#mattheosmut

summary: mattheo is used to quiet and pliant girls in bed so, imagine his surprise when you talk more than him.

warnings: 18+! mdni, heavy dirty talk, penetration, size kink, dom! mattheo thrown off his game 🤭

The air in Mattheo's room was thick, heavy with the scent of smoke, cedar, and something darker—something that clung to him like a second skin. The room was all shadows, the flicker of a single torch casting jagged lines across the stone walls, the heavy green curtains drawn tight to shut out the world. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, and you were already stripped bare, sprawled beneath him, heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it. Your clothes were a scattered trail from the door to the bed, ripped off in a frenzy of hands and mouths, the tension that had been building for weeks finally snapping.

Mattheo loomed over you, his broad frame caging you in, all lean muscle and scarred skin, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he stared down at you. Those eyes—black, hungry, dangerous—drank you in like you were prey, and fuck, you felt like it. He was shirtless, trousers barely clinging to his hips, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric. You’d never been with him before, never been this close, and the reality of him—his size, his intensity—made your stomach twist with nerves and want.

“Gonna fucking ruin you,” he growled, his voice low and rough, dripping with that cocky edge that made your thighs clench. His hands gripped your hips, hard enough to bruise, and he pushed your legs wider, his gaze dropping to the slick, aching heat between them. “You ready for me, or you gonna beg me to go slow?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, but you managed a nod, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m ready.” It was a lie, and he knew it—could see it in the way your body trembled, the way your breath hitched when he shoved his trousers down, freeing himself. His cock was thick, veined, heavy, and so fucking big it made your eyes widen, a flicker of panic mixing with the need pooling in your core.

Hesmirked, catching your reaction, and leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his stubble scraping your skin. “Don’t worry, princess,” he murmured, his voice dark and taunting. “I’ll make it fit.” He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance, glistening with your arousal, and you braced yourself, fingers digging into the sheets.

When he pushed in, it was slow but relentless, the stretch burning, overwhelming, as he filled you inch by agonizing inch. You tensed, a sharp gasp escaping you as your body struggled to adjust to his size, your cunt clenching tight around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion. “Fuck,” you whimpered, your voice shaking, your legs trembling as you arched beneath him, half-pain, half-pleasure. “Matty, you’re—fuck, you’re too big.”

He stilled, his cock buried halfway, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he let out a low, guttural groan. “Relax,” he growled, but his voice was softer than before, a rare hint of concern breaking through his dominance. “You’re takin’ me so well, just—fuck, just breathe.” He leaned down, biting at your neck, his teeth sharp enough to sting, grounding you as you gasped, your body slowly adjusting, the burn giving way to a deep, throbbing fullness that made your head spin.

When he started moving again, pushing deeper, you thought you’d break apart, the stretch so intense it stole your breath. But then he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, his cock filling you so completely you could feel him everywhere—deep, pulsing, claiming. He expected you to go quiet now, to turn into one of those girls he was used to—soft moans, maybe a shy whimper of his name, letting him take over, letting him fuck them into the mattress while they stayed pliant, passive, a perfect little pillow princess. He set a slow, brutal pace, each thrust rocking your body, the wet squelch of your cunt loud in the quiet room, slick dripping down your thighs and soaking his balls.

But you didn’t stay quiet. You couldn’t. The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a fucked-out babble that came from somewhere deep, somewhere desperate. “Fuck, Matty, s-so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling, slurred with pleasure as you clawed at his back. “Your cock’s so fucking big, splitting me open, s–shit—feels like you’re in my stomach.”

His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as your words hit him like a curse. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and dark, a flicker of shock breaking through his usual smug control. “Yeah?” he rasped, his voice rough, almost unsteady, like he couldn’t believe the filth pouring from your mouth. He was used to silence, to gasps and whimpers, not this—not you, babbling like a whore in heat, describing every raw sensation in vivid, desperate detail. It threw him, made his head spin, rutting faster inside you like an amateur, his cock twitching inside you as he tried to hold onto his control.

You didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, the words tumbling out as he fucked you harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts. “God, yes, right there,” you gasped, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him in, your cunt clenching so tight it made him groan. “Filling me so fucking good, Matty, fuck—love how you’re stretching me, so deep, so fucking full.” The sultry tone of your voice against his ear almost had his eyes rolling back, a full body shudder wrecking through him as his grip turned almost brutal against your hips.

His breath hitched, a low, broken sound, and you saw it—the way his control was cracking, the way your words were unraveling him. He was supposed to be the one in charge, the one making you beg, but your voice was a fucking hex, each syllable chipping away at his composure. He slammed into you harder, the headboard smacking the wall, the head of his cock rapidly pistoning into that perfect squishy spot inside you, his fingers digging into your hips so deep you’d feel the bruises for days. “Fuck, you’re—” he started, but cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to shake off the haze your words were casting. “Fuck, keep talking baby.”

You were too far gone to not, too lost in the pleasure, in the way his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, making your body sing. “Don’t stop, Matty,” you whined, your voice a messy, fucked-out slur, your nails raking down his back, leaving red welts. “Fuck me harder, wanna feel every inch of you, wanna come all over this big fucking cock.” Your words were incoherent, a babble of need and praise, and you felt slick gushing around him, coating your thighs, the obscene wet sound of him fucking you filling the room.

He groaned, a raw, desperate sound, his hips snapping faster, rougher, like he was trying to fuck the words out of you, but it only made you louder. “Shit, you’re so good, Matty, ruining me,” you moaned, your head lolling back, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure built, sharp and overwhelming. “Love how you fuck me, so fucking deep, making me yours, fuck—gonna come so hard, please, please.”

He was unraveling, his thrusts erratic, his breath ragged, his usual dominance fraying under the onslaught of your words. He leaned down, biting at your shoulder, hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting as he tried to ground himself, but your babbling was too much. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet,” he growled, his voice breaking, almost pleading. “Gonna make me come if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“Yes, yes, come in me, Matty,” you babbled, your voice a desperate, trembling mess as you clenched around him, your orgasm crashing closer. “Fill me up, want your cum so bad, want you dripping out of me, fuck—” Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body arching, shaking, as you came with a shattered cry of his name, your cunt pulsing around him, cream coating his dick and slick gushing down your thighs, soaking the sheets.

He followed right after, his groan raw and guttural, his cock twitching as he spilled inside you, his thrusts sloppy and desperate as he rode out the pleasure. His body shuddered, collapsing against you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a long moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your panting, the faint creak of the bed settling beneath you. Any thoughts he had of you being a one time thing were out the window now, you weren't getting rid of him if you tried.

Mattheo lifted his head, his eyes still dazed, a faint, disbelieving smirk tugging at his lips. “Fucking hell,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “Didn’t expect that mouth on you. You’re gonna fucking kill me next time.”

english isn’t my first, enemies to lovers, angst, mutual pining

                              ──  ✦  ──

The first time Mattheo Riddle said your name, it was to challenge you to a duel.

You, a fiery Gryffindor with a sharp mind and sharper tongue, smiled like someone throwing a match into gasoline knowing damn well you might get burned, but craving the fire anyway. Since then, it became routine.

Fighting him. Arguing with him. Beating him... or letting him win, just to see that cocky smirk he gets when he thinks he’s outsmarted you.

And everyone at Hogwarts thinks you hate each other. That you can’t be in the same hallway without throwing hexes or insults.

But you know better. There’s something else. You don’t know what. But it’s there. Buzzing under your skin. Crackling in the air when he's near. Like static electricity. Like danger. Like... wanting.

Everything shifts the day Professor Binns pairs you up for a research project. "Ancient Magic and Its Connection to Human Emotion," the scroll says.

Mattheo groans.

You cross your arms. Binns floats off like he didn’t just sign both your emotional death sentences. “Perfect,” Mattheo mutters. “Teamed up with a Gryffindor with a savior complex.”

You shoot back, “And you’re a Slytherin with a tragic villain complex. Guess we’re even.”

Days pass. You’re stuck in the library together. Sharing candlelight and dusty pages. You argue, he rolls his eyes, you throw ink, he throws sarcasm.

But then… something starts to change.

The silences stretch out, the stares linger, your fingers brush his when you reach for the same book.

And his breathing gets heavier when you lean in too close. Until, one night, it finally happens.

It’s in the Astronomy Tower. Past midnight. You snuck up there because the library closed early, and you needed to finish translating a spell on soulbonding. “You don’t believe in this, do you?” you ask, pointing to the page.

“In what?”

“In unavoidable connections.”

He laughs, but there's no humor. Just… something bitter. “And you do?”

You nod slowly. “Sometimes I think… we don’t get to choose who we hate. Or who we want.” You words hang between you, thick in the air. And then he steps forward.

Too close.

His eyes are dark, wild, wrecked.

His voice barely a whisper: “I don’t hate you.”

“What…?”

“I don’t hate you, fuck—” His voice shakes. “I hate myself for what I feel for you. For thinking about you all the time. For wanting to kiss you every time we argue. And not knowing how to stop.”

Your heart practically stops. Your breath catches. And then you do the only thing that makes sense in that moment You kiss him first.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s messy. Angry. Addictive. His hands are desperate. Your fingers tangle in his hair like a lifeline. It’s war turning into surrender. It’s silence turning into truth.

And for that one night, nothing else matters. Not the house rivalry. Not who he is. Not who you are. Just this. Just him. Just... you.

After the kiss… You don’t talk.

He left before the sun came up. And you walked back to Gryffindor Tower with trembling hands and swollen lips and a head full of chaos.

And since then? Mattheo Riddle hasn’t looked at you once.

Three days. Three fucking days. Nothing. No notes. No smirks. Not even a passing glare in class. Just silence.

And not the charged kind. The empty kind. The kind that screams: it meant nothing to him.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter to Hermione in the library, practically snapping your quill in half.

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Hermione raises an eyebrows “Riddle? Again?”

You lie. Say it’s just the project. Say he’s annoying. Say you wish Binns had paired you with literally anyone else. But that night, alone in the Room of Requirement where you used to work on the project together…

You admit it. It hurts. Not the silence. 

But what the silence means. Until one night, you see him. Mattheo. Alone. In the courtyard, smoking. It’s 2 a.m. The moon makes him glow silver. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, hair a mess, like the night sky just tossed him here for you to deal with.

You weren’t going to stop. You were going to keep walking, pretend you didn’t see him. Pretend you don’t care. But then, he speaks. Without looking at you. “You gonna ignore me too?”

Your whole body freezes. You turn. “Excuse me? I’m ignoring you?”

Now he looks at you. And God, you hate how pretty he is. “I don’t know what you expected,” you snap. “You kiss me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive, and then you vanish. Like I was some mistake.”

His expression changes. Quiet. Wrecked. “You’re not a mistake,” he says. “I am.” You stand still. The wind cuts through the air. So do his words. “You know what’s worse than hating you?” he murmurs. “Liking you. Wanting you. Knowing I can’t have you without ruining you.”

“You’re not ruining me, Mattheo,” you whisper. “You ruin me by leaving.” He steps forward. And again. And again.

“I’m not scared of anyone,” he says. “But you? You fucking terrify me.”

“Why?”

“Because when I’m with you… I feel real.”

And then the silence returns. But it doesn’t hurt this time. Now it means something. Now it’s not avoidance. It’s a promise.

That no matter how much you try to fight it, you’ll always crash back into each other. Because this didn’t start with hate. It started with fire.

And fire always comes back.

“He’s not your enemy. He never was. He was just the perfect distraction to hide the fact that you felt too much for him to admit.”

You don’t kiss again. Not for a while, but ever since that night in the courtyard, everything changes. No more insults. No more sarcastic jabs. Something worse.

Stolen glances. Silent tension. Close proximity that feels like drowning. Professor McGonagall calls you two the most “efficient pair” in class.

If only she knew you spent 45 minutes in front of a book without reading a single word. You, pretending to take notes. Him, drawing random shapes in the corner of the parchment, right next to your hand.

And once, just once. When everyone left the classroom… he touched your wrist. His thumb brushed your skin. And you didn’t breathe for seven seconds.

The Room of Requirement becomes your secret routine. You never arrive together. But he’s always there first. Sitting in the same chair. One candle lit. A book open he never reads, because he’s too busy watching you.

Like you’re the only spell he can’t figure out. And you? You let him.

Then one night, it happens again. You’re pissed.  You saw him with Pansy Parkinson all day. Laughing. Standing too close.

“What is your deal?” you ask the moment you step into the room.

He doesn’t even look up. “What now?”

“Are you messing with me?”

He raises a brow. “Does it bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me! I’m not some game to you, Mattheo.”

He stands up, slow and steady. “You think you’re a game to me? After everything?”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

But not the kind you run from. This one hurts. He breathes out.

“You’re my fucking weakness. That’s what you are.”

You freeze. He steps closer. Closer. Closer. “Everyone sees me as the threat. The son of the monster. And I became that. It was easier. Being feared. Untouchable.” His voice cracks barely.

“Then you came along. And you didn’t fear me. You saw me. And now I don’t know how to protect myself from you.”

So you kiss him. But this time, not out of impulse. Out of choice. Out of need. Out of something you’re both too scared to name.

And this time, he kisses you like he finally gets it. Like he wants to stay.

That night, for the first time, you fall asleep in the Room of Requirement. Together. Nothing else happens. Just you. His breath against your neck. His fingers laced with yours. There’s still a war waiting outside those walls.

But for tonight? There are no sides.

Just the two of you. On the edge of something beautiful. And terrifying.

And completely real.

summary: you're trying to work on your potions homework when mattheo decides he can't keep his hands to himself.

warnings: MDNI! heavy heavy dirty talk, dom! mattheo, public risk, pinv, hair pulling, slight size kink, breeding kink, language

The table beneath your arms was rough, scarred with years of careless knife work and stray potion burns. You leaned close, lips moving silently as you read through the cramped scrawl of instructions in your book, your finger tracing the line you didn’t dare lose track of. Shadows clung stubbornly in the corners, making the dungeon feel smaller, more secret, as if you were the only soul alive beneath the castle.

The air was chill, biting at your skin every time you paused long enough to notice it, but the focus of your task kept your blood warm, your head bent, eyes narrowed in determination. The potion bubbled obediently, the parchment drank in your notes, and the silence swelled, cocooning you—

Until the scrape of a chair leg broke it, and the whisper of movement pulled your attention from the words on the page.

And then you felt it—warm, calloused fingers ghosting against the hem of your skirt, teasing the bare skin just above your knee. The contact was so sudden, so brazen, that your quill stuttered across the parchment, leaving a dark blot of ink where your hand faltered.

Your breath caught, pulse spiking in your throat. You didn’t need to look; you knew that touch, knew the heat of it, the deliberate slowness of a boy who thrived on testing your patience.

“Mattheo,” you hissed, voice sharp and warning as you smacked his hand away, eyes still glued to your notes in a futile attempt at control. “Not here.”

The corner of your vision caught the curl of his smirk anyway, the lazy confidence that never faltered, not even when you scolded him. He didn’t retreat. If anything, his presence seemed to thrum closer, heat radiating from him as he leaned into your space.

But the boy didn’t listen. He never did.

His touch returned almost immediately, more insistent this time, sliding back beneath the fabric of your skirt with the kind of arrogance that made your breath falter. The pads of his fingers brushed higher, skimming the soft skin of your inner thigh until you jolted, the motion rattling the inkpot on the table.

“Why not here?” he murmured, his voice curling around you like smoke, low and silken, the faintest rasp of amusement undercutting the hunger that thrummed in every word. His breath was hot against your ear, making you shiver despite the chill of the dungeon. You could practically hear the smirk tugging at his lips, the wicked delight in pushing you to the edge of your restraint.

“No one’s around,” he went on, his fingers trailing just a fraction higher, thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh of your thigh. “Just you, me…” he tilted his head, lips ghosting so close to your ear that goosebumps raced down your arms, “…and all these little bottles ready to shatter if you scream too loud.”

You shivered, heat already pooling low in your stomach despite yourself, treacherous and insistent. The cauldron bubbled steadily beside you, the sharp scent of crushed valerian root biting at your nose as you struggled to focus on anything but the hand creeping higher beneath your skirt.

“You’re going to make me spill my potion—” you whispered, voice tight, straining for composure. Your fingers clenched around the quill so hard the feather bent, the parchment beneath your hand smudged with ink from where your writing had faltered.

Mattheo only chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, vibrating against your spine as he pressed closer, chest warm against your back. His hand didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate—fingertips teasing the edge of your knickers now, tracing lazy, maddening circles on the thin fabric as if daring you to stop him.

“Good,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, the word a taunt wrapped in a groan. “Maybe I want you to spill it. Maybe I want everyone to know you can’t focus on anything when I’ve got my hands on you.”

His other hand moved suddenly, tangling in your hair with a roughness that made your breath hitch. He tugged, forcing your head back just enough to bare your throat to him, your pulse thrumming wildly under the thin veil of skin.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” he muttered, his voice thick with hunger. His lips ghosted along the column of your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake before he grazed you with sharp teeth. The scrape stung, quick and biting, and you gasped—but then his tongue followed, slow and deliberate, soothing the mark as though he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour you.

You gasped when his hand shoved your skirt up to your waist, the cool dungeon air rushing against your bare thighs. Your knickers were yanked down in one fluid, practiced motion, the fabric pooling uselessly around your knees before you had the chance to catch your breath.

Before a protest could form on your lips, Mattheo pressed down hard on your shoulder, bending you over the scarred wooden worktable. The sharp edge bit into your hips, the cauldron beside you bubbling in defiance, and a collection of glass vials rattled threateningly close to the edge at the sudden force of your body meeting the surface.

“Mattheo—” you hissed, voice high and panicked, though your pulse betrayed you, thundering with anticipation.

The sharp crack of his palm against your ass stole the words from your tongue, the sting sparking heat low in your belly. You jolted forward with a muffled gasp, nails clawing at the rough wood for purchase.

His chuckle followed—low, dark, and unhurried, curling through the heavy dungeon air like smoke. He leaned over you, his chest pressing into your back, curls brushing your cheek as his lips hovered just above your ear.

“If you don’t want to get caught, love,” he drawled, the words thick with amusement and hunger, “you’ll shut your pretty mouth.”

The blunt press of his cock ground against your bare, slick entrance through the rough fabric of his trousers, the friction maddening. You whimpered, hips jerking despite yourself, and he chuckled darkly, his smirk curling against your skin as he leaned closer.

“Or…” he murmured, dragging the syllable like a promise, lips grazing the shell of your ear until your breath stuttered. His voice dropped lower, almost a growl, “…I’ll fill it instead.”

The words sent heat shooting down your spine, pooling heavy between your thighs. His grip in your hair tightened, pulling your head back so your cheek pressed to the cold wood of the table, forcing you to feel every inch of his control. The bubbling cauldron hissed beside you, the vials rattled, and still all you could focus on was the way his cock pushed harder, rutting against your folds as if he wanted to ruin you through the fabric.

“Either way,” he added, hips grinding a little rougher, “I’m going to have you.”

The blunt head of him pressed inside before you could form an answer, tearing a gasp from your lips. The sharp, relentless stretch made your nails claw desperately at the wood of the table, splinters biting your palms as your body struggled to take him. Bottles rattled in protest, liquid sloshing dangerously close to spilling over the edges of their vials.

“Fuck,” Mattheo groaned, the sound low and broken, his chest pressed flush against your back. He didn’t ease you in, didn’t give you time to adjust—his hips snapped forward in a brutal thrust that seated him fully inside, burying himself to the hilt.

The sudden fullness stole the breath from your lungs, the ache deep and overwhelming, and yet his grip only grew tighter. His fist twisted in your hair, forcing your head back until you had no choice but to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes blazed with smug, wicked satisfaction, dark curls clinging to his damp forehead, lips pulled into a grin that was half feral, half triumphant. He looked utterly undone and yet completely in control, like he’d planned every second of this chaos.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice breaking with the sheer force of it as he fucked into you harder, faster. Each thrust drove you against the table so violently the wood groaned and the desk rattled beneath you, vials clinking like they might shatter at any second.

“So desperate,” he hissed, the words punching out of him between ragged breaths, his hips snapping with brutal precision. His cock stretched you wide, deliciously overwhelming, dragging against every nerve until your eyes blurred and your mouth opened in a silent cry.

“Stretched wide for me,” he groaned, leaning over you, his curls brushing your cheek, his lips hovering just above your ear. The heat of his body caged you in, the sharp bite of his grip in your hair anchoring you as he drove deeper, harder, reckless in his obsession.

“Gods, you drive me insane,” he snarled, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as though your body was undoing him as much as he was wrecking you. His smirk still tugged at his lips despite the desperation in his thrusts, that wicked, maddening satisfaction that only grew when he felt your walls clench helplessly around him.

The table beneath you rattled violently, ink splattering across your parchment, the cauldron threatening to tip—and still Mattheo fucked you like nothing in the world mattered but burying himself inside you, again and again, until you broke.

A vial toppled from the edge of the desk, glass clinking as it rolled across the stone floor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your body shook with every brutal thrust, the table groaning under the force of him driving you into it, the burn of his cock stretching you raw and perfect.

Your moans rose high, desperate and unrestrained—until his hand clamped over your mouth. The slap of his palm was firm, silencing you in an instant, the scent of ink and smoke filling your nose as your muffled cries vibrated against his skin.

“Shhh,” he growled, the sound guttural, vibrating against your ear as his hips slammed forward, pounding deeper and deeper. Each thrust stretched you so wide your vision blurred, the edges of your sight hazy with stars. The rough drag of him against your walls made your body jolt helplessly, your nails raking grooves into the scarred wood of the desk.

“Don’t want Slughorn to know,” he went on, voice sharp and taunting, every word punctuated by another brutal snap of his hips, “that his favorite little student—” he groaned low, the sound breaking as your cunt squeezed tight around him, “—is nothing more than my fucktoy, do you?”

Your muffled moan answered him anyway, your cries swallowed by his palm still clamped hard over your mouth. His laugh was dark and low, his lips curling against your cheek as he leaned closer, grinding in deep until your body shook.

“That’s what you are,” he hissed, teeth grazing your jaw. “My pretty toy. Spread open in a bloody dungeon, dripping all over my cock while the castle sleeps. You love it, don’t you?”

The table rattled violently beneath you, glass rattling like it would shatter, but all you could focus on was him—his voice, his thrusts, the way he filled you so completely it bordered on unbearable.

His smirk widened when your muffled whimper broke against his palm, the sound swallowed but not lost. Your body betrayed you completely—your walls fluttered helplessly around him, squeezing tight with every brutal thrust, trying to hold him deeper, tighter, like you couldn’t bear to let him go.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered, voice thick with triumph, every word a dark caress against your ear. His hips ground forward with savage precision, pushing deeper until your stomach flipped and your legs trembled. “Clench for me. Let me feel it.”

Your vision blurred, tears pricking your lashes, the sting of his pace matched only by the searing pleasure that burned low in your belly.

“Fuck—” Mattheo groaned, the sound ripped straight from his chest as his grip in your hair tightened. His eyes blazed with feral hunger when you dared glance back, his curls damp, his mouth curved in a smile far too wicked for how ruined he looked. “Gonna ruin you right here, love. Shatter you all over Slughorn’s bloody desk.”

A vial toppled, smashing to the floor in a hiss of smoke, but he didn’t slow—if anything, the destruction seemed to spur him on. His thrusts came harder, faster, the table jerking beneath you, cauldrons sloshing dangerously.

“Bet you’ll never brew another potion,” he rasped, his words a growl as his hips slammed forward one last brutal time, “without thinking of my cock splitting you open.”

The table groaned beneath the force of his thrusts, glass vials clinking dangerously close to the edge, one shattering to the floor as Mattheo drove into you with relentless, punishing rhythm. Every slam of his hips shoved you higher against the wood, the sharp stretch of him filling you so completely it bordered on unbearable.

Your muffled cries broke against his palm, raw and desperate, and he chuckled darkly, sweat dripping from his temple as his curls clung damp to his forehead.

“That’s it, darling,” he rasped, his voice wrecked, hips stuttering with how tight you were clenching around him. “Keep squeezing me—fuck—you’re going to milk me dry."

The words pushed you over the edge, pleasure tearing through your body in violent waves. Your thighs shook, nails raked across the scarred wood, and your walls spasmed wildly around him, clenching and fluttering as though your body wanted to drag him deeper, hold him there forever. The heat of it burned you alive, blinding, your muffled scream swallowed by his palm as you convulsed beneath him.

Mattheo groaned loud and guttural, his head dropping to your shoulder as he felt you unravel around him, his smirk tugging even through his ragged moans.

You shuddered, nails scraping deep gouges into the wood, body convulsing as the aftershocks of your orgasm ripped through you. Your walls spasmed wildly around him, clenching, fluttering, squeezing—and Mattheo’s composure shattered.

“Fuck—” he choked, the sound raw, his rhythm breaking as your cunt dragged every ounce of control from him. His hips slammed forward one last desperate time, burying himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing hot and thick as he spilled inside you.

His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, curls damp and clinging, his hand shaking in your hair as a dark, broken groan tore from his chest. He held you there, pinned to the desk, grinding deep as if he could carve himself into you, fill you so completely you’d never forget the way he ruined you in this dungeon.

The warmth flooded you, thick and hot, and he stayed pressed deep, grinding his hips forward to push it further inside as if he couldn’t stand the thought of a single drop escaping. His hand slid from your mouth to grip your jaw, forcing you to turn your head so he could kiss you—slow, filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while he pulsed inside you.

When he finally pulled back, his smirk was back in place, dimples flashing through the sweat, eyes gleaming with smug triumph. He gave a lazy thrust, making you gasp as his spend leaked down your thighs onto the stone floor.

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, his lips brushing your ear as you trembled against the desk. “Messy little potion, isn’t it? My favorite one yet.”

Another vial tipped, splashing across the table and dripping to the floor, the acrid scent of burnt ingredients thick in the air. Mattheo didn’t so much as glance at it—his eyes were fixed solely on you, on the way your body shivered, still stretched and full of him, ruined and breathless.

Slowly, deliberately, he drew his hips back. The sharp stretch gave way to an obscene slickness, and his cock slid free with a wet sound that made your cheeks burn. His release spilled out immediately, dripping hot down your thighs, splattering the wood beneath you.

Mattheo smirked, dimples flashing with wicked satisfaction as he took in the sight of your wrecked body and the sticky mess he’d left behind. His fingers spread you open just to watch more of him drip out, a dark chuckle vibrating from his chest.

kind of angst/smut/fluff ?? ex bf mattheo who is still in love, rough sex happy ending!

God, you were livid.

More than livid—seething, a live wire under your skin. You’d done it again: let yourself believe another man’s hands could ever feel like his. That someone else’s mouth could make you forget. And where had that blind optimism landed you?

Right here, heels stabbing the stone floor outside his door like you were trying to drill straight through the castle. Breath fogging in the cold corridor, cheeks burning from cheap Firewhisky and the sharper sting of failure. Sexually frustrated didn’t begin to cover it; you were aching, hollowed-out, furious at your own body for its stubborn loyalty.

You knew exactly what you were missing: those stupid, endless brown eyes that always looked half-drunk on you; the low rasp of his voice when he said your name like a prayer and a curse at once; the way his fingers mapped you like he’d memorized every sensitive inch years ago and was only too happy to prove it.

The problem—the infuriating, unsolvable problem—was that you’d walked away. Well. Bolted.

Mattheo Riddle had been in love with you. Not the pretty, polite kind of love, either; the messy, obsessive, can’t-breathe-without-you kind. He would’ve burned the world down if you asked him to, and then handed you the ashes with ghat stupid crooked smile of his. And one night, curled against his chest with his heartbeat thundering under your ear, he’d said it. Three syllables, casual as commenting on the rain against the windowpane. I love you. Like it was nothing. Like he couldn't hold it back anymore.

You’d panicked. Bolted down the corridor so fast your lungs burned. Three months of convincing yourself freedom tasted better than safety, three months of swallowing the loneliness because commitment felt like drowning.

Your body, apparently, had not received the bloody memo.

That poor Ravenclaw was still back in the broom closet, confused and aching, trousers half-down, wondering what he’d done wrong when all he’d done was not be him.

Before your fist could even connect with the wood, the door swung open.

You dragged your gaze up—slow, mortified—and there they were: those ridiculous, warm-brown eyes, molten in the dim light, and a smirk that said he’d been expecting you for hours.

“Starting to think you like the chase more than the finish, baby,” he drawled, voice rolling over you like whiskey and smoke, sinking straight into your bloodstream. The sound alone sent heat licking low in your belly.

He leaned against the doorframe, all lazy confidence, grey sweatpants slung criminal-low on his hips, the faint outline beneath them making your mouth go dry. His hair was a riot of dark curls, like he’d been dragging his hands through it—or waiting for someone else to. The faint scent of cedar, cigarette smoke, and him curled into the air between you, familiar enough to make your knees traitorous.

He tilted his head, smirk deepening. “Come to punish me again for ruining you for everyone else?”

You wanted to roll your eyes, to turn on your heel and let pride win for once, let the ache between your thighs stay a punishment you actually deserved. But God, those eyes, those same reckless, fever-bright eyes that had sent you running three months ago, were still fixed on you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. Dark, endless, a little dangerous. They always stripped you bare long before his hands ever got the chance.

Every single time you came crawling back, pride crumbled somewhere between the corridor and his doorway, crushed beneath the sharper, stupid need to be wanted, truly wanted, by the one person who’d memorised the exact pitch of your gasp when he curled his fingers just right, who knew the filthy little praise that turned your spine to liquid.

He never made you beg. Never made you say the words. He just opened the door wider, let you tumble into the orbit he’d never stopped keeping warm for you.

Your gaze dragged downward, slow, helpless, past the sharp cut of his hipbones, past the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath soft grey cotton that was rapidly losing the fight against what you did to him by just showing up. The thick, growing ridge straining the fabric made your mouth water and your thighs clench involuntarily.

He knew. Of course he knew.

Mattheo’s tongue touched the corner of his smirk, lazy and wicked. “See something you want, baby?” he murmured, voice rough velvet, close enough now that you could taste mint and smoke on every exhaled breath. “Or are you pretending you’re here for any other reason?”

Your voice slipped out soft, airless, almost a whine. “Don’t make me say it, Matty.”

You let your lower lip tremble, just enough, the little pout you knew turned him inside out. A cheap trick, maybe, but it worked every time. His gaze dropped instantly, always such a fool for you, pupils blowing wide like you’d flicked a switch. He didn’t need the reminder. Those lips haunted him every night he shut his eyes he felt them, plush and slick, sliding down his cock while his own hand tried and failed to match the wet heat he still tasted in his sleep.

He was done waiting.

One second the corridor air was cold on your skin, the next his fist was bunched in the front of your jacket, yanking you over the threshold. The door slammed behind you with a thud that echoed down the empty hall. Before you could draw breath he had you pinned, spine meeting the rough stone wall with just enough force to rattle the air from your lungs.

His body crowded yours, solid and burning hot, the sharp scent of cedar and smoke and him flooding your senses until the whole world narrowed to the places you touched. Thigh sliding between yours, pressing up hard enough to make you gasp. Forearm braced beside your head, caging you in. The other hand still twisted in your jacket like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

Mattheo’s mouth lingered a breath away, every rough exhale ghosting over your lips like warm whiskey.

“Show me what he did wrong, baby,” he growled low, never pretending he didn't know about your pathetic mission to replace him, always fully aware you were incapable. The sound of his voice scraping low, lethal, sinking straight into your bones. “Tell me how fucking useless he was.”

His hands shoved under your shirt, palms hot and calloused, branding your ribs. A broken moan spilled out of you raw, filthy, unstoppable and that slow, vicious smile spread across his face because no one else on earth could drag that noise from your throat and he knew it.

You knew you shouldn’t feed him. Knew you should bite your tongue until it bled. But his fingertips were already moving, reverent and ravenous, mapping the body he’d memorized and mourned for ninety-one sleepless nights. He'd counted, of course.

“He kissed like a slob,” you whispered, cheeks on fire. “All spit and clumsy tongue, like he was trying to lick the taste out of me.”

Mattheo laughed, soft and dark, the sound brushing the shell of your ear and shooting liquid heat down your spine. That laugh, so unguarded and gentle, the one he never gave anyone else, always melted you from the inside out. His hands kept roaming: hard squeezes over your hips that made you sway into him, feather-light trails up your stomach that prickled every inch of skin awake, fingers slipping beneath lace to cradle your breasts until your back bowed hard, begging.

His other palm dragged your skirt to your waist, kneading the curve of your arse, spreading you just enough that cool air kissed the wet heat between your thighs and you whimpered.

“He kept asking if it felt good,” you gasped, “kept rubbing the inside of my thigh like a lost bloody tourist, missing the only thing that mattered.”

“Missing what, sweetheart?” His voice was black velvet and sin. You could feel the hunger pulsing off him as his mouth skimmed the swell of your breast, tongue tracing lace, teeth scraping skin. “Say the words and I’ll give you everything, baby. You know I always do.”

His teeth closed in a gentle bite just above your nipple, waiting, breath scorching.

Your brain was already running dumb, the only signals in it were where his hands and mouth were touching. He didn't have to convince you to tell him anything, as long as he just didn't stop.

“He couldn’t find my clit if I’d spotlighted it and drawn arrows.”

A deep, guttural chuckle vibrated against your skin. He ripped your slutty thong aside, two fingers sliding through slick folds to circle that aching, swollen bundle with merciless, perfect precision.

“There she is,” he rasped, pressing hard, slow, devastating circles that buckled your knees and blurred the world at the edges. “There’s my good girl.”

His knees hit the carpet with a soft thud you felt through the soles of your feet. Those warm, wicked brown eyes tilted up, pinning you in place while his tongue dragged slow across his bottom lip, deliberate, like he could already taste you.

He hooked one of your trembling legs over his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft back of your thigh, spreading you open until cool air kissed slick, swollen skin. The heat of his breath ghosted over you first, a teasing promise, then the faint scrape of stubble as he leaned in, nose brushing the crease where thigh meets cunt.

“Twenty-eight days,” he rasped, reminding you of the last time your resolve broke, voice rough with starvation, the words vibrating against your clit. “Twenty-eight fucking nights of my fist and your name and this perfect pussy I could still taste every time I closed my eyes.”

He inhaled, deep and filthy, like a man finally breathing after months underwater, and the low, broken sound that followed made your hips jerk toward his mouth all on their own.

“Yeah?” His voice is pure smoke and gravel, every syllable dragged against your soaked folds so you feel the vibration deep in your belly. “You like hearing how fucking wrecked I was, baby? Knowing you can spread your legs for half the castle and still crawl back here dripping because no one else makes you feel this?”

Heat floods your cheeks, scalding shame and raw want twisted together, but it’s already too late. His tongue flattens, broad and scorching, sliding up the length of your clit in one slow, deliberate lick that rips the air from your lungs. Then his lips seal over you, sucking hard, filthy, the wet sound echoing off stone walls like a claim staked in front of the whole damn castle.

Your knees buckle. Your hands dive into his hair, fingers twisting through thick, unruly curls still damp from an earlier shower, the faint scent of his shampoo rising as you yank him closer. He growls into you, the vibration rolling straight through your clit, and your hips jerk helplessly against his mouth.

He doesn’t ease up. Tongue swirling, flicking, relentless, lapping at you like he’s starving and you’re the first thing he’s tasted in weeks. Every stroke is perfect, merciless, the exact pressure and rhythm that turns your spine molten. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders; your breath comes in sharp, broken sobs.

“Still the sweetest thing I’ve ever had on my tongue,” he rasps between obscene licks, breath blistering hot against swollen flesh. “Your stubborn ass is still all mine.”

“Ah, fuck, Matty—” The words fracture into a sob as his tongue lashes your clit again, ruthless, perfect. “S’too good.”

That’s the sound he lives for: your voice cracking open, raw and wrecked, the moment your brain melts out of your ears and drips down his chin. He groans into you, filthy and reverent, the vibration rolling straight through your core. You taste like warm honey and sin, thick and slick, coating his tongue, his lips, running in glossy rivulets down his jaw to soak the pale skin on his chest. He doesn’t care. He wants to drown in it, wants the mess branded on his skin until the next time you pretend you can live without this.

His arms lock tighter around your hips, fingers bruising, dragging you down harder onto his greedy mouth like he could swallow you whole if he tried. Your thigh trembles against his cheek, stubble scraping raw, and he growls again when you tug his curls hard enough to sting.

One hand slips lower. The pad of his finger circles your clenching entrance once, twice, teasing, collecting the slick that’s already dripping down your legs. Then he sinks two fingers deep in a single, brutal thrust, curling them up into that spongy spot that whites out your vision. Your back bows off the wall, a broken cry tearing loose as pleasure detonates behind your eyes in blinding, glittering stars.

Say whatever you want about the Dark Lord’s son, monster, murderer, nightmare dressed in green, but Merlin, the boy can fuck. He plays your body like he wrote the damn manual, every stroke of his tongue and twist of his fingers designed to ruin you for anyone else forever.

Your stomach clenches, a tight, molten coil snapping loose with humiliating speed, a climax that other boys have chased for hours over the past month, fumbling and useless, now crashing over you in mere minutes under the hands of the one you swore you could leave behind. That devastating smirk curls his lips again, sharp and knowing, because he feels it—every tiny, traitorous twitch of your body betraying you. He’s memorized you inside and out, the frantic flutter of your walls pulsing around his fingers, the way your eyes glaze and your mouth falls open in that perfect, fucked-out haze he’ll carry behind his eyelids forever.

His fingers pump faster, relentless, knuckles grazing that sweet, spongy spot with every brutal thrust, slick sounds filling the air as his fingers push in and out. His mouth turns ravenous, sloppy, tongue dragging messy and hot across your folds, lips sucking hard enough to bruise. The scrape of his stubble burns your inner thighs, raw and red, and you smell the faint cedar of his skin, taste the salt of yourself on the air as he groans into you, low and animal, like he’s feasting on the last meal he’ll ever have.

“Oh—m’gonna, oh!” Your voice cracks, a desperate, keening sob, hips jerking wild against his face as the world blurs into heat and static and him.

He pulls back just enough for you to feel the sudden loss of heat, then spits, once, deliberate and filthy, right onto your swollen clit. The warm slick lands with a soft sound that punches the air from your lungs; his dark eyes flick up to lock on yours, gleaming with raw possession, daring you to watch what he does to you.

You can’t.

Your head slams back against stone as the orgasm rips through you, violent, blinding waves that start deep in your belly and explode outward. Every muscle seizes, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. His tongue turns soft, languid, lapping slow and gentle through the spasms, coaxing every aftershock until your legs shake like they’ll give out.

He drinks you down like it’s communion. Long, greedy pulls, eyes fluttering shut, lashes casting shadows over sharp cheekbones. Your release slicks his lips, his chin, spills in glistening trails down the column of his throat, catching the low torchlight as it drips over the ridges of his abs and disappears beneath the waistband still clinging low on his hips.

The room smells of sex and expensive perfume and him. Your own heartbeat thunders so loud you barely hear the low, reverent groan he gives when he finally swallows the last of you, like he’s tasting home after months in exile.

You barely have time to suck in a breath before his palm lands in a sharp, wet little smack right against your slick pussy, the sting blooming hot and bright, ripping a breathy, broken yelp from your throat. He’s already rising, towering, mouth crashing over yours in a hungry, claiming kiss that tastes like your own arousal sharp and unmistakable on his tongue. His hands are everywhere at once, frantic, yanking at fabric, buttons popping, zippers rasping down as he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress.

One gentle shove and you’re on your back, air whooshing out of you; then he’s prowling over you like something feral, forearms caging your head, the heat of his skin searing against yours. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time but deeper, tongue stroking in a rhythm that promises ruin, while his rough hands hook behind your knees and fold you open, pressing your thighs to your chest until you’re bent nearly in half and deliciously exposed.

The heavy, velvet weight of his cock drags through your soaked folds, once, twice, painting himself in your wetness. A low, guttural groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your lips. Then he fists himself, thick and throbbing, and slaps the swollen head against your clit, once, sharp and electric, twice, harder, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room, each impact sending a jolt after jolt of raw pleasure spiking straight through your core.

“Fuck… missed you too much to be gentle.”

The words scrape out of him, raw and ragged, right before he drives forward in one brutal thrust, burying every thick, unforgiving inch to the root. The stretch is blinding, white-hot, splitting you open so suddenly your toes curl hard enough to cramp, a broken wail tearing from your throat as your mind whites out. Your nails claw at his shoulders, scrabbling for anything to anchor you while your body tries to remember how to take him, how to breathe around him.

“Ah—Matty, s’too deep—” It’s half sob, half plea, tears already stinging at the corners of your eyes, your walls fluttering in frantic protest around the impossible heat of him.

“You can take it, baby,” he rasps, voice trembling with restraint even as his hips snap forward again, sharp, punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. “This is what you get for always running from me.”

His hands, God, his hands, slide up your throat so tenderly it hurts, thumbs stroking the fragile skin beneath your jaw, tracing the frantic jump of your pulse like he’s memorizing it. The contrast is dizzying: gentle palms cradling your face while his cock carves you open with merciless, grinding strokes that punch the air from your lungs.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing the salt of your tears, voice cracking with something raw and possessive. “So fucking scared of staying.”

Your glassy, wrecked eyes meet his, dark, blown wide, glittering with unshed tears and desperate want, and the sight drags a shameless, guttural moan from deep in his chest. He bottoms out again, hips flush to yours, grinding slow and filthy so you feel every throb, every vein.

“But this pussy?” He pulls back just to slam home once more, the head of his cock kissing so deep your vision sparks. “This greedy little thing doesn’t want anyone else, does she?”

He punctuates the question with a roll of his hips that drags over that devastating spot inside you, and your answer is nothing but a broken, wet cry as your walls clamp down around him, fluttering, milking, already begging for everything you swore you’d never give him again.

“Say it, baby,” he coaxes, voice velvet-rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his cock throbs deep inside you, thick and unmoving, keeping you stuffed full. “Tell me no one can fuck you like me.”

Your jaw clenches; pride flares hot behind your ribs once more. You want to bite the words back, want to deny him the satisfaction, but he’s buried so perfectly, stretching you open, pulse hammering against your fluttering walls, and your body is already betraying you.

He drags the pad of his thumb down, finds your clit slick, sensitive and swollen, and starts rubbing slow, cruel, perfect circles. The pleasure is immediate, vicious, a live wire dragged over raw nerves. Your hips jerk without permission; a helpless, wet sound spills from your throat.

“N-no one,” you choke out, hating how wrecked you already sound, “just you, fuck—Mattheo!”

The smirk that carves across his face is pure sin, sharp and filthy and triumphant. He rolls his hips once, deliberate, grinding the thick head of his cock right against that spot that makes your spine bow and your vision spark white. Your breath catches on a silent scream; tears slip hot down your temples into your hair.

“My name again, sweetheart,” he growls, low and dangerous, thumb never stopping its torment, hips starting a slow, grinding rhythm that punches little broken gasps out of you with every drag. “Let me hear how pretty it sounds when you’re falling apart on my cock.”

The instant your walls flutter and clamp down around him, tight and desperate, he knows. Of course he knows—every filthy secret of your body is etched into his muscle memory, every telltale sign branded on his soul. That wicked smirk flashes across his sweat-slick face again, dark eyes gleaming with triumph as he feels you unraveling from the inside out.

His fingers blur over your swollen clit, circling faster, merciless, the rough pads slick with you and pressing just right, every stroke locking in perfect, devastating rhythm with the deep, punishing snap of his hips. The wet sounds of skin on skin fill the room, obscene and echoing, mingling with your broken whimpers and the low, animal grunts rumbling from his chest.

You’re gone—blissfully, utterly fucked stupid. Drool slips from the corner of your parted lips, warm and shameless, trailing down your chin as your head lolls back against the pillow. Your eyes are glassy, heavy-lidded, locked on him. The flex of his abs with every thrust, the sheen of sweat glistening over inked skin, the way his dark curls stick to his forehead, wild and damp. God, he’s beautiful like this—feral, powerful, carved from shadow and sin. Ex or not, the sight of him alone could ruin you all over again.

He leans down, teeth grazing your earlobe, breath scorching hot. “That’s it, baby,” he rasps, voice shredded with restraint. “Come apart on my cock. Show me who you really belong to.”

Your moans shatter into frantic, breathy chants of his name, each syllable spilling from your swollen lips like a plea and a prayer. The sound races down his spine in electric shivers, raw and intoxicating, that pretty voice wrapping around “Matty” until his control frays at the edges.

He’s done being gentle. Your orgasm has barely ebbed when his own hunger surges, brutal and unforgiving. His hips snap faster, harder, pounding into your slick, fluttering heat with a desperation that borders on violence—the slap of skin on skin echoing sharp and wet, the bed creaking under the force. Sweat beads on his throat, trickling down the sharp lines of his chest, the air thick with salt and sex and the faint musk of him.

Beautiful, broken moans tear from his parted lips, ragged and low, as his head falls back. Dark curls cling to his damp forehead; his eyes squeeze shut in ecstasy, biceps bulging and veins corded under inked skin as he chases the edge. He’s lost in it, until the hot rush of your release sprays across his abs, warm and sudden, coating him in glistening proof of how thoroughly he’s wrecked you.

He doesn’t miss a second.

“Good girl—fuck, that’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, bliss carving harsh lines into his face. But his eyes snap open, locking on yours, drinking in the sight of you unraveling beneath him. Your pretty flushed cheeks, glassy stare, body arching in helpless aftershocks. Fuck, he loves you. The words burn in his throat, fierce and unspoken—he’d swallow them forever if it kept you here, kept you safe, kept you from running back only when some idiot leaves you cold and aching.

No time to voice it now, though. His rhythm stutters, body shuddering as he buries himself deep and comes with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes flood you, pulsing against your walls, filling you until the warmth spreads low in your belly and you squirm, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

Your breaths come ragged, chests heaving in tandem as he collapses onto you, heavy and spent. He eases your trembling legs down, muscles screaming in relief, but he doesn’t pull out. No—he stays buried inside, keeping every drop sealed in, like he could brand you from the inside if he just holds still long enough. His forehead drops to yours, breath mingling, the world narrowing to the thunder of two hearts refusing to slow.

After a long, heavy silence, broken only by the ragged sync of your breathing and the faint crackle of dying embers in the grate, you feel it coming, the question he’s asked a dozen times before, soft and desperate: Stay.

This time, you’re ready to say yes. This time, the word sits warm on your tongue, tasting like surrender.

But that’s not what he says.

“I won’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough from groans and restraint, his forehead still pressed to yours, damp curls tickling your skin. “Won’t say those words ever again if that’s what it takes. Just… stop running. I’m sorry I dropped it on you like that. Sorry I scared you shitless.” His fingers trace your hips, slow and reverent like he’s afraid you’ll run again if he holds too tight. “Give me a chance to fix it. You don’t have to love me back. You just have to stay.”

The plea cracks something open in your chest, a raw ache that spreads like wildfire, squeezing until your ribs feel too small for the heart hammering inside them. Because you do love him. God, you do. It’s why your feet carry you here every time the loneliness bites too deep. Why no other boy’s touch ever gets past your skin before you shut it down, cold and final. Why his gaze across the Great Hall still burns you from the inside out, a constant, bruising reminder that he’s carved himself into places you can’t reach to dig him free.

He loves you, and it’s terrifying. But loving him back—admitting it—feels like standing at the edge of a cliff with no broom beneath you.

“I do love you, Matty,” you whisper, the words scraping out raw, tasting like salt and truth. “I’m just… terrified.”

A shaky breath rushes from his lungs, warm against your lips, relief and something fiercer flooding his eyes. Then that familiar cheeky smile breaks through, crooked and blinding, the one that always undid you long before he ever touched you.

“Terrified,” he echoes, voice low, teasing, but trembling at the edges with wonder. He brushes his nose against yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Yeah… we can work with terrified.”

summary: mattheo's celebration is perfect, the only thing missing is his reward— you.

warnings: MDNI, 18+, oral f! receiving, munch! mattheo (my fav), a bit public, language

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆☥⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The party had finally died down. The Slytherin common room was a haze of lingering revelry: the cloying sweetness of butterbeer hung thick in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of spilled Firewhisky and the faint metallic scent of broken corks. The green-and-silver banners, enchanted to ripple even without a breeze, swayed lazily above the emptied tables, catching the flicker of torchlight that danced across the walls.

You curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, feeling the velvet cushion press against your thighs. Every muscle in your body still hummed from the night’s chaos—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the raucous shouts that had celebrated the boys—no, Mattheo’s triumph. You hadn’t come for the party, hadn’t mingled or lifted a glass to anyone else. You were here for him, for the rush of seeing him victorious, the way his smile had lit the room and made every ounce of noise fade into insignificance.

Your fingers absently traced the seam of the couch, grounding yourself against the lingering spin of excitement. The warm glow of the fire painted golden edges across the dark green walls, reflecting in Mattheo’s eyes when he passed by, the victorious gleam in them making your stomach twist. You had been content to watch him, to revel silently in his moment, tucked into your corner like a shadow that belonged entirely to him.

Every cheer, every triumphant laugh that had once filled the air was now reduced to echoes, faint reminders of the chaos from which you’d remained apart. And yet, the ache of anticipation—of what might come once the room emptied—thrummed beneath your skin, a quiet pulse that only his presence could still.

Mattheo dropped heavily beside you, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. Damp curls clung to his forehead from the shower he’d clearly taken in record time, droplets glinting faintly in the torchlight. His Quidditch robes were traded for a loose white shirt that draped perfectly over broad shoulders, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the lean muscle beneath without giving too much away.

He leaned back, one arm stretched across the top of the couch, and let his smirk do the talking—shameless, knowing, and utterly infuriating. Every so often, his gaze flicked to you, dark and assessing, and your stomach fluttered despite yourself.

“Quite the celebration,” you murmured, stretching your legs out, half-expecting him to shove them away. Instead, his hands closed around your ankles with a grip that was firm, decisive, and entirely his. With a low, mocking hum, he tugged them over his lap, pressing your legs against his thighs as though claiming them outright.

You froze for just a heartbeat, caught between surprise and a rush of heat. His smirk deepened, dark and dangerous, dimples flashing as his thumbs traced lazy circles along your shins.

“Mm,” he agreed, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of amusement and hunger. “Though I feel like I didn’t get my real reward yet.”

You arched a brow. “You just had the entire common room chanting your name, Riddle. Isn’t that enough?”

His hands didn’t answer yet. They lingered on your legs, tracing long, lazy lines over the smooth skin of your thighs. At first, it felt like nothing—just a casual touch—but the warmth of his palms, the pressure of his fingers gently kneading as if he were massaging, sent heat pooling low in your stomach. Every subtle movement of his thumbs, the slow slide of his hands over your inner thighs, was perfectly measured—not gentle, not accidental—but undeniably pleasurable.

Your muscles tightened involuntarily, hips tilting forward against him, and a shiver ran down your spine. Even the slight brush of his hand against the soft fabric of your skirt made your pulse spike. It was maddening, the way he could touch you without seeming to intend it, yet every flick of his fingers pressed your body into obedience, reminding you in the most deliciously subtle way whose presence you were completely attuned to.

The quiet of the common room, the lingering glow of the firelight reflecting off the banners, made it feel intimate—like the rest of the world had fallen away and only you and him existed, the heat radiating from his body pressing you into the couch, his hands subconsciously stroking and kneading in a rhythm that made your thoughts falter.

“Not even close.” His hand slid slowly along your calf, fingers deliberate, dragging heat in their wake. The touch was maddening, both possessive and teasing, pressing just enough to make you shiver without fully giving away his intent.

“See,” he continued, voice smooth and cocky, “I worked hard out there. Dodged a Bludger, scored twice… think I deserve something a bit more… personal.”

The words were casual, almost offhand, but the glint in his eye and the devilish tilt of his smirk betrayed every ounce of cheeky calculation behind them. He leaned back slightly, one hand still tracing the line of your leg, letting you squirm under his gaze, daring you to argue.

Before you could retort, he leaned forward, caging you against the back of the couch, mouth brushing the sensitive skin of your ear. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine, and you could feel the deliberate weight of his chest pressing against you.

“Your legs over my shoulders, maybe,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, rough with amusement. “You… moaning loud enough that the whole House knows I won more than just the match tonight.”

You froze, heat pooling impossibly low, fingers clutching at the couch cushions as his words painted a vivid, deliciously filthy picture. The thought of being displayed like that—completely his, trembling and ruined under his hands—made your pulse spike.

His fingers trailed up your thighs slowly, teasing, almost cruelly, dragging fire in their wake. Every brush of skin against his palm, every subtle squeeze, seemed calculated to make you melt, to force your body to respond before your mind could even catch up.

Your breath hitched, but that was all the encouragement he needed. He tugged you down flat against the cushions, fingers dragging along your thighs, spreading them wide like he’d been waiting all night for this. The heat pooling low in your belly threatened to overwhelm you, but his smirk kept your pulse racing.

Then he was there—on his knees on the carpet, hands gripping your thighs possessively, dragging you closer to the edge of the couch until he had you exactly where he wanted you. Every movement was deliberate, controlling, and deliciously dominant.

He paused, one dark brow arched, smirk tugging at his lips. “Permission to…?” His voice was low, teasing, almost mocking, and the tilt of that eyebrow dared you to answer.

You shivered under his gaze, the world narrowing to the curve of his lips, the weight of his hands, the slow press of his hips against yours. “Please,” you whispered, breathless.

When his tongue finally touched you, it was obscene how eager he was—as if devouring you were the only victory that mattered. Every flick, every curl of his tongue was deliberate, hitting the spots that made your back arch and your fingers clutch at the couch. He hummed low, groaning into your heat, the vibrations shooting straight through your core and making your knees tremble.

His hands gripped your thighs possessively, thumbs pressing into your skin as he spread you wider, giving him full access. The way he moved—fast enough to make your head spin, slow enough to savor every whimper and shiver—was pure mastery. You couldn’t hold back your moans, muffled against the cushions, and he only deepened his pressure, nipping lightly, teasingly, before sucking again.

“That’s it, love,” he muttered, voice rough and ragged, dark with hunger. “Give me my reward.”

Every stroke of his tongue, every press of his palm, was precision itself—Mattheo knew exactly how to bring you to the edge, to make your muscles clench around him without mercy. You shuddered, hips tilting helplessly into him, and he groaned, lifting his head just long enough to flash that wicked, triumphant smirk before diving back in, eager and unrelenting.

Even as your world narrowed to heat and sensation, you could feel it: he was completely absorbed in you, every sense, every motion dedicated to making you his, ruining you with skill and eager obsession.

His tongue traced one slow, teasing circle before plunging into you with an eagerness that made your back arch off the couch, every nerve ending screaming in delicious overstimulation. You gasped, muffled against the cushions, heat pooling impossibly low as his movements became more urgent, more precise.

His hands gripped your hips like iron, unyielding and possessive, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Every flick of his tongue, every curl against your walls was perfect, calculated to make you tremble and whimper helplessly. The contrast between his casual smirk and the raw intensity of his mouth drove you wild—expert, merciless, and utterly devoted to your ruin.

“You’re so good for me,” he groaned against you, voice rough, muffled, vibrating through your core. “So wet… so desperate… all mine, baby.”

Your fingers clawed at the couch, hips bucking into him even as he held you firmly, prolonging the delicious torture. Every press of his tongue, every suck and nibble made your back arch higher, your chest heaving, until your breath hitched and your walls clenched desperately around him.

“Fuck,” you gasped, fingers clawing at the cushion beneath you, hips trembling as he groaned deep into your heat. His tongue plunged and licked with a skill that was obscene, deliberate, every flick and curl hitting spots that made your back arch and knees wobble.

He loved it—the mess, the taste, the way you squirmed and whined against him. Every time you tried to wriggle away, his fingers dug harder into your thighs, pressing you down, spreading you wider, dragging you closer to the center of his hunger.

Your muffled moans pressed into the back of your palm, hot and shaky, and he hummed low in satisfaction, the vibration driving straight through your core. One thumb brushed over your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate, making your hips jerk involuntarily.

Mattheo pulled back just long enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick. “Don’t you dare run from me. You wanted a celebration too, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for your answer before his tongue flattened against your clit, pressing hard enough to make your vision blur.

He alternated between slow, torturous licks and fast, focused flicks that had your legs trembling against his shoulders. His dark curls brushed your skin, tickling your thighs as he buried his face deeper. Every moan he made sent vibrations straight through your core, and Merlin, he was loud about it — messy, unashamed, groaning like you were his favorite meal.

When you let out a desperate whimper, his laugh was smug, low and dark, vibrating against your slick skin. “That’s it, princess,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let them all hear how good I am at winning.”

Before you could respond, his mouth latched onto your clit with greedy force, tongue flicking and swirling expertly, sucking and teasing in a rhythm that had your hips bucking helplessly against him. The sensation was almost unbearable—sharp, overwhelming, and utterly consuming.

Your cries bounced off the empty common room walls, muffled only slightly by your hand and his hand pressing possessively against your lower back. Every press of his tongue, every deliberate suck, sent shivers racing up your spine, hands clawing at the couch, nails digging into the fabric.

He hummed around you, the vibration through his lips and into your clit making your knees wobble, your walls tighten, every nerve ending firing at once. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you spread and steady, perfectly positioned, while he drove you higher and higher, riding your desperation with masterful, greedy precision.

You fisted a hand in his damp curls, tugging just hard enough to make him groan, the low, vibrating sound pressing straight into you, sending shivers racing through your spine. His tongue plunged deeper, curling expertly, relentless and greedy, and you arched into him, thighs trembling, hips bucking involuntarily.

Every flick, swirl, and press of his mouth was precise, designed to push you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers dug into your thighs possessively, spreading you wider, keeping you perfectly exposed, utterly at his mercy.

“Mattheo—” you choked out, nails raking through his damp curls, desperate and trembling. “I’m gonna—”

He only smirked against you, lips and tongue not letting up for a single second. His hands clamped down harder on your thighs, locking you in place, spreading you wide, holding you as if he’d never let you escape. The pressure of him, the heat of his mouth, the unrelenting rhythm—it built unbearably fast, coiling tight in your stomach until it snapped.

Your whole body jerked violently, hips bucking against his face as you came hard over his eager tongue, walls clenching, trembling, pulsing around air and sensation. A sharp, broken cry tore from your lips, echoing through the empty common room, no longer muffled at all.

Mattheo groaned, low and triumphant, licking his lips with smug satisfaction, savoring the taste, the mess, the absolute ruin of you beneath him. His fingers pressed and kneaded against your thighs, holding you perfectly, guiding you through the quaking waves of your orgasm, making sure you felt every inch of it.

Mattheo didn’t stop. He groaned low and desperate, like he’d been starving for this, letting his tongue trace every curve and sensitive spot with unrelenting precision. Each flick, each press, each greedy swirl of his mouth made your thighs quiver violently, hips bucking involuntarily as he drove you higher and higher.

You were trembling, breathless, nails clawing at the couch, and still he held you firmly in place, fingers gripping your thighs possessively, spreading you wider, making sure every wave of your climax hit its peak.

“Please—Mattheo…” you whimpered, voice cracking, muffled against the cushion you've pressed your face into. “I can’t—please…”

He only hummed, the vibration of his groan rolling straight through you, every motion meticulous and masterful, and then sucked harder, curling his tongue in ways that stole the last of your control.

Your body convulsed again, jerking helplessly against him, walls clenching and fluttering around nothing but air and sensation, gasps and broken cries filling the empty common room. He didn’t relent for a second, keeping you on the edge, pushing you to the brink until every nerve ending burned with overstimulation.

Finally, finally, he pulled back, lips swollen, chin shining with your release. His eyes were dark, gleaming with satisfaction, every inch of him radiating triumph. That smirk—feral, victorious—was enough to make your knees tremble all over again.

“Now that’s the kind of reward I play for,” he murmured, voice low, rough with smug pleasure. The words pressed against your skin, curling around your senses, leaving no doubt who had been in control.

He let his fingers drag lightly over your thighs one last time, teasing the remnants of your slick, before brushing a thumb along the corner of your lips, smearing a bit of yourself against him.

You sank back against the cushions, body trembling, heat still throbbing low, utterly undone, and yet impossibly craving more—even knowing that his victorious smirk meant he could push you further, whenever he chose.

He dragged his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, eyes locked on you like he was already plotting round two, every curve of his smirk radiating wicked anticipation. There was no expectation in his gaze, no hint that he wanted anything back—Mattheo was the definition of a giver, utterly obsessed with seeing you undone, ruined, and trembling under his hands.

“I mean it, love,” he murmured, fingers tracing slow, teasing patterns over your thighs, “thank you… for showing up tonight. I know this isn’t your crowd. All the noise, the cheering, the glory—I didn’t expect you to come, and yet here you are… just for me.”

His gaze softened for the briefest moment, just enough that your pulse fluttered, before dark amusement crept back into his eyes. “That’s why this… this reward,” he added, thumb brushing over the slick between your thighs, “is all mine. I don’t need anything in return. Just seeing you like this, happy, trembling… ruined for me—it’s enough.”

You shivered, heat still pulsing low, chest heaving under his attention. Every flick of his fingers, every teasing swirl of his tongue, was about you, about your pleasure. His hands, his mouth, his gaze—they were entirely devoted, and the thought that he was so thankful you’d braved the party just for him made your knees weak all over again.