to get me out of my pants.”

You choked, “Because she said you looked like you’d tripped over a kerb!”

“These,” He said, tugging lightly at the rip near his knee, “are meant to look like this.”

“There’s no harm in admitting you’re a bit clumsy, Matty.”

He let out a quiet snort, but still didn’t unlock the door. There was something tentative in the way he stood — like stepping inside would be an end to something soft he hadn’t realised he’d needed. Like he was holding on to the aftertaste of lasagna and warmth and your parents' terrible stories, trying to memorise what it felt like to belong.

The whole night, he hadn't felt like an outsider — not even like a guest. He’d just been there, part of the chaos. He’d argued with your brother over Quidditch stats, held up bits of your dad’s entertainment system while he hammered in the nails, and endured your mum fussing with the tear in his jeans. You’d realised halfway through that you could’ve used your wand to float the whole thing into place — but with Mattheo’s biceps straining against his sleeves, you’d decided to keep that to yourself.

Even now, you didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Finally, after a long pause, he shifted the Tupperware under one arm and turned the key, nudging the door open — but still not stepping through.

Then, like he hadn’t been debating it the entire walk up the stairs, he asked, casual as anything, “You wanna come in?”

You blinked, “Now?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of how the question had landed. “For a cuppa.” He added quickly. His voice cracked a little under the forced lightness.

You raised a brow, “Weren’t you just whining all the way up the stairs that you were too full to breathe?”

“It’s tea,” He said, trying for deadpan and failing miserably, “There’s always room for tea.”

You smiled softly, stepping past him into the familiar dimness of his flat, “I’d like that.”

He held the door a little longer to let you through — the smallest gesture, but deliberate. Inside, the flat smelled like warm laundry and whatever incense he’d been burning earlier — something herbal and clean that softened the edges of the silence.

You settled into the sofa, hands curled around a steaming mug. He passed you the sugar silently, like he already knew how you liked it.

“We have dinners like that every other week,” You said, voice low, relaxed, “You should come next time.”

Predictably, he started to refuse, “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t want to impose—”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His face had changed since the war. Thinner, maybe. Older in the eyes. But steadier, too. Calmer. There were fewer sharp edges — and maybe that was good. Maybe growing up had done what time always promises to do: carved the pain into shape.

Still, something tugged at your chest.

You both had grown up too fast. Lost too much, too young. Your rebellious teen years had disappeared the second you realised just how quickly your family could be taken from you. You’d watched people like Harry — and Mattheo — walk through fire alone, and you’d never forgotten it.

The war was brutal. There were nights when survival felt like a punishment, not a gift. But sometimes — like tonight — you caught a glimpse of who you’d become, and thought maybe it had made you into someone good.

You looked at Mattheo, still fiddling with the teabag in his mug like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, and wondered if he felt the same about himself.

He had been impulsive, emotional, too quick to lash out. And now? Now he was quieter. Softer around the edges. But part of you missed the fire in him — the cocky confidence, the recklessness. The way he used to speak like the whole world should listen.

You came out of the war a hero.

He came out as the son of the world’s greatest villain.

You had a family who loved you. Who accepted your world and stitched it into their own.

He had parents who only cared how he could serve theirs.

And despite everything — despite the fact that you were perhaps one of the only people alive who truly understood — you hadn’t lived equal lives. You had a family that loved you unconditionally. He had… expectations. Burdens.

“You wouldn’t be,” You said quietly, “My parents would really like it if you came again. And so would I.”

Mattheo’s stirring stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch — until it snapped.

“You don’t need to keep doing this, you know,” He said, voice tight, “I don’t know what you’re scared of, but I’m not going to off myself or host secret Death Eater meetings or whatever it is you think I’m doing alone up here.”

You blinked, caught off guard, “Mattheo—”

“Come on,” He said, rolling his eyes. “You keep checking in. Keep inviting me places. You think I don’t notice?”

You stared at him. And then, to his horror, you started to laugh. Soft and exasperated.

“Oh Godric. I wonder why I keep visiting my super attractive neighbour who’s been through the same traumas I have, who my parents clearly like and who actually laughs at my jokes. Truly a mystery.”

He froze, like you’d hit him with a hex, “Wait — you’re not saying you keep coming around because… because you like me?”

You blinked, smiling slowly, “Why? Can’t I?”

“You can’t,” He said immediately. Adamantly. Like it was law. “You should be with someone like Potter. Or Granger. Or — Merlin, even Weasley.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Harry’s basically my brother. Hermione’s dating Ron.”

“There’s more than one Weasley.” He offered, grasping at straws.

"Mattheo frankly I cannot think of anything worse than ending up related to Ron, Hermione and Harry."

Mattheo shrugged with faux innocence, swirling the teabag in his mug like he hadn’t just tried to sell you off to a different wizarding family, “I’m just saying… you could do better.”

You rolled your eyes, “Right. And what exactly would ‘better’ look like?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned forward, eyes glinting, “Go on. Tell me.”

Mattheo hesitated — the cocky response clearly right there on the tip of his tongue — but something in your expression stopped him short. Maybe it was the way you weren’t teasing anymore. Not really. You were waiting. Listening.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Stripped bare.

“Someone like you. Someone who didn’t spend most of their life calling people like you a Mudblood,” He muttered, eyes fixed on the steam curling from his mug, “Someone who doesn’t make people reach for their wands the second they walk into a room.”

Your smile faded.

He didn’t look up, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I was. You know what I’ve done. I picked sides. I picked wrong.”

There was a long, quiet beat. The kind that carries too much weight.

Then you set your mug down gently on the table and said, “You were just a child, Mattheo.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, uncertain. Wary. Like he wanted to believe you, but didn’t dare.

“A child,” You repeated, firmer this time, “And your father was bloody Voldemort. Of course you were twisted up inside. Of course you were scared. But you’re not that kid anymore.”

“But you—” He started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” You said softly, “I’m not some symbol of bravery or some war hero people should look up to. I left the wizarding world precisely because of that. I didn’t want to be paraded around, painted in gold, turned into a symbol of light just because I happened to survive.”

He swallowed hard. His brows were drawn tight.

“There were so many people caught in that war,” You continued, voice trembling now, “People who didn’t get to pick sides. People like you, who had to follow the only path left open to them.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He looked away again, that familiar wall sliding into place — too fast, too familiar.

“Doesn’t change what I did,” He said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve everything I get now.”

“You don’t,” You snapped, not angry at him — but at the world that had taught him to think like this, “And neither do they. Harry wouldn’t have survived if Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t lied to Voldemort, and now she’s rotting in Azkaban. Theo deflected a curse meant for McGonagall and he’s being shunned like a criminal. And me—”

You paused, eyes suddenly wet, voice quieter.

“I would’ve died that night in the manor,” You whispered, “if you hadn’t lied to Bellatrix.”

He flinched.

You stepped toward him, hands reaching up, gently cupping his cheeks. Forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Don’t you dare pretend like it didn’t matter,” You said, “I know what you’ve done. I know who you are.”

You swallowed, “The second you had the chance to choose, Mattheo, you chose right.”

Then you added, barely above a whisper, “And that’s why I like you.”

“Because I saved your life?”

You shook your head.

“No,” You breathed, “Because you’re not who they said you were. Because you’re a good man. Whether you believe it or not.”

Mattheo looked at you like he didn’t know whether to shatter or kiss you.

You cleared your throat, tried to pull yourself together. Tried not to let your voice break completely, “So… are you coming to dinner next week?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked. Like the pieces of his past were still rearranging themselves in his mind — and for the first time, they weren’t sharp enough to cut.

“I want you there,” You said, softer now, “They do too. But mostly… I do.”

That undid something in him.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed. The tension in his jaw eased. His eyes dropped for a second, and then met yours again.

And when he nodded — small, certain — it felt like something cracked open between you. Not in a way that broke, but in a way that finally let the light in.

“I’ll come.” He said.

You smiled and reached for his shirt, smoothing out imaginary creases as your fingers lingered just a second longer than they needed to.

“Good.” You murmured.

He caught your hand gently in his, eyes searching yours.

And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like someone clawing his way out of the darkness.

He felt seen. He felt chosen.

And maybe — just maybe — he was starting to believe he deserved that too.

Mattheo did come for dinner.

And then he came again. And again after that.

It wasn’t like you suddenly fell into each other’s arms or kissed under the kitchen light while your mum offered dessert. But something shifted — subtle, steady. Like a hinge finally oiled. Like the space between you both had always been there, and now you were finally choosing to fill it.

There were still jokes, still the sarcasm and dry glances and moments where he pretended not to be listening even though he definitely was. But the edges were softer. The glances lingered longer. The silences stopped feeling like things to be filled, and more like things to be shared.

You saw it in the way he sat closer to you now. The way his shoulder would brush yours and stay there. The way his laugh sounded warmer in your presence. The way he always saved you the last spoonful of something without having to be asked.

You hadn’t defined anything. But you were definitely getting closer.

Which is how, a few weeks later, you found yourself sprinting into his flat like you owned the place — because, well, you sort of had started to.

“Matty!” You called out breathlessly, not even glancing at the figure lounging on the sofa, “I need to borrow your leather jacket—where is it? Don’t say it’s in the laundry, I swear to Merlin—”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You kicked off your shoes, breezed past the living room, and charged straight for his bedroom, shouting, “Thanks, by the way! You’re the best!”

Already halfway through the hallway, you threw a hand up in vague acknowledgment and barrelled through the door.

Stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was.

Mattheo.

Fresh from the shower. Shirtless. Damp curls sticking to his forehead. A towel slung low on his hips. Drops of water still trailing down his chest, slow and traitorous.

You made a noise that might’ve been a word. Or a gasp. Or a whimper.

He blinked, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting company, holding a shirt in one hand like he’d frozen mid-movement.

“…Hi.” He said, entirely too casual for someone who was 90% naked.

You let out a squeak — an actual squeak — slapped a hand over your eyes, and spun around so fast you almost collided with the doorframe.

“Oh my Godric, I’m so sorry—I thought you were on the couch, you were on the couch two seconds ago, I swear, I just— I didn’t see anything—well, okay, I did, but I didn’t mean to—”

You opened the door.

Slammed it shut again.

Then leaned against it, face flaming, pulse racing.

And from the living room came a voice that was not Mattheo’s:

“Hi.”

You blinked. Turned slowly.

And there, entirely not naked, spoon in mouth and legs still kicked up on the sofa, was Theodore Nott — looking very amused.

He raised the spoon lazily, “Hey. You alright there?”

You blinked at him, brain rebooting, “Nott?”

“In the flesh,” He said, raising a spoon in salute, “Should I be offended you ran past me like I was invisible?”

“I—” You blinked, face aflame, “I thought you were Mattheo.”

“I gathered.” He went back to his cereal.

“I just needed to borrow his jacket!” You said quickly, heat still burning in your cheeks, “Maybe take outfit photos in his mirror.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, “You don’t have your own mirror?”

“My mirror has an antique bronze frame,” You replied flatly, “It doesn’t match the vibe.”

“Right,” He said, utterly unconvinced, returning to his cereal, “Didn’t realize you two were that close.”

You stilled.

You swallowed. How were you supposed to respond to that? Yes, you were close to Mattheo. Close enough to know just how he likes his tea. Close enough to keep biscuits in his cupboard that were only for you. But you'd never said anything out loud. There were no labels. No claims.

It would be kind of humiliating to say something only for Mattheo to come strolling out and be like, “Nah, she just lingers here like a stray cat I accidentally fed once.”

Before you could decide what to say, the bedroom door opened.

Mattheo stepped out, now mercifully dressed in faded black jeans and a plain white T-shirt — though you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse. He had your favourite leather jacket of his slung casually over one arm, and his damp curls clung to his forehead in soft, lazy waves. You were suddenly very grateful he'd decided to wear the jacket… if only so Theo wouldn’t catch you blatantly ogling his best mate’s biceps.

Mattheo just grinned and sauntered over, totally unbothered, and shook the jacket out with a single practiced flick before holding it open for you.

You slid your arms into the sleeves as he held it up, the worn leather warm and familiar, smelling faintly like his cologne — and maybe a little like that soap you'd seen in his shower that was inexplicably labelled dragon ash and sandalwood.

He adjusted the collar gently, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck for a beat longer than necessary, “Looks better on you anyway.”

You glanced up at him, and his eyes met yours — something unspoken passing between you, soft and real. Then, all at once, he stepped back, cleared his throat, and looked toward Theo.

Theo’s smile widened like a cat who’d found something much more interesting than his cereal. “So, just to clarify… what is this, then?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you, “Because if this isn’t dating, it’s the most suspiciously couple-y non-dating situation I’ve ever seen.”

Mattheo didn’t even hesitate, “It’s none of your business.”

“Ohhh,” Theo said, leaning back, “Which means yes.”

You flushed. Mattheo sighed like this was a discussion he’d already prepared for in his head and hated every second of.

Then, with the most casual tone imaginable, he said to you, “I’m heading out with the guys later. Might be home late.”

You nodded, adjusting the sleeves of the jacket, "Alright. Have fun. Stay safe."

He looked you over, your outfit clearly indicating that you were going out with your friends, "You too. Send me a Patronus when you get home."

You hummed, giving him a small smile, "I know the drill."

Theo raised a brow, “Right, definitely not dating.”

Mattheo gave him a lazy middle finger but didn't deny it and turned back to you, his tone softening just a touch, “You staying for a bit?”

“I just needed the jacket,” You said, trying not to smile, "My Uber's gonna be here any second."

"Right," He responded, raking his eyes over your figure, choosing to tuck your hair behind your ear, "Then I guess I'll see you later."

"I guess you will." You chuckled, before turning to his friend who was watching you both like it was his favourite show. Not that he would even know what a television was, "It was nice seeing you again, Theo. Let's have a drink one day and catch up."

He nodded, giving you a smirk that didn't drop until you had exited and he slid his eyes back to Mattheo, “So when’s the wedding?”

The pub was alive with the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional shout from the dartboard. Mattheo sat at the far end of the worn wooden table, surrounded by Draco, Theo, Enzo, and Blaise. Pints and half-empty bottles were scattered across the table like trophies from battles fought and survived.

“Mate,” Draco nudged him with an elbow, voice tinged with mock disbelief, “Why aren’t you drinking us under the table tonight? You usually drown whatever’s bothering you.”

Mattheo glanced at his nearly untouched glass of cider, fingers tapping restlessly on the rim. “Not in the mood.” He muttered, eyes flickering toward the window, where the night had deepened and the streetlights cast pools of gold on the pavement.

“Not like you,” Blaise teased, “Usually, you’d be three sheets to the wind by now.”

Enzo smirked, “Yeah, what gives? You okay, Riddle?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked toward the door, then the window, and back to the table, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the wood. He looked… distracted.

Theo, sitting next to Mattheo with a mischievous grin, leaned in, “Oh, it’s because our dear friend here is waiting on a Patronus.”

The others blinked. “Patronus?” Enzo repeated.

Theo nodded, barely able to keep a straight face, “Yes from his cute little neighbour. She’s supposed to send it when she gets home safe after a night out. Mattheo’s been scanning the streets like a bloodhound all evening.”

Theo leaned back with a sly grin, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “And the neighbour in question? Well, you’re all gonna love this—it's (L/N).”

Blaise nearly choked on his drink, “You’re joking.”

"In a classic tale of Romeo and Juliet, our dear Matty boy has found himself in love with the girl who literally killed his father."

"I'm not in love." Mattheo snapped but a car drove past, shining a light that looked too similar to a patronus and had his neck almost snapping in two in his effort to get a better look.

Enzo burst into laughter, "Oh, yeah, you're not in love, you absolute boob."

The knocking started faintly — not loud, but urgent. Sharp, clipped taps that cut through your dreams like a blade. You jolted upright, breath caught in your throat, blinking through the dark, tangled in your sheets like you’d been mid-battle instead of mid-dream.

It wasn’t that loud — but something in the rhythm of it pulled you from sleep like a hook behind the ribs.

You squinted at the clock. 03:17.

Groaning softly, you threw off the covers, feet hitting cold floorboards with a quiet thud. You reached for your wand automatically, the weight of it familiar in your palm, even as sleep still clung to you like cobwebs. The knocking came again — quicker now, more urgent.

You padded toward the front door, pulse starting to rise.

When you opened it — just a crack, just enough to see — the cold slammed into you. But it was nothing compared to what you saw standing there.

Theo Nott.

He looked like he’d run across London.

Hair wind-tossed. Chest heaving. Coat half-unbuttoned. His skin was pale, almost grey in the porchlight, and there was something feral in his eyes — panic, fury, fear, all twisted up into one tight, burning thread.

You stared, “Theo?”

His breath puffed in a sharp cloud, “It’s Mattheo.”

Your stomach dropped.

The door was open in seconds, and you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside before the words had even fully registered. It slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

“What happened?” You demanded, voice cracking now, “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. He was pacing your living room like a caged thing, one hand knotted in his hair, the other clenched into a fist at his side.

“They arrested him.”

The air in the room turned cold.

Your voice came out as barely a whisper, “What?”

“Tonight. At the pub. We were all there — Blaise, Draco, Enzo. Just drinking. Laughing. Nothing serious. And then out of nowhere, the Aurors show up. Said there’d been reports. Wouldn’t say of what. Wouldn’t explain. They just—” His jaw tightened, “They just dragged him out.”

You stared, heart pounding, “For what?”

“Suspicion. Loitering. Someone said he ‘fit the description’ of a man acting odd in Knockturn Alley earlier that day — even though we’d been nowhere near there. One of the Aurors looked him dead in the face and said, ‘You know who you are.’ Like that was all the proof they needed.”

You sat down hard on the arm of your couch, breath punched from your lungs.

“He’s done nothing,” You said, “He hasn’t done anything—”

“They don’t care,” Theo snapped, suddenly furious again, “They see the name. They see the face. The bloody Mark. They don’t ask questions. They just act like he’s a ticking time bomb and they’re doing everyone a favour by locking him up before he explodes.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second, trying to breathe — trying to think, “Where is he now?”

“Ministry holding,” Theo said darkly, “They said they’ll process him in the morning. Until then, he’s ‘detained for questioning.’ Which we both know means they’ll keep him in a concrete cell all night and try to wear him down before anyone gets to him.”

You stood up suddenly, fury vibrating through your body.

Theo paused mid-pace to look at you.

“I know we’re not close,” He said, awkward again, “but I know you’re close to him. Closer than he lets on. And you—” He hesitated, “You’re friends with Potter. You’ve got… pull. People listen to you. I didn’t know who else to go to.”

But you were already pulling a jumper over your head, wand clenched in a white-knuckled grip. You barely heard him over the roar of your own blood in your ears.

“I’ll handle it,” You said, your voice low and shaking with rage, “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Go to him. Now. Stay with him. Don’t let them bully him. Don’t let him say anything to anyone without a lawyer present. No comment. No statements. Not even what his bloody name is. Got it?”

Theo nodded, grim, “Got it.”

You followed him, stepping into your boots, wand ready. You didn’t feel sleepy anymore. You didn’t feel anything but hot, burning, righteous fury.

Because Mattheo had spent years trying to claw his way out of the shadow of his past. Years trying to prove that he wasn’t like him. That he wasn’t like them.

And now they’d dragged him back in — without a charge, without a reason, without a second thought.

This was why you left the wizarding world. Why you’d turned your back on the Ministry and its post-war morality circus. You’d fought in the war, bled in it, lost friends in it — and still they hadn’t learned.

Still they saw people like Mattheo Riddle as enemies, not survivors. Not victims of the same fear and violence that had nearly destroyed them all.

At the end of the day, the truth didn’t matter. Not as long as they were able to cram you painfully into whatever predisposed ideas they had.

The two of you raised your wands.

And in two cracks of displaced air, you were gone — vanishing into the night.

Both headed to two separate locations.

You were about to officially return to the wizarding world. And rain hell upon them. You were going to make them listen. You were going to make them pay.

The Ministry’s grand chamber felt colder than usual — or maybe it was just the weight of what was about to happen. Mattheo stood quietly beside you, hands clenched at his sides, eyes sharp but guarded. Harry, Ron, and Hermione flanked you, each radiating the same burning frustration.

You moved through the Ministry of Magic’s atrium like a hurricane. Paper memos paused mid-flight. Aurors stepped aside. One man even dropped his coffee.

Security tried to stop you at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s doors.

They did not succeed.

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” You snapped, wand already glowing, “And I will.”

You shoved open the office doors of Minister Fudge so hard they banged against the walls. His aides leapt to their feet, startled. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t blink. Your eyes were locked on the man behind the desk — Cornelius Fudge, still wearing that smug little bowler hat, like he hadn’t spent the last decade proving he cared more about saving face than saving lives.

Fudge barely looked up, “Ah, the prodigal warriors return.”

You didn’t flinch. “Where is he?” You demanded, voice low but fierce, “Where is Mattheo Riddle?”

Fudge blinked, slightly surprised by your fury. Of course he wasn’t aware of just how close you both were — you could only assume he believed Mattheo wouldn’t be missed, or that those who did care about him wouldn’t have the power to do anything about it.

“He’s in custody. Being held for questioning. Suspicion of—”

Harry cut in, voice thick with disgust, “Suspicion of what, exactly? Because I saw the arrest report — and there’s absolutely nothing of value there.”

Hermione stepped forward, eyes blazing, “You hold a man without charge because of his name and history? That’s not justice — it’s persecution.”

Fudge arched a brow, calm, as you began to tremble with rage, “He’s being held for questioning. Surely even you understand the need for caution, considering his—”

“He defected,” Ron snapped, “He fought with us. He was on our side at the end of the war.”

“And how exactly would you know that?” Fudge folded his hands neatly, "You refused to give your account to the ministry after the war. Refused to cooperate with us."

You stared at him, disbelief rising like bile, “I fought in the war. I didn’t sit like a right old fart in an office and send children to do my job for me.”

That struck. His expression flickered. But he recovered quickly.

“You have no proof,” He said, “No statements. No witnesses. Nothing documented. Nothing official. Just your word, I suppose?”

Your jaw clenched.

And then, the heavy oak doors creaked open again behind you.

The final recipient of your frantic Patronus had arrived.

“I would hardly call my word ‘unofficial’.” Came a cool, clipped voice.

Every head turned.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall stepped into the room like she owned it. Her tartan robes swirled around her ankles, her bun was tight, and her wand was already out — not drawn, just held. Like a promise.

“Headmistress.” Fudge said tightly.

“I am here,” She said, “because you are about to repeat the mistakes of your past. And I, for one, will not stand by and let it happen again.”

She turned to you with a brief, firm nod. Then addressed the room.

“Mattheo Riddle was present at the Battle of Hogwarts. He cast no Unforgivables. He struck down more Death Eaters than many fully trained Aurors. He aided in the evacuation of the Astronomy Tower. I can attest to this. I witnessed it myself.”

Fudge scoffed, “If you want to make a case, you need to conduct a hearing. Present evidence. Until then, Riddle remains in custody. This isn’t the proper procedure.”

“You’re right,” Hermione snapped, “Which is why you’ll release Mattheo now and arrange a hearing immediately — not weeks from now, not months. Until then, he walks free.”

You stepped forward, voice like steel, “I have a reporter from every major wizarding outlet standing outside this building. Do you know how long they’ve waited to see me after I disappeared for years? How eager they are for their long-awaited interview with all four of us?”

Fudge paled slightly.

“I can see the headlines now,” You said, voice dripping with venom, “Fudge Fudged Up. Yet again.”

Harry’s eyes were burning, “You think they’ll defend you after seeing how you handled Sirius Black? You locked him up on false charges. How many more lives are you willing to ruin?”

“I will make sure you never make another decision without the press crawling down your throat and breathing down your neck — second-guessing everything you say. Because if you think I won’t drag your entire office into the dirt for this, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Thick with tension. Even Harry looked vaguely stunned.

Fudge’s face had gone bone white, his knuckles gripping the edge of the desk.

“Very well,” He said finally, “Release him. No charges. Effective immediately.”

Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Thank you, Minister.” She said, her tone measured but unmistakably pointed.

You didn’t hold back.

Without missing a beat, you shot over your shoulder, loud enough for Fudge to hear clearly, “I’m not thanking you for shit. Go fuck yourself.”

“A displeasure as always, Cornelius,” Ron added as he turned to leave, “Make sure to get off that fat arse every once in a while and do some actual work. Can’t let the children have all the fun.”

You didn’t look back.

None of you did.

But the echo of your words — and your fury — lingered in the halls long after you’d gone.

The iron doors of the holding chamber creaked open with a groan, and Mattheo stepped into the atrium — free at last.

The Ministry’s harsh lighting did nothing to dull the exhaustion written across his face or the tension that lingered in his shoulders. His shirt was rumpled, his hair a mess from running his hands through it one too many times. Flanked by Blaise, Theo, Draco, and Enzo — all equally sleep-deprived and stone-faced — he looked like a man still caught somewhere between disbelief and survival.

But the second he saw you sprinting across the floor toward him, something in his expression cracked wide open. The weight dropped from his shoulders.

He didn’t even get a breath in before you launched forward.

“Mattheo!”

His head snapped up just in time to catch you as you practically threw yourself into his arms. His hands rose on instinct, gripping your waist, steadying you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You pulled back just enough to grab his face, scanning every inch like you had to see for yourself that he was okay, “Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did they—?”

“I’m okay,” He murmured, voice low and raw, eyes locked on yours, “You came for me.”

“Of course I did.” You whispered, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Behind you, Harry, Hermione, and Ron caught up at a far more leisurely pace. They stopped a few paces back, watching you with fond, amused expressions.

“She’s gone." Ron muttered, shaking his head fondly.

“Precisely,” Hermione said, lips twitching, “I haven’t seen her this taken with someone since your brother Bill visited in second year.”

Ron recoiled, “Why would you remind me of that?”

Hermione laughed.

Harry just smiled, arms crossed, “Good for her.”

Across the way, Blaise, Enzo, and Draco were watching the reunion unfold with similarly raised eyebrows and smirking mouths.

“Is it just me,” Enzo said, “or does that look a little more intense than casual neighbours?”

Draco arched a brow, “Considering she just threw herself into his arms? I’d say yeah.”

Theo didn’t even bother hiding his grin, “Told you.”

As pleasantries began to pass between the groups — polite nods, cautious glances, a few lingering tensions quickly diffused by Ron and Blaise’s sarcastic commentary — you and Mattheo found yourselves standing with Headmistress McGonagall, who approached with her usual purposeful stride.

She looked at Mattheo first, and while her expression was sharp as ever, her eyes were kind. “Mr. Riddle,” She said crisply, “What happened to you was shameful. Unacceptable. And not the kind of justice we fought for.”

Mattheo shifted slightly, unsure how to respond.

But McGonagall continued, voice dry, “And I must say… when your Patronus came hurtling into my chambers at three o’clock this morning, I was more than a little surprised. I haven’t seen her beg for anything since third year, when Peeves nicked her entire potions essay.”

You flushed, brushing a hand over your face, “It wasn’t begging.”

Mattheo turned to you, gaze soft and unreadable — something between gratitude, guilt, and something else deeper. Warmer.

“I was worried about him.” You admitted timidly.

McGonagall’s brow rose, “So it would seem.”

You let out a small laugh, breath finally loosening in your chest. Mattheo’s ears turned pink, and you didn’t miss the way he relaxed the longer you stood close.

The headmistress tilted her head slightly, “Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to hear from you again. Especially after how soundly you ignored my last offer.”

Mattheo blinked, “Offer?”

“She was offered the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” McGonagall said, turning to him, “At the time, I thought she’d be a good fit. Now I’m convinced she’s the best one.”

You hesitated, just like you always did.

But Mattheo didn’t give you the chance to fall silent again.

“You should take it,” He said, firm and certain, “Your grades were the best in our year. You literally teach now — and you’re brilliant at it. You’d make a great professor, (Y/N). Hogwarts would be lucky to have you.”

You blinked at him, startled, “You think?”

He nodded, voice softening, “I know.”

McGonagall watched the exchange with something suspiciously close to amusement, “Wise words, Mr. Riddle. You’d do well to listen to your boyfriend, Ms. (L/N).”

You both flushed scarlet.

But you couldn’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed.

Because for the first time in a long, long while — standing there, surrounded by the people who knew your heart and the boy who held it — everything felt right.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to accept.” You said at last, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Mattheo leaned toward you — and before you could turn away, his hand slid into yours. Not in a dramatic way. Not like he was making a scene. Just… quiet and sure. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles, grounding you.

You looked over at him — and the smile he gave you in return made something in your chest flip.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You turned back to McGonagall, looking at your future boss with a smirk, “Drinks? To celebrate?”

McGonagall gave a long-suffering sigh — but her eyes sparkled, “I suppose one will do, for good will.”

Ron chimed in, already slinging an arm around Theo’s shoulders, “I say we make it a proper celebration. We’ve earned it.”

Hermione arched a brow, “Only you would be up for getting hammered at ten in the morning.”

Draco shared a look with Harry — who gave a subtle shrug, like, he’s got a point — and Blaise was already pulling out his wand to start listing nearby pubs.

You laughed — light and easy now — like the worst of it had passed, like something had finally cracked open in the best possible way.

Mattheo squeezed your hand again, just once.

And this time, you squeezed back.

The apartment building was quiet when you both got back.

The night had blurred into something golden — laughter echoing down cobblestone streets, half-empty pint glasses clinking on wooden tables, Theo and Harry nearly arm-wrestling over who paid the tab (they both lost), and McGonagall giving one tight-lipped smile before declaring she’d “had quite enough of rowdy children for one night” and Disapparating with a dramatic crack.

You were still smiling when you reached Mattheo's door, still glowing from the rush of everything.

Mattheo put his key into the lock—and then paused.

You turned to him, the adrenaline finally ebbing now that it was just the two of you, your pulse still not entirely steady — not after the last twenty-four hours, not after everything that had just happened.

You studied him in the dim light of the hallway. The bruised shadows under his eyes. The tight line of his jaw. The way he was looking at you — like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how.

There had been something building there, thick in the air between you. Something humid and suffocating since the moment you entered the bar. A part of you had wanted to leave, the lack of sleep beginning to weigh down on your limbs, but then you saw Lorenzo and Hermione clink their glasses in quiet solidarity — and you stayed. You leaned against Mattheo, your head on his shoulder, lulled by the quiet of the nearly empty pub, the alcohol making you soft and sleepy.

Mattheo turned to you, “Do you want to come in?”

You chuckled, “For a cuppa?”

He gave you a half smile, “Not this time.”

You let him lead you inside. Let him shut the door behind you and crowd you gently against it, looking at you with half-lidded eyes and a reverence that stole the breath from your lungs.

God, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to mold your mouth to his, press your body against his, and lose yourself in the gravity of him.

“Thank you,” He said finally, voice low, nose a hair away from yours, “For today. For yesterday. For everything.”

You raised your eyes to his, still pressed between him and the door, trying to swallow the want pooling at the back of your throat like syrup, “It’s what you do for people you care about.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something sacred.

And then, softly — like the words hurt on the way out, “Do you?”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” You whispered, “I do.”

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you, long and quiet — like he was memorizing the moment. Like he was waiting for something to shift.

You reached up and pressed your hand to his chest, fingers spread over the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Do you?”

His hand came up slowly, curling around yours, “I’ve been trying not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to have something good.” He dipped his head, eyes flicking to your lips, “But then you showed up. And now I don’t want anything else. I’ll do whatever I have to do to deserve you.”

You cupped his cheeks, brushing your thumbs gently over his cheekbones. “Come here.” You whispered.

And then you kissed him.

No fanfare. No fireworks. Just you and him — pressed together under the soft glow of the hallway light. Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck as you tilted your head, standing on your toes and pressing your body flush to his.

Mattheo kissed you back with quiet desperation, brows furrowed like he was feeling too much at once, like kissing you was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. His hands cupped your face like he didn’t trust the world not to take you from him.

And you kissed him like you were trying to make up for every moment he thought he was unloved.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and tangled in each other, he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, softly:

"My dad is going to be thrilled."

Mattheo laughed against your mouth, "I can't say he's going to be too thrilled about what I'm about to do to his only daughter."

You shook your head, laughing — but you didn’t stop him. Not when he kissed you again, not when his hands found your waist, not when on this night, he finally, finally, became yours.

Bonus:

It hadn’t been that long since you walked these halls as a student. The scent of old stone and parchment still felt like home, and the echo of your laughter in the stairwells was barely faded.

Which is why it felt a little surreal, standing at the front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom — your classroom now — watching twenty tired students blink at you, half-asleep, post-midterms.

You remembered this feeling too well. The post-exam lull. The I’d-rather-be-anywhere-but-in-class energy that leaked into the air like a sleeping draught.

So you did what any responsible professor would do.

Time for a little... intervention.

"Alright," You said, clapping your hands once, “Seeing as the lot of you look one Muffliato away from a nap, I brought a guest to help with today’s demonstration.”

The classroom door creaked open at just the right moment.

Boots echoed on stone. A shadow fell across the threshold.

And then in walked Mattheo Riddle — Auror robes fitted and dark, wand holstered, smug expression firmly in place.

The class lit up like you’d cast Lumos Maxima.

Half the class gasped.

The girls — no, scratch that, several students of all genders — squealed.

You actually had to bite back a laugh.

It was like déjà vu. For a moment, you were thirteen again, sitting in this very classroom, watching your friends clutch their chests over Gilderoy Lockhart like he was the second coming of Merlin.

Except now Lockhart was replaced by your fiancé. And your fiancé actually could duel.

You ignored the whispers, fighting a smile as Mattheo strolled in like he owned the castle. You could tell he was enjoying every second of the attention.

"Morning, class," Mattheo said with a smirk, scanning the room like he already knew the effect he had. His eyes finally landed on you, "Hope you're ready to learn something useful for once."

You rolled your eyes, "Don’t get cocky, Riddle.”

The students were wide-eyed now, completely awake, some whispering furiously. You let the tension build, then smiled sweetly.

You turned back to the class. “Since most of you seem to have forgotten how to hold a wand upright this week, Auror Riddle and I will be demonstrating live defensive magic.” You paused, “Via duel.”

The room exploded.

“You’re gonna duel him?!”

“IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?”

“Mister Riddle, PLEASE go easy on her—”

“She’s gonna mop the floor with him, are you kidding?!”

Mattheo tilted his head toward you, amused, "Your students seem confident in your skills. I’d hate to disappoint them when I win."

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him, "I hope you can still keep your job once I humiliate you, darling."

“Oh, it’s like that?” He asked, stepping onto the platform. His wand slid into his hand like it belonged there, “Want to make it interesting, sweetheart?”

"I'm listening."

His grin was wicked, “If I win, we move the wedding up. This winter.”

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second.

A chorus of gasps filled the room.

You raised a brow, “That’s all? I was expecting something scandalous.”

“Scandalous comes after,” He said, low enough only you could hear. Then louder: “Well, Professor, do we have a deal?”

You tipped your head, “Deal.”

The class whooped as you took your stance. Wands raised. Eyes locked.

It started playful — spells exchanged like inside jokes, your shields strong, your counters cheeky. You danced around each other, laughing, bickering like you always did.

“Getting slow in your old age.” You taunted.

“Still fast enough to catch you, sweetheart.” He replied, flicking your spell back with a grin.

You both fell into rhythm effortlessly, spells flying and deflecting with heat and precision. It was like dancing — a dance only the two of you knew the steps to. You hit him with a Flipendo that nearly knocked him on his ass; he responded with a Petrificus Partialis that froze your wand arm mid-jinx.

You countered just in time to send his disarming spell into the ceiling, and he laughed again, breathless, “Merlin, I forgot how annoying you are when you’re winning.”

"You're saying that as if I'm not always winning." You said, already flicking your wand again.

The class was on the edge of their seats. Screaming. Chanting. Cheering for both of you like it was the final match of the Triwizard Tournament.

But then — a flash of motion. A student near the edge tripped on their bag, almost falling off the bench. You turned instantly, wand snapping to cast a cushion charm.

And that was when Mattheo’s spell struck.

Not hard — a harmless stunner meant for flair — but it knocked you slightly off-balance.

The platform dimmed. The match was technically over.

Mattheo, smug as anything, raised his hands as he descended from the platform, walking toward you. “Victory,” He called, lowering his wand with a bow so smug you nearly hexed him right there, “Riddle for the win.”

You glared at him, but still let him wrap his arms around your waist as he lifted you down from the platform — an action that did not go unnoticed by your students, who began to squeal.

“I was distracted. I had you cornered until the end.”

“Still counts,” He said, grinning as he stepped closer, “Should’ve kept your eyes on the target, love.”

You narrowed your eyes, then tilted your head in thought. Loud enough for the class to hear, you said:

“Say I won, and I’ll marry you this weekend.”

The entire class collectively gasped.

“PROFESSOR—”

“WAIT THAT’S NOT FAIR—”

“THAT’S CHEATING!!”

“YOU CAN’T BRIBE HIM INTO LOSING—”

Mattheo laughed so hard he had to put a hand on the desk to steady himself, “You heard them, love. It’s not fair.”

You gave a little shrug, completely unbothered, “Life’s not fair.”

He stepped closer, wand twirling between his fingers, “So what you’re saying is... you’re too proud to admit you lost."

You smiled sweetly, “No. I’m saying you’re going to say I won. And I’ll be in white by Saturday.”

The class exploded.

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT—”

“WE’RE GOING TO A WEDDING???”

“I’M CRYING—”

"I’ll be Mrs. Riddle this time next week," You sang, "Going once, going twice—"

“The greatest duelist of all time,” Mattheo declared, loud enough for everyone to hear, “will be my wife by this time next week.”

The class lost it.

Cheers, whistles, someone even threw a quill in the air like confetti. You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, and Mattheo just smirked, slipping his hand into yours as you both walked out past the chaos.

“Can’t wait to marry me, huh?” You teased, straightening out his robes, choosing not to kiss him — not with your audience so keenly watching.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips near your ear, “You kidding? I've been ready since the day you introduced me to that shitty Australian dingo."

You laughed softly.

Somewhere behind you, a student whispered, "Is he talking about Bluey?

Forever Taglist:

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- - -

The inspiration that struck you as soon as you woke up was one of some kind of age-old genius. The motivation that came with it seemed to cloud your mind like some kind of drug, flooding your mind and inhibiting all other thoughts that attempted to enter your brain the rest of the day.

You had always been a bit of a shit-starter when it came to Mattheo Riddle, but today, you were feeling downright sinister.

Your eyes flicked across the room to catch the dark boy’s oaken eyes. His strong hand lifted from the counter to toy with his bottom lip teasingly. Every move was calculated, down to the way his shoulders moved when he took in a breath.

He skirted through his usual routine of tracing his eyes slowly down your body, then flicking them back up to steel his eye contact. For the first few months of your relationship with him—if that’s what you wanted to call it—that whole intimidating facade had worked on you effortlessly. But now, you knew he was more bark than he was bite. That was, as far as you could tell.

You supposed that after sleeping with him so long, he’d have lived up to his whole King Mattheo act, but he'd fallen short. You were disappointed, to say the least. The majority of the entire student body, including some teachers, were terrified of this boy that currently stared you down, but you seemed to be missing something.

Was he good in bed? Hell yes. Could he get mean? Also yes, but where was the difference? As far as you could tell, he didn’t fuck any differently than any other Slytherin boy you’d been with. They were practically all the same. Mean, dominant, and rough. They usually had some kind of ego to keep up—or a tiny dick to compensate for. Whatever it was, Mattheo didn’t seem any different.

He was mean, dominant, and rough. The only thing that had surprised you about him was how gentle he was beneath it all. With every bruising thrust, his fingers cradled your hips gently where others gripped with their nails. With every mark he sucked into your skin, he darted a tongue out to soothe where others let it simmer. He was a rough lover, but he was still a lover. The others were just rough.

That was what had kept you going back to him so many times. But you were getting impatient. It was time for Mattheo to step his game up, or you were going to get bored. You wanted him to prove to you that he was different. But you didn’t want to have to ask for it. You just wanted him to know to do it.

By the time the last of the breakfast crowd had dissipated and the campus prepared for their first periods, Mattheo hadn’t broken eye contact once. Nor had you. If there was one thing you weren’t going to do—for Mattheo or any one else—it was back down from a challenge. If he wanted to tease and stare and frustrate, you’d do the same.

Finally, he stood with the rest of his group of friends. They headed toward the door but his focus remained on you.

The tip of his wand peeked out from the edge of his uniform sleeve and, with a few mumbled words, a small slip of paper had collapsed from the tip of the wooden object. It hit the floor silently, and weaved through the swarm of feet marching through the Great Hall. Once it had reached you, it stopped just before your shoes beneath the table.

At risk of being caught by your friends, you refused to glance down at it. But, just like he always did, Mattheo had thought of everything. With a shiver, you felt the piece of paper slide up your leg like a slithering snake.

It slunk over the curve of your knee and seemed to wait for you to grab it. Ignoring the thought that it seemed to be alive like some sort of bug, you slipped your hand beneath the table and pulled the slip of paper toward you. Discreetly, you opened it up and looked down at it.

How do you want me to take you today? was scrawled in heavy, broad strokes across the sliver of parchment.

You bit back a smirk. That little fucker.

But, no. With the inspiration you had today—the inspiration to push Mattheo Riddle as close to the edge as possible—you weren’t going to allow him the satisfaction.

In fact, you were going to ignore him entirely until he cracked. That was the plan and you were settled with it. While this likely wasn’t the best thing for your own health, you weren’t too concerned. Mattheo Riddle was an asshole, but he wasn’t a murderer. You were pretty sure, anyways.

Satisfied with your decisions, you smiled lightly and pushed the piece of parchment into the first pocket of your school bag. As soon as you returned to your room, it would be placed with all of the other notes he had passed to you. Even though you weren’t wildly impressed with Mattheo’s performance so far, it was still nice to have the dirty, little notes sitting around for a rainy day.

- - -

And throughout the rest of the day, you stuck to your plan like glue. Every stare, every sneaking touch, every whispered word from Mattheo was met with a brick wall. You simply weren’t interested in any aspect of his usual antics, today. He needed to earn what he refused to admit he wanted so badly, which was you.

And by third period, you could tell he was nearly ready to explode. His jaw was clenching and unclenching, his fists were wrapped so tightly together, the knuckles were almost completely white. He was fucking angry—possibly angrier than you had ever seen him. And that was exactly what you had wanted. You wanted him to know that you were a million times different than any of the other girls he’d romanced so far.

He tried once more to entice a little desire from you just toward the end of class. The two of you sat in the last two rows at the very back of the classroom.

The room was elevated with the back rows at the highest point of the room, overlooking the rest of the class. Any secret movements were noticed simply by the backs of heads and a nonchalant teacher.

Mattheo sat directly behind you with one of his unnamed friends to his left, and another to that boy’s left. You were alone on your row. The class was not that big. But this was exactly the kind of environment a sly boy like Mattheo Riddle loved. He would take any opportunity he could to slide his dirty lips against your ear and whisper any deviance that popped into his head at the moment. And that’s what he’d done.

His head had settled just beside yours. You’d heard his breathing before even noticing the heat from his skin radiating onto yours. A shiver passed through your body at his proximity. Annoyed at your body’s involuntary reaction to the dark boy, you slipped your arms beneath the table to hide the chills sprouting across your flesh.

He must have seen them, though, because a small breath of a smirk passed across his face in your peripheral.

“I don’t know what your game is, little girl,” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “But you’d better straighten that attitude up, or, I swear, I’ll fix it myself.”

He didn’t say another word before he leaned back against his own seat, leaving you to wonder whether or not this was a good idea. You reminded yourself that intimidation was his shtick. That was the majority of the reason everyone was so frightened of him. You couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually beaten anyone up or done anything to anyone who’d wronged him. Like you’d said, he was all bark.

Still, despite his threatening words, you simply flipped your hair over your shoulder and completely ignored him. He scoffed, seemingly suppressing a laugh. He was mad. But he wasn’t going to admit that to you right now.

Besides, you were sure you’d never hear the end of it once it was all said and done.

Once the teacher had announced that class was over and recited the homework assignment to a crowd of deaf ears, you gathered all of your things quickly and made a beeline for the door. You hadn’t even given Mattheo a second to gain a bit of awareness before you were out the door and halfway down the hallway.

You didn’t have a fourth period, but Mattheo did. He had Potions for the next hour, giving you just enough time to spruce up your appearance a bit and prepare for the storm that was brewing. You knew Mattheo well enough by this point to know how this evening was going to go. He would threaten your body within an inch of its life, ask if you ‘knew who he was,’ then he’d fuck you. Just like he always did. There was too much of a pattern. Not enough spontaneity to keep you occupied—you needed more. Hopefully, today was what did it for him.

The dormitory you shared with your mates was completely barren due to their schedules. Out of the five of you, you were the only one that had chosen fourth period as your free period. It seemed odd to you that they would rather have a late start to the day, than an early end. In your opinion, you’d wake up as early as you had to, if it meant you did not have to yawn your way through the last classes of the day.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and made for the small desk that was positioned just beside the headboard. It was stocked with all of your personal hygiene products—organized impeccably—and various bits of stationery for schoolwork. It served as both a desk and a vanity for you while you were getting ready in the mornings—or getting ready to see Mattheo.

You hoped he would be desperate all through his class. You hoped his eyes would be flickering around nervously, his knee bouncing rapidly, sweat dripping down his throat. It would be a sight to behold.

Mattheo was gorgeous—there was no denying that. It was just his attitude that needed adjusting. You smirked to yourself before taking a seat at your desk, glancing at your appearance in the small mirror you’d propped up against the stone wall.

And before you were even able to apply a second layer of mascara, the large wooden door in the corner of the room rattled violently. Three aggressive knocks permeated the silence so roughly the dust motes illuminated by the sun shuddered wildly.

A chill of anticipation settled in your stomach. Surely, that couldn’t be him. Fourth period had barely even begun.

You rose from your desk and crossed the length of the room, every step echoing through your body like a cannon. Why were you so nervous? The possibilities of consequences of your own actions were really starting to rattle around in your skull.

Your fingers wrapped around the bronze door handle and pulled.

Sure enough, on the other side, stood Mattheo Riddle. A malicious smirk was printed across his lips. He glanced around a few times, seeming to scan the surroundings of your dorm.

“Hi, is there anyone else here?” he asked, his voice sickly sweet. The courteous role he was playing made you all the more nervous. He never acted this way, even when he’d come to your dorm in the past. He was usually just as brash as he always was, no matter who was in the room.

“No, there’s not,” you said, your voice annoyingly shaking just a bit. “And if you don’t mind, I’m actually pretty busy—”

Just as you started to push the door closed again, Mattheo’s foot slammed against it, completely blocking its path. You tried to push against him, but he was much too strong for you to defend against.

“I’m sure you can spare a few moments for a quick chat,” he nearly growled, never dropping the fake smile planted on his face. His strong arm pushed against the door, rendering your protection of it completely useless. He pushed through and into the room as if you’d never been holding it in the first place.

He kicked the door shut behind him as soon as he stepped through, the door clunking shut with a rough thud. You suppressed a flinch at the loud sound, refusing to show any sign of vulnerability. You couldn’t pull away from your plan now that you were feeling his anger—that was cowardly.

“Mattheo, I’ve asked for you to leave,” you warned.

“Yeah? Just answer one question for me, baby…” he said, stepping directly into your personal space and invading it in every way possible.

As if asking for permission, he raised his hand slowly and let it hover just next to your cheek. When you did nothing, he placed his fingers along your jawline. They stroked gently across a small surface area, insisting that you felt every searing second of contact.

His face came impossibly close against yours. His warm breath fanned slowly across your cheek, hints of fire and cinnamon lingering beneath your nose. The feeling of his lips skirting slightly over your skin on the way to your ear sent a myriad of chills down the length of your arms and a pool of heat between your thighs. You silenced a shudder on its way through your lips.

“Did you act that way on purpose?” he whispered. His lips caressed the curvature of your ear, his hot words curling around the room. “If not, I’ll find a new girl to open her legs when I want. But if you wanted this, I will make you regret ever having turned away from me.”

You swallowed thickly, the sound piercing the blanket of silence that fell around the room the minute Mattheo stopped speaking. It irked you to no end, that the entire world seemed to hold its breath to wait for this boy. This dark, irritatingly impossible to resist boy. It was more than you were able to handle, no matter how determined you were to prove a point.

“What I wanted…,” you trailed off coldly. “Was for you to prove to me that you’re not exactly like every other Slytherin that waltzes in here, comes in ten seconds, and then asks me if I’ve finished. I’ve been waiting for that special something to jump out at me, but it just hasn’t. I’m getting bored of you, Mattheo.” You took a deep breath, gaining enough courage to flatten your face and select your next words perfectly. “Speaking of, I was wondering if your friend, Enzo, was single.”

You struggled not to smirk at his reaction. If you didn’t know Mattheo, you’d have assumed he was going to crash out and leave the room. But you knew him and his destructive tendencies. His rage, though extremely stigmatized, was something to be in awe of, and you were ready to see it. And to be the target of it.

His eyes darkened until they were barely reflecting any of the dim light around the room. His lips parted slightly, just enough for an evil smirk to stretch across his face. He was all dark eyes and sharp canines, and it looked as if he were desperate to sink them into your flesh.

“You’re fucking done,” he whispered menacingly.

Then his hand was around your throat, firm and bruising. He walked you backwards until your back roughly hit the stone wall, the cold rock biting into your shoulder blades. His lips met yours with a fervor you’d never seen before.

His tongue cruelly parted your lips and laid claim to the entirety of your throat. You could hardly breathe with the pressure he was applying around your neck and the force of his kiss. Yet, still, you could not deny the heat building within your stomach and radiating downwards.

His free hand wrapped around your waist, the fingers slipping slyly beneath the waistband of your uniform skirt. Just as always, in the midst of the fiery storm, his fingers were able to imitate some form of softness just long enough for his hand to prepare to rip your skirt away. Despite the roughness he provided everywhere else, his fingers were gentle as they slid along your skin so as not to pinch it against the wall. It was just thoughtful enough to melt your heart down into a broiling golden puddle.

His strong hand gripped the material of your bottoms and pulled them roughly down, revealing the absence of anything beneath, save your blackened tights. When he lifted his hand once more to tear your panties away, he recognized the lack of material within his fingers and growled against your lips.

“You fucking wanted this, you dumb slut,” he spat, his pearlescent teeth sinking down into the flesh of your bottom lip. With a whimper and flash of white across your vision, he finally released you, leaving behind a thin slathering of blood across your teeth.

“You wanted me to tear you to pieces,” he whispered, his hand finally freeing your throat, but only to get to work on ripping your uniform shirt apart. The buttons clattered wildly across the floor, rolling freely each in their own directions.

You moved to protest but Mattheo shoved you back against the wall. He shook his head as if in disbelief you’d even try to get away from him at this point in time. In his mind, this was well-deserved punishment. If you were his girl, you were going to fucking listen to him. You knew what you were getting into when you first laid your lips on his.

With your shirt split down the middle, the only thing standing between his lips and your heaving body were a lacy bra and a pair of tights. The cold, gray air hit your soaked body so aggressively, you thought your teeth might start clacking together.

“All this going to waste because you couldn’t ask me for what you wanted,” he whispered. “I’m going to have to destroy this gorgeous body, when it should be worshiped.”

To your disbelief, he sank down to his knees and placed his hands gently on the back of your thighs. His scorching mouth made contact with your thighs—still covered in the thin material of your pantyhose—and he began to place wet, biting kisses along your flesh. He moved slowly from just above your knee to the top of your thigh. Each mean kiss ached as if they were done by a wild animal, but—just as he always fucking did—he soothed them with his skilled tongue afterwards. Never letting you hurt for too long.

Once he reached your core, fluttering in anticipation, he took a deep breath. The scent of your desire filled his senses as if it was his last meal. Just from how he’d loved in the past, you could tell that he was refraining from devouring you. But this was a punishment. No matter how sweet or caring he so often was, he was never going to let you have what you wanted.

“But that won’t do today…” he whispered against the surface of your tights just above your core, so close that his lips brushed across the sensitive skin. You withheld a whimper.

“Seems like it wasn’t happening any other day, either,” you chuckled breathlessly. You weren’t dropping this fucking routine. You wanted this and every inch of teasing Mattheo wanted to give you.

He laid a biting slap across your left thigh. The sound of it echoed throughout the room, only being interrupted by the cry that left your lips at the sudden abuse.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he demanded, his hand soothing the sore flesh.

He pressed one more kiss to the blossoming handprint, before sliding a short nail against the hosiery, ripping it instantly.

You gasped at the sensation, watching as he pulled on the material. It shredded down your leg, exposing your bare thighs to the pale light. Flaming red fingerprints bloodied the soft flesh and marked you as his.

Despite your annoyance at his lack of excitement during the last few times you’d fucked, the feeling of possession that he’d laid on you always made an impression. You felt like you belonged to him in every aspect of the word.

Then before you were able to let another smart-ass comment fly, he slipped his hand beneath the large shear in the tights and ripped a hole right across your aching groin, baring your searing cunt to the world.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Even though he was intending to punish, Mattheo couldn’t help but appreciate your body just a little bit. Though he wouldn’t admit it just yet, he could die happily buried within you.

Seeming to realize his “punishment” was a bit too sweet, he gripped your hips roughly and flipped your body around to face the wall. You helped aloud as the craggy stone bit into the skin of your breasts through your bra. The lace mixed with the cold wall made your nipples prick almost uncomfortably.

“Gonna fuck some manners into you, baby,” he murmured, his gravelly voice echoing against the curve of your spine. His mean fingers traced each nodule of each vertebrae until he reached the dimples imprinted in the small of your back.

His thumbs pressed deep against them, rubbing an easy massage into them for just a second.

“Feel good? You got any other dumbass things to say?”

“Why waste my breath? I’m gonna have to fake my fucking orgasm in a few seconds.”

You bit back a moan as he reached through your legs, gripped the hole he’d ripped in your tights, and widened it between your thighs. He pulled it up and over your ass.

“Yeah? You fake it every time, baby?” he growled into your ear, his heavy bulge pressing into your bare ass.

“Yeah,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whisper. Your hands were settled against your desk, fingers tightened around the edges, nails scratching into the wood. Your back was arched uncomfortably against his core, begging for every slight thrust he pressed into you. You could practically feel him within you already.

“You fake it every time you cum all over my cock, huh?” he asked. Behind you, you could hear him wrestling his belt out of its loops and dropping his trousers.

“Answer me, bitch,” he demanded, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head back against his chest.

“Fuck, Matty, that hurts!” you whined. It was a good, searing kind of pain but you didn’t want him to know that. Didn’t want him to know that your arousal was dripping down your legs by now.

“Yeah? That hurts?” he taunted. “That’s nothing, baby. You can take it.”

Then suddenly, his hot core was leant against the top of your ass. You were biting back a moan and running your fingers into the desk so hard they were going numb. Still, you weren’t going to give up.

“We’ll see if you can give it—fuck!”

He shut you up by slamming himself into you. The force of his intrusion hit your cervix at a sharp angle, sending stars into your eyes.

“Let me hear you fake it, yeah?” he groaned as he pulled himself out of you all the way to the tip before pushing himself back into you.

You couldn’t hide it anymore. Though you could still force some mean comments out every once and a while, you were unable to repress your moans.

“I’m basically an expert at this point!” you moaned.

“I bet,” he growled, his hips increasing in pace. “I know the way you clench around me everytime I take you from behind—” every sentence was pushed out between deep groans that echoed in your womb— “I’ve memorized every possible way you can scream my name…and I’ve learned every single thing I have to do to make that pretty pussy cum all over me.”

Following his words, his right hand snaked around your hip and pressed directly against your clit. He rubbed perfect circles into the sensitive spot, demanding a finish from you as soon as he could pull it from you.

“You’re a bit too cocky for my liking,” you breathed against his ruthless pounding. “I’d still like Enzo’s number.”

And with one final thrust, he pierced the bubble of pleasure that had bloomed rapidly in your stomach. You came impossibly hard, with the evidence of your high embarrassingly gushing around him. He pulled away from you and let your desire cover his stomach.

He laughed almost maniacally at the way your orgasm stretched out for what felt like hours.

And then, as you were finally coming down, he was pumping himself noisily into his hand and coming all of your lower back, painting the dimples he so loved to touch.

He moaned breathlessly, a slight crack in his voice, as he slowed his movements down and came down from his own high.

A tired laugh left his swollen lips as he trailed his finger through the remnants of his spend on your back and pushed his coated fingers into your sensitive entrance.

The overstimulation sent a flurry of ice up your spine. You cried at the sensation. Your legs fluttered before giving out.

On your way down to the floor, he caught you against his arms. Your knees were impossibly weak, but he was ever so strong.

“You faking this too, baby?” he clicked his tongue before settling you against your bed.

“Fuck you,” you sighed, your eyes fluttering against the ceiling. The lightheaded feeling floating through your skull was nearly too much for you to handle, but you were still high up on your pedestal and refused to come down.

Distantly, you could hear him pulling his pants up and rearranging his clothes.

Gently, he slid the remainder of your hosiery down your legs, unhooked your bra, and lifted you up off of the bed bridal-style. Somehow managing to cradle you with just one hand, he used his left to yank your comforter back, and settle you beneath it.

He leaned down beside your ear and pressed his lips to your temple. Just before he pulled all the way back, he began to whisper.

“The next time you wanna act like that—just remember that I fucked you to sleep, brat.”

- - -

Tag List: @lilymurphy03, @mypolicemanharryyy, @clairesjointshurt, @bunbunbl0gs, @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303, @thestarlithhideout, @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw, @yhiiil, @ravenclawprincess33, @xxrougefangxx, @thatblackthorn, @robinyx, @starsval, @jolly4holly, @blvebanisters, @chgrch, @abaker74, @ilovehotmenandwoman, @kissesbyarabella, @synicaljah

– thursday, 9:42 P.M.

it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.

you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.

then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.

you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."

clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"

you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."

clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."

you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."

clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.

he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."

your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."

clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.

maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.

you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."

clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"

"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."

his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"

you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"

he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.

your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–

clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.

"okay."

your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.

his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."

you blink. "yeah?"

he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.

you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."

"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.

"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"

your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.

"um... now?"

and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.

a beat passes.

"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.

he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.

"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.

clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.

it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.

he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.

the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.

he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.

your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.

you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.

your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.

you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.

there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.

clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.

he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.

your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.

"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.

you nod breathlessly. "please."

he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.

it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.

but this...

this is different.

this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.

his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."

you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."

"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.

"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.

"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.

his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.

you swallow. "you want it back?"

clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.

he kisses you again.

it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.

clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.

"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.

a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.

clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.

the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.

with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.

"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.

you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.

clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.

then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.

"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.

he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.

you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."

he lets out a breath, nodding.

clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.

his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.

your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.

"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."

you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."

he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.

clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.

"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."

his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.

you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.

he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.

your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.

"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.

"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.

"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.

your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.

"clark, i'm– oh my god–"

you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.

"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.

you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.

when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.

you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.

"your turn," you murmur against his lips.

clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."

you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."

he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."

you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.

clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.

you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.

"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.

clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.

your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.

your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.

"jesus, clark," you whisper.

"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.

"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.

"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."

he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.

"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.

"sweetheart..." he trails off.

there it is again. that damn pet name.

"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."

his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."

you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.

"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.

you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.

your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.

"feel good?" you ask.

clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."

you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.

you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.

you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.

he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.

you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.

clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.

you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.

"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"

you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.

"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.

why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?

you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.

clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).

you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.

he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.

"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."

"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."

and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.

your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.

you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.

his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.

"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.

"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.

you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.

he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.

you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."

clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.

you lift your hips up in answer.

he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.

you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.

"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.

you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"

he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."

your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.

you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.

it's clark after all.

any woman would be lucky to be with him.

you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."

the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.

clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.

is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?

then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folds, gathering slick.

you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.

"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you hate to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.

"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.

he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.

you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.

clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.

"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."

"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."

he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"

how sweet.

"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.

he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.

"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.

you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?

with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.

for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.

"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.

you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."

clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."

and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.

he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.

"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."

his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.

he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.

you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.

"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."

you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."

clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.

you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.

then he presses a kiss to your forehead.

and that’s when you know.

you’re fucked.

totally, completely, emotionally fucked.

the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.

the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.

your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.

you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.

his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.

you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.

how could he just... leave? no goodbye?

your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.

you shake your head bitterly.

but the ache in your chest says another story.

your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.

you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.

maybe not.

but still!

a text. a note. something.

you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.

it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?

you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.

within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.

you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.

"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.

you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."

he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."

your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.

he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.

apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.

still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?

you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.

the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.

around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."

you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"

"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."

and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.

you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.

but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.

and how different everything is now.

what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.

the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.

with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.

you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.

clark hadn't.

by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.

if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.

monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.

he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."

you blink. "thanks," you murmur.

the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.

now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.

you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.

at least not that you can tell.

lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."

you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.

"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.

you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.

by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.

you haven't looked clark in the eye once.

not really.

you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.

you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.

today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"

"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."

you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.

you don't touch it.

today 7:15 P.M.

and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.

but there's a knock at the door.

you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.

you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–

"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."

your stomach flips.

you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.

there he is.

normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.

you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.

"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.

you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.

"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."

it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.

clark doesn't say anything right away.

behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.

he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"

you nod and start the shut the door.

he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.

but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.

you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.

clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.

you freeze.

"what?"

"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."

your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.

clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.

you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.

"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.

clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."

"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."

clark waits. patient. unmoving.

the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.

but you don't.

you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.

"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.

clark's brow creases. "different?"

"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.

he waits.

"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."

clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."

"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."

with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."

you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.

"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.

clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"

you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."

a beat passes.

you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.

here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.

"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."

clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.

then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.

"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."

that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.

his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."

"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"

"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"

clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.

"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."

"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."

you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."

clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."

you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"

his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.

"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.

"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."

your breath hitches in your throat.

clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."

"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."

you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.

"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."

your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.

his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.

your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"

"i think you know."

"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.

he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."

your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.

"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."

your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.

so you choose to act instead.

you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.

it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.

he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.

he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.

his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.

"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.

you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.

"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.

you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.

the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.

so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.

"i need you," you whisper finally.

his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.

he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.

when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.

"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."

you shake your head. "please don't."

and that's his green light.

his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.

"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.

"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.

you smile – grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.

his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.

he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.

you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.

you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.

your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.

he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.

he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.

you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.

"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.

that damn pet name.

he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.

then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.

you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.

he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.

you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.

except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.

"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.

he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.

"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "

you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."

before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.

you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.

he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.

"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."

you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.

"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.

he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.

he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.

and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.

so, so close.

he pulls back.

your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."

you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.

"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.

"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.

"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."

"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.

he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.

with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.

"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."

clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.

"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.

you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.

"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.

"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.

his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."

you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."

clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."

you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.

"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.

"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.

"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.

clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.

"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"

you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.

it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.

then, finally, he bottoms out.

a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.

clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"

you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.

his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"

you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."

he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."

"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.

his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.

you must have the kindest man inside you right now.

"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.

he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.

clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.

the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.

"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."

you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.

"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.

"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.

"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.

you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).

“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”

he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”

“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.

his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.

“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”

your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.

your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”

your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”

you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”

with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.

you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.

"you okay?" he asks softly.

you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."

he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.

"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.

clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.

the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.

"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.

his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."

"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.

he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.

"you better."

sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble and without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.

for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.