You couldn’t stop staring, and the bastard knew it. Mattheo Riddle was the worst thing that had ever happened to you in college—and somehow the best. Before this year you’d sworn off crushes, dating, all of it. Men disappointed you. Every single one. So why the hell did your body keep insisting he would be different?
Maybe it was the motorcycle. Last week he’d thrown you the spare helmet without asking, and you’d climbed on behind him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your arms had locked around his waist, palms pressed flat to the hard, shifting ridges of his stomach. Every time he accelerated the bike roared between your thighs and his calloused hand had dropped to your leg, heavy and possessive, fingers splaying over the soft inner skin just above your knee. He’d opened the throttle just to hear the sharp little catch in your breathing through the headset.
“Alright back there, sweetheart?”
His voice had been low, rough with amusement, and you’d felt the words vibrate straight through your chest.
Or maybe it was the way he came home from the gym every afternoon. Sweat-dark tank top clinging to every plane of him. His chest, abs, the deep cut of his hips. The fabric stuck to the ridges of muscle, translucent in places, outlining the heavy shape of his pecs and the tight peaks of his nipples. His breath still came short and rough as he prowled into the kitchen, the clean, sharp scent of him filling the tiny space. He’d lean against the counter, head tipped back, throat working as he drained an entire bottle of water. A single drop of sweat would slide down the column of his neck, disappear under the collar of that soaked shirt, and you’d have to press your thighs together under the table just to keep from squirming.
He always caught you looking. Always. And the slow, knowing curl of his mouth said he liked it.
But by far the worst part of sharing an apartment with Mattheo Riddle was the late-night torture.
You tried not to listen. God, you tried. The walls were paper-thin, though, and every sound carried. Whimpers. High, broken moans. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin as he fucked some girl into the mattress just one room over. The filthy, slick sounds of it soaked straight through the drywall and into your ears until your face burned and your panties were ruined.
You held out as long as you could every single night. Until his voice joined in.
Low, rough groans. The headboard slamming against the wall in a brutal, steady tempo. Breathless curses spilling from that wicked mouth of his and something inside you always snapped.
You’d bought the toy only a few nights ago, cheeks flaming as you signed for the discreet brown package at the front desk. Your own fingers hadn’t been enough for weeks. The reviews promised it was strong. Quiet. Effective.
So you swallowed what little pride you had left, shoved your shorts and soaked underwear down your thighs, and let your shaking hand trail between your legs. The soft buzz filled the dark as you pressed the toy against your clit, and a sharp, involuntary gasp tore out of you.
In the next room, Mattheo’s rhythm faltered—then picked up harder. Faster.
This was his favorite part of the night.
He didn’t give a damn about the girl currently clawing at his sheets. She was just a body, a convenient way to work off the tension. What he lived for was the quiet, muffled sounds coming from your side of the wall. The soft, desperate little moans you tried so hard to bite back. He could hear every one of them. Could picture you perfectly. Perfect thighs spread, toy buzzing against that pretty cunt, cheeks flushed, biting your lip like the shy little thing you were.
He wanted to kick this girl out. Wanted to storm into your room, rip that toy away, and replace it with his mouth. Wanted to taste how wet you got just from listening to him fuck someone else.
But you never asked.
Such a shy thing. Never just took what you wanted.
This had gone on every night for weeks, but after three straight nights of that toy buzzing between your legs while he fucked someone else through the wall, something inside you finally broke.
You waited in the dark, shame burning hot under your skin, until you heard the front door click shut behind the latest girl. Only then did you slip out of bed. Mattheo was already in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips as he dug through the fridge for a post-fuck snack.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps—and nearly fucking choked.
You stood there like a damn offering. Completely bare except for a soft pair of pink panties that did nothing to hide how soaked you were. Your breasts hung full and heavy, nipples tight from the cool air and the residual ache between your thighs. You didn’t try to cover yourself. You just stood there and let him look.
Maybe you should have been embarrassed. Embarrassed to take his sloppy seconds. Embarrassed that you wanted him badly enough to ask at all.
But the memory of two nights ago wouldn’t leave you alone. You’d stumbled toward the bathroom and frozen in the doorway, watching him under the spray. Head tipped back, one hand braced on the tile, the other stroking his thick cock in long, rough pulls while he groaned your name like a prayer and came all over his own stomach.
That was what finally pushed you over the edge.
Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, eyes fixed somewhere near his collarbone.
“Can you fuck me too?”
Mattheo’s gaze dragged slowly down your body and back up again, dark and hungry. A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth.
“Took you long enough, hm?”
You were going to tell him how horribly inexperienced you were—how the only things that had ever been inside you were your own fingers and that little buzzing toy—but the words died the second he moved.
One second you were standing there half-naked and trembling; the next he had you pinned hard against the wall. A big, warm hand wrapped around the side of your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw as he tilted your face up and claimed your mouth.
He never kissed the girls he brought home. Never. But he’d been thinking about your lips for months. So soft, full, always bitten when you were nervous and now he was starving for them. He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else: deep, messy, claiming. He bit your bottom lip until it parted on a gasp, then pushed his tongue inside and licked into your mouth with filthy, unabashed hunger.
You moaned against him, the sound swallowed by the kiss, and he growled low in his chest. In one smooth motion he hooked his hands under your thighs and hauled you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. The hard, thick outline of his cock pressed right against your soaked cunt through the thin cotton of your panties, grinding slow and deliberate so you could feel every inch of him.
“Toy wasn’t working anymore?” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough with amusement. He didn’t wait for an answer. Messy, open-mouthed kisses trailed down your throat, over the frantic pulse there, across the soft swell of your breast. Then he closed his lips around one aching nipple and sucked hard, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch.
Your fingers tangled in his dark curls, tugging. Big brown eyes flicked up to meet yours for a heated second before your head dropped back against the wall with a broken little sound.
“N-no.”
He released your nipple with a wet pop and licked the stiff peak once more, voice a low, filthy promise against your skin.
“That’s okay, sweet girl. I’ll take goood care of you.”
God, as much as Mattheo wanted to drag this out like he’d been imagining. To tease you, edge you, make you beg until you were crying for it. He physically couldn’t. He’d been dreaming about your cunt for months. Every time he buried himself in some forgettable body it was you he pictured beneath him. Soft. Eager. So fucking cute it made him stupid.
“Bed,” he ordered, voice rough and strained. He dropped you to your feet and gave your ass a sharp, possessive smack to get you moving.
You hesitated for half a second, then turned toward your room instead of the one that still smelled like sex and cheap perfume. His dark chuckle followed you, low and knowing.
The second he stepped through your doorway his eyes locked on the abandoned toy sitting in the middle of the sheets—pink, sparkly, still glistening with your slick.
“Cute,” he murmured, the word thick and teasing.
You climbed onto the bed and he was on you in seconds, big arms braced on either side of your head as he kissed you again, deep and filthy. But he didn’t linger. He couldn’t. Not when he’d been starving for the taste of you.
He dragged his mouth down your body, shoved your thighs apart, and pressed his face between them. The first long, slow lick over the soaked crotch of your panties dragged a broken sound out of you. Your back arched clean off the mattress. He groaned against the wet fabric like a man possessed, then hooked a finger under the edge and yanked it aside.
His tongue slotted hot and greedy between your folds, flat and broad, dragging from your entrance all the way up to circle your clit.
“F-Fuck—Matt.”
Your hips jerked against his mouth. One big hand pinned your pelvis to the mattress with humiliating ease, holding you exactly where he wanted you while he licked and sucked and groaned like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Taste s’fucking good, baby,” he rasped against your cunt, the words vibrating through you.
You moaned at the praise, fingers twisting tight in his dark curls as pleasure crashed through you—sharper, wetter, deeper than anything your fingers or that little toy had ever managed.
He only pulled away when you were shaking, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, up your stomach, over your breasts, until he was kissing you again. You could taste yourself on his tongue mixed with the faint mint of his toothpaste, and the filth of it made you whimper into his mouth.
He stripped your sticky panties down your legs and flung them somewhere across the room, then shoved his own sweatpants off in the same frantic motion. The thick, heavy weight of his cock slapped against your stomach before he dragged it lower, rubbing the swollen head through your folds, coating himself in your slick.
You tensed the second he notched himself at your entrance.
He was too far gone to put it together at first, too desperate to finally sink into you. That was until the head of him pushed inside and your moan turned strained, high, almost pained. You were so fucking tight he had to stop, jaw clenched, every muscle locked.
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and suddenly sharp.
“Please,” he said, voice low and rough, “tell me you’re not a virgin.”
“Maybe?” you breathed, the word barely a sound. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as the overwhelming stretch sparked through you. You were too full, he was too thick, pressure blooming deep in places nothing had ever reached before.
Mattheo froze.
“Why wouldn’t you say that?” His voice came out strained, almost angry, but his hips stayed perfectly still. “I would’ve gone slower—wait.” His dark eyes locked on yours, sharp and searching. Something almost like fear flickered across his face, as if he was seconds from pulling out and walking away. “Why the fuck would you let me take your virginity?”
He didn’t pull out, though.
He stayed right there, the thick head of him stretching your tight entrance, and groaned low when you clenched involuntarily around the intrusion.
“F-first person I wanted to,” you whimpered, eyes wide and glassy.
The sound he made was wrecked.
His forehead dropped to yours for a second, breath harsh, before he gathered himself. A big rough thumb found your clit and started circling in slow, firm strokes, trying to ease the burn. He was trying like hell to remember how the fuck to be careful with you.
“I’m going to move,” he warned, voice rough. He pushed forward another thick inch, watching your face the entire time. Relief flooded his expression when you only gasped instead of flinching.
He reached for the abandoned toy still lying beside your hip, flicked it on to the lowest setting, and pressed the buzzing head right against your swollen clit. The soft vibration made you moan. Your voice soft, breathy, wrecked, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap his hips and sink the rest of the way in.
But he didn’t.
He went slow. Agonizingly, carefully slow. Watching every flicker of your expression. Clicking the toy higher the second he saw any discomfort, flooding you with so much pleasure the stretch started to blur into something sweeter. Inch by thick inch he worked himself deeper, until finally his hips met yours and he was buried to the root.
A soft, obscene little bulge pressed against your lower belly, proof of just how deep he was.
He stayed there, locked inside you, the toy buzzing hard and fast against your clit while his cock pulsed so deep it felt like you could fucking taste him.
Your voice broke on a needy little sob.
“M-Move—p-please—”
Mattheo’s eyes flashed, dark and hungry.
Finally.
He gave you exactly what you asked for. Mattheo pulled back until just the thick head of him remained inside you, then sank in again. Slow at first, deliberate, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he stretched you open around him. The toy still buzzed hard against your clit, the dual sensation making your thighs tremble. He set a steady, rolling rhythm, hips rolling deep, each thrust grinding against that soft little bulge in your belly.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Takin’ me so well, pretty girl. Look at you—fuck, so perfect.”
Sweat already beaded at his temples, dark curls sticking to his forehead. His jaw was tight, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watched himself disappear into you over and over. The sight of him like that, all flushed, focused, biting back curses made your walls flutter.
He felt it. Of course.
His rhythm faltered for half a second before he groaned and drove in harder, deeper, the wet sound of your cunt taking him filling the room. One of his hands stayed locked on the toy, keeping the buzzing head pressed exactly where you needed it, while the other braced beside your head so he could murmur filthy, sweet praise straight into your ear.
“So tight… fucking made for me, weren’t ya? Gonna come for me, baby? Gonna let that pretty cunt milk my cock?”
The words, the stretch, the relentless buzz against your clit—it all crashed together. Your orgasm hit hard and sudden, a full-body wave that ripped a broken cry from your throat. Your walls clamped down around him in rhythmic, desperate pulses, soaking his cock, trying to pull him even deeper.
He tossed the toy aside without looking, both hands gripping your hips as he started to plow into you—hard, deep, relentless thrusts that forced the air from your lungs. Sweat slid down the cut lines of his chest and abs; his lip was still caught between his teeth, eyes half-lidded and wild as he watched you take every brutal stroke.
“Fuck—yes, squeeze me baby just like that—gonna fill you up, fuck!—”
His hips stuttered. A low, guttural groan tore out of him as he buried himself to the hilt and came, pulsing thick and hot deep inside you. He kept grinding through it, chasing every last drop, forehead pressed to yours while he filled you until you could feel it leaking out around his cock.
For a long moment he stayed right there, buried as deep as he could go, breathing hard against your mouth. One big hand stroked your hair back from your face, surprisingly gentle.
Only when his cock finally began to soften did he reach over, switch the toy off, and carefully, slowly pull out. You both watched the thick mess of his cum slip out of you, and the dark, satisfied look that crossed his face made your spent body clench around nothing.
He didn’t let you clean yourself up.
Mattheo scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing, carried you into the bathroom, and set you on the counter while he started the shower. Warm water, careful hands, soft kisses against your temple while he washed every inch of you—especially between your thighs, where he was still leaking out of you. He was quiet, almost reverent, but the way he kept pressing his lips to your shoulder and the top of your head said more than words.
When you were both clean he dried you off, carried you back to your bed (the sheets were a lost cause anyway), and pulled you against his chest. One heavy arm draped over your waist, leg hooked over yours, face buried in your damp hair.
“Sleep, sweet girl,” he murmured, already half-gone. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time in a long time, you slept without the quiet dread of having to hear him in the next room tomorrow—because Mattheo already knew he wouldn’t want anyone else again.
You couldn’t stop staring, and the bastard knew it. Mattheo Riddle was the worst thing that had ever happened to you in college—and somehow the best. Before this year you’d sworn off crushes, dating, all of it. Men disappointed you. Every single one. So why the hell did your body keep insisting he would be different?
Maybe it was the motorcycle. Last week he’d thrown you the spare helmet without asking, and you’d climbed on behind him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your arms had locked around his waist, palms pressed flat to the hard, shifting ridges of his stomach. Every time he accelerated the bike roared between your thighs and his calloused hand had dropped to your leg, heavy and possessive, fingers splaying over the soft inner skin just above your knee. He’d opened the throttle just to hear the sharp little catch in your breathing through the headset.
“Alright back there, sweetheart?”
His voice had been low, rough with amusement, and you’d felt the words vibrate straight through your chest.
Or maybe it was the way he came home from the gym every afternoon. Sweat-dark tank top clinging to every plane of him. His chest, abs, the deep cut of his hips. The fabric stuck to the ridges of muscle, translucent in places, outlining the heavy shape of his pecs and the tight peaks of his nipples. His breath still came short and rough as he prowled into the kitchen, the clean, sharp scent of him filling the tiny space. He’d lean against the counter, head tipped back, throat working as he drained an entire bottle of water. A single drop of sweat would slide down the column of his neck, disappear under the collar of that soaked shirt, and you’d have to press your thighs together under the table just to keep from squirming.
He always caught you looking. Always. And the slow, knowing curl of his mouth said he liked it.
But by far the worst part of sharing an apartment with Mattheo Riddle was the late-night torture.
You tried not to listen. God, you tried. The walls were paper-thin, though, and every sound carried. Whimpers. High, broken moans. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin as he fucked some girl into the mattress just one room over. The filthy, slick sounds of it soaked straight through the drywall and into your ears until your face burned and your panties were ruined.
You held out as long as you could every single night. Until his voice joined in.
Low, rough groans. The headboard slamming against the wall in a brutal, steady tempo. Breathless curses spilling from that wicked mouth of his and something inside you always snapped.
You’d bought the toy only a few nights ago, cheeks flaming as you signed for the discreet brown package at the front desk. Your own fingers hadn’t been enough for weeks. The reviews promised it was strong. Quiet. Effective.
So you swallowed what little pride you had left, shoved your shorts and soaked underwear down your thighs, and let your shaking hand trail between your legs. The soft buzz filled the dark as you pressed the toy against your clit, and a sharp, involuntary gasp tore out of you.
In the next room, Mattheo’s rhythm faltered—then picked up harder. Faster.
This was his favorite part of the night.
He didn’t give a damn about the girl currently clawing at his sheets. She was just a body, a convenient way to work off the tension. What he lived for was the quiet, muffled sounds coming from your side of the wall. The soft, desperate little moans you tried so hard to bite back. He could hear every one of them. Could picture you perfectly. Perfect thighs spread, toy buzzing against that pretty cunt, cheeks flushed, biting your lip like the shy little thing you were.
He wanted to kick this girl out. Wanted to storm into your room, rip that toy away, and replace it with his mouth. Wanted to taste how wet you got just from listening to him fuck someone else.
But you never asked.
Such a shy thing. Never just took what you wanted.
This had gone on every night for weeks, but after three straight nights of that toy buzzing between your legs while he fucked someone else through the wall, something inside you finally broke.
You waited in the dark, shame burning hot under your skin, until you heard the front door click shut behind the latest girl. Only then did you slip out of bed. Mattheo was already in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips as he dug through the fridge for a post-fuck snack.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps—and nearly fucking choked.
You stood there like a damn offering. Completely bare except for a soft pair of pink panties that did nothing to hide how soaked you were. Your breasts hung full and heavy, nipples tight from the cool air and the residual ache between your thighs. You didn’t try to cover yourself. You just stood there and let him look.
Maybe you should have been embarrassed. Embarrassed to take his sloppy seconds. Embarrassed that you wanted him badly enough to ask at all.
But the memory of two nights ago wouldn’t leave you alone. You’d stumbled toward the bathroom and frozen in the doorway, watching him under the spray. Head tipped back, one hand braced on the tile, the other stroking his thick cock in long, rough pulls while he groaned your name like a prayer and came all over his own stomach.
That was what finally pushed you over the edge.
Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, eyes fixed somewhere near his collarbone.
“Can you fuck me too?”
Mattheo’s gaze dragged slowly down your body and back up again, dark and hungry. A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth.
“Took you long enough, hm?”
You were going to tell him how horribly inexperienced you were—how the only things that had ever been inside you were your own fingers and that little buzzing toy—but the words died the second he moved.
One second you were standing there half-naked and trembling; the next he had you pinned hard against the wall. A big, warm hand wrapped around the side of your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw as he tilted your face up and claimed your mouth.
He never kissed the girls he brought home. Never. But he’d been thinking about your lips for months. So soft, full, always bitten when you were nervous and now he was starving for them. He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else: deep, messy, claiming. He bit your bottom lip until it parted on a gasp, then pushed his tongue inside and licked into your mouth with filthy, unabashed hunger.
You moaned against him, the sound swallowed by the kiss, and he growled low in his chest. In one smooth motion he hooked his hands under your thighs and hauled you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. The hard, thick outline of his cock pressed right against your soaked cunt through the thin cotton of your panties, grinding slow and deliberate so you could feel every inch of him.
“Toy wasn’t working anymore?” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough with amusement. He didn’t wait for an answer. Messy, open-mouthed kisses trailed down your throat, over the frantic pulse there, across the soft swell of your breast. Then he closed his lips around one aching nipple and sucked hard, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch.
Your fingers tangled in his dark curls, tugging. Big brown eyes flicked up to meet yours for a heated second before your head dropped back against the wall with a broken little sound.
“N-no.”
He released your nipple with a wet pop and licked the stiff peak once more, voice a low, filthy promise against your skin.
“That’s okay, sweet girl. I’ll take goood care of you.”
God, as much as Mattheo wanted to drag this out like he’d been imagining. To tease you, edge you, make you beg until you were crying for it. He physically couldn’t. He’d been dreaming about your cunt for months. Every time he buried himself in some forgettable body it was you he pictured beneath him. Soft. Eager. So fucking cute it made him stupid.
“Bed,” he ordered, voice rough and strained. He dropped you to your feet and gave your ass a sharp, possessive smack to get you moving.
You hesitated for half a second, then turned toward your room instead of the one that still smelled like sex and cheap perfume. His dark chuckle followed you, low and knowing.
The second he stepped through your doorway his eyes locked on the abandoned toy sitting in the middle of the sheets—pink, sparkly, still glistening with your slick.
“Cute,” he murmured, the word thick and teasing.
You climbed onto the bed and he was on you in seconds, big arms braced on either side of your head as he kissed you again, deep and filthy. But he didn’t linger. He couldn’t. Not when he’d been starving for the taste of you.
He dragged his mouth down your body, shoved your thighs apart, and pressed his face between them. The first long, slow lick over the soaked crotch of your panties dragged a broken sound out of you. Your back arched clean off the mattress. He groaned against the wet fabric like a man possessed, then hooked a finger under the edge and yanked it aside.
His tongue slotted hot and greedy between your folds, flat and broad, dragging from your entrance all the way up to circle your clit.
“F-Fuck—Matt.”
Your hips jerked against his mouth. One big hand pinned your pelvis to the mattress with humiliating ease, holding you exactly where he wanted you while he licked and sucked and groaned like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Taste s’fucking good, baby,” he rasped against your cunt, the words vibrating through you.
You moaned at the praise, fingers twisting tight in his dark curls as pleasure crashed through you—sharper, wetter, deeper than anything your fingers or that little toy had ever managed.
He only pulled away when you were shaking, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, up your stomach, over your breasts, until he was kissing you again. You could taste yourself on his tongue mixed with the faint mint of his toothpaste, and the filth of it made you whimper into his mouth.
He stripped your sticky panties down your legs and flung them somewhere across the room, then shoved his own sweatpants off in the same frantic motion. The thick, heavy weight of his cock slapped against your stomach before he dragged it lower, rubbing the swollen head through your folds, coating himself in your slick.
You tensed the second he notched himself at your entrance.
He was too far gone to put it together at first, too desperate to finally sink into you. That was until the head of him pushed inside and your moan turned strained, high, almost pained. You were so fucking tight he had to stop, jaw clenched, every muscle locked.
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and suddenly sharp.
“Please,” he said, voice low and rough, “tell me you’re not a virgin.”
“Maybe?” you breathed, the word barely a sound. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as the overwhelming stretch sparked through you. You were too full, he was too thick, pressure blooming deep in places nothing had ever reached before.
Mattheo froze.
“Why wouldn’t you say that?” His voice came out strained, almost angry, but his hips stayed perfectly still. “I would’ve gone slower—wait.” His dark eyes locked on yours, sharp and searching. Something almost like fear flickered across his face, as if he was seconds from pulling out and walking away. “Why the fuck would you let me take your virginity?”
He didn’t pull out, though.
He stayed right there, the thick head of him stretching your tight entrance, and groaned low when you clenched involuntarily around the intrusion.
“F-first person I wanted to,” you whimpered, eyes wide and glassy.
The sound he made was wrecked.
His forehead dropped to yours for a second, breath harsh, before he gathered himself. A big rough thumb found your clit and started circling in slow, firm strokes, trying to ease the burn. He was trying like hell to remember how the fuck to be careful with you.
“I’m going to move,” he warned, voice rough. He pushed forward another thick inch, watching your face the entire time. Relief flooded his expression when you only gasped instead of flinching.
He reached for the abandoned toy still lying beside your hip, flicked it on to the lowest setting, and pressed the buzzing head right against your swollen clit. The soft vibration made you moan. Your voice soft, breathy, wrecked, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap his hips and sink the rest of the way in.
But he didn’t.
He went slow. Agonizingly, carefully slow. Watching every flicker of your expression. Clicking the toy higher the second he saw any discomfort, flooding you with so much pleasure the stretch started to blur into something sweeter. Inch by thick inch he worked himself deeper, until finally his hips met yours and he was buried to the root.
A soft, obscene little bulge pressed against your lower belly, proof of just how deep he was.
He stayed there, locked inside you, the toy buzzing hard and fast against your clit while his cock pulsed so deep it felt like you could fucking taste him.
Your voice broke on a needy little sob.
“M-Move—p-please—”
Mattheo’s eyes flashed, dark and hungry.
Finally.
He gave you exactly what you asked for. Mattheo pulled back until just the thick head of him remained inside you, then sank in again. Slow at first, deliberate, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he stretched you open around him. The toy still buzzed hard against your clit, the dual sensation making your thighs tremble. He set a steady, rolling rhythm, hips rolling deep, each thrust grinding against that soft little bulge in your belly.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Takin’ me so well, pretty girl. Look at you—fuck, so perfect.”
Sweat already beaded at his temples, dark curls sticking to his forehead. His jaw was tight, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watched himself disappear into you over and over. The sight of him like that, all flushed, focused, biting back curses made your walls flutter.
He felt it. Of course.
His rhythm faltered for half a second before he groaned and drove in harder, deeper, the wet sound of your cunt taking him filling the room. One of his hands stayed locked on the toy, keeping the buzzing head pressed exactly where you needed it, while the other braced beside your head so he could murmur filthy, sweet praise straight into your ear.
“So tight… fucking made for me, weren’t ya? Gonna come for me, baby? Gonna let that pretty cunt milk my cock?”
The words, the stretch, the relentless buzz against your clit—it all crashed together. Your orgasm hit hard and sudden, a full-body wave that ripped a broken cry from your throat. Your walls clamped down around him in rhythmic, desperate pulses, soaking his cock, trying to pull him even deeper.
He tossed the toy aside without looking, both hands gripping your hips as he started to plow into you—hard, deep, relentless thrusts that forced the air from your lungs. Sweat slid down the cut lines of his chest and abs; his lip was still caught between his teeth, eyes half-lidded and wild as he watched you take every brutal stroke.
“Fuck—yes, squeeze me baby just like that—gonna fill you up, fuck!—”
His hips stuttered. A low, guttural groan tore out of him as he buried himself to the hilt and came, pulsing thick and hot deep inside you. He kept grinding through it, chasing every last drop, forehead pressed to yours while he filled you until you could feel it leaking out around his cock.
For a long moment he stayed right there, buried as deep as he could go, breathing hard against your mouth. One big hand stroked your hair back from your face, surprisingly gentle.
Only when his cock finally began to soften did he reach over, switch the toy off, and carefully, slowly pull out. You both watched the thick mess of his cum slip out of you, and the dark, satisfied look that crossed his face made your spent body clench around nothing.
He didn’t let you clean yourself up.
Mattheo scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing, carried you into the bathroom, and set you on the counter while he started the shower. Warm water, careful hands, soft kisses against your temple while he washed every inch of you—especially between your thighs, where he was still leaking out of you. He was quiet, almost reverent, but the way he kept pressing his lips to your shoulder and the top of your head said more than words.
When you were both clean he dried you off, carried you back to your bed (the sheets were a lost cause anyway), and pulled you against his chest. One heavy arm draped over your waist, leg hooked over yours, face buried in your damp hair.
“Sleep, sweet girl,” he murmured, already half-gone. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time in a long time, you slept without the quiet dread of having to hear him in the next room tomorrow—because Mattheo already knew he wouldn’t want anyone else again.
Genuinely, I love my friends to death. I'm a flawed human being, I fuck up sometimes, I have bad days, I say dumb shit I don't mean, and I know that. I thank everyone who has given me the privilege of being my friend anyway. Because I truly love you all to fuckin' pieces. My friends in this fandom have unironically been one of the biggest things that got me through the past couple years of my life during some rough ass moments. So I guess this post is just me screaming into the void that I thank you and love you all so so much. A lot of shit's been going on (irl too) and I was contemplating leaving for good. Maybe I'm selfish, but I'd miss you all too goddamn much. Y'all mean the world to me. Anyway, love you guys. x
He insists every time to Professor Snape that it’s not his doing, bringing the same weak ass apology as he enters the room minutes pass expected.
Professor Snape never believes him. No professor would. Not when he’s known for being quite the persuader.
But it’s not his fault, truly.
Not that he’s complaining when the reason is entirely because of your pouty clingy self, it's physically inescapable for him to make it on time caught in the tsunami wave of kisses you pile upon him.
You can’t let go yet, too bothered by the idea of departing him for the lunch period. “babe—" he mumbles against your lips, the tone lacking any true authority coming out more like a wounded sigh. Instead, his fingers tighten their hold, his eyes still fluttered shut because it's not as if he cares about his tardiness, but if he's late again, he's sure Snape will have his tongue ceasing all future excuses.
He grins against your lips, when you ignore his warning, shushing any further weak attempts at protest with your tongue, hands cradling his hair you yank him impossibly closer. The two of you lose yourself against the stone walls, a flurry of heat charging between your bodies, it's a sickening display of PDA to the passing students entering the great hall, but all you're hungry for is Mattheo.
“Mr riddle.” The recognizable drawl of Professor Snape squeezes barely breathable space between your bodies, and Mattheo pulls back with a bated breath. That's all the acknowledgment he offers Snape; eyes locked on you taking in the swell of your lips, the dazed gaze of lust struck on him.
He licks his lips with a smug smirk, pressing one final kiss to your cheek whispering a taunting comment that makes you fluster with giggles, before he turns walking past Snape, whistling a tune of satisfied triumph.
that unique pain when a song bursts in and starts rewriting your entire brain chemistry but you can't make it match any of your blorbos so instead you keep futilely smacksmackSMACKing it into different orientations like a frustrated otter with a shape toy
Clenching down on his dick to tease him and regretting it just a moment later when he pushes my face into the mattress and fucks my holes like he wants to destroy me
This isn't necessarily literal. It can apply to characters who aren't children too. But there's something about characters who are either certain of the fact, or terrified of the possibility, that they are just fundamentally wrong and bad at their core
You actually cannot skip to being good at a creative endeavour that you haven't put much practice into. You cannot trick your way out of the 'knows that your work is not what you want it to be but don't know how to improve it' stage by planning or reading or talking about it really really hard. At some point you just have to craft through it until your brain finds it's own unique way back to the 'everything I make slaps' stage and be prepared to start the cycle all over again. You just have to make that project you're excited about slightly less good than you want it to be. (Says this standing in a pool of blood and covered in blood and also coughing up a little blood)
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