summary : Mattheo catches you reading his journal and makes you keep reading while he does exactly what's written.
warnings!: MDNI, a bit if snooping, oral f! receiving, praise, dirty talk, fingering
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You shouldn’t have opened it.
But the worn leather cover of Mattheo’s journal had been calling to you for days—half-tucked beneath his pillow, its edge just visible, like it wanted to be found. You told yourself it wasn’t really snooping. He’d given you a key to his dorm, let you into his space like it meant something. A glance. Just a few pages. That’s all you meant to take.
You didn’t expect the first sentence to have your name in it—scrawled in that sharp, deliberate handwriting, like a spell he’d been casting over and over. As if the whole journal existed for you and you alone.
You definitely didn’t expect it to describe, in vivid detail, what your thighs looked like wrapped around his waist while you begged for more—words soaked in hunger, in memory, like he’d replayed it a thousand times in his head and needed the page to hold it for him.
And now you’re on his bed, the sheets still smelling like him—cigarettes and cedar and something darker. The journal trembles between your fingers, worn leather slick against your palms. Heat crawls up the back of your neck and coils low in your belly, spreading down your spine with every filthy, obsessive sentence. Your name is everywhere. Inked like a prayer, a curse, a need. He’s written about you with the kind of hunger that makes your breath stutter and your thighs press together, helpless against the wave of heat that builds with every possessive line you read.
“Tightest fucking cunt I’ll ever have.”
“If she doesn’t quit that burning stare across the table, I swear I’ll drag her over it and fuck her hard enough to leave marks—right where everyone can see.”
“Does she bury her face in her pillow, desperate and wet, imagining my hands on her?”
You don’t hear the door until it clicks shut behind you—quiet, deliberate, a subtle seal that turns the room from a secret into a trap.
Mattheo’s voice, low and dark, snakes its way down your spine, curling around every nerve like a slow-burning flame.
“Enjoying the read, sweetheart?” His tone is low, teasing—like he’s savoring every second of your reaction. "My nosy girl."
Your whole body jerks as you whip around, the journal still splayed open in your trembling hands. He’s standing in the doorway, eyes dark and wide, hair tousled like he stormed here the moment he knew you were alone in his room. That slow, dangerous smirk curls at the corner of his lips the second he takes in your flushed cheeks—like he’s already imagining exactly how you got that way.
“That part you’re on…” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice low and thick with promise. “…where I said I’d keep you gagged with my cock until you cry? Read it. Out loud.”
You freeze, eyes wide and heart pounding, legs trembling beneath you. But before you can pull away, his hand closes over yours—warm, rough, impossibly commanding—and he gently but firmly presses the journal back into your lap, rooting you in place.
“Don’t get shy now,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “You wanted to know what I think about when I look at you—so go on. Read it. Let me hear every filthy word.”
Most people would be embarrassed—or maybe even angry—if they caught their deepest, darkest thoughts laid bare like this. Flushed faces, sharp words, awkward silences. But not Mattheo. He wears his desire like armor, owning every filthy confession with a smug, almost predatory pride. This isn’t a moment of shame for him; it’s a celebration—a challenge—and he’s thrilled you’re reading the proof of just how much you consume his mind.
You try to speak, but your throat tightens, catching on the first words. Still, your eyes drop to the page, and you begin to read—voice small, trembling, barely more than a breath.
“She doesn’t need to say a word—I can tell when she’s wet just by the way she moves. The scent of her, sweet and desperate, clings to me long after. I want her dripping the moment I slide inside, want to take her so slow, so deep, that she’s trembling and sobbing beneath me.”
Mattheo’s breath thickens, darkening with every inhale, eyes locked with a hunger that burns between your thighs. His fingers slide beneath your skirt with effortless confidence—slow, deliberate, tracing your skin like a claim, both cruel and intimate, as if he’s already mapped every inch.
“Are you soaked for me now, sweetheart?” he growls, voice low and rough, thick with possession and hunger.
And fuck—yeah, you are. You’ve been dripping wet since the very first page.
His fingers brush against you through the thin fabric of your panties, dragging once—then again, more insistent, harder. Your hips jerk forward involuntarily, betraying you as heat flares low and sharp.
“Of course you are,” he grins, smug and wicked, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Now—read me the next one.”
You do, voice trembling as the words spill out—fragile, breathless, and utterly exposed.
“She’d take me—anywhere. The desk, the hallway, even the broom cupboard. Always starting with that pretty mouth—she looks like she’s starving to taste every inch of me.”
Mattheo’s laugh rumbles low and broken—dark, rough, and filled with a hunger that makes your skin crawl. “Fuck.” He shoves the journal aside for the moment, his fingers tightening around your jaw with possessive force, pulling you into a fierce, demanding kiss that steals your breath.
His tongue teases yours, sharp and insistent, while his other hand moves with purpose—sliding your panties aside in one fluid motion. Two fingers press deep and fast inside you, curling just right, sending heat flooding through your body and a shudder racing down your spine. You gasp against his mouth, caught between the sting of pleasure and the thrill of being utterly claimed.
“Been jerking off to this for weeks,” he pants against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. “You—just like this. Desperate, trembling, dripping all over my fingers.”
You moan, hips pressing harder against his fingers as a delicious heat coils tight inside you. Your hands clutch fistfuls of his shirt, gripping like you’ll shatter if you let go, every nerve screaming for more.
“You like reading how I’d ruin you?” he sneers, voice low and dangerous. “Want me to write down how you begged and moaned when I made you come all over my cock?”
You nod frantically, breath hitching with need. That only deepens his smirk—darker, more dangerous—like he’s already savoring the next moment, the next secret he’ll make you live.
“Then give me something to write about,” he murmurs, voice low and demanding, eyes blazing with wicked intent.
Within moments, he’s guiding you back onto his bed, his hands steady and sure as they slide over your hips, pulling you closer with a possessive urgency. The journal is pushed back into your grasp, wishing to be forgotten for now, as your breath quickens and your pulse hammers in your ears.
He moves with an almost predatory grace, lowering himself between your legs like he’s starving—eyes dark with hunger and promise, every slow, deliberate touch igniting sparks beneath your skin. The world narrows until it’s just the two of you, lost in the heat of the moment and the charged silence between heavy breaths.
His grip is bruising on your thighs, fingers digging in like he’s staking a claim, holding you open with no room to hide. He lowers his mouth with maddening slowness, tongue dragging a deliberate, wet stripe up your center—so slow, so deep, that your entire body arches. He groans low in his chest, the sound rough and reverent, like he’s just tasted something both sacred and sinful. And gods, no matter how many times he’s had you like this—spread, shaking, wrecked under his tongue—he swears it’s better every single time.
“Start reading,” he says, voice low and wrecked, thick with heat and command. He doesn’t even look up—just drags his tongue through your slick again, lips glistening, eyes half-lidded like he’s drunk on the taste of you. His hair is a mess from your hands already, jaw sharp and glistening, shoulders tense with restraint he’s barely clinging to.
You stare down at him, heart pounding, journal trembling in your grip like it might catch fire from your pulse alone. There’s no way he’s serious. Not while he’s buried between your thighs, mouth sinful and relentless. But then his fingers press harder into your hips, grounding you in place like a warning.
"Be good, princess. Let's hear what you were so desperate to find."
Your eyes skim the trembling page, mouth parting around the first syllable—but then his tongue circles your clit, slow and devastating, and the words die in your throat. A choked sound escapes you instead, fingers tightening around the journal like it might anchor you.
But the second your voice stutters out the first line, his tongue flicks—sharp, focused, devastating—right against your clit, and your hips jolt like they’re not even yours to command. The journal nearly slips from your fingers as a strangled moan tears from your throat, body arching helplessly into his mouth. It’s like he’s punishing you for daring to speak—rewarding you, ruining you, all at once.
“Don’t stop,” he growls, voice rough and reverent against your skin. “Keep reading.” His grip tightens on your thighs, holding you wide, exposed, trembling. “I’ll stop when you do.”
It’s not a promise—it’s a threat, low and wicked, soaked in lust and control. The kind that dares you to disobey just so he can make you regret it.
You swallow hard, lips trembling as you try to read—eyes blurring, voice paper-thin. The words are right there, black ink scrawled across the page in his messy handwriting, each one filthier than the last.
“She tastes so sweet—like sin,” you read, voice trembling, almost broken. “I could eat her for hours. I’d eat her until her legs shake, until her voice cracks from begging.”
Your breath catches on the last word, hips bucking as his tongue dips in deep, like he’s answering every filthy sentence with proof. Like he’s been waiting for you to find that exact line.
Mattheo groans against you, his hands flexing hard into your thighs, dragging you impossibly closer.
“Good girl,” he growls. “Now say the next one.”
The vibration against your clit is your undoing. You cry out, voice raw and unrestrained, spine arching off the bed as the first orgasm crashes over you—too fast, too sharp, too perfect. It tears through you like a wave, relentless and hot, your thighs straining against his bruising grip. He doesn’t let up—not for a second—tongue still working you through every trembling aftershock like he’s starving for it, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him breathing.
Your hands fly to the sheets, clawing for something solid, but there’s nothing—just him, just this, and the molten heat flooding your veins.
He doesn’t even pause. Just groans—deep and ruined—like he lives for it, like the taste of your orgasm is the only thing he’s ever wanted. His mouth is relentless, messy, dragging open-mouthed kisses over your soaked folds, licking through every tremble and twitch like he’s trying to pull another one out of you without giving you time to breathe.
You’re already shaking, thighs trembling violently around his head, but he’s locked in place—devoted, feral, insatiable.
“Next line.” His voice is muffled, lips still pressed to your cunt, tongue flicking back to your clit with maddening, surgical precision. The vibration of his words sends another jolt through you—cruel, electric.
“Read,” he orders again, darker this time, as if your voice is the only thing that might earn you mercy.
But there’s none coming. Not from the way his mouth moves. Not from the way your body’s already coiled tight again, desperate and unraveling all over his tongue.
You can barely make out the words through the haze of tears, heat, and overstimulation, but somehow you find them, voice barely more than a breathy whisper.
“I’d keep her open for hours,” you whisper, voice trembling but fierce. “Use my mouth. My fingers. Make her come until she’s crying—make her thank me for ruining her.”
The words hang heavy between you, raw and electric, and Mattheo’s breath hitches—his mouth on your skin falters for the briefest second before he buries himself deeper, like he’s claiming every syllable as his owning.
He fucking growls at that. The sound rips through him—low, feral, possessive—and it hits you like a shockwave.
One arm hooks under your thigh, dragging you down hard against his face like he needs you closer, deeper, messier. His tongue moves with punishing precision now—circling your clit in a rhythm so cruel and perfect it borders on obscene.
And then his fingers—two of them—sink into you without warning, thick and slick and curling with expert intent.
One arm loops under your thigh to pull you tighter against his face. His tongue is relentless now—circling your clit in cruel, perfect rhythm—and he slips two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right.
Your mouth falls open in a silent cry—no sound, no words, just pure feeling as your body seizes around him. The pressure is blinding, brutal, blissful. Your hips buck helplessly, and still he doesn’t stop—his fingers relentless, tongue merciless, like he’s chasing every last ounce of control left in you.
Tears streak down your cheeks, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, but he groans like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted—like breaking you apart is the only thing he was ever meant to do.
“Don’t you dare stop reading,” he hisses, voice ragged, eyes wild with lust. He licks his lips—slow and filthy—tasting you like he’s starving. “I’ll make you live it word for word.”
And then he’s back on you, mouth devouring, tongue ruthless, like every line you read is a promise he intends to keep with your body.
You sob—choked and trembling—but you try again, voice catching on every word.
“Her thighs would shake… her voice would break. She’d beg me to stop—then beg me not to.”
Your voice splinters on the last syllable, wrecked and soaked in need. And Mattheo groans like it’s a reward, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue dragging slow and cruel across your clit like he’s tasting your obedience.
Mattheo moans into your cunt again like that line alone nearly made him come. The sound vibrates against you, hot and raw, and it sends another tremor ripping through your spine. His fingers work faster now—harder, deeper—each thrust wetter than the last, curling just right like he knows your body better than you do.
And his mouth—Merlin, his mouth—is locked on your clit, tongue dragging and flicking with obsessive focus, like you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted right. Every gasp, every whimper—he devours them like proof. Proof that you’re his. That you’ll always been his.
“Read the part,” Mattheo growls against your cunt, voice slick with need, “where I said what your face would look like when you came for the third time.”
His breath is hot, mouth hovering just enough to tease as his fingers curl again—deep, merciless. Your vision blurs, tears spilling freely now, the journal trembling in your hands as you fumble for the line. But he doesn’t wait. His tongue flicks cruel and fast, like he’s daring you not to fall apart before you can even speak.
“Go on, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Tell me how wrecked I said you’d be.”
You shake your head, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—not from pain, not even close. It’s pleasure, raw and relentless, the kind that scrapes through your nerves until it burns. Until it overwhelms. You’re unraveling in his hands, splintering with every stroke of his tongue, every curl of his fingers.
“Mattheo—please—I can’t—” you gasp, voice wrecked, throat tight with the force of it. Your legs are trembling around his shoulders, hands fisting the sheets like they’ll anchor you to reality, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.
He looks up at you, eyes dark and ravenous, lips slick with you. “Yes, you can,” he growls, mouth dropping back to your clit. “You fucking will.”
And then his mouth is back on you—this time with purpose. No teasing. No mercy. His tongue drags slow and deep, savoring every twitch, every broken sound you make, while his fingers thrust up into you hard and fast—relentless, cruel, perfectly devastating. It’s not just touch anymore. It’s possession. Like he’s trying to carve his name into every inch of you from the inside out.
You come again—loud, shuddering, completely undone. Your eyes roll back, chest arching off the bed as every nerve fires in overwhelming waves. Your thighs tremble violently around his head, muscles clenching and releasing like they have a mind of their own, making it impossible to hold the journal steady. Pages flutter, forgotten in your grip, as the world narrows down to nothing but the slick heat and the fierce, unrelenting pleasure coursing through you.
“One more,” he rasps against your slick skin, breath hot and ragged. “One more—then I’ll read to you. Tell you every filthy thing I’ve imagined while making you come.”
His fingers twitch inside you, the promise of more driving you wild.
You whimper, nodding, your cheeks glistening with the tracks of your emotions.
He slows his pace—not out of mercy, but to savor every moment—pressing slow, deliberate kisses to your clit, his tongue flicking with lazy, tantalizing strokes while his fingers remain buried deep inside you. A low, guttural groan rumbles from his throat, thick with hunger and need.
“So fucking perfect like this. Shaking. Dumb. Wet.” His voice is reverent filth. “This is what I wanted when I wrote it. You. Falling apart on my tongue.”
And when that third orgasm crashes through you—violent, shattering—he presses his mouth against you with fierce tenderness, like a curse and a prayer all at once. His voice is low, almost gentle as he murmurs, “That’s my good girl… so fucking perfect for me.”
You’re a trembling, broken mess—utterly ruined—and when he pulls back, his lips glisten with your taste, eyes dark and blown wide with raw hunger that makes your skin crawl.
Still catching his breath, Mattheo leans back slightly, a crooked, satisfied grin playing on his lips. His fingers—still slick with evidence of what just transpired—glide lazily across his own mouth. One by one, he licks them clean, slow and unbothered, like he’s tasting something rare and exquisite. His eyes never leave yours.
Then, with the same ease, he reaches down and lifts the journal from your lap. He flips through the pages like he’s done it a hundred times, the crackle of paper oddly grounding. His thumb brushes your inner thigh, light but possessive, drawing slow circles against your skin as he murmurs to himself, low and distracted, as though he isn’t completely aware of the effect he’s still having on you.
“Let me show you my favorite part, sweetheart…” he murmurs, voice low and edged with something wicked. His eyes flick up, burning with memory. “The one where you cry for me again.”
