Mattheo Riddle One Shots

Marked

Warnings: pain, language, asshole Voldymoldy

Summary: you heard crying coming from the bathroom along with the water running. You got up and opened the door , seeing Mattheos completely clothed body in the shower , scrubbing harshly and the brand new Dark Mark tattoo on his arm.

Words: 1237

The Riddle mansion was eerily quiet as you stepped inside, the air thick with an unsettling stillness. You wrapped your arms around yourself, taking in the cold, dimly lit halls that felt more like a prison than a home. Mattheo had asked you to come over earlier, but now, as you stood there, you weren't sure if he was even home.

Your footsteps echoed softly as you made your way upstairs, past towering portraits with dark, piercing eyes that seemed to watch your every move. You had always hated coming here—there was something sinister about this house, a reminder of the man who ruled it. The man Mattheo despised.

Reaching his room, you gently pushed open the door. The scent of smoke and cedar lingered in the air, his signature scent, but the room was empty. A deep sigh escaped your lips as you stepped inside, glancing around. His books were scattered across the desk, a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey sat beside them.

You walked over to his bed and sat down, fingers playing absentmindedly with the edge of his blanket. Maybe he had stepped out. Maybe he had forgotten you were coming.

But then, the sound of running water reached your ears.

You frowned, turning your head toward the bathroom door. It wasn't just the water—it was something else. A sound so soft, so broken, that it made your stomach twist.

Crying.

Your heart clenched as you stood, your body moving before your mind could even catch up. You reached the bathroom door hesitantly, your hand hovering over the knob.

"Mattheo?" You called out softly, but there was no answer—only the sound of water hitting tile and his choked sobs.

Without thinking, you pushed open the door.

What you saw made your breath hitch in your throat.

Mattheo sat fully clothed in the shower, water pouring over him as he scrubbed at his left forearm with such force that his skin was turning red and raw. But that wasn't what made your stomach drop.

It was the mark.

The Dark Mark.

A fresh, blackened tattoo of the skull and snake now etched into his skin.

"Piece of shit!" he choked out, his voice cracking with anger and anguish. He kept scrubbing at it, as if trying to rid himself of the stain. As if trying to wash away the weight of what had just been branded onto him.

Your chest tightened. You had never seen him like this—completely unraveled, completely vulnerable. The boy who always wore his arrogance like armor, now stripped bare by his own torment.

"Mattheo," you whispered, stepping into the bathroom. "Stop, you're hurting yourself."

But he didn't stop. He didn't even seem to hear you.

"I didn't have a choice," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the water. "I didn't want this, Y/N. I never wanted this."

Your heart ached at the brokenness in his voice. Without hesitation, you stepped into the shower fully clothed, kneeling beside him. You reached out, wrapping your hands around his wrists to still his movements.

He tensed under your touch. "Don't," he warned, his voice rough. "You don't get to feel sorry for me."

You ignored his protest, tightening your grip. "I'm not sorry for you. I'm angry for you." Your voice shook, but you held firm. "Mattheo, look at me."

He didn't at first. His gaze was locked onto his arm, at the mark that now bound him to his father's twisted legacy.

You reached up, cupping his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "This isn't you," you whispered. "This doesn't define you."

His eyes, filled with pain and self-loathing, flickered with something else—something raw. But then, just as quickly, his expression hardened.

"No, Y/N." His jaw clenched. "You don't understand. This is me now."

You shook your head. "No—"

"Yes," he snapped, shoving your hands away as he stood abruptly. "I let this happen. I let him win." His voice cracked as his hands curled into fists. "And you—"

You flinched at the venom in his tone. "What?"

His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his dark eyes flashing with something dangerous. "You made it worse."

A cold shiver ran down your spine. "What are you talking about?"

"If it weren't for you," he spat, his words laced with bitterness, "maybe I wouldn't have fought so hard. Maybe I would've just given in a long time ago. Maybe I wouldn't have let myself believe—" He cut himself off, running a trembling hand through his wet hair.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Tears pricked at your eyes. "Mattheo..."

"I can't have anything good," he whispered. "Not you. Not freedom. Not a choice." His voice broke, and suddenly, his anger dissolved into something even more devastating. "I let myself think, for one fucking second, that I could have a future with you. That I could be something other than his son." He let out a hollow laugh. "But look at me now."

You felt your own tears slip down your cheeks. "Don't do this."

He turned away from you, pressing his forehead against the cold tile. "Just go, Y/N." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"No."

He tensed. "I said—"

"I'm not leaving you." You swallowed hard, stepping closer. "Not now. Not ever."

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling.

Cautiously, you reached out, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. He stiffened at first, but then, slowly, he melted into your embrace.

"I don't blame you for what happened," you murmured against his soaked shirt. "But I do blame him."

Mattheo's breathing hitched, and after a moment, he turned in your arms. His forehead pressed against yours, his hands gripping your sides as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he rasped. "I was just—"

"I know," you whispered, your fingers threading through his damp curls. "I know."

A broken sob escaped him as he pulled you closer, burying his face into your neck. "I hate him," he admitted, his voice raw. "I hate what he's made me."

"You're not him," you reminded him. "You never will be."

He let out a shaky breath, his grip tightening. "I'm scared, Y/N."

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. "Me too."

Silence settled between you, but this time, it wasn't suffocating. It was filled with something unspoken—an understanding, a promise.

Eventually, Mattheo pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

You gave him a watery smile. "Too bad. You're stuck with me."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips before he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Thank you," he murmured.

And as you stood there, soaked and shivering, wrapped in each other's arms, you knew—no matter what, you weren't letting him go.

No matter what, you were going to fight for him.

Because Mattheo Riddle wasn't defined by his father.

And neither was his future.